Dragon's Blood (7 page)

By the song's end, the hen was quieted and Jakkin sighed. A strange peeping from the corner answered him. He saw a small yellowish hatchling there, one of its wings dragging.

"Oh, you poor thing," he murmured. It must have been hurt in the hatching. Or perhaps the hen had rolled over on it one night. It would never make a fighter. It would probably end up in the stews. A lot of people liked the meat of hatchlings. They were said to be
much tenderer than old dragons. Jakkin had never tasted one.

Counting the injured hatchling as one, he numbered the rest as they squirmed closer to Heart O'Mine. He found the other eight easily.

"Bonder's luck," he whispered to the hen. "All bad." Heart O'Mine stirred at his voice. She was a strange, dark dragon with a yellowish lump above her right ear. He was wondering why Sarkkhan would breed a dragon with a deformity, when the lump moved. It stretched its oversized wings clumsily and opened its mouth to peep. No sound came out.

Jakkin was so startled he could scarcely move. His eyes made the round again. The one injured dragon in the corner, and eight at the hen's side. That made nine, and there was still the one newborn, wrinkled and yellow as custard scum. Ten. But the card outside had said nine. He was sure of it. Could Likkarn have made a mistake? Could Master Sarkkhan? He rose slowly and backed to the door, slipped through the crack, and held the lamp up to the list. "Heart O'Mine (2) out of Heart Safe by Blood Type. M. Blood Brother. 9 hatchlings, 5/29/07."

He went back into the hen's room and counted another time to be sure. On the third count, when he had reached ten again, he sat all the way down on the floor, put the lamp by his side, and let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan. At the sound, the hen's head came up suddenly and the little dragon slid around her ear and down her nose, tumbling end over end into the sand at Jakkin's feet. It stood up shakily, stretched its wings again, and put its head to one side as if considering him. Then it trotted awkwardly over to him. Its wings were as yet too big for its body, and the weight of them dragging in the sand was so comical, Jakkin had to put his hand up over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

As the hatchling moved directly into the pool of light, Jakkin could see that under its yellow eggskin was a darker shadow.

"Thou," Jakkin said quietly to the hatchling in an awed voice. "Thou wilt be a red someday."

At his voice, the little dragon looked up and tried a hindfoot rise. Its heavy wings pulled it over onto its back, where its tiny legs raked ineffectually at the air. Jakkin leaned
over and without thinking picked it up in his hands. The little dragon stood unsteadily and sniffed about his fingers, totally unafraid. It found the scratch from the eggshell and licked at the blood. Then it lifted its head and stared at Jakkin.

Jakkin stared back into its shiny black eyes and thought he saw a movement there.

"
Thou,
" he said again in a hushed voice, and suddenly felt a small rainbow moving in his head. It was the dragon. He had reached its mind. Jakkin drew his hands closer, up to his face, and he and the dragon stared eye to eye. The rainbow in his head danced, shooting off pale bursts of color.

Heart O'Mine gave a short, sharp hough. Her tail began its warning dance on the floor. Tucking the dragon hatchling in the crook of his elbow and cradling it against his chest, Jakkin picked up the lamp with the other hand. "You have your nine, great mother," he said to the hen. "This
one
is mine. I shall make this one a great fighter. I swear it."

He slipped back into the hallway, hung the lamp up, and pushed the door shut with his shoulder. Then he went out into the night.

T
HE SHOCK OF
the night air, cool in comparison with the moist heat of the barn, made Jakkin shiver. The hatchling gave an answering shiver against his chest.

"There, there, little one. There, there, beauty," he said, and slipped the trembling snatchling inside his shirt. Its soft little nails caught in his skin but tickled rather than hurt, and he could feel its heart beating rapidly. He decided to keep it wrapped up until they reached the oasis.

Crossing a stone weir, one of many catch basins for the Narrakka waters, Jakkin listened again for sounds. Then he scrambled up the embankment and headed out across the sands. He traveled partly by instinct, partly by star
reckoning, and cursed the light of Akkhan, which was in its brightest phase. He had to get away from the nursery's line of sight before Akka, the second moon, filled the sky as well, for then it would be as light as day, at least for a little while.

There was another way to get to the oasis. It meant going down the road almost a kilometer and then striking out across the sand. But it took longer. He did not have the time.

The dragon was quiet—sleeping, he would guess—and he stroked it lightly with one finger as he kept it cradled against his chest. Then suddenly he stopped. This was not the end—but the beginning. He had the dragon that he had prayed for, longed for, worked for, but now the hard part began.

He wondered briefly how there could have been such a mistake in the count, ten hatchlings instead of the nine listed. Perhaps they hadn't added in the one with the broken wing. If so, they would know at once that one was gone. Or perhaps this one, so obviously a newborn, with its eggskin still a bright creamy color and wrinkles even on its wrinkles, perhaps this had been a last-minute
egg laid by Heart O'Mine in her own compartment instead of in the eggroom. A single. He had never heard of any such thing happening before. But then, he did not know
everything
about dragons. He laughed at himself softly. Everything? Why, he realized, he scarcely knew
anything.
Except fewmets. And did he know fewmets! He laughed again. The dragon stirred under his fingers.

Thou,
he thought fondly, and was rewarded with a faint rainbow.
Thou art a beauty.
He began to walk again.

He approached the oasis from the southwest, and under the white eye of Akkhan it suddenly looked very large. He sat down inside the reed shelter and reached into his shirt. He had to detach the little dragon's claws from his bond bag. "There, there, let it be. I fill my bag myself," he said. Then smiling, he added, "Actually, if thou art a mighty fighter, thou wilt fill it for me. But not yet. Not quite yet."

He set the hatchling on the sand and watched it stretch. It began to stumble about, investigating its new surroundings. Enticed by the moonlight, it stuck its nose out of the
shelter and seemed to sniff the air. Then it stalked over to the shelter wall and made a pounce on a shadow reed that moved across the sand. Finding nothing beneath its claws, it walked to Jakkin, wings dragging slightly. Jakkin flopped over on his stomach, his head close to the dragonling. With a tentative front foot it batted at his nose. When he did not move, it struck out again, with a greater swing, and this time connected.

"Worm waste," Jakkin cried, "that stings."

His loud voice startled the hatchling and it leapt back, moving its wings furiously and rising half an inch from the ground.

"Thou canst
fly!
" Jakkin said in a softer voice, filled with awe. But the little dragon settled down at once and did not try that particular maneuver again.

"Well, come here, then," Jakkin said at last and picked up the hatchling in his hands. He was surprised anew at how soft its skin was. It looked as if it should be slippery. It was certainly not the hard brilliance of a fully scaled-out worm. Rather, it was as soft as bag leather. Jakkin suddenly wondered what his
own bag was made of. As suddenly, he decided he did not want to know.

He lay on his back, heedless of the little rivers of pain in his shoulders, and let the dragon walk about on his chest. Even with its soft claws, it managed to make some scratches through his shirt, but Jakkin did not mind. He thought of himself as being blooded by the dragon, just as one day the dragon itself would be blooded in the pit.

"Then thou shalt roar, little beauty," he said to the snatchling. "When thy life's blood first spills on the sand, then thou shalt roar for the first time, full and fierce. And the bettors will know thee for a mighty fighter. Then gold will fill our bag. And I will be a man. A man, my snatchling. And I will roar with thee, my flyer, my wonder worm, my beauty lizard."

The dragon slipped down his chest, gouging a small runnel into his armpit, and landed with all four feet firmly planted in the sand. There it promptly lost interest in Jakkin, went back into the shelter, curled up, and went to sleep.

Jakkin edged closer to it and curled
around it, lending it the warmth of his own body for a while. Soon he, too, slept.

***

T
HE COLD WOKE
him, the beginning of the bone-numbing cold of Dark-After. Jakkin crawled out of the hut on his hands and knees and stared at the sky. He could see neither moon, only the wash of white-gold that signified the start of the false dawn.

Bonders said, "Dark-After, nothing after." Very few had ever managed to remain outdoors then, even with strong constitutions and a lot more clothes on than Jakkin was wearing. The early settlers, masters and bonders alike, had stayed in their starships until housing had been built: strong stone buildings in the 150 acres that was Rokk, for the wardens and guards, cruder shelters outside Rokk's walls for the convicts. Though Jakkin had never been to the city, it was said those buildings still stood, two hundred years later, a testimony to the first Austarians. The worst punishment of the masters in the old days, before the shelters, had been to lock out a bonder all night. That was why Master Sarkkhan's nursery doors were never locked—just in case. And why the roads to the baggeries, the stews, and the pits were spotted with shelters, for late-nighters caught away from home.

Jakkin scrambled to his feet. He gazed once at the little dragon curled asleep in the sand. The cold would not bother it, not even as a newborn. He knew that. But just to be sure, he took off his shirt and wrapped it around the sleeping mite, placing the dragonling far back against the rear wall of reeds. Then, hugging his leather jerkin to him, he ran as fast as he could across the sand toward the nursery. If he kept moving, he thought, he could keep warm. If he ran fast enough, he could make it back before the worst of the cold struck. He would not bother about brooming his footsteps, but trust to the wind and pray to whatever god still watched over bond boys. Certainly the masters' god would not recognize him yet.

The sand seemed to slip away from his feet, making running even more difficult. Several times he stumbled and one time went crashing to his knees. It was hard to keep moving in the cold. The metal bond chain
around his neck felt as if it were on fire, it was so cold, and the metal eyelets on his jerkin felt as though they were burning small holes wherever they touched his skin.

The cold made him want to stop and snuggle down in the sand, to build himself an earth mound and sleep. Yet he knew such a sleep would be the sleep of death.
Dark-After, nothing after,
he reminded himself, his feet moving even when his mind willed them to stop.

And then his feet were running on packed earth, and he realized he was on nursery property. But the cold befuddled him, and he was not sure where he was. His breath plumed out before him. He felt he could almost break it off and use it as a pick. Stick it on his forehead and break his way out of the egg of cold that surrounded him. He was sure his skin was becoming as hard and scaled as any lizard's. If blooded, he would roar. He found himself roaring, roaring, roaring, and he fell hard against a stone wall.

A gloved hand pulled at him, and. he was suddenly wrapped in someone's downer.

"Hush. You're found. But the cold has snapped you. Just come along."

He thought he knew that voice. It came from another dream he had had.

A door opened and shut and the warmth made him hurt all over.

"Akki, what are you doing in here?" A sleepy voice.

"Bringing home a body."

"Why, it's Jakkin. Hey, Errikkin, look. It's Jakkin."

"Wonder where he's been all night."

"Look at his chest. Wonder what her name was?"

"Does he look different?"

"Like a man, you mean?" someone snickered.

"Was he coming from town?" A laugh. "You know."

A woman's laugh. "Yes, from the baggeries. Can't you see? His bag is only half-full."

"Or half-empty." More laughs.

"I heard him roaring outside the hospice. I grabbed a blanket, threw on my own thermals, and ran."

"Lucky for him."

"He's all luck. It's a wonder he's a bonder."

Jakkin opened his eyes. His body was too
hot now. He threw the blanket off. He stared at Akki, who gave him a wry smile.

"Yes," she said, staring at him. "He's had himself quite a night." She winked.

They led him to his bed and he fell asleep, murmuring, "Beauty. You beauty." He heard them laugh once again before he was totally out.

M
ORNING SEEMED TO
come too swiftly. Summoned by the clanging breakfast bell, Jakkin could scarcely rise and had to be dressed by Slakk and Errikkin. They did it good-naturedly and even tried to joke with him. Then they force-marched him down the hall to the common room.

It was the cup of takk flooding through him that gave Jakkin the strength to talk. "Did I—say anything in my sleep?" he asked, deciding that caution was less important than knowledge.

"Not her name," said Slakk, taking his face out of his bowl for the moment. "Nor the sign of her baggery."

"Baggery?" Jakkin was confused.

"Oh, leave him," Errikkin said. "Maybe he doesn't know her name. Maybe it wasn't so important."

"Any time you stay out so late the cold snaps you, and you leave your shirt behind,
it's important!
" said Slakk. The boys at the table laughed with him. Jakkin blushed, which made them laugh even more.

"I wasn't..." he began, and stopped. Better they guessed wrong than guessed where he
really
was.