Fiddler Fair (anthology)

A childhood of thieving had taught him the truth of what his people often said: “If you would be taken for a crow, join the flock and caw.”

Lyran took the cracked mug of hot water from his hostess, then shooed her gently out. He didn’t want her to see—and perhaps recognize—what he was going to drop into it. She probably wouldn’t understand. For that matter, he didn’t understand; he just trusted Martis.

His lover tossed her head on the bundle of rags that passed for a pillow and muttered, her face sweat- streaked, her hair lank and sodden. He soothed her as best he could, feeling oddly helpless.

When the water was lukewarm and nearly black, he went into a half trance and soul-called her until she woke. Again—to his relief—when he finally brought her to consciousness, there was foggy sense in her gray eyes.

“I have the tea, thena,” he said, helping her into a sitting position. She nodded, stifling a coughing fit, and made a weak motion with her hand. Interpreting it correctly, he held the mug to her lips. She clutched at it with both hands, but her hands shook so that he did not release the mug, only let her guide it.

He lowered her again to the pallet when she had finished the foul stuff, sitting beside her and holding her hands in his afterwards.

“How long will this take?”

She shook her head. “A bit of time before the drug takes; after that, I don’t know.” She coughed, doubling over; he supported her.

“Have you ever known any story about ‘dragon’s teeth,’ my lady?” he asked, reluctantly. “I—was advised to tell you that Bolger has sown the dragon’s teeth, but cannot harvest them.”

She shook her head slightly, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead—then her eyes widened. “Harvest! Gods! I—”

The drug chose that moment to take her; between one word and the next her eyes glazed, then closed. Lyran swore, in three languages, fluently and ­creatively. It was some time before he ran out of invective.

“I know ’bout dragon’s teeth,” said a high, young voice from the half-open door behind him. Lyran jumped in startlement for the second time that day. Truly, anxiety for Martis was dulling his edge!

He turned slowly, to see the widow’s youngest son peeking around the doorframe.

“And would you tell this one of dragon’s teeth?” he asked the dirty-faced urchin as politely as he could manage.

Encouraged, the youngster pushed the door open a little more. “You ain’t never seen a dragon?” he asked.

Lyran shook his head, and crooked his finger. The boy sidled into the room, clasping his hands behind his back. To the widow’s credit, only the child’s face was dirty—the cut-down tunic he wore was threadbare, but reasonably clean. “There are no dragons in this one’s homeland.”

“Be there mages?” the boy asked, and at Lyran’s negative headshake, the child nodded. “That be why. Dragons ain’t natural beasts, they be mage-made. Don’t breed, neither. You want ’nother dragon, you take tooth from a live dragon an’ plant it. Only thing is, baby dragons come up hungry an’ mean. Takes a tamed dragon to harvest ’em, else they go out killin’ an feedin’ an’ get the taste fer fear. Then their brains go bad, an’ they gotta be killed thesselves.”

“This one thanks you,” Lyran replied formally. The child grinned, and vanished.

Well, now he knew about dragon’s teeth. The only problem was that the information made no sense—at least not to him! It had evidently meant something to Martis, though. She must have some bit of information that he didn’t have.

He stroked the mage’s damp forehead and sighed. At least the stuff hadn’t killed her outright—he’d been half afraid that it would. And she did seem to be going into a proper trance; her breathing had become more regular, her pulse had slowed— Suddenly it was far too quiet in the street outside. Lyran was on his feet with his new sword in his hands at nearly the same moment that he noted the ­absence of sound. He slipped out the door, closing it carefully behind him once he knew that the musty hallway was “safe.” The stairs that led downwards were at the end of that hall—but he had no intention of taking them.

Instead he glided soundlessly to the window at the other end of the hall; the one that overlooked the scrap of back yard. The shutters were open, and a careful glance around showed that the yard itself was empty. He sheathed the sword and adjusted the makeshift baldric so that it hung at his back, then climbed out onto the ledge, balancing there while he assessed his best path.

There was a cornice with a crossbeam just within reach; he got a good grip on it, and pulled himself up, chinning himself on the wood of the beam—his arms screamed at him, but he dared not make a sound. Bracing himself, he let go with his right hand and swung himself up until he caught the edge of the roof. Holding onto it with a death-grip he let go of the cornice entirely, got his other hand on the roof-edge, and half-pulled, half-scrambled up onto the roof itself. He lay there for one long moment, biting his lip to keep from moaning, and willing his arms back into their sockets.

When he thought he could move again, he slid over the roof across the splintery, sunwarmed shingles to the street-side, and peered over the edge.

Below him, as he had suspected, were a half-dozen armed men, all facing the door. Except for them, the street below was deserted.

There was one waiting at the blind side of the door. Lyran pulled his knife from the sheath in his boot and dropped on him.

The crack as the man’s skull hit the pavement—he hadn’t been wearing a helm— told Lyran that he wouldn’t have to worry about slitting the fighter’s throat.

Lyran tumbled and rolled as he landed, throwing the knife as he came up at the man he judged to be the leader. His aim was off—instead of hitting the throat it glanced off the fighter’s chest-armor. But the move distracted all of them enough to give Lyran the chance to get his sword out and into his hands.