“Ah. I thought you might.”
“You have introduced me here to several magicians, but no wizards. I had hoped to discuss the dragon with the local members of my Guild, to be better prepared to face it. Could this be arranged?”
“Members of your Guild? You mean wizards?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“There are no wizards in Dwomor, so far as I know — except, of course, yourself.”
“Oh.” That put an end to that idea. He had revealed his wizardhood to no purpose, then. He had hoped to appeal to the patriotism of any local wizards, asking them to teach him new spells that he could use against the dragon. Even if they did not care to devote their own time to monster-killing, he had thought they might be willing to help him take on the dragon, perhaps for a share of the reward.
Now that he knew there were no such wizards, patriotic or otherwise, he realized that he should have waited and asked around quietly, instead of making a spectacle of himself; he sighed inwardly. He would have to think things through more carefully in the future, he told himself.
“I’m sorry, Wizard,” the king said. He cleared his throat and addressed the entire room again, delivering a speech in Dwomoritic.
Tobas and the Ethsharites waited, fidgeting, through this. Finally, when Tobas was beginning to wonder if a mistake of some sort had been made and the king had not been informed that some of the people present did not understand the language, he finished and switched to Ethsharitic, repeating what was apparently the same speech.
“Now that you have all arrived,” he said, “and you have all arrived, for the Ethsharites are the last, and now that you all know who you are, let us explain that our intention is that you should be organized into parties of five, we do not believe that one man alone would stand much chance against the dragon, be he commoner, prince, or magician. These groups will be sent out to hunt for the dragon, by whatever methods they choose; the reward will be given to whichever party finds and kills the dragon and brings back proof of the deed. We have witnesses to the monster’s depredations who will be able to identify the remains and assure that you have killed the right dragon, as there may well be others in the area who do no harm. Each surviving member of the successful party will be given, as promised, the hand of a princess in marriage, we are fortunate in having five unmarried daughters, and with her, a position of honor here in Dwomor Keep. The thousand pieces of gold, all the royal treasury can afford, will be divided amongst these happy bridegrooms as they agree amongst themselves, or, if they cannot reach a peaceful agreement, divided evenly, two hundred to a man, or for those slain by the beast in the killing, to his heirs, if known. No recompense will be made to members of any party save that which actually slays the dragon. The hunt is to begin on the first of Harvest, four days from now, though if any party of five cares to set out before that, we have no objection. These four days will give you a chance to choose your comrades and make your preparations. Some of you appear to have no weapons; the royal armorer may be able to help you. If you have any questions, speak to the royal councillors in the morning; for tonight, we have spoken enough. The sun is down, and the hour for dinner upon us; you are all guests of the castle until the hunt begins!”
That was clearly a signal, and a heavy oaken door in one of the long walls swung open almost the instant the king finished his speech. The thrilling scent of roast beef spilled into the audience chamber. As Tobas joined the mob that pushed its way through into the dining halls, he forgot all about dragons and wizardry and did not worry about them again for the remainder of the evening.
CHAPTER 11
“Are you really a wizard?” Alorria asked in her oddly lilting Ethsharitic, leaning over the table.
Tobas smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Could you show me a magic spell? Please?”
Tobas noticed that he could smell her hair and that he liked the scent very much. She seemed a very agreeable person.
“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, drawing his athame and reaching into his pouch for his vial of brimstone. He looked around for a target and spotted a fat peach sitting atop a convenient bowl of fruit. “Watch,” he said as he transferred the ripe fruit to an empty pewter plate.
Alorria watched as he made the single simple gesture; the fruit burst into flames with a satisfying sizzle as the dew burned off the fuzz. It was too moist to burn very well; the flames died down quickly, but continued to hiss and smolder until he doused the peach with a sprinkle of rosewater from a finger bowl.
“Ooooh!” Alorria said, and a few seats over Tinira applauded. Tobas smiled and tried to look modest. He had never considered Thrindle’s Combustion much of a spell, but to people who had never seen wizardry, it seemed impressive enough. He remembered old Roggit, ancient and feeble as he was, casually drawing glowing runes in the air with a fingertip, or walking calmly up a nonexistent staircase to repair the roof thatch; the Combustion appeared depressingly trivial next to such feats.
“A pretty little trick,” one of the princes nearby remarked, his words almost incomprehensible with his barbaric accent. “But the dragon has his own fire; what use will your magics be against that, Ethsharite?”
Tobas, worried about exactly that, dodged the question, replying, “I am no Ethsharite.” He noted mentally that everyone seemed to agree that the local dragon was a fire breather, which did not bode well.
“You can tell from his accent he’s not Ethsharitic,” Arden remarked. “He speaks the language very well, though.”
“Oh?” The prince looked at Tobas with new interest. “Did you not arrive with the party from Ethshar of the Spices?”
“Yes, but I was only visiting Ethshar; my home lies farther west.”
“Ah! Tintallion, perhaps?” someone farther up the table asked.
“No. My homeland has no name.” That was more or less the truth. The Free Lands of the Coast was more of a description than a name in the usual sense, and it had become apparent that no one outside the Free Lands used that term. Tobas had no idea what outsiders did call the place, Captain Istram had referred to “the Pirate Towns”, but Tobas was not sure what that included.
That answer seemed to satisfy his audience, even to impress them somewhat. Tobas realized he was building up an air of mystery about himself; but, looking into Alorria’s fascinated eyes, he could see nothing wrong with that.
He was beginning to think seriously about ways he might manage to get into the successful dragon-slaying party; Alorria was quite a temptation, aside from the money. She looked fifteen, maybe sixteen, he decided, just a little younger than himself.
None of the other princesses was undesirable, either, not even the oldest, Falissa, who was, as best Tobas could judge, in her midtwenties.
The servants were clearing away the dishes; a footman hesitated as he reached out for the plate that held the smoldering peach. “It’s safe,” Tobas assured him.
Someone thoughtfully translated that into Dwomoritic; the footman bowed acknowledgment and removed the unsightly remains.
Tobas turned back to Alorria. “You speak Ethsharitic very well,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “Daddy thought it was important that we all learn it. Sellatha refused, she’s just not very good with languages, but I thought it was fun.”
“Do you speak any other tongues?”
“Oh, yes! Gellian, Amorite, Vectamonic, and, don’t tell Daddy, he thinks it’s common, I’ve picked up a little Trader’s Tongue.”
“That’s quite impressive.”
“What about you? Is Ethsharitic your native speech?”
“Yes, it is; I’m afraid Ethsharitic is... ah... the only human tongue I know.”
“Oh!” she said.
Tobas felt a little guilty about deceiving the girl by accenting “human” as he had, but the wave of adulation she poured over him drowned that out quite effectively.
