Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The next day saw Lathwi back in the saddle. She was not wholly free of the aches and pains that she had acquired from yesterday’s ride, but she had long since learned to live with such minor discomforts. She did hope, however, that Pieter had not been fooling when he told her that she would not hurt nearly as much after today’s ride.

They rode past a fragrant stand of flowering trees, over a series of hillocks and then into a dirt track which spanned beyond sight in both directions. It was too straight and dry to be a creek-bed; and too broad and open to be a game trail. Lathwi was instantly curious.

“What this?” she demanded.

“It’s called a road,” Pieter said, looking quite pleased with himself. “The road to Compara.”

As they travelled along this road, the surrounding forest turned patchy and sparse. At first, she blamed this thinning on disease or high wind, but then they rode past a stretch of land that was now barer than the bleakest alpine meadow. All that remained of the trees which had once stood there was a crowd of sullen-looking stumps.

“What happen here?” she wondered aloud.

“Looks like there are charcoalers in the area,” Pieter replied.

“What that?” she asked.

“They’re people who turn wood into charcoal.” Before she could ask, he added, “Charcoal burns hotter and cleaner than wood, which is important to people who work with glass and steel. And those who live in the city like it because it’s easier to store.”

She did not understand a couple of the words, but even so, she grasped the basic concept: people were killing trees for their power. Not only that, they were doing it in a very foolish way.

“Cut too much,” she told him. “What happen when no more trees?”

“Look around you,” he told her, gesturing broadly. “The world is full of trees. There will always be more.”

Her draconic memories told her otherwise, but she didn’t want to talk about those terrible, long-gone days and so rode on in thoughtful silence.

They passed another tract of treeless land, then several more. These grounds were dark and freshly turned, as if wild pigs had been rooting here. The air stank mightily of animal dung.

Then the first shack came into view.

It was a wretched-looking thing—lop-sided and flimsy, with a filthy cloth flap for a door and rotting thatch for a roof. Ground-fowl scratched for bugs in the dirt around its threshold; a mangy goat drowsed in its shade. There were at least a score of other such hovels in the immediate vicinity, too, all clumped together like warts on a toad. For reasons which Lathwi could neither fathom nor explain, the sight of this squalid roadside cluster left her squirming inside.

“This Compara?” she asked, fervently hoping that it was not.

“No, Lathwi,” Pieter replied, with a generous dollop of disgust in his tone, “this is only a crude peasant’s village. Compara is much more civilized.”

A series of shouts snared their attention then. They looked toward the sound to see a smooth-faced man with long, honey-coloured hair come running out from between two shacks with a swarm of angry-seeming men on his heels.

“Help!” the blonde man cried, as his pursuers caught up with him. “Won’t someone please help me?”

Prodded by reasons which continued to elude her, Lathwi urged her mount closer. Although she barely noticed, Pieter did the same.

Two of the peasants were holding the blonde man by the arms now; a third was punching him in the belly. The blonde was dirty and grass-stained, and one corner of his mouth was leaking blood, but despite his dishevelled appearance, it was obvious that he was no peasant. His clothes were too fancy; his bearing, too refined.

“Here now,” Pieter scolded, as they approached. “What’s this man done to deserve such treatment?”

“He tried to ravage my wife,” the man who had been doing all the punching snarled.

“That’s not true!” the accused declared. “I would never touch a woman without her consent.”

The swarm jeered, proclaiming him a liar and worse, but Pieter was not so sure. The accused was a handsome man, and well-spoken. It did not seem as if he would need to force a woman’s charms from her. Then again, what men needed to do, and what they wound up doing weren’t always one and the same thing. And not all outlaws were as obvious as Drell and his pack had been.

“What are you going to do with him?” he asked then.

“We’re going to castrate the city-bred pig,” the outraged husband replied, flashing a grin full of yellowed teeth. “If he survives, we’ll set him free; if he doesn’t, we’ll take to our beds tonight knowing that we’ve done the world a favour.

“For a penny, you’re welcome to stay and watch.”

“Please, friend,” the accused begged then. “Don’t let them do this. I swear by The Dreamer that I’m innocent.”

Pieter did not know what to do. While he had no desire to stand between these people and their justice, he did not want to see the wrong man lose his balls, either. He turned to Lathwi. Her expression was distant and strained.

“What do you think?” he whispered.

She did not hear him. Unease had been building within her like a thunderstorm; now it needed only a nudge to break. And until that nudge came, she could do nothing but watch and wait.

Meanwhile, the blonde man’s captors wrestled him onto his belly and tried to bind his wrists. “Dreamer,” one of them swore. “He’s a slippery bastard.”

“Most pigs are,” the husband said, and then strode over to a neighbour’s wood-pile. When he returned a moment later, there was a stout log in his hands. “This ought to hold him down while we tend to business.” Then, as he handed the log to one of his accomplices, he glanced at Pieter. “How about it, Mister? Do you have a penny or not?”

Pieter turned to Lathwi again. She was sitting rigid in the saddle now. Her gaze was locked on the man with the log. As he went to thrust it through the bound loops of the blonde man’s arms, she howled a protest and then urged the bay right into the crowd. Pieter’s astonishment did not stop him from following her lead.

Startled, the crowd fell back. In the next instant, it surged forward again, swearing and shouting for blood. Hands reached for Pieter, trying to tear him out of his saddle. He drove them off with panic-induced dexterity, rein-whipping or kicking everything that came within range. As he fought, he glanced here and there for the accused, but he was nowhere in sight. Gone, he thought then. And: the bastard had probably been guilty after all.

“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted at Lathwi.

But she was lost to a world where he did not exist. In that world, a black-haired youngling with desperate blue eyes was trying to escape the crowd of peasants that held her. As she struggled, bucking and squirming, somebody bound her arms behind her back. Somebody else set a chain of flowers around her neck. Then, through a blur of furious tears, she saw the log that was to serve as her hobble. It would all but wrench her arms from their sockets once it was in place. She could not let that happen. So she lashed out, again and again and again.

Then something hard slammed into her jaw, surprising her out of her trance. She blinked back a swirl of confusion and tears to find herself being pelted by stones. One caught the stallion in the flank; he squealed a protest and then reared. As she struggled to stay in the saddle, Pieter and his string of horses came racing toward her. His harried look acquired pained ridges as a fist-sized rock struck him in the ribs.

“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted in passing.

Sane again, she gladly complied.

They rode all-out for nearly a league, then slowed to an easy walk so the horses could catch their breath. Pieter was glad for the respite, too, for his left side felt like it was on fire. He fingered those ribs gingerly, feeling for lumps, but they were only bruised, not broken. Then he glanced over his shoulder to see how Lathwi had fared. Aside from a pulpy lip, she seemed to have escaped unscathed. Even so, her look was grim. Was she thinking about the stranger she had saved? Was she, too, feeling like she had been handed the shitty end of the stick? He closed the gap between them to find out.

“How’s your mouth?” he asked her.

She traced her tongue over the swelling, then shrugged to show her unconcern.

“Does it ache you to talk?” When she shrugged again, he felt free to question her further. “Then tell me something, Lathwi—why did you help that man?”

“What man?”

“The golden-haired fellow,” he said testily, in no mood for games. “The one you rescued back there in the village.”

Ah, yes. She remembered now—the one for whom the log had been intended. Coincidence had been his saviour, not her. If those peasants hadn’t tried to hobble him, she would have cheerfully rode away and never looked back.

“Well?” he prompted, pleased for the chance to badger her for a change. “Why’d you do it?”

Now that was a different question. She could still see that black-haired youngling, still feel her helpless rage.

“Hate peasants,” she said.

“Why?”

In spite of her efforts to keep it contained, the memory came surging back into prominence. She described the images as they unfolded before her mind’s eye.

“When I be youngling, peasants do to me the same as they want do to man today. That log heavy, much hurt my arms, but peasants not hear my cries. They drag me to meadow and leave me.”

This admission, so blandly made, shocked Pieter to the core of his heart. No child deserved so cruel a punishment, not even the worst hellion.

“How did you get away?” he asked.

“Mother come,” she replied, smiling now as she relived this part. “Take me far away.”

He regarded her with a mixture of awe and rue. Her life had more twists to it than a gopher-hole. Why would a mother save a daughter from a certain death sentence only to outcast her later on? And why would a daughter still yearn for that mother after such a devastating betrayal?

Those questions hummed in his head like bees, but he did not voice them aloud. He did not want to cause her any more grief, he told himself. And Aunt Liselle had taught him that some things were better left unsaid.

Lathwi did not notice his discreet lapse into silence. She was still soaring through the sky in Taziem’s arms.

G

They made their camp in the forest that night, far from the road and unfriendly eyes. Pieter built himself a little fire, then sat down to a meal of pan-bread and jerky. Opting to go hungry until the morning, Lathwi settled down to sleep. But even as she started to doze off, the bay’s uneasy nicker roused her again. A moment later, a snapping twig and then a steady crunching swept the last sleepy cobwebs from her mind. Anything that noisy had to be stupid, she thought; and stupid things were often good to eat. She uncinched a claw and then hid herself behind a tree.

Pieter appeared alongside of her. His arms were folded over his chest, his eyes were aimed at the sound. She tried to nudge him into hiding, but he did not budge.

“Something come,” she hissed then. “Maybe it something tasty.”

“It’s a horse,” he replied flatly. “And horses in these parts usually come with riders.”

Her stomach grumbled, decrying the theory, but now that she thought about it, the crunching did sound like hoof beats. And moments later, an ochre-coloured horse with a white blaze came winding its way out of the leafy shadows. Its rider was the golden-haired man.

“Hullo!” he cried, as he verged on their camp. “Praise the Dreamer for guiding me here. I was afraid I’d lost you.”

“What do you want?” Pieter demanded.

“I want to thank you and your friend for your help,” he replied, unruffled by the trapper’s hostile tone. “I’d also like to apologize for skipping out during the confusion.”

“Apology noted,” Pieter said. “Now off you go.”

“I was also hoping to share your fire tonight,” the man continued, with a self-conscious smile, “and to tell you my side of the story while we feast—” He patted the yearling doe which was slung over his horse’s withers. “—on this.”

“We aren’t hungry.”

“Really?” The stranger’s eyes grew lively with sudden amusement. “Your friend looks famished to me.”

One quick glimpse confirmed that assertion: Lathwi was staring at the carcass with wolfish intensity. Her nostrils were flared. Her jaws were clenched. There was a thin line of drool trickling down the side of her chin. Pieter knew then that further argument was useless.

“If you must, then join us,” he grumbled.

“My thanks,” the stranger replied, and then swung down from his saddle. As he hauled the deer down from its perch, he added, “By the way, my friends call me Jamus. I would be honoured if you would do the same.”

“I am called Pieter,” he said. “My companion’s name is Lathwi.”

“Well met,” Jamus replied, flashing them a grin, “and good fortune to us all. Although you may not appreciate it yet, I am in your debt.”

He dumped the carcass by the fire, then went to picket his horse. Pieter followed on his heels, just to make sure that this smooth-talking stranger didn’t take anything that didn’t belong to him.

Lathwi helped herself to a goodly portion of the carcass in their absence, and was already well into her supper by the time they returned. She ate with both hands at an incredible speed, and gulped down more than she chewed. Her swollen lip did not slow her down at all. She was supremely happy at the moment—and quite oblivious to the men and their incredulous stares.

“Lathwi,” Pieter croaked, when he finally recovered his voice, “what are you doing? That’s not cooked.”

Obviously, she thought, exultant over that fact. But the abundance of meat had put her in a generous mood. Rather than comment on his acuity or lack thereof, she motioned him toward the carcass.

“Is good,” she told him, between one bite and the next. “Eat.”

Jamus shook his head. His mouth was a complex twist of amused disbelief and civilized revulsion. The look endeared him to Pieter, who was suddenly grateful for the company of a normal human being.

“Don’t worry,” he said, twitching him a long-suffering smile. “She’s not crazy, just a little different.”

At that, Jamus did an immediate double-take. And as he took a harder look at Lathwi, his jaw sagged with disbelief. “Dreamer keep me!” he blurted, too stunned for tact. “That’s a woman?” “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Pieter dropped to one knee and began to carve thick steaks from the deer’s loin. “When I first met her, I thought she was some kind of demon.”

Fascinated, Jamus continued to stare. Even by the soft, kindly light of a campfire, she seemed more mannish than not. Her shoulders were too broad; her hips, too narrow; and she had no breasts of which to speak.

“I never would have guessed,” he murmured to himself. “Never.”

He reached into the pocket of his travelling cloak and retrieved a shiny silver flask, then took a long swig of its contents.

“Here,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Lathwi long enough to pass the flask to Pieter. “Have a drink.” Then, because his fascination demanded details, he asked, “Do you and your wife travel often?”

“She’s not my wife,” Pieter assured him, smiling at the thought as he sniffed the flask. “And this is our first and last trip together.” Encouraged by the liquor’s nutty aroma, he tipped a measure down his throat. His windpipe started to sizzle. “Good stuff,” he wheezed, and then handed the flask back to Jamus. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

In truth, he was delighted—not just with Pieter, who was proving to be likeable in spite of the unfortunate matter which still stood between them, but with Lathwi as well. He loved women—not just the beauties and the flirts, but the plain and the shy as well. Each posed a different challenge for him; each yielded a different sort of pleasure. When he speculated about the thrills that mannish, enigmatic Lathwi might have to offer, he got goose-flesh all over his body.

The steaks were sizzling over the fire now. Pieter fussed with them for a moment, then sat down to let them cook. Jamus sank into a crouch alongside of him and offered the flask again.

With a polite wave of his hand, Pieter declined. His blood was already tingling in his veins; another sip would have him giddy. And as much as he had warmed to Jamus over the last quarter-hour, he had no intention of getting drunk with a man whose character was still suspect.

“While we’re waiting for our meat,” he said, in a tone too firm to be casual, “why don’t you give me your version of what happened back there at that village.”

“An excellent idea,” Jamus said, displaying no trace of rancour or resentment. He took another drink from his flask, then cleared his throat and began to speak.

“I am Jamus D’Arques, first lieutenant to Wynn Rame, the governor of Compara. I was returning from trade negotiations in L’Luus when I came upon that village. On any other day, I would’ve ridden on through with all possible haste, but as it happened, it was getting dark out, and I was road-weary, so I paid that big, brown-haired peasant with the rock-hard fists for the privilege of sleeping in his haystack. His wife gave me supper, too—cold bread and ham, as I recall.

“Ah, but she was a comely thing, with hair as brown as forest mushrooms, and breasts as full as melons. As I ate, she flirted with me; and I must confess, my friend; I flirted back. But because she was married, and I’m not an utter cad, I did not invite her to join me in the hay.

“This morning, she brought me bread and a mug of milky tea, and told me that she’d be pitching hay alone at noon if I wanted to get to know her better. And because she offered, and I’m only human—”

He sighed, a sound both wistful and bitter. “The only detail you need to know about that tryst is this: she was as happy as a lark right up until the moment her husband called for her. Then she turned frantic and started screaming like a she-panther caught in a steel trap. Shortly thereafter, I found myself being chased by the whole damned village.

“You know what happened after that.”

“That I do,” Pieter replied, determined not to let this rakish fellow wriggle off the hook so soon. “You cut out on us in the middle of a nasty mess.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Jamus retorted. “Wait for one of you to pluck me out of the crowd? Be reasonable, my friend. If you were caught in the middle of a riot with your hands tied behind your back, wouldn’t you high-tail it, too?”

“Maybe,” Pieter said, an admission as honest as it was grudging. “But if that’s the case, then how did you manage to free yourself? And where did you get the horse?”

“That horse has been mine for the last five years now,” Jamus asserted. “The lass who started the trouble brought it to me after I escaped from the crowd. She untied my hands as well. In return for her help, all she asked was that I take her with me.” He shook his head at the nerve of some people. “Under the circumstances, I had to refuse.

“So,” he said then, shedding the last of his apologetic look. “That’s the long and short of it, my friend. If you wish, I’ll leave now, with no hard feelings on my part.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Pieter told him. “I believe you.”

“And how does your lady—”

“Lathwi,” he corrected.

“How does she feel?”

Pieter glanced at her. She was happily licking blood from her fingers. “Who knows?” he replied. “But since she hasn’t asked you to leave, it’s probably safe to assume that she won’t mind if you stay a little longer.”

“A most eloquent acquittal,” Jamus said, curling his mouth into a sardonic half-smile. “I am touched to the core of my being.

“But in all seriousness,” he continued, his smile now curving into a gentler bend, “I thank you both for all you did on my behalf. If there is anything I can do for either of you, you only need to ask.”

The two men shared another drink from Jamus’ flask, then fetched their steaks from the fire and began to eat.

Full now and immensely content with the world as it was, Lathwi sat back and watched as the men fed. They were dainty eaters, and amazingly slow; in the time it took them to carve a bite-sized piece and prong it into their mouths, she could have devoured an entire slab of meat. Eat it or lose it was a lesson she had learned early on from her tanglemates.

“Would you care for some of my steak?” Jamus asked then, mistaking Lathwi’s unblinking scrutiny for hunger. “I’m sure I won’t be able to eat the whole thing.”

She disdained his offer with a hiss. “Not eat char.”

“Personally,” Pieter commented between bites, “I think a little char adds flavour to the meat.”

“Roll deer in ash pit,” she proposed. “Ruin meat faster that way.”

“Forget I mentioned it,” he grumbled, and then returned the whole of his attention to his dinner.

When he had finally eaten his fill, Jamus wiped his face and hands on a corner of his travel cloak, and then produced his flask again.

“How about a little drink of fire to wash it all down?” he asked Pieter.

Lathwi pounced on the ridiculous statement. “You no can drink fire.”

“No?” A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He winked at Pieter, then leaned forward and pressed the flask into her hand. “How can you be sure if you haven’t tried it?”

She raised the container to her nose and sniffed at the fumes which were radiating from its mouth. They were bitter and sharp, not at all like smoke from a fire. She arched a suspicious eyebrow at Jamus, who nodded encouragement, then at Pieter, who merely shrugged. Curious now, she tipped the flask back and drank.

An instant after the fluid hit her throat, it ignited. Heat billowed through her in sickening waves; her stomach broke out in a sweat. But even as she struggled to keep her gorge down, the nausea subsided and a glow took root in her head.

“So,” Jamus said, grinning at her reaction. “What do you think of my fire-water?”

The glow spread from her head to all parts of her body. She remembered feeling like this once before—a time long ago when Taziem had let her suckle alongside of the rest of her newborn tanglemates.

“It like mother’s milk,” she replied dreamily.

He laughed. “If that stuff had flowed from my mother’s paps, she’d never have been able to wean me!”

Homesick now, Lathwi drank again, a larger draught than the first.

“Easy now, don’t drink it all,” Jamus cried, enclosing the protest with more laughter. “Here, hand it back.”

“Mine,” she hissed, and then bared her teeth, ready to defend her claim.

Interpreting this as playfulness on her part, he grinned and stood up. “I’ll wrestle you for it.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Pieter advised him. “She’s serious. And if you so much as touch her while she’s in this sort of mood, she’s apt to tear you to pieces.”

“You’re joking!” Jamus accused him. He found it hard to believe that any woman would want to hurt him. And the idea of grappling with Lathwi excited him. “Aren’t you?”

“I’ve seen her shred a man’s face with her fingernails simply because he annoyed her,” Pieter replied.

Jamus hmphed. Perhaps more circumspection was called for after all. He did an abrupt about-face, then headed for his saddlebags. When he returned, it was with another flask in hand.

“Fortunately, “ he drawled, as he resumed his seat, “I like to travel well-prepared. But I’m warning you, friend: I won’t take very kindly to having this one appropriated.”

“Don’t give it to her and she won’t keep it,” Pieter said. “As for me, I’m willing to share as long as you are.”

The two men passed the new flask back and forth a couple of times, then settled back to enjoy the fire. “What we need now,” Jamus said, “is a minstrel to sing us all to sleep.”

“Don’t look at me,” Pieter replied, with a wobbly smile. “I can’t carry a tune to save my life. When I was young, my aunt used to ply me with caramels to keep me quiet.”

“How about you, Lathwi?” Jamus asked, caressing her with his tone. “You’re a woman of many hidden talents. Dare we hope that singing is one of them?”

Pieter suppressed a tipsy giggle. Unless he was sorely mistaken, Jamus was actually trying to flirt with Lathwi! He shifted, hoping to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. This promised to be a very entertaining evening indeed!

As for Lathwi, she was far more interested in a piece of gristle that had lodged between her molars than anything that Jamus had said to her. When she finally worked it free, she spat it into the fire, then drifted into a gauzy nether world of her own making. Her unresponsiveness was a challenge that Jamus could not resist. He would find a way to interest her in him; now it was a matter of pride.

“It looks like it’s up to me,” he said, then cleared his throat and began to sing a love-ballad.

The stranger’s warbling snared Lathwi’s attention for a moment, but when she could make no sense of the words he was singing, she returned to her own dreamy musings. Shoq would like this not-water, she decided, taking another swallow. It turned one’s thoughts into shiny beads of quicksilver: fun to watch, impossible to hold. Then again, Shoq’s thoughts were probably like that all the time. She smiled at that, but her amusement abruptly gave way to a bout of longing. She closed her eyes to savour the boundless images of her tanglemate.

“That was beautiful,” Pieter crooned, when Jamus brought his song to a close. “Might I persuade you to sing another?”

“Maybe later,” Jamus replied, and then glanced at Lathwi in the hope that she would coax him for an encore, too. When he saw that her eyes were closed, a scowl of mock indignation ridged his handsome brow. “Damn, I didn’t even manage to put a smile on her face. Does she always look that fierce?”

“No,” Pieter said, inordinately pleased that he was not the only one whom Lathwi managed to confound. “Sometimes she looks downright terrifying.” Then, because he didn’t want to talk about her all night, he changed the subject. “This gish is excellent. Shall we have a smoke to go with it?”

“Splendid suggestion,” Jamus said. Then, as the trapper fumbled for his pipe and weed, he asked, “Do you think she’s ever been with a man?”

“I couldn’t say,” Pieter replied. “I’ve only known her for a few days. And in that short span of time, I’ve learned not to speculate about her past doings.”

What they didn’t know was that while Lathwi’s eyes were closed, she was very much awake and listening to the ongoing conversation. This aspect of man-talk intrigued her. When dragons spoke to each other, only those addressed could hear.

“I’ll bet she’d be a wild cat in bed,” Jamus went on.

“I don’t know about that,” Pieter countered. “My guess is that she’s more like a spider than a cat.”

“Why’s that?”

“After spiders mate, the female eats the male.”

Lathwi allowed herself a private smile. It pleased her to know that Pieter held her in such high regard.

The two men lapsed into silence then. A moment later, their breathing patterns shifted, becoming deep and slow. At first, Lathwi thought that they were falling asleep, but then she caught a whiff of a strange-smelling smoke. It was acrid and sweet, cloying as wood smoke was not. She opened one eye to a slit. The other sprang wide open of its own accord.

Pieter was breathing smoke! It flowed from his nostrils like twin streamers of fog, then danced in circles away from his mouth.

“How you do that?” she blurted.

Startled by her sudden outburst, the two men bolted out of their boneless poses. An instant later, Pieter wagged a reproving finger at her and said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

She did not bother to point out that she had been in the same spot all night long. She was too intent on his newfound talent. “How you breath smoke?”

“This is a pipe,” he said, holding up a long clay tube that bore a small, steaming bowl at one end. “It’s got a bit of burning tobacco in it. When I put my mouth to the tip and inhale, smoke flows down the stem and into my chest. When I exhale, the smoke goes out my mouth.” He demonstrated then. “See? There’s nothing to it.”

“I try now,” she told him.

“Only if you promise to give the pipe back when you’re done,” Pieter countered.

Although dragons did not like to make promises, Lathwi’s desire to make smoke was compelling. “I give pipe back.”

“Say you’ll return it tonight,” he pressed, catching the deceptive flicker in her tone.

She grinned, congratulating him for his perceptiveness. If he had not made the effort to be more specific, she would have been able to keep the pipe indefinitely without breaking her word. Now she was obliged to accept whatever conditions he cared to impose.

“I return tonight,” she said. “Give now. I try.”

He handed her the pipe. She held it a moment, intrigued by the sensation of cool clay warmed from within, then raised the tip to her mouth. The hot, spicy odour of burning tobacco tweaked her nose. She paused, waiting for a sneeze that lost its momentum, then took a deep breath.

A forest of nettles clawed at her throat. A cold hand gripped her intestines. She coughed the smoke back up, then gagged as the dry, rancid taste of tobacco coated her mouth. For a moment, she feared she would vomit.

“What for you breath that smoke?” she demanded then.

“People smoke for pleasure,” Jamus told her, his voice rippling with barely suppressed amusement. “Didn’t you enjoy the feeling of sweet, cool smoke in your lungs?”

“No.” Her head was whirling like it did after one of Shoq’s dives. Her stomach was squirming, too. How could anyone mistake such misery for pleasure? “Make me sick.”

Pieter chuckled. “I’ll admit, it’s an acquired taste.”

“What that?”

“Something that grows more pleasurable over time,” Jamus explained. “The more you do it, the more you like it.”

“Why do more than once if no like first time? That not smart.”

He dismissed that accusation with a shrug. “If people gave up on everything they didn’t like the first time, we’d all still be hanging on to our mothers’ teats.”

That was not a true answer to her question, but she did not wish to pursue the matter further. She thrust the pipe back into Pieter’s hand. “You keep. Not want.”

“Whatever you say,” he said, and then pulled a twig from the fire to relight the tobacco. She sniffed—not even Fire liked the awful stuff! Then the smell of it sent her stomach into another tailspin. She got up and headed downwind of the stench. Humans! she thought, as she curled up under a tree. She could study them forever and still not understand them.

G

Morning thundered down from the trees, an excruciating cacophony of bird song and rustling leaves. Lathwi peeled her eyelids open only to squeeze them shut again as rays of sharp-edged sunlight lanced into her impossibly tender brain. An instant later, her head began to throb to the beat of her heart. She groaned.

“Get up, Lathwi,” Pieter boomed in a voice as great as a dragon-sire’s. “It’s time to hit the road.”

“Shut up,” she hissed.

“Good morning, Lathwi,” Jamus said, as she struggled to her feet. “How are you feeling today?” The false sweetness in his voice suggested that he already knew the answer.

“Head hurt,” she said. “Got stomach full of nettles.”

His chuckle was not entirely sympathetic. “That’s what happens when you drink too much gish.”

“That not-water do this to me?” she demanded, glaring at him despite the ache in her eyeballs. When he nodded, she hissed. “Why you not say last night?”

“Would you have believed me?”

She continued to glare at him, but inwardly she had to concede his point. Up until this very moment, she had viewed him as superfluous, remarkable only as a convenient source of meat and exotic drink. She would not have believed him if he had told her that not-water would turn to poison in her veins overnight. She would not have believed him if he’d said that water was wet. So. She had learned one lesson here, perhaps more. Next time, she would be more circumspect.

She stared at him until he went away, and then stumbled into the woods to relieve herself. On her way back to camp, Pieter intercepted her.

“Jamus wants to ride with us,” he told her. “I wouldn’t mind having him along because there’s safety in numbers. And besides, I like the man. You have the final say, though.”

Safety did not usually interest her. Neither did Jamus. But since Pieter seemed to value the noisy man’s company, she was willing to endure it—for now. “He want come, I not say no.”

“I’ll tell him that,” he said, and then hurried off in Jamus’ direction.

The two men conferred for a moment, then started to pack up their belongings. Meanwhile, she went over to the bay and began to saddle him. The stallion was in a feisty mood this morning and made her work harder than she wanted to, but the exertion purged some of the gish from her brain. By the time Pieter and Jamus were ready to go, she was feeling more like a dragon than dragon dung.

They returned to the road, then continued on their way at a leisurely pace. As the morning wore on, it turned muggy and hot—a fact which the two men discussed at great length. Lathwi scorned such foolish talk. The weather was not going to change simply because they did not like it. Yet this was typical of them, she reminded herself. They did not seem to care about the conversation’s contents, only the conversation itself. Jamus was worse than Pieter was in that regard—his vocal chords were better developed than his eyes, his ears or his nose. Indeed, he had probably talked yesterday’s deer to death. She rumbled then, amused by the notion.

“What’s so funny?” Pieter asked, in the mood to share a joke.

She did not feel like repeating the string of thoughts that had led to her tickling, so she rolled her shoulders and said nothing.

Her silence annoyed Jamus. For some reason, he was sure that she had been laughing at him. He glimpsed at her out of the corner of his eye, searching for minute facial clues that would confirm his suspicions, but she was as unreadable as a stone. Worse, she seemed genuinely unaware of his scrutiny. Her indifference whetted his curiosity even as it stung his pride. There had to be something he could do to capture her attention.

The idea came to him like a thunderclap: he would throw her and Pieter a party! Women adored parties. And ulterior motives aside, it was no less than she deserved. He’d issue Pieter an invitation first, he decided then. If the trapper accepted, she might be more inclined to follow suit. And if she felt a just little left out in the meantime, well—that was fine with him, too.

“So tell me, Pieter,” he said, in a voice loud enough to be overheard. “What are you going to do while you’re home in Compara?”

“Not much,” the trapper replied. “I’ll probably spend most of my free time with my aunt, which means quiet dinners by the fire and lots of rest.”

“No offense, my friend,” Jamus told him then, “but that doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“I’ve had more than my fair share of excitement on this trip,” he drawled. “A week or so of peace and quiet will do me good.”

“Peace and quiet are splendid antidotes for overwrought nerves, but in large doses, they can be just as taxing as any adventure. What you need, old boy, is a little variety.”

“Such as?” Pieter prompted, recognizing a pitch when he heard one.

“I’d like to host a party in your honour,” Jamus replied, “as a token of my appreciation for your friendship and aid. I’ll have your favourite meats cooked to a fine turn, and all the gish that you can possibly consume. I’ll hire the finest minstrel in Compara, and a troupe of dancers as well.

“Will you come, my friend? I’ll do my best to make it a night you won’t forget.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Pieter declared.

Jamus laughed and clapped the trapper on the back, then turned his smile on Lathwi. “And how about you, my dear? By rights, this party should have two guests of honour. Will you come?”

“No,” she replied.

“Come on now, don’t be such a spoilsport,” he wheedled. “I’ll bet that you’d have the time of your life.”

“What

'

bet’, Pieter?” she asked. She had heard the word before, but had gotten no clear impression as to its meaning.

“A bet is a sort of game played by two or more people,” he said. “Each player predicts the outcome of a particular event—such as a horse-race or a fight—and then promises something of value to the one whose prediction comes true.”

She pondered the explanation for a moment, then said, “So Jamus predict I want eat ruined meat and drink not-water that make me stomach-sick and head-sore in morning?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” he agreed, unable to keep a smirk from his tone.

“Stupid prediction,” she said.

“So it would seem.”

She turned a toothy grin on Jamus. “What you promise?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled, casting her a look as black as a storm cloud. “Nothing at all.”

“Nothing got no value,” she pointed out.

“I believe he has reconsidered the matter and no longer wishes to bet with you,” Pieter told her. “Next time, shake his hand after he proposes a bet that you’d like to accept.”

“Why?”

“That’s how we sanctify our promises in this province.”

“Saying promise not suffice?”

“Not always,” he said, a hint of sadness creeping into his tone. “Some men will say anything to get what they want. Their promises don’t mean a thing to them or anyone else.”

“This hand-shaking stop them from making not-promises?”

“No,” he said, both amazed and touched by her naivete. “Hand-shaking isn’t sorcery, only a gesture of good faith.”

She hissed, appalled by such moral depravity. Dragons avoided promises but never broke them; and while they might exaggerate a fact or withhold it from a telling, they never deliberately breathed an untruth into being. What sort of barbaric creatures were these humans? What sort of fortune could she expect to find among them?

Her turbulent thoughts revived the pounding in her head. She kneed the bay into a trot, purposely leaving the two men behind.

G

Eventually, Lathwi overcame her disgust and rejoined her companions. She had decided not to condemn Pieter for being human—his honest words and actions were ample proof that he had risen above his perverse birthright. And while Jamus was a less civilized sort, she was willing to put up with him for now, too, just so she could compare and contrast.

The afternoon slipped by without notice, then ended with a crimson flourish. As twilight began to draw the last hints of red from the sky, Pieter began looking for a likely place to camp. The day’s ride, combined with last night’s gish, had left him suddenly tired, and he wanted nothing more than to stretch out in front of a fire and relax. He could almost smell that fire’s resinous smoke now.

He tensed, stung by a realization: his imagination was not that good! A moment later, Jamus sounded a quiet alarm. “Look alive, my friends. We’ve got company.”

Two mounted men emerged from the left side of the woods. They were a swarthy duo, with coarse black hair cut close to their heads and eyes the colour of a moon-less night. The tiny loops of gold in their ears belied their homespun appearance.

“Gypsies,” Jamus murmured, not unfriendly, but wary just the same. “Guard your purses if you have them.”

The strangers reined their horses to a halt in front of them. The larger of the two raised his right hand, palm held outward, and then grinned. Lathwi was immediately intrigued, for his two front teeth were gold.

“Greetings, friends,” he said. “I am Santana, leader of a scion of the Wandering Tribe. This,” he said, gesturing to the dour-faced man to his right, “is my brother, Yorgi. How fares the road ahead?”

“Like most roads, it has its good and bad points,” Jamus replied, assuming an easy, bantering tone. “The going itself is no problem; the road is firm and dry. But my friends here have encountered outlaws—”

“That lot won’t be troubling you or anyone else,” Pieter interjected, endowing the reassurance with a subtle warning. Santana rewarded him with an approving flash of gold.

“—and the village which lies a day’s ride from here is filled with vile-tempered peasants,” Jamus went on. “If you stop there, tell your men to beware a comely young woman with hair the colour of forest mushrooms. They could lose more than their hearts to her.”

Santana’s grin turned suddenly ambiguous. Afraid that he might have given offense where none was intended, Jamus hastened to change the subject.

“My guess is that you’re coming from Compara,” he said. “How fares the white-walled city?”

“Compara is her usual sluttish self,” the gypsy replied, instantly cheerful again. “She’s quick to give of her bounty to those who have gold, but equally quick to scorn those who do not.”

The gypsy gave each of them a probing look then, saving Lathwi for last. A vague frown flitted across his brow as he eyed her scales and girdle of claws, but he dismissed it with another of his golden smiles.

“But we need not talk about such things in the middle of the road,” he exclaimed. “Come, share our fires tonight. We are not rich, but what we have is yours. Eat with us. Drink with us. Let our women tell your fortune. And while you are among us, maybe you will purchase some of our humble wares to take back to your loved ones in Compara.”

Pieter opened his mouth, ready with a polite refusal, but Lathwi cut him off before he could get a word out.

“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes as lively as a pair of blue sparks. “I come. Want hear fortune.”

Santana loosed a delighted yip and then reined his horse around. “Come, friends, our wagons are this way.” As he and his taciturn brother went riding off, he added, “What a night this will be!”

Pieter groaned. In the short span of time since Lathwi had barged into his life, he had been attacked; nearly raped, robbed and murdered; and involved in a minor riot. He was in no hurry to add a night with gypsies to that list. Everybody knew what a volatile race they were—even an imagined insult could send them running for their knives. A smart man would high-tail it out of here while his hide was still intact, he told himself. But as much as the notion appealed to him, he knew he was not going anywhere so long as Lathwi had her mind set on staying. Because even though she was almost twice his size and a sorceress to boot, he—he rolled his eyes at the admission—felt responsible for her.

He exchanged a look with Jamus. The blonde man shrugged and said, “What the hell, we have sleep somewhere. And gypsy women are beautiful.”

Pieter shook his head in mock dismay. Then he and his incorrigible new friend urged their horses toward the woods.

Lathwi was already far ahead of them. She was curious about these strangers. Furthermore, she wanted them to tell her fortune. As she threaded her way through the trees, she came upon a most peculiar sight: four small houses perched on wheels. She rode in closer to get a better look, then hissed with surprise and delight as she saw the dragons on the sides of the houses! They were only images, and not drawn to size, but even so, it was good to see one of her own again.

As she contemplated the painted figures, Pieter drew up alongside of her and started whispering.

“Choose your words carefully tonight,” he warned, “for gypsies have notoriously quick tempers. They also have no qualms about stealing, so you might want to keep an eye on your gold.”

She grinned. There might be hope for humans after all.

A wave of children came spilling around the corner then. “This way, this way!” they sing-songed, and began tugging at bridles and reins. Lathwi’s bay snapped at one pudgy little boy who got too close, and for once, Pieter did not object to the beast’s foul temperament. No one in his right mind would want to steal him, so they would have at least one horse left to them in the morning.

The children guided them to a makeshift corral. As they dismounted, Santana reappeared. On foot, he stood as tall as Jamus, who was only a half-hand shorter than Lathwi, but his dancer’s lithe build made him seem smaller.

“Please,” he urged. “Allow our young ones to care for your mounts. They are good with animals, and will treat them well.”

Too well, Pieter thought, and then grudgingly handed his reins to a doe-eyed little girl with a missing front tooth.

Santana ushered them into a clearing studded with small campfires. There, a crowd of brown-skinned people formed a loose circle around them. “Friends,” he said then, his chest swelling with pride, “welcome to our camp.”

“Our thanks for your hospitality, Master Santana,” Jamus replied. “A night on the road is never cold when spent among friends.

“I am called Jamus,” he continued, clearly at ease with his ambassadorial role. “My companions are named Pieter and Lathwi. We are at your service.”

“Well met,” the gypsy leader said. “Allow me to introduce you to the family.

“This is Gem, my wife.” A short, bosomy woman with ring-encrusted fingers stepped forward, then pinched a corner of her voluminous, multicolored skirt and dipped into a graceful curtsey. Lathwi stared, fascinated by her shiny, blood-red toenails.

“These are my children,” he went on, and affectionately stroked their heads as he named them. “Tikki—” A willow wand of a woman-child with her father’s exotic looks and her mother’s unabashed breasts batted her eyelashes at them. Now it was Jamus’ turn to be fascinated. “—Damiano—” This was the pudgy little boy who had almost lost a chunk of flesh to Lathwi’s bay. “—and little Mim, our baby.” She refused to come out from behind her mother’s skirt.

“And over here we have my wife’s brother, Tavi.” A scar below this one’s right eye gave his plain, clean-shaven face a hint of mystery. “Behind him is his wife, Silver,” Hers was a delicate face framed by waves of black hair. “their oldest son, Luke,” He was a pale-skinned boy on the verge of manhood. Like his uncle, he moved with a dancer’s grace. Pieter distrusted his sly green eyes and self-confident air. “and their twin imps, Raul and Paulito.”

The introduction moved to Yorgi and his family, then on to his wife’s relatives. Lathwi did not try to keep track of names and faces. To her, they were all just one fascinating swirl. The younglings in particular amazed her. She found it hard to believe that humans started out that small.

Finally, Santana’s gaze stretched beyond the circle and over to the only person who had not rushed over to meet the newcomers. She was seated in front of a small private fire, a wizened figure wrapped in a shawl and the world’s dignity. Her hair was as white as moonlight.

“It is my privilege to introduce you to our mother,” he said. “Katya, the Wandering Queen, wisest of us all.”

She raised her hand as if in blessing. “You are our guests,” she said, sounding as brittle as she seemed. “Be welcome at our fires.”

Out of respect for her age and obvious authority, Pieter and Jamus bowed. She acknowledged their courtesy with a nod, then dismissed them with a slight flick of her wrist.

“Come,” Santana said then, “let us retire to the fires. While we’re waiting for our supper, we can have a drink and talk more about the village you mentioned earlier.” He gave Pieter and Jamus a gentle push in that direction, then turned to Lathwi. “Please do not disturb Katya, friend. She is old and tires easily. Come, join the rest of my family instead.”

Lathwi did not hear a word. Her attention was focussed on Katya. There was something compelling about this ancient human—her amazing decrepitude perhaps, or perhaps the way in which she spied on the world when she thought no one was watching. Driven by curiosity, she strode over and hunkered down beside her. An instant later, Santana and his brothers converged on her with hard lights in their eyes. Before any of them could lay a finger on her, though, Katya stayed their hands.

“This one means me no harm,” she murmured.

“How can you be sure?” Yorgi asked, the first words that Lathwi had ever heard him speak. She wondered why he sounded so concerned.

“That is one of my gifts,” Katya replied. “Now leave us be. I would speak with this strange friend of ours.”

Grudgingly, the men withdrew. When they were gone, the old gypsy levelled her white-lashed gaze on Lathwi and asked, “So what is it that you want of me, child?”

The answer, adamantly elusive a moment ago, now seemed suddenly obvious. “Want you tell my fortune.”

Katya heaved a nasal sigh, then pressed her right palm to Lathwi’s forehead and shut her eyes. Her touch was cool, almost unnaturally so. Lathwi stifled an urge to pull away.

“Peculiar times,” the gypsy muttered, when she finally withdrew her hand. “First magical warnings in the middle of the night, now an outsider with the impossible in her head.”

“Say again?”

“I don’t understand,” Katya said, turning her troubled brown eyes on Lathwi. “Why do I see dragons in your mind?”

“Not dragons. Womans,” she replied, and then flushed with excitement. This old one was clever.

“Not women,” Katya insisted. “I am a woman. You are a woman. The creatures that I see in your head are dragons: a great black, a bronze, and many others.”

“If those be dragons,” she said, vexed by the confusion which this man-talk could cause, “I be dragon too.”

Katya’s eyes went round with disbelief, then narrowed back into deep-set slits. She peered at Lathwi for a long moment, a reading both blunt and intense. During that time, the lines in her aged face shifted from wonder to doubt and back again. Then she favoured Lathwi with a look of profound respect and regret.

“What you say is true,” she said, sounding weary now as well as brittle. “I have seen the dragon in your heart. But you must know, Lathwi: few possess my special Sight. To most people, you seem to be no more or less than a woman.”

Lathwi’s immediate reaction to that last statement was hot, towering rage. Stupid people! Did they mistake snakes for worms? Eagles for flies? She was Lathwi, The Soft One; a daughter of dragons! She snapped to her feet, then started to pace back and forth in front of Katya’s fire. Her obvious agitation attracted a swarm of frowns from Katya’s protective kinsmen, but the old gypsy opposed their worries with a wave.

“Child, what have I said to cause you such distress?” she asked then, sounding more amused than concerned.

“I dragon,” Lathwi insisted.

“So it would seem. And yet you have the semblance of a woman.”

“No.”

“Don’t be contrary, child; it doesn’t become you. And look at yourself through my eyes. You have neither wings nor tail. Your neck is shorter than mine. You walk upright as I do; talk as I do; and no doubt bleed red blood as I do, too. I see wisps of black hair peeking out from beneath your hood, and—”

“No more!” Lathwi snapped. She regretted the whim that had led her to this miserable place. She regretted meeting this sharp-eyed crone even more. For while it galled her to the bone, she could not deny the truth any longer. She was not a full-fledged dragon or even a wingless runt, but only and thoroughly human. She keened to herself, mourning the loss of the one distinction which she had cherished above all else.

“Here now,” Katya chided then. “Why are you making such sad sounds?”

“Not want to be woman.”

“Ah, I think I see.” She waited until Lathwi paced by again, then reached out and grabbed her hand. “Sit with me for a moment, child.” Too dispirited to refuse, Lathwi sank to the ground. “Now listen to me for a moment.

“My people believe that there is nothing more precious in the world than children. It does not matter if we beget them for ourselves or relieve them from outsiders—once the tribe accepts them, they are gypsies forevermore. Maybe this is so with you, too.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“No,” Lathwi replied, being deliberately obtuse.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter what you started out as. For reasons that I can’t perceive or hope to understand, you were claimed by the skyfolk. So regardless of where you go or what you do throughout your life, in your heart and in your mind, you will always a dragon.”

The old woman’s words soothed Lathwi’s grief; and while she still felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach, it no longer threatened to swallow her whole. Perhaps it was so, she thought to herself. Perhaps she did not need to abdicate her most prized distinction simply because she had acquired another, less savoury one. After all, nothing had changed—she was the same Lathwi whom Taziem had raised and sent away. Perhaps it was her fortune to be many things at once: first a dragon, then a sorceress, and now a woman, too.

“You almost as smart as Mother,” she told Katya, meaning to honour her with such rare and high praise. Then, inspired by the association, she asked, “You teach me? I go where you go if you teach.”

A flush banded the gypsy’s withered cheeks, but Lathwi could not tell if it stemmed from pleasure or chagrin. “What about your friends?” she asked. “Could you leave them behind so easily?”

She shrugged. “You say you teach, I leave them.”

“Let me see your hand,” Katya said, and then sighed as she peered at the proffered palm. “I was afraid it might be so. Our paths seem destined to cross several times, but your future is not with us.” She turned the hand over and patted it. “For what it’s worth, child, I’m sorry. The tribe would have been pleased to take you.”

Lathwi received the disappointing news with stoic grace. If Katya said that her fortune did not lie among the gypsies, then it must be so. But there was one more thing she wanted to ask before she and this wise old woman came to the parting in their ways.

“How you know about dragons in my head?”

An image formed in Lathwi’s mind then. Although blurry and all too brief, it was a younger version of Katya casting her a conspiratory wink. Delighted as well as surprised, she flung a rapid succession of image-thoughts back at the gypsy, but Katya only shook her head.

“Your gifts are much stronger than mine ever were,” she said, in a tone tinged with rue, “and that is both a blessing and a curse. For outsiders often fear that which they do not understand, and if they come to believe that you can perceive their thoughts, they may very well develop an urge to see you dead shortly thereafter. So take an old woman’s free advice, and keep those gifts a secret.

“That is all I have to say, child. Please go now, and tell Santana that I wish to sleep. I will bid you farewell, but not goodbye, for I believe we will meet again.”

Lathwi took no exception to this abrupt dismissal—such was the way of dragons. Before she left, though, she touched her nose to Katya’s—a gesture of respect and fondness. The Queen of The Wandering Tribe flushed again, and then sent her on her way with a smile.

As soon as she stepped out of Katya’s campsite, a crowd of curious younglings swarmed around her. The elders capered for her attention; the youngsters preferred to gawk at her from a safer distance.

“Where Santana?” she asked them.

They scattered like a school of startled hatchlings. A moment later, the gold-toothed gypsy came striding out of the shadows. A casual smile belied the swiftness of his gait.

“Did you wish to see me, friend Lathwi?” he asked.

“Katya want sleep now,” she told him.

He hesitated for a moment—just long enough to glimpse into her eyes—then sped off toward Katya’s fire. Sometime later, he came looking for Lathwi again. His approach sent a pod of younglings scrambling.

“Rascals,” he said, sharing a paternal grin with her. “You would think that they’d never seen an outsider before.” When she did not respond to this attempt at small talk, his expression turned suddenly somber. “You are a mystery to me, friend Lathwi. I do not recognize you, and yet I have this feeling that I should know you. Are you a long-lost cousin from another tribe?”

“No,” she replied.

“Ah, well,” he said, when it was clear that she was not going to comment further, “it doesn’t really matter. I only ask because the feeling is so strong.

“Are you hungry? My mother has bade me to treat you as blood, and blood never wants for food or drink.” Before she could refuse either, he shouted to his wife. “Gem, bring my mother’s friend a plate of roast chook and a mug of beer!”

Even as the order spilled from his lips, a high-pitched squabbling erupted from the shadows on the other side of the camp. He flashed her an apologetic, almost embarrassed grin and said, “That is no doubt Tikki and her cousin quarrelling over hair ribbons again. Excuse me while I go and settle the dispute.”

As he sped away, his buxom mate came bustling over with a mug in one hand and a heaping plate in the other. She was a graceful creature, but far too noisy; her skirts swished to the beat of her steps, her earrings and bracelets jingled.

“Here, friend Lathwi,” she said, smiling as she handed Lathwi her supper. “Eat. Drink. There is plenty for all. I would stay and keep you company, but if I am not there to turn the spit, the meat will burn and I will never hear the end of it.”

She hurried off then, swishing and jingling all the way. Lathwi tried to picture herself in the woman’s place, but her brain rejected the image. Katya was right, she decided then. Regardless of where she was or what kind of company she kept, she would always be a dragon.

From his spot in front of Tavi’s fire, Pieter saw Lathwi standing all alone in the dark. A pang of something close to pity urged him to get up and join her, but even as he started to act on the impulse, a trio of rowdy youths distracted him. They ran past Tavi’s camp, then disappeared into the darkness only to come thundering out of the shadows at Lathwi’s back a moment later. As she turned to see what was coming up behind her, one of the boys slammed into her. The other two skidded to a less calamitous stop and immediately began to brush the ruins of her supper from her mail. Their apologies were as loud as they were profuse.

Tavi flashed Pieter a toothy, boys-will-be-boys grin. Pieter was about to respond in kind when Lathwi seized one of those boys by the front of his shirt and hoisted him from his feet. The noisy camp went suddenly quiet. Even the resident tree frogs shut up.

“You got something that be mine,” Lathwi said then, in a voice bristling with menace.

Pieter swore. Damned gypsies! Damned Lathwi, too. He took a step in that direction, hoping to calm her down before she got them into more trouble than they were in already, but then Tavi draped an arm around his shoulders—a casual hold that would’ve seemed friendly only a moment ago. Jamus, too, was being made to stay put. The two taut-jawed women who had him between them undoubtedly had knives in their skirts.

Meanwhile, Santana came bearing down on Lathwi from out of nowhere. His golden smile was strained now. The muscles in his arms were rigid cords.

“Put my nephew down, friend Lathwi,” he told her. “He is a gypsy, he will not run away.”

She shrugged, then set the boy back on his feet. True to his uncle’s word, he stood his ground. His still-downy cheeks were ablaze with embarrassment now, but the look in his green eyes was of pure defiance.

Luke, my little wolf,” the gypsy leader said then, “why is friend Lathwi so excited? Could it be that you have found something that belongs to her—something that might’ve been jarred from her person during that regrettable collision? If so, then give it back. I would not want her to think poorly of us.”

The boy hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly handed her the claw that he had been hiding behind his back. He did not try to deny its theft or his guilt, but rather stood tall in her shadow and silently dared her to do her worst.

She rumbled her approval. In his stead, she would have done the same thing. Perhaps that was because he, like her, had started life as something other than what he was now, she thought, suddenly grasping the significance of his fair skin and green eyes. The notion appealed to her for no reason she could name. Moreover, it put her in a generous mood.

“You know what you steal?” she asked him.

“Steal?” Santana interjected, his face a caricature of horror. “Please, good Lathwi, do not use such harsh words. It was only a bit of boyish mischief—”

“Tell me,” she persisted. “You know what is?”

“I thought it was some kind of knife,” he told her then, flushing as his voice jumped an octave. “It’s not, though, I can see that now. Here, take it back, I don’t want it.”

“Is better than knife,” she declared, making no move to relieve him of it. “Knife soft, can break or chip. This be dragon claw.”

A mutter rippled through the night air. Then, by ones and twos, the whole camp came drifting over as if spellbound for a better look.

“A dragon claw?” Luke echoed breathlessly, ogling the thing in his hands with a newfound mixture of awe and greed. “Where did you get it?”

“From dragon,” she replied, feeling no need to be more explicit. “You want, I let you keep.” As his eyes widened with comprehension, she added, “You try steal from me again, I eat you.”

He lunged forward and hugged her, then raised the claw over his head and went running off and into the night. Less than a heartbeat later, a swarm of squealing younglings went chasing after him. Their raucous departure shook the rest of the camp out of its trance. Tavi clapped Pieter on the back and laughed as if they had just shared a joke, Tikki planted a kiss on Jamus’ cheek, then flitted away before her elders could scold her for being so brazen.

“Your mother must have been one of us,” Santana said to Lathwi, dazzling her with his broadest grin.

“My mother be dragon,” she replied.

His grin went flat with wonder. “I cannot imagine how such a wonder could come to pass, but if you say it, then it must be so. It certainly explains a lot of the feelings I’ve had about you.

“Stay with us,” he urged her then. “The Wandering Tribe has revered skyfolk since the world’s first dawn. It would be a privilege beyond compare to have one living among us.”

She shook her head. “Katya say my future not with you.” His hopeful expression wilted. “It breaks my heart to hear that,” he said. “but my mother is seldom wrong. If she says you are not for us, then I must believe her. But I will tell you this, friend Lathwi: you will be forever welcome in this camp.”

Then, shifting moods again, he cried, “Enough of this serious talk! Let us celebrate while we still have a chance. Tikki!” he shouted. “Come and dance for us!”

“Which dance would you have of me, Father?” she asked.

“The Dance of the Flying Dragon. Yorgi, get your drum and give her the beat. Gem, help out with your flute. Make room, everybody. Make room!”

The gypsies formed a spacious circle. Tikki stood in its center, surrounded by shadows that the firelight cast at her feet. She waited for the excited buzz to die down, then nodded at her uncle.

The thump of a taut-skinned drum floated through the darkness like a disembodied heartbeat, then merged with the poignant voice of a sweet reed flute. Together, they evoked the image of a clear blue sky. Tikki’s arms extended slowly open; the shawl which spanned taut across her shoulders gave her the aspect of wings. Stretching her neck into an elegant arc, she then began to dance. Her moves were basic at first: long, graceful strides accompanied by majestic strokes of her ersatz wings. The flutter of her ribbons and skirt suggested the presence of wind. Then the music quickened a little, and she began to embellish her steps with sinewy dips and whirls. Soon again, she incorporated acrobatic leaps and bounds which saw her in the air more often than on the ground. On and on she went, fuelled by passion and youth’s raw power. And when she finally glided to a final, exhausted stop, she loosed her version of a dragon’s roar.

Up until that moment, Lathwi had been rapt: the girl’s dance had captured Shoq’s surprising grace, her own memory had infused it with power. But that puny squeak was utterly wrong—it had sent her sky-dancing heart plummeting back to earth. This is what it should sound like, she thought, and gave voice to the proud cry of a dragon in flight.

For one stunned moment, the gypsies could only stare at her. Then, following Santana’s lead, they bowed.

Pieter was dumbfounded. Everyone knew that gypsies did not bow to outsiders, not even to those who could have them killed for their pride. Then Jamus appeared beside him. His face was an amazed blank.

“Who in hell is she?” he whispered.

“She’s Lathwi,” he replied with a shrug. No other definition sufficed.

G

They rose early the next morning, a little bleary-eyed from the beer, but otherwise hale and still in possession of all of their belongings. Santana tried to persuade them into staying another day, but Lathwi’s mind was already set.

“I go now,” she told him, and then headed for her horse without another word.

“Many thanks for your excellent hospitality,” Pieter said, embarrassed by her abruptness. “I hope we meet again some day.”

“Call on me the next time you come to Compara,” Jamus urged. With a wink, he added, “And don’t forget to bring your pretty daughter.”

The gold-tooth gypsy clapped each of them on the back—Jamus just a little harder than Pieter. “Farewell, friends,” he said. “May the road ahead of you always be more pleasant than the road you leave behind.”

A crowd gathered to see them off. Katya was not there, but the boy Luke was. He seemed taller today, and perhaps a shade less downy-cheeked as well. Unlike the other children, he didn’t clamour for their attention, but merely saluted them with his dragon-claw as they rode by. Lathwi bared her teeth at him, then continued on her way without looking back.

“I almost hated to leave,” Jamus said to Pieter, as they trotted along behind Lathwi. “Tikki and I were getting along splendidly.”

The trapper snorted derisively. “Too splendidly, if you ask me. Another day in that camp, and that girl’s mother and aunts would’ve carved you up like a holiday roast.”

“You’re just jealous because she picked me instead of you.”

“Maybe; maybe not. At least I can be reasonably sure of spending the rest of my life with all my parts intact. You, on the other hand, are liable to lose one or more of the kind that count any day now.”

“All the more reason to live each day to its fullest—if you know what I mean,” Jamus added with a sly wink. Then, as if inspired by the thought, he caught up with Lathwi. She welcomed his arrival with her usual indifference, but he was in high spirits this morning and refused to be put off.

“You spent a lot of time with Madame Katya last night,” he said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you two talk about?”

“She tell my fortune,” she replied.

“Did she tell you that you were going to meet a tall, golden-haired man and fall hopelessly in love with him?” he teased, batting his lashes at her.

“No,” she replied, in a utterly humourless tone. “She smart, not talk nonsense. I want stay, learn from her, but she say it not my future.”

He was glad to hear that someone had finally figured out a way to refuse her, but he did not say so aloud. His years of diplomatic service made him more circumspect.

“Oh well, these things have a way of working out for the best,” he said instead. “Gypsies lead harsh lives more often than not.” Then, because he was curious, he asked, “Why did they bow to you last night anyway?”

“They got respect for dragons,” she told him.

“So that really was a dragon claw,” he marvelled. “How remarkable. Is there any chance that you might give me one, too? It would make a wonderful addition to my collection of curiosities.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked, peeved now because he could not see how she could be so generous with a would-be thief and yet so stingy with him.

“Claw got no meaning for you. You want only because it curiosity.” She made the word sound like an obscenity.

“Yes, but—”

“You want claw?” she challenged him then. “Be bold like youngling, try to steal. You survive, I let you keep.”

That wasn’t the way things were done in the civilized world, he wanted to tell her. Well-bred people minded their manners. But she wasn’t well-bred, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t civilized. And the truth was, he didn’t want the claw badly enough to tangle with her.

“Oh, keep the damned thing,” he growled, then wheeled his horse around and rejoined Pieter. There, he grumbled, “Blessed Dreamer, but she can be such a bitch!”

“True,” Pieter agreed. “So when are you going to learn to let sleeping dogs lie?”

“Shut up,” was his only reply.

The three of them rode on in silence for a long time to come.

G

They made camp in the woods that evening. Still tired from their sojourn with the gypsies, they fell asleep early and slept without rousing throughout the night.

In the morning, a chattering squirrel jarred Pieter from his dreams. He stretched to wring the vestiges of sleep from his veins, then sat up and glanced at his companions. Jamus was cleaning his teeth with a peeled twig; Lathwi was spying on him through slitted eyes.

She was due for a scrubbing, too, he thought, taking critical note of her dirty skin and mail. Liselle would have a fit if he brought her into the house encased in that much grime.

“Lathwi,” he said, not quite sure of how to broach the subject with her. “If all goes well today, we’ll be sleeping in Compara tonight.”

“Good,” she replied, and sprang to her feet. “We go.”

“There’s no need to rush,” he told her. “The city is less than a day’s ride from here. And besides, you need to do something before we leave.”

“What that?”

“There’s a stream not too far from here,” he said. “I think you ought to find it and spend some time in the water.”

“Why? I not thirsty. And I not want swim.”

“This has nothing to do with drinking or swimming. You need a bath.”

“What that?”

“I can show you what a bath is,” Jamus told her. “I was just thinking that I could use one, too.”

His offer roused her suspicions. The last time he had been so charitable, she had wound up poisoning herself with gish. If she had to learn about this

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bath’, then she would rather have Pieter teach it to her. She much preferred his methods. The only problem was, he seemed perfectly happy to let Jamus conduct this lesson.

“Why I need this bath, Pieter?” she asked, hoping to trick him out of a useful clue or two.

“It’s important for you make a good first impression on Liselle,” he replied. “And she has rather definite ideas as to how a person should look and smell.”

“I smell same as you,” she asserted. “Why you not take bath?”

He scorned that suggestion with a snort. “I don’t even come close to smelling like you do. And besides, I’m not the one who has to impress Liselle. She already knows me.”

Lathwi hissed then, signalling her resignation. She did not know what this Liselle was, or why she had to impress it, but Pieter obviously thought that it was important to do so, so she would submit to Jamus’ tutelage.

“I take bath,” she told him. “You show how.”

“I am your humble servant,” he replied, and then turned his now-grinning face to Pieter. “Which way did you say that stream was?”

Pieter pointed and said, “I’ll pack while you’re gone.”

“Take your time,” Jamus advised him. “If all goes well, we’ll be gone a long time.”

Pieter was tempted to offer the blonde a wager on that, but refrained at the last moment. There was no such thing as a sure bet where Lathwi was concerned.

G

She heard the stream before she saw it; its chuckling voice filled the spaces between the trees with the sound of its secret Name. She smiled knowingly, then followed Jamus down the side of a ferny embankment. There, the air turned sweet and damp. Flashes of refracted sunlight dazzled their eyes.

“How now?” she asked.

“Strip,” he told her. When she hesitated, he extended a hand. “Would you like some help?”

“No,” she snapped, and batted his hand away. She wasn’t happy with the idea of exposing herself in his presence. The extent of her softness was something she preferred to keep to herself. Regardless of her preferences, though, she was not going to back out. She had committed herself to this lesson; therefore she would strip.

She removed her scales with swift efficiency—first releasing each of the seams, then shucking the hide all at once. As her hood slid free of her head, strands of limp black hair slithered across her face. She frowned. Body hair was un-dragon like, an embarrassment like her softness. She would have hacked it off right then and there if Jamus had not distracted her. He was naked now, too, and what a revolting sight that was! His body was so soft, it almost jiggled in places; and so hairy, it seemed almost bearish. And she didn’t know what to think of the thing that dangled between his legs. She knew what it was, all males had one, but for some reason, she had expected humans to be more like dragons in that regard. Sires kept their organs tucked away until such times as they were needed.

Jamus saw her staring at his groin and could not stop himself from smiling. It was rather impressive, he thought. And the sight of her standing there clad in nothing but long black hair and sunlight did nothing to diminish its stature. She was magnificent—a sculpture of solid muscle. Even her tiny breasts were rock-hard. And Dreamer, she had scars all over her! Some were faint and puckered, others were freshly healed. The thought of running his tongue over that violent network sent a shiver down his spine.

“Let’s get in the water,” he said, because he was afraid that his growing excitement might scare her away otherwise.

The stream was swollen from springtime rains and the last of the winter melt. An instant after he set foot in it, his blood turned to ice. He ground a yelp between his teeth, then forced himself to go deeper. Behind him, Lathwi hissed. She did not like being in this much water, especially when it was this cold.

“Get yourself wet,” he told her, when they were in up to their waists. She splashed herself half-heartedly. He shook his head. “No, no. Like this,” he said, and ducked beneath the water only to resurface an instant later. “Go ahead,” he panted then. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

Reluctantly, she did as she was told. When she came back up again, she found Jamus rubbing a foamy, lard-coloured knot between his hands.

“What that?” she demanded, instantly suspicious.

“It’s soap,” he replied, and then began to rub the foam in her hair. “No bath is complete without it.”

“Stinks,” she told him.

“Don’t be silly,” he chided. “It smells like violets.”

“Violets stink.”

“Whatever you say,” he said, refusing to argue with her. “Now just try to relax. Bath-time can be a lot of fun.”

He scrubbed her hair into a high lather, then commanded her to rinse. She bobbed down, then up again, now dripping with disapproval as well as water. If this was his idea of fun, he was less intelligent than she had supposed him to be. That smelly soap was making her nose itch, and the water was chilling her to the bone.

“Done now?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he crooned, delighted to have such control over her. “Now we have to wash the rest of you.”

He began with the muscled flats of her shoulder blades, then moved on to the rest of her scarred backside. She was tense at first, but he was skilled with his fingers and soon had her leaning into his surreptitious massage. His touches evolved into caresses then, lavish strokes which paid homage to her hips, buttocks, belly and breasts. Finally, he slid his soap-slick fingers into the bearded vee between her legs and gave her a brief taste of what could be. Then he ordered her to rinse.

“Now?” she asked, when she came splashing to the surface again. He thought he heard a different sort of hope in her voice.

“Not yet. It’s my turn now,” he said, and then handed her the soap.

She rumbled to herself. She felt surprisingly good now, all loose and tingly. Now she wanted to get out of this icy stream and bask in the sun. But since he wanted to test her, she was obliged to stay put and show him what she’d learned. So she took the soap and went to work. As she proceeded, the thing between his legs began to swell.

“Soap that, too?” she asked, simply because she wanted to be thorough.

“Definitely,” he breathed. As she slid her soapy hands down the length of it, he gasped and then said, “Oh, Lathwi, that feels so good. Now put it in your mouth.”

A doubtful scowl furrowed her brow. “Why for?”

“It’s something every woman should try at least once,” he told her. “Go on, give it a taste. If you don’t like it, I won’t force you to continue.”

She shrugged. The path to being a woman seemed to be riddled with peculiar turns.

He closed his eyes as she leaned toward him, then arched his back as her breath skirted his loins. For one incredible moment, pleasure ruled his universe. Then a steel-jawed trap snapped shut on him, and pleasure turned to spangles of pain. He pushed her away with a garbled cry, then thrashed his way to shore. There, he hastily scooped up his clothes and went storming into the woods.

How curious, she thought, as she watched him disappear. A moment ago, he had been keen on being tasted. Now he was flapping around like some great wounded land fowl. Was this another example of acquired taste? If so, then how many times did he have to be bitten before he started to like it?

She shook her head at the quirks of men and waded back to shore. There, she hacked off her dripping hair with the not-claw and then started to get dressed. It was then that she noticed the smell: a sharp, distressing melange of sweat and other animal odours. It was coming from her scales. She was instantly appalled. This was what happened to those who kept company with men and beasts, she scolded herself. Their noses went dull, their habits turned bad. She would have to be more careful from now on, or someone would mistake her for prey.

She scrubbed at her scales with fine dry sand until they smelled dragon-clean again. Then, with the same fervour, she applied the sand to herself. In time, the stink of violets wore off.

“It’s about time,” Pieter chided, when finally she came ambling back into camp. “I was about to go looking for you.” Then, noticing the crumbs of sand on her face and hands, his mock frown turned sincere. “I thought you were going to take a bath!”

“I take,” she told him. “Now we go to Compara.”

There was no point in arguing with her, Pieter decided. All he could do only was hope that Liselle would understand.