Tales of Wonder (28 page)

“You don't know wounds,” growled Likkarn. “I'll show you what a
real
trainer knows.” He grabbed the dragon's torn wing and held it firmly; then with a quick motion, and before Jakkin could stop him, he set his mouth on the jagged tear.

The dragon reared back in alarm and tried to whip its tail around, but the stalls were purposely built small to curb such motion. Its tail scraped along the wall and barely tapped the man. But Jakkin grabbed at Likkarn's arm with both hands and furiously tore him from the red's wing.

“I'll kill you, you weeder,” he screamed. “Can't you wait till a dragon is in the stews before you try to eat it. I'll kill you.” He slammed at Likkarn with his fist and feet, knowing as he did it that the man's weed anger would be turned on him and he might be killed by it, and not caring. Suddenly Jakkin felt himself being lifted up from behind, his legs dangling, kicking uselessly at the air. A strong arm around his waist held him fast. Another pushed Likkarn back against the wall.

“Hold off, boy. He was a good trainer—once. And he's right about the best way to deal with a wing wound. An open part, filled with dragon's blood, might burn the tongue surely. But a man's tongue heals quickly, and there is something in human saliva that closes these small tears.”

Jakkin twisted around as best he could and saw the man he had most feared seeing. It was Master Sarkkhan himself, in a leather suit of the red-and-gold nursery colors. His red beard was brushed out, and he looked grim.

Sarkkhan put the boy down but held on to him with one hand. With the other, he brushed his hair back from a forehead that was pitted with blood scores as evenly spaced as a bonder's chain. “Now promise me you will let Likkarn look to the red's wing.”

“I will not. He's a weeder and he's as likely to rip the red as heal it, and the red hates him—just as I do,” shouted Jakkin. There he stopped and put the back of his hand over his mouth, shocked at his own bold words.

Likkarn raised his hand to the boy and aimed a blow at his head, but before the slap landed, the dragon nosed forward and pushed the man to the ground.

Master Sarkkhan let go of Jakkin's shoulder and considered the red for a moment. “I think the boy is right, Likkarn. The dragon won't have you. It's too closely linked. I wouldn't have guessed that, but there it is. Best leave this to the boy and me.”

Likkarn got up clumsily and brushed off his clothes. His bond bag had fallen over the top of his overall bib in the scuffle, and Jakkin was shocked to see that it was halfway plump, jangling with coins. Likkarn caught his look and angrily stuffed the bag back inside, then jabbed at the outline of Jakkin's bag under his shirt with a reddened finger. “And how much have
you
got there, boy?” He walked off with as much dignity as he could muster to slump by the stairwell and watch.

Sarkkhan ignored them both and crouched down by the dragon, letting it get the smell of him. He caressed its jaws and under its neck with his large, scarred hands. Slowly the big man worked his way back toward the wings, crooning at the dragon in low tones, smoothing its scales, all the while staring into its eyes. Slowly the membranes, top and bottom, shuttered the red's eyes, and it relaxed. Only then did Sarkkhan let his hand close over the wounded wing. The dragon gave a small shudder but was otherwise quite still.

“Your red did a good job searing its wound on the light. Did you teach it that?”

“No,” the boy admitted.

“Of course not, foolish of me. How could you? No light in the sands. Good breeding, then,” said Sarkkhan with a small chuckle of appreciation. “And I should know. After all, your dragon's mother is my best—Heart O' Mine.”

“You … you knew all along, then.” Jakkin felt as confused as a blooded First.

Sarkkhan stood up and stretched. In the confines of the stall he seemed enormous, a red-gold giant. Jakkin suddenly felt smaller than his years.

“
Fewmets
, boy. Of course I knew,” Sarkkhan answered. “I know
everything
that happens at my nursery.”

Jakkin collapsed down next to his dragon and put his arm over its neck. When he finally spoke, it was in a very small voice. “Then why did you let me do it? Why did you let me steal the dragon? Were you trying to get me in trouble? Do you want me in jail?”

The man threw back his head and roared, and the dragons in neighboring stalls stirred uneasily at the sound. Even Likkarn started at the laugh, and a trainer six stalls down growled in disapproval. Then Sarkkhan looked down at the boy, crouched by the red dragon. “I'm sorry, boy, I forget how young you are. Never known anyone quite that young to successfully train a hatchling. But every man gets a chance to steal one egg. It's a kind of test, you might say. The only way to break out of bond. Some men are meant to be bonders, some masters. How else can you tell? Likkarn's tried it—endless times, eh, old man?” The master glanced over at Likkarn with a look akin to affection, but Likkarn only glared back. “Steal an egg and try. The only things it is wrong to steal are a bad egg or your master's provisions.” Sarkkhan stopped talking for a minute and mused, idly running a hand over the red dragon's back as it chewed contentedly now on its burnwort, little gray straggles of smoke easing from its slits. “Of course, most
do
steal bad eggs or are too impatient to train what comes out, and instead they make a quick sale to the stews just for a few coins to jangle in their bags. Then it's back to bond again before a month is out. It's only the ones who steal provisions that land in jail, boy.”

“Then you won't put me in jail? Or the red in the stews? I couldn't let you do that, Master Sarkkhan. Not even you. I wouldn't let you. I …” Jakkin began to stutter, as he often did in his master's presence.

“Send a First Fighter, a
winner
to the stews?
Fewmets
, boy, where's your brain. Been smoking blisterweed?” Sarkkhan hunkered down next to him.

Jakkin looked down at his sandals. His feet were soiled from the dust of the stall. He ordered his stomach to calm down, and he felt an answering muted rainbow of calm from the dragon. Then a peculiar thought came to him. “Did
you
have to steal an egg, Master Sarkkhan?”

The big red-headed man laughed and thrust his hand right into Jakkin's face. Jakkin drew back, but Sarkkhan was holding up two fingers and wiggling them before his eyes.

“Two! I stole two. A male and a female. And it was not mere chance. Even then, I knew the difference.
In the egg
I knew. And that's why I'm the best breeder on Austar IV.” He stood up abruptly and held out his hand to the boy. “But enough. The red is fine, and you are due upstairs.” He yanked Jakkin to his feet and seemed at once to lose his friendliness.

“Upstairs?” Jakkin could not think what that meant. “You said I was not to go to jail. I want to stay with the red. I want …”

“
Wormwort
, boy, have you been listening or not? You have to register that dragon, give her a name, record her as a First Fighter, a winner.”

“
Her
?” Jakkin heard only the one word.

“Yes, a her. Do you challenge
me
on that? And I want to come with you and collect my gold. I bet a bagful on that red of yours—on Likkarn's advice. He's been watching you train—my orders. He said she was looking good, and sometimes I believe him.” Sarkkhan moved toward the stairwell where Likkarn still waited. “I owe him, you know. He taught me everything.”

“Likkarn? Taught you?”

They stopped by the old man who was slumped again in another blisterweed dream. Sarkkhan reached out and took the stringy red weed ash from the old man's hand. He threw it on the floor and ground it savagely into the dust. “He wasn't born a weeder, boy. And he hasn't forgotten all he once knew.” Then shaking his head, Master Sarkkhan moved up the stairs, impatiently waving a hand at the boy to follow.

A stray strand of color-pearls passed through Jakkin's mind, and he turned around to look at the dragon's stall. Then he gulped and said in a rush at Sarkkhan's back, “But she's a mute, Master. She may have won this fight by wiles, but she's a mute. No one will bet on a dragon that cannot roar.”

The man reached down and grabbed Jakkin's hand, yanking him through the doorway and up the stairs. They mounted two at a time. “You really are lizard waste,” said Sarkkhan, punctuating his sentences with another step. “Why do you think I sent a half-blind weeder skulking around the sands at night watching you train a snatchling? Because I'd lost my mind?
Fewmets
, boy. I want to know what is happening to every damned dragon I have bred, because I have had a hunch and a hope these past ten years, breeding small-voiced dragons together. I've been
trying
to breed a mute. Think of it, a mute fighter—why, it would give nothing away, not to pit foes or to bettors. A mute fighter and its trainer …” and Sarkkhan stopped on the stairs, looking down at the boy. “Why, they'd rule the pits, boy.”

They finished the stairs and turned down the hallway. Sarkkhan strode ahead, and Jakkin had to doubletime in order to keep up with the big man's strides.

“Master Sarkkhan,” he began at the man's back.

Sarkkhan did not break stride but growled, “I am no longer your master, Jakkin.
You
are a master now. A master trainer. That dragon will speak only to you, go only on your command. Remember that, and act accordingly.”

Jakkin blinked twice and touched his chest. “But … but my bag is empty. I have no gold to fill it. I have no sponsor for my next fight. I …”

Sarkkhan whirled, and his eyes were fierce. “
I
am sponsor for your next fight. I thought that much, at least, was clear. And when your bag is full, you will pay me no gold for your bond. Instead, I want pick of the first hatching when the red is bred—to a mate of my choosing. If she is a complete mute, she may breed true, and
I
mean to have it.”

“Oh, Master Sarkkhan,” Jakkin cried, suddenly realizing that all his dreams were realities, “you may have the pick of the first
three
hatchings.” He grabbed the man's hand and tried to shake his thanks into it.

“
Fewmets
!” the man yelled, startling some of the passers-by. He shook the boy's hand loose. “How can you ever become a bettor if you offer it all up front. You have to disguise your feelings better than that. Offer me the pick of the
third
hatching. Counter me. Make me work for whatever I get.”

Jakkin said softly, testing, “The pick of the third.”

“First two,” said Sarkkhan, softly back and his smile came slowly. Then he roared, “Or I'll have you in jail and the red in the stews.”

A crowd began to gather around them, betting on the outcome of the uneven match. Sarkkhan was a popular figure at pit-fights, and the boy was leather-patched—obviously a bonder, an unknown, worm waste.

All at once Jakkin felt as if he were at pitside. He felt the red's mind flooding into his, a rainbow effect that gave him a rush of courage. It was a game, then, all a game. And he knew how to play. “The second,” said Jakkin, smiling back. “After all, Heart's Blood is a First Fighter, and a winner. And,” he hissed at Sarkkhan so that only the two of them could hear, “she's a mute.” Then he stood straight and said loudly, so that it carried to the crowd, “You'll be lucky to have pick of the second.”

Sarkkhan stood silently, as if considering both the boy and the crowd. He brushed his hair back from his forehead, then nodded. “Done,” he said. “A hard bargain.” Then he reached over and ruffled Jakkin's hair, and they walked off together.

The crowd, settling their bets, let them through.

“I
thought
you were a good learner,” Sarkkhan said to the boy. “Second it is. Though,” and he chuckled and said quietly, “you should remember this. There is never anything good in a first hatching. Second is the best by far.”

“I didn't know,” said Jakkin.

“Why should you?” countered Sarkkhan. “
You
are not the best breeder on Austar IV. I am. But I like the name you picked. Heart's Blood out of Heart O' Mine. It suits.”

They went through the doorway together to register the red and to stuff Jakkin's bag with hard-earned dragon's gold.

Brother Kenan's Bell

Brother Kenan woke in the night. He had had the most wondrous dream. An angel with a great smile of joy had come to him and said:

Take you a bell into the wilderness, a bell without clapper or tongue. And when that bell shall ring by itself—there build a house of God.

When morning prayers were over, Brother Kenan hurried along the stone hall to the abbot's cell and told him of the dream.

“It
is
a strange dream,” the abbot said, “for what is a bell without clapper or tongue?”

“A piece of metal?” asked Kenan.

“Just so,” said the abbot with a smile. “A piece of metal. And do you think that I would send any of my monks into the wilderness with just a piece of metal to guide him? I am supposed to be a father to you all. What kind of a father would I be to let you go because of a single strange dream?”

Brother Kenan went into the monastery garden where he was to work that day. There he saw Brother David and Brother John, and told them about his dream.

Brother David, whose clever hands were never still, said, “Perhaps it was something you ate. Dreams often proceed from the stomach.”

So Brother Kenan said no more.

But that night he dreamed again. This time the angel was not smiling, and said:

Take you a bell into the wilderness, a bell without clapper or tongue. And when that bell rings by itself—there build a house of God with Brother David and Brother John.

Brother Kenan did not even wait for the morning prayers to be rung. He put on his sandals and hurried off to the abbot's cell, where he roused the good father with a shake. The abbot was annoyed to be awakened before the bells, but he did not show it with his words or eyes. Only his mouth was angry and drawn into a hard line.