Wilt thou seal up avenues of ill?
Pay every debt, as though God wrote the bill.—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Karl enjoyed himself as the three of them wandered through the open-air markets of Pandathaway. The markets were a rainbow of sights, sounds, and smells: dwarf blacksmiths hawking mailshirts and steelplate greaves; jewelers selling rubies and sapphires in settings both plain and ornate; foodsellers displaying spits of garlic-laden meat and glass bowls of tangy fruit ices; bakers calling all to sample golden, fist-sized loaves of bread, dripping butter and fresh from stone ovens.
The prices were high for most things, although a beerseller let them drink three huge tankards for a copper; it occurred to Karl that bread and circuses might have translated into beer and games, here.
At an armorer's canopied stall, they stopped to haggle with a dwarf blacksmith over the price for charming a blade—Walter had suggested that Andrea's and Aristobulus' spells might earn some extra money if needed.
"Well," Karl finally said, quickly bored with the bargaining that the smith seemed to enjoy, "if it's only worth one gold for two swords to you, it's probably not worth bothering our friends. But we might take you up on it later."
The dwarf spat, muttering in some tongue that Karl couldn't follow. "No promises that my offer will stay open. Many wizards in Pandathaway."
Walter looked at him, raising an eyebrow. His unvoiced question: Maybe it would be worth it to nail down the deal now?
"Out of my way," Doria snapped, shoving her way between Karl and Walter. "You two have the bargaining sense of—never mind." She slammed her palm down on the weathered counter. "Look, you," she said in Erendra, "we don't have the patience for that sort of nonsense. Understood?"
The dwarf spread his hands. "I don't know—"
"None of that. A charmed sword has to be worth, easily, a hundred, hundred-fifty gold if it has any kind of edge—that would be about twice standard—and you're trying to get these two poor fools to agree to half a gold, each? Don't bother keeping that offer open; we don't need it."
The dwarf chuckled deeply. "Well, it was worth trying for a fast bargain. They look new. You're a Hand cleric, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"It figures. No offense intended, but I don't care for your sect. I'm just an honest armorer and smith, trying to turn a bit of profit, and—"
Karl took a step forward. "And cheat us just a little?"
"Well," the dwarf shrugged, "maybe take a bit of advantage. From the way you three keep spinning your heads around, I figured you might be new to Pandathaway." He eyed Karl's sword. "You any good with that thing?"
Karl slipped his right hand to his swordhilt. "I manage."
The dwarf held up both palms. "Be easy, friend. I'm not threatening. It's just that I have a few spare coins, just now. Since you're new here, the oddsmakers probably will undervalue you; I might be persuaded to put a bet down."
Doria nodded. "And give us a good price on a spell or two."
The dwarf dismissed that with an airy wave. "I don't see the need—"
Doria reached out and grabbed him by the collar, pushing her face close to his. "You're familiar with healing spells?"
The dwarf could have pushed her away with ease. Instead, eyeing Karl and Walter, he nodded slightly.
"And," she continued, "have you ever seen one work in reverse?" She ran a fingertip lightly across the dwarf's throat.
He shook his head.
"Then," she said as she released him, "if you don't want to, maybe you'll stop trying to take advantage of my friends, no?"
The dwarf looked curiously at Karl and Walter. "Where did you get this one? I thought that Hand clerics were nonviolent."
And I didn't know Doria was capable of this sort of thing. Karl eyed her curiously. "She's a new kind."
"I'll go along with that—I'll make you a deal. Put her in the Games, and we'll all bet on her and get rich as elves. The stupid swordsmen will never know what hit them, eh?" The dwarf laughed, a deep-throated roar that came across as sincere, not just a bargaining technique. "But seriously, if you'll cover half my losses if you don't place, I'll give you, say, twenty gold for glowing a sword, thirty for charming one. Agreed?"
"No," Doria said. "You'll give us those prices anyway—and your wagers are your own profit or loss. Agreed?"
The dwarfs mouth quirked into a frown. "Can't get away with anything around you, eh?" He picked up his hammer and turned back to his forge, pumping his bellows with a muscular arm. "Go on, now—find somebody else to persecute. If you win, come back and I'll do well by you." As they started to walk away, he called out, "And don't bring her with you next time."
Karl chuckled. "It seems you gained some skills during the transfer that we didn't know about, Doria."
"Not quite." She smiled up at him. "I spent a summer in Tel Aviv, back at the end of high school. That little dwarf has nothing on the Arab merchants in the Jaffa flea market—you've got to take the first offer as an insult, threaten a bit of violence . . . then, you can get down to business. Otherwise, you can end up spending the rent money on a pair of sandals—or take the whole afternoon just picking up lunch." She glared at both him and Walter, but there was a bit of pride mixed in. "It seems as though the two of you are going to need a keeper—or at least a teacher. Watch." She paused in front of a fruit vendor's stall and picked out three ripe, red apples from the slanted bin, examining the back sides of the fruits—"you've got to check for worm holes"—before pulling a copper coin from her pouch, holding it out to the vendor in offer of payment.
The vendor, a frowzy, overweight woman, brushed away the two dirty children clinging to her tattered skirts, nodded, and walked over to take the coin.
As they walked on, she handed Karl the reddest of the apples, Walter another, and took a bite out of the last. "Good. See," she said around a mouthful, "if you look like you know what you're doing, you'll save a bit of money, and a lot of time."
Karl crunched a bite out of his apple. It had been too long since his last meal, aboard the Pride; the cool, sweet fruit tasted almost too good. "We've still got to find out when the next Games are." He eyed the afternoon sun. "And then get back to the fountain—I make it about three hours till sundown."
Walter took a last bite out of his apple and threw the shreds of stem and core away. "I could use another beer."
"No." That was a rule he'd learned back when he was a freshman: always set your limits before you have your first drink. "Let's walk this way."
* * *
Ahira found the Librarian in charge of the Room of Gold and Gray to be an unlikely occupant of the post: The man was tall and well-muscled, his shoulders straining at the seams of his gold-trimmed gray woolen tunic as he bustled over to the door to greet the dwarf and dismiss Ahira's escort.
"Welcome, welcome to the Room of Gold and Gray," he boomed. His voice was a deep baritone, his handclasp firm and friendly. "I am Oreen; I am the Specializing Librarian in charge of"—he interrupted himself to chuckle—"all that you now survey. And you are . . . ?"
"Ahira." And I am also confused. This Librarian's manner was diametrically opposite to Callutius'.
"Ahira," the Librarian repeated, drawing up two three-legged stools, seating himself on the shorter one and gesturing Ahira to the other. "This will let us have our eyes on the same level, or close to it. Please, make yourself comfortable. You are both my first patron of the day, and my first dwarvish patron ever—let us enjoy the moment, shall we?"
"Do I get charged extra for the friendly treatment?"
Green's brow furrowed under a shock of brown hair. "Friendly?—oh. Callutius is on greeting duty today, isn't he? I haven't seen the old bastard for months. Does he still look as though he'd just discovered half a maggot in his meat?"
Ahira chuckled. "Quite."
Oreen shrugged. "Well, it's his own fault. He never specialized, you see—instead of trying to learn one room, he went in for indexing, trying to learn what is kept where." Oreen punctuated the words by thumping himself on the knee. "He wants to be Chief Librarian someday. Which he may be, though I doubt it. And, in any case, he is certain to be unhappy in the interim." Oreen gestured at the shelves and racks lining the small, bright room. "As for me, I know every page of every book, every section of every scroll here. Vellum maps and hand-copied books; printed scrolls and explorers' notes—I know them all." Oreen folded his thick arms across his chest. "Which makes me the master of all I see, and a happy man. Now, what is it that we're looking for today?"
"I'm trying to find a map that will show me where the Gate Between Worlds is, if you've ever heard—"
"There's no such map." Oreen held up a hand. "But please, let me show you . . ." He stood, sucking air through his teeth, and walked over to a scrollrack, flipping aside several scrolls before selecting one. "Hmmm . . . I think that this will give you the best overview of the situation." Oreen beckoned Ahira over to a wide table and rolled the scroll open, carefully pinning his selected panel open with four springy clamps. "My own design, these clamps—they keep the scroll firmly open, without hurting it at all. You see, here we are: Pandathaway." The Librarian held his finger over the designated spot, not touching the yellowed parchment. "I could show you the floor plans of most of the structures here. Do you follow me, so far?"
"Yes, but—"
"Be patient for a moment, friend Ahira, be patient. We now move north and east . . ." His finger traced a path through a scattering of upside-down V's. " . . . where we reach the Aershtyl Mountains, and Aeryk, there. This is the trade route into the mountains; we have much contact with the Aerir. So, I could show you maps of the landholding around Aeryk—contour maps, if you're familiar with them; much of the land is on its side." His finger went farther north. "Now, here's a problem: the Waste of Elrood. Do you know of it?"
"No." Oreen's friendliness tempted Ahira to be more complete—but it was better to be safe. "I'm new to this area."
"Oh?" Oreen's lifted eyebrow invited him to go on.
"I believe you were saying something about a Waste?"
Oreen nodded. "It was almost a thousand years ago—I don't have the date on the tip of my tongue, but I could get if for you if you want me to—it was a thousand years ago, that two powerful wizards dueled on the plain of Elrood. It was a lush farmland, back then. They destroyed everything around them, for a great distance. Now, it's devastated. Nothing grows." He shook himself. "But . . . you pass through just the edge of the Waste, and—"
"Wait." Ahira indicated a patch of green in the large brown circle that marked the Waste. "What's this? I thought you said that it was all destroyed. That's farmland or forest, isn't it?"
"Very good." Green's smile held no trace of condescension. "That's the forest surrounding the home tabernacle of the Society of the Healing Hand—oh, you know the Society?"
"Slightly," Ahira admitted. "I have a friend who is a member." In a manner of speaking, that is.
Oreen stood back, impressed. "Really. They're powerful healers. Their Grand Matriarch is said to be able to raise the dead, although I couldn't swear to the truth of that. I've never heard of a Hand cleric's talking about it, though." He snorted. "On the other hand, the damn Spidersect clerics claim they can do anything, and they lie. But, as I was saying, the Matriarch is most powerful; she fully protected the tabernacle and its grounds from the battle."
Ahira frowned. "I thought you said it was a long time ago—hundreds of years, no?"
Oreen's face wrinkled. "Where are you from, friend Ahira?"
"What do you mean?" There was a challenge in Oreen's voice that made Ahira's hands itch for the handle of his battleaxe.
The Librarian sighed, and shook his head. "My apologies; it's not my place to pry. But it must be a strange land, where powerful clerics can't maintain their own life functions."
The James Michael part of him welled up with an image of old Father Mendoza, his parish priest, who had collapsed with a heart attack while celebrating Mass, and died a few hours later. It was strange, come to think of it: Why couldn't the gods—God take care of his own?
He shook his head. That was beside the point; the problem was how to deal with Oreen. Possibly the best thing to do would be to lay his situation before the Librarian, and ask his advice. But how could he put it? I used to be a cripple on another world, until a would-be wizard sent me here, to clear the way for him?
No. That wouldn't do. Just because magic worked here didn't mean that there was nothing that the locals wouldn't consider insane.
And how do they treat the insane here? Beat them, to drive the demons out? And might that even work here?
It might, at that. But the cure could easily be worse than the disease. "You were showing me the route, I believe."
Oreen looked at him for a long moment before shrugging. "Very well. As I was saying, I can't show you detailed maps of the Waste, simply because nobody has ever made one. At least, not to my knowledge—anyone going through there would be more interested in getting out than they would be in mapmaking." He smiled. "And to every rule, an exception: I could show you a map of the road from Metreyll to the tabernacle of the Healing Hand." His finger hovered over a line from a lake to the green spot that marked the forest preserve of the Society. "But that would take you out of your way. Far out of your way, if you're going to Bremon."
"Bremon?"
"Bremon." Oreen tapped at a lone inverted V, near the Waste. "That's where the Gate Between Worlds is supposed to be. I have a description—no map, just some notes—of an entrance into the mountain. A hundred years back, someone gave up on finding the Gate when he was just outside of the mountain. So, I can show you where that is. But I can't show you a map of the inside of the mountain, simply because—"
"Nobody who has ever gone in has ever come out again, to tell the tale."
"Of course." Oreen was puzzled. "What do you think I've been getting at?"
* * *
An easterly wind brought a stink to Karl's nostrils, as the three of them walked along a quiet cobblestone street. It was a stench of dung, and sweat, and fear. He was about to pick up the pace, to urge the others along, when Walter plucked at Karl's sleeve.
"I think there's a slave market over that way—I can just barely hear an auction. You two want to go look?" The thief shrugged. "I know we can't spend any serious money right now, but it might be worth our while to find out how much some bearers cost. Could be cheaper—" He was interrupted by the crack of a distant whip, immediately followed by a scream of pain. Walter winced. " . . . than buying horses and such."
Karl shook his head. "We won't own people. It's wrong."
Doria frowned at Walter. "How could you even think of such a thing? That's—"
"Thinking it through. Which you two aren't. Look, what would we do with a bunch of slaves, after we reach the Gate? We'll let them go, no? In effect, it'd be more like a temporary indenture than real chattel slavery; they'd trade a bit of service for their freedom."
"No." Karl clutched his sword more tightly. "That's out. Just forget about it. One of the few virtues our world has is—"
"Don't be silly. In our world, it's been the norm for most of history. Even in our time, chattel slavery isn't unknown. It's still legal in half a dozen places I can think of—Saudi Arabia, f'rinstance. You—"
"I won't stand for it." You don't own people. It's wrong.
Doria interposed herself between the two of them. "Just let it be. We're supposed to be seeing the sights, no?"
"Fine."
The street sloped gradually downward as it narrowed, the one-and two-story stone houses that lined it becoming progressively more ill-kept. Through latticed windows, Karl could see an occasional head, peering out at him, ducking aside when he returned the occupant's gaze. Idly, he let his free hand rest on the hilt of his sword, loosening it in its scabbard. Probably that was an unnecessary precaution, but that was the trouble with precautions: You couldn't know which one was necessary until it was too late.
Ahead of them, where the now narrow street opened into some sort of plaza, there was a distant roaring, as though of a fire.
Fire? Karl sniffed the air. No good; the wind was at his back. "You two hear that?"
Doria and Walter nodded, stepping up their pace to keep abreast of him. "Sounds like a fire," Doria said. "A fire? This whole place is built out of stone. There can't be a fire."
"Bets?"
They reached the end of the street. What had seemed to be a plaza was more of a large, railed balcony, overlooking a vast pit, easily two thousand feet across, a hundred feet deep at its center.
And in the center of the pit, chained by the neck to a massive boulder, was an only slightly less massive dragon.
It was a huge brown beast, easily twice Karl's height at its front shoulder, only slightly shorter at the hips. Two leathery wings sprouted from behind its shoulders, curling and uncurling constantly as the dragon flamed patches of brown muck into ash and steam, its tail flicking nervously from side to side.
The head was a horror. It was shaped much like an alligator's head, but it was massive, teeth easily the size of daggers, wicked red eyes that bore into Karl's, sending him reeling away from the pit's edge.
A gout of flame issued from its mouth, roaring as it touched the stream of sludge that poured out of one of the pipes feeding into the pit.
*Go away,* sounded in his head, accompanied by waves of nausea.
Karl fell to his knees, gagging, his tearing eyes jammed shut.
"Karl?" Walter knelt beside him. "What happened to you?"
"Karl—are you all right?" Doria's face went ashen as she crouched in front of him.
Another burst of flame sent up a cloud of steam from a sludge pipe.
Karl forced his eyes open. No, there was nobody else there—all of the buildings that circled the pit presented it with only blank walls.
*After all, no one would want to look out on a sewer, would he?*
This time, the voice was unaccompanied by nausea; Karl staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're talking, in my head."
*Very clever, swordsman.* The dragon's directionless voice dripped with sarcasm. *And you are talking with your mouth. And the mixed-up little healer and the smug thief beside you are standing mute. Have you any more subtle observations to make? If not, please taunt me in my captivity, and then be on your way.* The dragon's forepaw idly clawed at the coils of chain around its neck—no, it wasn't chain, exactly; more like cable. And in spots where the filth that covered it had flaked away, specks of gold showed through.
*That is so I can't flame myself free, fool. Were I so foolish as to try, I would only burn myself.* It had tried that, more than once. The gold plating on the steel cable conducted the heat away. To the dragon's neck.
Karl's hands flew to his burning neck, circled by a ring of fire.
But the fire wasn't there; the pain faded instantly, until it was only a memory, as distant as a half-forgotten pain from a childhood fall.
*How do you like the feeling, human? Your kind—*
"No, not me."
"Karl, would you—"
"Shut up." You're not hearing my voice, are you?
*Why would I be interested in your voice?*
I . . . don't know. But . . . how can your own flame burn you? And why are you angry at—
*A magical creature the dragon is, but not immune to flame, to heat, to burning. I control my own flame, of course, but the . . . indirect effects, no. And I hate you because . . . wait. Who are you?*
"My name is Karl Cullinane. This is Doria and Walter." And I don't know why you're angry at me. I never did anything to you.
*I am Ellegon. The disposer of wastes.*
I . . . don't understand.
*Wait until the wind changes, Karl Cullinane. This pit is where the sewers of Pandathaway empty, so as not to foul their precious harbor. I must flame the wastes into ash, or sit here buried in human filth. They captured me, when I was only half a century out of the egg, and chained me here, dumping their excrement on me for these three centuries.*
You're more than three hundred years old?
The dragon had been chained in sewage for three centuries; it let Karl feel what that was like.
For just a moment.
As he lay retching on the stones, Walter pulled at his shoulders. "C'mon, we've got to get him out of here. It's killing him."
*Yes, I'm only a child. Do you think it's right, to treat a child like this? Do you?*
Nausea.
Karl shrugged their hands away, closing his eyes, trying to close his mind. Please. Don't do that again.
*You wouldn't have done it? No, I see that you wouldn't, not even to a dragon.*
The nausea ceased. "Take it easy, you two. Everything's okay." No, I wouldn't do it to a dragon.
Karl would kill a dragon, if it endangered him. If he could. But this was wrong. Karl had felt just a trace of Ellegon's suffering, and that was more than enough. Unless the dragon wasn't as sensitive to—
*Do you want to feel it again?*
No. This was wrong, but it didn't look as though there was anything that Karl could do about it: The dragon looked hungry, and the cable was thick.
*I am hungry, and I haven't asked you to cut the cable. Not that I need to eat; dragons are magical, don't you know. We like to eat*—the satisfaction of crunching a cow, eating it in two bites, sent the last traces of nausea away—*but we don't have to.*
I didn't know. I didn't know anything about dragons.
A mental shrug. *Are you stupid, or merely ignorant?*
Just ignorant, I hope.
*Hmmm. I have a proposition for you. If I do two things for you, would you do one thing for me?*
That depends. You can't—
*I can't reach your mind from much farther away, yes. You could run away, and I wouldn't be able to talk to you, or do thi—*
DON'T. I don't want you to make me vomit again. But you were offering me a proposition? I . . . I'm not sure I trust you enough to go down there, and try to free you.
Flame roared. *Fool. I wasn't asking for that. Not from a filthy human. But if you could see your way to bringing me something to eat? A sheep, maybe? I'll do something for you. I'll start by telling you something you need to know, if you are going to find the Gate Between Worlds, Karl Cullinane.*
How—how do you know?
Blistering scorn. *I read minds, remember?* Ellegon roared.
Sorry.—And yes, if I can afford a sheep, if you do something for me that makes it worthwhile, I'll bring you one. Or something else to eat, if I can't manage to buy a sheep.
*Agreed. First: You will find the Gate deep under the mountain Bremon, just north and west of the Waste of Elrood. And—*
I thank you, but maybe Ahira—
*—I know. Your companion may already have found that out. I wasn't finished. I was going to tell you something else, something that he could not have found out. Something that I know, simply because I am a dragon, and know where all of my kind are.*
"Karl, what is—"
"Shut up. I'm talking to the dragon."
"You're talking to a dragon?"
*Yes, he's talking to a dragon.*
Walter and Doria both jumped, as Ellegon included them.
*But it's easier to talk to only one.*
You were telling me that there's a dragon there, at the Gate. That was bad. But maybe, if they were lucky, the dragon wouldn't be as large as Ellegon.
*No, He won't. He will be much larger. He has lain there long enough for the mountain Bremon to grow up around him, as He sleeps there, guarding the Gate.*
"Wonderful." He turned to the others. "Ellegon just told me that there's a dragon at the Gate, guarding it."
"Karl," Doria shrilled, "would you tell me what is going on?"
*Tell them to go away. Their minds are even narrower and more cramped than yours. Although the woman's holds more. Strange. And the other's is built differently, as though it's not quite the same kind. I . . . don't understand.*
"Ask him," Walter said, "what the other dragon's name is. Maybe Ari can put together a name-spell, and—"
*Fool.*
"I heard that." Walter glared.
*And fool you are. He was the first dragon, created before all the rest of us.*
"So?"
*So, in the old days, when there was but one thing of His kind in all the world, why would He have need of a name? Just so, billions of years later, some stupid human could cast a spell using it? No. He is The Dragon, oldest of us all, and has no need of a name.*
So what can we do to protect ourselves against him?
*Don't wake Him. He is older than the mountain, and you could break the mountain more easily that you could dent the smallest of His scales. Karl Cullinane?*
Yes?
*I have done one thing for you, no? Will you bring me my sheep now, or must I do the other?*
You make that sound like a threat. And I don't like threats, Ellegon.
*Very well.* Ellegon sighed mentally. *Then, I will let you understand.*
Understand wha—
The universe fell apart.
* * *
He was fifteen, and a nice Jewish girl. Or, at least, she was supposed to be. But there were things she wasn't supposed to be, and things she wasn't supposed to do. Like grope in the dark with Jonathan Dolan, and slip out of—
* * *
*Enough? Or do you really want to understand Doria?*
You're letting me into her memories? Why?
*So you'll understand.*
No, wai—
* * *
And she couldn't tell Daddy, of course. He called her his one-and-only, and Mommy thought she was still a virgin. That was one of the rules: You don't talk about it. But it wasn't only that she was late, there was this burning—and that damn Jonny Dolan was telling everybody that she'd given him the clap. And that couldn't be true. It couldn't. He was the first, and the only one, so far.
And it hadn't even been any fun. Just a sticky mess. He lied. They all lied. It wasn't any fun at all.
* * *
*You still don't see it.*
* * *
But I can't tell anybody. Besides, it's probably not that. Maybe, if I just forget about it, it'll go away?
* * *
*I think, perhaps, just a bit more.*
* * *
"She's a sick little girl, Mr. Perlstein, but with a bit of luck we'll have the fever down in a few hours." She lay panting beneath the plastic, no longer able to paw at the tubes in her nose and arms—they'd fastened her hands down.
"But it can't be gonorrhea. Not my little—"
"You know, Mr. Perlstein, you make me sick."
"Doctor, I—"
"If she'd been able to tell anybody—if she'd felt able to tell anybody . . . if there'd been one goddam person for her to talk to, maybe she wouldn't be lying there now. We could have treated it easily, if we had gotten to it. Before."
"Before?"
"Before it grew into one hell of a raging pelvic infection that'll leave her sterile, if it doesn't kill her."
"Sterile? My little—"
"Sterile. Unable to conceive. Ever. If we're lucky. Nurse." A cold hand felt at her forehead. "I want a temp and BP every five minutes. If her temp doesn't start to drop within the hour . . ."
* * *
*And the last portion of the payment.*
* * *
And I guess it doesn't matter anymore and besides in a lot of ways I'm perfect because nobody ever has to worry about getting Doria Perlstein pregnant ever which means that every cloud has a silver lining because now I can have any boy I want to but they all treat me like I was a cigarette they pass around but I guess that doesn't matter because that's what I deserve isn't it because becausebecausebecausebe—
*Enough*
* * *
"Karl, are you okay?"
"I don't care what he said, Walter, we've got to get him out of here."
"No—wait. I think he's coming around."
Karl pried an eye open. Doria and Walter bent over him, concern creasing their faces. "It's okay," he said, not surprised to hear his voice coming out as a harsh croak. "Help me up."
"What did he do to you?" Doria asked. "He hurt you again. That—"
"Shh." Understanding, eh?
*Understanding. It's not always easy to understand things, Karl Cullinane. Even I know that.*
She doesn't know?
*No, of course not. Why would I want to hurt—*
You would have killed us, a few minutes ago. If you could have reached us.
*A different thing entirely, no?*
A different thing entirely.
*Will you get me my sheep now?* Ellegon asked plaintively.
Karl walked slowly to the railing and stared out at the dragon. "You two keep watch. I've got a debt to pay."
"What did it do to—"
"Shh."
*Then I get my sheep!*
No. He slipped out of his sandals, using their thongs to lash his scabbard to his shoulders.
*No? Then you are like all the rest, you—*
Shh. Just be quiet for a moment.
Karl Cullinane pays his debts. That was the rule. And even if the debt came out of a window into Doria's mind, a window that he wouldn't have wanted to look through . . .
And to think I treated her like—
*You didn't know. What are you doing?*
Karl levered himself over the railing. Good—the rockface below was rough and cracked; there would be many finger- and toe-holds. I took up rock climbing one summer—hey! why are you asking? I thought you could read my mind, even what I'm not consciously thinking about.
*Not now. There's an intensity—*
Shh. I've got to pay attention to what I'm doing. He picked his way carefully down the face, ignoring Doria's and Walter's shouted questions from above. You can't turn off my sense of smell for me, can you? he thought, as he lowered himself into the ankle-deep foul muck.
*No—you're really going to do it? Thankyouthankyouthank-you—I'll leave, I'll fly away, I will. Please, Karl, please don't change your mind. Pleaseplease—*
Shh. Stumbling and gagging at the stench, he started to walk toward Ellegon.
Never mind, Karl. He's been in this for three hundred years.
As he got closer, it became shallower; a harder surface beneath the ooze supported his bare feet.
The dragon loomed above him, its breath coming in short gasps, its wings curled protectively by its sides. Lower your neck, will you? If there's a weak point in this cable, it'll probably be there, where you can't see it.
Ellegon knelt in the filth, his huge head just inches away from Karl. His mental voice was strangely silent as he presented his barrellike throat.
It was a cable, and like all cables, made up of smaller strands. It took a moment for Karl's swordtip to snick through the first strand, and a moment longer for the next.
Easy, my friend, easy. Just a few dozen more. He had to stop to quell his gagging reflex; wading through this . . . sewer was something he'd try to forget.
And—he cut through the last strand—done!
Ellegon's massive head tilted at him. *Thankyouthankyou-thankyou—*
Shh. Better get going. He slipped his sword back in its sheath.
*Grab my neck,* the dragon said, its mind muttering a background of *Free. Free. I'm Free.*
Karl reached out, and as he did so, the creature's wings flapped, blurring with speed as it eased into the air, then whirred over to the balcony, Karl dangling for a moment, then dropping to the tiles.
*Free.*
*One more thing,* Ellegon said, landing.
"Look out, Karl, he's going to—"
The dragon's mouth opened, and a gout of flame rushed out, enveloping Karl. Just flame; no heat, although the reeking muck covering much of his body burst into fire, sparkling and burning away. *My flame couldn't hurt you, Karl Cullinane. Not you. Not now.* It tingled pleasantly, that was all. He turned in the firestream, letting it wash over him like a shower.
*Free.* The flame stopped.
Better get going.
With a snap of his wings, the dragon jumped skyward, his wings just a blur as he left the balcony and the pit behind him.
*Free.*
Fly away, my friend.
Three times the dragon circled overhead, gaining height as he flew.
*Free.*
"Karl," Doria said, shaking her head, "would you mind telling us just what's going on?"
"I think we'd all better get out of here, folks," Walter said, moving them along. "When the authorities find out about this, they aren't going to be all that pleased."
Ellegon flew off toward the north, now so high he was only a dark speck against the blue sky.
*Free.*
"Karl, why?" Doria asked.
He slipped one arm around her waist, the other around Walter's as they walked away. "Because I never felt this good in my Whole. Damn. Life."
*Free.*
That was faint now; did he hear it, or just imagine it?
It really didn't matter.
Not at all.
*Free.*