Our sample of hide from the dragon’s wing had not well survived its journey back to Drustanev. Lord Hilford had examined it under the microscope, but was unable to make much out. I was quite surprised when, three days after the trip to the ruins, a boy came charging into the workroom and shoved a pottery jar into my hands.
Mystified, I picked apart the knotted string holding the lid in place. A powerful smell greeted me as soon as I opened the jar; it was mostly filled with the plum-based spirit they call tzuika, which is alcoholic enough to drop a mule in its tracks. But something floated inside, and I rose and hobbled carefully over to the window to see.
It was a piece of dragon hide, nearly fresh. “Where did you get this?” I asked the boy.
His broad smile showed missing teeth; I guessed his age to be about ten. “A dragon came after us,” he said. “Tata shot him.”
Another attack. It had been less than a week since the smuggler was killed; the pace, it seemed, was picking up. I bit my lip in worry.
The child in front of me was not obviously bleeding or bandaged, nor did he look terribly upset; still, I had to ask. “Was anyone hurt?”
The boy shook his head. “We were hunting deer. Hidden, you know? Tata said the lord’s man wanted skin, so he sent me back with that.”
The lord’s man? Mr. Wilker, I guessed. I hadn’t been aware that he asked the locals for help. “Not a bad idea,” I murmured under my breath, fetching a pair of tweezers and lifting the scrap of hide from its aromatic container. Many of the shepherds carried jars of tzuika with them; it was my pet theory for how they survived without anything one could call a proper summer. “Light more candles, if you wouldn’t mind—”
The boy obeyed, then hovered to watch eagerly over my shoulder as I gently patted the hide into a semblance of dryness and laid it on the microscope. My familiarity with the device was minimal, but I dared not wait until the men returned. Biting my lower lip, I bent to look through the eyepiece.
Microscopes are fiddly things; it took endless minute adjustments of the knobs before I had a clear image. I held out my hand and called for a needle, several times, before the boy said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” and I realized I’d been commanding him in Scirling. I surfaced long enough to point at my pincushion (I had been mending my much-abused ruins dress—ruined dress, rather—when he arrived), and he brought it to me. Instrument in hand, I returned to the microscope, and began to prod at the magnified hide.
What I discovered will be no surprise to those familiar with dragon anatomy; it has since been found in many different species. At the time, however, it was quite a revelation. The roughness on the underside of the wing comes from tiny scales, which are not present on the upper surface. These cover tiny holes that perforate the wing, and are hinged to form a sort of valve. When the wing lifts, the valves open, reducing the resistance the dragon’s muscles must overcome. When it sweeps down again, the valves close, allowing the stroke to have its fullest effect.
I did not immediately understand the function of what I saw, but began drawing it nonetheless. When the epiphany came, I exclaimed out loud—quite startling the boy, who had wandered off in boredom as I drew, and was now aiming Jacob’s rifle about the room. “Careful with that,” I said absently, scribbling notes on my drawing.
(I have long been accused of having no motherly instinct. As near as I can tell, this instinct consists of attempting to wrap anyone below the age of eighteen in swaddling bands, so that they never learn anything about the world and its dangers. I fail to see the use of this, especially from the point of view of species survival; but I do confess that on this occasion I may have let my intellectual excitement distract me from the peril of allowing a ten-year-old boy to wave a loaded rifle about.)
Fortunately for all involved, the boy’s boredom soon overwhelmed him. I flapped my hand in his general direction when he asked if I needed the jar of tzuika any longer; he collected it and departed, and I fetched out Gotherham’s Avian Anatomy to assist me in my speculations on the mechanics of dragon-wing flight. When the sun began to set, I did not even notice, except to hunch closer over my sketches as the light failed; and thus did the menfolk find me.
I knew as soon as I surfaced that now was not the time to share my discovery. Jacob and Lord Hilford entered together, deep in worried conversation. “—haven’t been any rains,” the earl was saying, “nor enough snow, even up here, to justify it. Much less in the lowlands. It’s been nearly a month; he should have returned long since.”
“Who should have?” I asked, diverted from my work, and rubbing my fatigued eyes.
“Gritelkin,” Jacob said, dropping with a frown into the nearest seat.
Our host, supposedly: the razesh who should have been our local guide in this work. To my shame, I had nearly forgotten him. “Returned from Chiavora, you mean,” I said.
Jacob’s face was grim. “If he ever went.”
At this, I laid down my pen and sat straighter, hardly noticing the cramps in my shoulders from hunching so long. “You think someone lied to us?”
“I don’t,” Lord Hilford said, pacing along the creaking floor. “Your husband is a more suspicious sort. No, too many people agree that Gritelkin went to intercept us. I fear that something happened to him along the way.”
In the gloom of our workroom, the suggestion was more than ominous; it was frightening. But I was determined not to behave like a nit. I made certain my voice was steady before I asked, “The dragons?”
Lord Hilford shrugged. “Any number of things can befall a lone man on the road. Illness, bandits—he might have been thrown from his horse.”
“But you think it’s the dragons,” I said.
“A scientist must never reason ahead of his data, Mrs. Camherst.”
We had data. We knew the local rock-wyrms were attacking human beings, and furthermore that although the bulk of the incidents had taken place higher up, at least two had occurred in the direction of Chiavora. But this, I was willing to concede, hardly constituted proof that Mr. Gritelkin had been eaten by a dragon. The question was, what would? “Should we send someone toward Chiavora?” I asked. “They could inquire along the way—see if anyone recalls him passing through.” Though the land was peopled sparsely enough that our odds were not very good.
“Perhaps,” the earl said, “but who? I’m loath to abandon our research.”
The answer seemed obvious to me. “I could go.”
“Absolutely not,” Jacob said, coming bolt upright in his chair.
His vehemence was startling. “Were you not encouraging me to return to Chiavora, not long past?”
“When you could go with the Chiavorans,” Jacob said. “Who would escort you now? I’m not concerned with propriety,” he added, waving away my objection before I could speak it. “Rather your safety. All the things that can befall a lone man on the road can as easily befall a lone woman.”
Perhaps it was due to the darkness of the room that I focused so much on his voice, rather than his expression. The latter, I expect, was fairly well controlled, but I heard real tension in the former. Even fear.
A thousand counterarguments rose to my tongue. I was a fully competent horsewoman; Dagmira could accompany me; better me than, say, Mr. Wilker, who was of far more use to the expedition. I voiced none of them. Because one thing was stronger than my argumentative streak, and that was my desire not to cause my husband distress. I had failed signally at that goal since coming to Vystrana; but I did not want to fail again right now.
I rose from my chair and went over to him. Wordlessly, I held out my hand, and wordlessly he took it; we gripped each other’s fingers tight in the dark, and that touch communicated everything that was needed. We were in a foreign place, surrounded by more danger than either of us wanted to admit, and we had very little beyond each other, and our companions. But that might be enough.
Mr. Wilker arrived then, breaking the spell, and while Lord Hilford explained the situation I went around t
he room and lit candles, which I should have done long since. In their warm light, our circumstances seemed far less bleak than they had a moment before. “Could we ask some of the village men to go?” I said.
“I thought of that,” Lord Hilford said, “and we may try—but it’s a bad time to be asking. The shepherds will be taking their flocks up to the high pastures soon. They won’t have anyone to spare.”
For one brief, irrational moment, I entertained the notion of finding the smugglers and asking them to inquire. But Chatzkel would not want to see me; not after my reckless promise to him in the mountains that we could make the dragons stop attacking. A promise I was no closer to upholding now than I had been that night.
Then a better thought came to me. “Could we ask the boyar for help?”
I knew by the sudden quiet that I had hit upon a very real possibility. When I turned from lighting the last candle, I found the men exchanging looks. “You haven’t met the man, have you?” Mr. Wilker asked.
Lord Hilford shook his head. “Gritelkin was to introduce us. They’re a standoffish lot, the boyars of Vystrana; not a one of them is Vystrani himself, and they all look down on the peasantry. Half of them spend all their time at the tsar’s court in Kupelyi and leave the actual running of their domains to their agents, the razeshi and so on. But Gritelkin said this one has taken to spending more time here. Out of favor in Kupelyi, maybe; or he just likes the mountain air. Iosif Abramovich Khirzoff is his name.”
Though I had hardly ingratiated myself with the locals, I had overheard a few comments, which I hastened to share. “He isn’t much liked in Drustanev, I’m afraid. He thinks himself too good for this place, even though he isn’t rich—well, he’s rich compared to the villagers, but it doesn’t sound like much to me. He has a good friend from Chiavora, though, some kind of doctor or scholar, who’s staying with him right now; we may hope from the evidence that he’s friendly to foreigners.”
“And who does this information come from?” Mr. Wilker asked.
“The women of the village.”
He muttered something dismissive beneath his breath, from which I only caught the word “gossip,” but Lord Hilford nodded. “I could believe it. Gritelkin said the man was ambitious, and not very loyal to the tsar. Whether that makes him amenable to helping us, I couldn’t say.”
“It’s at least worth a try,” Jacob said. “You’ll have to be the one to go, though.”
A Scirling earl should impress a boyar, at least enough to get Lord Hilford through the door. After that, we would have to see how helpful Iosif Abramovich Khirzoff was willing to be.
FOURTEEN
A noise outside the sauna — Further disturbances that night — Footprints — Zhagrit Mat
Lord Hilford set off the very next morning, with a local man for escort; it was two or three days’ journey to the boyar’s hunting lodge. No sooner had he departed, though, than a new trouble reared its head.
It began while I was in the sauna. For those unfamiliar with the practice, saunas are what the Vystrani use in place of bathing. Rather than subjecting themselves to the ice-cold waters of their homeland, or heating water for individual use (a wasteful practice, when one considers it), they build structures in which they burn wood to heat stones. After the smoke has been released, one may sit inside and enjoy the warmth. This induces sweating, and when the moisture is scraped away it carries the dirt with it.
But as the mention of sweating may indicate, one uses the sauna completely naked. Because of this, the Vystrani strictly regulate who may use the building when. Women stoke the fires in the morning, then clean themselves while the men are out. In the evening, the men have their turn.
Each sex uses the building communally, though, and here my Scirling sensibilities put their foot down. I could not bring myself to sit naked with the village women while they exchanged gossip too rapidly for me to follow—or, more likely, sat in awkward silence. I imagine they preferred not to have me among them, either; the sauna is expected to be a time of convivial relaxation, and the presence of a stranger rather inhibits that. We had therefore arrived at a compromise, which was that I put up with the blistering heat and smoke-tinged atmosphere immediately after the sauna’s airing in exchange for privacy.
I should have overcome my hesitation; it would have been better to socialize more with the people of Drustanev, and participating in such rituals of daily life is very effective in that regard. As it was, though, I preferred our arrangement. After the initial, smothering effect of the warmth—such a contrast to the crisp mountain air—I settled in comfortably, sweating out my tension along with my dirt. Lord Hilford had ridden away that morning to visit the boyar; Iosif Abramovich Khirzoff would send out men; Jindrik Gritelkin would be found; and all would be well.
A coughing, moaning, snarling noise brought me bolt upright on my wooden bench.
Initially, it was simple startlement. What had that been? I wondered. It sounded as if it came from outside. I listened, but heard nothing more, and moved to lean against the wall once more.
An instant before my back touched the warm planks, the noise came again.
This time, it sounded closer.
Every hair on my body tried to stand up—a difficult task, in the stifling heat. The noise, whatever it was, came from no human throat. Nor was it a sheep, or a wolf, or anything I was familiar with. The most likely candidates, my mind informed me in a rational fashion entirely at odds with the chill running down my spine, were bear … and dragon.
Fear gains particular force when one is naked. It doesn’t matter whether clothing would be of any use in the situation; linen and wool would do nothing to protect me against the claws of whatever creature lurked outside. What matters is the psychological effect. I felt vulnerable, with only the wooden boards of the sauna to protect me. And yet, I wished the boards were not there, because they meant I could not see the source of the noise.
Could not see, and could not easily run from.
Silence. I held my breath, then forced myself to release it when the heat swiftly made me light-headed. The exhalation turned into a pitiful yelp as something scraped along the logs of the outer wall. Where were the villagers? The sauna stood a little distance apart from the houses of Drustanev, but not all that far, and surely a bear or a dragon or whatever was stalking me was too large to be overlooked. I thought about crying for help, but fear of provoking an attack paralyzed my throat.
A rasping, grating sound. Moving as silently as I could, I pressed myself to the far wall, and cast my gaze about for anything that might be used as a weapon. The hot stones could surely burn the creature, but I had nothing with which to lift them except my own tender hands. The benches? Could I swing one at the creature’s head? Only if I first maneuvered it out the door—or the beast tore out one of the walls. Nonetheless, it seemed my best option, and so I wrapped my hands around the planks that formed the seat.
It was heavier than I expected, and I grunted a little as I lifted it. Then I stood, waiting, until my arms began to tremble and I had to put my makeshift weapon back down. But I remained crouching over it, ready to snatch it up once more.
Nothing.
And still nothing.
Then a knock at the sauna door.
I screamed. Every nerve in my body was drawn so tight, the slightest noise would have snapped them like harp strings, and this was a brisk, impatient rapping. “Others are waiting,” Dagmira called through the door. Then, as my scream registered—“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—I’m fine,” I called back, panting with fright. What a lie that was! I stumbled over my own feet as I passed through the inner door into the dark little anteroom that kept too much heat from escaping when people went in and out. I always disrobed there, not quite trusting the village etiquette that made everyone look the other way as their fellows stripped down outside, and not willing to subject my flesh to the mountain chill, either. Hastily I shoved myself back into clothing and shoes, snatched up my bonnet
, and then tore the outer door open, to find Dagmira waiting.
She peered at me closely. “What happened?”
I ignored her, plunging leftward to make a circuit of the sauna hut. And here something impossible greeted my eyes: nothing. No tracks, save those left by human feet as people went around the building, taking firewood from the nearby pile, leaving their clothes in baskets by the door. I was not much of a huntswoman, to read the ground and know what had passed there, but surely anything as large as that sound suggested must have left an impression.
Dagmira was waiting when I completed my circuit, with her hands on her hips. “What are you looking for?”
Already doubt was beginning to creep into my mind. Had I imagined it? Nodded off on my bench, perhaps, and been awoken by a bad dream. The heat made me light-headed, I knew that; I could have become delirious. It didn’t seem likely—but no less so than that sound, and the lack of evidence for its source.
But I didn’t have the presence of mind to form a convincing lie for Dagmira, either. (Not that it would have done anything to change what followed later.) “Nothing,” I said, then added, “I’m sorry I took so long. If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be in the workroom.” Cramming my bonnet back atop my head, I floundered up the slope toward Gritelkin’s empty house.
* * *
I slept badly that night. When I awoke, though, I thought it only the usual pause between first sleep and second, and lay for a moment considering what I wanted to do with myself during that wakeful time.
Then I heard a sound outside, and knew what had woken me.
It wasn’t the same sound as before, that moaning, rattling snarl. No, this was a more familiar sound—and more frightening for it, in a way.
The flapping of enormous, leathery wings.