Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (6 page)

   "Your pain!" It was an opening. Get him talking! Keep his mouth too busy to use for afire thrower! "I saw you wince. Does it hurt much?"

   "What conshem izh it of thine?"

   "Well, gee ... I just hate to see a fellow being in pain." Matt crossed his fingers in the dark and added, "I'm a doctor." Well, not yet, and the wrong kind-but it's not too much of a lie.

   "Doctor?" The dragon fairly leaped at the idea, and Matt sighed with relief. "Mmm ... indeed?" Now the beast was trying to sound casual. "And what conshern izh that of mine?"

   "Well, I know pain when I see it and I hate seeing it. What's bothering you? Maybe I can do something about it."

   The dragon rumbled deep in his belly, and his voice was surly. "I have a tooth in my jaw that cauzheth me pain, if thou musht know; but it will not keep me from roashting vile hunterzh who prey upon hatchlingzh!"

   "Toothache, huh?" Matt commiserated. "Yeah, that can really get you down. But, if you don't mind my saying so, you seem a bit young to be having trouble with your teeth." Wild guess; all he'd seen so far was flashes of a huge, scaly head.

   But Stegoman bought it. "A dragon is young for a century or two, ignorant mortal! The first hundred years are, I assure thee, quite long enough for teeth to begin to rot and to pain us."

   "Really?" Matt frowned. "I should think you'd grow new ones every few decades."

   "Thou art indeed ignorant of our ways," the dragon snorted. He seemed to be sobering up already, Matt noted. Strange, very strange. "We are born with the teeth we must keep all our lives; they are in our mouths when we hatch; they grow as we grow,,. like our skins."

   "Your skins grow? I mean, you don't have to shed them once a year?"

   The dragon gave a metallic rattle that might have been its equivalent of a superior chuckle. "Nay, certainly not! We are not snakes or lizards, man, though related to them, I doubt not, as thou are related to the kobolds and snow-apes. But dost thou scurry about in tunnels beneath the earth, or swing by long arms from a mountain peak?"

   "Well, no-at least, not in most cases. Although I've heard of... Well, never mind. As you see, I don't know much about dragons."

   "Thou art indeed a strange mortal," the dragon huffed. "What manner of man art thou, to be so ignorant of our race? Or dost thou not know our importance to thee?"

   "Not really," Matt confessed. "A dragon's a pretty rare sight, where I come from."

   "Scandalous!" The dragon snorted. "Are all men of thy land so unlearned?"

   "You might say so. In fact, there are a lot of us who don't even believe in magic."

   The dragon was silent, dumfounded; and Matt had that sinking feeling that, as usual, he'd said the wrong thing. "What manner of man art thou?" the dragon exploded.

   Matt shrank back against the wall, but he managed to shrug his shoulders. "Well, the usual kind. You've seen me."

   "Not well," the dragon rumbled. "Art thou afeared to show thyself?

   He had a nasty, suspicious tone to him. "Of course not!" Matt said quickly. "You want some light? I mean, something a little smaller and more constant than your house specialty?"

   "That might be advisable."

   "Oh, sure, sure! Right away." Matt yanked out his matchbook and tried to remember what spell he'd used.

   "What dost thou wait for?" Stegoman growled.

   "Uh, it takes a little time." Matt recited the skewed Blake quotation under his breath while he struck a match, remembering to hold it at arm's length. A twelve-inch flame gushed, and he ad-libbed quickly:

   "Let this light a candle kindle, So its light will last, not dwindle! Spearing dark and giving light, Letting us converse with sight!"

   The matchstick seemed to slam against his fingers as it thickened abruptly, and Matt found himself holding a six-foot candle, two inches thick, with a foot-long flame like a spearhead on top. He'd overdone things a bit, but that was the hazard of improvisation.

   The dragon's eyes were fixed on the point of light. "Most interesting," he murmured.

   Matt stared back at him, seeing a thirty-foot Chinese-style dragon, with short, clawed legs, a slender, serpentine body, and a saw-toothed crest running along his backbone. There was an added European element, though- huge batwings were folded along his body. But the leathery skin hung from them in rags, with yard-long rents from edge to bone. The edges of the tears were heavy with scar tissue.

   Stegoman turned his huge head toward Matt. Matt stood very still, aware that he was on trial.

   Slowly, the dragon nodded. "Thou hast not the look of an evil man-though it is known that a fair face may hide a lying heart."

   "Oh, I'm a lousy liar! Every time I try, I can't even fool myself!"

   "That is somewhat necessary to effective lying, aye." The dragon nodded. "Still, mortals are not so forthright as dragons. If we dislike someone, or are angered by his conduct, we are quite quick and open in saying so."

   "Mm." Matt pursed his lips. "I expect that leads to a lot of fights."

   "Not so many, no. We each know our fellows are quick to anger; and we know their power as we know our own. There can never truly be a winner when two dragons fight; he who's left alive will be so sorely wounded that he'll need months to heal. Thus we respect even those we do not like."

   "I see." Matt chewed at his lower lip. "There are ways of telling someone what you think of him without making it really an insult."

   "Quite right." Stegoman looked faintly surprised. "Few mortals are so quick to see it."

   Neither did Matt, really; but he'd had a smattering of anthropology in his undergraduate days and could recognize a highly individualistic society when he heard about one. The pride that underlay Stegoman's words, the outspokenness, coupled with relatively little fighting, meant a very stringent set of social conventions; without them, Stegoman's people would be at each other's throats constantly. They might be ornery, but these dragons must be painfully polite to one another.

   Matt cleared his throat. "But doesn't that make it difficult to get any kind of united action going? I mean, discipline..."

   "The discipline is within each dragon," Stegoman said tartly. "When we organize for battle, each dragon's honor is respected; he whom we choose to lead us knows we've chosen to follow his commands, so when he gives them, he's careful to avoid insult. We do as he directs, for we've chosen him for wisdom."

   Their commanders must be diplomats as much as generals. Nice society to belong to-if you didn't mind the constant risk of getting killed in a duel. "One dragon to a hill, eh?"

   "Mountain," Stegoman snapped. "Our homeland is the eastern mountains-the range that divides this land of Merovence from the sink of sorcery called Allustria. Ever and anon, Allustria wars on Merovence or, less often, Merovence attacks Allustria; and to pass through our mountains, both attack the dragons. We are born and bred to-war; each dragon will defend his mountain with his life, but all of us together must defend our land."

   "I take it that when Allustria and Merovence attack you, they both lose?"

   Stegoman nodded; dragons could look smug! "Since Hardishane first taught us order, we never have been conquered."

   "Wait a second-who was Hardishane?"

   Stegoman stared, scandalized. "Whence comest thou, ignorant mortal, that thou knowest not of Hardishane?"

   Matt sidestepped. "It's a long story. Let's just say I haven't studied history. Who was he?"

   "Why, the Emperor, thou unlearned one! The first Emperor he who came, eight hundred years agone, to band together all these Christian lands against the force of evil! For that cause, he made alliance with us, and showed us the manner of fighting as an army-and thus, at last, we prevailed against the giants!"

   Matt started to speak, then hesitated.

   "Close thy mouth," the dragon growled, "and do not say, for I can see, thou knowest naught of giants."

   Matt nodded weakly.

   Stegoman sighed and. curled his tail around his claws, settling down for a session. "The giants came nine hundred years agone, when great Reme fell. Reme, unlearned one, was the southern town that made an empire out of all the lands around the Middle Sea fifteen centuries agone, before the coming of the Christ."

   So there was a Rome. But the name was Reme. Apparently, here, Remus rather than Romulus won the fight. Was that when this universe had split off from Matt's?

   But still-the Christ; that Name was the same.

   Why not? Athens was a going concern while Romulus and Remus were sucking wolf milk; Greek should be the same language in both universes, and Christ was a Greek word.

   "So. Rome-uh, Reme-fell. But where did the giants come from?"

   Stegoman shrugged impatiently. "Out of the earth, the rocks, or the mouth of Hell for all I know. They came; it is enough. They attacked us, and each dragon fought against them with fire, tooth, and claw. We died, till few of us were left. Great ugly brutes they were, tall as the highest pine but broad as any dwarf, covered with matted hair and filth. For an hundred years we fought to cleanse our mountains of them, sought to burn them out, and died.

   "Then Hardishane came riding from the North, and with him came Moncaire, the mighty wizard. Moncaire waked up a hill into human form and gave it the name Colmain -- a giant with the power of right behind him. He killed an evil giant, and we hailed him for a hero. Then Hardishane brought armies to garrison what few free mountains we had left; and he told us how all dragons could fight in unison, by one single plan, with no one dragon's head lower than the leader's. And he taught our elders tricks of battle.

   "Thus, when the giants came, massed in a foul horde, shaking mountains with their bellows, they met an army fifty times their number, with an Emperor and a wizard at its head and a giant, greater than the largest of them. Giant bodies walled our valleys. Then we hunted out the last behemoths left, burned them from their hidings, and drove them to Colmain. Thus we cleansed our mountains, and Hardishane passed through with all his army. Colmain strode out behind him, to aid him in the purging of Allustria. Thus they passed beyond our ken; but we never have forgot them."

   Matt closed his eyes, gave his head a quick shake, and looked up at Stegoman. "An age of heroes..."

   The dragon nodded. "We were born too late, thou and I, into a shrunken, latter world, with kingdoms in the place of empire, and barons where there once were giants."

   "And from these heroes came your nation?"

   The dragon nodded again. "Our nation and our law and lore; for only then did we begin to chant our history and our names, to hail our heroes and decry our weaklings, as a people."

   He shuddered and looked away.

   Matt's mental ears pricked up. Something painful, there. Now, if he had any sense, he'd leave it alone-but being himself, he had to pry. "So with your songs and sagas, you wrapped words around your customs and traditions and forged them into law."

   "Aye." The dragon's gaze snapped back, eyes burning. "Our law, that says each dragon's pride is sacred, each dragon's life beyond the bounds of price-yet that both must stand within the shadow of the people."

   "Ambiguous." Matt frowned. "Do you mean any one dragon has to be sacrificed if he endangers the society?"

   Stegoman hunkered down, glowering. "You lay strange words against the thought-but, aye. A dragon's soul and person are inviolate-but so are every other dragon's. If he endangers another, then let them fight, or resolve it with sweet words, whiche'er they choose! But if a dragon, by his conduct or his mere existence, threatens three or more..."

   His voice trailed off into a brooding silence. Matt had the picture. Stegoman had somehow turned out to be a menace to dragon society; so they'd clipped his wings and sent him into exile.

   For what? Stegoman seemed a nice enough guy, allowing for a prickly disposition that probably went with being a member of a highly individualistic and very military culture. Matt somehow read him as the kind who'd never hurt another being, unless he were attacked. So what could he have done?

   Gotten drunk.

   It made sense. The dragon had appeared with a blast of fire; right after it, he'd been slightly tipsy. The more he'd breathed fire, the more drunken he'd become, till he was staggering and missing his aim. Then, when he'd quit breathing fire, he'd sobered up. The inference was that breathing fire made him drunk.

   The thought made Matt a little giddy: all that dragon, cavorting around in the air, getting filled with the joy of flight till he just had to let it out, in a five-foot lance of flame. Then getting tipsy, which meant even more euphoric, which meant more fire, which meant a drunker dragon, and on and on.

   If Matt was to judge by Stegoman, the dragons were a pretty realistic, practical sort; they must have been able to see that Stegoman was a menace to aerial navigation fairly quickly-or at least when he'd caused another dragon trouble the third time.

   So he'd been grounded for drunk flying. And just to make sure it couldn't happen again, they'd put a few rips in his wings and exiled him.