CHAPTER 8

CAMP NATALON, AL 494.1

When he didn’t show up, we sent out a search party, and we found this,” Tarri said, holding up the mangled body of a fire-lizard for Master Zist’s inspection.

“And this.” A pack, torn and shredded. There was some sand and shards still inside it.

“I need you to take me there,” Zist said.

“It’s half a day away on foot,” Tarri protested.

“Please,” Zist begged, “I’ve got to see.”

“We can take my wagon,” Tarri said. “That will save us some time.”

The day was cold and clear—the clouds that had brought snow the night before had dissipated. Tarri easily followed the trail the drays had left on their way up to Camp Natalon. When she reached the bend, she pulled the wagon to a halt.

“Right over there,” she said, pointing across Zist to the cliff on their right. “Down the ravine.”

Tarri showed Zist the way down. The site where they’d found the fire-lizard and Pellar’s pack had been trampled down by the trader’s boots as they searched.

“We think he fell in the water here,” Tarri said, pointing to a depression on the bank of the fast-moving stream. “There’s a fall just down there,” she added sadly.

Zist grunted his acknowledgment, shading his eyes against the sun to peer farther into the distance. He sighed and turned back to the trampled site, particularly examining the ground where the snow was stained green by Chitter’s ichor.

Zist remembered the brown fire-lizard’s battered body. Some sharp object had cut through Chitter’s neck just where it joined the shoulders. There were claw marks on his sides—some large bird, or a very small wherry. Zist guessed it was a bird, probably a falcon, because he’d never heard of a fire-lizard being so surprised by a wherry that it couldn’t get between to safety.

There was a large patch of sand not far away and some shards. What had Pellar been carrying in his pack? And why had someone murdered him for it? Had the attack by the bird been an unhappy accident or part of a plan? Why had Pellar been on his way to Camp Natalon?

“We may never know,” the harper said softly to himself.

“Pardon?”

Zist shook himself and rose from beside the ichor-stained snow, saying, “I’m sorry, I was talking to myself.” He pointed up to the wagon. “I’m ready to go now.”

But it seemed to Tarri as she watched the harper climb feebly up the ravine he had so vigorously descended only moments before that Master Zist was not at all ready to go—that, in fact, he left a large part of himself behind in that ravine.

They rode back toward Camp Natalon in silence and the setting of the sun.

After tens of Turns in his cave near the Harper Hall, Mikal had learned to cipher the drum codes. He always perked up when a message came in from Zist, wondering about Pellar and his fire-lizard.

But the message wasn’t good. “Chitter dead?” Mikal whispered to himself as he deciphered the message. He closed his eyes from the pain of the ancient loss of his own dragon, now relived in the loss of the fire-lizard he had been afraid to meet.

The message continued and Mikal’s face drained of all color. “Pellar?”

Wordlessly, sightlessly, he reached around for a flask of wine and remorselessly, hopelessly tried once again to blot his pain by getting drunk.

Tenim was in a foul mood as he entered the kitchen of Tarik’s cothold. He had gone up to the mine, taking the long route around to the coal dump and then out of sight beyond the crest of the hill to come back around to the mine, only to discover from the miners’ chatter that Tarik’s shift had been relieved by Natalon. If he hadn’t been on his guard he might have been caught.

The thrill of Grief’s deadly strike on the fire-lizard—Tenim had never dreamed the attack would be so successful—had completely drained from him in the ensuing events: first, the boy’s unexpected fall into the river and, second, the infuriating discovery that the boy’s pack held only a fake egg made of clay. Tenim had been led on a wild wherry chase for no profit.

“What are you doing here?” Tarik asked as Tenim let himself in. The miner was sprawled in a chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a mug in his hand.

“I might ask you the same,” Tenim said. “Let’s just say that I’m here to see how we are doing on our investments.

“Only,” he went on, gesturing toward the mine, “I discover that you’ve been relieved.” He gave Tarik a sour look. “Something about skimping on the wood joists, I hear.”

Tarik flushed angrily. “Natalon’s a fool. He’d have us use three times as much wood as we need.”

“So you decided to profit on your own initiative?” Tenim asked, glowering down at the miner. “And, instead, we stand to lose everything.”

Tarik took an angry breath, caught the murderous look in Tenim’s eyes, and let it out with a deep sigh.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back until spring,” Tarik said.

“My plans changed,” Tenim replied, dragging up a chair opposite Tarik. The miner gestured to the bottle on the table, but Tenim shook his head irritably. “One of us needs to keep his head clear enough to think.”

“Why bother?” Tarik said. “Natalon’s as good as sacked me. I’ll never find work after this.” He shook his head dejectedly. “His own uncle, and he’d throw me out.”

“You’re no use to me if you’re thrown out,” Tenim said, eyeing Tarik thoughtfully. The older man was too much in his cups to recognize his peril.

“I should be the master here,” Tarik grumbled, “not him. I’ve Turns more experience in the mine, helped train him, too.”

Tenim’s murderous look altered subtly as he listened to Tarik.

“Where’s Natalon now?”

Tarik quirked an eyebrow at him, saying querulously, “In the mine, my shaft, shoring up the joists, of course.”

Tenim rose from his seat in one fluid motion, like a bird rising to swoop on its prey.

“Stay here,” he ordered Tarik. “Don’t let anyone in the mine.”

Tarik looked up at him in confusion. “I’m not in charge.”

“Yet,” Tenim replied curtly.

“Master Zist? Master Zist?” Cristov called at the door to the harper’s cothold.

The mine had collapsed and Tarik had forbidden anyone to enter it, declaring it too dangerous. He’d even hit Kindan when the lad had insisted on going in with his watch-wher.

“That dumb animal’s no use now,” Tarik had sworn angrily.

Someone had to take charge, someone had to do something. Cristov had run down to Zist’s, hoping the harper could restore order.

“Master Zist?” he called again, inching inside the door. His resolve grew and he walked all through the cottage, calling Zist’s name.

In the kitchen, on the table, he spied the grisly remains of a brown fire-lizard. The memory of stroking that fire-lizard’s cheek woke an anger in Cristov that he had never before felt. He turned on his heel and strode out of the cottage.

He was going to get his axe.