"Well enough." Stegoman shook his shoulders, as if he could already feel his wings healing. "I can ask no more, Wizard. Be assured I shall serve thee with each last ounce of strength and of skill I possess."
"Uh, wait! I can't promise anything, you know."
"What dost thou take me for?" The dragon glared down at him. "This is no bargain, mortal, but a bond of honor between us. I shall do as well as I may for thee and thine and will trust to thine honor to do thy best for me."
"I stand corrected." Somehow, Matt felt very much ashamed. "And I thank you deeply, Stegoman."
"Let us hope it is I who shall thank thee." The dragon turned back, lifting his head. "Shall we rejoin them?"
Matt slogged back to Sir Guy and the princess, watching the dragon out of the corner of his eye and feeling very glum. He'd just promised to do something that he hadn't the faintest idea how to manage; and on top of that, he knew there was no damn use trying to heal Stegoman's wings until he could cure his drunkenness. If he didn't, Stegoman would go home, get gloriously high off his own fumes, and take to the air as a menace to flying society. The other dragons would then just clip his wings again and send him back into exile. No, Matt definitely had to cure the drunkenness first.
But how? Matt didn't know anything about reptilian biochemistry, aside from their being cold-blooded - and he wasn't even sure about that, when it came to a fire-breathing dragon.
Whoa! Biochemistry might have nothing to do with it! Matt remembered Stegoman's diatribe against hatchling hunters, when Matt had first transported him to the dungeon. Why would that have occurred to the dragon, instead of sorcery, which was much more apparent? Evidence of a childhood trauma? Matt knew a little basic psychology and he had a good feel for people. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense - Steogman's drunkenness was psychosomatic!
But why would a trauma involving dragon hunters result in a propensity for getting stoned?
Wait a minute - Stegoman came from a military culture. He couldn't admit fear of anything, even to himself. The way that he'd charged at Molestam the witch bore that out - an overcompensation, rash boldness masking fear. Could his real problem be fear of flying?
But he couldn't admit that, even to himself - so instead, he got drunk when he breathed fire. Obviously, therefore; he couldn't be allowed to fly, which would take him out of the air, through no fault of his own.
But if Stegoman was getting what he really subconsciously wanted, he'd be murder to cure! And Matt knew he bore about as much resemblance to a psychiatrist as a photon does to the sun.
But he'd promised he'd try.
He hadn't set any definite time on his attempt, though. And they had time, all the way to the mountains. Maybe he'd think of something en route...
"Are you ready?" Alisande asked as they came up. Sir Guy was buckled into his armor again, his hand on the saddle.
"Ready as we'll ever be, I guess..."
"Come, sir! Be merry!" Sir Guy vaulted into his saddle. "We embark on a glorious quest! Pluck up your spirit; have joy in your heart!" He reached down to grip the princess's forearm. "Mount, and away!"
The princess leaped up, sitting sideways behind him with an arm round his waist. Sir Guy kicked his horse into a long, easy canter, and they set out toward the lowering sun.
"Come, Wizard; mount." Stegoman lowered his head to Matt's knee.
Matt eyed the great neck, a foot and a half thick, and the foot-high barbed fins along its top. "Uh - you sure?"
"Have no fear - thou'lt not fall, nor I falter. I can bear the load easily, if you bestride my shoulders."
"Well - if you say so." Matt swung astride the neck gingerly, right behind the head; then the ground swung away beneath his feet, and he clung for dear life. Stegoman turned his' head back to his shoulder, and Matt changed seats, stepping delicately from one huge thorn-fin to another, settling himself between two wicked points. "Just don't pull any sudden stops, huh?"
"Fear not." The dragon started off in a waddle that seemed quite slow, but ate up the ground; then he gathered himself and sprang forward. Matt clung to a fin in sheer panic, bobbing back and forth, bracing his arms and trying frantically to avoid the great wicked point behind him.
Then he realized he was wasting effort; the great fin curved nicely, like the back of a bucket seat. Matt settled back as carefully as he could in the lurching ride, till his spine rested against the great horny curve, with the barb thrust out over his head. After a few minutes, he could even let himself relax a little. Not too bad, once you got used to it. "Stegoman?"
"What thorn pricketh thee now?"
Matt frowned, leaning out to the side to sight the dragon's head. "What makes you so surly, all of a sudden?"
"My tooth pains me again. What dost thou wish?"
"Mm." Matt leaned back, frowning. "We oughta take care of that for you at the next stop - pull it, you know."
"Pull?" There was an undertone of horror to the dragon's voice.
"Yeah - you know, take it out. Magic dentistry would be a little bit complicated."
"But - to part with a bit of my body, of my very being! 'Tis blasphemous, Wizard!"
"Blasphemous?" Then Matt remembered - some cultures that believed in magic were very careful about portions of the anatomy that had to be discarded, such as hair and nail clippings. If a witch got a hold of them, she could work evil magic on you. "Oh, don't worry - I'll do it up nicely, in a little leather bag to tie around your neck. You can still keep it with you."
"Even so, I like not the sound of it. I must consider this at some length."
Matt sighed. "All right, but don't let it go too long; it could poison your whole jaw." He exaggerated, but it was the easiest way to say it.
Stegoman shuddered. "Let us not talk of it further. What didst thou wish to speak of? Not of my pain, most surely - but of throe."
"'Pain?' Oh, yeah." Matt frowned, remembering his gripe. "Did you ever get the feeling you'd been set up for something?:'
"Set up?"
"Yeah. You know - conned, railroaded. Somebody maneuvering you into position where you had to do what he wanted. Here I am, riding off to the West to help a girl get her throne back, when all I really wanted to do was to find a way home!"
"Am I mistaken," the dragon growled, "or didst thou not begin this whole coil thyself, when thou didst aid her to escape Astaulf's dungeon?"
"Oh, come on! I was maneuvered into that, wasn't I? I mean, as soon as I found out Malingo hadn't brought me here, it was only natural that I'd go looking for the opposing side, to get them to help me out! And I'm probably on the right track, after all. Whatever wizard brought me here probably is backing Alisande, but he won't let me go till she's back on her throne! Do I really have any choice but to help her?"
"Thou hast many," Stegoman snapped, "as thou knowest. Malingo hath already shown thee one, and thou hast refused it. Nay, even without allying with him, thou hast shown enough wizard-power to win thyself fortune and dominion over thy fellows. Indeed, thou mayest be a king, if thou wishest! Hast thou not thought of that?"
"Well, it had crossed my mind - but I'm the creative type. Administrative work is dead boring."
"Is it so? Then why dost thou not spend thy time seeking ways to send thyself home?"
Matt sat immobile, letting the initial terror of the thought wash over him, sink in, and ebb. "That would take a long time..."
"And this will not?"
"It could," Matt said slowly, "yes. But I can live with it, this way."
"Aye, because 'tis adventure to thee. Thou art bedazzled by dreams of great glory; thou dost feel thyself to be truly living -- mayhap for the first time in thy life. Nay, seek not to gainsay me. Thou hast chosen this road for thyself; thou dost now what thou hast ever dreamed of. Admit this, at least to thyself, or be still!"