Gim did not move for some time. Shivering at his side, Eleal realized that T'lin might have more mundane concerns than gods. She had told him about the Thargians, and she had specifically mentioned the Narshian she had recognized in their company—Gaspak Ironmonger. The dragon trader had laughed then, and made a joke about farmers buying leopards to guard chickens.
Perhaps T'lin Dragontrader was a Thargian spy himself.
The lyre was becoming unpleasantly heavy on her shoulders when Gim reached his objective.
"We scramble up this trunk,” he said, “along that branch, and across the roof to the wall. Think you can manage that?"
"No. You'll have to carry me."
"Stay here then.” He reached for the first branch. “There's quite a drop on the other side, so don't break any ankles."
A couple of minutes later, they were outside the city. Neither of them had broken an ankle, although Eleal's hip was hurting now, missing her special boot. Gim yanked her back into shadow while he scanned the moonlit meadow. Light shone on a bend of Narshwater in the distance, and the mammoth steps stood like a monument to a forgotten battle. The pen was invisible. Although this was spring, the grass seemed covered with a shimmer of silver frost. Perhaps it was only dew. T'lin's camp was an isolated patch of darkness, from which the wind brought faint belching noises.
"See anyone?” Gim asked nervously.
"No."
"This is ridiculous! There's gotta be soldiers out there waiting for us! Dad said so. T'lin did too, more or less."
Eleal yawned. She knew she ought to be excited and keyed-up, and she very definitely did not want to be captured and dragged back to Mother Ylla, but ... she yawned again. The night had gone on too long.
She understood what was worrying Gim, though. There were few dragons in Narsh and those mostly belonging to the watch. Ranchers owned dragons, but the guard would very soon have accounted for all the dragons in the city itself and learned that none of them had been involved in her escape. The next move would have been to investigate the trader's camp outside the wall. It was absolutely certain that there would be soldiers there still.
Furthermore, the camp was visible from the city gate, which was closed and guarded until dawn. Two people walking away from the wall would be as visible as a bear in a bed.
"Why're they making all that noise?” Gim muttered.
"Dragons always make that noise. If there were strangers around, they'd be making a lot more."
"Really?"
"Really,” Eleal said with a confidence she did not feel at all. She yawned again.
"Come on, then!” Gim said. “It's trust the god or freeze to death!” He marched off across the meadow, leaning into the wind. Eleal followed by the light of the moons.
As they reached the huddle of sleeping dragons, a tall shape stepped forward to meet them.
"Name?” The voice was low, and not T'lin's.
"Gim, er, Wrangler and, ah—my cousin, Kollburt Painter."
"Goober Dragonherder. Follow me, Wrangler.” He led them to a tent, dark and heavily scented by the leather it was made of. It thumped rhythmically in the wind, but the inside seemed almost warm after the meadow. “Sit,” said the man.
There was a pause while he laced up the flap, and another while he flashed sparks from a flint. Eventually a very small lantern glowed dimly, showing a few packs and a rumpled bedroll, no furniture, three people kneeling on the blankets, and beyond them the dark walls and roof swallowed the light, so that there was nothing more in the world.
Goober was a thin-faced man with a dark beard, solemn as if he never smiled. Gold glinted faintly in the lobe of his left ear. He was garbed in the inevitable Ilama skin garments, plus a black turban. He pointed to it. “Can you tie one of these?"
"No,” said the fugitives together.
He produced two strips of black cloth and wrapped their heads up. Then he made them practice. To Eleal's fury, Gim caught the knack much faster than she did. She was too sleepy.
"You'll do, Wrangler,” Dragonherder said. “You keep trying, Small'un. You look like a boiled pudding. Don't uncover the lantern until you've laced up the door again. Wrangler, you come with me."
"To do what?"
"To learn how to saddle a dragon and stop asking questions. I'm told you know the commands."
By the look on Gim's face, he had already forgotten them, but he did not say so. The two departed. Left on her own, Eleal struggled with the infernal turban until it felt as if she had it right. Then she had nothing else left to do except wait.
She inspected the mysterious packs—not opening them, in case she was interrupted, but feeling them carefully. She decided they contained little else but spare clothes.
Sudden weariness fell on her like ... like an avalanche. Why did she keep thinking about avalanches? She leaned back against a pack. There had been no guards around the dragons, so the god was still helping her, right? Right.
Goober Dragonherder had known she was coming, so T'lin had returned here from Kollwin Sculptor's and then gone back into the city again to visit Gaspak Ironmonger. Right?
That must be right, too, but it seemed very odd. What had that meeting been about, and what had T'lin learned that evening that had made it necessary?
34
EDWARD JUMPED DOWN TO OPEN THE FIRST GATE. HE DEliberately closed it from the wrong side so he could vault over it, dressing gown and all. He felt a whirling sense of wonder as he swung back up to the bench, agile as a child. Being a cripple had been a pretty stinky experience. The dogcart set off across the meadow.
"Is his name really Oldcastle, sir?"
Creighton shot him a frown, as if warning that they were not out of earshot yet.
"No it isn't. There is no Mr. Oldcastle. Oldcastle is a sort of committee, or a nom de plume. Our friend back there is ... He's just that, a friend. He's been there a long, long time. I don't know his name. Probably nobody does anymore."
The dogcart rattled down the slope toward the next gate. In daylight the land was bright with goldenrod and purple thistles.
"Robin Goodfellow?"
"That was the name of the firm. He would have been the local representative."
No wonder his face had seemed Puckish. “Why blood? I thought a bowl of milk and a cake was his offering?"
Creighton's tone had not encouraged further questions, but he must appreciate a chap's normal curiosity when he had just received a miracle.
He cleared his throat with a Hrrnph! noise. “Depends what you're asking him to do, of course—or not to do, in his case. The value of a sacrifice is in what it costs. Blood's pretty high on the list.” He stared ahead in silence for a while, then said, “He would have lost on the exchange, though. You heard him say he husbands his resources. The mana he used to cure your leg he has probably been hoarding for centuries, and he can't replace it now—I don't suppose he gets any worshipers at all these days. We wouldn't have given him much, even with the blood. He's one of the Old Ones, but he does not belong to any of the parties involved in this. My associates here were desperately shorthanded and asked him to help, as he lives in the neighborhood. He agreed, much to everyone's surprise. For that you should be very, very grateful."
Edward licked the cut on the back of his wrist. “I am, of course. Anything else I can do, sir?"
"Yes. As soon as you've opened this gate, you go behind the hedge and get dressed. You look like a bloody whirling dervish in that rig-out."
As he stripped, Edward discovered that his assorted scrapes and bruises had not been cured, only his leg. The flannel bags and blazer he wanted were badly crumpled, but he found a presentable shirt. His cuff links seemed to have disappeared altogether, his collars were all limp. He detested tying a tie without a looking glass, so he left that to be attended to on the road. In record time, he tossed his case into the dogcart and scrambled up beside Colonel Creighton, once more a presentable young gentleman.