He gulped. (It's close, it's really close. I can hardly see, this thing is blur-ring my eyes so bad.)
(You want to give it to me?)
(No, you go ahead. This place seems to be full of live things. Your depart-ment—)
(Yeah, right,) Nita agreed unhappily, and made sure of her grip on the rowan wand. (Well, here goes. Fred, you ready for another diversion?)
(I think I could manage something small if I had to.)
(Great. All together now… .)
They walked around the curve, side by side. Then they stopped.
It was a subway station. Or it had been at one time, for from where they stood at one end of the platform, they could see the tons of rubble that had choked and scaled the tunnel at the far end of the platform. The rubble and the high ceiling were overgrown with firefungus enough to illuminate the old mosaics on the wall, the age-cracked tiles that said city hall over and over again, down the length of the platform wall. But the platform and tracks weren't visible from where they stood. Heaped up from wall to wall was a collection of garbage and treasure, things that glittered, things that mold-ered. Nita saw gems, set and unset, like the plunder of a hundred jewelry stores, tumbled together with moldy kitchen garbage; costly fabric in bolts or in shreds, half buried by beer cans and broken bottles; paintings in ornate frames, elaborately carved furniture, lying broken or protruding crookedly from beneath timbers and dirt fallen from the old ceiling; vases, sculpture, crystal, silver services, a thousand kinds of rich and precious things, lying a" t ether, wnole and broken, among shattered dirty crockery and base metal. \nd ly'n§ atop the hoard, its claws clutched full of cheap costume jewelry, whispering to itself in the Speech, was the dragon.
Once more Nita tried to swallow and couldn't manage it. This looked nothing like the fireworm her book had mentioned — a foot long mouse-eating lizard with cigarette-lighter breath. But if a fireworm had had a long, long time to grow—she remembered the voice of the young man in the three-piece suit, saying with relief, "The Eldest has it." There was no telling how many years this creature had been lairing here in the darkness, growing huger and huger, devouring the smaller creatures of the underground night and dominating those it did not devour, sending them out to steal for its hoard—or to bring it food. Nita began to tremble, looking at the fireworm-dragon's thirty feet of lean, scaled, tight-muscled body, looking at the size of its dark-stained jaws, and considering what kind of food it must eat. She glanced down at one taloned hind foot and saw something that lay crushed and forgotten beneath it — a subway repairman's reflective orange vest, torn and scorched; a wrench, half melted; the bones, burned black… .
The dragon had its head down and was raking over its hoard with huge claws that broke what they touched half the time. Its tail twitched like a cat's as it whispered to itself in a voice like hissing steam. Its scales rustled as it moved, glowing faintly with the same light as the firefungus, but colder, greener, darker. The dragon's eyes were slitted as if even the pale fungus light was too much for it. It dug in the hoard, nosed into the hole, dug again, nosed about, as if going more by touch than sight, "Four thousand and ssix," it whispered, annoyed, hurried, angry. "It was here sssomewhere, I know it was. Three thousand — no. Four thousand and — and—"
It kept digging, its claws sending coins and bottlecaps rolling. The dragon reached into the hole and with its teeth lifted out a canvas bag. Bright things spilled out, which Nita first thought were more coins but that turned out to be subway tokens. With a snarl of aggravation the fireworm-dragon flung the bag away, and tokens flew and bounced down the hoard-hill, a storm of brassy glitter. One rolled right to Nita's feet. Not taking her eyes off the dragon, she bent to pick it up. It was bigger than the subway token the New York transit ystem used these days, and the letters stamped on it were in an old-time style. She nudged Kit and passed it to him, looking around at the mosaics on Ae walls. They were old. The City Hall motif repeated in squares high on toe train-side wall of the platform looked little like the City Hall of today.
]s station had to be one of those that were walled up and forgotten when G area was being rebuilt long ago. The question was— ' ne problem is—) Kit started to say in his quietest whisper of thought. j '* wasn't quiet enough. With an expression of rage and terror, the dragon e° up from its digging, looked straight at them. Its squinted eyes kindled in the light from Nita's wand, throwing back a frightful violet reflection "Who's there? Who's there.'" it screamed in the Speech, in a voice like an explosion of steam. Without waiting for an answer it struck forward with its neck as a snake strikes and spat fire at them. Nita was ready, though; the sound of the scream and the sight of many tiny shadows running for cover had given her enough warning to put up the shield spell for both herself and Kit. The firebolt, dark red shot with billowing black like the output of a flamethrower, blunted against the shield and spilled sideways and down like water splashing on a window, When the bolt died away, the dragon was creeping and coiling down the hoard toward them; but it stopped, confused when it saw that Kit and Nita and Fred still stood unhurt. It reared back its head for another bolt. "You can't hurt us, Eldest," Nita said hurriedly, hoping it wouldn't try; the smell of burned firefungus was already enough to turn the stomach. The dragon crouched low against the hoard, its tail lashing, staring at them.
"You came to ssteal, "it said, its voice quieter than before but angrier, as it realized it couldn't hurt them. "No one ever comes here but to ssteal. Or to try," it added, glancing savagely over at another torn and fire-withered orange vest. "What do you want? You can't have it. Mine, all thiss is mine. No one takes what'ss mine. He promissed, he ssaid he would leave me alone when I came here. Now he breakss the promiss, is that it?"
The Eldest squinted wrathfully at them. For the second time that day, Nita found herself fascinated by an expression. Rage was in the fireworm-dragon's face, but also a kind of pain; and its voice was desperate in its anger. It turned its back, then, crawling back up onto the hoard. "I will not let him break the premiss. Go back to him and tell him that I will burn it, bum it all, ssooner than let him have one ring, one jewel. Mine, all thiss is mine, no hoard has been greater than thiss in all times, he will not diminishhh it— The Eldest wound itself around the top of the hoard-mound like a crown of spines and scales, digging its claws protectively into the gems and the trash. A small avalanche of objects started from the place where it had been laying the hoard open before. Gold bars, some the small collectors' bars, some large ones such as the banks used, clattered or crashed down the side of the mound. Nita remembered how some ten million dollars' worth of Federal Reserve gold had vanished from a bank in New York some years before — just vanished, untraceable — and she began to suspect where it had gone.
"Mine, "hissed the Eldest. "Ihave eight thousand six hundred forty-two cw diamonds, I have six hundred — no. I have four hundred eight emeralds. I hatf'eighty-nine black opals—no, fifteen black opals. I have eighty-nine—eighty-nine—" The anxiety in its voice was growing, washing out the angerj Abruptly the Eldest turned away from them and began digging again, still talking, its voice becoming again as it had been when they first came u*- hurried, worried. "Eighty-nine pounds of silver plate. I have two hundred fourteen pounds of gold — no, platinum. I have six hundred seventy pounds of gold—"