She looked out across the countryside, expecting to see a few farms and villages — she had seen pictures, and had a good idea what they should look like, with their half-timbered houses and pretty green fields.
What she actually saw, however, was something else entirely.
The road out of the city was a broad expanse of bare, hard-packed dirt crossed here and there with deep, muddy ruts. A few crude houses built of scrap wood were scattered around, and people stood or crouched in doorways, hawking goods and services to passersby — goods and services that were not allowed in the city, and Ethshar was a fairly tolerant place.
A hundred yards from the city the farms began — not with quaint cottages and tidy little fields, but with endless rows of stubby green plants in black dirt, and rough wooden sheds set here and there. The only roads were paths just wide enough for a wagon.
Sirinita was surprised, but walked on, Tharn at her heels.
She was still walking, hours later, when the sun sank below the hills she had already crossed. She was dirty and exhausted and miserable.
She had finally reached farms that more or less resembled those in the pictures, at any rate — not so clean or so charming, but at least there were thatched farmhouses and barns, and the fields no longer stretched unbroken to the horizon.
But she hadn’t reached forests or mountains or even a fair-sized grove. The only trees were windbreaks or orchards or shade trees around houses. As far as she could see, from any hilltop she checked, there were only more farms — except to the west, of course, where she could sometimes, from the higher hills, still see the city walls, and where she thought she could occasionally catch the gleam of sunlight on the sea.
And everything smelled of the cow manure the farmers used as fertilizer.
The World, she thought bitterly, was obviously bigger than she had realized. No wonder her father’s trading expeditions lasted a month at a time!
Tharn had not enjoyed taking so long a walk, either; he was a healthy and active young dragon, but he was still accustomed to taking an afternoon nap, to resting when he felt like it. He had not appreciated it when his mistress had dragged him along, and had even kicked him when he tried to sleep.
When the sun went down, he had had enough; he flopped onto a hillock, mashing some farmer’s pumpkin vines, and curled up to sleep.
Sirinita, too exhausted for anger or protest, looked down at him and started crying.
Tharn paid no attention. He slept.
When she was done weeping, Sirinita sat down beside her dragon and looked about in the gathering gloom.
She couldn’t see anyone, anywhere. They weren’t on a road any more, just a path through somebody’s fields, and she couldn’t see anything but half-grown crops and the shadowy shapes of distant farmhouses. Some of the windows were lighted, others dark, but nowhere did she see a torch or signboard over a door — if any of these places were inns, or even just willing to admit weary travelers, she didn’t know how to tell.
She was out here in the middle of nowhere, miles from her soft clean bed, miles from her parents, her friends, everybody, with just her stupid dragon to keep her company, and it was all because he was growing too fast.
Tharn wouldn’t even stay awake so she could talk to him. She kicked him, purely out of spite; he puffed in annoyance, emitting a few sparks, but didn’t wake.
That was new; he hadn’t managed actual sparks before, so far as she could remember.
It didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t going any further with him. In the morning she was going to turn him loose, just leave him here and go home, maybe even slip away while he was asleep. If the farmers didn’t like having him around, maybe they’d chase him off to the wilderness, wherever it was.
And maybe they’d kill him, but at least he’d have a chance, and she just couldn’t go any farther.
Tharn breathed out another tiny shower of sparks, and a stench of something foul reached Sirinita’s nostrils; Tharn’s breath, never pleasant to begin with, was getting really disgusting — even worse than the cow manure, which she had mostly gotten used to.
Sirinita decided there wasn’t any need to sleep right next to the dragon; she wandered a few paces away, to where a field of waist-high cornstalks provided some shelter, and settled down for the night.
The next thing she knew was that an unfamiliar voice was saying, “I don’t see a lantern.”
She opened a sleepy eye, and saw nothing at all.
“So maybe she just burned a cornstalk or something,” a second voice said.
“I don’t even see a tinderbox,” the first replied.
“I don’t either, but what do I know? I saw sparks here, and here she is — it must’ve been her. Maybe she had some little magic spell or something — she looks like a city girl.”
“Maybe there was someone with her.”
“No, she wouldn’t be lying here all alone, then. No one would be stupid enough to leave a girl unprotected.”
The first voice giggled unpleasantly. “Not if they knew we were around, certainly.”
“She’s pretty young,” the second said dubiously.
Sirinita was completely awake now; she realized she was looking at the rich black earth of the farm. She turned her head, very carefully, to see who was speaking.
“She’s awake!” the first voice said. “Quick!”
Then rough hands grabbed her, and her tunic was yanked up, trapping her arms, covering her face so that she couldn’t see, and pulling her halfway to her feet. Unseen hands clamped around her wrists, holding the tunic up.
“Not all that young,” someone said, but Sirinita couldn’t hear well enough through the tunic to be sure which voice it was. Another hand touched her now-bare hip.
Sirinita screamed.
Someone hit her on the back of the head hard enough to daze her.
Then she heard Tharn growl.
It wasn’t a sound she had heard often; it took a lot to provoke the dragon, as a rule.
“What was that?” one of her attackers asked.
“It’s a baby dragon,” the other replied. The grip on her left wrist fell away, and she was able to pull her tunic partway down, below her eyes.
She was in the cornfield, and it was still full night, but the greater moon shone orange overhead, giving enough light to make out shapes, but not colors.
There were two men, big men, and they both had swords, and Tharn was facing them, growling, his tail lashing snakelike behind him. One of the men was holding her right wrist with his left hand, drawing his sword with his right.
The other man, sword already drawn, was approaching Tharn cautiously.
“Dragon’s blood,” he said. “The wizards pay good money for dragon’s blood.”
He stepped closer, closer — and Tharn’s curved neck suddenly straightened, thrusting his scaly snout to a foot or so from the man’s face, and Tharn spat flame, lighting up the night, momentarily blinding the three humans, whose eyes had all been adjusted to the darkness.
The man who had approached the dragon screamed horribly, and the other dropped Sirinita’s wrist; thus abruptly released, she stumbled and almost fell.
When she was upright and able to see again, she saw one man kneeling, both hands covering his face as he continued to scream; his sword was nowhere in sight. The other man was circling, trying to get behind Tharn, or at least out of the line of fire.
Tharn was growling differently now, a sound like nothing Sirinita had ever heard before. His jaws and nostrils were glowing dull red, black smoke curled up from them, and his eyes caught the moonlight and gleamed golden. He didn’t look like her familiar, bumbling pet; he looked terrifying.