After a short time, the rope began to chafe on her shoulder. The meat she dragged seemed to snag on every stump or root tangle she passed, and she had to give a strong jerk to break it free. By the time she saw the lighter foliage that indicated she was nearly at the river, she was sweaty, scratched, and bitten by insects. She emerged into the swale of tall, coarse river grass and pushed on toward where she had left Skymaw sleeping. She’d give her dragon the meat first, and then go find Tats to help her bring the rest back. She smiled to herself, imagining Skymaw’s surprise at a second hearty meal in one day.
But when she spotted her dragon, she wasn’t alone. Skymaw was awake, though she still sprawled comfortably on the deep grass. Seated near her head on a wooden box was the Bingtown woman, dressed in loose trousers and a sensible cotton blouse. Next to her Sedric perched uncomfortably on a wooden crate labeled salt fish. His lap desk was on his knees. Paper and ink bottle were before him; his pen was moving swiftly over the paper. His trimly fitting jacket was the color of a bluefly. The white shirt he wore was open at his neck. He’d folded the cuffs of it back over his jacket cuffs, leaving his lean wrists and capable hands free to work. A single line marred his smooth brow. His mouth was pursed slightly, his brows knit in concentration. Alise was apparently dictating the next phrase. Thymara heard “. . . crushing or severing the spine to kill it quickly.”
As she scented the meat, Skymaw’s head turned and she lunged to her feet. That motion caused both Sedric and Alise to turn toward Thymara. Skymaw gave her no greeting but simply took three strides and then fell onto the meat and began feeding. Alise’s mouth went into an “O” of surprise and then she laughed merrily, as if watching a favorite child indulge in a sweet. “She’s hungry again!” she called to Thymara, as if expecting the girl to share her pleasure.
“She’s always hungry,” Thymara replied, trying not to sound sour. She felt an echo of assent from the feeding dragon. Sedric, at least, looked happy to see her. His eyes lit, and his pursed lips became a welcoming smile.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here. I looked everywhere for you earlier. This process will go a lot faster if you translate.”
She hated to disappoint him. “I can’t. I mean, I only brought part of the meat back with me. I have to find Tats and have him help me with the rest before scavengers take it.” She tried not to imagine that a two-legged scavenger was already hacking off parts of her kill. He wouldn’t dare, she told herself. They were too small a company for anyone to steal openly from another. No one would tolerate it.
Would they?
Sedric had said something else. He was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a reply. The twist of anxiety in her belly made her suddenly dismiss him and his concerns. “I have to find Tats and go back for the rest of the meat,” she said hastily, and she refused even to wonder if that answered his question at all. She left them and headed toward the shore and the other dragons.
Behind her, Alise called out to her, “Rapskal is looking for you!”
Thymara nodded and kept on going.
Tats was not with Fente. The small green dragon was still dozing, and when Thymara tried to rouse her to ask if she knew where Tats was, the creature made a sincere snap in her direction. Thymara jumped back uninjured and left her quickly. She wondered uneasily if the dragon would have eaten her if she’d drawn blood. She knew from Skymaw that the green queen had a reputation for being vicious when provoked. It was something she should talk to Tats about. If she could find him.
She found him and Sylve with the little silver dragon. Guilt tinged with annoyance suffused Thymara. She’d said she would care for the silver and Sylve had said she’d help. She’d only spoken out because Tats and Jerd had said they’d team up on the copper one. But she’d done little more than to check him for parasites around his eyes and nostrils each night. She hadn’t even thought to offer him some of the meat she’d brought back. Sylve was fussing over his tail. Nearby, a little fire smoldered reluctantly on a tussock of grass. A pot of foul-smelling soup had been set on it.
“How is he?” she asked uncomfortably as she approached.
“It’s as we feared,” Sylve said. “It looks like he let his tail dip below the surface of the river water, and more than once by the look of it. The cut is inflamed.” She opened the cloth she’d been trying to wrap around the injury, and Thymara winced. She wondered if her earlier ministrations hadn’t done him more harm than good. It must have been painful when the raw flesh met the acid river. She frowned: she couldn’t recall hearing him cry out. On a positive note, the dragon was sleeping heavily; from the scraps of gut under his front claws, he had evidently got at least a share of the fish run.
