Somehow, that thought had surfaced again in his mind as he stared down on the feeble brown dragon struggling to stay ahead of them. And suddenly he had known that he would never have a better chance than that night.
It had not been that hard to slip away from the ship at night. Each evening, Leftrin nosed the Tarman onto the muddy banks of the river as close as he could get to wherever the dragons were sleeping. Some nights the keepers slept on board; sometimes they bedded down near their dragon wards. He had been fortunate. The dragons had settled for the night on a grassy shore and their keepers had decided to collect driftwood and sleep near them. Leftrin himself had taken the watch. Alise had been his unwitting accomplice for she had distracted the captain so completely that Sedric had no problem in stealthily leaving the ship.
The dying glow of the keepers’ bonfire and the nearly full moon had been enough to light his way. He’d slogged over trampled grass and through puddles as best he could, resigned that his boots and trousers would be sodden and caked with mud by the time he returned. He’d taken care earlier in the evening to watch the dragons as they settled, so he knew approximately where the exhausted brown was sleeping. It had been late and both the keepers and their dragons had been sleeping soundly as he moved cautiously among and then past them. The sickly dragon slept alone on the outskirts of the group. It hadn’t stirred as he’d drawn near it. At first, he’d thought it was already dead. He could detect no movement and heard no sign of it breathing. He’d forced himself to boldness, and cautiously set a hand to the creature’s filthy shoulder. It made no response. He gave it a slight push, and then a harder shove. It made a wheezing sound but did not move. Sedric had taken out his knife.
His first ambition had been to claim a few scales. The shoulder was perfect; he’d put his opportunity to observe the dragons while Alise attempted to talk to them to good use. He knew that the larger scales were usually on their shoulders, hips, and the broadest parts of their tails. By the moonlight’s feeble gleam, he had slipped the edge of his knife under a scale, pinched it hard against the blade with his thumb, and jerked. The scale did not come out easily; it was rather like pulling a plate from the bottom of a stack. But it came, edged with gleaming blood. The dragon gave a twitch but slept on, apparently too feeble to care.
He’d extracted three more scales from the creature, each about the size of the palm of his hand, wrapped them carefully in a kerchief, and tucked them into the breast of his shirt. He’d nearly returned to the barge then, for he knew that even one of the scales should bring him a rich price. But while a rich price might be enough to win their freedom, he doubted it would long keep Hest at his side. No. He had taken the risk already. He would either gain enough from this gamble to live like a king or he’d not bother. He’d be a fool to stop now when he was so close to making his fortune.
He’d chosen his tools carefully. The little knife he took out now was a butcher’s tool, one used for sticking a pig and draining off the fresh blood for pudding. He’d been surprised to find that such a tool existed, but the moment he’d seen one, he’d bought it. It was short and sharp, with a fuller that passed through a tunnel in the knife’s hardwood handle and acted as a passage for the flow of blood.
He had moved to a fresh spot on the dragon’s body, on the neck just behind the jaw. He slapped at the mosquitoes that had found him and were now buzzing hungrily about his own ears and neck. “Just a very big mosquito,” he suggested to the comatose dragon. He lifted one of the heavy scales on its neck, took a firm grip on his tool, and punched it into its flesh.
The tool was as sharp as a grindstone could make it. Even so, it didn’t go in easily. The dragon gave a squeak in its sleep, a comical sound from so large a creature. Its clawed feet twitched against the muddy ground and Sedric knew a moment’s terror and very nearly fled. Instead, hands shaking, he’d taken a glass flask from his small pack and drawn the glass stopper out of it. He waited. After a moment, the blood began to fall, drop by shining drop. He maneuvered his flask’s mouth under the falling drops and caught them, one by one.
His hands were shaking too much. He’d never done this sort of thing and found it much more distressing than he had imagined. A drop of blood missed the mouth of the flask and ran greasily over his fingers. He grimaced and then braced the neck of the flask against the end of the knife. In that instant, the drips became a trickle and then a sudden flow of blood. “Merciful Sa!” he exclaimed in terror and delight. The flask grew heavy in his hand and then suddenly overflowed. He snatched it away. He had to pour out some of the blood before it would admit the stopper, and he wished in vain that he had brought a second flask. He wiped his bloody hands on his trousers and then carefully stowed the flask in his pack. A quick tug freed the knife from the dragon’s flesh and he added it to the pack.
