

Dirt

By

C.C Hogan

Text Copyright © 2018 C.C. Hogan

All Rights Reserved

2018 – Fourth Edition

This edition has been created while recording the audiobook version and has been edited so that the versions match. It has lost one chapter, A Policeman's Lot, the contents being included in the first two chapters, and there are many other edits throughout the book. I think this has made it a better book overall, and it was certainly easier to record! CC Hogan.

Dedicated to all lovers of wine, great beer, and warm, friendly taverns on whatever world.

### The Dirt Books

Series 1

Dirt

Bloody Dirt

The fight for Dirt

Hope & Mistry's Tale

Yona and the Beast – Short Story

Series 2

Girls of Dirt

Dragons of Dirt

People of Dirt

Series 3

TBA

Check out the website for up to date information about the series, maps, the chronology and free stuff!

www.aworldcalleddirt.com

Table of Contents

Prologue – Don't Believe What They Tell You

Chapter 1 – Digging

Chapter 2 – If Anger Solved Problems

Chapter 3 – The Red Islands

Chapter 4 – The Hidden Isle

Chapter 5 – The Shallow Sea

Chapter 6 – Taken

Chapter 7 – Companions

Chapter 8 – Plans

Chapter 9 – Sand in the Wings

Chapter 10 – Boy for Sale

Chapter 11 – Captured

Chapter 12 – The Chase

Chapter 13 – Saddle Up!

Chapter 14 – Monster

Chapter 15 – X

Chapter 16 – Healing and Learning

Chapter 17 – To Plan a Rescue

Chapter 18 – Sisters

Chapter 19 – All About Horses

Chapter 20 – River

Chapter 21 – The Mines

Chapter 22 – A Friend in Need

Find out more about Dirt

Books by C. C. Hogan

About the Author

# Prologue – Don't believe what they tell you

"So, what then?" The girl was annoyed, but then he always annoyed her.

"People tell lies. People get things wrong. It always happens, and you and I have seen it again and again, time after time, over how many years?"

"I've stopped counting, it was depressing me."

"Quite right too! No one said there had to be one truth and no one has magic that explains what truth is or whether you're correct. Even if they are not lying, and that bloody woman had good reasons aplenty to lie back then, they just get things wrong. Oh, yes, I know who I am! Oh no, you don't; you're actually this. Oh, I'm that, am I? No, you're not, I lied. What am I then? Something else? So, what really happened ten thousand years ago? Not what we thought? What then? Did I get it wrong again, mummy? Someone want to make another stupid guess?" He growled, then offered a tired smile. "Girl, we just go in circles after a while, and you and I more than most I think."

The young woman poked him in the chest. "You always do this to me. I should learn not to ask you any questions, but I can't help it. I always have to know."

"I know you do." The thin man fidgeted and looked out through the window at the small, bright, warm, friendly port. He loved it here. It had been the perfect choice; a place with no pain. "I know it matters what the truth was because if you hadn't worked it out, we wouldn't be here, and I would still be stuck in a miserable dive trying to get drunk. But even that truth? Are we sure that it really is the true story? At the end of the day, people are people and they'll believe what they're most comfortable with. That is the story they will put into song, write in their books, tell their children. And that is what will be passed down from generation to generation, till even the historians are spouting rubbish."

"Somebody needs to keep hold of the truth. I made so many mistakes because the truth was hidden; because you hid it!"

"I know; you're right. That is what you and I are here for, I think. We keep the truth so everyone else can be comfortable with the myth. I suppose it's a lesson we must learn. If you distrust everything, you're probably going to be more right than wrong. Still, makes for some incredible stories, even if it is a complete pain in the arse!"

"Have you finished?"

"More or less."

"Good, because if you really want to paint this tavern bright-yellow, you need to go get some paint."

"You always were picky, dear one."

# Chapter 1 \- Digging

If Johnson Farthing was going to reach the bottom of this bloody hole by dinner time, he would have to get off his fat arse and dig. So thought Johnson Farthing when he peered at his twisted reflection on the back of his rusty, mud-crusted shovel. He smacked the blade with his trowel and a little of the dirt fell off and back into the hole. At least his reflection now looked less like a lump of red grime, but it wasn't much of an improvement.

"Oh, my bleeding back!"

Grunting with pain, the ancient Farthing staggered to his feet, set his spine into some usable angle, and tried to plunge the weapon into the rock-hard sediment by his feet. With a groan of aged tiredness, he scraped half an inch off the top, chucked it over his head and almost out of the hole; completely out of the hole would have been better.

Farthing leant back, dragged out a leaf of blackjaw from his pocket, and shoved it in his cheek. He made a few disgusting, toothless sucking-sounds and wallowed in the mildly soporific effects of the minty-flavoured painkiller that would make his day easier, but sadly for only a few minutes. A new leaf would have given him a good hour of relief from the accumulated muscle-pain he had earned so far this morning, let alone the pain still kicking around from last week. But then, he hadn't managed to make enough coin for new leaves for months, so his ancient stock of dried-out old ones was all he had.

A small dust cloud puffed off the top edge of the hole, peppering Farthing with dirt; the distant giggle identifying the age of the perpetrator.

"Young bastard!" grunted Farthing from the bottom of his hole.

He felt a real sense of ownership of this hole. He had marked it out, set out what width it had to be, and how deep he had to dig before, with good fortune, he hit water. The downside was that however much he might lay claim to the emptiness that was the hole itself, the dirt, both the remaining and the already shifted, belonged to the trader Truk, who was promising to pay only on the success of the mission. Farthing had never saved up enough coin to own a patch of red dirt big enough to sit on, let alone dig up and throw around. Even renting dirt was only just within his grasp.

He scraped another meagre layer of dirt from the bottom of the hole, threw it out with a grunt, and decided to quit for the day. Truk was off trading up the coast for the next couple of days and he could get away with a bit of truancy. Scraping the dust off his creaking frame for just one afternoon would be a rare but a welcome respite. He tied a rope around the shovel, threw it up and across the hole so it held firm, and dragged all six-foot-five of himself to ground level. Blinking in the summer sun, he unknotted his muscles, eased himself straight, picked up the shovel, and covered the hole with the five planks he kept for the purpose. It could be bloody hard to convince people how tired, achy, and old you felt when you were only nineteen years old.

Well, bugger all that for a miserable dragon; Johnson Farthing was going for a swim, followed by a beer, followed by sleep, and he would try to forget that by this time tomorrow he would be back down the hole shifting someone else's grit and grime.

"I told Truk you'd be slacking off the minute he turned his back," shouted the old fool Barkles who sold greasy vegetable pies from a dusty stall on the corner. "Young people can't be trusted, I told him. I was right too."

"Shut your face, Barkles!" Farthing grabbed his coat from his handcart and hung it around his shoulders to ward off a faint chill in the sea breeze. "I've been down that hole every day non-stop for nine days, and you know it too since you've been feeding me your disgusting pies for most of them."

"Pastries, slacker. Not Pies; Pastries."

"I thought pastries were just posh pies?"

"Can be."

"Well, yours ain't posh. So definitely just pies."

"Ain't seen you complaining!" snapped Barkles defensively.

Farthing scraped up the red dirt from the red dirt ground and piled it on top of the rest of the red dirt in his handcart. Oh, the irony. Scraping dirt from the dirt on top of a world called Dirt. Then he cursed himself for cracking the same joke for the ninth day running.

"What did you call me?" asked Barkles, furrowing his brow.

"Nothing. I was cursing the fool who has to push his cart off to the dumps before he can get anywhere close to a beer."

Barkles chuckled. "Well, with that I have sympathy, Farthing. Are you going to take the last pie, I mean pastry off me?"

"What, and go swimming afterwards? I'd bloody well drown!"

"Well, sod you, then. If you ain't going to buy the last one, I'm going to eat it myself!" Barkles took a big bite out of the pie and winced in pain.

Farthing burst out laughing. "Well, well. I didn't know you got bones in veggie pies."

Barkles spat something out. "Hey! That's my old lady's sewing thimble. How did that get in there?"

"Probably when she sewed up your pies, mate. Your pastry's so leathery there ain't no other way you're going to hold them shut!"

"You go drown yourself like a nice lad, Farthing, and I'll tell Truk what a lazy git you are when he gets back."

"You do that, Barkles; you do that."

Johnson Farthing wrapped the leather strap around his chest, pulled his cart up the street, and turned left down an alley in the general direction of the dirt dumps. Barkles rubbed his bleeding lip, looked at the pie with one bite out of the end, carefully wetted the frayed pastry with his tongue, and stuck it back down.

"Fresh Pies! Wonderful, mostly non-meat wonders! Only one left!"

The dumps were a fair walk right over the south-west ridge. Nothing was that far away in Wead-Wodder, the grimy and dusty capital of the Prelatehood of Redust, but it felt like it was when you were dragging a cart full of dirt. Wead-Wodder was an old coastal town spread around the mouth of the river Wead. South of the river was home to ordinary traders and anything in society below a trader, all the way down to the place in society that Farthing occupied. There were those lower than him, wallowing in the world's dirt, but not many. Part of Farthing would have loved to get out of Wead. It was dusty on a good day and a cesspit in the short, wet season. Even the more affluent North Wead was far from being a paradise. Some of the houses there had gardens, and the streets were free of beggars and street merchants like Barkles, but it was still dusty on a good day and ghastly when it rained. Separating north and south Wead-Wodder was the River Wead which oozed slowly through the town except when being abused by the tide. It was a broad, sediment-filled highway; too wide for a bridge and traversed by ferry. Its source was in the distant Red Mountains in the Prelatehood of Caan, halfway across the continent of The Prelates, and that might account for at least some of the murky, red-brown tint of the water. The rest was from the herds of farm animals that grazed along the banks across Redust, and the rubbish kicked out of the villages along its route. One of the many meanings of Wead in the old Adelan language was dung. Never was a better word chosen for a river.

Farthing bowed sarcastically at a foul-mouthed girl who was leaning out of a ground floor window showing her wares. He hadn't sampled those particular wares; it was not something he had ever done, though many young men did. There was an undesirable subculture in Redust, but prostitution wasn't part of it. Generally, it was seen as a worthy profession, if not a very polite one. He gave his cart a hard yank to pull a wheel out of a pothole, and adjusting the strap over his sun-bleached, tatty shirt, turned up Long Hill to make the steep climb up to the dumps. Whereas North Wead was on a gentle hill leading to the northern plains, South Wead was flat, level with the river. But in the south-west, was a steep ridge on top of which was the poorest neighbourhood of Wead; The Wealle. The ridge was long-lost under a wave of apartments piled one on top of another, but it was still there, still an obstacle to anyone pulling a cart, and the dumps were on the far side.

"Half load today?" Fennerpop was at least thirty years older than Farthing and still shoving around a cart of Dirt's dirt for a living. His very existence and the future it promised could drive Farthing into a fit of depression. "I remember being warned about half loads by my grandfather. They will be the end of you son, he said. And then he said-"

"Going swimming, Fen," replied Farthing quickly, dragging the old dirt-man back on track before he lost the afternoon to an often repeated tale.

"Are you still digging that well for Truk?"

"Yeah, but I can't wait that long for a swim." Farthing leant back against his cart and rubbed a sore shoulder.

"I dug a well once," mused Fennerpop. "Took me two months it did, and I never did hit water."

"Well that doesn't cheer me up any!" Farthing shook his head sadly.

"Not my job to do that, lad. You want cheering, you go see Sally with the Virtues."

"What, the whore down in The Skattlings?"

"You probably passed her on the way up," said Fennerpop, grinning.

"That I did. She shouted something unmentionable at me and waved a couple of other unmentionables at me at the same time."

"They be her Virtues, they be. Means she likes you."

"Won't like me for long when she finds how little coin I have."

"True enough. Sally don't do favours even for princes."

"Not many of those around neither," commented Farthing, pulling hard to get his cart rolling again, leaving Fennerpop to rumble down the hill and tell his stories elsewhere.

South Wead was divided into reasonably distinct areas. The Skattlings started from the bottom of the ridge and ran north to the riverside wherry quays. If South Wead was thought of as dangerous as a whole, or at least challenging to the unprepared, then The Skattlings were seen as suicidal, certainly by the posh of the North. In truth, Farthing had never seen any more trouble there than in Thanks, the slightly more affluent area where Truk and his ongoing well lived. Thanks was where many of the traders had homes, both those native to the town and foreign traders who liked a home or office in all their main trading bases. Most of the houses had windowless walls and central atriums so they were more secure when their owners were off trading. These were not the well-crafted houses of the north where the richest of trading families lived, anything but, but neither were they the multi-storey, wonky, over-occupied piles of apartments that made up The Wealle where Farthing lived, and through where he was currently dragging his load of Dirt's finest.

Farthing snaked his way up between the villas, as he called the ridge-hugging dwellings. When at home, he would like to imagine he owned the entire building, but just chose to live in two tiny, squalid rooms for the hell of it. He and his sister Rustina had inherited the apartment, or the monthly rent, from their parents after their mother Deidre had died years earlier, and their waste-of-space father Ferall, who insisted on being called Bent for a lame joke, had run off to join a merchantman. He hadn't been seen again and was missed little.

Farthing glanced up at the rows of apartments as the hill steepened. They were all the same; a heavy, cheap, timber frame, bleached white by sun and sand, infilled with the red dirt of Redust that had faded and turned a pale, dirty-grey-pink in the sun, brightened up by the odd lick of cheap paint. With The Wealle being up on the ridge, the persistent wind should have kept everything fairly clean, but in reality, the dirt got trapped between the close-packed buildings, and the entire neighbourhood could be a dusty, throat-gagging mess. The only saving grace was that the less pleasant detritus of human civilisation tended to wash downhill in the rainy season and became The Skattlings' problem. Actually, the Weallers happily sacrificed a little water to encourage it downhill even in the dry season.

The last few paces of the hill were the steepest, and like all the other cart pushers heading to the dumps, Farthing stopped pulling his cart, turned it around, and pushed it up the road with every ounce of strength he possessed. Farthing gave one last run at the hill, rumbled over the top and rolled down to the dumps.

"Move down the left path and take the third row," shouted Major Payn when Farthing staggered past.

The small annoying man, the Head Dirt Forman, was sitting on a box, grappling with a discoloured and tatty umbrella, attempting to keep off the sun. His job was simple; piss everyone else off, hence his nickname. This duty he executed with an exquisiteness that would probably one day be recognised in stone. Preferably a headstone, thought Farthing. It wasn't Payn's fault, of course. Someone had to tell other people where to shove their dirt, and his dreary, nasal accent was probably the fault of parents, if anyone would admit to having sired such a scrawny little rat. But Farthing would still happily bury Benhal "Major" Payn under several barrel loads of red gravel without a second thought.

"How far down, Major?"

"All the way, lad, all the way. You know how it has to happen." Payn barely glanced up from the chalkboard he had on a stand in front of him as he made some mark understandable only to himself. "Okay, lads, stop there," he snapped at a couple of haulers behind Farthing. "I can see green stuff sticking out of that cart. You know the rules; dirt only. Green stuff is your problem..."

His dreary voice faded away as Farthing rumbled down the left path about a hundred paces and turned down the third row. Each row continued down at a slight slope, fanning off from the main path. At the end of the long row, a small sign said, "drop here," with an arrow for people who, like Farthing, had yet to learn to read. Most people then. You upended your cart down the slope, pulled up the sign, and moved it along one pace. The next person would do the same until the sign ended up at the junction with the left path. It was not the most complicated system, but Payn had invented it and treasured it as if he had discovered a new star. Yet another reason for his demise, thought Farthing, and made his way back out of the dumps.

The cart fitted neatly against the side wall of the five-storey building in which the Farthing siblings lived. It had originally been a two-storey block with them on the top floor but had grown over the years. The ground floor was not strong enough to hold three extra floors, but someone had braced it up with more uprights and cross-beams to the buildings across the way and next door. Most of The Wealle was like this, and the roads were criss-crossed with random but well-intentioned wooden beams, regularly used for anything that needed hanging, though not always clothes. It would leave any half-decent structural engineer fearing the integrity of every building in The Wealle was wholly reliant on the integrity of every other building in The Wealle. If they were all as badly built as the one Farthing lived in, and they probably were, what was holding any of them up? Most of the residents were sensible enough not to over-think the issue, and to just worry about general survival.

"Another hot one, lad!"

Farthing smiled back politely at the large, friendly fellow who was passing on his way up the steep hill. It was early summer, but the rays from the old sun were struggling to offer much in the way of heat today against the cool sea breeze. Still, work hard enough and you can get a sweat anywhere, and that man was certainly working hard dragging his bulk all the way up here. By his accent, he wasn't a native Wealler or even from Redust, but the town was full of all sorts from everywhere.

Farthing locked up the cart with a chain, hid the key, and set off for the old harbour for a swim. Theft was not a major problem in the Wealle since nobody owned anything worth stealing, including food most of the time, but carts were sought after. If you had a cart, you would always have work of sorts, and shifting dirt was probably the number one occupation in The Wealle. Farthing had made his own from scraps when still a child as soon as he had to earn. The trip downhill was considerably faster than the journey up with the cart, but Farthing resisted the temptation to take it at a run, crashing into walls to break his progress as he and everyone else had done as children.

The town had a simple, class-based logic to it. The broad river Wead flowed into the town and then widened out like a huge letter Y into the sea. In the middle of the Y sat Slypa Burh, the Prelate's Palace, on its own island. The posh people were to the north of the river and the poor to the south, and each had their own swimming beaches on the estuary sands facing the Prelate's island. A meeting of the two groups was prevented by the currents, to the relief of all. The modern docks were upriver at The Skattlings since the estuary was shallow and trying to dredge out more than a navigation channel for the larger trading ships and fishing galleys would have been an act of futility; it was hard enough in the river proper.

Farthing walked past the patient line of adherents queuing outside the local temple of the Church of the True and turned down Decon street into The Hive. He liked the area around the old harbour. Although the modern docks were now upstream, The Hive remained the hub of business and retail, and it buzzed liked the beehive from whence it got its name. It was the oldest area of Wead-Wodder; an unplanned mix of new buildings made of wood and plaster, and large, ancient buildings of red stone. Inns gushing ales, warehouses filled with bales of the exotic and crates of the illegal, offices hiding scratching accountants keeping duplicate books, markets selling the unmentionable and buying the downright weird, shops with perfumes, barely dead meat swinging from hooks right next to meat that should have been buried months before, stationery supplies, dubious remedies, clothes of every culture and age, street traders shouting and fibbing and grinning and fighting; there was nothing that was not bought and sold in The Hive. Just beyond, was the ruined remnants of the old fishing harbour, not now used by boats and half buried in sand and sediment. This had become the recreation ground for the lowly and unwashed.

"Clothes baskets two-hundredths!" sung the young voice.

At the bottom of the steps, a group of youngsters looked after the pile of baskets where swimmers stored their clothes. Most Southern Weaders swam since for many it was as close as they could get to a bath. For two-hundredths, they stored their clothes in a basket under the watchful eyes of the young people. Farthing fished out the two thin coins from his pocket and was rewarded with a basket. He stripped down to his shorts, put the clothes in the basket and swapped it for a knotted string which he tied around his wrist. He had never managed to work out the system of knots that associated his string with his basket, but he had yet to be handed back the wrong clothes.

"Collect your basket from the far end when you're done, mate," said the young lad. "I'm packing up this end in a bit. Got to help my mum with the cart." Most lives revolved around a handcart somewhere along the line. "And tell your sis me mum says she'll have that apron repaired by the day after tomorrow."

Farthing held up his hand in thanks and made his way over the pinkish sand towards the sea. The lad and his mum lived opposite them in The Wealle and were the most enterprising people Farthing had ever met. There was nothing they would not take on for hundredths, the paltry almost valueless coin of the continent. It said much about the Prelatehood and the system that ran it, that, despite their industry, they could only just scrape together the rent. And sometimes, like Farthing and his sister, failed to do even that. He shook the sadness from his head, and with a yell, ran straight into the cold sea.

"Oh, the gods!"

Cold it was, and cold it almost always was. Even though Redust was a dry, dusty Prelatehood without suffering the winters of the more northern countries, it wasn't the hottest region of Dirt, and the Prelates Sea never warmed up much past stimulating.

"Get out of my face, boy!"

Farthing shook the water from his hair as he came up from under right in the face of a big, multi-chinned woman.

"Sorry, mate, er, ma'am!" Farthing wiped the salt from his eyes and back paddled.

"Oh, might have guessed it was you, Farthing." The woman stood up in the shallows, hands on hips, her light bathing shirt hiding little.

"Geezen! How are you?"

"Annoyed and cold. How is my well?" Geezen was Truk's wife and a local midwife. She had known Farthing's family for years, and he was one of many who had been smacked into this world with her podgy hand.

"It's fine, as wells go," said Farthing, smiling weakly.

"Oh good! So why are you not in it?"

"Look, sorry Geezen. I've spent the last week and a bit scraping at that hard-baked piece of Dirt where your husband wants his well. I had to stop and wash the dust out of my eyes."

Geezen's expression softened. She could be as hard as nails some days, but Farthing was one of hers and a favourite too.

"I know, I told him it was a mad place for a well. You know what he's like when he gets an idea, but that nose of his can smell water a mile off, I swear it. It might be tough going, son, but I'll bet your smacked behind there's water down there."

Truk was a pillock as an employer, as far as Farthing was concerned, but he was no fool. He had managed to drag himself out of the poverty of The Wealle and into Thanks and would have probably been in North Wead by now if he had been of the right blood. Geezen thumped Farthing around the head with a heavy, thick hand.

"Go on, get your swim, you ungrateful louse. I imagine you'll be down the hole bright and early!" She grinned at him, then lay back into the current and floated off like some mythical creature on its annual holiday.

Farthing looked around at the growing numbers of people, mostly mothers with squalling children taking their weekly bath. He struck out away from the beach and into deeper, less child-polluted water, then followed Geezen's example, and floated off on his back. To reach the deep water, you had to swim halfway out to the island. The estuary was filled with the red sedimentary dust of thousands of years, and the deep channel on this side of the island was only clear because of the strong currents on the turn of the tide and much hard work from small, busy dredgers. Between the shore and the channel, some of the red sandbanks pushed up into small islands at low tide. Farthing climbed up onto one of them and sat down in the warm sun. The unwelcome easterly had petered off, and the temporary island had gained a population of people wishing to get away from the urinating kids by the shore.

Facing the island, Farthing watched a couple of the dredgers in their constant war against the might of Dirt. They were long, flat-bottomed boats, rowed and punted by two men, while a third dropped a fine sand net into the sea attached to a long rope and a supporting A-frame. He dredged up the sand and hoisted it back into the boat, the water gushing through the net in a glistening shower.

The Prelate's island was a feat of defensive engineering going back hundreds, maybe thousands of years. Slypa Burh, named after the slimy, pale-green seaweed that grew in profusion around the estuary, was part mansion, part castle, and mixed up with the ecclesiastical buildings associated with the Prelate. It was a rocky place that was frequently dredged around the perimeter to keep the rocks clear and the water deep. Low walls ran the whole way around the island, and within those, at the east end, were the remaining high walls of the ancient castle. The need for security always grows with the paranoia of statehood.

"How old is it?" A young woman had swum onto the sandbank and sat by Farthing.

"Are you new to Wead?" asked Farthing.

The woman had light, sandy-red hair which was rare on Dirt. In fact, the only other person Farthing knew was his sister Rusty who had vibrant red hair; now that was properly rare. Oh, and that girl Sally with the Virtues. He remembered she was red-headed, but that might have had some help, thinking about the unusually bright colour.

"My brother is setting up a trading post here," said the woman. "I'm going to be running it with his business partner."

"The castle is ancient, as far as I know," said Farthing. "I think it dates from before the Prelatehood. The rest of it was built by a prelate hundreds of years ago. I don't know the details."

"Oh, yes," said the woman, smiling. "Your religious government that runs everything."

"Oh, that," replied Farthing, furrowing his brow. "Well, it's not mine, exactly. I just have to put up with it."

Each Prelate was a high priest of the Church of the True, the nearest Dirt had to a common religion. Although the continent had a central ecclesiastical council called the Prelature, the Prelatehoods themselves were individual countries with the Prelates acting as king. Each Prelatehood like Redust had its own take on the religious teachings and ran their people into the ground accordingly. It wasn't a lack of separation between church and state so much as a complete lack of any state at all. Redust, or at least Wead-Wodder, was more political than religious, mostly because it was an important trade port on Prelates Sea and wanted to attract trade, not scare it off. Many of the Prelatehoods, especially in the north of the continent, were very conservative, taxing their citizens with oppressive ideology as much as with coin.

"It doesn't get in the way much, at least not in Wead-Wodder," said Farthing. "Are you from Bind?"

"Port Farnen in the north west. Don't really have your church up there now. My family has been trading for generations with The Prelates, but it's my first time here."

The sun was still high in the sky and the water was projecting dancing patterns of light onto the low perimeter wall of the island. Out on the seaward side, a small sailboat appeared from behind the old castle wall, bobbing in the waves of the outer estuary, and made its way to the open sea. Farthing squinted, but it was too far away to get a real idea of size or shape. It was a little odd, though. Most seaward-bound boats came from the upriver docks down the main shipping channel, not from the back of the island. He wasn't even sure there was a landing on that side.

"What are you looking at?" asked the woman.

"That small boat over there with the single mast." Farthing pointed.

The woman cast the critical eye of a merchant over the craft.

"Well, it ain't no trader; too small," she said, laughing. "Small enough for a smuggler, I suppose, but you don't see them in the middle of the day normally. Do you get much fishing here?"

"Not there," explained Farthing. He had made a few trips on the boats as a hand. "The currents make trawling impossible around the island. All the fishing boats head along the coast first before sailing into deeper water and casting their nets."

"It's the wrong way for the tide too; it's heading in," said the woman. "Should be seeing some of the traders coming in on the late tide soon. The boat must come from the island then."

Farthing shrugged. "Prelate's problem." It was a phrase you heard a lot in Wead and was used to end discussion. He glanced up at the sun, lay back on the sand, and dozed off gently.

"Hey, wake up!" The woman chucked sand at Farthing, who sat up in surprise. "What's going on over there?"

Farthing peered over at the island. At the river end, was a large, paved plaza by the small riverside landing. It was used for declarations on those few occasions the Prelate thought his disloyal citizens had taken disloyalty too far. Today, however, there was some commotion that was out of the ordinary. At this distance, it was hard to make out what was happening. It was very confused and the odd word that made it across the water was less than repeatable.

"I have no bloody idea," said Farthing to the woman, shrugging. "Seems like someone has upset someone else or something."

"Prelate's problem?" suggested the woman.

Farthing grinned. "Probably. My sister works as a general maid over there. I'll ask her when she gets home later." He looked up at the sky and the slowly descending sun. "Oh, not that much later. My turn to get the food, so I better head to the market while there are still some items without added wriggly protein." He stood and bowed to the woman with the sandy-red hair. "Welcome to Wead, as they say!" And he ran into the water and swam back to his clothes.

He had left it a little late, but the bread was only stale and not half eaten by internal inhabitants. He had picked up some Toothen, the hard cheese from Bind that would last for months without going off, and some scrawny, early pears. The advantage of being abandoned by your parents, thought Farthing as he flicked the thirtieth weevil out through the window, was he and his sister were good at doing anything. They both cooked, washed, cleaned, and tried to earn. For Rusty, as everyone called Rustina, earning was more successful than it was for Farthing. This was not unusual. Maids were needed everywhere and were expected to be semi-literate and polite. Get those right and you were in a job for life if you were lucky. Male servants were not so popular and were only taken from the trader families. Men like Farthing had little prospect of a secure job unless their family had a business. Since he had no family other than Rusty, that left only the cart. Life was simple in Redust, and for most, bloody hard.

A little water mixed with the now de-weevilled flour, a stoked-up fire, and a scrap of wire to act as a griddle, and Farthing made a passable toasted cheese sandwich and 4 pears in pastry. Not a bad meal for a little family who rarely could afford more than dried beans, Farthing's true forte. Rusty had not made it back from Slypa Burh yet, which was not unusual, so Farthing wrapped up her sandwich in cloth ready for toasting on the griddle, then put it and the other two pears in a terracotta pot and shut the lid securely. Rusty would know where to look. With that, he tidied up, grabbed a hard-earned coin from the box in the wall, and headed back to the harbour. With any luck, he could just afford one mild beer and watch the evening light dance over the water before bedtime.

"You ain't going to get much of a beer with that, you lazy git!" Barkles was sitting on the harbour wall nursing a small earthenware bottle of beer. "Here, have a spare." He handed over another from his bag.

"Did you give Hetty her thimble back?" asked Farthing, nodding in thanks for the beer.

He and Barkles wound each other up constantly, but he liked the thin-faced pieman and his wife and owed them. When his own parents had left the scene, the two had watched out for the young Farthings and made sure they weren't evicted from the small apartment, which was the fate of too many children in Redust. Barkles and Hetty had no children of their own, despite trying every potion known to the local midwives, and had taken a personal interest in the Farthing family. There were still a few good people in this tired world.

"Tried sneaking it into her box, but she caught me. 'You filling your pies with my personals, Barkles?' she shouts at me. 'Cos my personals are my personals and don't have no business being in your pies!'"

"She calls them pies too?"

"Seems like my misses and you have a common lack of understanding about the finer side of patisserie."

"So what other of her personals have ended up in your pies?"

"Pastries!"

"Pastries."

"Oh, nothing much. The odd ribbon, bits of leather for shoe repairs, a few needles."

"Needles?" said Farthing in surprise.

"That was a major incident, that. Damned expensive are needles," said Barkles.

"Let alone filling people's stomachs with holes!"

"Well, that too, I suppose."

Farthing shook his head in amazement. He never knew how much to believe Barkles's stories.

"Rusty is late again tonight. They work her hard on the island."

"There was some bother up there today," remarked Barkles. "Something about the Prelate's daughter."

"I saw something happening over on the island when I was down here swimming earlier."

"Geezen said she saw you when she passed by my stall."

"Please don't tell me you sold her that pie."

"Pastry! And no, I didn't. Strangely, she has never yet tried one of my delicacies."

"So, what happened at the Burh?" asked Farthing.

"I don't fully know, to be honest. Hetty said it looked like the daughter had gone missing with one of the servants or something."

"A maid?" Farthing was worried.

"Personal maid, I think."

"Oh." Rusty was just a lowly general maid and had nothing to do with the Prelate or his family. "What do you mean gone missing?"

"Just that," replied Barkles. "She was there this morning and this afternoon she wasn't, and yet no one had come and gone from the island since early in the day. That was all Hetty knew. Prelate's problem." Barkles and Farthing drained back their bottles. "I have two more in my bag, lad; one for each of us. And then I promised Hetty I wouldn't be late." He pulled out two more earthenware bottles. Farthing looked at his coin. "Keep it, lad. You work hard for your coin, despite my ribbing you. I knows that."

"Thanks, Barkles. We owe you, you know."

"No, you don't, lad. Hetty wouldn't hear of such nonsense. And anyway, I sold that last pie to some new bloke fresh in from southern Bind." Barkles grinned from behind his bottle. "Told him it was a special and would bring him good fortune."

"You did what? How much did you get?"

"Oh, four bottles worth."

Farthing laughed. "One day someone is going to find you out, Barkles, you know that, don't you?"

"Nah. No one cares about the likes of us, lad. They forget us as soon as they've finished with us."

Farthing nodded at the truth of what Barkles said. The only people that cared for the people at the bottom were the people at the bottom. They were the only ones who knew what the bottom was like.

The next morning was grey and sultry. Farthing stuck an experimental foot out from under his throw. Nights could be cold in Redust and burying under a pile of old clothes and the harsh, woven blankets the country people made, was the best way of keeping warm. The foot was followed by a hand and then a cautious knee, and eventually, two eyes, bleary with sleep appeared above a red and amber woven pattern of a cow. Farthing groaned as the ongoing problem of Truk's well pushed its way into his consciousness. Geezen would be looking out for him, and he would be mad to be late.

Shaking off the worst of the night spent on the hard palette, Farthing pushed himself upright and stuck his head out of the window, trying to gauge the time through the clouds. The effort was worthy of an expletive or two, but they were lost in the general fog of expletives that hung over the town at all hours. It was early enough, he guessed, and he threw on his work clothes, the tough, unforgiving woven pants and shirt that many wore, stood his palette on its end, and stored the bedding.

The apartment had two tiny rooms and a small store cupboard. The main room was kitchen, washroom, dining room, living room, and his bedroom, all rolled into one, despite being only three paces across. The other room was his parents' old room and his sister used it now. They kept all their clothes in there too, together with blankets, spare floor rugs, cushions, and so on. It occurred to Farthing it was his turn to sweep out since Rusty had done it last time. Talking of which, where was she? He had gone to bed early the night before because they were short of oil for the lamp, so hadn't seen his sister. He shook his head to exile the last wisps of the night and looked around the room. Rusty was normally awake by now and her door was half open. He peeked in, but she was definitely not there. Maybe she had gone in early? Her pallet looked unslept in, as much as a pile of rugs could look like anything apart from a pile of rugs. Barkles had said there were problems at the Burh, and something had been happening on the island the day before. On a hunch, Farthing lifted the lid off the storage pot. Her dinner was untouched. That could only mean she had not come home the night before. That sometimes happened, especially if there was some big event going on, as the ferrymen would not navigate to and from the island in the dark if the tides were wrong. Well, if she had, she wouldn't be back until nightfall, so there was nothing he could do now.

Fennerpop shot past going downhill with his cart at speed as Farthing unlocked his own from the side alley.

"Morning!" shouted Farthing.

"Can't stop!" shouted Fennerpop over his shoulder.

"So I noticed," replied Farthing, more or less to himself. Fennerpop and cart bounced off the corner of a building and careered down one of the side lanes. "You're going to have to stop shifting dirt before you kill yourself, old man."

"Oh, he's got time in him yet, lad," commented the large man, huffing and puffing his way up the hill again.

"Maybe, but I'm not sure his cart has."

It was the friendly man from the day before. Farthing had no idea who he was, so he slung his strap around his shoulders and let the cart go first down the hill. Getting run over by your own cart was embarrassing and possibly fatal, so this was the better way of getting down to The Skattlings. At the bottom of Long Hill, Farthing hesitated. He was considering heading down to the docks and then along to the ferry to the island. For some reason, he was worried about his younger sister. He was often worried about her, of course, but that was just an annoying older brother thing, as she often pointed out. Today was different, somehow. Something was gnawing at his brain. He shrugged it off and turned right down towards Thanks, noting briefly the now closed window behind which Sally was no doubt storing her Virtues after a busy night's work.

Farthing made his way through the waking town, the shopkeepers of the poor neighbourhood doing their decorative best with what goods they sold from racks and shelves and hooks outside their small single-roomed shops. The artisans, scribes, alchemists, and apothecaries, setting out their work under awnings; nailing shoes, rolling out flatbreads, brewing potions and tonics. The stable boys sweeping out the muck of man and beast from behind the inns and liveries. The women hanging out rugs from the edges of flat roofs and beating out blankets on lines. And through it all, Farthing and countless other men and women of all ages, pulled and shoved and hauled handcarts, trolleys, and barrows, as the business of the town beat on in a timeless and familiar rhythm.

By the time he reached the well, Farthing was convinced something was wrong.

"You're looking sick this morning, you lazy git," sneered Barkles from behind his stall, decorated with a new day's supply of pies. "Can't you handle even the mildest wheat beer, son?" Barkles braced himself for the usual cocky retorts, but none were forthcoming. He frowned. "Trouble, lad?" he asked in a serious voice.

"I don't know. Rusty didn't come home last night from the island." Farthing rested his cart by the wall of Truk's house and leant against a small tree by the well.

"She sometimes stays over; they get asked to. Could it be that?"

"Might be," said Farthing, shrugging, and looking down at his feet.

"But you don't think so."

Barkles studied Farthing carefully. The two kids had had a rough life, like too many others up on The Wealle, but despite the hard grind, Farthing was a cheery lad most days, when he wasn't digging holes. Quiet worry was not his style.

"No, I don't. Something feels wrong. Something about what you were saying last night."

Barkles was tempted to dismiss Farthing's worries as big brother stuff, but that wouldn't help. He marched over to the door in the wall and gave it a hard wrap.

"Come on lad, let's tell Geezen what ails you."

The door opened and Barkles asked Moppy the maid to fetch the portly midwife. Farthing looked guilty.

"It's probably nothing, Barkles. I don't want to get Geezen worried over nothing."

"Getting Geezen worried over what?" The big woman came to the door, her arms crossed. "Morning, Mr Barkles. Was that your wrapping hand I heard?"

"It was. Seems young Rustina didn't make it home from the island last night, and the lad is worried."

Geezen's expression changed swiftly. "She said nothing, Johnson?"

"No, I was expecting her home and left her food when I went out last night. She's sometimes late, and I didn't think much over it, but she wasn't there this morning."

"Didn't leave early?" asked the midwife.

Farthing shook his head. "Her dinner wasn't eaten, and she wouldn't go without her dinner."

Geezen understood. When you were terribly poor, you were never lazy about eating; you couldn't be sure when you might next have food.

"Hetty said there was some trouble with the Prelate's daughter, something about her going missing with a servant," said Barkles to Geezen. Geezen looked at the worried young man.

"Come on, about time that well had a go at digging itself. You and I are going to Slypa Burh." She grabbed Farthing by the hand. "Barkles, is Hetty on the island today?"

"No, she's just finished a pile of cushions for them. She's at home working on some market jobs."

"When you go back for your lunch, see if she knows anything more."

Barkles watched Geezen drag the tall, blonde, strong young man up the lane, and smiled. Geezen was a treasure, which was why Truk spent so much time away. "You can't spend all day staring at treasure," he would say. "You have to go out and earn it too." Barkles grabbed Farthing's cart and asked Moppy to open the side doors so he could store it inside the backyard, then went back to his stall and cleared his throat to start selling.

# Chapter 2 – If Anger Solved Problems

Geezen and Farthing made their way from Thanks, around the back of The Hive, and to the ferry on the Wead. There were two ferries across the broad, red-tinted river. Down at the river docks at The Skattlings was the main good's ferry; a rope-pulled barge which spent its day traversing the river south to north and back again. The other ferry, the older, smaller one, was nearer the old fishing harbour, and had a triangular route that took in the north bank, the south bank, and the Prelate's island.

"We can't just go to the Burh with no excuse, Geezen," said Farthing.

"There are three people we need to see, Johnson," explained Geezen. "The ferryman, the chief of the Redustian Peacemen, and the Prelate. And I've smacked all three."

"You smacked the Prelate? Geezen, he's too old!"

"I smacked him when his daughter was born to make him see sense."

Gorestop Hearting, Prelate of Redust, lost his wife the day his daughter was born. It was a poorly kept secret that in a fit of fury he had ordered the guards to take the child and get rid of her. Geezen, there as a midwife, had stopped the moment of insanity, but the relationship between father and daughter had ever since been a fractured and guilty thing, and the Prelate had turned from being a stupid ruler to an uncaring and unscrupulous one.

They had to wait a good half an hour before one of the ferry boats slipped-slopped its way from the north shore, and, with a thump and clunk, birthed against the pier.

"Northbound, northbound only!" shouted the ferryman.

Geezen stomped on board dragging Farthing. "Straight to the island, Jacob," she said brusquely, marching past the surprised ferryman.

"I said northbound only!" protested the ferryman.

"Jacob Pissgiven!" retorted Geezen in a voice that smacked him like a child. "If you suck your cheeks in any farther, your face will cave in. Now, you and the boys get to the oars and row us to the island. This is an emergency."

"But!" whimpered the ferryman.

"Just row! Or I'll throw you into the nearest quicksands and shout at the boys for you."

Pissgiven sighed and turned to the puzzled boys who manned the oars. "Turn the ferry around and let's get to the island before she sinks us," he said with a tired sigh.

"Less of that tone, little Jacob," warned Geezen.

"And smile as you row lads, for the beautiful lady," he added with a large, toothless, fake grin, which fooled no one. Geezen, however, smiled with satisfaction, and sat herself down on the bait box.

At the pier on the island, two dockers waited with mooring lines. They lassoed the fore and aft cleats and pulled the boat the last couple of feet against the coiled rope fenders. The dockers had a plank out and ready before the boat had even stopped rocking.

"Thank you, Jacob," said Geezen with a tolerant smile, and strode delicately across the plank. "I will tell your dear mother how helpful you were."

"A pleasure, Geezen," said Pissgiven, with obvious agony. "Right, push us straight off lads and head to the north terminal, double time!" He was one journey behind schedule, and he was not going to hang around to make it worse. People paid for him to be on time, which was more than Geezen, who somehow had contrived to not pay at all.

"One down, Johnson. Now to the next person on our list." Geezen might be a large woman, but she was fast on her feet when the situation required, and she soldiered up to the parade ground.

"Will the chief be here?" Farthing had as little to do with Wead-Wodder's police force as possible. The Redustian Peacemen were based in North Wead by the river docks and there was only a small office in South Wead. The Peacemen there were as likely to barricade themselves in as do anything useful.

"Captain De Pepperpot never misses the chance to sample the Prelate's cellar, Johnson, so if something has happened to the daughter, he will stay till either the crime is solved, or the cellar is empty." Geezen walked straight past a sentry at the gate and shouted at a small man who was talking to a couple of uniformed Peacemen. "Panzy, I need a word!"

The man visibly winced, and Farthing made out the words "Oh, shit; Geezen," mimed out on his lips.

"That's Captain Panzy, I mean De Pepperpot, Mistress Geezen, and I'm on duty."

"Which is where I want you to be, Panzy lad," bellowed the large woman, pushing the two bemused Peacemen off on their way. "Now, what has happened?"

"That is the concern of the Prelate, Mistress Geezen, I'm afraid."

"And so you should be," said Geezen, the threat as plain as a tree in a desert. "Has a maid gone missing?"

De Pepperpot rolled his eyes skywards towards a god in which he had long since ceased believing. The speed news travelled in this cesspit never failed to amaze him.

"Not that it's any of your business, Geezen," he replied, his formality wavering.

"If her name is Farthing, it's very much my business."

"Why?" asked the captain suspiciously.

"First, she's one of mine, and you know what that means. And second, this is her brother, Johnson Farthing."

Farthing was considerably taller and more muscular than the small captain and he stood straighter just to make the point.

"Relax, Johnson. Panzy here is a nice fellow when he remembers to remove the Captain's braid from his demeanour."

The Captain pulled them aside. "The thing is, Geezen, Farthing, we don't know what has happened. The Prelate's daughter has gone missing and your sister with her. There was no sign of a struggle and all we know is the Prelate and his daughter had a big fight a couple of weeks ago and haven't been talking. For all we know, the daughter has run off and taken your sister with her for some reason."

"My sister would not just go," said Farthing angrily. "She is only seventeen and is not flighty."

Geezen agreed. "That is true, Panzy. Rusty is a reliable girl and just a general maid."

"That she may be," said the Captain. "But if ordered to go by the Prelate's daughter, she may have had little choice." Farthing looked unimpressed. "Son, we have no idea what has happened, and the Prelate isn't even ordering an investigation. He thinks she's run off. She's done this before, and he is in no mood to go chasing his wayward child."

"But what if it's more than that?" asked Farthing.

"If it is, I will look into it, but the daughter is my first consideration. Go home and get on with your life. She'll probably turn up in a year or two, or not. Either way, there is nothing you can do here."

Farthing looked like he was about to strike the Captain, but Geezen put a strong hand on his arm.

"Panzy, you know better than to deal with people like that. Now, we need to speak to the Prelate."

"Forget it, Geezen, he hasn't been talking to anyone."

"He will speak to me." Geezen's mother had worked at the Burh, and she had played with the Prelate when they were children.

"Well, if you want to try, go and bang on his secretary's door, but the lad stays here." The Captain waved over four of his Peacemen. "You two, take this lady to the secretary's office. You two, watch this lad." He turned to Farthing. "There's nothing I can do for you, son, however angry you are. You're going to have to accept that." And with that, de Pepperpot bowed curtly to Geezen and walked stiffly away to talk to more of his men.

"Stay here, Johnson," said Geezen. "This will take a little time." She marched off up the cobbled road to the Prelate's Palace, the two Peacemen racing to catch up.

Farthing sat on the low wall that bordered the large plaza. The two Peacemen detailed to watch him stiffened.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Do you know what has happened?" The Peacemen stood either side of him and said nothing. "No, you probably don't either."

"Percy, unless you want your bottom spanked for the second time in your life, you'll step out of the way and let me through that door!"

"He has ordered that nobody is to be let through," said the Prelate's secretary.

"I'm not nobody. I'm Geezen, and he owes me."

Percy Bellobottom sighed and sat down behind the desk hard enough to make his old, comfortable chair creek in annoyance.

"Go ahead, spoil my day, Geezen. But if I hear even one shouted word, I will resign on the spot, walk out of here, and you are on your own. And let the best man win!"

Geezen glowered at the sarcasm behind the secretary's words and marched up to the door. Unexpectedly, she didn't walk straight into the private office, and knocked instead, very gently.

"What?" came a shout.

"I'm pretty sure he just said, 'come in Geezen, just the person I needed to see!'" Geezen smiled and winked at Percy Bellobottom, then thundered into the office like a heard of rathen, slamming the door behind her. "Gorestop Hearting, you better have something intelligent to say or I'll lay you out on the floor for the second time!"

Percy Bellobottom sighed, took out a sheet of paper from a drawer, inked his quill, and started to write.

"Dear Prelate Hearting," he began.

"Well?" called out Farthing to Geezen when she returned to the plaza followed by her two nervous guardians. Although she was strong, Geezen wasn't young, and she was very large. When she approached, she was red in the face, and Farthing helped her to sit down on the wall.

"That man is an idiot!" she blurted.

Farthing shut his eyes. He knew she was talking about the Prelate, and even in Redust, which was much less oppressive than many other Prelatehoods, you still did not call the Prelate an idiot. The two Peacemen who had accompanied Geezen, called over Farthing's two protectors to tell them the news.

"Yeah, the secretary's looking after him," Farthing overheard one say. "She knocked him flat on his back. No, he doesn't want her arrested. Said something about it being too dangerous..."

"Geezen, what did you do?" asked Farthing in horror.

"That stupid man has not spoken a civil word to his daughter in weeks and hasn't the foggiest what's happened to her. What is worse, I don't think he cares!" Her breathing was not good, and Farthing waited while she got her breath back.

"So, what do we do?"

"I spoke to one of the other maids on the way out. Rusty was asked to help out in the daughter's rooms because her usual maid was taken with some illness. That is the last anyone saw of either of them. There is even a rumour that Rusty was somehow involved in the disappearance."

"Geezen, that's madness!" Farthing was horrified.

"I know it is, lad, and so does everyone else really, but they're too busy flapping their tongues in every direction."

"Geezen, I have been thinking about something I saw." The woman looked at Farthing curiously. "Yesterday, when I was swimming, I saw a small boat sail out to sea from the back of the island. A trader's daughter who was there said it was peculiar as it was against the tide. Was that them?"

"I've no idea, Johnson," said Geezen. "Maybe it's connected, maybe it's nothing, but whatever has happened, there's nothing left to be done here. We better get back across to South Wead, and you need a finder, probably from The Hive somewhere."

Farthing looked deflated. Finders were magicians, some of whom could find missing items and a very few who could find missing people. All of them wanted paying and most of them were charlatans. Farthing had barely enough for old dried cheese. Geezen caught his look.

"We can work out the money at another time. I'm sure Truk has plenty of holes planned. Come on, let's find a willing Ferryman. I think I'm running out of favours today." Geezen levered herself to her feet, and, rubbing a suspiciously sore fist, headed to the pier.

Weasel stared at the empty ale pot in front of him. He wasn't very sure just how long he had been staring at it, but he suspected it had been empty for a considerable length of time, and he had been staring at it ever since it first had reached that unfortunate state.

"Weasel, I don't care how long you stare at it, I'm not going to fill it till you pay for the last one." The innkeeper was wiping out some rough clay mugs with a nasty looking cloth; about right for this sort of establishment, just one step above the gutter as it was.

"Don't worry, your bill will get paid. I just need a little luck!"

"Excuse me. I'm looking for someone called Weadle?" Farthing walked into the empty bar wondering whether Geezen had sent him on some mad frummage chase. The small, greasy-fleshed, flightless birds were disgusting to eat and only a fool would chase one.

"It's Weasel!" corrected Weasel in annoyance. "Not Weadle! And I'm over here." The innkeeper pointed him out to Farthing with a shrug.

"I need to-" started Farthing.

"Before you need anything else, lad," said the wiry man, grabbing Farthing's arm, "you need to fetch a new one of these pots, but filled with ale, and then you can pay for that and the rest of my bar bill. Once you have done that, bought me three more and I have drunk them all, you can sit down and tell me why Geezen has sent you to me." Weasel returned to staring at the empty ale pot.

"Is he always like that?" Farthing asked the innkeeper, paying off the bar bill with the coin Geezen had given him.

"Only when sober, so no, not often."

"How many of these does it take before he's drunk?"

"Two. Did Geezen really send you?"

"Yes, she did. Do you know her?" asked Farthing.

The innkeeper rubbed his arse involuntarily. "Yeah, I'm one of hers."

"Me too. What about him?"

"Nah, he's from Tepid Lakes. Not even Geezen's maw reaches that far."

"Is he really a finder?"

"Says he is, and he's found a couple of things. Seemed to know about you, so maybe he's got something. But you never really know, do you."

"No, you don't." Farthing gathered up the pots and lined them up in front of the finder. A skinny, dirty hand reached over and grasped the first pot, its mission firmly etched in its owner's wishes.

Weasel woke up with the distinct impression that someone was kicking him.

"Wake up!" shouted Farthing, kicking Weasel again.

The young man had made the mistake of trying to carry the drunk finder back up to Thanks, but the man was surprisingly unhelpful; mostly unconscious, in fact. The day was going from bad to worse. His sister was missing, the authorities didn't care, Geezen had knocked out the Prelate, and now he was stuck with this drunken charlatan. There were only a few magicians in The Prelates, and it was rare you found one. Generally speaking, they were about as popular as tax collectors. Finders were known as lesser magicians, as were healers and speakers. It was probably all rubbish, but Farthing was running out of options, and Geezen seemed to think this filthy, drunken fool might be able to help.

"Get up, you stinking pile of crap!" Farthing dragged the groaning Weasel into a sitting position. "I need you to find my sister."

"Why, what has she done?"

"Gone missing, why else would I want to find her?"

Weasel peered up at the tall, strong young man towering over him. "What makes you think I can help?"

"I don't," said Farthing flatly. "But Geezen thinks you can."

"Oh, you're that person with a missing sister." Weasel shook his head. It hurt. "How long have I been un... asleep?" he asked, carefully.

"Twenty minutes."

"Oh, that is why I am sober again."

"You get sober in twenty minutes?"

"No, I get sober in about ten minutes, I fall asleep for twenty." Farthing looked both puzzled and annoyed. "It's an occupational hazard," explained Weasel. "Actually, it's nearly impossible for me to get drunk at all like I can't be poisoned either, so I've had to teach myself to get drunk, to sober up, and to have a hangover. I suspect you get more fun out of it than I do."

Farthing gave up waiting and dragged the magician to his feet, staring right into the smaller man's eyes with nothing less than pure venom.

"Look, my sister has gone missing with the Prelate's daughter. I think they have been taken out to sea in a boat, and no one is doing anything. Either you help me, or I will give you to the Nuns of Temperance."

Weasel squinted up at his persecutor and sighed.

"Okay. But let me sit down again. This will be hard."

"What do you mean, bleeding nothing?" shouted Farthing sometime later. The day was getting worse.

"Look, son," said Weasel. "I'm tired, and I'm trying to find some small boat that has been sailing all night with the westerlies right up its arse. It's probably leagues away by now, heading off to some distant paradise on Bind or to wherever the Prelate's daughter has stashed her paramour. There is not a chance you're going to find her."

Farthing kicked the dirt, scattering a pile of small stones rattling onto the fence the magician was currently slumped against. "I have to find her, magician!" He spat the word out like an insult.

"Well, go get yourself a boat and drown yourself trying. You might as well for all the good it will do you!" Weasel found a bottle of something potent in his bag and flipped the cork off.

"Oh, no you don't, magician!" Farthing snatched the bottle from the man's grasp. "I haven't finished with you yet, and I've paid."

"And I've earned it trying to do the impossible!" snapped Weasel. "So why don't you just give up and go home!"

"You little greasy cheat!" Nine days of muscles earned down a hole in Wead-Wodder's unforgiving dirt, powered a shower of punches down onto the magician's aching head.

When Moppy called, Geezen came out from her room in a lace-covered rush. Standing in the middle of the small atrium was an angry nineteen-year-old with a less-than-conscious wiry man slumped over his shoulders.

"What did you do to him?" asked the midwife.

"He couldn't find anything! He told me to give up and go home."

"Ah." Geezen helped Farthing drop the magician onto one of the rug-covered chairs that were scattered around this ornate hidden world between the rooms of the house.

"Geezen, I don't know what you think he can do, but from what I saw, he couldn't do anything even if you paid him, which I have. Which you have!"

"You paid his bar bill?"

"How did you know?"

"He always needs his bar bill paid." Geezen obviously knew far more about this strange smelly man than she was letting on.

Moppy went to open the outer door to let in Barkles and his nattering wife Hetty.

"Geezen, what did you do to the Prelate?" Hetty bustled straight in, her patchwork gown still littered with the fine threads of her needlework, and dragged the big woman off to the kitchen, muttering like a swarm of flies. Barkles sat on the large cane chair next to the unconscious magician.

"Who's he?" He nodded at the pile of rags.

"He is meant to be some amazing wizard that can help find my sister," growled Farthing. "So far all he's done is an accurate imitation of a drunken nobody."

"Lack of consciousness isn't helping either," commented Barkles, inspecting a growing bruise on the magician's forehead. "One of yours?"

"That and a few others."

"What's his name?"

"Weadle... no, Weasel. Stupid name."

Barkles nodded in recognition. "Come on, lad," said Barkles, standing up. "I have two ales in my bag clattering for attention and it's about time you and I had a chat." Farthing's chin set stubbornly hard, and Barkles raised an eyebrow. "Look, you're stronger than me, son, so if you want a fight you are looking in the wrong place."

Farthing sighed, then stalked out of the door into the narrow street followed by the pieman.

"Has he gone?" Weasel opened one eye.

"He has. Do you want some coffee, uncle?" asked Moppy. The magician nodded. "Well sit up and stop playing stupid and you'll get one!" she snapped. "Otherwise, I'll finish what he started." Moppy slapped the magician right on one of Farthing's more accomplished bruises and stomped out of the room. Weasel grimaced in pain and gingerly checked the injury for signs of blood.

"Are you sure she's my niece?" he asked Geezen when she and Hetty came and sat with him.

"Well, in theory," said Geezen. "Great, great, great grandniece, or so."

"Okay, stop with the greats. My head is hurting enough as it is."

"I thought you didn't get hangovers."

"I don't, but that kid doesn't know what it takes to find a boat in the middle of the Prelates Sea. Especially one going so damned fast."

Geezen looked at him sideways. "Farthing said you didn't find the boat. So how do you know it's going fast?"

"I didn't, but I found the last trail of its wake."

"You didn't tell him that!"

"What, and get his hopes up? What's the point of that?" Weasel might have been faking unconsciousness, but the headache was real, and he gulped down the coffee his many-greats-niece handed to him. She didn't wait for thanks but stomped back off to the kitchen. Moppy was good at stomping when it came to an unreliable great-great something uncle.

"She is your only relative, you know," pointed out Geezen.

"I have hundreds of them back at Tepid Lakes. Thankfully, none of them want to know I am still breathing, and I have an equally healthy disregard for their fates too."

"Well, she is here."

"That's not my fault. I can't plan for coincidences."

"You couldn't plan your way out of a coal sack, Weasel!"

"That is supremely unfair, you know?"

"I don't as it happens. So, are you going to help, considering I've paid your bar bill, yet again?" Geezen took the coffee off the magician and made him look into her eyes. He squirmed.

"I can tell when Truk is away. You become evil when he's not here to keep you in control."

The slap sent Weasel's eyes spinning back into his head. He slumped in the chair, out cold.

"Was that wise?" asked Hetty, looking at the unconscious rag pile.

"It felt good." Geezen smiled, then sighed. "But no, probably not wise."

"Why do you put up with him, Geezen? You see him what, once every couple of years, and then you fight like old spinster sisters."

Geezen shrugged. "But when the fighting stops, and he drops "the world hates me" attitude, he's the best finder anyone's ever known, and that has helped many of the lowly around here, whether they know it or not. Hetty, I really don't know what's going on, but it's worrying me. Two of mine, Rusty and Precious, have gone missing. That idiot Gorestop has not only turned his back on his daughter but has ordered Panzy Pepperpot not to do anything, and I have the young brother, who has already tried to break the head of the only person that can help, probably considering hitting the Prelate if I don't sit on him." She ground her teeth in frustration.

"I can make it worse," said Hetty, looking a touch nervous. Geezen peered up at her. "Gossip says the boat you're talking about was a slaver."

Geezen groaned and kicked at the pile of rags.

"What? Waking me up so you can hit me again?"

"It's slavers."

Weasel's exaggerated hurt look vanished in a flash, and his eyes set cold and hard. "I knew it. The boat was going too fast. Only slavers and smugglers have fast boats like that and she wasn't being smuggled." He looked up at Geezen. "I mean it, girl. I can't track them at this distance, not across water. There are difficulties with that."

"Which are?"

"Which are things I can't do anything about. No one can."

"So, what do we do?"

"Why ask me? The one talent I can use can't help you!" Weasel stood up and sorted out his rags.

"Sit down," said Geezen quietly. The man looked at the large woman, realising how upset she was beneath her big, sometimes overbearing nature. He sat. "What would happen if you were, well, not here? I mean, somewhere else." She was avoiding his eyes.

"What do you mean, somewhere else?" Weasel's eyes opened wide. "Oh no, you can't be thinking what I think you are thinking; we could never catch up to them by boat..."

"I wasn't thinking of a boat."

Weasel stared at her and furrowed his brow in concentration. "No, you weren't, were you. And no, Geezen. Just no." He put his hands up as if warding off the greatest evil.

Hetty looked confused. "What are you talking about? Where are you going by boat and how do you get there without one?"

"Taken," said Weasel. "She wants me to go to the Ilse of Taken."

"Taken? But that must be more than five hundred leagues away! What is there?"

"That is where the boat will be heading; that is what she's thinking. It was going fast, it wasn't going north around the coast as normal, and it was going straight across the Prelates Sea. That is why I lost it."

In this part of the world were two continents, The Prelates and Bind. Between them was the Prelates Sea, also called the Yonder Sea, depending which side you hailed from. To the north, the two continents converged at a place called the Ice Lands, and if you fancied tramping all the way up there, you could cross between the two continents over the featureless tundra. There was another way, however, and that was straight across. At this latitude, it was a journey of around eleven hundred leagues or more in a straight line, which is one hell of a long way under sail in difficult waters full of some of the worst currents on Dirt, and most traders didn't even bother. With a full crew in a big, old, slow trader, you had to stock up on water and food for anything up to a six week journey with no one to trade with. So it made more sense to chain the trade around the coast. It might take longer, but you lost fewer ships and could build your profit up on the way. Thankfully, for those who were in a rush and maybe had a small, fast boat and fewer crew to feed, there was an island, well more of a mountain sticking out of the sea, about halfway across; Taken. And then, there was one other way. A lot quicker, a lot more dangerous, and perfect for small goods and messages.

"She wants me to go by dragon," said Weasel with a heavy heart.

"Dragons don't take people," said Hetty.

Dragons, as dragons liked to tell everyone, were not like the lumbering hexapod rathen that farmers used to haul their carts to market. They were intelligent, village-dwelling people, and as a bonus, could easily flatten you if you tried to take advantage of their flying skills.

"Dragons don't carry people now," said Geezen. "But they used to take the odd person who knew how to fly a few hundred years ago when they and we still got on and didn't just tolerate each other for profit like today." She glared at Weasel. "It all went famously wrong when a magician managed to upset everyone by buying a saddle for his favourite dragon. You must have heard the old tale; the bards love it. Giving a lift to a friend is one thing, being harnessed up is another thing entirely."

"So, what makes you think a dragon will take this wreck to Taken?" Hetty pointed at the magician.

"She might if the wreck actually did what he should have done all those years ago."

Hetty's eyes opened like a kitten who had fallen off a fence. "You mean?"

"She wants me to apologise to Snowy," grumbled Weasel.

"Who is Snowy?" Hetty was losing the thread again.

"He means Fren-Eirol, the dragon elder at the village. And Weasel, she hates being called Snowy."

"She used to like it."

"Until you tried to turn her into your pet horse!"

"Look, it wasn't like that, and there were a lot of other things happening." Weasel's defensive tone hinted at a more complicated and bigger truth that was unknown by humans who didn't live long enough, including Geezen.

Relations between the various intelligent peoples that inhabited this ancient world had been in slow decline for thousands of years as humans had become more and more dominant and less neighbourly. Most of the small communities of dragons and callistons, the large, land-loving creatures, had made homes many leagues from towns, and had nothing to do with humans now. There were a few exceptions, and the Draig Morglas, the sea dragons, had kept some tentative accommodation with humans until Weasel had tried to saddle one of their most respected members. In the three centuries since, a few coastal human communities in Bind and The Prelates had kept up a sometimes-strained working relationship with the sea dragons and even the odd red mountain dragon, but passenger trips were definitely off the agenda.

"There are reasons that Fren-Eirol will help," said Geezen. "But even good reasons will come to nothing if you don't get off your lazy, stubborn, grubby little backside and apologise!"

Weasel swallowed and turned pale.

Barkles handed Farthing a second earthenware bottle of ale.

"I thought you only had two."

"I lied so Hetty didn't know I had more on me."

"You lie to Hetty?" Farthing looked at Barkles in surprise.

"Oh, she knows I'm lying. She knew I had four bottles with me."

"So, why did you lie?"

"Because she wants me to." Barkles somehow managed to make it sound completely reasonable. Farthing shook his head, baffled.

"So, we have been sitting here, staring out to sea, and you still haven't said why we needed a chat," said Farthing.

They had headed out of Thanks to the flowing dunes that ran along the coast like an immotile, stormy sea. They were sitting on a high dune, watching the red sun in its daily decline, and had been for the last half an hour.

"Oh, we've been chatting," answered Barkles.

"We have?" Farthing blinked. "I thought we'd been sitting in complete silence."

"No, definitely chatting." Barkles nodded like a wise old man and took a good slug of ale. Barkles always had an ale close at hand and it was always good. "We have been chatting about how worried you are about your sister, how angry you get at short notice, how you've beaten up a man who might actually be able to help, and how while you have been running in circles, your sister has been getting farther and farther away, and you won't be able to do a damn thing about it until you calm down and get a grip!"

"Oh." Farthing looked at his second bottle, flipped the lid back on, and handed it back to Barkles. "Sorry."

"Keep it, lad. I wager ten pies,"

"Pastries."

"Thank you. Ten pastries that you will need it before the night is out."

"Why?" asked Farthing.

"Well, I said I would wager, I didn't say I knew. Come on. Let's go find out."

As dragons go, Fren-Eirol wasn't the biggest, most red dragons were much bigger than she, but compared to the average sea dragon, she was unusually large. Sea dragons, for the most part, had silver-grey and blue colouring, long necks, and long horns that fanned out behind their sleek, elegant heads like a crown. One of the species of hexapods on Dirt, they had two large and strong back legs, two vast, gossamer-thin wings, and two smaller but capable front arms with clawed hands. Most of them kept the claws trimmed so they could handle delicate work. There was no such thing as a small sea dragon and most were at least four of five times the size of a carthorse. Fren-Eirol, however, was more like the size of a small cottage.

The Snowy nickname she had been given as a child and had been used by the late Bren-Aneirin, her red dragon husband, was no casual affectation. The sea dragon was distinguished by a paling of her colouring to nearly white on her chest and stomach; bright white when lit by the sun. This and her history made her unusually notable amongst a people who did not readily accede to any idea of hierarchy.

The unusual colouring of the small bundle of rags that was currently standing in front of her was equally unmistakable.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that," said Fren-Eirol, keeping her nose very much in the air. Weasel groaned which earned him a kick from Geezen.

"Get on with it, Weasel, or I'll set the boy on you again."

Farthing was waiting to one side of the large courtyard where Barkles was keeping watch on him. Their silent chat had calmed and mollified a fractious evening but had been no miracle cure. Farthing was still nineteen and worried, and the anger was only just in check. Fren-Eirol fidgeted in the delicate printed cloths she was wearing and risked a glance down at the magician who had once been her closest companion.

"I said," started Weasel, grinding his teeth.

"Say it nicely," prompted Geezen.

"I said," he repeated through a fixed grin, "that I apologise for taking advantage of our friendship, and I should have known better than abuse the good nature of one of the dragon people."

Geezen looked at him, impressed.

"Did you write that for him?" asked Fren-Eirol.

"Not a word, I swear!"

Fren-Eirol sighed. "I accept the apology, though I'm very suspicious why it's arrived now and not several hundred years ago."

Weasel smiled feebly at her.

"That would be my doing, Fren-Eirol," said Geezen, more formally than she usually addressed the dragon. "And to explain, I must ask that we speak privately."

Fren-Eirol glanced down at the relatively small midwife. "Alright, drop the thees and thous, Geezen, and come into the house." She looked up at the others. "You all wait here. If you want some entertainment, he needs to be clean before he gets to come in." Fren-Eirol absently waved a wing at the tatty magician.

Barkles looked at Farthing who looked at Barkles, and for the first time since the morning he grinned.

"Grab him!"

Fren-Eirol had the biggest house in the sea dragon village just outside the town of Wead-Wodder. Dragon houses were, of necessity, greater than human dwellings, and for the large Fren-Eirol, this was scaled up yet again. The saurian shape of the dragons and a need to accommodate wings and an occasionally rogue tail, affected the interior design, and dragon houses only had the one room. In other ways, dragon and human tastes had merged over the centuries, and Draig Morglas produced fine woven and printed wall cloths and hangings which were often found in richer human houses; Geezen had several. Fren-Eirol settled down on the pile of rugs she favoured and Geezen sat cross-legged by a low table. Laid across it were two polished horns from a male red mountain dragon; a gift following an unusual and embarrassing accident.

"You still miss him, don't you Eirol."

"My Bren will always be with me, though it's so long since he departed."

When dragons took oath with a partner, they were called a Bren and a Fren and those words became part of their names. The bond was for life and rarely broken, save for the inevitability of death. Bren-Aneirin had been a huge, powerful, wise red mountain dragon, who had been responsible for keeping relationships between dragons and humans working through many difficult centuries. He and Weasel had been inseparable friends and allies even before Fren-Eirol was born, and Weasel had taken it upon himself to watch over the sea dragon after Bren-Aneirin had passed on more than three hundred years ago. This had made the slight of the saddle even harder to bear, and the subsequent distance between the two had served neither well.

"Are you are going to explain the apology, Geezen? In truth, I forgave him about three hundred years back if he had asked, but he always runs like a scared rat when I see him."

Geezen laughed. "I thought as much. It was still necessary. Fren-Eirol, we need your help and it's a kind of help you won't want to give without an explanation." The dragon looked puzzled. "The daughter of the prelate has been taken, maybe even by slavers, and with her the sister of the young man out there."

"What terrible news," answered the dragon. "But I don't see what I can do about a human problem."

"The boat was last seen heading to the Ilse of Taken on a fast wind and it's vital we try and catch them."

"You would need a hurricane to catch a fast slavers boat, Geezen."

"This I know, but there is another way."

The Dragon tensed. "An apology is welcome, Geezen Truk, but if you think I'll use that to break our vow not to carry humans, you've made a huge mistake."

"Hear me out, Fren-Eirol, for I do not ask this lightly. I know better than most your community here in Wead, and I would not risk dishonouring it without very good cause." Geezen stood and lowered her head in respect.

The dragon let out a long sigh. This human may be hundreds of years her junior, but she was in truth a good friend.

"Oh, Geezen, speak on. We've been friends too long for me to take offence quite so quickly."

"Thank you, Eirol. I'll keep this simple for I'm worried about time." Fren-Eirol nodded for Geezen to continue. "The daughter, Precious Hearting, is of a lineage that's all but forgotten and has been kept secret for hundreds and hundreds of years, and you must swear to keep the knowledge hidden." The dragon looked puzzled but nodded her agreement. Dragons took oaths to their graves; a nod was all that was needed. "The girl is the Cwendrina."

Fren-Eirol looked startled and narrowed her huge eyes.

"Oh, so this is what this is about!" The dragon rumbled in anger. "How is it that we sea dragons have the female descendant of the Queens of Dirt right here under our snouts, and do not know? And who are you to know about her in the first place?"

"I took the responsibility on from my family. That is all I can tell you."

The dragon stood up and snatched at a rug in annoyance. "Geezen, do you realise we Draig Morglas owe her a debt of protection?"

"I know, but no one would take that seriously now, it's been several thousand years."

"Well, you obviously do, or you wouldn't have told me about her!"

Geezen had the grace to look embarrassed. "Eirol, I brought both of them into this world, just as I've helped some of your people. You know I can't let this abduction go without doing something."

The dragon threw her hands up in frustration. It was true, of course. Although Fren-Eirol had no children of her own, Geezen had helped several other dragons with difficult births. They owed her too.

"Even so, Geezen, I'm reluctant. Why can't I take a couple of my friends to the sky and solve this problem on my own? Why do I need to take that fool?"

"And the boy. You would need to take both."

Fren-Eirol plumped herself down in resignation. "Of course I would. How silly of me!" she growled. "Now, explain!"

"On a practical note, you will need Weasel because we can't be sure of where they're going. Also, I think he's more worried about their speed than he's letting on." Geezen frowned. "Eirol, Weasel is just a finder, is he not? He seems more astute sometimes."

"He may be more than a simple finder, Geezen," said Fren-Eirol, evasively. "But I don't know this for certain. My Bren would have known more. They shared many secrets that despite our friendship Weasel would not pass on to me. He might be a rag of a man, but he takes oaths more seriously than many of your people."

Geezen let that one pass. The sea dragons, despite working with humans, were still distrustful of them. Maybe they had cause at that.

"Well, whatever his skills, I think you'll need him. Something about this doesn't sound quite right in my mind."

"And the boy?" asked Fren-Eirol.

"Johnson Farthing. His sister is Rustina, known as Rusty, and she, like the Prelate's daughter, Precious, is a redhead."

The dragon whistled. "This gets more twisted by the second. How many redheads have you brought into this world?"

"Two." Red-headed girls were rare and special. They were seen as a good omen in some lands, a sign of health and great fortune. Geezen looked hard into the dragon's eyes. She was laying it on thickly, but she needed the dragon's agreement. It would be impossible without. "Farthing has to go for several reasons," continued Geezen. "Firstly, their parents died some years ago and they have more or less brought themselves up, albeit watched over by a couple of us here. He feels very responsible for her and will be impossible to control if he was left behind. Secondly, he is strong, young, clever, and resourceful. I think you might need him, just to keep Weasel under control if nothing else. Both the Prelate and his ridiculous head of the Redustian Peacemen want to do nothing, even about the daughter, and Farthing feels that he must do something, whatever they've decided. I think he'd hire you and Weasel himself had he the coin. He is no fool, despite his age and occasional temper. He has to do this for himself and Rusty, but he will need and want your advice, though he's less convinced about Weasel."

"That makes two of us," muttered Fren-Eirol. The dragon hauled herself to her feet and flexed her wings cautiously. "It's some time since I have carried that much weight, but I can do it. It's a long way to Taken, however, and no sea dragon can do it in one flight carrying two men and their gear. It's worse carrying humans because it prevents me flying in the highest winds. We will have to stop on any floaters we can find as I can't keep going endlessly like a boat. We'll start at first light. If Weasel has been trying to track the boat over such a distance over water, no wonder he looks tired. He will need his sleep."

"Weasel said there were problems with tracking over water," said Geezen.

"There are," replied the dragon, nodding. "It's impossible."

"Then how can he do it?" Geezen looked suspicious.

"Just be glad you found the only person who can, but it's still nearly impossible even for Weasel. He won't be able to do anything much while we are flying, but at Taken, he can use the mountain. If the dragons will let him anywhere near it."

# Chapter 3 – The Red Islands

"How do we stay on?"

Farthing had been told the story of the saddle and Geezen had made him promise never to suggest such a thing, even in jest, but the dragon's back looked dangerous and exposed without some sort of harness.

"Well, there are two ways," said the dragon, archly. "You can sit in a basket like some baby while I carry it, though I may accidentally drop it if I doze off, or you can sit on my back and hang on for dear life."

"You can sleep while you're flying?" Farthing was amazed, and more than a touch concerned.

"Oh, yes, every dragon can do it. Of course I can't!" she snapped at him. "I would fall out of the bloody sky!"

"We need to start," said Weasel, with none of his usual humour.

He was clean with a new robe, Farthing and Barkles had ceremoniously burnt his old one, and was tying a soft bag around his shoulders. He walked up to the dragon, bowed his head slightly and asked formally:

"Fren-Eirol, may I ride?"

It was the old, almost forgotten formality which had existed in the sea dragon community before his saddle stunt. The dragon blinked in surprise and dropped her shoulder and a wing.

"You may ride, but ride as one who knows how to fly with grace," she replied.

Weasel nodded, lightly stepped up onto the strong wing, and sat softly on her mid back. Farthing hesitated, unsure what to do. The dragon leaned down to him.

"Say as he said," she whispered. "But don't worry, we'll only do it this once."

Farthing was not sure he really understood what was going on, but he did as was asked. Giving a very awkward bow, he spoke the same words.

"Fren-Eirol, may I ride?"

"You may ride, but ride as one who knows how to fly with grace."

He nodded in thanks and gingerly tried to step up on her wing, afraid he might hurt her.

"Oh, the gods, we'll be here all day!" exclaimed the dragon, and she grabbed his belt with her teeth and flung him over her shoulders onto his stomach. He sat up rapidly, blushing like mad. Geezen walked up to the dragon, suppressing a grin.

"Fly well, Fren-Eirol. They are your charges now."

"Weasel and I talked more this morning." The dragon nodded towards the magician who was showing Farthing how to hold on without annoying the dragon. "He can't find a trace of the boat and he'll definitely need the mountain peak at Taken before he can pick them up again. They are three days ahead of us and it will take me a good week to get there, maybe longer if the winds aren't in our favour. Then he will have to climb to the top of the mountain and try from there. If it was a trade boat, we might be waiting for them at Taken, but this small vessel must be moving unnaturally fast to have escaped his senses so quickly. Perhaps they have a wind talker helping them. I worry we will still be behind them and I'll be exhausted."

"And if that is the case?" asked Geezen, almost afraid of the answer.

"Then don't expect us back this season. If we have to go to Bind, then we have a whole continent to search." Geezen stepped back from the dragon. "Boy," said Fren-Eirol to Farthing. "Don't lose that scrawny fool. We'll need him." She bunched her powerful legs, leant forward, and leapt into the air.

Barkles walked up to Geezen and they watched the dragon circle over the town looking for a column of warm air to aid her flight.

"There's a sight only from fairy tales. Geezen, there is nothing we can do now, apart from waiting." He put his hand on her shoulder.

"True, but I won't be left here knitting clouds," said Geezen. "I will have words with that Pepperpot, and he'll take notice if he knows what's good for him!"

Barkles laughed but hid a frown. Geezen was respected, well known, and had lived in Slypa Burh when young, but she was not immune to the back-stabbing politics that had plagued Redust in recent times. She was treading a dangerous path.

Farthing, meanwhile, was feeling sick.

"I'm feeling...oh shit!"

"Don't even think about it!" warned Weasel. "Think of nothing but the back of her head, and when you have that vision solidly fixed in your mind, then slowly look up between the horns of her crest and nowhere else. That is all you need to worry about for now."

The thin magician was sitting cross-legged at ease on the dragon's wide mid-back, leaning against an enormous pack the dragon had fastened on to carry their gear, while Farthing sat just below her neck, holding on with his knees and gripping one of the strong spines on her neck as the magician had shown him.

"How long do we go in circles?" Farthing was trying to stay his stomach, but this spiralling flight was making it near impossible.

"I am not a bird," remarked the dragon. "I can fly, but I need the high winds to make decent progress, and I can't keep up this flapping around for long. Once we get high enough, I'll let the winds do some of the work, though they'll be against us till I get much higher."

"If they are against us, won't they slow the boat too?"

"Not necessarily," said Weasel in his wry, lilting voice. "The high winds vary little in their direction, just in their speed and position, whereas the lower winds can be at the whim of any storm or guidance."

"Guidance?" Farthing had not heard of people guiding winds before.

"He's talking about wind talkers," explained the dragon.

"The fishermen tell stories of wind talkers," said Farthing. "But they're a myth, I thought."

"Might as well be," said Weasel. "I haven't heard of one for years; centuries maybe. There may not be any alive for all I know."

"You don't sound like you believe that," called back Fren-Eirol. Weasel shrugged and went back to his bag. "Either way, this is as high as I can get here," said the dragon. "There won't be any talking for a while now."

"Why?" asked Farthing, but the dragon turned herself into the wind and powered up to the fierce air currents that snaked across the sea. The roar of the air rushing over her wings drowned out any remaining thoughts, and Farthing bowed his head to keep the wind from his eyes.

The dragon's wings stretched out wider than Farthing thought possible. Only now could he really see the sheer magnificence of this irascible creature. Her silver and pale-blue skin and the vastness of her blue-white body reflected the lightly cloudy sky and seemed almost translucent. She was the biggest of the female sea dragons and was bigger too than some of the males, but Farthing had only seen her on the ground in any detail, and never with her wings spread as they were now. This was for high flight, out of the vision of most, and few would witness it. The dragon curled her wings forward slightly, gliding for the moment, and Farthing felt a kick as she used the force of the wind to give her lift. Far faster than their tortuous, circling ascent, the dragon shot up to dizzying heights. Slowly, the rush of air settled, and the dragon started a slow, rhythmical beat of her wings, moving them forward over the ocean, leaving the security of the land behind.

Farthing let out the breath he was holding, searching for something to say.

"Don't talk, boy." The dragon turned her head and fixed the gaze of the young man with one eye. "The air here is thin, not made for land folk such as you with your greedy lungs. Here I can breathe with ease, but you may feel dizzy until you are used to it. I imagine the ragged one is already sound asleep. I suggest you follow suit."

Farthing leant forward and laid his head on the dragon's neck. It was warm. He had not noticed that before. And now he also felt how cold it was up here, above the thin cloud layer. He was thankful for the warm, soft, wool-lined coat that Weasel had insisted he wore. He pulled it tightly around himself and closed his eyes. In the thin air, as he drifted into an unsettled sleep, he thought of his sister. It was an unhappy thought.

"Wake up, son!" Farthing shook himself awake when he was pummelled on the back by the magician. "Fren-Eirol needs to rest."

"Where are we?" Farthing blinked in the light streaming down from a cloudless sky. It felt like mid-morning.

"Over the sea!" the dragon barked back. "Where else would we be?"

"I don't know."

"I've been flying for four hours and I need to rest."

"How can you?"

Farthing looked down at the water that stretched interminably in every direction. He was reasonably certain that dragons did not double up as ducks. Weasel was standing on the dragon's back, leaning into the wind. They were flying much slower now and much lower.

"We need to find a Reod Holme," he said to Farthing. "Start looking!"

"A what?"

"A Reod... Oh, a land lover; I'd forgotten." The magician sounded annoyed. "The Prelates Sea, where we are now, is littered with small islands. They are not actually islands at all, but a type of seaweed that grows in long reeds. They knit together over centuries and create floating islands. The dragons use them as places to rest on long flights."

"Don't they know where they are?"

"They float!" repeated Weasel. "They don't stay in one place!"

"Oh." Farthing looked out across the ocean. The thin clouds from the morning had burnt away and the sun shining on the water glared in his eyes. "What am I looking for?"

"Red," said Weasel. "The reeds have red flowers this time of year which makes it easier."

The dragon flew on. Farthing didn't want to contemplate what would happen if they couldn't find one of these Reod Holmes. He imagined that dragons could float much as humans could, but that would mean they could drown like humans. His eyes were drawn to the horizon. As he squinted, he thought he could see a shape. It raised up like a smooth hump.

"Is that land?" he asked Weasel, pulling the magician's arm.

"Not out here, it isn't. Too far." The two of them squinted a little more. "Are you certain you can see something?"

"I think so." Farthing shaded his eyes slightly and thought he saw a flash of red. "Can you get a little higher?" he shouted to Fren-Eirol. "I think I saw red, but I'm not sure." The dragon nodded and powered up into the sky. Farthing lost his bearings for a moment and looked around wildly.

"Don't do that!" said the magician. "You won't see a thing that way. Hold still." Farthing did so, and his eyes moved along the horizon.

"There!" he said, pointing.

"To the South-southeast," Weasel called out to the dragon, who couldn't see where Farthing was indicating since he was behind her head.

He realised his error. "Yeah, sorry."

The dragon gently banked and powered herself up a little higher once more.

"Sharp eyes, young man," she praised Farthing. "That is an island indeed, and one of a reasonable size. It's a little off our route but will be welcome all the same."

The wind was now against them and the dragon took a slightly tangential course towards the island which was still many leagues away. Farthing stared at the strange shape. He had assumed the floating islands would be flat and said as much to Weasel.

"The smaller, younger ones are, but the larger ones are almost proper islands. Over the centuries, they've grown bigger, and the rotting seaweed has turned to earth allowing other plants to take root. What you are seeing is a hill. It has no rocks, but it's a hill all the same with trees and ferns and anything dropped by birds. In ancient times, some even had human settlements on them."

"Would this one?"

"It doesn't look big enough so it's probably too young and they don't last forever," answered the magician.

The island was growing in size as they approached. Farthing realised they were higher than he had thought, and the dragon was able to glide much of the remaining distance, slowly losing altitude. It took nearly an hour before they reached the island and the Dragon was tired.

"There are some grassy areas near that hill," she called back. "I will land there. It will be safer."

"Safer?" asked Farthing.

"The closer to the edge you get, the younger the weed," explained Weasel. "You can fall through and get trapped. Most drown or suffocate. It's why they are useless to trade ships. They can't make landfall easily."

"Makes sense."

"When you think about it, they shouldn't be floating at all, but the rotting vegetation builds up gasses in huge pockets that help keep the whole mass from sinking. They occasionally explode, but there's always a downside to everything."

Farthing's eyes widened in alarm.

"The idiot is fooling you boy. The islands never explode!" The dragon chuckled and banked low over the leading edge of the island.

Farthing began to understand the unnaturalness of this strange land. There were no beaches or coves, but instead, long thin tendrils of weed that became progressively more tangled under the water until they pushed themselves above the surface in coiling, snake-like, bulbous tangles. Farther in, the reeds became matted and covered with small red buds, which explained the colour. Farthing could see that here it was solid and a large group of seabirds had made their nests, burrowing between the tendrils, and blocking the gaps with vegetation. Farther in still and the reeds, now piled up on top of their rotting forebears, were replaced by thin grasses and more familiar vegetation, though the red buds still pushed through, giving the grass a crimson hue.

"Nothing can stop them growing altogether," said Weasel as the dragon caught a current and used it to glide up the gentle slope of the hill. "I have heard speculation the oldest plants on the big islands may be hundreds of years old, half-rotten, and yet still keeping tendrils in the ocean while they push their red offspring into the air. It probably explains why they all have hills in the middle."

"I can only see one hill but it's more irregular than I thought it would be." Farthing gazed at this most unlikely land with fascination.

"This is fairly young, maybe only a couple of hundred years old. The big ones tend to be much farther south and some of those are a couple of leagues across, with several low hills, valleys, and even large freshwater pools. Though eventually the biggest break apart."

Farthing shook his head in disbelief. To the sea fairer perhaps, none of this would have been a surprise, but the odd job on the boats had never taken him more than a morning's fishing distance from Wead-Wodder. The wind suddenly roared as the dragon banked sharply and lifted her wings to halt her progress. She landed with two neat steps and a groan of relief.

"Off!" she ordered, and the two humans leapt off her back. "Go find some food or do something useful. It's my turn to sleep!" Without further comment, she untied the large backpack filled with her own things and items the humans needed. She didn't bother to unpack, just arranged the bag on the ground like a pillow, curled up and closed her eyes.

Weasel picked up his bag, indicated that Farthing should do the same, and started up the hill. Farthing messed with his bag, trying to get it comfortable, but it kept slipping off his shoulder.

"These bags are a sodding pain!"

"They're dragon-friendly," called back Weasel as he strode purposefully up the hill.

"In what way?"

"They are soft and stay where you put them. Dragons don't have scales and don't like being hit with sharp objects any more than do you!" The answer was unnecessarily sharp; Weasel was in an ill humour. He carried on marching at a pace up the hill which Farthing found surprisingly difficult to match. When they eventually reached a gentle ridge, Farthing caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.

"Look, apparently, I need you, though from what I've seen so far I'm not sure what good you will be, but I don't understand why you're in such a foul mood. You got paid."

Weasel looked at the young man, so obviously worried about his sister, and he sat down on a broken log, gazing up at the cloudless sky.

"Son, I really don't know what has happened to your sister or the Prelate's daughter, but I do know that it's not as simple as it looks. At this point, I have to ride a dragon that I stupidly upset many years ago, I'm going to have to use skills that drain me completely and give me vile headaches, and what is more, to keep on the good side of the dragon and of Geezen, I have had to promise not to drink. Trust me when I say that for reasons you cannot even begin to comprehend that is the biggest problem of all. Now, I'm sorry if my mood is off, but yours is no better, though I do understand your reasons. If I'm going to have to put up with you, then you are going to have to put up with me. This might turn out to be a very long journey."

"What do you mean?"

"Always with the questions! Right, let me explain, or try to. Attempting to find something over large bodies of water like seas is usually seen as impossible, but it can be done. At least, I can do it to a certain extent. We are three days behind the boat, but thankfully our mode of transport is rather faster, or it should be, except we keep having to stop. Although we have not caught up much time yet, I'd still hoped to be getting a faint echo of something by now, but I have nothing."

Farthing frowned. "Are we going the wrong way?"

"Sensible question, son; stick with those. But no, I don't think so. If they had headed either way up or down the coast, I wouldn't have lost them so quickly in the first place. So, they have headed out here, into the deep water. When you forced me to try back at Wead-Wodder, I did pick up a few things that worried me."

"You said you found nothing!"

"To be honest, I might as well had done, for all the help it would have given you at the time. I didn't see the point of giving you information that was useless to you." Farthing frowned at the finder. He didn't quite feel like hitting him again, but it was a close call. "And hitting me won't solve anything," said Weasel, as if reading Farthing's mind. "What I did pick up was the boat was going very fast."

"Picked up a good wind?"

"Much more quickly than that. Too fast for any boat I know."

"Is this the wind talker that you and Eirol mentioned?"

"Might be, and it's Fren-Eirol to you until she tells you otherwise. Dragons can be very touchy about that sort of thing. Well, Fren-Eirol can be."

"Sorry."

"Wind talkers are rare; very rare."

"What do they do?"

"Well, some think they conjure winds, but that's impossible. The wind is the result of a huge change of air pressure in one place compared to another; the air rushes in to fill the hole and that is the wind, it's not just a local puff. No wind is constant, and there are eddies and various air currents within that wind, little changes of pressure. A wind talker can find those and find paths through the wind, changing direction using the small air currents. That can speed up a boat quite a lot over a very long trip if they have a really good tillerman."

Farthing shook his head trying to work this out. It didn't make sense to him at all, this talk of paths through the wind, but something was going on.

"So, that would make them this fast?"

"I don't know, and that's what's bothering me. On its own it might not be enough. You can cover several extra leagues a day which would cheer up most traders, but this boat is travelling farther than we are over the whole day if I've guessed right. I don't think a wind talker could do that, not on her own."

"Her?"

"Wind talkers were all women. Older mostly, as it took a lifetime to master. Though there have been some young, instinctive ones."

"But if it's not a wind talker, what is it?"

"I didn't say it wasn't a wind talker, but it might not be just a wind talker. They would have to have a wave talker too, I would guess."

This was getting more complicated still. Farthing sat on the ground and sighed.

"So, what is a wave talker then?" he asked, sounding depressed.

"Pretty much the same as a wind talker, but with sea currents. On their own, just like the wind talker they can make a difference to a boat by understanding where the small movements of water are, and either use them or avoid them, but it's not especially dramatic. Working together with a wind talker, and if whoever is steering knows how to use the information they give, they could make a huge difference. This is not suddenly speeding up, understand, this is a difference over a whole day. That might be enough to explain their speed, but it would be difficult working that closely and would take a lot of practice." Weasel stood up, adjusted the soft bag, and started back up the hill.

"Well that explains it," said Farthing with conviction. "They have both."

"No, it makes it even more confusing," answered Weasel, turning to face him. "You see, as far as I know, there is only one wave talker left in this entire world of Dirt."

"So, they have him then. Her?"

"Him. Wave talkers were all men."

"Well, they have him working for them."

"No, that they don't. And this I know for certain. Actually, it's probably the only thing I know for certain."

"Why, who is this wave talker?"

"You are looking at him, and I am crap at it."

Weasel carried on to the next ridge leaving Farthing staring at the retreating back of the magician. Much to his annoyance, he was having to go through some rapid reassessments of the wiry drunk he had dragged out of the inn just a day before. He grabbed his bag and raced up to join him. Matching his pace, Farthing tried to be less angry.

"So, why could there not be another wave talker? I don't understand any of this." He paused for a second. "Sorry."

"Magicians of any sort are rare and only from a very limited number of families, and they pass on abilities down the generations. They aren't necessarily all the same and some will be finders, others will be healers and so on; the majority are healers in fact. I'm talking about genuine ones here; most are fraudsters. Wind and wave talkers are different, however. There have only ever been a few families who produced wind talkers, and only one that has produced wave talkers which is my family. And for some reason, only one child ever gets the skill, and not always every generation. My grandfather was a wave talker, though never used it because we were landlocked, and passed the skill on to me. But my brothers and sister didn't inherit any skills. My father wasn't any sort of magician and is dead, as is my grandfather, so that leaves only me."

The top of the hill flattened out into a small forest of stunted trees bent into strange twists and turns. Ragged bark laced over with moss and lichen. They were unlike anything Farthing had seen before, but studying them more closely, he recognised some of the leaves. He picked one and it looked like an ash leaf, but the tree was tiny and twisted like an old man.

"They get like that on these islands." The magician answered the unasked question. "It's all the wind and the constant movement; they grow, but they're corrupted." Farthing could see what the magician meant, but something else was nagging at him and he was not sure what to say. "You have something to say?" Farthing jumped at the direct question. "If you frown any more, your eyebrows will fall off!" It was a hint of the better-humoured Weasel, but only a hint.

"How old are you?"

Weasel looked surprised. "I didn't see that coming," he admitted. "Well, give or take fifty years, I am, umm, several hundred."

"Several hundred..." Farthing shook his head in disbelief.

"It's an offshoot of being a magician, I'm afraid. I have outlived all my siblings though they didn't care for my company anyway." There was a note of bitterness in his voice that even the young man could not miss.

"So, how long can you live for? I mean, are you very old for a magician?"

"Well, I don't know. Healers seem to live a long time. But most of the rest don't make it past fifty, as far as I can see."

"Why?"

"Popularity. Or lack of it. In case you hadn't noticed, we have slightly less appeal than a Prelate, which tends to make us targets."

"But, you could live even longer?"

"I suppose."

"So, your grandfather, who was a wave talker is dead..."

"Yes, I told you that. And he only lived till sixty something, I believe."

"What about your great-grandfather?" Weasel stopped and looked at the young man. "Or your great-great-grandfather," continued Farthing. "Or even farther back. I suppose they were all wave talkers too?"

"Not all of them; as I said it doesn't always appear in each generation, but some of them, I would think."

"Well, could one of them still be alive?"

Weasel had thought about this before. It wasn't impossible, but very unlikely. If you went back in time long enough, long before the prelates and the conservative religious mores that the system of the Prelatehoods was built upon, magicians were respected, some even revered like the great and possibly mythical Dierren, but magicians had, over time, fallen out with everyone, it seemed. The Church of the True denied their existence, the citizens only dealt with them when they needed something, and some chased them down just for the hell of it. Part of the problem had been with those magicians who had what was called speaker ability. They could communicate ideas with each other over long distances which had appealed to war leaders, but there had always been the suspicion these magicians could read minds, which they couldn't. It resulted in myths and untruths and distrust. The dragons, especially, were very uncomfortable about them. Whatever the truth, magicians with true speaking ability may well have died out.

"I know some of my family history and longevity does not feature highly." Weasel looked around as if someone was spying on him.

"But you don't know the fate of everyone?" Farthing watched Weasels face, trying to read his expression. The magician turned and looked into his eyes.

"It's unwise to try and read the thoughts of someone like me, boy," he snapped. Then his expression became thoughtful. "And no, I don't know the fate of everyone, not the ones from more ancient times at any rate. But they would be old indeed. It's almost beyond consideration."

"Almost," repeated Farthing. The magician fixed him with an eye.

"And overthinking this will not get us fed," he said, turning towards the trees. "Come on, all the bigger islands have rabbits. Let's go catch some."

They wandered in circles through the sparse and twisted woodland for more than an hour before they found rabbit tracks. Up here, on the highest slopes of the gentle hill, there was no sign of the tangled seaweed that formed this itinerant land. They could have as easily been anywhere on the mainland. Farthing crouched down watching a small bank littered with burrows. The sea wind had gained a bit in strength and it made Farthing feel a little queasy.

"Remember, this entire island is floating," Weasel had pointed out earlier. "And even though it's huge, the sea is a hell of a lot bigger. In a storm, you can feel a definite swaying beneath your feet."

The whole island felt unnatural to Farthing. It just didn't have a right to exist from what he could understand. Here he was, crouched down on earth firm enough and deep enough to allow trees to grow and rabbits to burrow, and yet it was floating on what could be a stormy and unforgiving ocean when the wind got going, enough so that most boats avoided the central and southern regions of The Prelates Sea entirely. Weasel appeared from behind the bank carrying four recently dispatched rabbits.

"Can you clean them?" he asked. Farthing nodded. Fresh rabbit was a rare treat, but he occasionally managed to get them for him and his sister. "Good. Since I did the catching it's only fair. We need some wood too, which you can carry." The magician pulled some string from his bag, tied the rabbits up and slung them over his shoulder, then marched off to a small copse of gnarled fruit trees.

"How did rabbits get here?" asked Farthing.

"Sailors, or at least their wrecks. Traders often carry livestock for fresh food on long journeys. Although landing large ships on these shores is difficult, and finding one sheer luck, they do occasionally get wrecked on the reeds. Over time, these islands have built up a rabbit and rat population. Very popular with some of the bigger birds." He pointed at the trees around the copse. "Pick up any fallen wood, there's plenty around, and then we should get back and sort these rabbits. I'll find some water."

"Where from?" The island was floating on a salty sea and Farthing didn't see where any water would come from.

"The islands get plenty of rain and it collects in some of the stranger plants." The magician didn't explain more and wandered off, foraging amongst the undergrowth for whatever qualified as being stranger.

While Farthing looked for firewood, he wondered if the boat carrying his sister had passed here or somewhere like it. He took a deep breath. He was desperately worried about his sister. Why ever had they been taken? The Prelate's daughter was worth something, even just as a ransom, he supposed, but his sister? What was she worth? Would she just be in the way? To him, she was worth his life. To a kidnapper? Nothing he could think of. Then he thought of Bind. The Prelates were conservative, religious, and oppressively dictatorial at times, whereas Bind had a much sparser population and was bigger. It probably made it a less oppressive place to live, maybe even better, but some countries in Bind also had something The Prelates did not have; slavery. He started gathering wood to take his mind off the frightening concept his sister had become an object for sale.

When they returned down the hill, the dragon was missing, though her bag with the rest of their things was staked to the ground.

"She's gone to check her sense of direction, I would think," explained Weasel. "The islands tend to spin slowly, and if you don't keep your bearings, you can be in trouble. Probably another reason why traders avoid the islands unless they run into them."

"What will Fren-Eirol do for food?" Farthing was gutting and cleaning the rabbits, pulling their skins off and automatically laying them out to dry without thinking what he was going to do with them on the back of a dragon.

"Well, not rabbit, that's for certain!" said the magician, laughing. "And I doubt she'll want those drying on her back," he added, pointing at the still bloody pelts. "She'll fish when she needs out here, but she doesn't have to eat often, and won't want to be full while flying. She'll eat properly when we get to Taken."

"How long will that be?"

"With us on board, five or six days. On her own she could do it quicker because she can fly much higher, use the very high winds, and wouldn't need to stop as often. But you would die that high up." Farthing looked puzzled. "The air is thinner, so you couldn't breathe properly." He still looked puzzled. "The air is denser nearer the ground and humans are ground-hugging creatures..." The look hadn't changed. "Anyway, forget the why, five or six days is the bit you need to know."

Farthing nodded. He got that bit. A shadow brushed across the ground and Farthing looked up to see the dragon high above at full wing stretch, almost stationary. From here he could see that her wings at their thinnest were gossamer-like and the sun glowed through them, breaking into a kaleidoscope of colours dancing across his eyes.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" said Weasel quietly. "I have never got used to that sight."

"I have never seen the dragons do that at Wead-Wodder."

"She must have caught an updraught and is enjoying it for a moment. Around the town, they just get on with working; they play when they are out on their own."

"Are all dragons so beautiful?"

"The sea dragons are especially, and Fren-Eirol more than most. People don't realise just how thin dragon wings really are, or how big, for that matter. Low to the ground they don't glide much so don't stretch them right out. They can even look awkward and clumsy, but not when they are flying like that. Even the red mountain dragons with their dark hides look stunning when the light glows through their wings."

Fren-Eirol turned gracefully, pulled her wings in close to her body, and shot towards the ground like an arrow. Barely a hundred feet from the ground she half opened her wings like a canopy and slowed herself with a loud thwack as her wings caught the air. She settled on the ground and neatly folded her wings. She looked at the two wide-eyed humans and smiled at the younger one whose mouth hung wide open.

"Enjoy the show?" she said, laughing. "You can close your mouth now, boy!" Farthing did so, with a snap. He smiled in embarrassment. "I'm going up the hill for a scratch on those trees." She nodded at the rabbits. "Eat quickly; we should try and cover as much sea as possible before nightfall."

"Is flying at night difficult?" asked Farthing.

"Flying is easy. Finding an island's impossible."

"Oh, I see." He began preparing the fire before he made any more of an idiot of himself.

# Chapter 4 – The Hidden Isle

The morning was bright and cheerful, which was a hell of a lot more than could be said of Johnson Farthing. He awoke with a start following the invasion of a nightmarish dream where he was fifty feet down Truk's well and still digging, but with only a spoon. Just as he thought he might actually be about to hit water, a huge claw had reached down, grabbed him, and thrown him into the dumps in a cloud of red dust, shouting that he should have been looking after his sister. It was just before dawn, and both the dragon and the magician were asleep. His head was buzzing with his worries about his sister far too much for him to settle, so he climbed out of his bedding into the pale, colourless, pre-dawn light, and took a swig from the water that Weasel had collected the day before. It was slightly sweet, the flavour tainted by the flower from which Weasel had told him he had collected it. He grabbed an empty hide waterskin and headed off to find some more water.

"Make sure you take it from the plants with the blue flowers." The magician's voice was muffled by his bedding. "The green ones make it bitter, though safe enough."

"Thanks," said Farthing, and wandered up the hill.

He was grateful for the few moments on his own. He was feeling dwarfed by the combined knowledge of the long-lived dragon and magician, and he felt like a child who could not say anything right. Geezen had taken him aside before they had left to reassure him that this was primarily a quest to find his sister; the prelate's daughter was important, but not at the expense of Rusty, and he should not be afraid to take charge. Farthing wasn't sure he knew how to be in charge. It was like he was still learning how to find his sister rather than getting on with doing it.

They had reached this smaller island at dusk the night before, and with little light and not much fuel to light a fire, had all fallen asleep early. He had been surprised how tired he was, but Weasel had reminded him they had spent much of the day in the thin air, high above the clouds, and his body was not enthusiastic about this way of life. The dragon might have been unaffected by the altitude, but the flying had worn her out, and she was the first asleep.

This island had a very small hill, unlike the previous larger island which had boasted a couple once they flew over it, and it was easier to appreciate how these islands grew and developed, thickening in the middle over hundreds of years, becoming larger and larger until they eventually broke up and sank to the ocean floor. It was a bright and calm day, and within a boundary of trees near the top of the hill, it was sheltered from at least some of what being exposed to the open ocean could bring. And it was surprisingly warm. This was an untamed land, this small floating island, and there were no natural paths to follow. Farthing had seen none of the rabbits that were on the bigger island, but there they had stuck to their mounds and ridges and the more open, grassy banks, playing catch-me-if-you-can with some of the passing seabirds. Here on this young island, within this little sparse and corrupted wood, ferns and large-leafed flowering shrubs dominated, and Farthing had to wade through a knee-high sea of purples, oranges, and blues, the sunlight dancing across huge variegated leaves with every hue of green from dark and navy to pale-green and sand yellow.

It was easier to find water than he thought it would be. Around the base of some larger, older elms, still shockingly shrunken in comparison to their landlocked cousins, grew fleshy plants with leaves wrapped tightly to create a natural jug, topped off by a soft cap of red, green, or blue flowers. It was a simple matter to tip these over and pour the water into the waterskin. Farthing strained off the odd insect that was taking a surprise bath in the jugs with his fingers, but the water was pure, clean, and sweet-smelling. At least he and Weasel were fed, and their thirsts quenched, without the trials of fishing. It was something to be grateful for.

A shadow flickered across the ground and he looked up to see the dragon alighting in the foliage, the magician sitting cross-legged on her strong back. She chucked another waterskin at Farthing.

"Fill that one too, lad," said the dragon in a warm voice. "It's too easy for you humans to die of thirst in this salty sea. We dragons are not fussy weaklings like you."

Farthing stoppered the first waterskin and filled the second, then quickly picked up some fallen branches. Walking over to the dragon he threw the two bags and the wood up to the magician who caught and stowed them. Farthing looked into the huge eyes of the beautiful draig.

"I haven't thanked you. I'm sorry." He nodded formally to the Draig Morglas, hoping this was the right thing to do.

She blinked her large eyelids slowly in acknowledgment of his words. "Despite my grumbling, this journey is important, Johnson Farthing. It's my pleasure to help you and my friend Geezen. Now, let's fly east."

As the dragon started her long climb to the higher altitudes, staying over the island to take advantage of the warm currents of air, Farthing raised his voice to ask the magician why it was so warm on this small world in an unfriendly sea.

"It's a calm day, which helps," replied Weasel. "But this is not the only reason. The island is basically a giant, floating compost heap kept afloat by the nature of the weed from which it springs, and the gases trapped in the deeper parts of the island. Those gases are the product of rotting vegetation and that also produces heat. The island is warmed from within. It's enough heat to give Fren-Eirol a lift, and she would otherwise find it a struggle out in the open sea with us on her back. On the rare occasions dragons have to alight on a small, young island, they have to work a lot harder to get height. We'll need to avoid very small islands with the added weight that we add, just in case our dear dragon friend here starts contemplating which of us she can do without!"

It seemed a small issue for the moment, so Farthing tried to relax and enjoy the climb up into the faint wisps of clouds. He looked back at the magician, envious of the ease with which he sat cross-legged on the dragon. The cameo was a long way from the fall-down-drunk fool whose bar tab needed paying. Farthing shook his head and tried to move his legs into an easier position.

"Find a comfortable place, but mind you sit even on my back, boy," said the dragon over her shoulder as she climbed in circles. "If you unbalance me while I'm trying to fly, I will be tempted to give you a ducking!"

Farthing quickly adjusted himself and apologised, though the growing wind whipped away his words. He again looked back at Weasel. The magician, though he was sitting so casually, was dead centre, just back from where the mighty wings joined the dragon's spine, the huge bunches of muscles flexing and pulling the vast, shimmering, gossamer-skinned wings. Dragons, these Draig Morglas, were large beasts standing four times the height of a horse and four times as long, not including their thin tails. But they flew, and so had a delicacy to their build that carried little unnecessary weight.

Draig Morglas resembled birds more than did red dragons, the Draig Mynyth Coh, but they were hexapods with their three sets of limbs, whereas birds had just four limbs like humans. Setting aside their delicate forearms, these dragons had the similar poise and grace of the big hunting birds, the hawks and the eagles. Red mountain dragons were proportioned differently. Their front limbs were stronger and larger, though they could use their clawed hands with surprising dexterity, and even made jewellery from polished stones and metal. They were longer in the body with a much shorter neck and had a heavier look to them. The biggest were also huge, twice the length of Fren-Eirol, and much taller when they raised themselves up. They had little to do with the other peoples of this strangely mixed land and ignored the artificial boundaries enforced by the Prelates or the rulers of Bind. Their hill and mountain villages and their way of life had almost faded into myth and fable, though they were occasionally seen flying past at great height.

The sea dragon reached the limit of her climb, and, as she had before, turned into the strong currents of air to push herself even higher. Farthing pulled his warm coat around him and fell into a dreamless doze.

It was little more than an hour later that he was woken by a long, haunting cry. He opened his eyes, blinking in the harsh sunlight, to find the dragon surrounded by a small flock of gigantic birds.

"Scimrafugol," said Weasel from behind him.

Farthing didn't know the word and had never seen birds so big. The largest around Wead-Wodder were some of the hawks flying over the dumps and the larger gulls that liked to raid the fishing trawlers. These were a little like the gulls in design, he supposed, but larger; much larger. Their wings were at least thirty feet from tip to tip.

"They are called sometimes Sun Birds," continued Weasel, his voice fighting the wind that streamed past them. "They fly so high it's said their wings touch the sun. Of course, that is not true or even possible, but they fly as high as the dragons."

"They fly higher than me," called Fren-Eirol over her shoulder. "I sometimes see them far above me navigating the most powerful winds."

"Why are they flying with us?" asked Farthing.

"I don't know," replied the dragon. "It's rare they flock like this around a dragon though it is known. Some say they act as guides. Traders think it's good luck to follow them, but I see no reason why they would be with us now."

Farthing was feeling a little light-headed with the thin air, but it was easier than he thought it would be. He concentrated on breathing softly and deeply as Weasel had taught him the night before.

"The air is thin where we are flying, but it's enough for us as long as we don't do anything," the magician had explained. "Your body will naturally want to gasp for air, but if you teach yourself to take long, deep breaths, you will get plenty of what you need, and your body will not crave so much."

The morning felt later than it really was because of their altitude, but what warmth the sun offered was whipped away by the strong, cold, high winds. Down below, the sea glistened, but looking towards the east where they were heading, Farthing could see a wall of clouds banked right across the ocean. He touched the dragon's neck and shouted out the word, "Storm."

"I see it, boy, and it's not welcome!" The dragon sounded concerned. "It's many leagues off yet, perhaps a couple of hours flying, but those clouds will be right below us when we need to be looking for an island." The dragon pushed at the wind. "It's getting a lot gustier. I can't fly high enough with you to avoid it."

Weasel tapped Farthing on the shoulder and pointed to the birds. They were flying slightly higher than the dragon, a little out of her view, and were slowly turning slightly to the north.

"The birds are turning," called Farthing to the dragon. She looked to see for herself.

"Follow them, Fren-Eirol," called Weasel over Farthing's shoulder. "Perhaps they are our guides."

"Or maybe they are just going to fly on for days!" she snapped irritably. "They can fly for many days without stopping." As if they understood, a couple of the birds called out in their long, howling cry. "Alright, Scimrafugol," said the dragon, sighing. "Let's see where you take me." She gently banked to join the bird's new course.

The birds led them on for the next two hours through the battering winds with a steady, but achingly slow rhythmical beat that Farthing found almost hypnotic. Like the dragon, all the power was in the shoulders, but whereas the dragon's wings were deep as well as long, almost sail-like, the bird's wings were narrow and straight as if they were carrying a long plank of thin wood across their shoulders. There was no effort at all to their flight, and Farthing felt he had just the inkling of understanding of how they could keep up their flight for days at a time, travelling over distances he could hardly imagine, and over lands he was sure he had never heard of. The storm moved beneath them ahead of Fren-Eirol's estimate, and she fought against the swirling, unpredictable winds.

"The cloud bank goes right down to the water," she shouted. "This bloody wind is wearing me out."

The birds lost a little height and the dragon followed them down. Within seconds, they were skimming the top of the clouds.

"I hope they know where they are bleeding well going," said the magician. "They are headed somewhere to land, or we would still be up there!" He pointed above his head to the high skies, still bright in contrast to this grey world they were venturing into.

"If they go into the cloud, how will we follow them?" asked Farthing, but as if in answer, the birds started their long howling once again, first the lead bird and then the following birds, each at a slightly different pitch. Suddenly, they dived into the clouds. In shock, the dragon almost stood on her tail, the two men grabbing hold to stop from falling. Then, with a determined roar, she dived in after the birds following their calls.

Inside the cloud, it was wet and grey and gustier still. Farthing hung on with his knees and arms as the dragon was pulled left and right by the turbulence.

"Sorry," he called out.

"Just hang on tight, boy!" shouted the dragon. Even the magician abandoned his relaxed pose and caught hold of the straps that held the dragon's huge pack. Strange shapes billowed around them, sometimes like faces, sometimes like mountains, sometimes like crashing waves. The cloud became thicker and then thinner, and Farthing could see the occasional shapes of the birds flying much harder and faster than before, their cries carrying them on through the clouds.

"Are we getting lower? I can't tell!"

"Yes, boy," replied Fren-Eirol. "But I can see no more than you. I can feel it, though. We must be only a few hundred feet above the sea."

The dragon's wings were beating hard through the rain and winds. Farthing could now understand how difficult it was for the dragon to fly with the two men on her back plus all their things. At high altitude, in the rivers of wind that snaked across the world, the weight caused fewer problems. But this flying through the storm with no sign of land in sight, was punishing the dragon. He could hear it in her breathing, feel it through her body.

"I can hear waves!" shouted Weasel. "Below us. No, in front of us!"

"How can it be in front?" asked Farthing.

"Eirol, cliffs!" Weasel shouted out the warning just as massive cliffs pushed their way out of the clouds.

The dragon turned hard to the right to slow her flight, then beat her wings harder still to lift them above the waves that were crashing against the cliffs below them. Above them, the birds shrieked out their cries, and rose up the face of the cliff as if by magic.

"Updraughts!" The dragon swore at herself. "There are updraughts at the cliff face." She turned back to the cliff and billowed out her huge, shimmering wings. The wind caught under them and lifted them at speed. Suddenly they were above the cliff and looking over a wide, desolate, rain and wind-ravaged land. Farthing had never seen such a place.

"Taken?" he asked.

"Taken is leagues away, Farthing," replied Weasel. "This is different. This shouldn't exist."

"What do you mean, shouldn't exist?"

"He means it's a myth," called back the dragon. "I'm going to land there." She pointed to a low mound of boulders ahead of them. "It will offer a little shelter, and I'm near fainting!" Fren-Eirol turned her head and glided to the rocks, settling heavily behind them out of the worst of the wind.

"Get off!" she commanded, and Farthing and Weasel leapt off her back grabbing their things.

"Let me do this," said Weasel, and he beckoned to Farthing to help him undo the dragon's heavy pack and let it fall to the ground. The dragon shook herself free of the leather straps and leapt back into the air.

"Stay there," she said needlessly, and shot back up into the mists.

"Where is she going?" asked Farthing, amazed that the exhausted dragon should fly off.

"She needs to check something and shake some of the cramps from her muscles, I would think," answered the magician. "Let's get a canvas up and a fire lit. We can use the wood in the large bag."

They set to work, putting up a shelter for themselves, though it would not be anywhere near big enough for the dragon. The fire was alight when the dragon returned, landing heavily on the wet, stony ground. She walked up to them with a tired and worried look on her face.

"Well?" asked Weasel, with a little impatience.

"Tir Cuuth," answered the dragon.

"What the heck is that?" asked Farthing, utterly confused at what was going on. The magician simply huffed and banged through their belongings getting some food together.

"Tir Cuuth," answered Fren-Eirol. "The Hidden Isle. It doesn't exist." She sat down hard, and, for want of a better description, pouted.

"Are you sure?" asked Weasel, munching through the last of the cooked rabbit.

"It's almost circular, has cliffs nearly a thousand feet high the entire way around, and there's a bloody great big ruined castle in the middle. Where the hell else could it be?"

"But it's just a silly story that daddy magician tells kiddy magicians to scare them asleep at night."

"Well, the story is beneath your feet now, Weasel. I don't know of any other island that looks like it's moving."

"What about the ones we landed on before?" asked Farthing.

"They don't have huge, rocky cliffs!" snapped Fren-Eirol. She looked into Farthing's eyes, then sighed. The young man was scared. "We're not going farther today," she said more softly. "We'll stay here for an hour so I can get my breath back, then fly up to the castle. The winds are too strong for me to get any height, so we are stuck here till they die down." She turned away from them, curled up by the rocks and closed her eyes.

"She has to be wrong, we can't be at Tir Cuuth," muttered Weasel as he washed the dishes out under the water draining off the canvas and stowed them back in the packs. Farthing helped collect the rest of their belongings together, made sure they were dry, and sat by the fire to get a little warmth. The grey wind tugged at his shoulders. This was a miserable place.

The trip up to the castle took but a few minutes, but it was a struggle against the wind carrying the soaked canvas. The towering fortifications were a black granite ruin, crumbled and eroded by wind and rain, but the keep had part of a roof over the remnants of the great hall and they were able to find a clear area within that was big enough to shelter even Fren-Eirol. They stretched the big canvas between the walls to dry out and trap the heat from their small fire. Farthing explored through what was left of the lower rooms of the keep and recovered a fair amount of ancient, weathered wood dry enough to burn, just about, though it smoked a lot, making the magician cough.

"You couldn't have found anything drier?" Weasel was still questioning the reality of this strange island.

Farthing pointed meaningfully out at the rain streaming down the broken outer walls of the keep in small waterfalls from old buttresses and beams. "Here? You think it's possible to find something dry here?"

Weasel just coughed and wrapped himself up in his blanket.

"The boy has a point," commented Fren-Eirol. She had been standing with her wings spread out to dry off and now wrapped them tightly around herself. "If this myth is only half true, then clear skies are a rarity here. We may have a serious problem leaving until the worst of this storm passes."

"What are you saying?" Farthing was taken aback by her words.

"I'm saying that I can barely fly around this island at ground level in this rain and wind. On my own, I would only just fight my way above the clouds. But carrying both of you and all our kit would be impossible for the moment."

"Could there be boats?" Farthing sounded worried.

"You saw the cliff when we arrived," remarked the dragon. "That encircles the entire island. I saw nothing that reached down to sea level. This is the most treacherous region of the Prelates Sea where several currents meet. Boats avoid it completely. So do sensible dragons."

"But there must be something!" Farthing thought this was ridiculous. "If nothing else, someone managed to build a sodding castle here!" He pointed at the ancient ruins around them.

"Nearly two thousand years ago, boy!" growled the dragon.

"The story, the myth, is very old," said Weasel. He rubbed his hands together over the fire thoughtfully and closed his eyes. "It tells the story of a duke named Hathersage whose task it was to guard the coastal lands of the kingdom of Seckoness for his King, King Seckon. Hathersage was not the noble his father had been. He had inherited the title when he was a young boy after his elder brother had died in a battle with a giant calliston. He had been a sickly child and was a sickly and cowardly duke.

"As he looked out to sea across the distant waves and sea mists, he became more and more frightened of what lay beyond his knowledge. So, he ordered a fortress and keep to be raised on a peninsula bordered by thousand-foot cliffs. They built the castle from black granite and for a while the cowardly duke felt a little safer. But it did not last, for he began to be afraid of what lay behind him inland, and he pulled his soldiers from their coastal duties of protecting the kingdom and warning the king of invasion, so they should guard the peninsula itself.

"And yet, he became more afraid. He felt that his very habitat on the peninsula, the excellent fortress that could be seen by any enemy for many leagues, would be his undoing, and so he had huge fires built, stripping the land of wood, and atop of these, he boiled vast cauldrons of water, engulfing the peninsula in a permanent mist. And finally, so afeard was he, that he had his engineers destroy the causeway between the peninsula and the mainland, effectively making it an island.

"So protective of his own small world had he become, he did not know that an enemy had invaded the kingdom unnoticed, and, no warning having been sent to the king, a savage and bloody war was now being waged at the very gates of the king's citadel. But in his own self-imposed isolation, the cowardly duke knew nothing of what his lack of vigilance and the abandonment of his duty had unleashed upon the kingdom, and it did not touch him for he remained hidden behind his mists.

"The king finally beat back the invader, but at a cost in both the lives of his people and even his close kin, and he vented his fury upon the duke and his island. He ordered his magicians to cast loose the peninsula from the kingdom and set it to drift amongst the waves, never to touch land again. And so, they did as they were bidden, and for years the island drifted across the seas, hidden by its own mists until every person who lived on the barren land had died of starvation or disease. For in his cowardice and fear that an invader might climb to his keep, the Duke had ordered that any paths down the cliff to the sea be destroyed. Once the island was set adrift, he and his people were trapped. And when all had died, only the Duke was left, howling a long, lonely cry from his deserted battlements."

The story ended, and the sound of the rain reasserted itself.

"You enjoyed that," said Fren-Eirol, with no humour.

"I enjoy a tale, even a myth. Though I do not enjoy the idea that at least in part it appears to have been true!"

Weasel pulled his blanket tighter around him and managed to look even more miserable. Farthing sat in silent thought.

"Weasel," he asked after a moment or two. "The end of the story, where he cries from the battlement, is that the real story? I mean, you didn't just add it for fun?"

The dragon answered for the magician. "That is how I have heard it told. Indeed, the story tellers always punctuate it by making the sound. It is part of the telling." From somewhere above, one of the huge Scimrafugol cried out in its long, haunting, melancholy cry to its kin.

"What, a bit like that?" asked Farthing.

Weasel looked up and nodded. "Very much like that," agreed the magician.

Farthing stood up, threw off his blanket and put on a thin oilskin from his bag. "Well, in which case, even if much of the story is some made up tale, that last bit is true." He pointed up to the silhouette of the bird, perched high on the broken battlements, keening to its fellows. "And that means someone made it off the island. I'm going to look around." He walked out into the rain. Weasel looked at the dragon, blinking in surprise.

"Geezen warned me he was a bright one," said Fren-Eirol.

The barren land of the tale was true enough, conceded Farthing as he pulled his waterproof hat down tightly. The grass was matted and coarse, unfit for much other than a goat, and there was little else here. The odd fern hung on bravely to whatever it could, the occasional pathetic gorse lived out an undistinguished life behind a rock, and any little stray seedlings dropped birds were doomed to failure in this sunless, rain-swept place. The mist was still thick, but it was thinner than before, and he began to get a sense of the shape and size of his much-reduced world. The island was probably a quarter of a league across, maybe less. He couldn't see clearly, but he felt it was more tear shaped than round, with the sharp end much higher than the rest. In fact, it was strange the castle was not built on the highest point, but then if the story was true, the duke would perhaps have picked the farthest point from the edges all round, and that would be the middle.

Farthing set off for the lower end of the island where they had first landed. The wind buffeted his back, pushing him along, and he would need to be careful closer to the cliff edge. He made his way over the rugged terrain, picking his way around the ruined foundations of small dwellings just a few stones high. There were a few low ridges of rock like the one they had sheltered behind, the rock not jagged as you would expect, but smooth and rounded, eroded by the ever-present winds. Where they had sheltered was a small horseshoe of rocks, and he realised how peculiar it looked. In fact, it appeared to be only partly natural rock, and at some point, there had been a round building here, something large. A tower perhaps? It would fit in with the story of the cowardly duke.

Carefully, he made his way to the cliff edge, testing the ground to check it was safe. The grass was tufted and worn, and the edge broken and earthy. He lay down and peeked over. The updraughts nearly blew his hat clean off his head, and he grabbed it and tied the hat strings tightly beneath his chin. Dignity would have to wait for a calmer day. Here, at least, it was as the dragon described. The cliff walls plummeted straight down hundreds of feet to the broken rocks below, but they were only a thin skirt that vanished beneath the waves in a most curious way.

"No beach," said Farthing to himself. Normally, even at the base of the steepest cliff, there would be at least the hint of a beach; pebbly and inhospitable perhaps, but it would be there. And there would be tide markings or green weed along the rocks or the cliff. Here there was nothing. It was all clean, washed by the waves, and the sea did not crash as if dragged up over pebbles, but rather sloshed and battered against the cliff wall like water will against the side of a large boat. "It really does look like it's afloat," said Farthing in amazement.

He made his way around the island, checking every now and then for signs of a way down, but it was as inaccessible as Fren-Eirol had said. And yet, he was certain someone had managed to escape. How else did the end of the story so resemble the forlorn calls of the huge Scimrafugol? As he worked his way around towards the sharp end of the tear-shaped island, the land rose higher above the sea and the wind blew more strongly. The shape of the island reminded him of the fishing galleys that pushed out from the coast of Redust. They trawled their nets into the waves and so had higher prows than sterns; the low sterns for pulling in the nets, the high prows so they were not overwhelmed by the waves. The odd shadow of the huge birds passed over him. They seemed to ignore much of the island and were concentrated up at the highest point.

Here, was their nesting ground. The rocks were broken, jagged and steeper, and he scrambled up to look over the cliff. He was surrounded by birds. To his surprise, they were not worried by his presence, but then these were powerful creatures with their long wings, large hooked beaks the size of his forearm, and strong, sharp talons designed for clinging to unforgiving rocks. Perhaps he was simply not a threat to them. Some vocal commotion was just ahead, and Farthing made his way forward carefully and looked over the edge. The wind here was much stronger than on the lower cliffs, and it roared and whistled through every nook and cranny of the jagged rocks. Farthing hung on tightly.

Looking down, he was disappointed yet not surprised to see there was no path. The cliff here was as unrelenting as the rest of the island, but perhaps another five hundred feet or so higher. Some of the big birds were hovering in the updraughts, just hanging in the air like toys dangled from twine. These may not be anywhere close to the size of a sea dragon, but these birds too flew at high altitudes. How did they manage to leave the island and fight through the mists and winds?

Suddenly, one of the birds dropped from view. Farthing blinked. Where had it gone? Then he saw another do the same. The Scimrafugol folded its wings back along its body and shot toward the sea like an arrow. Farthing watched in horrified fascination as the bird plummeted to a certain death, and then in awe when the bird pushed its wings out, turned straight into the fierce wind, and was catapulted up into the clouds and was gone. Next to Farthing, a younger, smaller bird, standing on the cliff holding on with its talons, gave a little squawk.

"You're a very clever creature, Mr Bird," said Farthing to the Scimrafugol. The bird blinked at him. "But how would a man do that?" He watched again as two more of the birds did the same trick, and he laughed, mostly at his own stupidity. "Who said it had to be a human?"

When the young man returned, the dragon and magician were sitting in silence, both looking forlorn in the damp, grey island light, cloaks and wings drawn tight, the damp of the mist dripping off noses and ears. Farthing pulled off the oilskin, grabbed a blanket and moved to the fire, throwing on another of their ample supply of ancient castle wood.

"Well?" asked Weasel.

"It's just as you said, Fren-Eirol," said Farthing. "The cliffs are impassable the entire way around." The two looked sullener. "But I have a question." The dragon raised an eyebrow. "You said you had also heard the tale."

"Yes," replied the dragon. "It's a very ancient story in dragon folklore."

"Could it be older than the tale told by men?" he asked the magician, who seemed better at history, or perhaps more interested.

"It's possible," replied Weasel. "I have no real way of telling. Tales do pass between all the peoples of dirt, each then claiming them as their own." Farthing saw the logic there. "Why do you ask?"

"If the tale is based on a true story, and it seems by the very existence of this impossible place that it's partially true, then someone had to survive to tell the story or the last part of it." The two nodded. This they had already established. "So, this man had to escape."

"Yes, you have already made that point!" said Weasel impatiently.

"Except there is no way a man could leave that I can see," said Farthing.

"Which blows a castle-sized hole in your entire theory then!"

"So, at which point did we decide it had to be a man, I mean a human?" Farthing looked at the dragon directly.

"Because a dragon could leave at any time," answered Fren-Eirol.

"They could?" asked Farthing. "Could you? In this storm?"

The dragon shook her head. "A smaller dragon might have real difficulties. But then we end up with the same problem. If the storm never let up, a dragon might not be able to leave either, and so could not take the tale with them."

Farthing pointed up at the big bird who was still perched above on the castle wall.

"He can. I've seen how they do it." Farthing grabbed a stick and made a clear space in the dirt. He drew out the shape of the island, pointed to where the high cliffs were, and explained how the birds were launching themselves into the winds. "Could a dragon do that?" he asked.

Fren-Eirol nodded slowly. "It would be difficult carrying both of you, but yes, it could be done. Dangerous, but possible."

"Then we have a way off," said Farthing firmly. "We should try in the morning so that we have the day to clear the clouds." And with that, he pulled his blanket around him and fell asleep by the fire, feeling a little more confident about the days ahead.

# Chapter 5 – The Shallow Sea

Despite the constant wind, the fog swirled around the broken battlements with only the odd tantalising glimpse of light. Farthing pulled his blanket close and shivered. At least the rain had stopped.

"I can't see anything," said the dragon, landing next to Farthing who had climbed up to the battlements. She slipped on the moss-covered stones and recovered her footing by balancing with her wings.

"We should get up to the cliff anyway," said Farthing. "There is no sign of this weather changing and the cloud is thick, but there are odd breaks in it, and we should not miss any chance, however small. I have to get off this island."

"I know." The dragon looked down at him. "Responsibility is a slave driver, isn't it?"

"It always has been from what I've seen. My sister would be doing the same now if it was me that was missing. We have always been like that, even when our parents were still around." He stared into the fog, willing it to disperse. The dragon dropped a wing.

"Come on, let's collect that miserable magician."

"Are you two going to fight all the way to Taken?" asked Farthing, stepping onto the dragon's strong back.

"Probably." Fren-Eirol opened her wings and glided down to where Weasel had packed up their belongings.

"How straight down were these birds flying?" Weasel handed up the straps of the large pack to Farthing, who, with the guidance of Fren-Eirol, tied them tightly.

"Vertical, more or less. Why?"

"Eirol, we are going to have to have something to hang onto I think."

The dragon sighed. "I dislike that, magician, but you are right. The turn at the bottom of the dive could throw you two off and I would hate to lose the boy."

"And me?" Weasel looked a bit put out.

"I will consider that later," replied Fren-Eirol, loftily.

Well, thought Farthing, it was a start.

They made their way through the rain to the higher end of the island on foot. Weasel pulled out some long silken cloth that Fren-Eirol had in her pack, and he and Farthing stretched it out between them as they walked, twisting and knotting it into strong ties. The magician explained these could be tied around the dragon without hurting as a rope would do.

"What is this cloth?" Farthing asked the dragon.

"It is, or was, part of my clothing," said the dragon. "We dragons like soft flowing garments."

"Well, Fren-Eirol does," added Weasel, throwing Farthing another length of cloth. "Bren-Aneirin, her pairing, favoured thick leather."

"Yes, but he liked being the big, strong red, and he never got out of the habit." Fren-Eirol laughed, but with a touch of sadness, remembering her Bren. Many dragons never paired with another, but when they did it was often for life. When one died, the other might not pair again, or at least not for many years.

They stopped before the final climb up the rocks to the cliff edge, and Weasel and Fren-Eirol debated the best way to attach the makeshift harness. Farthing, sensibly, kept out of it. He knew nothing about dragon anatomy and was aware that part of this conversation was political; it might only be a couple of twisted lengths of cloth, but it had echoes of a certain, best-forgotten saddle. Eventually, a decision was made, and the cloths were tied on in readiness.

"We are not going to tie ourselves on," explained the magician. "If everything goes wrong, we might need to get off in a hurry, especially if we hit the water." Farthing didn't want to think what that might be like on the back of a high-speed dragon. "So, we will lie down next to each other with our arms under the ties, and our feet pushed beneath the pack."

"But, assuming we pull off this trick," added Fren-Eirol, "I want you back to your normal positions as quickly as possible. These ties might be practical, but they are also distasteful." She sniffed, and looked, for a moment, surprisingly petulant. Farthing hid a grin, and Weasel, tactfully, found a small stone on the ground to stare at. "So, shall we do this, boys?"

Up the rise towards the cliff, the mist thickened, and the edge was barely visible. Farthing crept forward and once again lay flat, looking over the rocky edge. Ahead of him somewhere, he could hear the clucks and cries of the birds; despite the heavy clouds and rain, they were still flying. To his relief, below the cliff edge, the mist cleared quickly, and he could make out the sea far below. He returned to where the other two waited.

"The mist is thick straight ahead, but it's clear below. We can do this. Fren-Eirol, yesterday the birds were lifting off at the edge of the cliff and hovering about thirty or forty paces out before they made their dive. It looked like they were looking to find the right place, maybe where the updraught is less? I can't see them clearly today, so I don't know if they are doing anything different. I can hear them, though, and they are still flying."

"That would make sense," said Fren-Eirol. "Trying to dive right at the edge might suck you into the cliff wall." She peered through the mist, pondering what they were about to do. "I want to fly out and see for myself first. Then we can try. You two wait here." Without another word, she leapt into the air, caught the wind, and sailed over the edge.

"You will want to close your eyes when we do this," commented Weasel. "I've been on the back of Bren-Aneirin when he was diving straight down close to the ground and it's probably the most scared I have ever been. Up high it's wonderful, but this won't be."

Farthing was rapidly learning that though the magician complained or worked his way around things or tried to make his life easy, fear was something he did not suffer without good reason. If he found the prospect of the dive scary, then Farthing should probably be very anxious indeed. Before he had time to contemplate his bold idea further, the dragon returned.

"Those birds are spectacular," she called out as she came to rest. "The speed they reach on the way down is breathtaking."

"You can do it then?" asked Weasel.

Fren-Eirol grinned. "I will have to go faster than them, and the turn at the bottom is going to knock the breath right out of you, but yes, I can do it." She dropped a wing. "Now is as good a time as any!"

If Farthing had expected any long build up to the ride, he was utterly mistaken. No sooner was he and Weasel lying on the dragon's back than she had taken off and flown out over the cliff. There were a few tense moments as she moved farther out using the strong updrafts, and Farthing saw they had been joined on each side by four of the great birds. Suddenly, the scimrafugol snapped their wings back against their bodies and dropped. The dragon was but a heartbeat behind them, and, head pointed down towards the deadly ocean, she fell like a stone.

The roar of the wind hit Farthing like an explosion and he laid his head flat. Any idea of looking down was pointless; in the rush of wind, he would be unable to see a thing looking ahead. He risked a careful glance sideways and saw that they and the scimra were keeping pace, but as they neared the sea, they slowly pulled ahead of the birds, the wind howling, almost screaming around the dragon's body. One by one, the birds flapped out their wings, appearing to shoot backwards as they made their turns and headed into the clouds, but Fren-Eirol had yet to commit. Farthing's heart beat faster. Why wasn't she turning? Had something gone wrong? Had she passed out? He tried to lift his head, but it was impossible; the wind was pinning him to her back.

Then Fren-Eirol opened her wings a little, and he was pushed against her hard spine. She was beginning her turn. Her wings flew out straight and his weight seemed to triple, and he felt her skin slap into his face. The scream that filled the air came from the wind rushing over her wings, or perhaps she was screaming. Perhaps he was! The world was one of pain and disorientation. His stomach felt crushed, his ears were popping, and his heart was beating like it would burst through his back. And then they were heading back up. He could move again, though he felt sick and dizzy and his eyes ran. The dragon billowed her wings out like sails and the updraughts lifted them straight into the clouds, through the fog, the damp, and the dense greyness. The dragon beat her wings harder and faster than Farthing had yet seen. He felt her heart pounding through her back against his chest.

"Sit up!" Weasel shouted at him. "Let her get her full stretch!"

Lying next to each other was limiting the dragon's ability to get her wings fully back. Farthing sat up as best as he could, and the magician pulled himself behind, his feet curled up out of the way. They looked like a couple of racing jockeys with their heads leant forward, almost up on their knees, hanging on for their very lives. The dragon screeched, and her wings stretched above her, touching at their tips, then powered down again beneath her. Then she burst out above the clouds and into the sun, the strange, mythical land disappearing behind them, hidden in its ever-present shroud. Around them the air was full of hundreds of Scimrafugol, hovering in a huge circle, crying and shouting out at them, applauding their feat.

"Bloody hell!" shouted out the breathless dragon. "An audience!"

Weasel whooped in glee and banged Farthing on the back. "Boy, your idea was crazy, but she has done it! What a girl!"

Farthing, soaking wet from the clouds, slowly untied the silk ties, and wound them up without speaking a word. He was close to tears with relief and giddy sickness.

Fren-Eirol, proud like a young dragon, spun in a tight victory circle, the two men shouting in surprise. Then she turned her beautiful white body with her great, glistening, blue, silver and grey wings, and powered to the east over the dense storm, leaving the huge birds to return to their island, to their nests and their young. For them this would no longer be the terrible, mysterious, hidden isle, Tir Cuuth. From now on it would be the isle of the magical scimrafugol, and they would leave it in peace.

As they flew away from the island and the dragon soared up to catch the high winds above the clouds, it brightened up to a crystal-clear day, and beyond the storm, the sea was shimmering in the morning light, the heavens turning a smooth, cheery, light blue, with few clouds to be seen anywhere. They were at least a day behind, which would mean the boat was even farther ahead, and on board, Farthing's sister and the Prelate's daughter. Farthing was less in need of rest than he had been the first couple of flights, and he relaxed and enjoyed the journey, feeling the breeze on his face and gazing through the spectacular, delicate crown-like horns that swept up and back from the dragon's head. The magician had fallen asleep in his usual cross-legged pose, and Fren-Eirol had reduced her wing movement to a smooth, gentle beat, taking full advantage of a good westerly wind. He was not sure how far they would fly today, hopefully farther than before, but he was relieved to be away from the island and the imprisoning grey clouds of the storm. Surely it was a magical place, but Dirt was a world where magic was seen as little more than tricks played in the market square, or the strange abilities of those like Weasel who trod an uneasy road between actual talent and fraudulent charlatanism. The island of Tir Cuuth was a strange place indeed, and Farthing believed he would never know the truth of it.

He had seen nothing truly magical about the supposedly ancient man asleep against the packs. He had old eyes but a strangely younger face, though weather-beaten and worn by the years. Farthing was having to take Weasel's finding talent on faith and the trust of those like Geezen and Barkles who had been guardians while he and his sister had grown up as orphans, fending for themselves. For all he knew, the man was guessing wildly and taking them on a frummage chase. Yet, the dragon trusted the magician, and for some reason that Farthing could not fully understand within himself, he trusted her judgement. He did not know her, the poor of the Wealle had nothing to do with the trade done with dragonkind, but he couldn't see anything deceitful in her. Whatever the truth of it was, he had no other option than to believe they were following the right course on their flight to Taken Isle in the middle of this vast ocean. Perhaps there he would learn more. He desperately needed some sign he was doing the right thing. And as yet, the isle was still two or more days away. Farthing settled down to watch the sky and to take this day as it came.

Weasel shook Farthing awake, dragging him from a deep sleep.

"Come on! Island hunting time!" said the magician joyfully. "And not a fog bank or bloody raindrop to be seen anywhere."

Farthing smiled. "How long have we been flying?"

"Six hours," shouted back Fren-Eirol. "We have had an excellent wind, I have had a superb flight, and covered many, many leagues, but now I'm tired. A nice, ordinary red island please, young man, nothing clever."

For the next half an hour or perhaps longer, the three stared out across the sparkling sea for signs of an island but found nothing. Then Weasel rose onto his knees, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Is that red?" he shouted. "Right over there, slightly to the south of our eastern line."

Farthing peered across the ocean. "It might be. It doesn't look quite right, but it may just be a long way off."

"Well, I am going to chance it," said Fren-Eirol, turning slightly towards where the magician indicated. "I can go a while longer if absolutely necessary," she assured them. "It's a good wind this, and I am having to work less than before, but I can't keep it up forever."

For the next hour, they headed towards the faint red horizon. There was certainly something there, but as they moved towards it, the colour changed to orange and then to white as it lost the artificial hue given to it by the sun.

"Oh, no!" moaned Fren-Eirol. "I know where we are."

"Where?" asked Farthing, trying to ignore the imaginative swearing coming from the magician behind.

"The good news is we are farther east than I thought, though rather more south than I want to be, and we are possibly only two days from Taken."

"The bad news, however, is that is no island," interrupted Weasel. "It's the Shallow Sea. Bugger!"

"What is the Shallow Sea?" asked Farthing. He had never heard of such a thing.

"It is a group of old sunken islands, reefs and sandbanks," explained the dragon. "It stretches for twenty leagues in all directions and at its shallowest is but a couple of feet deep, but very, very little of it is above water. It will depend on the tides."

Dirt had two small moons, Megen Mona and Efen Mona, which, being nearly half a revolution apart for much of the time, balanced the weak tidal flows out. Once a month their paths brought them closer and the tide was bigger.

"It was Ealmona two nights ago," said Farthing, referring to the time when the moons' paths seem to cross, and both were in the sky. "We won't have the small tides yet."

"Well, let's hope it's low enough then," replied the dragon. "It must be a hundred years since I've been here."

"Look for wrecks," suggested Weasel from behind Farthing.

"What?" Farthing was confused.

"Traders get themselves wrecked on the sands or the rocks if they stray this way. If any of the boats remain, we might be able to land on them, if there is enough of them left, or they will show us where it's shallowest. Either way, look for wrecks."

Farthing signalled his understanding, and the dragon flew down towards the reefs and sandbanks.

"I will get lower," she said. "It will be easier to spot anywhere to land."

Within fifteen minutes, the dragon found the remains of a boat. There wasn't much of it left, but the castle at the rear was still sticking out of the water. The dragon landed heavily and skidded on the deck.

"Damn; it's slimy!" She managed to stop herself sliding farther by grabbing hold of the remaining stub of a mast, and her two passengers leapt off.

"Well, it's not perfect," commented Weasel. "But it's above water."

"We'll rest for an hour," said Fren-Eirol. "Then we'll look for land. The sandbank this boat has struck is only a couple of feet deep but is just sand. There is a good chance that one of the rockier areas is above water and we can rest properly."

This had to be the dragon's decision since she was doing all the work. She undid her pack and the two men grabbed it and secured it to the mast to stop it sliding into the sea. Fren-Eirol stretched her wings out, shook them, and pulled them in with a sigh of relief. Farthing walked up to the rail and looked down at the water. The wind had dropped, and the sea was dead calm.

"Will you be able to get height from here?" he asked.

"The sea is so shallow that the water warms up," explained Fren-Eirol. "That should be enough to get some lift. I don't really need an updraught, I would be marooned most of the time otherwise, but then I don't normally have you two weighing me down. I don't have a problem at all on the mainland."

Farthing sat down on the deck. "I wonder what this was?" He tapped the boat. "What was it carrying?"

"It will be a trader, though maybe not a legal one," said Weasel. "Anyone looking for treasure would be disappointed. Some scavenging types patrol around here looking for wrecks. They grab any loot within days of a boat running up on the rocks or sands and are not squeamish at helping any surviving crew on their way to the next life."

Farthing looked a little startled.

"Don't worry," the dragon assured him. "They only appear when there are new wrecks to be had, usually after a storm. The water is clear and calm, so the weather has been good here. They won't be around at the moment. No fresh pickings!"

"Why is most of the trade around the coast?" asked Farthing.

"Better economics and safer," said Weasel. "You have seen some of the problems on the way across already. Plying trade east to west and back across the Prelates Sea is a risky business, and some of the ocean is impossible for boats."

After an hour, they headed off to search for something more robust than the balancing act they had been doing on the half-a-boat. Weasel spotted it this time, and to everyone's relief it turned out to be not just a large wreck, but a small rocky island. It even had two sad looking trees and some wild grass.

"This is a rarity," commented the dragon as they made camp. "This one must be permanently above the water line or these trees wouldn't have survived."

Farthing walked to the centre of their new land, which took him just over a minute. He reckoned it must be all of six feet above the sea. At a guess, though he was no seafarer, the tide was about at its highest, and with the shallow sands, the little island probably grew considerably at low tide. There was nothing to eat here, but they had some food left and if the dragon was right, they could be at Taken Isle in the next couple of days. Would his sister be there? From what he had learned from his two wiser companions, it was very unlikely, but there was the chance they would get some sort of fix on her, a sense of which direction her captors had chosen. He hoped Weasel was as good as the others seemed to think he was.

"Is there any wood up there?" the magician called out to Farthing.

"No, not a lot, though there is some grass and dry moss for starting a fire." Farthing gathered a few fistfuls of fire making debris which he could light with a flint. There were a few twigs that would serve as kindling, but the wrecked boat out on the rocks would have to supply the rest. He walked back to the shore and stripped off to his shorts. "I'll have to wade out to it," he said. "The tide is still coming in, but I think it must be about to turn."

Farthing grabbed their small axe and walked down to where the rocks jutted out of the sea. Considering they were not much above water level, the rocks were surprisingly jagged. He had expected them to have been worn smooth, but they seem to splinter easily into strange angular sculptures of flats and points. He made his way carefully around them, paddling in the shallow water. A cut from the rocks was the last thing he needed right now. Infection from rock cuts was a significant hazard in coastal communities, despite the cleansing nature of saltwater.

The Shallow Sea was remarkably clear. There wasn't much seaweed and the continually shifting sands were white and clean beneath the water. He had no doubt it would cloud up in a storm quickly, but right now, what waves washed over the sands were but inches high, and the water had a milky, light-blue hue, tinted a subtle pink from the sun. The stone of the protruding rocks dotted over the waterscape was near white with the odd fleck of black or red, and it glared in the sunlight. It was a beautiful yet strange place. Farthing wondered how many other unfamiliar places he would see before this adventure was finished. He felt almost homesick for Truk's well and the dangerous pies made by Barkles.

Tucking the axe into his belt, he waded out to the wreck. The sea was far too shallow for anything bigger than a rowing boat to navigate. All the channels around here were shallow, and it must have been a mighty storm to have washed this large twin-masted trader from its safer, deeper course. The boat was half lying on its side and was broken in several places. The wood was bleached and worn smooth and smothered with barnacles below the water line. Much of the boat resembled a skeleton of some great beast. Farthing could not begin to guess how long the boat had been here, but it was probably many years. Needless to say, it was stripped clean of anything useful by the scavenging wreckers who plied these waters following a storm. There was no rope, no brass labels, no ties, no sails, and the cargo was long gone, but then Farthing only needed wood, and of that, the boat still had much to offer. Grasping one of the exposed ribs, he hauled himself onto what remained of the sloping deck, braced himself against a worn windlass, and hacked at the broken planking.

He could hear Fren-Eirol and Weasel talking as they made camp, though he could not hear the words. The dragon constantly amazed him. Her front arms and hands, though much bigger than his own, were remarkably dextrous, and she could help set up camp as easily as any of them, given enough room. And yet, she was this enormous, magnificent beast. He stopped hacking at the deck and looked over to where she was standing, reaching up as if listening to something. Sea dragons, the Draig Morglas, were much slenderer than the gigantic red mountain dragons. Their necks were slim as were their heads with their long, gentle snouts rounded at the nose, and around their heads fanned out delicate spines and horns like a crown. These they often decorated with thin threads of sparkling chain or beautifully printed silk scarves that flowed out behind their head for ten feet or more. When they wished to impress, the result could take your breath away. With a sigh, Farthing hacked off a few more planks, jumped back into the water, and turned to grab them off the boat. It only took an instant, but a long, thin tentacle brushed passed his leg. The agony shot up through every nerve in his body and he blacked out.

Fren-Eirol looked up at the cry and saw the young man fall back into the water throwing the wood all around him. "Weasel!" The magician turned quickly, and his face went pale.

"Onga!" He jumped up and ran down into the water. "Eirol, help me!" He grabbed the young man who stiffened and shook in his arms. The dragon waded into the water behind him and picked up Farthing like he was a child. "Take him. He's been stung by an Onga." Weasel frantically looked in the water around him. "Damn!"

Fren-Eirol placed Farthing by the cold fire while the magician dug through his own bag desperately looking for something, anything, to help.

"He's relaxing," said the dragon as Farthing stopped shaking and went limp.

"That is not a good sign. That means he's succumbing to the poison. Oh, damn it! I have nothing to make bitterwyr. This is not good. This is not good at all."

"Can you do nothing? You have some healing talent?"

Weasel looked up at her. "I have some, but I don't use it much. I'm out of practice."

"Why don't you use it?"

"A finder who can also heal? And is also a wave talker?" he snapped. "What does that make me, Fren-Eirol?"

Fren-Eirol pursed her lips. Magicians were not trusted and were ridiculed throughout the world. As long as they did no harm, they were left alone to do little jobs of magic. But magicians who could do more than one trick? Those were rare, almost mythical, and many thought they were dangerous. So-called Great Magicians, those who could really do everything, they were from the days of legends and unknown now, the truth about them forgotten. Fren-Eirol had always known Weasel was unusual and had bits of other talents, but she had never thought it through; hadn't wanted to. How many talents did he have? Enough for him to be careful obviously.

"Whatever, Eafa," said Fren-Eirol, using Weasel's real name. "Can you help him?"

The magician knelt by Farthing and put his hands gently on his brow. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind into the limp, sick body. Sweat appeared on his forehead and face, then down his arms and even through his clothes and robe. He went red in the face and shook violently, and suddenly gasped out loud, only just stopping himself collapsing over the body. Shakily, he clambered to his feet, using the dragon's wing to steady himself. Fren-Eirol looked down at the young man. A little colour had returned to his face.

"It's not done," warned Weasel. "The poison of the Onga is strong and has run deep. I have but slowed it. I have forgotten much, not that it was the best of my talents anyway."

"What do we do?"

"Taken," said Weasel. "He needs a dragon healer, one of the Draig Bach-Iachawr. We must hope there are some of their kind at the Neuath."

Fren-Eirol whirled around and took down their camp with a swing of her wings. She gathered it all in her bag and dragged it up to the trees, tying it up in the branches. Then she pulled out the silk ties they had used in their dive from the cliffs and returned to the beach.

"We travel light, and you tie him on tight." She stared at Weasel. "Tight, you hear?" He nodded, knowing what she was giving up to have Farthing tied to her back. "We leave everything and go now, and we will get there in one flight. How high can I go?"

Weasel looked carefully at the unconscious young man.

"You know I can travel higher than others," he said, cautiously. "In his state? I don't know. It might help to take him up there where it's so cold. We will try, and I hope I can keep him alive." He dragged Farthing up and over the dragon's back and secured him tightly with the cloths. He sat behind him, putting his hand on the young man's neck to check his temperature. "His fever is a little less, but it will get worse again."

The dragon leapt high into the air and headed for the darkening skies. As she spiralled and spiralled, willing her already tired wings to take her as high as the magician and the unconscious young man could stand, she heard a long, forlorn cry, and out from the west flew the great scimrafugol. Had they heard? Did they know what had happened? She could not know the thoughts of these enigmatic birds, but she needed their guidance now more than ever. She raised her head and in the language of the dragons shouted, "Gydaynis." Taken Isle. And the birds led her straight up into the skies.

# Chapter 6 – Taken

Fren-Eirol was a mighty dragon. All the greater dragons, the sea dragons and others like the red mountain dragons, were powerful, but the flight to Taken through the night was far beyond anything she had ever attempted with such a heavy load. She would admit later that but for the gentle, mysterious scimrafugol she would not have made it at all. They guided her higher and higher into the winds they used, far past the point she would have risked taking the two humans on her back at any other time. But then, Weasel was different, and Farthing near death, held in unconsciousness by the poisons flowing through his body.

At this height, the air currents were stronger and colder, and she needed to use far less energy. But still, every joint, every muscle, screamed for rest. And each time she flagged and slowed, the scimra would call her on with their long, mournful cries, move into their arrow formation and drag her along in their wake. These were powerful birds she noted many times on that journey. On her back, she could feel the magician protecting the dwindling life of the young man. It touched her too, and she seemed to lose energy less quickly, and was strengthened by this annoying man. For a moment, an old memory of lost friendship brushed her heart, and she was filled with regret.

Finally, the grey, shadowy spire of Taken Mountain, the vast and ancient peak that dwarfed the isle, appeared through the dark below her. When Fren-Eirol slowed and started her decent, the scimrafugol called out their wishes and hope for her, and she bellowed her thanks in a long, primeval roar, an echo of an earlier beast from a lost time. The birds lifted their wings and soared higher and faster, disappearing into the night. The dragon bowed her head to the strange creatures that had probably saved the life of the young man. As she gently glided towards the island, she felt the magician stir on her back. He said nothing immediately but checked on his charge first.

"He is deathly ill," he called out. "But he is alive, for the moment." The dragon nodded. "And you?" asked the magician. "How many hours?" He had lost track of time.

"I'm not sure," said the dragon honestly. "How did I do that? I have never flown so long carrying someone, let alone two of you."

"Aneirin would have been proud," said Weasel. Of all humans, Weasel understood dragons the best, and he knew how close to impossible this journey had been for the sea dragon. Yet, as impossible as it was, they were here, and as he stretched out his mind, on the very edges of his perception was the faint, distant echo from a long fading wake. He smiled.

The dragon more crashed than landed, and Weasel had to hang onto the straps securing Farthing to stop himself from being thrown off her back. He raised his eyebrows briefly at her quiet cursing, untied the young man, and gently lowered him onto her wing. He jumped down and lifted Farthing onto the flagstones of the great concourse where they had landed.

"Can you watch him?" he asked the dragon, pushing away a powerful headache. "I must get help."

"I could not go even a step, magician. I will watch him. Will you be alright in there?" She pointed to the huge stone buildings at the far side of the concourse.

"I'm sure they've forgotten me."

"Dragons? It's only been a few hundred years."

"Well, they can rip me apart later." Weasel wrapped his robe around himself, donned his old hat, and trotted off across the broad stone slabs.

Taken Isle and Taken Mountain were two distinct areas, even though one was stuck firmly on top of the other. The mountain sat on one end of the isle, its near vertical eastern back sloping straight down into the sea. It was a huge, dominant, tooth-like peak, steep and unforgiving for the climber, windswept and frequently wet. The other half of the island, the part known as Taken Isle, was a gentle rural landscape running down from the low foothills of the mount. From the air, it appeared much like a bridal train sweeping out from the skirts of the mountain. Whereas the mountain was the home of dragons, the isle was the home of human traders. This small land marked the near halfway point between Bind and The Prelates, and though most traders took the slower but more profitable and safer routes around the coast of the Prelates Sea, there were enough who needed to make a speedier and perhaps less watched journey to keep the port and the small town of Taken busy and prosperous. When the traders talked about Taken, they meant the coastal town with its tiny streets, alehouses and warehouses, and the small community of farmers who lived on the fertile, rolling plain. When the dragons spoke of Taken, they meant the mountain and the halls, the Neuath.

Weasel slowed to a walk. He had forgotten how big this stone concourse was, and following the flight and helping Farthing stay alive, he was tired and ill. The Cartre Sarad, or The Place of Speech, as it was known, sat on an artificially excavated promontory a third of the way up between the lowlands and the peak. It extended from the thousand-foot-high cliffs that overlooked Taken Isle to the huge halls and other ancient buildings that were cut horseshoe-shaped into the mountainside. For a human, the sheer scale seemed beyond pointless, but when busy, it was crowded full of dragons, and they generally took up a little more room than humans. Well, most did. What Weasel needed was a Draig Bach-Iachawr, a dragon people that sometimes were healers, and some of those were no bigger than a horse. He headed to the large building at the top of the plaza, the Neuath; the central hall and the nearest the dragons had to some sort of common council. By nature, dragons were not territorial since it's difficult to have a fixed idea of territory when others of your kind can easily fly over the top of it. In consequence, though their society was mature and sophisticated, they did not recognise land boundaries or think of any area as belonging to any fixed group.

Without territory to protect, a central political system was meaningless, but some issues were unique to some dragons, in particular the large Draig Mynyth Coh, the Draig Morglas, and the Draig yr Tirin. And when those needed to be discussed, the Neuath at Taken is where it happened. Some groups and species of dragons, however, ignored Taken altogether, and dragonkind could be surprisingly ignorant of one another at times.

Many of those world-changing discussions were, of course, little more than a good gossip, something for which certain dragons would fly many leagues. With a twinge of annoyance, Weasel remembered that he had been the subject on the agenda several times over the centuries. Fren-Eirol was right; it was too much to hope they had forgotten it all. Unlike most places on Dirt, here was dragon dominated. Everything was dragon-sized and felt unfamiliar unless you knew dragon culture and history. Although dragons enjoyed their food and beer, they were not ones to eat or drink in a public place as human's might, so there were no dragon-sized taverns. They did like to talk and read, however, and this need was filled by informal areas of low seating and steps laid out in huge circular depressions in the paving. Dragons loved words and discourse, were all literate, often great artists, and were unerringly intelligent. And, of course, they lived long lives and possessed good memories to go with them.

The entrance to the Neuath was a vast open arch, bordered with delicate and beautiful geometric patterns from an earlier era, big enough to accommodate at least a couple of red dragons walking abreast. Weasel slipped in near the wall, not so much to avoid attracting attention, but to avoid being trodden on. Humans did come up to the hall, but it was not common, and some of the visiting dragons from more isolated communities who were unused to looking out for the diminutive bipeds, could be a little dangerous, just by accident. The magician needed two things from the dragons. The most urgent was to find a healer, and the second was to get permission to climb the peak. He realised he had forgotten to tell Farthing an important little fact about the tall spire of Taken Mountain, Meindir Gydaynis; it was sacred, at least to the dragons, and they would not go up there. Weasel and Farthing would have to climb it without the help of Fren-Eirol, but only with permission.

"Hell must be buried in ice if that magician has managed to get in here without being eaten!" Weasel turned at the sound of an old but still irritating voice from his past.

"Bren-Diath! And how is the wonderful Fren-Ainina?"

The ice dragon just glowered. "And why are you here, Weasel of Tepid Lakes?"

Weasel and Bren-Diath had never had any love for each other, and the large, old Draig yr Tirin, an ice dragon, would never miss an opportunity to confront and ridicule the little magician. He had always been against the more open relations with other species that Bren-Aneirin had espoused, and Weasel had supported.

"I have a human here that has been stung by an onga."

"Then you have brought a corpse. How did you get him here?"

"Fren-Eirol carried him." Weasel waited for the explosion, but it did not come.

"Why Bren-Aneirin's queen should have decided to forgive you a couple of centuries back is beyond me. I would have fed you to my sons."

"Did she?" said Weasel, teasingly.

"It was discussed here, of course. Your name is remembered, and you still have the ear of those who decided to go down Aneirin's dangerous path." The old dragon sounded tired. The fight had gone out of him sometime in the few hundred years since Weasel had last been here. The magician found his annoyance with the grouchy ice dragon softening.

"I have had little to do with the affairs of dragons in recent times, to be honest. Just surviving has been hard enough." Weasel looked carefully at the old dragon and something passed between them that took him aback. He spoke softly, regretting his earlier words. "I am sorry about your Fren, Bren-Diath. She was well loved."

The old dragon sighed. "It's been over a hundred years now." He looked sternly at the magician. "The dragon you want is currently trying to sneak out through the back door over there. He owes some people coin. A problem you will be familiar with, no doubt. I would hurry if you want to catch him." Weasel took that he had been dismissed and walked across the hall to the doors at the back of the chamber. "And stay out of my head, magician!"

The back door, as Bren-Diath had described it, was, in reality, three large arches that led into the inner workings of the Neuath; back corridors that led to meeting rooms and the large, round, main hall that served as a council chamber. There was no agenda for meetings, as most debates started informally and moved almost organically up the hierarchy of importance if merited. So, anything could happen anywhere at any time, and dragons simply wandered in and out of the doorless chambers whether anything was going on or not.

Weasel spun around looking for the small dragon and just caught the flick of a tail as it followed its owner around a distant and obscure passage. Weasel trotted down the long corridor, keeping to the relative safety of the wall. It was much quieter in the evenings than the day, for which the magician was thankful, since it meant less chance of awkward questions, and he hoped none of the dragons who overheard Bren-Diath's parting shot would feel a need to clarify what was meant, with teeth.

He turned left down a much smaller corridor. He had forgotten these. Small corridors were a waste of time where large dragons were involved and there were no humans here other than the odd visitor or idiotic ambassador who had not grasped the essentials of dragon society. He had always assumed that these corridors and rooms were for some of the smaller species, though he couldn't remember ever coming down this way himself. The corridor had only a few openings into small chambers, but these were all empty.

"Well, dead dragons never pay debts, so I am not interested in that argument!" It was a light dry voice and it was coming from the very last room off the corridor. "Argue all you want, but I'm pretty certain you cheated, and I'm sure that when I let that be known out on the Sarad, your source of income is going to dry up overnight. Oh, that got your attention! So, here is the choice; you settle for what I'm offering and call it quits, or we'll let the community decide. Which way do you want to play this?"

Either whoever this dragon was talking to was refusing to answer or was speaking in whispers. Weasel poked his head around the corner. It was a large room with low stone benches forming a square in the middle. Standing on one of these was the mottled, bright form of a Draig Bach-Iachawr. And the other possibility of why he could only hear one half of the conversation, observed Weasel, was there was no one else there.

"Cyfar Draig," said Weasel formally. The small dragon turned around in surprise and half slipped off the bench. "Oh, I didn't mean to startle you!" The magician needed this dragon; he didn't want to antagonise him.

"What do you want?" The dragon sounded most put out.

"I need a healer."

"Why? You look well enough to me, and I'm busy."

"So I noticed. Though the conversation seemed a bit one-sided." Weasel walked into the room and sat on one of the benches. It was a dragon's way of saying he wished to talk and was how most meetings started. The small dragon sighed and sat opposite him.

"I need to be prepared. It is a complicated situation."

"It sounded very simple to me. You owe someone money and you are trying to get away with it. It never works."

"How would you know?"

"Several hundred years of similar problems have taught me a lot." Weasel smiled warmly.

"Humans don't live hundreds of years!" The dragon looked incredulous, then his brain caught up with his annoyance. "Oh, a magician, though they don't live that long." He carefully studied the human sitting in front of him. "Ah, that magician," he said finally. It was Weasel's turn to sigh. Memories were an awkward thing.

"Whichever magician I may or may not be, I need a healer, and I suspect you need the coin."

The dragon straightened. "And who is so desperate for a healer that you would pay me?"

"A young man. He has been stung by an Onga."

The dragon's expression turned from suspicious to serious in a flash. "That is bad. Is he conscious? Is he in pain?"

"I have managed to keep him unconscious." Weasel looked at the dragon hoping he had found a true healer; Farthing must be close to death, by his reckoning. "You can call me Weasel."

"I am Mab-Tok," said the small dragon. "And your reputation precedes you, magician. You have some healing talent then?"

"I have, but this is not something I can cure." Weasel did not have time to discuss his own abilities. "Can you help?"

"I can't cure him. He's been poisoned, not contracted a disease. We need to purge him of the poison, then help whatever is left of him. When was he stung?"

"Yesterday."

"That is a long time, he may be too damaged."

"He is a young, strong, human male. They can cope with a lot. More than young dragons can." Dragons, despite their strength and size, did not always deal with things like poison very well. They lost their strength very quickly and could die easily when they did.

"Where is he?"

"In the Cartre Sarad, at the far side."

"On his own?"

"No, he is with a Draig Morglas. She's watching him."

The dragon looked sideways at Weasel. "A strange set of circumstances. Very well, I will see your human, for a fee."

Weasel reflected that charity was a luxury most people could ill afford.

"We have funds. I will take you to him."

They left the Neuath at a trot. They had to get to Farthing quickly and both of them had a growing list of good reasons not to loiter.

"He has worsened," said Fren-Eirol when they approached.

The small dragon did not waste time on courtesy but looked to the young man. "The poison has filled nearly all of his body," he said after touching Farthing for a moment. "But it has not reached his heart or his mind yet. There is a chance." Mab-Tok noted the ties lying on the ground. "You carried him?"

"Both of them," replied the sea dragon. The small dragon looked surprised. "It was mutual, and I'm not demeaned." Fren-Eirol's words were direct and formal, indicating this was an arrangement she was happy with. To Mab-Tok's knowledge, these words had not been used in this context for several centuries by sea dragons or red dragons. He huffed in bafflement at the constant idiocies of some of his kind.

"Can you carry him again? It would be better if he were taken from this place. Your magician seems to have attracted some attention."

Indeed, there were a couple of dragons walking towards them across the plaza. Fren-Eirol looked at Weasel and raised an eyebrow.

"I ran into Bren-Diath," he said. "He decided to cause a little mischief."

Fren-Eirol rolled her eyes; she knew the ice dragon of old. "Where should we go?"

"Follow me," said the small dragon. "I have a house on the lower reaches."

If Fren-Eirol was surprised, she did not show it. Taken might be full of dragons but none that she had known had ever lived here outside of the few permanent caretakers. Weasel lifted the unconscious Farthing onto the dragon's back and they followed Mab-Tok who jumped off the cliff edge and dived down to the forest below. About halfway down he flew beneath a line of ancient fir trees, and then turned south, heading around the mountain. Weasel noticed their change of direction would have been impossible to observe from the Cartre Sarad. Ingenious, he thought, a little uncharitably perhaps. Within minutes, they had landed in a small, secluded glade only a short way from the rocky shore, and the Draig Bach-Iachawr led them to a simple wooden house big enough for Fren-Eirol.

"I was not the original owner," explained Mab-Tok, showing them in. "This used to belong to a forest calliston when such still existed." He cleared a place on a table, and Weasel lowered Farthing carefully, aware that despite being unconscious, he might still be suffering. Mab-Tok turned to the sea dragon. "Welcome, Fren-Eirol. It would seem I'm to be host to two of the most controversial characters of my schooling. Please, be seated." With the formalities more or less covered, he turned with less grace to Weasel. "I will need your talents, magician, however limited, as I need your knowledge."

"My knowledge?"

"Of what it is to be him. In case you had failed to notice, the patient is not a dragon and I am not a human."

"Oh."

"Take off your robe and that silly hat. This is going to be a long night."

Fren-Eirol awoke at dawn to clear skies and a fresh light filtering through the trees and into the open archway of the dragon house. Calliston, she corrected herself, though it was close enough. Callistons, the wisest thought, were possibly cousins of dragons though the relationship was at the very least extremely distant and tenuous. Sometimes larger than dragons, Callistons were flightless and their mid-limbs were legs not wings. Their front arms, however, were very similar in size and shape to those of a sea dragon and were just as capable. They were gentle creatures but extremely powerful, and their intelligence, though sometimes slow to surface, was profound and intuitive.

Unlike dragons, some, like the much smaller forest calliston, were covered in thick fur, giving them a vaguely bearish appearance, though a bear four times the size of a carthorse was not something many would want to contemplate. This was where the arguments started because different wise ones could not imagine that a dragon, a beast with smooth, completely hairless skin, could have any connection to a beast with fur. Yet others pointed to the many similarities in the skeletons of both creatures. The argument would no doubt rage for as long as the sun still gave warmth. It was a sad discussion in many ways since forest callistons were already believed to be extinct and their enormous cousins, the plains callistons, known for their farming, were not far behind.

Fren-Eirol ached from the flight and she suspected she would ache for several days more. The journey had been hard, but only now that someone else had taken on her charge, was she beginning to appreciate the toll. She was amazed she had managed to fly so far carrying two men, and she wondered quietly a little more about Weasel. If he had helped her, and she was beginning to think he had, this was beyond the skill of any magician she had heard of, great or otherwise, and she was not certain she wanted to know the answer, at least not yet. She returned inside, trying to stretch out her fatigued muscles. Farthing was laid out on the table, covered with a rug. Weasel was asleep on the floor, but the small dragon, Mab-Tok, was awake and making up some sickly foul-smelling mixture. He glanced up at Fren-Eirol as she looked over the still body of Johnson Farthing.

"We have pushed back the poison, and now we must purge it. I will wake him shortly. I doubt he will thank me for it," said the small dragon, chuckling.

Healers had tremendous empathy with a physical body and could almost become one with it while discovering what was wrong and sometimes slowing the progress of a disease or infection. But there the magic ended. After that, it was their knowledge of the most disgusting concoctions that did the real work, that and good sewing skills when needed. They did not pretend otherwise, and this made their popularity rather mixed. Weasel snored and turned over.

"What time did you finish," asked Fren-Eirol.

"About an hour ago. I'm sorry, but I think I might have used up your magician."

"He will recover quickly."

"Really? That is rare."

"Thankfully he is, but we put up with him." Mab-Tok raised an eyebrow. "How much do we owe you?" Fren-Eirol was aware that some deal had been made.

"What I would like and what you owe are two different things. So, I might have another proposition for you that may be better for both of us. First, we should get this young man on his feet." He walked over and kicked the magician, startling him awake.

"Many people wake him like that," commented Fren-Eirol. "It seems to cheer them up."

"Not that anyone appears to be interested in cheering me up." The groggy magician stretched, then clambered to his feet to check on Farthing. He closed his eyes briefly and nodded towards the Draig Bach-Iachawr. "You have a lot of talent, Mab-Tok," noted Weasel. "The poison has lost much of its anger."

"Thankfully, you keeping him unconscious and the cold from the flight slowed everything down, otherwise I'd have been trying to wake the dead." The small dragon finished his preparation. "Let's wake him; he needs to drink this."

"What is it?" Weasel sounded more intrigued than suspicious. The two must have talked a lot during their work, suspected Fren-Eirol, and were probably now bound loosely by a common interest.

"Something he will not forget in a hurry. For that matter, something he will be less keen to drink."

Weasel took an exploratory sniff of the mixture and pulled back hastily.

"I think I would rather be stung! That is foul!"

"I'm famous for it," said Mab-Tok dryly. He put a hand on Farthing's neck and suddenly the young man awoke. He tried to sit up but nearly fell off the table. Weasel grabbed him. "Sit him up gently," instructed the dragon. "When I shout, I want you to clamp your hand over his mouth and hang on, understand?"

Farthing was trying to concentrate on what was being said, but it was obvious he was still under the influence of the poison. Mab-Tok positioned himself behind the young man, put his arms around him and gently opened his mouth. Then in one action he poured the entire contents of the cup straight down Farthing's throat. "Now!" he shouted.

Weasel put one hand under Farthings chin and another across his mouth and clamped it shut. Farthing's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and he tried to fight the two healers off, but the dragon was considerably stronger than a human and gripped him tightly around his chest. Farthing was making choking sounds and his eyes went red.

"It's drowning him!" Weasel stared at the small dragon.

"It has to go everywhere if it's going to work, not just his stomach! Keep hanging on. He will cough up the rubbish from his lungs and pass out in a moment."

Farthing did exactly that. He coughed and wheezed, the foul mixture pushing out between Weasel's fingers, and the next minute he went limp. The dragon and the magician held on for a moment longer.

"What that necessary?" asked Fren-Eirol. She was not good at watching things suffer.

"We pushed back the effects from the poison last night," explained Mab-Tok, laying the unconscious Farthing back down and covering him with the rug. "But we didn't get rid of it and he would have still died in a day or two. What I have given him will finish the job and purge his body of the remaining evil."

"Purge him how?"

"Oh, completely and messily," said the dragon lightly. "That is why I wanted him here. He will want to spend time down on the rocks and in the sea."

"How long does it take?" Weasel was rubbing his hand where Farthing had bitten him.

"Give it half an hour and then watch him run."

It took less than that. Ten minutes later, Farthing suddenly sat up, held his stomach and said, "Oh, bugger... Where?"

Mab-Tok pointed through the door. "Straight down the path. Run!"

Farthing staggered out of the large arch and disappeared down the path. Fren-Eirol started to follow him.

"Leave him, Fren-Eirol," said Weasel. "Young men are like young dragons. They embarrass easily. He'll be fine."

Farthing sat on a rock, soaking wet having climbed out of the sea. His clothes lay next to him where he had washed them out. He felt like death. He guessed this was Taken. It seemed to be a proper island and it wasn't floating anywhere, so that narrowed down the possibilities as far as he could work out. He was reasonably sure he had just been spoken to by a mini dragon which was a new idea for him, and he thought someone had mentioned something about poison. His memory of the last... How long had it been? Whatever, he couldn't remember anything clearly. He vaguely recalled jumping down from the wreck in the Shallow Sea and something biting or grabbing his leg, and that was it. Nothing more. Fren-Eirol walked quietly from the glade and he grabbed for his clothes.

"Human males are of no interest to me, young man," said Fren-Eirol, chuckling at his embarrassment. He pulled on his wet britches anyway.

"What's going on, Fren-Eirol?" His mouth was sticky, and the words were difficult. The dragon passed him an earthenware bottle and he drank from it greedily. Ale!

"Our host has an impressive selection of human beers." She looked at the young man who was wiping his mouth and running his tongue over his teeth. "You were poisoned by an Onga, a tentacled sea creature. Look at your leg." Around his calf was a thin, red line. It itched.

"Was that when I jumped off the boat?" His throat was sore from all the vomiting, but at least he could speak now.

"Yes. Weasel grabbed you." He looked up at her questioningly. "I will explain it all later, but you owe him your life I think."

"And you?" He was groggy, but not so much he could not work out they must have reached the island quicker than planned.

"Perhaps. I flew you here, but he kept you alive."

Farthing sighed and frowned. "I don't understand him. Or just don't know him, I suppose."

"Nobody really does," said the dragon, lightly. "I think he prefers it that way."

Farthing's head was clearing, and he thought of his sister. "What happens now?"

"You and Weasel are going to have to climb to the top of Taken Mountain. Weasel felt faint echoes of the boat passing the island at some point, but nothing more. He will get a better idea from being high and still connected to the ground."

"Why do we have to climb?" asked Farthing, then realised that sounded presumptuous. "I'm sorry. I mean, I'm not expecting you to carry me everywhere or anything, Fren-Eirol."

"If I could, I would fly you up there," replied the dragon, flattered by his apology. "But the mountain is seen as sacred to some dragons and we are not allowed to go beyond the Neuath."

"Where?"

"You will see tomorrow. Today you must rest and then you can climb."

"How long will it take?" Farthing was trying to work out how high the mountain was, but they were right against its steep flank in an old forest and it was impossible to appreciate the true scale of the beast.

"It will take you over a day to climb it and a day back down. It's a steep climb, but there is a path. While you do that, I will fly back to the Shallow Sea."

"Back? But why?"

"All our belongings are back there tied to a tree, and we'll need them." She looked down at the young man, still shaky but recovering fast as young people often do. "Understand, I don't think we'll catch up with the boat, Farthing, but if the magician can get a sense of the direction they were heading in, and maybe if we ask the right questions, we can find out where it's going, and perhaps a little of its intent. Then we have a chance. This will not be a short trip, I fear. I said to Geezen before we left that if we could not catch the boat by Taken, we'd be hunting the continent of Bind for your sister and the Prelate's daughter. I believe that is now the case."

Although a part of him wanted to object and go blundering across the ocean in a mad search, Farthing knew Fren-Eirol spoke the truth. He must trust the dragon, and even the magician. Suddenly, his stomach growled.

"I think I need to get back into the water," said Farthing with some urgency. Fren-Eirol stood hastily.

"I will leave you to it, boy. The house is back up the path." But Farthing was already down at the shore, puking his guts up.

"You two better wait here." Fren-Eirol was not looking forward to this conversation. Permission for non-dragons to climb the mountain was given, but it was normally a courtesy handed to those humans who also believed it had religious significance. For dragons who still believed in such things, it was a place of passing where all dragon spirits flew on their way to the halls of the dead, and so they would not touch Meindir Gydaynis while still alive. It was a little odd since the Neuath was built part-way up the side of the mountain, but it was generally accepted that it was the sharp spire that towered up for the remaining couple of thousand feet that was of true importance.

Some human sects had a different belief. They said this was the place where humans first arrived in this world, many thousands of years before. At one time, a small monastery had been built close to the peak, but the ground was unstable, and it collapsed. One would have thought these two different beliefs, clashing as they did, would be the cause of friction if not a full war between dragons and humans, but it wasn't. This was at least partly because of an old, common theory that humans did not originate on Dirt. The argument was they were quadrupeds, though they walked on two legs, whereas some fauna on Dirt, like the dragons, were hexapods. It was odd, it was thought, that such diversity would exist since it was believed that all life had a single origin. Not that any proof was forthcoming for any of the theories. This being the case, it was felt the mountain could happily accommodate both the beliefs of the natives and those of the new arrivals.

However, permission was still needed, if for no other reason than the dragons wanting to avoid a continuous procession of tourists tramping up and down their stairway to paradise. Fren-Eirol wasn't about to lie, a trick she had never mastered like most dragons, but her request was going to be a little strange. The massive general meeting area of the Neuath was very busy. Obviously, some subject of urgency had excited the brethren, and tails were twitching and wings shaking all over the place. She sighed. Although dragon culture was not dominated by males, as was the case with human society, they were the most vociferous gossips, and were much more likely to come to Taken. Females, possibly more appreciative that much of what was discussed was meaningless twaddle, tended to avoid the place.

"You have caused some excitement, I'm afraid." Bren-Diath walked up to her and spoke quietly. "What made you think that carrying a human was a good idea, let alone the very human that caused you problems in the first place?"

Fren-Eirol glared at him. "I remind you of your station and mine, Bren-Diath," she snapped. "I expect courtesy." The old dragon looked taken aback for the moment, then nodded formally.

"My apologies, Fren-Eirol, but you have caused uproar where I was, until this day, enjoying my peace."

Fren-Eirol remembered what Weasel had said about Bren-Diath's pairing, as dragons often called their spouse.

"I'm sorry, Diath. Weasel told me about Fren-Ainina. She was a gentle soul." The old dragon nodded solemnly. His voice may be familiar, but he was a ghost of the political fighter he had once been. "I would not have agreed to carry people again, believe me, but I was given reasons that I could not ignore. We are chasing the descendant of the last Cwendrina."

"That is unexpected. Are you certain? Her existence is nothing more than a myth now."

"I cannot risk it not being so and I trust the one who told me. I say this only because I must not be delayed by gossip, Diath. It is urgent we get away."

"In which case, why did you not just leave? I know you were with that annoying little dragon at his house which he thinks no one knows about."

Fren-Eirol chuckled. "Weasel needs to climb the mountain first. He is having difficulty finding the boat the girl was taken on."

Bren-Diath looked perplexed. "Dragons fly fast, Eirol. You must have been some days behind the boat or the girl's disappearance was not noticed."

"The boat is moving at extraordinary speed. Weasel is worried."

"Him? I didn't think anything much bothered his thick skull." Bren-Diath's tone was derisory.

"All the same, he is concerned." Fren-Eirol was aware several dragons were looking her way. It would not be long till she was assaulted by questions. "I'm sorry, but I really need to find the caretaker, Diath. I cannot tarry."

"Well, in that one way I can help you. Since Ainina's passing, I have had little to fill my time with my clan, so I'm now living in these halls and have taken on the caretaker responsibilities." Fren-Eirol blinked in surprise. The caretaker was important but had nothing of the power Diath would have been used to; it was only a clerical role. A dragon called out to the ice dragon that they should convene. There was no doubt the subject would be Fren-Eirol. "I suggest you get out of here as fast as you can," prompted the old ice dragon. "Permission is granted, but tell the little git to be careful with my mountain!" The old dragon broke into a rare grin.

"Thank you, Diath. My Bren always had a great respect for you, though you were on opposite sides of most arguments."

"Go, Eirol, I will delay the wolves!"

As she headed to the entrance, Fren-Eirol heard the booming voice of Bren-Diath; a reminder of a formidable past.

"Convene? Why that would be a magnificent idea indeed. Perhaps Fren-Eirol will join us shortly. If you would follow me to the chamber. No, I insist you follow me. No, Bren-Rian, I am definitely not smiling inside!"

Outside, the sea dragon jumped and glided to where Farthing and the magician waited.

"You have permission, and for once, Weasel, you can be thankful to Bren-Diath since he is currently the caretaker."

"Him?" Weasel looked as surprised as Farthing looked puzzled. "Don't worry boy, we'll have plenty of time to educate you on the finer points of dragon politics on the way up."

"In the meantime, our arrival has caused controversy," said Fren-Eirol. "I better get off this rock quickly or they'll question me for weeks. I'll grab that little draig and fly back to the Shallow Sea. I'll back in a few days. You'll be down the mountain before I return." Fren-Eirol bowed once to them both and dived off the cliff to the forests below.

"Come on," said Weasel to Farthing. "We have a lot of walking to do."

# Chapter 7 – Companions

Since the mountain was off limits to dragons, the path that led to the peak was very much human sized, though small goat sized may have described it better. The entrance to the path was tucked behind a small building, unguarded and unremarked on, and the only barrier was a little wooden gate with a simple latch. It was obviously not used often, going by the weeds around the post.

"We needed permission for this?" Farthing was bemused since it looked as if anyone could just walk through.

"Much of the path is exposed, and with all the dragons flying around, anyone on it would be noticed and reported to the caretaker. Since we have permission, he won't allow dragons to throw things at us like large boulders and so on."

"They would do that?"

"Most wouldn't," said the magician, chuckling. "But I could think of one or two who would find it fair sport."

Farthing skirted around the idea that throwing anything at Weasel would be considered fair sport by most people, whether he was on a mountain or not. He was still feeling bruised by his poisoning, though a lot better than he felt that he should be after such an ordeal. He was aware that Weasel had played a part in his salvation, but he didn't really understand how.

"I gather I owe you thanks, Weasel. Fren-Eirol tells me you saved my life."

"I merely hung onto your life for a day or so. Mab-Tok and his revolting purge did most of the lifesaving, to be honest, and if Fren-Eirol hadn't flown all night without stopping, there wouldn't have been anything to save."

Farthing thought through what had happened as he scrambled over some loose rocks. "I didn't think she could fly that long while carrying us."

"She can't, or at least not at a sensible altitude. She flew much higher than normal with help from our ugly Scimra friends, so was able to take advantage of the thin air and high winds. She doesn't need to flap up there so much."

"But we, I mean, you and I, can't breathe at that height. She told us that before." None of this was making much sense.

"I know. Mystery, ain't it?" Weasel picked up the pace and marched on up the path.

Farthing shook his head. For a brief moment back at the Shallow Sea, he thought he had a handle on what they were doing and how they were doing it. Now, it had become like wading through treacle. He headed up the mountain after the thin, annoyingly fit magician. How old was this bloke meant to be?

It must have been some time since any humans had climbed the mountain. The path was overgrown in places and was only clearer where the local goat population had appropriated it for their own needs. It was also steep and gravelly, and both men slipped and slid often. Without any discussion, they put a safe distance between them so they didn't slide into each other and had time to warn the one lower down that a rock was coming their way. Weasel led for the first couple of hours at a quick pace, but as the mountain steepened, he slowed down and let Farthing take over for a bit. It was not as if they were going to get lost. It was pretty obvious which way they were going; up.

"The path just zig-zags on this side of the mountain for most of the way," explained Weasel when they stopped for a rest. "The seaward side, the eastern side, is one cliff from top to sea and is impossible to climb, though the goats seem to manage. You'll get a better idea nearer the top as we'll cross around to the far side for the last fifty paces or so. Upwards, that is."

"Do we have to be right at the top?" It struck Farthing that any height would help, it didn't have to be at the summit of this needle-sharp peak.

"I can't feel the boat through the mountain. I need to be facing where they've gone, and I'm confident from the very faint echo I sensed when we flew in, they are continuing towards Bind. That means we'll need to be as high as possible and see over the other side of the mountain. We can only do that at the top."

That at least made some sort of sense, thought Farthing, though how the magician could feel a boat that was hundreds of leagues away would be a mystery forever; of that he was certain.

By the end of the afternoon, they were two-thirds of the way up, and took their rest in a small, stone hut. There had been more of these up the mountain in times gone past, but they had fallen to ruin over the centuries and the winds and rain had removed what had remained.

"We have been lucky," said Weasel, laying out his bed roll on the floor. "There isn't much wind and no mist. These huts are essential when the weather is worse. The trouble is, no one has maintained them for many years and most have gone. Just this one and one on the other path now. Well, I guess it's still there."

"Other path?"

"There's a path up from the very bottom of the mountain starting at a small harbour that dates back to a much earlier time but is abandoned now. It's a difficult climb, and the path is only accessible from the harbour which is in ruins and you cannot moor a boat there. The caretakers are quite happy about that, needless to say, as it undermines their authority to refuse permission."

"Do they do that? Refuse, I mean."

"I'm sure Bren-Diath will set a trend."

"You don't sound like you have much time for dragon politics." Farthing had noted the slightly sarcastic edge to Weasel's opinions about the dragons at Taken.

"Well, to be fair to me, most dragons don't have time for dragon politics either. It's a pointless exercise since not only do they not recognise borders, they have no concept of the idea of an independent country. They don't even have a word for nation in their language."

"But you call Fren-Eirol a queen; doesn't that have to mean you are the queen of something?"

"It has a different twist. When dragons pair, they don't call it marriage. The Bren and Fren they adopt, loosely translate into our language of Adelan as king and queen, but the meaning is more like husband and wife. A dragon's name carries a lot more power than a title. Bren-Aneirin, Fren-Eirol's pairing, was highly respected throughout dragondom, and both he and Fren-Eirol helped to smooth many problems between the dragons, the humans, and the callistons. Just being part of that history carries a lot of weight. They were also the ones who encouraged the sea dragons to keep their relationships going with coastal humans. Interesting considering Bren-Aneirin was a red mountain dragon."

"I don't think I've seen a red mountain dragon. Were there any on the Catre Sarad?" Farthing was enjoying this conversation because it took his mind off Rusty, though that also made him feel a little guilty. Her fate weighed heavily on him, and as they had climbed, his mood had darkened. Talking about dragons dragged him out of it. The stories felt like those told to children. "Red dragons are much bigger, aren't they?"

"Fren-Eirol is unusually large for a sea dragon, male or female, but most red dragons are much bigger than her. Aneirin was more than twice her size." Weasel had a faraway look as he remembered the long-dead dragon.

"He was your friend, wasn't he?" Farthing knew the answer but was interested.

"We were young together," said Weasel absently.

"How can that be? I thought he was old when he died?"

"Old, but not old for a dragon. Bren-Diath is older. I was born in Tepid Lakes, but I got out of there as soon as I could fend for myself and headed to the mines in the mountains for work. Mab-Aneirin's father was involved in one of the mines. It was about as near as any dragon got to owning anything land shaped and very unusual."

"Mab? Son of?"

"Vaguely. Really, it just means male. Be is for female. The male dragons of a line used to have this habit of using the same name again and again. Bloody confusing to be honest, especially since they are so long-lived you can have several generations going at the same time. Mind you, it's rare for a male to have a child for the first few hundred years, so that helps. I'm not sure many do it now. Dragons are not family minded like humans. Female dragons are given individual names. They are generally a lot more sensible than males. But then, I see that in humans too."

"You talk as if you are not a human!" Farthing laughed a little and tried to get more comfortable on the stone floor of the hut.

"Well, there is some debate about that, to be honest." Weasel looked thoughtful as if judging how much to say. "You've heard the stories about humans not being from Dirt?"

"Yeah, loads of them. Some say we fell out with a god who kicked us off our own world, others that we were created because of some argument between gods who wanted to upset the people here. Another I remember was there were two worlds and we were from the other one, but it was destroyed and we came here, though I can't see how we did that. I have also heard it was the dragons who came to Dirt and the humans are the natives."

"That is what Oran Helting who founded the Church of the True believed," said Weasel. "But all the stories have one thing in common; none of them talk about magicians. Assuming none of the stories are actually true, but all may have the tiniest grain of truth in them somewhere, where is the magic? Where are people like me who can do things like tracking your sister?"

"I still don't understand how you can do that."

"And that is the point, I suppose. I don't understand why you can't. Two things about me are different from you. You can't do things with your mind like I can, and you are utterly incapable of living anywhere near the length of time I can, allowing for accidents and acts of violence. Both of those things are as natural to me as digging a hole is natural to you."

"Oh, you heard about that then."

"Geezen went into some detail, yes. I think that's why she's so keen for you to get back."

"Oh, really?"

"No, of course not!"

Farthing laughed at the joke. Maybe Weasel was not so bad after all. Still irritating, however. He had also noticed the magician seemed to have more than one trick up his sleeve. Farthing would not pretend for a moment he was any sort of expert on magicians, but it was common knowledge that those with many talents were exceedingly rare, in fact, more legend than anything else. They were also highly distrusted, for some reason he could not remember, but he felt it better not to pursue that conversation. He gave up trying to get comfortable, stood back up and pushed open the wooden shutter of the one window.

"How long will it take us to get to the top?" The mountain had noticeably narrowed, and, from what he could see, the path was much steeper.

"The next stretch is the worst, more of a climb really. You will wish you were a goat by lunchtime tomorrow. Then we'll have to make our way along a narrow ledge to reach the eastern face. The final path, though steep, is much easier and very short. Some kind fool cut steps into the rock for the last few paces, so it's little more than climbing stairs; the drop is a lot more spectacular, though." Weasel sounded almost pleased at the sheer danger of it all.

"After that?"

"Then you make yourself as comfortable as possible and rest while I try and find your sister."

"Rest? Why?"

"Because you'll have to lead us back down to this hut. I'll only just be able to walk, I reckon."

Farthing looked down at the magician who had his eyes shut. "Thanks."

"Get to sleep. We'll start the climb before the sun is up." And with that, Weasel rolled over and went to sleep.

Farthing woke with a start and shook his head. It had taken an eternity to get to sleep the night before. His mind was a whirl of ancient dragons and his missing sister, but he had slept eventually. The magician's bedroll was already tied up and Weasel had stored it on top of a high shelf. They would not need most of their belongings for the final climb, though Farthing would carry food for both of them. Farthing stowed his own gear and joined Weasel outside where he was drinking from a small spring.

"That kept me awake for ages," grumbled Farthing, remembering the continuous trickling sound from the night before that had complicated his already restless thoughts.

"I will tell Bren-Diath to turn it off for you next time," muttered the magician between swallows. "Can you refill our water? This is the last spring on the climb; none at the top."

Farthing filled their skins and the two men headed straight off up the steep path, munching on some oat biscuits. Weasel was right about this first part of the climb. The path started out as a small trail between random gorse bushes, and then quite simply turned vertical. It was not just steep, they had to scramble up the side of the mountain hanging on with their hands most of the time. Farthing was the bigger and the stronger of the two men, but this was no advantage here. Weasel's light frame gave him a lot less to carry and he almost wriggled up the steep path. It was still in semi-darkness too. The sun rose on the far side of the mountain and they were in the shade until it climbed higher. Conversation vanished while each of them worried about their own progress, but by late morning they had reached the path to the ledge and Weasel suggested they rest.

"We will wait here for half an hour," he said. "The ledge is really narrow and it's not the place to be if your heart is racing from the climb."

Farthing didn't object as his own heart was beating like a demented drummer, partly from the climb and partly from the thinner air. It was easy to forget the hall and concourse from where they had started were already a couple of thousand feet up from sea level, and they had just added another couple of thousand to the tally.

Here, he felt he was up with the clouds. Down below, he could see the apron of land jutting out from the mountain and the tiny buildings that made up Taken Town. Weasel pointed to the distant harbour.

"When we get back down again, we'll go visit the town. Fren-Eirol and Mab-Tok won't be back yet and I really don't want to be hanging around with the dragon mob while they are still acting shocked at our mode of arrival. Fren-Eirol will know how to find us."

Farthing had only just started to grasp how significant flying with Fren-Eirol had been. He had grown up with the idea that dragons did not carry humans, but it was just how things were and not of any importance. Here at Taken, however, it was treated as a major event, and that had come as a surprise.

Hearts suitably calmed down, the magician and the young man made their way along the ledge. It wasn't as bad as Farthing had imagined, but it was narrow and the drop to his right was steep and deadly. He doubted he would stop before he hit the bottom, though he would probably bounce a couple of times on the way down. A distant, forlorn cry made him look up and he had to steady himself as his body lost its sense of balance. High above, Farthing saw the thin, curved shapes of the scimra flying to some unknown destination. Before their journey, he had never noticed the birds. Maybe they didn't fly over the mainland so had simply not been there to notice, or perhaps in his small world back in Wead-Wodder, a person never looked high enough to see much beyond what they had to contend with day in and day out.

It had not been that many days since he had left the town of his birth, but already it felt distant and strange. Other than a couple of short trips up the banks of the river Wead on foot, and the time he played at being a fisherman, he had never left the town for any length of time. Had his world really been so small? He supposed it had. And then, wasn't it the same for all those like him at the bottom of the pile? Truk might have made it as a trader, but for every one of Truk, there were several hundred like Fennerpop, pushing dirt in a rickety old cart till one day you keeled over and your ashes were scattered over the very dirt you had spent your life shifting. It was an inevitability of life in Redust that never changed, and that troubled Farthing.

Weasel had disappeared around a turn in the exposed path, and Farthing edged along after him. The path widened out a little here, ran horizontally for a short distance, and then up the eastern face of the peak. Looking down cautiously, Farthing could see what the magician had meant. The cliff was sheer and featureless with little in the way of handholds or places to climb. Despite that, and to Farthing's complete astonishment, scattered over the cliff face was a handful of small, sturdy mountain goats.

"Amazing creatures," called out Weasel. "They have these really sharp, pointed hooves which they can fit into any tiny crack in the rock and are incredibly strong. They must be the most sure-footed creature on Dirt."

It was much windier here than on the western slope, and yet it seemed to hardly worry the tough mountain goats. Farthing made his way up to where Weasel waited and raised his voice against the buffeting wind.

"Why have they built the path on this side?" It seemed an odd thing to do since it was steeper than the west.

"They didn't. This is a natural crack in the rock, and they have just cut out steps to make it easier to use. Someone did try and cut a path up the west slope, but the rocks there are not very stable, and it kept breaking up. This was the better option."

"How the hell do you know all this stuff, Weasel? This path has to be older than you!"

The magician laughed. "Oh, thousands of years older, but when I get bored, I listen to people. Eventually, given enough time, you learn quite a lot."

Farthing saw the logic, but you would have to live several lifetimes to gain all the knowledge the magician seemed to own. Then again, Weasel had lived a lot of lifetimes by Farthing's reckoning.

"It's just up this path now," continued the magician. "At the top, there's a large flat area." He clambered up the steep but well-cut steps, Farthing on his heels.

At the summit, it was like another world. Suddenly, the rough rockiness disappeared, and instead, the flat ground was covered with very short, goat-mown grass and assorted mosses, and small, tough bushes. Farthing turned slowly, taking in the view. Meindir Gydaynis, Mount Taken, might not be the highest mountain in the world by many thousands of feet, but its position was unique. On every side, as far as the eye could see, was water. He could not see the rest of the island from where he stood, just the top of the mountain, and they could have been flying again. It was simply magnificent. A short, annoyed bleat announced the arrival of a small, angry-faced white goat. Its slightly tilted head and intense glare said it all. "What are you doing on my mountain?"

Farthing chuckled. "I think both humans and dragons have the true ownership of this rock entirely wrong."

Weasel looked up from where he was making himself comfortable on a small patch of soft grass. "You are probably right at that. Goats don't need to make up stories to justify why they are here. They just are." He smiled at the goat. "Go and chat to the goat for a while. Hopefully, this will not take too long, but I need to concentrate."

Farthing wandered off to see if the goat wanted to fight for ownership of the rock, but the creature had said his peace and was now getting down to some serious grazing. "Not a bad thought at that," said Farthing to himself, and sat down to chew some of the tough bread they had brought up with them.

Magic is an odd thing if it is really a thing at all, thought Farthing. Magicians generally got a rough ride, but when he watched Weasel supposedly doing something magical, it was the most unspectacular of events. The magician just went very quiet, very still, and frowned a lot. Then, after about half an hour, he simply fell over. Farthing reacted by doing nothing. It wasn't a dramatic fall or accompanied by any cry or other noise; Weasel just slumped over in silence. Farthing shook away his inactivity, leapt up, and rushed over to the magician.

"Weasel!" He rolled the man over onto his back, but he was out cold. "Weasel," he repeated, shaking him. Nothing. Not a groan, not a twitch. If he hadn't had been breathing, Farthing would have thought him dead. The goat wandered over and looked at Weasel then up at Farthing.

"Is he dead?" the goat seemed to ask.

Farthing looked out east. The sun was now lower in the sky and a huge bank of angry clouds was making its way to Taken at a pace. The wind had picked up and there was already a damp, electric feel to the air.

"Sorry, Mr Goat, but we aren't built for this weather."

Farthing tried to wake the magician again, and the goat joined in with some random bleats, but nothing worked. The young man thought through his choices. They could wait out the storm up here or he could try to carry the magician down. Up here was flat, but there was no shelter and the storm looked dangerous. The path had better shelter, but it was narrow, and the fall would kill them.

"What do I do?" Farthing asked himself and the goat. The small goat bleated once again, looked towards the clouds, scampered to the path, and disappeared. Farthing sighed. "That answers that then, Mr Goat. If you're not prepared to stay up here, this is no place for us either." With a grunt, Farthing lifted the magician and slung him over his shoulders. He was surprisingly light, even for his thin frame, and Farthing wondered how well the man had been eating over the last however many years. Still, for the moment, being light was perfect. Farthing pulled a short rope from his bag and secured the magician so he had his own hands free, then headed down the path.

The steps were awkward, but since they were cut into a natural cleft in the cliff, he effectively had a low wall between him and the sudden drop. Farthing could step down without too much difficulty, though on some of the steeper steps he about turned and climbed down backwards. The clouds rolled closer, growing blacker and more threatening. Misty finger-like curtains of rain brushed the sea, illuminated by the sun slowly setting in the west. He had to be off the ledge before the rainstorm reached the mountain and the path became dangerously slippery. Farthing pulled the magician tightly to him with his left arm, put his right hand out against the cliff wall, and marched purposefully along the ledge.

At the turn that led back around to the western flank of the mountain, he hesitated. He hadn't appreciated how narrow the path was at this point on the way up. As he tried to navigate the turn, he felt the weight of Weasel's body pull him out from the cliff face. He backed up quickly. The magician was still comatose so he was going to have to carry him. He turned to face the cliff and edged his way along to the corner. The path became narrower still, and he pushed his face and chest as flat against the rock wall as possible, moving inch by unsteady inch. Slowly, he walked around the sharp corner and stepped quickly onto the path beyond. For a moment, he swayed as he lost contact with the wall and automatically put his arm out away from the cliff to balance himself. Wrong! Farthing realised his mistake, snatched his arm in, and leant back against the rocks, his heart banging in his ears. A few drops of rain dripped onto the ledge. The goat appeared just ahead of him and bleated.

"I know, I have to hurry!" called out Farthing. The small, sure-footed animal scampered farther along the ledge. "I wish I had your feet, Mr Goat."

Farthing took a deep breath and pushed on. There were no dangerous turns now and the rock wall wasn't as vertical, but the path was narrow, and the rain was building. Farthing pushed thoughts of height, wind, and rain from his head and concentrated on his feet while keeping his right hand always on the rock wall.

By the time he was back on the west flank of the mountain, the wind was gusting around the peak and the drip-drip had turned into a misty rain. The storm was coming in fast now, and he could see and hear lightning dancing within the clouds. Faced with a choice of whether to attempt the steep path to the hut or wait out the storm here, he looked for the small goat, but couldn't find it. Farthing adjusted the still unconscious Weasel on his back and was just about to start backwards down the path when he heard the goat from some way ahead. Where was he? He peered through the mist and saw a faint white shape fidgeting with impatience a little way around the mountain, away from the path.

"You can go places I can't, Mr Goat," Farthing shouted. "You better not be leading me the wrong way." Shaking his head in worry, he marched over to where the goat waited. As he blinked in the wind and rain the goat disappeared, just dropping off the side of the mountain. Farthing nearly turned around on the spot, but wanting to trust the goat, he gingerly peeked over the edge. There, about eight feet down, was a better path leading off at a gentle angle. It looked like another cleft like the one that ran up to the summit, and though it hadn't been worked on, it was more sheltered than the path they had come up by, and the rain was getting heavier.

An eight-foot drop on a steep mountain in the wind and rain is difficult at the best of times, but carrying another person, it is almost impossible. Farthing somehow had to get Weasel down first. He untied the unconscious man and laid him on the edge. If the drop had been smaller, he could have jumped down and pulled the magician after him, but it was too high for that and he risked falling backwards off the path. The only alternative was to lower him. Farthing tied the rope around the magician's legs and feet.

"Sorry, Weasel, but your legs are stronger."

Then, very gently, he pushed the small man off the ledge, and, straining with the load, lowered him headfirst down onto the lower path. Right at the last moment, a huge lightning blast cracked above him, and he banged the magicians head against a rock.

"Oh, that had to have hurt! Sorry."

The rain poured down in earnest now, the wind whipping the water into vicious little dancers. Farthing lowered himself off the edge, accidentally treading on the magician's face in the process.

"Sorry again!" The goat waited along the path and seemed to be laughing at the slapstick-awkwardness of the humans. "I know, I'm coming," said the young man irritably. He picked up Weasel, slung him over a shoulder, and marched after the goat.

The path was not entirely free of obstacles. Several times Farthing had to slide down steep slopes on his belly, pulling Weasel after him, but it was far less of a climb than the other path would have been. By the time the hut came into view, the wind was howling, and Farthing could hardly see through the rain. When he reached the door, he turned to look for the goat, but the small animal had already run off down the mountain by routes that were very definitely goat only. He smiled in thanks to the tough little creatures who owned this rock spire, and he pushed through the door into the hut.

"How long have I been out?" asked Weasel later. Farthing had shut the door tightly, and, using some of the tough gorses from around the back of the hut, had managed to get a small fire going that took away the cold from the storm raging outside.

"Several hours," answered Farthing.

"How did we get here?"

"I carried you." Farthing opened the door slightly. The rain was still pouring down, but it was beginning to get lighter and it would pass soon.

"Why did you do that?" The magician was still not fully conscious and looked like he was struggling with reality.

"A goat told me to."

"Huh? What?"

"Forget it. Did you find the boat?" Farthing had been desperate to ask whether the magician had achieved anything or if it had been a waste of time. Weasel rubbed his temples.

"Yes, I did. Well I found its trail and I know roughly where it's heading, but it's a long way ahead of us and I couldn't pin it down accurately." Farthing slumped onto the floor. At least the boat and Rusty were still out there, but he had hoped for more. Weasel peeked at the young man from under an aching brow. "It's a good start, Farthing, and maybe a little more than I thought I would get. I know enough to probably mark an area out on a map. What we need to do now is find someone who can tell us what is there. But first..."

Suddenly the magician jumped to his feet and shot out of the door. From outside, Farthing heard the sound of retching. When Weasel staggered back in, Farthing handed him one of the waterskins. The magician took a long swig, gulping thirstily.

"But first," he continued, "I must sleep." And with that, he collapsed onto his bedroll. "Oh, my head," he said as he slowly passed out. "Why is my head hurting so much?"

Farthing shrugged, innocently.

# Chapter 8 – Plans

The journey down from the hut to the Neuath took less than a day, but it was not until the following day they reached the outskirts of the small trader port, Taken Town. Where the base of the mountain merged into the foothills, the island changed dramatically. Set against the towering rock above, the plain was gently rural, and the few residents lived in tiny farming communities, the fields separated by low drystone walls and trees. It wasn't as flat as it had looked from the mountain, the gentle hilliness just enough to protect the land from the sea winds and storms. It was an unfamiliar landscape for Farthing who had been brought up in the dusty world of Wead-Wodder, but for Weasel it was very much closer to his native home of Tepid Lakes. By the time they reached the harbour, the spring had returned to the magician's gait, despite still suffering the after-effects of his search for the boat and nursing a mysterious boot-shaped bruise on his face.

"I haven't been here for a long time," said Weasel as they walked along between the lines of fishing baskets and piles of freight waiting to be loaded onto boats. "I haven't the foggiest who is who anymore which won't help. Just to make it a little more complicated, I don't think I know the part of Bind where your sister's boat was heading, so we're starting from scratch. Ah, in here."

The shop, like most of the buildings along the sea front, was a substantial stone structure with small windows that probably dated back hundreds of years. The building was much deeper than it was wide and was stuffed with boating paraphernalia, fishing equipment, and wooden racks of charts. Not much light penetrated this man-made cave, and illumination was from glowing lamps fuelled with whale oil; smelly, but a satisfactory light. Weasel headed over to a large counter that had a huge map varnished into the surface. He pointed to the middle of the map.

"This is Taken, this is Wead-Wodder." He pointed over to the west. "And this is where I think they are going." He waved his hand over an area of Bind that lay many leagues to the north-east of Taken. "It looks like it's mostly desert over there, but I don't know the area at all. I couldn't even tell you what it's called."

"Bind?" suggested Farthing.

"That is just what we call the entire continent. No, I mean the particular region. This is who we need."

A small, round, balding man wearing a thick woollen jumper appeared from the back of the shop carrying a bundle of maps under his arm.

"These be what yers be needings, gentlemens," he said in a characteristically nautical accent, and dumped the pile on the desk. Farthing and Weasel stared at the man, wondering what magic this odd person possessed. He merely pointed up. "Mirrors, sirs, mirrors. Any gentlemans looksing for a maps comes to this here desks and starts pointings all over the place. I can normally works out which one of those points is the important points without having to shift my arses from my comfy chair."

Farthing considered that the arses referred to had probably avoided a work out more often than was healthy. Weasel began looking through the maps.

"What is this region called?" He had unrolled a detail of the area he was interested in, but it was worryingly devoid of markings.

"That be part of Jerr-Vone, sir," said the balding map-maker. "Ain't much theres or weren't whens this was mades."

"When was this mades then?"

"By my fathers, methinks, kind sirs. So, fifties years?"

"So, there could be something there now?" Weasel was looking a little irritated, but mostly hiding it.

"Coulds be, coulds be. I ain't beens and if no persons don't tell me no things then no things will get drawn, will its?"

Farthing added up the negatives, decided there was actually the right number, and nodded. "Anyone else have more details?" he asked.

"Maybes. Maybes not. What times would you have?"

"Just after lunch," said Weasel.

"I means, what times of years is it, sir?"

"Summers, I mean Summer," said Weasel.

"Then yes. Another elses will knows. He's in the Pub by the Waters. Cants miss hims, he gots the blight in one eyes."

"Which pub?" asked Weasel.

"The Pub by the Waters; it's what's it's called, and it be a fine place selling fine stouts!" The bald man rolled up the maps. "You be wantings any of these rights aways gentlemen?"

"If we can find out what we need, then yes, but we might need you to mark them up."

"Fairs enough. Thats I can do for you once I know whats needs markings. No one goes much to Jerr-Vone, so no one much is going to be asking for these. They be still heres when you returns. Have a fine days, sirs!" He grabbed his maps and vanished back into wherever his comfy chair lived without another word.

"Pub by the Waters?" asked Farthing.

"Well, not by this water," said Weasel as they left the smell of whale oil behind. "All these inns are called the regular seafaring names." And they were. Sailmaker's Tavern, The Old Gull, Galley Ho, they were all there. "Let's get back into the town proper."

The Pub by the Waters turned out to be a tiny inn next to a large stream, about half a league outside of the port in a small hamlet of farmhouses and a couple of workshops. Inside, it was as un-seafaring as you could imagine and looked like the typical farm inn found throughout all rural communities that like their beer, just scaled down.

"Everything is really small here," commented the tall Farthing, ducking his head to go into the common room. It was nothing more than a room with two tables, a couple of benches and a bar that was only long enough to allow for two stools.

"There's not enough of us to make it bigger, gentlemen," said a large, grey-bearded man, appearing from somewhere beyond the bar. "Many of us come from other lands and like our ways, but most of the community are not permanent, so we have just what we need and do other jobs to make up the difference. I'm the blacksmith too and I go out on the whalers as a hand if I must." He reached over the bar and shook both their hands. "Mr Jipperson is the name, and my stout is the best around if you want to try some."

Farthing smiled and pulled up a stool. Suddenly he felt exhausted. Weasel gave him a studied look.

"Four stouts, Mr Jipperson, if you please," said Weasel, breaking his promise to Fren-Eirol. "One for Mr Farthing here, one for your kindly self, one for me, Mr Weasel, and one for your other guest, a gentleman with a bad eye we have been referred to by the map-maker near the harbour."

"You would be wanting my brother, then, and he would prefer rum if I know him at all. One moment please." The friendly landlord of the inn vanished around the corner of the bar. "Mr Jipperson?" he called in a huge voice.

"Yes, Mr Jipperson?" came a distant reply.

"Some gentlemen would like to purchase a rum for yourself. Are you able?"

"Aye, Mr Jipperson, I am able and will be down on decks before the bell."

"He will be down in about ten minutes, Mr Weasel and Mr Farthing. He has been at sea for the last year and has not adjusted yet. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?"

Weasel had been noting the way Farthing was slumping forward onto the bar.

"You have rooms here, Mr Jipperson?"

"I have. Two that are free and clean."

"Then we will take them both, sir."

"A pleasure, Mr Weasel. I will just pour your stout, then I will see to them immediately." Jipperson the elder, as it would emerge he was, poured three stouts and a rum and lined them up on the bar. "There you go, Mr Weasel. By the way, would you like me to fetch some liniment for that bruise on your face? It looks remarkably like a boot mark if I am not mistaken."

Weasel and Farthing sat at one of the small tables by the fire and supped the excellent stout while Weasel rubbed his face.

"How far did you carry me?" he asked Farthing. The young man had a distant look.

"All the way down. I was telling the truth about the goat, by the way. That small goat we met at the top led me down by a safer path. Well, a bit safer."

"And my face?"

"I trod on it by accident when I was lowering you off a ledge." Weasel looked surprised, then puzzled, and then, as he rubbed a sore ankle, he finally worked it out.

"You lowered me head first."

"Your legs are stronger than your arms," said Farthing. "I trod on your face when I climbed down the ledge, just after I had banged your head against a rock."

Weasel nodded as various unexpected injuries were explained. He sipped his stout and thought through the episode a little more.

"Now I understand why you're out on your feet, Farthing, and you're still getting over that onga sting. I owe you. Thanks."

Farthing just nodded. He was too tired to do much else.

"Gentlemen?" A very short, bandy-legged man in his middle years with a thin red scar down the left side of his face and a damaged eye, swayed into the bar, grabbed his rum, and sat at the table. "My apologies, gentlemen, but I am still trying to calm this island under my feet. She is a tempestuous lass, it would seem." He grinned broadly. "Now, what can Mr Jipperson the younger do for you?" He held out his hand and they both took it briefly and introduced themselves.

Farthing wondered whether anyone around here actually used or even owned first names. Weasel pulled out a piece of paper and roughly sketched the Prelates Sea and the Isle of Taken. He then made a mark to the north-east.

"I am told by the map-maker at the harbour that this is part of Jerr-Vone, but his maps show it as empty. He said you might be able to fill in some details."

The younger Jipperson frowned. "Well, not by a lot, I think. That area is almost all desert right down to the sea. Nobody lives there cos there is no fresh water. At least most of the year there ain't."

"What do you mean most of the year?" asked Farthing.

"Well, once a year the rains from the inland mountains build up and it's enough to create a river down through the desert that eventually empties into the sea. It only lasts about a month or so, but for that time, either side of the river, plants pop up and even grass. It looks like a miracle, apparently, though I have never seen it myself. Why you be asking?"

Farthing looked at Weasel, not sure what he should say.

"We are looking for some thieves and we heard they were heading there," said Weasel carefully. The short seaman fixed him with his good eye.

"Well, if they be heading to Jerr-Vone, then they be thieves of people." Weasel, caught out by the directness, nodded. "Once a year, as that river springs up to life, an illegal slavers market is held on the sands about five leagues upriver from the coast. Been going these last ten years by my reckoning. It lasts the whole time the river remains."

"Slavery is legal in parts of Bind," commented Weasel. "How is this illegal?"

"Oh, in several ways," explained Jipperson. "Firstly, in those places that have slavery they can only be slaves for a fixed length of time, and then they have to be freed. Also, they have to be treated right. More importantly, you can't just make anyone a slave, it has to be for something like a payment of debt or something. Not that any of that makes it right, if you ask me. A man's life is his and no one else's my people think."

"Where do you come from?" asked Farthing.

"My brother and me are from the Ices, Mr Farthing. A rare place and a cold place up north at the land bridge between the two continents, but hard as it is, it's also a fair place." He staggered to his feet and wandered over to the bar. "Mr Jipperson?" he called.

"Yes, Mr Jipperson?"

"A refill if you please, on our tab!"

"Indeed, Mr Jipperson. Be there presently."

"So," said Jipperson the younger, sitting back down at the table. "There is a legal way of being a slave. What is not legal is to just grab someone and sell them to someone else for life, and that is what happens in the desert. These slavers come from all parts of the Yonder Sea. Yes, I know you call it the Prelates Sea, Mr Farthing, but I am not from the Prelates. They grab anyone they think will make them money and they set up shop during the river time and sell what they can."

"And that is the biggest shame of it all," said Mr Jipperson the elder, as he joined them at the table with a large jug of stout, a bottle of rum, and some hot pig's skin crackling in a bowl. "Cos any they don't sell just gets left in the desert." The table fell silent and Farthing's expression changed from tired to dark and angry. The older man looked at him carefully. "Someone you know that you be chasing, sir?"

"My sister."

The Jippersons looked at each other. "Then you have a big problem, Mr Farthing," said the younger. "You need to get there as soon as you can. Have you a boat?"

"We have transport," said Weasel, a bit evasively. "What we need to know is where we are going."

"How good is your navigation?" asked Jipperson.

"Very good."

"Fine. Then, first thing, I will come down to the map-makers and mark up a chart. I can mark the tides and the winds too if that will help."

"The winds would help a lot," said Weasel.

"Where are you from, Mr Farthing?" The older of the Jipperson brothers poured Farthing another stout.

"Redust. My sister worked at the Prelate's palace. She and the Prelate's daughter were taken about nine days ago. We've been chasing them, but-"

"Nine days?" interrupted the younger Jipperson. "How did you manage to get from Redust to here so fast? And, for that matter, if you are well behind the boat with your sister, how in hells did that get past us here so quick?"

Weasel glared at Farthing. "I think they have a wind talker on board. We have been hard-pressed to catch them."

"Especially without a boat, Mr Weasel." The older Mr Jipperson was grinning. "So, there has been this story coming down from the mountain in the last couple of days about the dragons up there being all in a mood because one of their kind has been carrying humans! Well now, a good bit of gossip is just a bit of gossip and means nothing much unless the truth of it turns up at your inn asking for directions."

Weasel grimaced. It was not first time he had been outsmarted by a landlord and would probably not be the last.

"Mr Jipperson, Mr Jipperson," he addressed both brothers. "You have found us out." He smiled politely. "But the truth is still we believe a slaver has this lad's sister and we have to get to Bind before she is sold."

The smiles fell from the brother's faces.

"Indeed, you do," said the elder. "And you will not do it if don't have what you need. When do you leave?"

"We are waiting for our friends to get back, possibly tomorrow, though perhaps the next day if they were caught by the storm."

"Well, my brother can get your charts sorted out and can tell you where to go to get provisioned without being fleeced in the process. Us out on the plain are honest enough folk, but the traders at the harbour have their own ways."

"In the meantime," added the younger brother, "I suggest you both get rest. I do not envy your journey or what you may find the other end."

Farthing sat at the end of the rough simple bed feeling lost. For the last few days, he had pushed the thought that his sister had been captured by slavers to the back of his mind, hoping there was some other explanation for her disappearance. Now, it seemed the worst of his imaginations had come true. Not only was she enslaved, but had been taken by slavers working illegally, and was to be sold to some person who had no qualms about buying slaves from an illegal market in the middle of a desert. How had this happened? It was crazy. It would have been more understandable had she been grabbed from a backstreet somewhere, though slavery was illegal in the Prelates. But to be taken from the Prelate's island palace? Along with the daughter? It was almost inconceivable.

Slipping on his boots and coat, Farthing made his way quietly out into the lane and leant against the wall of the small bridge that crossed the stream. The trickle of water was somehow calming. This island was small in so many ways, at least at the level of the town. Even his room was small, and having slept out in the open or under canvas for the last few days, it felt claustrophobic.

"I like it out here." The younger Mr Jipperson stepped from the darkness and leant on the wall next to Farthing. "At sea, I am only below deck when I'm sleeping. I'm a tillerman, you see, and my life is either at the rudder or checking the line of the sails or navigating by the stars. I even eat out on deck. So, when I get back home, it takes me quite a few days to get used to our small house again. By the time that happens, I'm looking for another ship."

"Have you always been at sea?" Farthing welcomed the distraction.

"No, not always. We were hunters up north. We would travel up to the ice and snowfields with the dogs. We would spend weeks out on the tundra pushing up towards Hoar North, or as far as we could go without freezing ourselves ridged."

"How did you end up on Taken?"

"A long story that, Mr Farthing, but the short of it is that when the hunting was off, the two of us took to riding the whalers. Then one day, the one we were on got near ripped apart by a storm and we limped in here. The boat wasn't repairable, and the wood was sold for scrap. We were short of money, didn't know much what to do, and were well off route for getting back to the Ices. I managed to get a short trip on a trader who was needing a navigator, so I pooled what money I had with my brother, so he could survive here, and off I went. Well, by the time I got back two months later, my brother had managed to buy this place. It was ruined you see and he got it cheap and was getting the inn up and running. I had a bit of cash left from the trip, so I threw that in and we got it smartened up, the bridge repaired, which had fallen into the stream, and a small smithy opened. My brother had made all the harnesses and sleds for the dogs up at the Ices you see, and he only had to change what he was making, he reckoned, cos he already knew how. Anyway, we were both young, me being a lot younger, and had not started with family, so we stayed. That were thirty year ago now, and we is still here."

Farthing was envious of the two brothers but grateful too. "Have you got family now, Mr Jipperson?"

"No, Mr Farthing. Well, I haven't ever gotten around to it. I like the sea and the more I play with her, the more I like her. Apart from the odd whore, I've never had time to get anything family like going. My brother had a wife many a year ago, but that is an unhappy tale, and I will leave it there. It's just the two of us now. We got a good little business here and all my crew wages just get saved up and never spent. When we get too old to work, we'll sell this place and find something small and private for our last days. All neat and simple."

The two of them stood in silence, listening to the night sounds on this strange island. Taken was just short of six leagues long and only two leagues at its widest. The mountain and foothills took up two leagues of that and the rest of it was the rolling, rural plain. It was just big enough to have some variety when it came to plants and animals, and the small woodlands and little shallow valleys could fool you into believing you were in a far bigger land. Most of the birds seem to be seabirds, though Farthing had recognised a few small species of land birds on the walk down from the mountain. The area that seemed to be the least coastal was where he stood now. He had never seen this sort of small rural community before, but he felt drawn to it. Maybe it was simply because it was sheltered and comforting, and at the moment he felt very exposed and scared.

"Tell me about your sister, Mr Farthing."

The question startled him, and he wasn't quite sure where to start.

"I don't know. She is a couple of years younger than me and smaller. She has always been wisp-like, or that is how our mother described her. She is light and delicate somehow, though she's as strong as anything." Farthing furrowed his brow. "We have lived on our own for ages now since my mum died and my father jumped a passing trader and vanished. Never saw him much before, really. Didn't like him, don't miss him. Neither of us."

"So, you orphans then?"

"Suppose so. I was just a kid when my mum died but was already pushing a cart to earn. Rusty, my sister, was younger. It was hard on her, but we had friends and they made sure we could stay on in the apartment and not end up in the street like many of the kids where we are. We both have jobs of sorts; hers is more reliable than mine being a maid and all. That makes us a lot luckier than others. We're close, though, my sister and me. A bit like you and your brother, I think. We are each other's family. I have no idea whether we have anyone else; no one has ever turned up. The same friends have helped me now."

"The magician you mean?"

"I didn't know him before, but the friends sort of dragged him into this." Something registered with Farthing and he looked at Jipperson. "How did you know he's a magician?"

The short tillerman laughed. "Been at sea a long time I have, Mr Farthing. I recognise the likes of a wave talker when I see one smelling the salty air, especially when they is so rare. Never seen one before and didn't think I ever would, but he is the second one I've heard of recently."

"Two of them? Weasel thought he was the only one."

"Did he now? Well, that is interesting because you see there was a boat through here about a month ago heading west, according to them down the harbour. I saw it about a hundred leagues from here while we were on the hunt. I could see the way it moved, and it definitely had a wave talker on board. I'm not the only one neither. When I sailed in a few days ago, the harbour master was still complaining about it. Apparently, it had sailed out of here some weeks back without paying its mooring fees. The harbour master had been caught out because the boat had sailed out as quickly as anything against the tide. Now that is a trick not even I can pull, and I've been doing this with the best of them for a lot longer than most."

"Can you tell Weasel all this when we go to the harbour in the morning, Mr Jipperson?"

"Course I can."

"Because it will explain why we haven't been able to catch the boat despite being carried by a bloody great big dragon!"

Weasel was quiet as the three of them walked along the small rural track between the drystone walls into Taken Town. The confirmation there was a second wave talker on Dirt did not sit well with the magician. Firstly, unless something was very out of order, this had to be a relative. And secondly, if that were so, then why had he not known they existed, and why were they working for an illegal slaver?

The noise of the small but busy seaport snapped Weasel out of his musing. There was nothing he could do now to discover the identity of this wave talker, so it was not worth worrying about yet.

"You mentioned places where we could stock up, Mr Jipperson."

The small, bandy-legged seaman had found his land legs, and was setting a fair pace to the harbour. "Aye, there are a few friends off the main tack, but I will take you to them once we have this map sorted. Was it Mr Biggerman you saw yesterday?"

"Short fellow, speaks in plurals, and has a way with mirrors?"

"That be him. He and his son run the shop together, but his son has been eying up this lass for the last fifteen years and has been building up the courage to tell her his intentions, so he's not always in attendance."

"Fifteen years?" Farthing was stunned. "I'm not the bravest around women, but I don't think I would take that long."

"You would if she lived five hundred leagues away. Young Mr Biggerman has only met her on three occasions in all that time and he is totally besotted." Mr Jipperson had a wide smirk on his broad face, and Farthing wondered at the truth of the tale. "Here we go, Mr Farthing, Mr Weasel. Biggerman Charts and Sundries. One of the oldest establishments on the quay."

The smell of the whale oil lights wasn't terrible, they were much used in Wead-Wodder too, but the cramped quarters of the map shop did give them an extra piquancy that Farthing could happily have done without. The owner appeared from behind the large chart table when they walked into the shop.

"Mr Jipperson," said the owner formally.

"Mr Biggerman," replied Jipperson the younger. "And I believe you met Mr Farthing and Mr Weasel yesterday."

"Indeed I dids, Mr Jipperson, and sents them to yous and your brother's finest Inns. Gentlemens, welcome backs to me shop, I trusts you founds the stouts to your liking. It's the finest on the isle, tis it."

"It was very fine, Mr Biggerman," replied Weasel with a genuine smile.

Farthing could see the magician was thoroughly enjoying the banter of these people from Taken, and had he had fewer worries he would have enjoyed it more himself. There was an ingrained openness and friendliness, carefully protected by the formal tone of speech and address, that was missing from his young experience. He knew some genuinely good people in Wead-Wodder, but distrust was the flavour of most days. Biggerman pulled out the maps he had shown them the day before from under the chart table.

"I had suspicions that you two gentlemens woulds return, so I kept these handys." He rolled out the chart of the north-west quadrant of the Yonder Sea, as it was named on the map, and a closer detail of the coast of Jerr-Vone.

"Not much marked on here, Mr Biggerman," remarked Jipperson.

"Well, I has hads that signs up on the windows offerings coins for knowledge this pasts forty years, Mr Jipperson, but you seaward fellows never seems to make it pasts the pubs, by which times you has forgottens most of what I needs!"

Jipperson grinned at Mr Biggerman. "Well, maybe I can add a few extra titbits for your charts later, and we can celebrate the event with a drop or two from your father's old bottle of rum, Mr Biggerman."

"Well, we will have to sees abouts thats, Mr Jipperson. It is a reals ancient and rare thing that bottle she is. Anyways, Mr Farthing and Mr Weasel heres do not want to be wallowing in tales of our bottles, so let us to the charts."

From a drawer under the map table, the small man produced a wooden tray with several bottles of ink and assorted quills and nibs. The two men leaned over the chart of the north-east quadrant first, and Jipperson suggested a route that took the best advantage of the winds.

"You will be needing resting places, I assume, gentlemen. Unlike the eastern way you came in, there are a few small islands, though they are not very well known and can be hazardous to a ship if the master is not attentive."

Farthing noticed that Jipperson was gently waltzing around that they were going by air and not by sea. It was probably a good thing, he was coming to realise, as not all places were like Wead-Wodder where people simply ignored those things that didn't get directly in their way.

"Are all these islands normal, Mr Jipperson?" asked Farthing. His experience of islands so far had been rather mixed.

"Normal, Mr Farthing?" Jipperson seemed bemused. "Well, they are not those floating patches of red reed, if that's what you mean, but yes, they are just islands. They ain't going nowhere. Not like the Hidden Isles or anything like that!" He smiled broadly, and Farthing looked surprised. "No, don't fear, the Hidden Isles is an old tale and nothing true to it I reckon."

"You never knows, Mr Jipperson," said Mr Biggerman. "There is rumours, you knows, rumours a plentys for many years."

"Now, don't you be fishing out your old father's stories, Mr Biggerman," Jipperson reprimanded the shopkeeper. "There was more than one reason why his old rum bottle had such a reputation!"

Farthing looked over to Weasel, who very subtly shook his head.

"Now, gentlemen," continued Jipperson. "Let's be adding some detail."

Over the next half an hour, Jipperson worked on the map of the Jerr-Vone coast while the fine hand of Biggerman drew in the tides, the winds, the landmarks, and even the odd whale and maid of the sea. Farthing was fascinated. This small, odd man who had no concept of singular and plural in his speech, had the mind of an artist, and the plain map danced into life before his eyes. Weasel leant forward and whispered in Farthing's ear.

"Watch carefully, for that is true magic, in my mind."

Once again, another layer of the complex man rose to the surface. Despite an underlying wariness, Farthing knew he was growing to like Weasel.

Charts finished, Weasel settled with Mr Biggerman, and the maps were folded into a light, waterproof, canvas map bag which Weasel tossed to Farthing. A few friendly formalities later and the three made their way to a provisioner that dealt with the Jipperson brothers and who gave them an honest deal, agreeing to send on their small number of supplies later that day with some pig iron the brothers needed for the smithy.

"It's an odd thing," commented Jipperson as they made their way back out of town. "That mountain is chocked full of iron I reckon, but because of all the claims, we can't touch it, and we have to import it from our old home in the Ices. It's not that we need much of it, but recently we have been making up some iron bracing for some of the larger ships. It's lighter than adding more hardwood beams you see, and the merchantmen are looking for more and more speed."

"How is Fren-Eirol going to find us?" Farthing asked Weasel. He was worried the dragon didn't know where they were.

"She knows I will have headed to an inn because she knows me well," explained Weasel. "But she also knows I won't drag you into the sort of inn that I generally frequent, so that crosses most of the ones from the town off the list."

"On that basis," added Jipperson, "it only really leaves the small village pubs, and there are only three of those."

"Quite, Mr Jipperson," agreed Weasel. "So, taking all that into account she should find us right about-"

"Weasel!" shouted Mab-Tok as he landed nearly on top of them. "I need your help. Fren-Eirol has broken a wing."

"What?" Farthing was dismayed. Suddenly, all their plans were collapsing again.

"Magician, if we can hurry, we can fix it before it becomes a serious problem. She just caught it a few minutes ago. Jump on my back."

"Can you take me?" Weasel had never flown on something so much smaller than a sea dragon.

"Of course, or I wouldn't suggest it. And I don't have the hang-ups of those big lumbering idiots on the hill."

Weasel shrugged, then pulled himself up on the back of the small dragon like a child climbing onto a parent. To Farthing's complete amazement, the Draig Bach-Iachawr jumped into the air and headed straight off as if the magician weighed nothing. He and Jipperson stood watching the dragon disappear into the distance towards the hamlet.

"So, a healer too, your Mr Weasel," said Jipperson thoughtfully. "And a Draig Bach-Iachawr and a Draig Morglas? My, but you have collected together an interesting crew, Mr Farthing." He looked at the young man. "Come on lad," he said in a much less formal tone. "It looks like they be headed for our pub. Suppose we should be hurrying along?"

Farthing nodded, and the two set off up the road.

Fren-Eirol was braced up against a tree with pain in her huge eyes while Weasel held her wingtip and pulled.

"Harder, magician. I have to have it straight!" Mab-Tok spoke sharply, but he knew what he was doing.

"Fren-Eirol," started Farthing.

"Shut up boy!" growled the large sea dragon from between clenched teeth. There was a sickening, snapping sound, and Mab-Tok slapped a wet dressing over the wing bone near the tip.

"Got you!" he shouted with triumph. "Okay, let it go... slowly!"

Weasel gently released the dragon's wing and she sagged against the tree with an audible sigh of relief.

"I haven't done that since I was young," said Fren-Eirol with a note of dismay. Mr Jipperson the elder appeared from the pub with a big pale of what looked like steaming warm water. "Oh, bless you, sir!" exclaimed the dragon, and downed the contents in one gulp. Farthing blinked. He had rather assumed the water was for the wing. "Oh, and that had rum in it too!" A broad smile grew over Fren-Eirol's face. Now it was young Mr Jipperson's turn to look dismayed. He picked up the bucket and sniffed.

"Mr Jipperson," he addressed his older brother, a little more abruptly than usual. "Exactly how many bottles of my rum did you empty into this pale?"

"Not enough for you to fret about, Mr Jipperson," replied the elder brother with a smile. "Just the two."

"Two!" Any pretence at formality disappeared in a flash. "Ronald, if I'm short at the end of the week, you'll be brewing me a new batch personally!"

So, they did have first names, mused Farthing.

"Brother mine, I would never deprive you of your precious tipple. I have three crates in store, just in case."

"Really?" The younger brother looked taken aback. "Well, Mr Jipperson, in which case, the large young lady here can have another to ease the agony."

But the large young lady was already out like a light, her head tilted backwards and her tongue lolling out.

"Strong spirit and dragons are an ill-advised mix," explained Mab-Tok. "Don't get me wrong, we like the taste, but we don't handle it very well. Still, it will help the healing, which is why I suggested it."

Farthing's smile became a frown and he walked over to Mab-Tok. "Thank you, Mab-Tok, but how long will it take to heal?"

"It's not as dramatic as it sounds. What she did was catch the top of the tree, and she has torn a bit of the cartilage. The dressing I've put on will set hard and that means she can fly, with a little care, but we should delay a day, I'm sorry to say."

It wasn't as bad as Farthing had feared. He had worried they had effectively been grounded. The elder Jipperson was looking at the sea dragon with interest. She had slowly slid off the side of the tree and was lying on the ground belly up. Weasel took some of her cloths from the bag she had brought back and pulled them over the dragon.

"Will she be alright, Mr Weasel?"

"She will be fine, Mr Jipperson," said Weasel to the older man. "Her headache should take her mind off the broken wing," he added with a grin. "And not wishing to leave her feeling like an exception in the morning, shall we adjourn to your outside tables? Mr Jipperson, would you oblige us with some flagons of your finest stout?"

"It would be an honour, Mr Weasel," exclaimed the older Jipperson as he, Weasel, and the younger Mr Jipperson headed to the pub.

Mab-Tok pulled Farthing aside quietly. "I hope you don't mind, but I've persuaded Fren-Eirol to allow me to accompany you to Bind if that is where we are headed. I have reasons to leave this isle, and I would welcome travelling with people I know."

"You have been very helpful, beyond any agreed fee, I imagine, so I am happy with that. However, I should point out where we are going is desolate and far from friendly."

The small dragon looked amused. "Well, that sounds interesting. I have a fondness for desolate. However, I need some of my own things, and I have a replacement bag that Fren-Eirol can use. Her other bag suffered storm damage while it was back at the Shallow Sea. So, if you don't mind, I will forgo the stout tonight, but I'll be back later in the morning." The small dragon jumped quietly into the air and disappeared towards the mountain. Farthing watched him go with a touch of a frown. He was an interesting character, but he was irritating to a level that made Weasel appear positively homely.

"Don't worry, young man," said a slightly slurred and rather quiet voice. "I will keep an eye on him and he may be useful, but you are right to be a little distrustful of him, I think." Farthing turned to thank the dragon, but her head finally slipped off the trunk and landed on the ground with an audible thump. Farthing winced, but the dragon simply groaned once and started to snore.

# Chapter 9 – Sand in the Wings

Farthing sat on the soft sand and watched the sea wash in towards him, each wave making that little more progress towards his toes. The journey across from Taken had been uneventful but hard, especially on the two dragons who were now lying in the dunes a few hundred paces inland, sleeping. They had decided to rest an extra day, taking advantage of a small, temporary, freshwater stream, which flowed out from the desert. Another day of frustration, as far as Farthing was concerned. Another day when his sister would get even farther away.

"Of course, Mr Farthing," said Weasel, sitting down next to the young man. "Now they are on land, they'll be traveling at a normal pace, whereas we'll still be flying."

Farthing looked sideways at the magician. Since they had left Taken, Weasel had often fallen into the formal patois of Taken Town, much to the annoyance of Fren-Eirol who was not entirely convinced that being known as Mistress Eirol wasn't, in reality, some kind of insult. It had become a little irritating, but Farthing had to admit it had kept the mood optimistic when there were opportunities aplenty for it to fall into despair.

"Are we sure they landed here?" asked Farthing.

"They were on a relatively small craft, if that boat you saw back in Wead-Wodder was indeed the boat I've been tracking, so they could have landed anywhere along from here. I haven't been able to find them yet, but then I'm not sure what I'm looking for."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, originally, I had your description of the small boat. I also knew it had people on board and realised quickly it was moving very fast." Weasel hesitated and then heaped up a small pile of sand with his hands. "If I asked you to follow just one grain of sand in this pile with your eyes, would you be able to do it?"

Farthing looked at the sand and screwed his eyes up. "They all look the same and are minuscule."

"Exactly," said the magician. "Now, if I were to drop this stone on the top." He dropped a tiny stone about the size of a pea on the top of the pile. "Would you be able to follow that?"

Farthing nodded. "It stands out, so it would be easy."

"Now, let's make it difficult again." Weasel scattered another ten or twelve similar stones around the first.

"That is getting harder," commented Farthing. "But if I can make out enough differences between the first stone and the rest, I might be able to do it."

"Well, that is exactly what has happened," explained the magician. "I have trouble finding anything at sea because unlike land, the sea is always moving, just like the thing I am trying to find. Most finders complain it's like looking through a swirling fog and can't find anything. I can actually see through that fog a little, possibly because I've been doing it longer. I've been helped because I know what the boat looks like, or rather, I know what it doesn't look like; it's not a trader like the other boats. So, I can find it by elimination, and it's travelling too fast and not always in the same direction as the stuff around it, the water. Despite that, I did still lose it on the first stretch. As we flew into Taken, I caught a glimpse of the boat's trail, not its wake in the water, but differences it left behind because it had passed through." Farthing looked up questioningly. "It's a bit like knowing someone has been in a room because odd things have changed; a door has been opened, perhaps, or something has been moved slightly."

"Makes sense," said Farthing

"Anyway, I found it again because it was different and now I know it has to have landed somewhere on this coast."

"What do we follow now?"

"Well, that is the problem. We don't know if they are travelling on foot, or whether they were met by someone, or even how many of them there are. As we flew in there were quite a few boats along the coast, and since there is nothing here and the water is shallow enough that the regular coastal traders would be in deeper water, according to Jipperson the younger, I think we can be sure most or all were bound for the market."

"So, we just follow anyone, Mr Weasel? We follow all these little stones?" Farthing poked the sand pile.

"Exactly, Mr Farthing!" Weasel grinned broadly. "We just head to the market following everyone else and then try and find your sister there." His smile faded quickly. "Farthing, the market has been going on for days, you understand, and we are over a week behind. She may have been sold already and is no longer at the market."

Farthing had thought about this on the journey from Taken, and he and Fren-Eirol had already talked about what they would do if Rusty had gone. He tried to ignore the ifs and maybes for the moment; he could only find his sister one step at a time.

"What about Fren-Eirol and Mab-Tok?" asked Farthing. "From what little I know about dragons, which is all learned in the last few days, they would not be seen anywhere near anything like slavery, and they are not going to fit in."

"No, slavery has never been a part of their culture. It's another offshoot of them having no sense of territory, I suppose. Ownership of another person would be a mystery. I think you and I will have to go in alone and they can wait for us somewhere. I'm going to suggest that Mab-Tok does a bit of scouting. He's not as tired as Fren-Eirol and being smaller he doesn't have to fly quite so high to be mistaken for a bird. He has sharp eyesight too."

"Fren-Eirol told me that when they went hunting, he was spotting fish long before her," said Farthing.

The trip over had been made much easier by Jipperson's and Biggerman's stunning cartography. They had found every small island, and Jipperson had made sure that two of them had been big enough to have water. Although neither dragon had wanted to overload themselves with food, at the halfway point they had gone feasting.

"For the moment, the dragons have found themselves shade by a shipwreck," said Weasel. "The dune was too warm, apparently. Not that this is a hot place. We are farther north than Redust, but it feels more exposed to the sun, somehow. So, I suggest we join them, lay up for the day, and set out in the morning."

There wasn't much wind, but it was blowing from inland across the desert plane picking up warmth from the sands. Farthing followed the magician along the coast till they reached where the dragons had camped out. This was one of many wrecks they had seen on their way along the coast when they had reached Jerr-Vone. The beach stretched endlessly in each direction and it was impossible to judge where the sand of the beach ended, and the desert began. It was all but featureless, and Farthing could understand why no one lived here.

"Hold dead still, Farthing!" shouted Weasel in a sharp voice.

Farthing froze. The magician came around in front of him, staring at his feet. Slowly, he reached down to the ground just in front of Farthing's boots, and suddenly plunged his hand into the sand up to his wrist, and pulled out a small, vivid-green snake. Farthing's eyes opened wide.

"How did you know it was there?"

"I saw the sand move just before you stepped forward." Weasel held the snake behind the head and he straightened it out to its length of about two feet. "It's a Sand Wasp. I thought they were only in the south of the Eastern Plains, but then I haven't been here before." Grabbing it firmly by the tail, he whipped it around and threw it into the desert. It landed, wriggled once, and vanished beneath the sand. Farthing let out his breath.

"Thanks. I'm still amazed you saw it."

"Luck, I think. I get a lot of that. Might explain why I'm still breathing." Weasel shrugged once and walked off to the wreck.

The dragons had put up the larger canvas suspended from the side of the wreck of what looked like a medium-sized merchantman. It was mostly a skeleton now, its oaken beams bleached white by the sea and the sand. It could as easily have been bone as wood. With two dragons on the flight, it had been easier to transport the heavier items like the canvas. Farthing had not managed to pry out of Mab-Tok exactly why he was so keen to leave Taken in such a hurry, and why he was going out of his way to travel with them, but he was grateful for his help all the same. It was another mystery, though, and he had had enough of those. Fren-Eirol opened one eye when Farthing and Weasel came in out of the sun and picked a shady spot.

"Have you decided our next move?" she asked Farthing. Over the last few days, she had started shifting the responsibility of the venture onto his young shoulders. Farthing suspected this was more her educating him than actually passing over the role of leader.

"Weasel thinks we're better going to the market alone while you and Mab-Tok wait it out somewhere, probably up in the far mountains. I thought that through a bit more and I think the quieter our arrival, the better. I don't know exactly how far away the market is, but maybe we should walk at least part of the way so you two are not seen at all."

"It makes sense," commented the sea dragon. "There will be no other dragons around here. Slavery is something we just don't understand."

"Weasel said as much. I also think we may have missed my sister and the Prelate's daughter already, so we'll have to find out where they've gone."

"She might still be there."

"I'm not a fool, Eirol." Farthing had started using the more familiar address over the last few days without thinking, and no one had commented. "My sister is young and pretty. I spend half my life beating back lecherous old suitors from our door, and though I've never met this daughter of the Prelate, I know she is meant to be beautiful. I'm no slaver, thank the dirt, but I can imagine they were sold before they even had a chance to sit down."

"I think you are right," said Weasel. "I wish I knew more about your sister or the Prelate's daughter. I might be more help then."

"The daughter is called Precious," Fren-Eirol reminded him.

"Sorry, I'm so focused on Farthing's sister that I forget there are other reasons why we are here."

Farthing raised an eyebrow. Yet more he didn't know. "So, it looks like we are going to be asking tons of questions and that needs people willing to give answers," continued the young man. "Weasel, do you know anything about the people that will be there?"

Weasel shook his head. "If this were the Eastern Plains, it would be full of the desert people, and in particular the Pharsil-Hin, the nomads. They are strange and isolationist and have no fondness for outsiders, but they are honest and will answer when asked in the right way. Not that I have been there for hundreds of years, mind you. But here? As far as I can work out, no one lives in this wilderness, so it'll just be slavers from any of the towns around Bind. Slavers are a suspicious bunch at the best of times, and this lot are all going to be working illegally, remember. We will have to tread carefully."

Mab-Tok yawned and opened his eyes. "Like Fren-Eirol, I have no interest or real understanding of slavery. But it seems to me that here is where the most precious products are bought and sold, even if those products are people. The best of the best is not something you keep quiet about if you want the highest price. Will this be an auction?"

Weasel nodded. "Most slaves are sold by auction though normally it's really auctioning off their honour debt or money debt, not an actual value of the person. From what the Jipperson brothers said, this is going to be more like selling cattle."

Farthing shivered at the thought. "So, selling to the highest bidder?" he asked. Weasel nodded again.

"If the two girls are as pretty as you say, they might be or might have already been one of the star lots," continued Mab-Tok. "You could just ask around and see if there are any upcoming sales for beautiful girls and then ask if you have missed any of the best."

Fren-Eirol laughed. "For a dragon, you seem more of a dealer than I'm used to."

"When you're small, you learn to trade up or get trodden on," explained Mab-Tok with little humour.

"Until you find you have outstayed your welcome?" suggested Weasel.

"Perhaps." Mab-Tok chose to look in the provision bag rather than continue down that line of questioning. Weasel had already worked out more than he was happy about.

"Then in the morning, Mab-Tok, you shall scout, and I will carry the other two closer to the market," said Fren-Eirol. "Then you and I can fly to the cool of the hills and hunt."

"What will you do after the market, Mab-Tok?" Farthing was aware that any arrangement with the small dragon was only until they reached Bind.

"Your debt is indeed fully paid," answered the colourful Draig Bach-Iachawr. "Crossing oceans is difficult for us smaller folk, or at least it can take a long time and probably includes several wet landings. Being able to follow in Fren-Eirol's wake has meant I could fly higher and longer than I normally can. But I must admit your venture has intrigued me, and if the girls are not at the market, I may continue with you a little farther, if I may."

Farthing was not unhappy at the idea. Mab-Tok pulled his weight, and his healing knowledge might prove very useful if there were many more creatures around like the onga and sand wasp.

"Of course, any protection offered by being in the company of a strong young human, an old magician, and the biggest sea dragon around the Yonder Sea, would have nothing to do with it," commented Weasel with a wicked grin.

"It may have a small influence on the decision, perhaps," answered Mab-Tok in an evasive tone.

Fren-Eirol grinned at Weasel's digging and laid back down with a long sigh. "Well, the warmth of the day will soon turn to a cool night, Messrs Tok, Farthing, and Weasel. I suggest you collect whatever firewood this old vessel will let you have so we are reasonably comfortable for the night." And with that, she closed her eyes tight shut.

Farthing jumped to his feet and took the small axe from the bag. "Well, that would be my job then. Mab-Tok, you can carry, Weasel, you can find kindling." And he walked around to the far side of the boat and scrambled up through the ribs to look for some less weathered timber.

Mab-Tok flew off long before dawn, relying on his keen eyesight to allow him to see where a human would find it too dark. It was promising to be a fine, cloudless day, which also meant that he would be easier to spot. Farthing, Weasel, and Fren-Eirol were not far behind him. Their plan was to fly inland closer to where they suspected the market was, and for Farthing and Weasel to make a new camp as if they had spent the night there. Fren-Eirol would then fly off to the mountains with the rest of their gear before the sun rose higher. Mab-Tok's job was to get the lay of the land, try to get a better impression of the market itself, and find somewhere farther inland where they could all meet in five days.

So far on their journey, almost all the flying had been just about as high as a human could go. This flight, however, was much lower, and, despite the dark early hours, Farthing was very aware of the ground rushing past only a hundred feet below. The three of them remained completely quiet; to talk would have meant shouting over the wind noise and the beating of the dragon's wings, and that might be heard over this still, flat desert. He and Weasel would have to rely on Fren-Eirol's guesswork of how far she dared take them inland. In the distance, above the mountains, the sky began to lighten, and the sea dragon took that as her cue to land.

"I want to be away before it gets lighter," she said.

The two humans made a quick, simple camp and a small fire. Farthing had packed a couple of larger already-charred logs from the night before and a bag of ashes, and he used this to make the fire look much older than it was.

"He's a natural at this," commented Weasel to Fren-Eirol. "He has a future."

"Not as any sort of protégé to you, magician," answered the dragon, disapprovingly.

Farthing ignored the snip-snip banter between Fren-Eirol and Weasel. He had the feeling this was the rekindling of an age-old friendship that should never have been allowed to die. His involvement was neither needed nor probably wanted.

The dragon left quickly, pointing out a particular sharp peak in the distant mountain range, and asking them to tell Mab-Tok to meet her there. Farthing and Weasel set up their small canvas, light enough for them to carry on foot, and took advantage of the early morning to relax before embarking on the remaining walk to the market. However, Farthing had barely got comfortable on the sand when, with a soft whoosh of air, Mab-Tok arrived. There was no time for formalities.

"It's getting lighter and I mustn't stay," said the small dragon in hushed tones. "There is another camp about a half league behind you with seven or eight slavers and some unhappy-looking male slaves. They were just waking up as I flew over and they'll probably come this way fairly soon. You may want to travel to the market with them, but make it clear you're not looking for young men but girls and they won't treat you as a potential buyer."

Farthing agreed. "How much of the market did you see?"

"Enough to know it's large but must have been a lot bigger several days ago. As you guessed, Weasel, some of the business has already been concluded. It's laid out along the seasonal river on the grass and plants that awaken with the water, and I could see flattened areas where traders had had their tents. It was quiet when I flew over, but I saw hunters already heading out towards the hills, getting food for the traders, I assume. There were various pens holding slaves, but they all seemed to be male and young. I also saw large guarded tents. I guess if they are trading young women and girls, those will be where they are being held."

"Probably so they are kept unspoilt," added Weasel.

"Unspoilt?" Farthing and Mab-Tok asked.

"Yes."

Realisation hit both of them. "Oh," said Farthing, and frowned. Mab-Tok hurried on.

"Most of the larger tents are on the far side, but I saw smaller tents, possibly buyers on foot like you, on this side of the market. There seems to be no particular organisation or fences. I guess there are no casual visitors here and if you were not interested in slaves, you wouldn't be on this forsaken plain in the first place."

He was right, thought Farthing. The sand might be soft to lie on, but there was nothing else to recommend this region of Bind. He pointed over to the ridge of mountains and the sharp peak. "Fren-Eirol is waiting for you there. Where are we to meet?"

"When you leave the far side of the market, walk east along the river about a league. From what I could see, that is the route many are using back into Bind. You will find three large rocks, easily the size of my house on Taken. Turn off the main path when you're certain no one is looking and travel south-east. There is no path there and no one going in that direction. You will have to cross the river, but it's already drying up and is very shallow if wide at that point, probably only up to your knees. I doubt it will last more than a fortnight now before it vanishes altogether. After about a league there is another big pile of rocks. On the far side, there's a sheltered spot between three rocks where you can't be seen by any stray hunters. Wait there, and we'll meet you in five days. That doesn't leave a tremendous amount of time, Weasel."

"Enough to work out if the girls are still at the market or not," answered the magician. "If they are, and we haven't managed to get them free, we can go back for them."

It was a good plan, thought Farthing, but he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was wouldn't be quite so simple.

Once Mab-Tok had flown off to meet with Fren-Eirol, Farthing put on their small pot to brew the tea which they had picked up in Taken. Tea was not something he had tried before. Although you could buy it in the Prelates, it was not common, the locals preferring to drink the rich, dark coffee that grew in the south of the continent, and, of course, the huge amounts of mild wheat beer that seemed to underpin both the local culture and the local economy. The Jippersons had introduced him to the subtleties of brewing the dark dried leaves in hot water and then adding spices and flakes of dried fruit. He had found he rather liked it and had brewed up tea at just about every stop they had made on the journey across from Taken.

"Do you trust Mab-Tok, Mr Weasel?" asked Farthing, slipping into the Jipperson's vernacular almost automatically. It must be something in the tea.

"Distrust is not something easy to associate with dragons, Mr Farthing," answered the magician, gratefully accepting a rough mug of the hot tea. The warmth of this desert plain was but a temporary thing, and the cool of northern Bind reasserted itself overnight, the sand quickly losing the heat it had gained during the day.

"How so, Mr Weasel?"

"Dragons don't really tell lies. To them that is simply a story and it's expected there is no truth in it. The idea of deceiving by telling a story appears to be a bit of a mystery to some of them. I tried many times to get Aneirin to lie to Fren-Eirol about something we had been doing, but he insisted on starting the conversation with, "I have a story for you," which rather undermined the entire idea. That doesn't mean they are not evasive or, more likely, will simply refuse to tell you something, but it's unlikely they will intentionally mislead you. It can feel like it sometimes, though."

"So, what about Mab-Tok?"

"I think he's being honest about his intentions of being with us and being helpful, and he hasn't hidden that he had some run-in with someone at Taken. However, that doesn't mean he is telling us everything, like where he's actually heading. A little unique that small dragon."

Farthing thought it could simply be Mab-Tok's plans were elsewhere and would have no effect on their journey, but he still found himself questioning the presence of the Draig Bach-Iachawr. A distant shout alerted them to the slow approach of the slave caravan. Weasel jumped up and extinguished the remains of their fire with the rest of his tea.

"We should be mostly packed by the time they arrive, so we can travel on with them easily and quickly," said Weasel, starting to pack their few belongings. "I really don't want to ask them the best way to get to the market as I suspect everyone who should be here already knows the answer."

Pretending to be new to the market was one thing; showing complete ignorance of something that was so clearly remote and illegal would raise suspicions. The sun was rising quickly now, and the slave caravan came into view in the distance, a snaking column of slavers leading the large six-legged pack animals used by people all over Dirt, and, following behind, the chained slaves. It was an unhappy sight.

"Remember we have no qualms about slaves, Mr Farthing," said Weasel in an upbeat voice, just in case the tone of the conversation carried across the sands, though it was still too far for the actual words to be discerned. "Be polite and ignore the slaves, as if they are just more horses."

"Have you come across much slavery before, Mr Weasel?" asked Farthing, imitating the artificial tone.

"A little, here on Bind, though not much of this illegal variety; certainly, not in recent times. Of what I know, slavers are just traders at the end of the day, however dislikeable the trade, and traders are the same the world over; they want people to like what they have to offer, at least to their faces. Since we are meant to be looking for females, not males, their goods will simply be of no interest to us, not something we don't like."

Farthing nodded in understanding. He would play this horrid game, and he would play it the best he could, because the life of his sister may depend on it.

"Welcome, sirs!" The well-dressed man at the head of the slave caravan held his hand out in friendship. Farthing was momentarily surprised, but then remembered that with no apparent slaves, they would be seen as buyers and not sellers, and so would be potential customers.

"Welcome, indeed." Weasel walked forward and shook the man's hand firmly. "I am Mr Horseman," he lied, "and this is my colleague Mr Goatherd."

Farthing blinked. A little warning about his sudden change of name would have been nice. He repeated it several times in his head so he didn't forget it.

"Welcome, Mr Horseman," said the tall man, smiling warmly at Weasel and nodding to Farthing. "I am Mr Sirrupp, and this is my van."

Weasel smiled. "Have you many following?"

"Another six coffles. It has been a good year, Mr Horseman."

Weasel smiled again in apparent appreciation and studied the line of young men in chains intently. "All male, Mr Sirrupp?"

"Indeed, Mr Horseman." It appeared the Taken vernacular had a life elsewhere too, so naturally did it slip from the lips of the slaver. "Males are our speciality. Ah, you are looking for young females?"

"We are, Mr Sirrupp. Mr Goatherd and I have the undertaking to find a particular female for an associate."

"Then sadly it looks like we will not be doing business this morning, Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd. You would be more than welcome to travel with us, however." It was as polite an invitation as one would expect from any of the more fair-minded of Taken, Farthing thought. A pity about the business it involved.

"We would be most grateful, Mr Sirrupp. A change of company is always welcome." Weasel picked up the last of their belongings and packed them into Farthing's bag without comment. The slaver was looking at Farthing with an assessing eye, and he turned to Weasel as the two men walked off to catch up with the van.

"Your Mr Goatherd, Mr Horseman. Is he a close associate?"

"Ah, my sister's lad, Mr Sirrupp. He is young and strong and I felt the trip to the market would be a good education."

"Oh, quite, quite, Mr Horseman. I ask only as he is an especially fine speci... young man. He would gain much interest in the sales at the end of the week."

Weasel, without batting an eye, turned to look at the scowling Farthing in a thoughtful way, and then laughed. "You may be right, Mr Sirrupp, but trust me when I say the vengeance of my sister is something I would rather not contemplate. The buyers will have to be disappointed this year, methinks."

Sirrupp joined in the general laughter of the moment. "I am sure there will be plenty of other excellent exhibits to whet their appetites, Mr Horseman. I have some fine examples myself only a day behind."

The slaver turned and nodded politely to Farthing as if to say he understood the position. A shiver ran down Farthing's spine. It had never occurred to him that at this illegal place of business, he might be considered as product. It was all turning to treacle again.

The slave market might have looked like it was winding down from Mab-Tok's bird's-eye view, but seen from where Farthing and Weasel had made their small camp in the buyer's district, it was as busy as any market day in Wead-Wodder. All the buyers were in the one area around the edge on the western side of the market, while the sellers and their slaves took up most of the rest. Sirrupp had explained the layout as they had approached the night before, guided in by a myriad of open fires and the smell of cooking from cultures from across the world of Dirt.

"Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd, you will find the market is very well organised and of benefit to buyers whether they are large agents or small businessmen like yourselves. There are two encampments. However, you will find that around the central area where the auctions are held, there are many places buyers and sellers can mix and discuss terms privately. It can be most advantageous, and all the better deals involving some of the most tradable products are conducted so. If you wish, you may want to employ one of the many boys that come with some of the caravans in order to learn the business. They will seek out trades for you and let you know who is who, and who you can deal with on good terms. They are generally trustworthy and most discreet. After all, they are the traders of tomorrow. If they dealt unfairly with people today, it would be remembered."

The slight glint in Sirrupp's eye reminded Farthing that despite many graces, this was a man dealing with an illegal and unscrupulous trade in human beings. It was easy to imagine he forgot little and forgave nothing.

"Gentlemen, I must away to my own encampment. Unfortunately, I do not have the trade you are looking for, but no doubt we will meet again at the auctions. I will remember to look out for you."

Farthing poured the tea when Weasel emerged from their tent; nothing more than a canvas stretched out between canes, but it was enough, and a common arrangement with all the smaller traders. They had agreed on a plan the night before. Farthing would search out necessary light provisions and use the excuse to get some sort of idea of the geography of the market and how that related to Mab-Tok's reconnaissance. Weasel, in the meantime, as the obviously elder of the two, would find and employ one of the boys that Sirrupp had referred to. They had already seen a few scampering between the tents the night before, but all had been occupied by other buyers. Their neighbour, a rough, dark-skinned man from southern Bind, had laughed when they asked him about the boys. "Just stand somewhere looking wealthy and lost, and one will find you. Don't worry about being choosy, they are all the same and desperate to make an impression. Many buyers have already made trades and left so there will be several around looking for employment." Annoyingly, he had also paused to appraise Farthing and had asked Weasel whether he was sure he was buying and not selling.

"You are prettier than you thought," Weasel had commented later with a chuckle.

Breakfast and tea finished, they made to leave on their errands.

"How is your memory for places, Mr Goatherd?" They were being careful to use their fake names even when out of earshot, just in case.

"I won't have a problem, Mr Horseman," answered Farthing. "If it looks like I can drag a cart down it, I'll remember it." They had been gone from Wead-Wodder nearly three weeks, but it felt like an age. Shifting dirt might easily have been a different life and he almost missed it.

"We should meet back here late morning then; no later. Hopefully, I will have someone in our employ. Though remember, they may be discreet, but they will be the son of one of the slavers, and we can be sure where their true loyalties lie. Oh, and try not to get bought," added Weasel with a grin, to Farthing's obvious annoyance.

As late arrivals, they had camped a fair distance from the central auction area where not just slaves were sold, but also food and other provisions. There was good trade to be had here since no one was local and would need to stock up for long journeys when their business was concluded. Farthing made his way to where the main market was, and where the larger traders camped. There was no pretence about favouritism here; the big buyers had the pick of the prime plots close to the auction, and it was safe to assume the same would apply to the slavers on the other side of the market. Farthing watched the buyers carefully as he passed by. Who were these people who would so casually snatch away the lives of others and use them in trade? If he was looking for devils, he was disappointed. There were people of all ages here from many different places, and none would have been any more out of place trading apples in The Hive as here trading people. From the little he had learned, few here would be buying for themselves but rather would be acting as agents. When he reached the larger tents, he saw that some had brought their own slaves to tend their needs; sorrowful, plainly dressed people, some with irons locked around their necks and all showing scars on arms and cheeks, the brands of their owners. No pretence. Nothing was secret. And by the way they acted, nothing would be hidden wherever they hailed from.

Much to his shock, he overheard several traders speaking with accents that were common in the Prelates and one or two he was reasonably sure hailed from Redust. Surely slaves were not held in the Prelates! For all the oppression, slavery had never, as far as he knew, been tolerated, but Farthing only knew his own small part of the world around the port of Wead-Wodder. After all, Redust was just one of the two hundred Prelatehoods, governed by a Prelate whose daughter, with Farthing's sister, might even be in one of these tents. Farthing's heart jumped at the thought, and he pushed any idea of hope back into the box in the back of his mind. He needed information, not wild speculation, however desperate he was to find his sister.

The auction area was depressingly like a livestock market with human-sized auction pens. Each one contained a stage about five feet high and ten feet in diameter with a strong central post to which were attached several large metal rings. Around each stage was fencing to keep a little distance between the buyers and the slaves on sale; the greater circumference also allowing for more front-row seats and so more competition. It was a simple trick designed to push up prices, and Farthing had seen it employed in the fish market at Wead.

Auctions weren't held in the mornings and the pens were empty. Around the perimeter, there was a large variety of tents supplying everything from food to shackles, tea and coffee to caravan guards, clothing and tents to blacksmiths producing brands to suit any budget. Farthing frowned. The market had a festival atmosphere, despite it being early in the day, and he was struggling with the idea that something so vile as the sale of branded slaves should be conducted in such a celebratory manner.

"All the fun of the fair," he muttered to himself.

"What is, lad?"

Farthing had made his way to a small tea tent and was greeted by the elderly owner.

"Sorry, I was talking to myself. It's going to be a busy day!" Farthing grinned in what he hoped was an enthusiastic way.

The man smiled back. "Buying or selling?"

"My uncle is buying, and I am along to help and to buy the provisions."

"Your first time to the market?" The man beckoned Farthing to sit down and he poured him a china cup of a highly spiced tea. Farthing pushed over a coin and took a sip. The tea was stronger than he made himself, but it was gently perfumed. He smiled in appreciation.

"Yes, my first time. We only arrived last night, and I'm still trying to find my way around."

"Well, everything you need is here in the centre and it's all about the coin. The larger stalls on the far side are where you will find the pricier dealers who offer privacy and will flatter the customer till they burst! All the stalls on this side are for us ordinary, honest, working folk, and I know which side I would rather be trading on." The old man broke into a huge grin. "Over there with the toffs!"

Farthing laughed too and tapped the tea with a spoon. "I doubt they do better tea, though."

The old man smiled. "Aye, lad, I doubt it too. My family are from the hills in Epinod, and we grow the best tea and herbs in Bind." Farthing looked puzzled. "Epinod is about as far as you can get across the continent before you hit the Eastern Plains. You don't sound like you are from Bind." Farthing shook his head, cautiously. "Don't worry lad, no one here will press you for either your name or your history, and you can bet anything you are carrying they will not be telling you the truth about themselves neither."

"Including you?"

"Well, my tea gives it away, really, so lying would be pointless in my case. My name is Mr Harrins." He held out his hand.

"Goatherd," offered Farthing.

"Well, Mr Goatherd, enjoy your tea." He refilled the cup from his large metal pot and waved away the offer of another coin. "When you are ready, the best provisioners at sensible prices are just behind here off the main walk. Good day! Morning Percival!" he shouted at another man who was pulling along a small, familiar handcart.

"Morning, Mr Fennel!" the man called back.

Farthing laughed. A lie upon a lie; he would have to be careful. Finishing his tea, he made his way to the small tents as suggested by the tea man, whatever his real name was. Despite these being lower value traders, their stock seemed as good as anything Farthing had seen in The Hive; possibly better. He had to judge carefully what he bought for a couple of reasons. Firstly, their funds were getting thinner and Fren-Eirol had impressed on him the need to make sure they had enough coin for a long trip. But he and Weasel had also decided they should play it low-key; spend just enough that sellers would take them seriously, but not try to play with the big boys, the experienced and wealthy buyers, until they were certain what they were doing. Getting people too curious would not serve them well.

"Fruit and Cheese sir?" A young girl with big eyes who looked no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age smiled at Farthing from behind a small barrow covered by a light awning. Farthing smiled back.

"Some hard, waxed cheese, if you have any, and some apples would be good."

"Have you finished at the market then?"

His order did sound more like a traveller's bag, he had to admit. "No, just arrived, but my uncle is setting up a busy schedule. I doubt I'll have much time to sit comfortably and eat."

The girl laughed and brought out a small round of hard cheese from one of her sacks. She was very pretty, and it suddenly struck him that if she weren't selling cheese, she would herself be potential product. Farthing reminded himself that this market cared little for age and prized youth in a way that made him feel both sickened and angry. He forced another smile.

"Does anyone here do dried meats?"

"My father does. He is just a few tents up. He cured them weeks ago and has had them drying in the sun." The girl held her hand out for coin and Farthing paid her.

"I will pay him a visit immediately, then. Also, anyone sell beans?"

"A couple of the tents have general provisions like dried beans and lentils. A lot of the fresher goods have already been sold, but some of the dried peas are wonderful, my dad says. I'm not a great lover of them."

Back in Wead-Wodder, he and his sister all but survived on dried beans most of the time. It was about all they could afford with their limited funds. He thanked the girl again and silently thanked the gods she was here selling, not being sold. Maybe her pretty eyes would find her a partner in life one day, and not a master.

The perfume of fine herbs greeted him in the breeze as he made his way to the father's stall. Hanging from cross poles under the canvas were legs and ribs of pork and goat, salted, cured, and then wrapped tightly in grasses and herbs to dry. The result was a lean, thinly sliced, dark red meat that was much sort after in Wead-Wodder and far beyond the reach of Farthing. But this was Bind, home to cured meats, and here the cost was surprisingly low. Farthing picked a sage-scented variety, and the man skilfully carved him twenty large, very thin slices with a quite dangerous looking long blade.

"Your daughter recommended your pork, sir. And I must praise you also on the cheese I bought from her."

"Oh, she is responsible for the cheese, son! She gets the milk from her own small herd of goats and makes it all herself. It's only the wax she buys in. Smart girl, and I declare she'll be the boss of my farm one day!" He smiled warmly.

Once again, Farthing found a maddening conflict between the warmth of these people and the slave trade they serviced. With difficulty, he kept his counsel to himself. Thanking and paying the man, he made his way through other stalls, collecting some dried herbs, a valuable sachet of salt, and a selection of beans. He also managed to buy a small copper pot which would be easier to cook with than his terracotta pot he used for tea. His last trip was to the wood piles to buy a sack of firewood, and with that loaded on his back, he staggered his way towards the camp.

"Are you Mr Goatherd?" Farthing nearly dropped the sack of firewood in surprise. He turned to see who had addressed him. He was greeted by a young boy of no more than nine years old and a most serious expression.

"I am, lad," said Farthing.

"I'm Timon. Mr Horseman sent me to find you and see if you needed help."

Weasel had obviously been successful in finding their runner. Farthing chucked him the bags of food.

"I'll carry the wood, lad, since it's already on my shoulders, but you're welcome to carry the other bags if you can."

"Certainly, Mr Goatherd," said the lad, and threw the bag over his shoulders with the ease of someone twice his age and size. "Follow me, Mr Goatherd; you were about to take a very long journey back to your tent." And with that, the boy doubled back along the path Farthing had taken, then scooted off left down a narrow alley behind some of the larger tents, jumping the guy ropes like a rabbit. He was right, of course. Timon brought Farthing back to the tent in about ten minutes by basically going straight through the encampments rather than walking all the way around. Weasel was sitting on the ground reading through some notices he had picked up.

"Have you managed to get everything we need, Mr Goatherd?" Weasel smiled up at Farthing.

"More or less, Mr Horseman," replied Farthing. "Though I've yet to find water."

"It should be beer, Mr Goatherd," said Timon, unpacking and stacking the wood into a neat pile and storing away the food. "No one stocks water other than for the animals and washing down the bondees, though some boil it for tea." It said much that even a nine-year-old freely used the market slang for bonded slaves. "Beer is healthier. If you give me five coins, I can get a good deal that will last you a couple of days." Farthing threw the lad a five-coin piece and he rushed off between the tents. Farthing sat on the ground and rubbed his sore shoulders.

"Coping, Mr Goatherd?" Though Weasel spoke softly, he did not chance using their real names.

Farthing nodded, but his expression was vexed. "When we get far enough away from here not to be heard, I am going to shout, scream, and swear a lot."

Weasel grinned. "That will be two of us then."

# Chapter 10 – Boy for Sale

When Timon returned pushing a small handcart with beer and some water for Farthing's tea making, he offered to make them up some lunch.

"Thank you, Timon," said Weasel. "But I have a list I need you to go through." He handed a small note over to the boy who read it carefully.

"Your client has very exact requirements, Mr Horseman," said the lad. "It might take me a while to find the right trader."

"I will also be interested in any sales I have missed that also fit that criteria and the traders involved. It may be that if the right stock is not available, they would be able to find me something suitable as a commission."

The boy nodded. "Most traders here are cash only, but there are a few of the more specialist dealers who take on commissions and make the exchange at the market. They would not have sold at the auctions but would have done their deals in the tea rooms. I will see what I can find out. Will you be going to the auctions today? It's the younger boys, mostly."

Weasel carefully hid his reaction. "Probably not," he said to Timon. "But we'll take a tour around some of the rest of the camp to get our bearings. Find out what I need and be back here at sunset. We'll be busy tomorrow, I suspect. Have you eaten?"

"My Father's tent is my first stop. I'll eat there." Without another word, he ran off.

"I have become very hardened to most of what this world can spew up, Mr Goatherd," muttered Weasel. "But I find this lad's resilience both astonishing and saddening." He reached for some of the packets, took a few slices of the dried meat, and chewed on it quietly. Farthing followed suit and opened one of the terracotta bottles of beer. The two men shared the simple meal in silence.

"Hello again." The big-eyed girl smiled at Farthing as he and Weasel wandered through the tents. Farthing smiled back. "Did you find my father's tent?"

"Thank you, I did. We had some of his dried meat today. You are right; it is good, as was your cheese." The girl smiled openly and looked at the young man and magician appraisingly.

"You two sound like you're in the wrong place," she said, her smile dropping ever so slightly.

"Our first journey to the market," said Weasel quickly. "We are still finding our feet."

"If you say so," said the girl, with an ounce of charm. "But you are still different."

"How so?" asked Farthing, confused by the girls very direct comments.

"Oh, simple," she said, laughing. "You are not looking at me like I'm for sale. Everyone else does, even the boys who run for the traders. My father hates it, but we need this market, or we don't sell enough during the year." Farthing did a rapid reassessment of the girl and probably several other of the traders who were not dealing in slaves. He knew what not having choices was all about. He should remember he wasn't the only one on the bottom of the pile.

"Don't be too certain, young lady," said Weasel with a wicked grin. "You are neither the right height, shape, age, or hair colour for our client. You simply do not fit the bill!"

The girl looked at him suspiciously again. "If you say so, sir." She put her head on one side like a puppy. "So, what hair colour would I need to have if my dark-brown is all wrong?"

"The richest red, and halfway down your back."

The girl's hair was beautiful, but the cut was shorter and practical for her cheese making.

"Oh, well, I don't have that kind of luck," said the girl with a mock sigh. "And neither do most others. I'm not sure I've seen any redheads this year, though if they were young and pretty, they would not be up on the auction blocks. Those would go for private sale and for more coin than I will ever see."

A look of worry flashed across Farthing's face and Weasel gave him a warning glance.

"We have a good runner researching for us, so with any luck, we will find the perfect specimen, or find a person who deals in such. Come on, Mr Goatherd, time is passing!" And with that, he strode off to the auctions.

"Goatherd?" The girl looked at Farthing with wide-eyed amusement. "Really?"

"Really," he said, with a surprising amount of feeling.

"Well, you can call me plain Mistry. And I will still have plenty of cheese tomorrow if you need!" She curtsied briefly, grinning cheekily, then turned to two potential customers checking out her cheeses. Farthing trotted to catch up with Weasel who had found the tea tent that Farthing had visited the day before.

"She hasn't seen a redhead," he commented sadly.

"That is good news, Mr Goatherd," said Weasel with another warning glance. They must keep in character. "That means it would be private sales only and that narrows it down plenty. Our chances of finding good information have improved, not worsened."

Farthing still felt he had little to celebrate. Weasel was looking thoughtful as two cups charged with fragrant leaves of tea and herbs and a jug of steaming water was delivered by a young boy; the man with many names was obviously elsewhere. Weasel looked up briefly, smiled, and paid the boy who went to serve another customer. The area around the auction blocks was packed, waiting for the first of the sales to begin. It was surprisingly quiet, thought Farthing, but then he supposed that would change quickly once the bidding started. Just like a cattle market, as the Jippersons had pointed out. Farthing poured the hot water over the tea to brew. Weasel was looking at the copy of the note he had given Timon.

"I had not considered that both girls are red-headed," he said quietly. Farthing looked up. "That changes things."

"How so?"

"As the girl said, redheads are rare and that is to our advantage, but that also means they would be much sought after. My guess is they would be sold as a pair and it would be to the richest of buyers." Weasel was clearly thinking this through and looked straight at Farthing. "How much do you know about the Prelate's daughter?"

"Nothing really. I've never seen her. The gossip says she is beautiful, small, and thin, but she is young and so has not been out and about, as it were. Not that that would have meant much to us in the south of Wead. Whe would never have come there, I would think."

"Geezen didn't tell you anything more about her?" Farthing shook his head. "Describe your sister again."

"Pretty much the same. Just about the same age, I suppose, small, beautiful, thin...."

"And also with red hair."

Farthing shut his eyes in understanding. "Wea... Mr Horseman, this wasn't an accident, was it?"

Farthing could have kicked himself for not seeing it before. What were the odds of his sister being asked to tend to the Prelate's daughter, a girl who could have almost been a sister when it came to shape, size and colouring, on the very day she was abducted?

"No, it wasn't, Mr Goatherd. It wasn't at all." The magician's look darkened. "Someone wanted a pair of beautiful birds and were prepared to pay a fortune for such a prize." He counted the cost on his fingers. "A fast boat, a small, very good crew, a way into the Prelate's Palace, a wind talker and probably a wave talker as well, enough gold to pay off whoever they needed to, and the incentive to guarantee they were brought straight here for the start of the market. That is a fortune, Mr Goatherd. A fortune far beyond the resources of all but a very few. We are searching for the wrong thing."

Farthing looked puzzled and worried. "What do you mean?"

"It's not the two girls we should be looking for. We should be looking for the buyer. Come on!" Weasel swallowed back the hot tea in one gulp, and left for the auction area, Farthing on his heels.

The northern latitudes of Dirt were never hot, but here on the arid Jerr-Vone plain with little wind, the sun was doing its best to get the heat up for the auctions. When they reached the first of the pens, three small boys of no more than seven or eight years of age were lifted onto the stage and their shackles locked to the iron rings on the post.

"Gentlemen!" announced the slaver in a thick, market accent. "I start my sale with a very particular lot indeed. These three are orphans rescued from an orphanage that has succumbed to a most mysterious fire." Several chuckles and a few guffaws came from the buyers. "In my heart of hearts, I could not, in all honesty, leave these beautiful boys to the ravages of the street. What would you have thought of me had I committed such a heinous act?" The slaver was an experienced performer, and his story was greeted with appreciative laughs and agreement. "And you, fine gentlemen, I doubt me that such an esteemed club of honest souls could deprive them of a better life. Look at the hope in their poor little eyes, just waiting for a new home!" He paused while the laughter died down, and then abruptly, his tune changed key and tempo. "I am selling these as a trio for entertainment and future breeding stock. Who will give me nine hundred? Eight Hundred? Eight hundred it is... And eight-fifty, nine hundred, nine-fifty..."

Weasel pulled at Farthing's arm. "Let's get over to the tea tents, I do not want to see more of this!" He was barely hiding his anger, and his grip on Farthing's arm was fierce.

Farthing agreed. He was no fighter, but he dearly wished for a blade to cut some reality into the gross examples of humanity bidding for the souls of such innocence.

"Did they really come from an orphanage?" asked the young man as they skirted around the stages and made their way to the more expensive tea tents on the far side.

"Probably," said Weasel, quietly. "After the slaver burnt it down."

The grand tents on the slavers' side of the market were considerably different from the small stalls and tea tents they had so far seen. These were proper tents, mostly made from black or red cloth, with small fenced-in areas guarded by muscular guards, many of them slaves themselves. Though a few traders stood out in the open talking, Farthing could see that the real business was being done in the shadows deep within the tents, and that was by invitation only.

"How do we get inside?" Farthing quietly asked the magician.

"That is what the boy is arranging for tomorrow. For the moment, I just want to see what is what and where people are."

Weasel turned down one of the broad paths behind the tea tents. Here were tents of both the slavers and the few buyers who could pay for a bit more security. There was none of the festival atmosphere here, this was all business and coin. Weasel stopped and looked at a large area of flattened dirt and grass. He closed his eyes for a second.

"Here!"

"What is?"

"This is who we are looking for, Mr Goatherd. We are looking for the man who had his tent here." Weasel's look was dark but certain.

"How do you know?" Farthing was barely catching up.

Weasel looked at him in amazement. "How do you think?"

"So, who is he?"

"That I don't know, but I can all but smell him. See the size of the space?" Farthing saw what Weasel meant. "That was one tent; one huge tent. Whoever was in that tent not only had the money to rent such a large piece of the market but had transportation for everything that went with it." Weasel examined the ground more closely and traced out an enormous clawed print in the dust. He swore.

"What is it?"

"They have a dummerhole, damn them."

"What is one of those?"

"It's a calliston that has had half its brains burnt out and then used as pack-mule." Weasel spat on the dirt. "Callistons are little different from dragons, Farthing." In his anger, he forgot to use Farthing's pseudonym. "Imagine Fren-Eirol without wings and that is what they are. Big, strong, intelligent, and peaceful. Sadly, with their thick hides they also make perfect pack animals and war beasts."

Farthing just stared at the print in the dirt. He was learning things about his own species that had he never imagined possible. Weasel whisked around and headed back towards the Auctions.

"Come on, let's get back to our camp. There is nothing we can do now until tomorrow."

They gave the auction a wide birth and headed back down the path towards where Mistry had her stall. Weasel had gone on ahead, so Farthing stopped to chat with her for a moment. He was feeling troubled and he needed a friendly face.

"You saw the auctions then, Mr Goatherd." Mistry was packing her cheeses into sacks. With the auctions at full pace, few would need her wares, and she wanted them out of the sun and away from flies.

"It was not what I expected."

Mistry gave him a hard look. "No, I imagine it wasn't. Of course, if you were here to actually buy a slave you would not have batted an eyelid." Farthing started to speak, but she reached up to him and put her finger on his mouth. "I don't need to know, Mr Goatherd. I really don't. Trust me on that." She went back to her cheeses.

"You are not what I expected, Mistry. And nor is your father." There was no one around and Farthing felt a little more comfortable speaking.

"You mean we are not mean-eyed slavers looking at everything as product and profit? No, Mr Goatherd, we are definitely not that. And the sooner we can build up our farm so we don't have to come near this damned place again, the happier I will be."

"How does this exist? I mean, why is it allowed?" Farthing was exasperated and emotionally worn out.

"What here? You're in Jerr-Vone, Mr Goatherd," said the girl, sounding much older than she looked. "It has one of the smallest populations on Bind, despite being a great big desert. The King of Jerr-Vone, as he likes to call himself, has ten thousand subjects and fifty soldiers. He has no coin and is leagues from here. He is bribed to keep his nose out of it, not that he has the means to do anything about it anyway. This market exists because men around Dirt want to play with power and like having power over people. If they are rich enough, they can do what they want, and trust me, plenty are rich enough. Where there is a demand, there will always be someone to fill it, whether it's with cheese or human beings!" The girl sighed and turned to look into the tall, strong young man's eyes, so filled with dismay and the confusion of youth. "How do you not know this, Mr Goatherd?"

Farthing looked at her and frowned. "I am poor, Mistry. I own a few clothes and a handcart which I fill each day with dirt and push a league to dump on the pile of dirt I shifted the day before. Aside from the very rare beer and swim, that is my life, in total. I do not know all these things because when you are stuck in the bottom of a hole, dirt is all you get to see, taste, breathe and spit!"

An awkward silence fell between them. Farthing didn't know whether to say more or just walk away. This young girl reminded him of his sister in many ways, but despite being younger, her talk spoke of innocence long gone. Mistry picked up a sack and pulled out a small package which she put in the soft bag he had ritually carried from the day Weasel had given it to him back in Wead-Wodder.

"It's a special goat's cheese I make, Mr Goatherd," she said with a soft smile. "It goes into a bean stew beautifully." She reached up and gave him a little chaste kiss on the cheek. "I don't know why you and your friend are really here, but please, be very careful. Some of the traders here don't play by the rules." She nodded over to where a man stood in the distance. "He is one of the worst and gives me the creeps! Now, go catch up with your friend. I will still be here in the morning."

Farthing nodded and smiled his thanks to her, then made his way down the path and past the man she had quietly pointed out.

"She is a very pretty young girl, Mr Goatherd," said Sirrupp as Farthing approached. "You two make a beautiful couple! Are you having any success?"

"Some," said Farthing cautiously, the warning from Mistry echoing in his mind.

"Well, I'm sure you will have good fortune. Good day, Mr Goatherd." Sirrupp turned and disappeared between the tents. Farthing resisted the temptation to run like a rabbit back to his own tent, but only just.

Farthing woke to the smell of breakfast. The hint of perfumed cured meat wafted around their small tent teasing his mind with memories of sunny days up on the Wealle, lying on his pallet as his sister, always the early riser, made a warm bowl of beans and bacon for breakfast. Farthing snapped himself out of it. They never had bacon for breakfast, it was far beyond their means. They almost never had the luxury of a day off.

"Mr Goatherd, I have beans and cured meat and tea ready. We are to be at the tents midmorning." Timon had returned past sunset the night before with a list of five traders who dealt with teenage girls. Three of them only dealt with young girls and those were discounted, which had left two. Farthing yawned and sat up.

"Mr Horseman?" he enquired, regretfully shaking the last of his waking dream from his head.

"He has gone to the wash stalls and will be back shortly, Mr Goatherd."

"Have you eaten?" he asked the boy.

"I ate with my father and then went to arrange the meetings. I'm unsure of one of them, Mr Goatherd, as he seemed less interested this morning, but Gam, the trader from Baysen, was very enthusiastic. He has four girls to show you though he regrets none are redheads. However, he says that once you see the quality of his specimens, he has an associate who can no doubt find you the perfect match for your requirements."

Farthing felt his heart beat faster at the chance of getting closer to his sister and her captors. Before he had the opportunity to build up his hopes further, Weasel returned to the tent and Timon served the beans in small, ornate bowls that he must have brought from his father's tent, whoever he was.

"A fine day, Mr Goatherd," proclaimed Weasel in a loud, optimistic voice. "I feel the possibility of a trade ahead, do you not?"

"Aye, Mr Horseman!" replied Farthing, acting his role to the full.

"Timon, this is fine fair," the magician complimented the boy. "Sadly, it appears that Mr Goatherd, with his love of tea, neglected to find us any coffee. Would you oblige?" Weasel tossed the boy a two-coin and he vanished in a puff of dust. The magician turned to Farthing.

"I have managed to find out who the owner of that large tent was. It was a governor of a region in a nation called Wessen. I know a little of the country, mountainous and wealthy in ore beyond belief, but I've never heard of the man. Tekkinmod is his name."

"Is that enough for you to find him?" Farthing felt heartened by this news.

"No, it's not. Sadly, I did find out he has several homes and interests across Bind, so I need something more to track him down, a connection of some sort, and we need to be sure he bought the girls and they weren't eventually bought by someone else. What I felt at the site of his tent is not enough for me to follow on its own. If we can discover who the slaver was who captured Rusty and Precious, or the agent that did the deal, and if I can shake his hand, that would give me some connection. I need something like that because at the moment, the entire area is full of rich traders and buyers coming and going with slaves."

"You didn't need to do that to find the boat with my sister."

"Yes, I did."

"How?"

"You, as soon as we met. What was the first thing I did when you came looking for me in the inn back at The Hive?"

"Demanded I pay your bar bill."

"Before that."

"Told me to get your name right."

"Between those two!" growled Weasel.

"Oh, you grabbed my arm. Actually, it hurt."

"Sorry, I needed a good connection and to be sure you were who I thought you were."

"You knew I was coming?"

"Yes and no. Geezen is not just a busybody midwife who beats up Prelates, she's a force of nature. For some reason, I can always tell when something is going to happen that involves her. If she wasn't human shaped she'd make a very good sea dragon, you know. She and Fren-Eirol are like sisters when they get to talking, and that scares me to death."

Farthing felt this should have been light-hearted banter, joking about Fren-Eirol and Geezen, but Weasel's expression was serious.

"So, is that how you are tracking my sister?"

"Well, sort of. It's probably because of the ocean, but the connection has caused me problems and I more followed the boat, to be honest. That is why I need another connection. I have to be sure before we run off chasing the wrong thing. Sorry lad, this is not as magical as people think."

"So, how do we do this?"

"If we really had the gods on our side, the trader we are meeting in the tent is the agent, but I think he won't be. I'm damned sure he knows who is, though."

"Timon said something about an associate."

"That is what I'm counting on. The more I find out about how this place works and what is seen as prime beef, the more I'm certain your sister and the Prelate's daughter were the star attraction; very expensive, very exclusive, and only available to a small inner circle."

Farthing's small rays of hope were dimming fast. The magician looked at him and his expression softened.

"There is good news in this, lad," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"The one thing about valuable goods is they lose value very quickly if damaged. If I'm right, and I think I am simply by what that girl said, then they will be regarded as very valuable indeed."

Farthing hoped the magician was right and there wasn't an even darker side to this murky world they had yet to discover.

"Ah, my coffee, Mr Goatherd, and just in time. I was beginning to lose consciousness!" Weasel took the bag of coffee from Timon. "I will make this myself and then you can lead us to the tents."

Timon nodded to the magician and took the breakfast bowls away for washing.

Mistry's cheese stall was closed when they passed. Farthing checked behind the simple table, but there were no signs of cheeses or anything else, and he had to admit he was disappointed. This young girl and her father were the only genuinely normal people he had met at the market. He felt they didn't belong here but to a world inhabited by the Jippersons, Fennerpop, and Barkles. Everyone else made him feel like he needed to wash, to scrub himself clean of their filth. He caught up with Weasel and Timon.

"That is a shame," he said for Timon's benefit. "That girl had some really nice goat's cheeses yesterday and I was hoping for another."

"The stallholders come and go often," explained Timon. "She is maybe at another part of the market today or gone home."

Farthing smiled in thanks, but he was worried. Mistry has said she would be here today.

They were ushered into one of the large black tea tents by Timon and followed by two muscular slaves, nearly as tall as Farthing himself. Timon handed over a note to one of them who disappeared into the back of the tent and returned with a portly man wearing a floor-length silk robe.

"Mr Horseman?" he asked in an educated voice, walking up to them. Weasel smiled and shook the man's hand firmly, his eyes shutting just momentarily as he did so.

"This is Mr Gam," said Timon.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Mr Gam," said the magician formally. "This is my associate Mr Goatherd, my sister's son, who is helping with my small mission."

Mr Gam smiled at Farthing. "Mr Goatherd, Mr Horseman, please take a seat. I will to business immediately."

The three of them sat down on comfortable loungers by an intricately carved table, and a young girl brought out tea and hot water. Farthing noticed the triangular-shaped scar on her cheek, matching the same scars on the faces of the other slaves; the brand of their master. Gam dismissed her curtly.

"I have four specimens to show you, gentlemen. I am very aware they do not meet your criteria fully, but something about them may appeal. I show them to you more so you can appreciate the excellent, unspoilt quality of my merchandise."

Farthing shifted in his seat, hoping the dark interior of the tent hid his discomfort.

"Firstly, this young female comes from the south of bind. She is of high stock so does not have roughened hands or features from working on the land. All my special stock is like this. There is a market for the tougher peasant females, but it is less valuable, as I'm sure you gentlemen understand."

The girl who was brought out must have been around fifteen years old, Farthing reckoned, and was dressed in a simple sackcloth robe that was about knee-length. She wore no makeup, and her dark, almost black hair, was tied back away from her olive features. Following her was an older, tough woman who took the girl by the shoulders and guided her firmly into the middle of the room. A flap had been opened high in the tent and the sunlight illuminated the spot where the girl had been placed. Farthing wondered if these displays were arranged for the right time of day, so the sun was in the perfect position. The woman directed the girl to turn around slowly as if showing off a prize animal.

"As you can see, gentlemen," continued Gam, "she is of slight build, but we expect she will fill out over the next few years. Her people have a naturally dark complexion, so she does not suffer skin problems from sun exposure."

He waved at the women who pulled a string at the back of the robe so it fell to the floor leaving the girl naked. The girl instinctively covered herself with her hands, but the woman smacked at them, ordering her to drop her hands to her side. Farthing bit his tongue to hide his shock. He glanced around at the others in the tent, but there was no leering or lusting; these men were looking at stock. The woman loosened the girl's hair and let it fall. It was long and thick. There was no doubt the girl was beautiful, but the agony of shame in her face was unbearable to watch.

"Please notice gentlemen there is no marking of any kind anywhere on her body. Naturally, if you have a particular interest in any of the stock, I will understand that you will want to examine the goods more closely with the aid of my sister here." The point was well made. They were playing the part of agents for an anonymous client, they could not be seen to touch or "spoil" the product, just look. The girl was taken away and two more brought out. They were fair skinned and a little older.

"Twin's, gentlemen, are very much sort after. These are from across the Yonder Sea from one of the most northern Prelatehoods and are very fair. I am particularly proud of these specimens as they do not have the freckling associated with that region and are smooth skinned. We have been training these for more than a year to a good standard of dance, and they are intended for both private and public entertainment."

The girls were paraded in the same way as the first, though they showed none of the embarrassment. Instead, all Farthing could see in their eyes, was a detachment as if they were hiding inside. He wondered how much of their dignity had been stripped away during their year of training.

"Finally, gentlemen, I have a unique specimen from the south of the Eastern Plains." The girl who was brought out was dark-skinned, muscular, and nearly as tall as Farthing. She was chained, wore a collar and leash held by Gam's sister, was already naked, and obviously angry. "Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd, this was a most unexpected find. She is the daughter of a trader of the Pharsil-Hin who appeared to have had enough of both his daughter and his life. I was happy to remove both from his care. There is no doubt she will be a challenge to whoever buys her, but she is spectacular and a showpiece that is quite extraordinary." The girl hissed at Gam, and his sister jerked back on the leash making the girl grimace in pain. "She has yet to fully comprehend the nature of the choker around her neck, but she is beginning to get the idea." The girl lost a little of her fight, but her eyes still flashed in anger. Gam dismissed her and turned to Weasel and Farthing. "I hope you now realise the high quality of merchandise I offer, and the unique nature of all my product."

"Very much so, Mr Gam," said the magician with a warm smile. "I feel you are quite the person we have been looking for to fulfil our order, but sadly, though marvellous your specimens are, none would pique the interest of our client."

Gam smiled. "I quite understand, Mr Horseman, and I expected as much. Is your client in any particular hurry?"

"Not at all!" Weasel was acting as if this had been his business for years, and Farthing wondered exactly what skills the magician had learned over the centuries, or whether he really wanted to know. "I warned him before we left the chance of finding his exact match was remote and asked him where he would compromise. He made it clear that he was only prepared to compromise on time, not on requirements. He will be happy if an arrangement is made in private for future collection."

Weasel had said collection and not delivery. It had become clear that many of the buyers here were agents, and they were scrupulous in keeping the identities of their clients confidential before, during, and even after a sale. The exceptions seemed to be some of the wealthiest buyers who had power beyond caring and came here to enjoy the market as well as to make purchases. Gam stood up.

"If you would care to wait for a few minutes, gentlemen, I will have a word with my associate and will return very shortly." He waved for more hot water and tea to be brought, and quickly strode out of the tent. Weasel turned to Farthing.

"Mr Goatherd, I would say we have very much landed on our feet today. This man Gam seems a most professional soul." Weasel winked at Farthing to pick up the story.

"I'm amazed at the beauty we have seen, Mr Horseman. If Mr Gam is able to fulfil our additional needs, I would think our client will be paying us a bonus!"

Weasel laughed in a genuine, merry way that was so far out of character for the magician but so in character for the supposed slave agent, that Farthing nearly applauded him. Gam returned, saving them the need to carry on with the charade.

"Gentlemen, this is my associate Mr Fox."

A short, thickset man followed Gam into the tent. Farthing's heart leapt for a moment because he looked the double of the younger Mr Jipperson. As he walked out of the gloom, it was clear he was no relation except in profession; Mr Fox was every inch the seaman and possibly from the Ices too. Farthing was confident this was their slaver. Weasel held out his hand, but Mr Fox just nodded in acknowledgement.

"Mr Gam here has told me your wants, gentlemen. What you are looking for is very rare indeed, especially if you want the purest of skin and slight figure that Mr Gam insists in all his dealings."

"Oh, I'm aware of the problematic nature of our request, Mr Fox," oozed Weasel. "And if you feel it's beyond-"

"I said it was rare, but not impossible, Mr Horseman!" The man did not have the natural airs and graces of Mr Gam, and the politeness fell away very quickly. Gam stepped in.

"Indeed, Mr Fox has fulfilled a similar, but more difficult order just a couple of days ago." Weasel showed obvious interest. "The details of which are private, of course. But I can assure you if anyone can find the specimen you desire, he can. You have my oath on that."

Farthing raised an eyebrow. From what they had learned from Timon and from one or two other buyers here in the market, an oath was an oath on pain of death. It was rare to find any who would break such an oath, and unheard of in these privileged tents by the auction blocks.

Weasel smiled. "Your oath is acceptable, Mr Gam, for you and on behalf of your associate. I am keen to do business on such an arrangement. Would you have an indication of price?" Gam nodded formally and passed two small envelopes over to Weasel who took them and placed them in his robes.

"You will agree within the hour?" asked Gam.

"I will indeed." Weasel shook Gam's hand, nodded to the seaman, and abruptly left, ushering Farthing out. Timon was outside waiting.

"Will you need me for any else, Mr Horseman?" It seemed he already knew the outcome. Weasel handed one of the envelopes to the young boy.

"You have done us proud, Timon. I hope we may have use of your services again at some point."

"I'll be running for two more years, Mr Horseman, and I'll be happy to work for you again." He nodded to the two men and ran off. Farthing looked at Weasel questioningly.

"I gathered from one of our drunken neighbours, well, a neighbour that I encouraged into drunkenness after you had retired last night, that in such dealings, the slaver pays a small bonus to the runner. That was one of the envelopes, and by the weight, Timon has done well today for a young lad. Now, for the other one."

Weasel went to the tea tent that Farthing had first visited, out of the view of the large black tents. He waited till they had been served and left in private. Then he opened the envelope. Much to Farthing surprise, he didn't read it but smelled it instead.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not actually interested in the price! I need to find a connection to that Mr Fox. I'm positive he's our man and dealt directly with Tekkinmod from Wessen. I need that connection and to add that to the connection you have with your sister. If I get up to the mountains, I can then get a better idea of direction." Weasel touched and felt both the envelope and the note.

"Well?" Farthing was desperately trying to keep his excitement hidden. This was the closest he had got to his sister since she was taken.

"Nothing! Damn. Fox hasn't touched this note, and I don't think Gam had anything to do with the deal, other than knowing about it. Right, Mr Goatherd. Let's give Gam the good news, and I need to pull a trick with Mr Fox. He doesn't seem to like shaking hands."

They drank their tea and waited for a painfully long half an hour to make it look good, then returned to the tea tent. Outside, they were asked to wait as Mr Gam was busy. Farthing guessed it was another client meeting. When they were shown back into the darkness of the tent, Gam was standing waiting for them and Fox was at the far side talking to Gam's sister.

"Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd." Gam was polite but businesslike.

"We have a deal, Mr Gam," said Weasel without preamble, and he held out his hand while walking a little farther into the tent. Gam shook it firmly.

"On my oath, Mr Horseman."

Weasel nodded in acknowledgement of the formal arrangement, then walked back to stand by Farthing.

"May we speak to Mr Fox as I have a couple more details I wish for him to hear?"

"Mr Fox," called over Gam to the seaman. "Would you join us?"

Farthing didn't see how it happened, but just as he approached, Fox caught his foot on the loose edge of one of the rich woven carpets that covered the floor of the tea tent, and fell straight into Weasel. The magician caught the man easily, though the seaman was twice his weight, and helped him to his feet. Fox looked annoyed and perturbed and brushed himself down.

"Mr Fox?" asked Gam.

"I'm fine!" said the seamen, sharply. "Have we a deal?"

"We have, Mr Fox," said Weasel calmly. "I wished to say thank you and just ensure you understand exactly the requirements."

"Your note was clear enough, Horseman," said the man, roughly.

"Indeed. But I wanted to add that my client is keen the purchase should be from Midcontinent if that is possible. I do not entirely understand why he should want this and it's not part of his exact requirements, but he did mention it as an additional possibility."

Midcontinent was a term unique to the Prelates and referred to the region just south of the Red Mountains starting at Redust and heading west. Farthing wondered what Weasel was up to. Mr Fox looked at Weasel suspiciously.

"Aye, that is possible, but it will take research."

Weasel turned to Gam. "Then I propose we meet here at the market next season. That should give Mr Fox ample time to do his research and find the specimen."

"I will accept that arrangement, Mr Horseman. You understand there may be an extra levy?"

"If it's as fair as your dealings so far, that is acceptable."

"It will be only any additional expenses for Mr Fox's research. The price is otherwise as agreed."

Weasel shook Gam's hand. Fox had left through the back of the tent. He obviously had little time for the details or the play-acting that went with it.

"Come, Mr Goatherd, let us leave this gentleman to his business."

The three shook hands once more, and Weasel and Farthing left the tent. Much to Farthing's annoyance, Weasel insisted on watching the preparations for the afternoon auctions, then stopped for another cup of tea, during which he talked nonsense, mostly, and only then headed back to the tent by a really long way around.

"What are we doing?" asked Farthing in irritation.

"I have what I need, and I don't need to spoil it," said Weasel with a false smile. "We have given them a year to find a girl, so there is no rush. If they see us running for the hills, they will wonder what is going on. We leave tonight."

The logic was unarguable, but Farthing still growled in frustration. At the camp they were alone, the other buyers were obviously up at the auction.

"What about the girl?" asked the young man.

"What girl?"

"The girl we've sent Fox to kidnap?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. There is only one girl that I can think of that matches all the requirements on my list and she lives in The Skattlings. I know her well and her family. If Fox tries to grab her, he'll be lucky to get away with all his body parts if he gets away at all." Weasel grinned broadly.

Farthing thought this through. "You mean Sally?"

"That's the girl. You know her?"

"Not in that way!" Farthing blushed.

"Well, her family, especially her brothers, are quite formidable, and are well known on the docks for the way they protect their sisters."

"Maybe, but Fox managed to break into the Prelate's palace; he's not some street lout."

"Trust me, the idiotic Peacemen are nothing compared to Sally's family. If they had been in charge of the Prelate's security, none of this would have happened."

Farthing smiled, despite his worries. "And you are sure there's no other girl he will kidnap instead?"

"Not with moles where I said they had to be there isn't. Sally is quite unique in that department, and it's well known among all her paying guests. His research will be surprisingly short, followed by his career." Weasel was laughing.

Farthing had nothing but hatred for Fox, but he couldn't summon up the glee Weasel enjoyed at the prospect of sending someone to such a bitter end, whatever the justice of it all.

# Chapter 11 – Captured

There was no warning. One moment they had reached the first rock that Mab-Tok had pointed out in his directions, and the next Farthing knew, he was waking up with a crushing headache and a gentle voice telling him to lie still. He tried to turn to see where he was.

"Careful!" the voice hissed. "You're still bleeding." Farthing looked up at the upside-down face of a young girl with big eyes.

"Mistry?"

"Shush!"

"What happened? Where are we?" His voice weak and croaky.

"You're in a cart, and you were attacked," whispered Mistry.

"Quiet!" shouted someone with a rough voice from some distance away. Farthing tried to sit up, but his head was pounding.

"Don't," said the girl very quietly. "I have you; you're safe."

Farthing opened his eyes. He must have passed out again. His head was aching less, but he was feeling sick. He realised he was lying in Mistry's lap, her hand on his head.

"Such a pretty sight!"

Farthing sat up, blinking in the sunlight. Sirrupp. He tried to move his legs but was stopped with a rattle of chains. He had been shackled.

"My apologies, Mr Goatherd, but I could not have you running away. Such a tall, pretty lad you are, and such a beautiful creature you are with. The perfect couple for the right buyer."

Farthing turned to look at Mistry. She also was shackled, and her clothes were torn. Across her face was a vivid red bruise and her eyes were red from weeping. His expression turned to anger. Mistry shook her head in warning.

"Listen to your new friend, Mr Goatherd. She has already learned her lesson. If I have to teach it to you, it will be twice as bad on her. Understand?" Farthing nodded, seeing the fear in Mistry's eyes. "Now, you look after your new stud, my dear. Your eyes make you worth a reasonable sum, but with him giving you babies, you are worth a pretty fortune. And the more you are worth, the less you'll be beaten. Make him love you, little darling, and you'll both be safe. Turn him away, and you'll both be punished." Sirrupp laughed and galloped away to the head of his caravan. Mistry's eyes were flooding with tears, but her expression was cold.

"He means to sell us as breeders, Mr Goatherd. Slaves giving birth to more slaves, all lovely and beautiful. The perfect investment."

"Johnson, my name is Johnson Farthing," he said, his voice shaking. He sat up and tried to move away from her to give her space.

"Don't. You have to stay close."

"But you, you're only..."

"I am nearly sixteen, Johnson, not as young as I look, or he thinks I am. In my land, I'm old enough to be married off, not that I am ready for any of that."

"Where is your father?"

"Dead."

Mistry sat quietly for a moment, and then her face crumpled in grief. Farthing felt completely lost, but he put his hand out to the girl and pulled her close, letting her cry. Eventually, she quietened down, but stayed close. They were chained up in the back of a cart piled high with provisions, and they could not see the driver. They were last in the caravan as there were no other wagons behind them. Straining to look over the crates and boxes, Farthing could see several men on horseback but no other slaves. There was no sign of Weasel.

"Where is Weasel?" he asked Mistry.

"Who? Oh, your friend," she replied quietly. "They killed him. I couldn't see properly because it was dark, but I saw him attacked and a man stab him. I heard someone say they had skewered him like a..." She set her lip, pushing away the grief. The hope drained from Farthing's heart.

Weasel stood up in panic, then a wave of pain and dizziness washed over him, and he sat down on the sand. Carefully he felt his side where it hurt most.

"Damn!" he said. "Damn, and damn again." He looked at his fingers; they were covered in blood. He was sitting by the huge rocks on the road under the midday sun. "Farthing? Mr Goatherd?" His voice bounced back at him off the stone.

He staggered to his feet and looked around. No one. He remembered leaving the market and walking down the trail until they reached the rocks. They had discussed whether to go on, but the next stage of the journey was unmarked, and he wanted to be sure where he was heading before just walking out into the desert. He had known something was wrong, felt it, but before he could do anything, all hell had let loose. He had seen Farthing fall first and had turned to fight only to be knocked down by a horse. He vaguely remembered hearing a girl scream, and then someone had hit him over the head and he had lost consciousness. They must have stabbed him after that. He pressed on his side gingerly and nearly shrieked with pain. It was dangerously deep. He had to do something about it as he was still bleeding.

Weasel staggered around to the back of the rock where it was shaded from the sun and collapsed on the ground, his back against the stone. He dug his heels into the sand and braced himself. Then put both hands over his wound and concentrated. He felt his hands heat up, hotter and hotter, and he pushed his mind into his own flesh. The pain shot through him, and he fought to stay conscious. The magician screamed once, very loudly, and passed out.

It was mid-afternoon when he awoke again. He looked down at his side. It was red and raw and hurt, but the wound was mostly closed, and he wasn't bleeding so much. Weasel shook the remaining fog from his head and gingerly stood up. South-east, Mab-Tok had told them. Weasel had no idea what had happened to Farthing, but he had a suspicion. More than one had taken an interest in the tall, strong, young man, but one person had taken more of an interest than most.

"Fren-Eirol, you are going to kill me, but I need you," he said to no one, and staggered off towards the second set of rocks.

Sirrupp chucked a thick rug at Farthing.

"Cuddle up and keep your little mare warm," he said with a smirk. "Wouldn't want her getting cold and catching a chill, now. If her value goes down so will yours, and I don't want to be carting useless junk around." Farthing cursed under his breath and Sirrupp laughed. "You keep your sweet words for the pretty one, stud. Remember, you're a nobody now. Might as well forget your names. You are just the stud and the mare, and I expect you to be productive. Make me some real little beauties." He walked off to the fire where his men were camped, leaving Farthing and Mistry chained to the wheel of the cart. Mistry was shivering, and Farthing covered her with the rug.

"We'll get out of this," he said quietly. The men were sitting a fair distance away and would not hear them if they were quiet.

"How can we? My father is dead and so is your friend."

The girl looked young and vulnerable, despite her assurances she was fifteen. Farthing thought of his sister when she was younger. He had protected her, he would do the same for Mistry.

"I wouldn't be too sure that Weasel is actually dead."

Mistry sat up a little and looked at Farthing. "Johnson, what were you doing at the market? You weren't buyers; I could see that much."

"Looking for my sister and another girl. They were taken from my town in Redust."

"In the Prelates?"

"We've been chasing them, four of us."

"I thought it was just you and, you called him Weasel?" A glint of the cheeky girl surfaced for a moment, but then flickered and disappeared again.

"It was only the two of us at the market; the other two are dragons."

"What?"

"Those sounds better be you being productive, or you can shut up!" Sirrupp's jibe was accompanied by guffaws from his men. Mistry stared at them, hate in her eyes.

"Lie down, Johnson," she said.

"What?"

"Lie down." He did as she asked, and she lay down next to him. "They won't disturb us if they think we are..." She let the thought hang. "So, why were you with dragons?"

"One is a sea dragon who was carrying us, and the other one is a small healer dragon called Mab-Tok. We met him at Taken on the way across the Prelates Sea. I'm hoping he finds Weasel because then he might be able to help him."

"Where were the dragons?"

"Up in the mountains. We were meant to meet them tomorrow." Farthing frowned. "I hope they find Weasel soon if he's alive. From what you said he's badly hurt."

Mistry pulled the rug over them both. It was a lot of ifs and buts and maybes. They might be rescued, but as likely, they faced a life in slavery. They lay in silence until they fell into a troubled sleep.

"Wake up!"

Weasel pulled himself from a pain-filled sleep into an even more painful consciousness.

"Weasel, wake up! Where is Farthing?" Fren-Eirol glared at the wiry magician. Weasel had almost no energy left at all, but he pointed at his side. Mab-Tok looked closely.

"Dammit, Weasel! Fren-Eirol, he's been stabbed, and has tried to heal himself."

"That's impossible."

"Well, bloody stupid at any rate." The Draig Bach-Iachawr put a hand on the magician's wound and closed his eyes. "He has stopped the bleeding, but he has sealed in the infection. That must have hurt."

"Why?" Fren-Eirol knew next to nothing about healing, human anatomy, or magician anatomy.

"When you heal a wound, you generate massive amounts of heat. Both a human and a dragon will pass out long before it gets unbearable. Your magician must have forced himself to stay conscious or he couldn't have completed the healing. And I have never seen healing like this; so complete! Have you a knife?"

"In the bags up in the forest."

"We need to get him up there. I have to open the wound and clean it."

"Weasel!" shouted Fren-Eirol at the magician. "You have to get on my back!"

"The boy," murmured Weasel. "They have taken the boy."

"Who has?" snapped Fren-Eirol in frustration, but the magician had lapsed into unconsciousness. "Oh, this is ridiculous. Get him on my back, Mab-Tok, and wedge him on there by my bag. He can fall asleep without falling off, so let's hope he can do it when stabbed and half conscious."

When Weasel awoke, the pain in his side had lessened. He put his hand carefully on the wound to find he was bandaged with a long cloth wrapped right around him.

"Your skin wouldn't handle another healing." Mab-Tok offered him some water. "I had to do it the old-fashioned way."

"I tried to heal it."

"You had sealed the infection in. I had to reopen it a bit to clean it."

"I had no choice, I was losing too much blood." Weasel drank a bit more water and looked around. He was in a glade in a forest, and, going by the chill, part-way up the mountain. It was peaceful and a world away from the desert plain. Suddenly he sat up.

"Farthing! The boy; they have taken the boy!"

"We know, Weasel. Fren-Eirol is out scouting."

"How did you know?"

"You talk when unconscious. Unusual that, you know. Talking when sleeping is one thing, but not when you're knocked out."

Weasel suddenly became aware of a pain in his head. "How did I get knocked out?"

"I had to clean your wound quickly and you were raving. Fren-Eirol used a very quick method to calm you down. I've never seen a dragon make a fist and punch a human."

"I have," said Weasel with a bitter note in his voice. "The last time she punched me."

Sirrupp kicked Farthing in the leg again and grinned. The young man screwed his face up in agony.

"I can keep kicking you in the leg all day, stud, and it won't stop you fathering little bondees. So, you have a choice; get on with it or I will keep kicking."

"I'm not going to do that with a child!" Mistry might be fifteen, but she looked younger, and Farthing could not get that out of his head. Sirrupp kicked him again.

"Fine. I'll keep kicking!"

"Stop!" Mistry was crying. "He can't do it. Not now."

"He can do it any time I wish, mare. It's the beauty of young men, they can't stop themselves."

"He can't now. I can't now. It's the wrong time!" The tears were flowing down her face and she was shaking. Sirrupp's face darkened.

"Damn the gods!" He turned and kicked Farthing again, hard. The young man cried out. "Well, in a few days you will be passed your time and then I start kicking again." He stormed off in a foul mood. Mistry held Farthing, who was rolling in pain.

"Is your leg broken?"

"No, but close." He rolled up his trousers to expose a huge welt on his leg. Sirrupp had kicked so hard he had broken the skin and it was bleeding. Mistry ripped some of her shirt, what little remained of it after being pushed around by the slavers, and she covered the wound.

"I can't keep up this lie for long," she murmured.

"You mean you are not?" Sharing his life with his sister, Farthing was no stranger to how a woman's body functioned, but he was useless at telling truth from fiction.

"No, I finished last week, sadly, but he doesn't know that. Look, Johnson, you are beautiful and strong and everything a girl wants, but I don't want to. Not here, not like this."

"I could no more with you than I could my sister, Mistry. You are too much alike." He meant it too.

"But if we have to?" Mistry looked straight into his eyes. "Johnson, for so many reasons I don't want to, but I want to stay alive and I want you to stay alive. So, if we have to, will you?"

Farthing looked away. "I don't know."

"Well, I will know for you, Johnson. If we have to, we will, and it will be on our terms, not those of that vile monster." She had his face in her hands and kissed him on the cheek. "Promise me, Johnson. No more kicking. I can't watch you being kicked any longer."

He nodded, and she cuddled into him and cried softly. Farthing hurt inside. He was losing his sister and now he and Mistry were slaves themselves.

"That's better, stud." Sirrupp had crept up and whispered into Farthing's ear. "You make her love you, and when her time is done, you make babies for me. Or I will kick you senseless and my men will do it instead of you; all of them." He spat on the ground and walked away.

"Not this time, you won't, Mr Sirrupp," whispered Farthing. He gazed at the speck that was spiralling slowly and gracefully down from high up in the sky above. Closer and closer it came, the great blue-grey wings spread out wide, the huge white-chested body almost invisible against the bright, pale sky.

"What are you planning, Johnson?" whispered Mistry in his ear. She was all but sitting on his lap, terrified by the very real threat meted out by the slaver.

"I'm planning nothing, but when I say, we roll beneath the wagon as far as we can."

"Why?"

"Just hold on and do as I say." He felt Mistry's body tense. "We're about to be rescued."

Weasel crouched on Fren-Eirol's back, his knife in his hands, and his side bound as tightly as Mab-Tok dared. Above, Mab-Tok followed them down, quietly, and smoothly. Gone were Fren-Eirol's flowing, gossamer silks, and in her hands, she carried two long, sharp spears carved for her by the magician. They were hardly the fighting force from hell, but dragons are dragons, and even small ones like Mab-Tok were hugely stronger than a man. And then there was Weasel, the wiry, annoying magician, who had somehow managed to stay alive for centuries in a land where some hunted his kind just for the hell of it, and who had survived being skewered like a kebab just a couple of days before. No army from hell, perhaps, but the slavers would rue the day they stole their friends.

Sirrupp was in the middle of his funniest slave story when he first heard the whistle of wings above him. He was slowing down to the punchline when he sensed the enormous shadow brush across the ground. He was just opening his mouth to shout a warning to his drunken men when he felt his feet lift off the ground and a long wooden spear thrust through his back and punch out through his chest. He was dead by the time he was thrown into the air to come crashing down amid the horses, sending them scattering across the desert plain.

When Fren-Eirol attacked the slaver, Weasel leapt from her back, rolling into a ball as he landed on the ground to come up facing the shocked slavers, his long knife in his hand, and death written clear across his face. Mab-Tok landed behind him and the two marched on the slavers, half of whom simply turned and ran. Those who moved fast enough would be lost to the desert, the others who turned and fought with wicked sabres, were crushed by the dragons, or sliced by the magician. There was no parley here. The slavers gave no ground willingly, and only their deaths would end the battle.

Beneath the wagon, Farthing clung to the terrified girl, and they shook at the violence played out in front of them. At last it was over, and Fren-Eirol walked a short way into the desert and threw up.

"I hate the smell of blood!" she cried out, and then sat on the ground, swearing. Weasel left the usually peaceful dragon to her grief and unchained the two young humans, picking the locks expertly like a thief. They crawled out from under the wagon and Weasel coughed and turned aside. Farthing looked at Mistry; her shirt had finally given up covering anything. Quickly, he removed his own shirt and wrapped it around her. She mouthed a thank you, still too shaken and scared to talk properly. Farthing took a step forward and fell, his leg giving way.

"Help him!" cried Mistry to Weasel, finding her voice. "They have been kicking him because he wouldn't do what they wanted!"

Mab-Tok strode forward and looked at the young man's leg. "It's badly damaged, but not broken," said the small dragon. "The muscles are torn and it's bleeding. I need to wrap it in something."

Mistry pulled loose the tattered remnants of her old shirt and handed it to the dragon.

"Here. It's what I've been using."

Mab-Tok thanked her and worked on Farthing.

"Weasel?" Mistry looked at the magician who smiled at her.

"Yes, I'm no Horseman, any more than he's a Goatherd. What were they trying to get him to do, girl?"

"Mistry, Mistry Jinx. That's my name." She looked almost shameful. "They wanted him to, to do... to do me." She stumbled to a halt as the large form of Fren-Eirol loomed over her then slowly lowered herself to the girl's own height. The dragon simply held out her arms.

"Come here, child."

Mistry rushed into the dragon's embrace and was picked up and hugged like a baby. Farthing sat up and held the remains of Mistry's shirt while Mab-Tok tied it off. He looked up at Weasel.

"I didn't do it, Weasel," he said as if he was pleading his innocence. "I couldn't. She reminds me of my little sister."

The magician nodded in understanding. With all they had been through it was easy to forget that this tall, powerful man was little older than the girl. During their journey, he had often seen the boy, but it was the man that Weasel saw sitting in front of him now.

They flew back to the mountains, to the forest glade, to work out what they did next; Weasel and Farthing on Fren-Eirol, and Mistry on Mab-Tok. She hung on so tightly that Farthing thought she was going to throttle the small dragon, but he seemed not to notice. Farthing reminded himself that though Mab-Tok was dwarfed by the sea dragon, he was still as big as a horse and had carried Weasel on Taken.

Weasel was going through their belongings and sorting them out. Fren-Eirol and Mab-Tok had flown back to the slavers camp to get what else they could since the slavers had taken whatever Farthing and Weasel had been carrying. Farthing had limped into the forest to deal with business and dig for roots. The magician could feel Mistry staring at him. She had done that a lot since the rescue.

"Why are you alive?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "I prefer being alive, generally speaking."

"I mean, why did you not die when the slaver attacked you? I saw him, and I heard your scream. He was the same man who killed my father and was a killer. So, how did you survive?"

"He missed the important bits and Mab-Tok is a healer and saved my life. It's nothing clever. I have always been lucky like that."

"But you're a magician." It was almost an accusation.

"Yes, sorry about that, but I was born that way." He looked at her again. "It doesn't make me special, just different. Farthing would tell you that if you asked."

"Why?"

"Because he beat the shit out of me when I couldn't magic his sister back."

"And you let him?"

"He is very strong, and I was sort of drunk. There wasn't a lot of letting involved. Ah, here it is!" Weasel fished out a small packet from his bag and threw it over to the girl. "Can you sew?" She nodded. "Good. You can't prance around in Farthing's shirt all day, however sweet. It's far too long to start with. There's a roll of Fren-Eirol's clothing in there." He pointed at the big bag the dragon used. "I suggest you make something your size and warm. It gets cold up there." He pointed upwards.

The girl looked up into the sky. "I must get back to my home. I have to tell my brothers about my father." A tear was rolling down her cheek, but Weasel could see her strength. A couple of years older and he doubted Farthing would have been thinking of her as a sister.

"Where do you live?"

"Tharkness."

Weasel twisted his face in thought. "Where is that?"

"That way." The girl pointed east. "About three hundred leagues. It's in the shadow of the Black Hills."

"I know where those are."

"It took us weeks to get here. We trade our way here and trade our way back. My cart will still be back at the market. If I can get it and our horses, I can go home."

"You can't go back to the market, Mistry," said Weasel, shaking his head. "We saw Sirrupp on the way into the market and he had a large contingent of slaves and men with him. What you saw was but a few of them. The rest must be still back at the market at the sales. Damn, but this my fault." He cursed under his breath.

"Why?"

"Because he was sizing up Farthing even as we arrived. I just passed it off as a bad joke. I should have seen this coming."

"Nobody can see the future, sir!" Mistry was feeling out of her depth with these strange friends of Farthing's and didn't know what to call them.

Weasel just grunted. "Well, either way, you are stuck with us for the moment, but we are still chasing the two girls and they may be heading roughly in your direction. At least we can get you part of the way much faster than you could on your own."

"I know one is Johnson's sister, but who is the other?"

"The Prelate of Redust's daughter. Two beautiful redheads, and a puzzling mystery that I can't work out."

Farthing appeared from the forest with a skinned and cleaned rabbit just as the dragons returned. They had recovered clothes for Farthing and Weasel, their small stock of dried beans, and a sack of Mistry's cheeses together with her money belt. Fren-Eirol took the girl aside to help her create some travelling clothes, and Farthing knelt by the fire to make tea and cook the rabbits.

"Do you want help with that," asked Weasel.

"Actually, no. I need normal right now, and cooking supper is what I often did at home. This is about as normal as I am going to find, I think." Weasel smiled quietly. The boy was coping like a man. Mab-Tok, however, was being very quiet.

"Nothing to say, dragon?" Weasel liked to challenge the small, irritating healer from time to time.

"I'm concerned about the girl," he said quietly. "She can't go back to the market."

"Not in a million years!" said Farthing abruptly.

"But what does she want to do?" asked Mab-Tok.

"She wants to go home," said Weasel. "That's weeks away on her horse which is back at the market."

"That's a problem," pointed out Mab-Tok.

"Where does she live?" asked Farthing. "She told me, but I had no idea where it was."

"Tharkness," replied Weasel. "It's up in the north-west and I hope that's the direction the girls are heading. For the moment, she can come with us." Farthing looked relieved and Weasel turned to him. "Don't think this is the safe option, lad. They are many leagues ahead of us and we might end up at the most unforgiving mountain range on Dirt; the North Hoar Ridge. Remember, they also have a dummerhole."

"They have a calliston?" Fren-Eirol returned with Mistry now dressed in some of the dragon's beautiful gossamer cloth, and no longer looking like a young girl. Even Mab-Tok fell quiet. Mistry blushed scarlet. "You didn't tell me they had a calliston, magician!"

"Sorry, Eirol. We saw the tracks back at the market. I couldn't tell if it was an old or young one, but either way, they are a long way ahead."

"What's the difference?" asked Farthing. Mistry sat close to him and cleaned the wild roots he had foraged.

"Young ones go faster," explained Fren-Eirol, "but are less predictable. An older dummerhole won't go so quickly but will keep going all day. I hope it's a young one, but I wish it wasn't one at all. I didn't know there were any anywhere."

"How fast are they?" Mistry looked up from the cooking. "We could do ten leagues a day on good ground with the team.

"They will go three or four times that," said Weasel. "It's not that they are fast, but they just don't stop. If it is an old dummerhole, they can be huge. For some reason, dummerholes grow a lot larger than normal callistons."

There was an isolated but talked about village of callistons up in the Prelatehood of Mudlands to the north of Redust. But Farthing had not realised dummerholes were that big. He did some quick maths in his head. "If they left five days ago, that means they are most of the way to the mountains, doesn't it?"

Fren-Eirol looked at him closely. "But that is not to say that we won't catch up with them or not rescue Rusty and Precious, Farthing. You must hang on to that. Remember, we are flying. We start first thing in the morning when both Mab-Tok and I are fully rested." She turned and faced the small dragon. "You are with us on this I take it, Mab-Tok. I am a little tired of your evasiveness."

There was no hierarchy in dragon society as there was with humans, but there was respect amongst the apparently unpolitical beasts that went far beyond matters of age or position, and Fren-Eirol had just put her seniority on the table.

"Yes, I'm with you, Fren-Eirol," said Mab-Tok, bowing. "All the way. On my oath."

Fren-Eirol smiled. No dragon broke an oath without good reason, and no one broke an oath given to Fren-Eirol, ever.

Farthing sat on a log away from the others, thinking quietly about his sister. Mistry came over and sat on the ground at his feet and leant back against his legs. For several minutes, the two young people, thrown together into a forced intimacy that had scared, offended, and embarrassed them both, sat in silence.

"What you said earlier," said Mistry to Farthing after a while, "about me being like your sister. Am I really?"

Farthing looked down at the young girl, looking small and yet so beautiful, just like his sister did when upset.

"Yeah, you are like her."

"Good." She rested her head against his knee. "I need a brother right now."

Weasel looked over at the young people from where he sat with the sea dragon by the fire. Mab-Tok was sound asleep.

"Trouble?" he asked Fren-Eirol.

The dragon laughed softly. "No, no trouble, little man," she replied, using the affectation she had used in a long distant, calmer time. "Farthing is lost in the world of sisters and that is the only way he will think of that young lady. You never did get the hang of human relationships, did you?" Weasel shrugged. As Fren-Eirol had often said when she had been younger, and they were building a most unlikely friendship after the sudden death of her Bren, people were a mystery to the magician sometimes. "Though I'm not sure what he will think of Precious Hearting if we catch up with them. You have never met the daughter, have you?"

"No."

"She is feisty and flirty and stunningly beautiful, and I doubt Farthing has met anyone like her."

"This Precious Hearting, she reminds me of someone by that description."

"She does? Who?"

"You, Snowy. You." Weasel turned back to the fire, hiding his grin.

The dragon sat in silence for a moment. Only two people had ever called her Snowy since her childhood; her Bren and this annoying little man sat by her feet for whom she cared more than she would ever tell anyone else. She hesitated for a moment longer, then slapped him around the head.

# Chapter 12 – The Chase

The ridge of mountains to the east of the desert of Jerr-Vone was a horseshoe shape with three or four dusty roads leading away into the sands, and one main road that wound up a high mountain pass over the ridge to the east. This was not a particular problem for the dragons, but Weasel still had no idea if they should fly east or south-east, and they had stopped on the sands near the bottom of the pass. Farthing walked over to Mab-Tok and Mistry, both of whom seemed to be suffering from some discomfort.

"Trouble, Mab-Tok?" asked Farthing. The smaller dragon was making some very strange stretching movements.

"There appears to be a slight mismatch between the young lady's posterior and my spine," he complained. Mistry made a grumping sound.

"I'm sorry, Mab-Tok," said Farthing. "You took Weasel so easily and Mistry is smaller."

"Oh, it is not weight, she's like a feather." Mistry gave him a forgiving nod. "And she's beginning to remember not to strangle me mid-flight. I'm sure she will get better at that in due course." Mistry looked away, a little embarrassed. "It's purely a matter of shape. I think we need to work on her positioning so she's not directly on my spine."

"It's not my fault," protested Mistry. "You have these great flappy, sticking-up bits which I have to work around. They're digging in!" She fidgeted in the most unflattering way.

"Those flappy bits are my fins!" objected the Draig. "All Draig Bach-Iachawr have them."

"Well, they still stick in!"

Not all dragons had fins down their backs, at least not obviously. On Fren-Eirol, as with other female sea dragons, she had strong spines on her neck which Farthing used to steady himself when she was flying, but none on her lower back. On male sea dragons, they were more prominent, but it was really their huge swept back horns that were their notable feature. Red mountain dragons had none at all. Mab-Tok had raised, individual fins that began very small on his neck, became much larger by his lower back, and then reduced in size down his tail. Farthing had to admit they gave the dragon a distinguished look. Mistry, on advice from both Mab-Tok and Weasel, had perched herself almost on the dragon's shoulders so she didn't crush the larger fins. Since he was much smaller than Fren-Eirol, she had to be forward of his wings anyway to help his balance. Farthing didn't think Mab-Tok's flappy bits should be much of a problem as they were very much smaller on his neck.

"I don't care that they're smaller, they still dig in. I can't push up constantly on my knees; it's too tiring," complained the girl. "I'm getting saddle-sores. I haven't had those since a child!" Of course, Mistry had grown up on a farm, and riding horses was second nature to her. Fren-Eirol joined in with the conversation.

"My dear, I think you girls have different issues to the boys here and you are going to have to adjust yourself a little." It was about as subtle as Fren-Eirol or any other dragon got, but it wasn't subtle enough for Mistry, and she turned bright red. Fren-Eirol looked mystified but pressed on. "Weasel, get one of the towels from the pack, Mistry can put that..." She saw the warning look from the girl and changed tack. "Can sit on it," she finished. Weasel, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing, dragged out a towel and threw it at the girl.

"Thanks," she said, giving an irritated little curtsey.

Weasel studied the tall horseshoe ridge ahead of them.

"Unfortunately, we were only able to buy a chart to get us to the coast of Bind and I have no map of this area. Neither have I been here before that I remember. Mistry, how did you cross this range on the way here?"

"Over the pass by Rondor Rocks. That is the large, dome-shaped mountain just to the left there." She pointed to the towering mountain east of where they were standing. "It's a high pass, but it's the only accessible route without going through the desert and around the mountains. That is impossible with a heavy wagon because of the sands. We took both teams across the pass without a problem. Coming down was hard because it's steeper this side, though it's quite wide.

"What is on the other side?"

"It's a plateau, much higher than this plain, and gets all the rain. That carries on for twenty-five leagues or so, and then it falls away into a hilly but not mountainous region." Mistry was fidgeting again. "Eirol, can I hide behind you for a moment?" Fren-Eirol nodded and Mistry disappeared behind the dragon. She had dropped the "Fren" after they had first met, and Fren-Eirol had not corrected her. Mistry reappeared, looking no different, and no one sought to question what she had done, but she was walking more gracefully.

Farthing had begun to work out a more fundamental difference between his friends, as they had now become, and the traders at the slave market; decency. There was a gulf between politeness and civility, and actually being a decent person. Manners, perhaps, were nothing more than illusion.

"I think we should fly up to the pass and stop at the mountain top," suggested Weasel to Farthing. "I must get my bearings and see if I can pick up a trail. When we get there, maybe you and fidget here can go with Fren-Eirol and set up camp on the plateau. Mab-Tok can bring me down when I'm finished."

"Are you going to have the same problem as you had on Taken?" asked Mab-Tok.

"Possibly, why?"

"Fren-Eirol, can I borrow one of your cloths to tie the magician on after he's passed out?" Mab-Tok grinned and Farthing laughed out loud, then smiled when everyone turned to look at him.

"Thanks," he said. "I haven't done that for a while."

He and Mistry had spent less than two days in the captivity of the slavers, but Mistry's father had been killed, their treatment had been cruel, and both had feared their incarceration would be permanent. Farthing dreaded how a longer ordeal would have changed him. He felt scarred as it was, and what it would have done to Mistry was beyond imagination. He had seen breeding dogs in Wead-Wodder where dogs were popular. Some of the females were bred to near ruin. Sirrupp had wanted to treat Mistry in the same way.

The flight up to Rondor Rocks was spectacular. The trail had been cut in a winding, steep path down the face from the ridge, and Farthing was amazed that Mistry and her father had managed to bring teams down safely. It said a lot for the skills of the young farmer and her cheese making business. The lower reaches of the trail were stark and dusty, sandblasted by the desert winds that cycled around within the horseshoe ridge. The two dragons were finding it arduous work, and Fren-Eirol lead them higher to get away from the worst of the unpredictable air currents.

"Weasel, I can't always fly this low, it's going to be too slow!"

"I know," shouted the magician over the buffeting wind. "But I'm afraid of losing the trail. I will know more up on the dome."

"You better do!" Fren-Eirol lifted her wings and pushed up to the mountain top, Mab-Tok flapping along behind her.

The tall, domed mountain had appeared smooth and unnatural from the plain, but it was an illusion created by distance. Close up, it was yet another mountain peak, though flatter on the top than most. Farthing looked back at Mab-Tok and could see that the small dragon was finding this difficult, and Mistry was clinging on. He had offered to swap with her, but Mab-Tok had said the tall, muscular young man was twice her weight and he would just end up flattened on the ground. Whatever, they were going to have to do something so both dragon and girl were more comfortable, and it was less tiring on the dragon. Farthing could only think of one solution, and there was no way he was going to suggest it.

Fren-Eirol pulled her wings backwards and then forwards to slow her decent, and landed slightly awkwardly, muttering.

"I might have tough feet, but these rocks are sharp!" She shouted back a warning to Mab-Tok, who called his thanks and landed carefully. Mistry slid straight off and landed with a thump on the ground. Mab-Tok put a hand out to help her stand.

"I was hanging on with my knees," she explained. "My legs have gone to sleep." She rubbed life back into them vigorously.

"Well, you can get the back seat on me on the way down," said Fren-Eirol lightly.

Weasel looked at her sideways with an amused expression but said nothing.

"How long will this take you, magician?" asked Mab-Tok, looking over to the east. "The sky is beginning to darken."

"I'm not sure. If I knew the geography better, it would help."

"I've only seen it from ground level," said Mistry. "But I can try."

The top of the dome was a strange mix of fractured, jagged rocks, and some smoother, harder stones eroded flat, with patches of moss and tough grass between them. The girl picked up a suitable small stone and chose a large flat rock as a canvas.

"This is where we are." Mistry scraped a rough arc, and marked a point with an X. "The pass is about two thousand feet below us, I guess, and cuts through a steep-sided gorge before heading down to the plateau. The plateau itself is flat with only the odd grove of trees and lots of bogs, streams, and tall grasses. The mountains seem to act as a barrier for the weather and all the rain stays east. We didn't see any people or farming down there, but the road is raised slightly so it's reasonably drained. Strange, really, since for most of the year it doesn't lead anywhere."

"What's beyond the plateau?" Weasel squatted down by the stone map, looking thoughtful.

"The plateau ends quite suddenly, and then the trail drops down to cross the main road heading from Bich Pass in the north-east. From there on it's hilly, but not dramatically so. It's a fertile farming region with many small herds and veggies. Perfect for sheep and goats and better than my little patch. We stopped at several villages on the way over and they have a very strong accent."

"This is all Bekon," said Weasel. "It's one of the largest countries in Bind. I've been there, but only in the far south where the capital Riena is. I'm not sure how far it is west to east up here in the north."

"A fair distance," said Mistry. "It's slow going with the teams because some of the roads are in a bad state or muddy, and we have to stop to trade both on the way here and on our way back, so I lost track. My father would have a better idea." The memory of her father's violent death fell like a shadow across her face. Farthing put his hand on her shoulder. "Anyway," Mistry continued, shaking off her grief. "After that, it gets much hillier with large forests before heading back into mountains, The Black Hills."

"How far is your farm from there?" Farthing was trying to get some idea of distance from the scrapings on the stone, but map reading was a new experience for him and he was struggling.

"It's on the far side of the Black Hills and it's a long hike around," said the girl. "This trip we do takes us a third of the year, all told, but we sell more dried meats and cheeses along the route and in the couple of weeks we spend at the market than we sell the entire rest of the year. We could just about keep going without it, but it would be hard. This market trip makes the difference."

There was no way Mistry could ever now go back to the market and she had lost most of the coin she and her father had made, as well as losing her father. She might be going home, but her future looked bleak.

"Time to head down, young lady," said Fren-Eirol abruptly. "Farthing?" He blinked up at her, then realised what she was expecting.

"Fren-Eirol," he asked. "May I ride?" The dragon bowed and lowered a wing.

"You may ride, but ride as one who knows how to fly with grace."

Mistry looked around in confusion and Weasel leant close to her ear.

"Do as Farthing did, girl," he whispered. "It's an important tradition to some. Well, to one."

Mistry looked at him, and then remembered the famous old bard's tale about the dragon and the magician, a story she had known since she was young. She looked up at Fren-Eirol and realised she had just met the actual characters. She walked up to the huge Draig Morglas.

"Fren-Eirol, May I ride?"

"You may ride, but ride as one who knows how to fly with grace." And then the dragon forgot herself and winked.

"Well, that spoilt a perfect moment, Snowy!" declared Weasel. "Come on, Mab-Tok, let's find somewhere comfortable to sit." He managed to take at least a dozen steps before a small flick from Fren-Eirol's tail sent him sprawling.

"Hold tight, children," said the dragon as if nothing had happened, and leapt into the sky.

Farthing was pretty sure there was no particular reason to dive off the edge of the cliff, so he could only assume the sea dragon was showing off to her new charge. She flew slowly and gracefully just fifty feet above the flattened peak until they reached the edge. Fren-Eirol glided as she assessed the huge drop down the side of the mountain, then tucked her wings in and fell like a rock. The next thing Farthing knew he was being strangled by the girl sitting behind him. He leant forward, flattening himself down along the dragon's lower neck, pulling Mistry safely down on his back. The roar of joy from the dragon was followed by a fast turn near the bottom of the cliff, and she shot out over the plateau, rising back into the air, and settling into a gentle, rhythmical flap. Farthing sat back up and carefully turned around to the girl.

"You can open your eyes now."

Mistry peeked out. "Does she do that often?" Her voice was shaking as she shouted above the noise of the wind.

"No, not often, but then we've been flying over the ocean mostly. Move yourself back, Mistry. Carefully! You are sitting over Eirol's wing joints and she can't get her full stretch."

"You are learning, boy," called the dragon over her shoulder.

Mistry wiggled carefully to where Weasel generally sat, though, unlike the magician, she hung on for her life.

"Mab-Tok doesn't fly this fast," said the girl.

"He is more than capable of keeping up with me," said the sea dragon. "Though he cannot fly anything like the same distance. When we went back to the Shallow Sea, Farthing, we had to stop twice because he was tired. However, he is slower when carrying a passenger, even a small one!" The dragon laughed out loud, did a little swoop and turned left and then right in smooth arcs. Farthing, who was now facing the girl, burst out laughing as the manoeuvre caught him out.

"Fren-Eirol" he called over his shoulder. "I'm facing backwards; I didn't see that coming!"

"Well, turn around, you fool! You're not yet the rider the magician is!"

"What does she mean?" asked Mistry, wiping her eyes because the wind was making them weep.

"Weasel sits cross-legged or evens stands while Fren-Eirol is flying. I swear he has glue on his feet."

"So why did he want a saddle?" asked the girl innocently. Farthing shut his eyes and grimaced. It was an unwritten rule that the saddle word was never mentioned, however well known the story.

"Because he wanted to know what it was like to get eaten," replied the dragon flatly.

Mistry was just about to ask for more details when Farthing leant forward, put his finger to her lips, and shook his head urgently. She mouthed a silent "oh" as she realised what was going on.

"Sorry," she said lamely, and sat in guilty silence for the rest of their short trip.

"We will land down there." Fren-Eirol had spotted a dry grove of trees amongst the bogs of the plateau. Farthing turned back around and sat in his regular position; he liked to see where they were flying.

They landed on a tiny hillock capped with a few deciduous trees that Farthing didn't recognise. He slid off the dragon quickly when they landed, and Mistry hopped down lightly after him. She thanked Fren-Eirol for the flight as a way of apologising for mentioning the infamous saddle without actually mentioning it again. The sea dragon blinked at her in a friendly way.

"You never thank me, Farthing," she said pointedly.

"You always seem so glad to be rid of me that I dare not say anything!"

He smiled at the dragon. He was getting a little suspicious of the growing relationship between her and the young girl. The dragon had almost adopted Mistry without asking. To be fair, Mistry seemed to be enjoying the attention from a motherly female, albeit a rather large one. Farthing helped Fren-Eirol with her bags and dug out their small axe.

"You get to be the firewood collector," he said to Mistry, handing over the axe. "Collect any fallen branches first."

"Yes, sir," she said, curtsying with a frown. "You would think he didn't know I've spent my entire life on a farm by a forest." She grabbed a bag to collect kindling. Fren-Eirol watched her walk off.

"Has she said much about her family?" she asked Farthing quietly.

"She hasn't mentioned a mother and I have a suspicion she might be dead. She has brothers, but they live many leagues away and are estranged, I think. I have no idea about the farm, who owns it or anything. If they rent, she might have nothing." He watched Mistry thoughtfully. "I wouldn't wish what my sister and I have had to go through on anyone, Fren-Eirol. You wouldn't believe how much we owe to Geezen, Truk, Barkles, and Hetty." The dragon looked down at the young man, growing by the day as their journey demanded more and more of each of them.

"I don't know Barkles and Hetty," she admitted, "but I have known Geezen for many years and she's a special friend."

Mistry had disappeared into the little copse of trees and they could hear proficient chopping.

"She is more worldly-wise than I was at fifteen, even though I'd been working since I was like eight or nine," commented Farthing. "Have you children, Fren-Eirol?"

The sea dragon shook her head. "It was not in the winds for my Bren and me. It's terribly rare that a pairing between two different dragon peoples will produce a child, but we were so involved with many other things anyway, we barely thought about it."

Farthing took out a long line. "I'll put the line up high between two trees so there's more room under the canvas."

The dragon smiled in thanks. She hadn't been under cover much during this journey, it would be welcome.

"Oh, come on! You cannot be that unconscious!"

Mab-Tok gave the magician a meaningful poke. They had been on the mountain for nearly two hours and the sun had set, even if it was not yet completely dark. Down on the plateau, shaded by the mountains, it would be, and the dragon hoped the others had lit a fire or he would have trouble finding them. Greater dragons, the larger varieties, could sense each other sometimes if they were close enough, but this trick eluded the smaller species. Some very particular magicians were meant to be able to do it too, Mab-Tok remembered, but since the only one to hand was out cold, it was a moot point whether he could or not. He tried waking Weasel again with another sharp poke, but it was simply not working. The magician might as well be dead.

With a groan of annoyance, Mab-Tok rolled Weasel onto his back and the magicians head hit a rock with an audible crack. Oops, thought the small dragon. Taking the cloth he had borrowed from Fren-Eirol, he tied the man's hands loosely together, then picked him up and hung him around his neck. With a fair amount of effort, he managed to swing the lifeless body over his back between his wings. He fidgeted, and the magician slid back and forth. This was not going to work. Something distant and owl-like hooted with derision. The dragon was feeling just paranoid enough to take it personally and swore back at the innocent bird. Dropping Weasel to the ground, Mab-Tok cut the cloth in two and tied a length around the man's waist. He hung him around his neck and swung him onto his back once more. Keeping him braced with his wings, he managed to reach back with his hands, grab the two ends of the cloth, and tie them around his chest. He wriggled again. Better. Not wonderful, but better. He wasn't going to get his full flap, but they would be flying. With another groan, he jumped into the air, flew over to the edge, and shot down over the cliff.

The plateau was much darker than the mountain top and he pulled up quickly. He might have good night vision, but he was much less manoeuvrable with the limp Weasel hanging over his back. Anyway, he had a job to do involving this magician; his employer would not thank him for breaking him. Even in the dark, Mab-Tok could appreciate the vastness of this plateau. It seemed a most inhospitable place of rocks and streams, bogs, and ponds. He could just about make out the raised trail that Mistry had mapped out, and he followed that while looking for any potential camping areas. Before long, he spotted the small spark of a fire in the far distance which he hoped was his friends. As he approached, he could see a small hillock topped with a circle of trees and it looked like they had built one hell of a fire. Closer still and he heard the first roars of the sea dragon that set his fins up on edge. Something was wrong. He slowed, peering into the gloom. He thought he could see one of the young people silhouetted against the fire, by the shape it was the girl, and he could hear Fren-Eirol thundering around. He called out but was still too far off. He flew on, shouting over his shoulder, trying to wake the magician.

"Weasel, wake up!" There was no response. "Wake up, you useless bastard!"

"What is it?" The voice was weak, but at least he was talking.

"Something is wrong. I can hear Fren-Eirol roaring."

The Magician came awake at an astonishing speed and tried to sit up.

"What the hell?"

"I had to tie you on." Still powering through the dark, Mab-Tok untied the two pieces of cloth. A huge roar came out from the darkness that was definitely not a dragon.

"Tundra Bear?" To the magician who had spent a youth messing around in the northern mines, the sound was unmistakable. "This far south? Mab-Tok, get us there quickly. Fren-Eirol does not see well in the dark. She'll be slashing out at shadows!"

"Hold on!"

Now the magician was awake and sitting properly, the small dragon had full use of his wings. He sped up to gain height, then dived towards the hillock. He could see both Farthing and Mistry. They had picked up branches from the fire and were using them to fend off something in the shadows. Fren-Eirol had her wings spread out and was raised up high on her powerful back legs. She was slashing around her with her wings and roaring in defiance into the dark.

"What can you see, Mab-Tok?" Weasel knew how good the small dragon's sight was.

"Three, no, four bears. Two are attacking the humans. The other two are teasing at Fren-Eirol. Weasel, they have her cornered! She can't move back under the trees, they are too low."

"Those two first!" shouted the magician. "As long as Farthing and Mistry stay by the fire, the bears won't come closer. I will go for the left one, you go for the right."

The dragon aimed straight at the right-hand bear, his powerful talons out in front of him like an eagle. At the last moment, Weasel pulled out his knife, leapt off the dragon and jumped straight onto the back of the left bear, burying his knife into its neck. Mab-Tok slammed into the other bear, smashing it to the ground. The huge beast, twelve-foot-high, rolled over and slashed out, catching the small dragon on the chest. Mab-Tok yelped, then lifted his back leg, and, with talons fully extended, rammed it into the beast's neck.

"Eirol, the others!" shouted Weasel to the exhausted sea dragon.

She nodded breathlessly, whirled around, and took to the air, grabbing one of the huge bears off the ground. One hundred feet up, she simply let go. Farthing, realising one bear was now gone, grabbed Mistry's flaming branch from her and rushed at the other bear, waving both branches in front of him. The bear was taken completely off guard and Farthing hit him round the head with the flaming branch. It turned and ran off into the marshes, howling in pain. Farthing sat down on the ground and swore, chucking the branches into the water before they burnt him. Weasel walked over to the young man, put out a hand, and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, not over yet. We have two dead bears to deal with."

Farthing nodded and trotted back up to the fire to grab a knife.

"Are you okay?" he asked Mistry as he walked passed. He held out his hand and she grabbed it and followed him to the bags.

"What are we doing?" she asked.

"Gutting bears, I think."

"Oh, lovely," said the girl, giggling. "Hang on, let me get a knife. I'm probably more used to larger animals than you are." Mistry as a goat farmer was no stranger to dealing with carcasses.

"I have never done anything bigger than a rabbit," admitted Farthing. "But how different can it be? Just a question of scale."

"Yeah, sort of."

Fren-Eirol made sure the drop had finished the bear properly, then picked up the body and flew it away from the camp so any other visitors left them alone. When she returned, she was greeted by the sight of one small dragon and three assorted humans standing around the carcass of the huge bear that Weasel had skewered, scratching their heads.

"What's the problem?"

"Which end do you start?" Farthing was struggling to relate rabbit skinning to a bear.

"I thought we could do with some of the meat," said Weasel. "But this is one hell of a lot of bear."

"Tell you what," said Fren-Eirol. "While you make up your minds, you might want to think about what other animals butchering a bear might attract." She grabbed the bear that Mab-Tok had killed and heaved it into the air. "What the hell has this one eaten?" she exclaimed. "It's twice as heavy as the other one!" With a struggle, she flapped off a short way, hardly getting off the ground, and gratefully dropped the animal the other side of the road. When she returned, Mistry had grown fed up with the head scratching, had taken Weasels sharp knife off him, and had gutted the bear. She already had part of the skin off and was carving out bear steaks.

"Grab the waste shovel," she instructed Farthing. "Bring some of the hot ashes from the fire. Dump them on all these entrails and that will take the fresh smell away." Fren-Eirol smiled at Mistry in appreciation. "We have wolves come in from the forests," explained the girl. "If one of the goats dies up on the pasture, I'm not strong enough to carry it back. I sort it then and there and bury the carcass or burn it. It sinks for a bit, but that doesn't seem to attract the wolves like the smell of fresh blood does."

"So, what happened?" Weasel asked the sea dragon while Mab-Tok built the fire up again. The magician was feeling unsteady having been roused from unconsciousness so abruptly, and he put his hand out. Fren-Eirol grabbed it and he sat down on the ground.

"Nothing much, aside from four bears crashing into our party," said the dragon angrily. She sighed. "That girl is really good with wood and she got this great big fire going with some sweet-smelling timber. I didn't smell or hear them coming, and you know how useless my night sight is."

"I know. Aneirin used to make a thing about it from time to time. Fly into a hill if the sun wasn't full up, he used to say."

"The first I knew is when the lad came charging up the hill, chased by this huge mound of fur. Eafa, what are they?"

"Tundra Bears," he answered. "In the morning, you will see their stomachs are white like yours, and in the winter their whole coat turns to white, but why they are this far south is anyone's guess. Mind you, we have had a few very cold winters up north, so it might be a lack of food. I have heard of that bringing them down to better hunting grounds."

Mistry removed the best bits of bear and took them up to the fire to smoke.

"I will get rid of the rest of that," said Fren-Eirol with distaste. "You can deal with the icky bits."

"For someone who has just dropped a poor innocent bear a hundred feet onto the road, you are very fussy," said Weasel, smiling.

"I didn't watch when he landed." Fren-Eirol grabbed the carcass and flew it off to join its fellows.

They feasted on bear steaks with herbs and wild garlic, and Mistry smoked a couple of cuts on the side of the fire to take with them. They were not heavily smoked, but they would keep for a day or so. Well-fed and recovered from the bear attack, with bruises and scratches attended to, Weasel spelt out what he had discovered up on the mountain. He was laying down by Fren-Eirol's huge leg, and even in the warm firelight he looked pale.

"It looks like they are taking the eastern trail, the one Mistry mapped out. That still doesn't tell me whether they are going to Wessen or not, but they are not heading south or directly north, so the choices are fewer. They must be moving fast as I am not getting a very clear sense of them."

"So, they definitely have a calliston?" asked Fren-Eirol.

"I can see no other way they could have got so far otherwise. If they carry on to the Black Hills, which is possible, I'm going to have a problem. As I told Farthing at Taken, I can't find things through mountains. They can be a very real barrier to me, so if they are on the far side of a mountain, I have no way of finding them directly. I'm getting a better sense of something which I think is Farthing's sister, though it's vague. That will help, but I'm still hampered by not having met them. To be honest, at this distance, I'll never get more than a very general idea and I'm relying more on their trail." The magician looked puzzled as if he was missing something important.

"What about the chance their wave talker is related to you?" asked Farthing.

"Well, if that captain used a wave talker, he has not carried on with this group. You are right, I might have picked up a sense of that. I didn't before, but as I said to you, this can be very unreliable and unmagical sometimes, especially over an ocean. When this is finished, I'm going to have to address that little problem. A wave talker, a good one, is a powerful tool to have around. To have him in the employ of a slave trader is not good news." Weasel sounded bitter, and no one pressed the issue.

"If we are not going to catch them before they reach the mountains, then it's pointless making this a mad rush," commentated the sea dragon. Farthing looked worried. "Oh, I don't mean we will tarry, lad, but we'll make sure we get there prepared to deal with whatever they have waiting for us. I am very concerned about this calliston."

"I thought they become all docile and, what did you call them?" Farthing asked the magician.

"Dummerholes. Sorry, it's not a polite way to speak of an intelligent creature that has had half its brain destroyed. But Fren-Eirol is right," he said, yawning. "If they have one, they may have others, and some may be for fighting. Those can be vicious, and trust me, if you think our dear lady here is big, you haven't seen anything yet." He yawned again and leant back against the large dragon, closing his eyes. She glanced down at her old friend and sighed.

"Oh, Eafa. You are making things complicated, aren't you," she said very quietly as the others talked amongst themselves. She reached over to her bag, pulled out a rug, and wrapped it over the sleeping magician, pulling him closer to keep him warm. Farthing looked up and put his head on one side. "Don't tell him, young man," she said quietly. "He is still trying to guess whether I have forgiven him or not."

"And have you?" Farthing raised an eyebrow. He was very suspicious of this entire story one way or another.

"About two hundred years ago or so." She winked, laid down on the dry ground beneath the trees, and closed her eyes. "But if you tell him, I will see if you drop as fast as that bear did!"

Farthing chuckled, which attracted the attention of Mistry and Mab-Tok, who had been chatting away over some plan or other. He pointed to where Weasel was curled up against Fren-Eirol and put his finger to his lips. Mistry grinned and stuck the end of her tongue out between her teeth in amusement, then beckoned him over.

"We have hundreds of leagues to fly yet, Farthing," said Mab-Tok. "It's going to be low-level and some of it difficult. Before we get close to where they' re heading, we may have to cross the Black Hills, and we need to carry our supplies, all of which adds delays."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"Well, there is not much I can do about most of that, but I and Mistry here are slowing everyone down."

Farthing frowned. He didn't want to split up this little group. Mistry had proved her worth with the bears, despite her small build, and he was more and more feeling like he had gained a sister.

"If I could sit on Mab-Tok more comfortably, it wouldn't be a problem," said Mistry. "I'm very light, and he's not struggling with my weight, but I am making his back ache and my legs are sore from trying not to sit down on his fins."

Jokes aside, Farthing thought, it did seem to be causing Mistry more trouble than it had Weasel, but then, the magician had only taken very short flights on the small dragon.

"Fren-Eirol has already given you some padding," said Farthing with a smile. "What other solution is there?" He knew, of course, but he wasn't going to suggest it.

"A saddle," said Mab-Tok.

A grumble from behind made Farthing turn quickly, but the sea dragon and magician were sound asleep. Weasel had slid off Fren-Eirol's leg and she had unconsciously laid her arm across his back.

"You know what Fren-Eirol is going to say."

"You don't sound surprised," said Mab-Tok suspiciously.

"I'm not. It's the logical solution, but I like my life too much to be the one to suggest it."

"You two make it sound such a big issue," said Mistry, still not fully appreciating the reality of the old story.

"You have no idea," said Farthing.

"Put it this way," added Mab-Tok. "When these two flew into Taken on Fren-Eirol's back, they sent half the old dragons there scurrying into a council meeting and they weren't even using a saddle. If you have never seen a forty-foot-long red mountain dragon scurry, you have really missed a sight." The small dragon grinned.

"This doesn't worry you," said Mistry.

"Not all dragons are wrapped up in the politics at Taken. It is mostly the Draig Morglas, Fren-Eirol's kin, the Draig Mynyth Coh, those are the red dragons, and the ice dragons, the Draig yr Tirin like Bren-Diath. We might all be dragons, but we don't share all the same ideas. Generally, it's only the great dragons, like the sea dragons, that will carry a human. I would struggle a lot with Farthing, and some of my kind would find it hard even with you, girl."

Mistry had tried to object to being called girl by the two dragons and the magician, but she had given up when she found out that although Mab-Tok was the youngest, he was still nearly three hundred years older than her.

"So, how are you planning to sort out this saddle?" asked Farthing. "We don't have anything with us we can use."

"There is a village just at the foot of the plateau, down in the hills," said Mistry. "One of my horses threw a shoe and I had it repaired by a farrier there. He also had saddles in his workshop and I'm pretty sure he'd made them. What we need is far less complicated than for a horse and smaller too. It just has to be so I'm not sitting on Mab-Tok's spine, but the weight is spread either side." Mistry put the flat of her hands either side of her knee to demonstrate. "As long as he has the leather or a small pony saddle, then he should be able to create something for us."

"Will it take long?" Farthing's heart ached at everything that seemed to increase the distance between him and his sister.

"I know this is will be a delay, Farthing," said Mab-Tok. "But it will mean the rest of the journey is better and probably faster. It should take only a day, I would think. If needs be, you fly on ahead and we'll catch up."

Farthing looked at the two of them. "No, we will wait. I don't want us split up." Mab-Tok bowed his head in agreement, then went to make himself comfortable on the far side of the glowing fire. Mistry moved over and leant against the young man's legs.

"Do you think she's alright?" she asked. "Your sister, I mean."

"I hope so," said Farthing with more confidence than he could genuinely admit too. "She is tough, my sister. Our mother died years ago, and our father was useless and just disappeared. I might have played the big brother when I could, but she's the strong one. From what I have heard, Precious Hearting is strong too, and remember they are special, as you pointed out. At least they'll be looked after."

Mistry stared into the fire. She didn't dare say things may have changed. The girls had been sold now, and there might not be the same need to keep them in perfect condition.

# Chapter 13 – Saddle up!

Fren-Eirol was refusing to talk to anyone. She sat on the road leading to the village of Sarn-Lien looking like a huge lost puppy, and the locals gave her a wide berth. Even her large, finely pointed ears seemed to droop. Mab-Tok and Mistry had told her in the morning about the saddle while Farthing and Weasel had hidden behind a tree.

"You knew about this?" she had asked the magician.

"No, I didn't," Weasel had admitted. "I hadn't realised it had become that big a problem."

"What about you, boy?" she had asked Farthing, glaring at him. "You don't have the excuse of passing out."

"They told me last night after you were asleep."

"And what is your opinion?"

"Erm, I don't think I am an expert enough to say-"

"You are the second most experienced dragon rider around here, young man, and you know it!" She had accused both of being feeble cowards and had fallen silent.

Mistry and Mab-Tok emerged from the saddlery in the early evening, a cloth-wrapped parcel tucked under Mab-Tok's arm. Weasel and Farthing looked up from where they were perched on the side of a fountain in the small village square.

"Well, have you done the heinous deed?" asked Weasel.

Mistry cringed. "He had an unfinished child's saddle. He has removed the bits we don't need, raised the back of the seat a little, and changed the shape of the padding. He has also added some thin leather side panels so my legs don't rub on Mab-Tok's flanks; apparently, I was making him itch."

Farthing grinned. He didn't want to say out loud, but he had found this whole episode with the girl and the Draig Bach-Iachawr comical.

"He has also added a large leather chest plate for me," added the dragon. "It holds the saddle on and gives me some protection."

"From what?" asked Weasel. Mab-Tok stood up straight to show a thin, red wound, now healing.

"Those bears had sharp claws. My skin is nowhere near as thick as Fren-Eirol's. I was lucky not to be eviscerated!"

"Oh," said Weasel, his eyes widening. "You should have said something."

"What, with you near passing out? Ridiculous."

Mistry leant close to the puzzled Farthing and explained what eviscerated meant. He pulled a face. Farthing was far from stupid, but his schooling had been mostly marked by its complete absence. Weasel glanced up the road at the large seated form of the sea dragon, her arms folded across her chest.

"What are we going to do about that?"

"I think this is our problem," said Mab-Tok. "I suggest you two stay out of the way."

Weasel nodded towards the local tavern. "Capital idea! We will stay there tonight and leave you three to fight it out." He paused and frowned. "I hurt her feelings more than is easy to say all those years ago. It was made worse because both of us had lost our best friend Aneirin and needed each other." He twisted his nose.

"You know she has forgiven you?" said Mistry. Farthing grimaced. Fren-Eirol had made him promise not to say anything to Weasel. "Well, she has!" said the girl defensively.

Weasel smiled. "It's alright; I've known that for years. But don't tell her. It would spoil her fun, and then you would see a really moody sea dragon." He turned to Farthing. "Coming?"

"Ahead of you, magician," said the tall, young man, not needing to be offered a beer twice, and grabbing his soft bag, he headed towards the inn. Mab-Tok waited until the two men had crowded through the door in a hurry and turned to Mistry.

"I can do this if you want to join them."

"What, me in there?" she said with wide eyes. "I know where I'm not wanted, dragon! I ought to come too, though. We will do this together." They walked cautiously towards the winged volcano, steaming silently in the middle of the road.

Much to Farthing's delight, the Peppered Pony Inn sold a stout that was not much short of the delightful brew the Jippersons sold, though the landlady Dienella was considerably louder than the preternaturally polite brothers. This was a genuine travellers' inn that sat on the small square where two roads crossed; the trail that led from the plateau and to the east, and the larger road that came from the south-east and headed north-west across Bich Pass to the Ice Lands. It also explained why the plateau was so quiet; useless for agriculture and led nowhere except the desert plain beyond the mountains. Farthing asked Dienella about the market.

"We don't see many of them through here," she commented. "Not welcome, to be honest, and most of them bypass using the wider track north of the village." Farthing had noticed a fork in the road as they had flown in and had wondered where the other route went.

"So, you haven't seen any recently?"

"Seen? No lad," answered the large woman, pouring a beer for one of the locals. "Heard some about a week ago, though."

"Heard? What do you mean?" asked Weasel, smiling at the landlady. She was a healer, he was sure of it, and a proper one too.

"Well, there was this right bestial hollering, there was, and what sounded like a herd of oothens and a lot of shouting. We heard it rumble right around the village and then it was gone. No idea what on Dirt it was, but Jentins, the farmer up the way, says the end of one of his fields has been trampled by something with bloody big feet!" The woman yelled at another customer to keep his voice down and then grinned at Farthing. "But then Jentins is always saying something with big feet is hanging around. Too much stout and not enough water; that is Jentins."

Weasel grinned in amusement as the landlady went off to serve some other travellers that had come in. They had already secured rooms and it looked like they were wise to have done so. This was a busy establishment.

"What is an oothen?" asked Farthing quietly.

"Big, six-legged hairy cow," answered Weasel. "We call them rathen in the Prelates."

"Oh, those things," said Farthing. The rathen or oothen were the standard working beast of many of the farmers and some land traders in Redust. Big, shaggy, and smelt like a sewer. Although they did resemble a large hairy cow, they were, in fact, closer in temperament and habits to a horse. One on its own could pull a wagon twice the size a pair of horses could, albeit very slowly. Domesticated rathen never ran anywhere, but their smaller wild cousins were a far more formidable beast. They were rare now, and Farthing had never seen one. Farthing looked towards the door. "Should we check on the others?" he asked.

"Definitely not," said Weasel, leaving no room for argument. "To be honest, Fren-Eirol is playing to the gallery a bit; she does that sometimes. All she will want is it sorted in a sensible way, taking into account her culture and feelings, and not have some fool argue for it when he has just drunk half the contents of the local tavern."

Farthing looked at the magician who was staring into his half-empty pot. "Oh," he mouthed silently, as a rather important but frequently omitted part of the old story came out. "Weasel, if that's what happened, how did it become such a big affair?"

The magician sighed. "To be honest, the affair wasn't about the saddle at all, it was about whether dragons should have anything to do with humans. If you go back a few thousand years, humans and dragons shared each other's lives, at least as far as practical. As time went on, human society grew bigger and more powerful, and humans are territorial and start wars whereas dragons don't. Inevitably, this caused clashes. Anyway, the differences became too great, stupidly, and some hundreds of years ago, certain dragons wanted to end their involvement with humans entirely. Others, however, especially I, Bren-Aneirin and Fren-Eirol, argued that a proper accord should and must be found. Me and Aneirin had been fighting for this centuries before Fren-Eirol was even born. It was a massive issue and refused to get resolved, and still hasn't, to be honest. Aneirin then died which knocked the steam out of Fren-Eirol. I tried to argue on my own, but I didn't have the same trust with the dragons as Aneirin, and the argument just rolled on and on.

And into the middle of this, the incident about the saddle came out, more or less as a bad joke. It had only happened a couple of days before, and Fren-Eirol was not talking to me, but we often fell out over silly things, and it really wasn't that important to either of us. Well, Bren-Diath and his little battalion of isolationists seized on this as proof that humans and dragons just cannot get on, and they made massive capital out of our spat. Anyway, that was it. Fren-Eirol thought I must have told someone about the argument. It got completely out of control with Bren-Diath using the story as a political bat to hit dissenters with. I had to leave Taken in a hurry, and Fren-Eirol found herself held up as some sort of champion by both sides. Eventually, she had to leave too, which meant leaving everything that had been important to Aneirin. She hated it and blamed me. We didn't talk properly again till you turned up." Weasel stopped as if he had run out of breath and then called over to Dienella for two more pots of stout.

"I don't think I have ever seen any two people as close as you and Fren-Eirol," said Farthing. "Apart from Barkles and Hetty, probably."

"We argue all the time!" protested Weasel.

"That's my point. My parents hated each other, I mean, really hated. In the end, by the time my mum died, they couldn't even be bothered to argue. They had stopped caring after my sister was born, I think, though I was only two and I don't remember her birth."

Weasel looked up at the young man. "I'm sorry, Farthing," he said genuinely. "You are right of course. Fren-Eirol is far more my family than any of my real family, apart from Moppy, perhaps."

"Moppy? What, Geezen's Moppy?"

"That's her. My great-great-great, several more grand-niece. She even calls me uncle." He chuckled softly. "Actually, I really like it, but I don't tell her that."

"You really don't understand people, do you?" said Farthing, shaking his head.

"You are not the first to point that out." Weasel patted Farthing on the shoulder. "Anyway, back to the saddle, Mistry will sort it."

"Mistry?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

"Oh, you mean how Fren-Eirol treats her like her long-lost daughter? Yeah, I see what you mean. If anyone can smooth over the issue, Mistry can. Fren-Eirol will forgive her anything."

"That is going to be a problem when we get to the point of Mistry going home," said Weasel, sipping the creamy froth from his beer.

"What is?"

"Fren-Eirol is not going to want to leave her newly adopted daughter behind. We will have to see what happens."

"I think it's going to be more complicated than that," said Farthing.

"How so?"

"Well, Mistry says that with her father dead, her brothers will get the farm and all her stock and equipment. They are much older than her, have wives and smallholdings of their own, and don't like her."

"Really?" Weasel was amazed that anyone could not like Mistry.

"Mother died while giving birth to her."

"Ah. That old problem. Not something that can be sorted out?"

"She doesn't think so. The chances are she's going to be homeless."

"Oh, that is bad. What will she do?"

"She has no idea. She is only a kid, Weasel, despite coping with things so well." Farthing drank the last drop of his pot and stared at the new one thoughtfully. "You know, when the slavers got us, she was stronger than I was initially, but I also saw how young she really is. She is nearly sixteen and is wise for those years, but if you hadn't rescued us, I don't think she would have survived. I'm not totally sure I would have either, and my background is not something I would recommend to anyone."

Weasel knew a little, Geezen had filled him in, and despite the care of a few good people, Farthing and Rusty had had a very rough life.

"But you have a solution, don't you, son," said the magician.

"She can come home with us."

"I knew you were going to say that." The magician shook his head and stood up. "Come on, they have six-pin bowling out the back. I am brilliant at bowling, so let's go and win money off the other travellers and get very, very drunk."

When Weasel dumped Farthing onto his straw-stuffed mattress three hours later, the young man suddenly remembered the magician couldn't actually get drunk or suffer from hangovers unless he forced himself.

"Damn," he slurred, and passed out.

"Does she have to do that?"

Farthing was lying down on the warm back of Fren-Eirol, holding his head. Weasel was sitting behind him, an amused expression on his face. It had emerged that the huge problem in diplomacy over the saddle the night before had been overcome in seconds flat by, as Weasel had predicted, Mistry. The girl had simply walked up to Fren-Eirol holding the saddle and told her the buckles were new and stiff and could the sea dragon help her do them up. Fren-Eirol had said yes automatically before she could stop herself and that had been the end of that. Neither the girl nor Mab-Tok had given her the chance to recover and had leapt in the air shouting that Fren-Eirol could catch Mistry if she fell off. The insult of saddles completely forgotten, the dragon had jumped into the air in panic and chased after them clucking like a mother hen. Farthing would have laughed out loud when Mab-Tok told them the story, suitably embellished, but his head was just hurting too much. He had asked the small healer dragon for help but was told the dragon didn't deal with self-inflicted injury.

Mab-Tok dive-bombed the humans on the back of the sea dragon again, the girl on his back screaming with joy. Farthing pulled his travel coat over his head.

"Enough!" bellowed Fren-Eirol through the morning sky. "We must make progress." Her voice dripped with irritation, but she could not hide the amusement in her eyes.

Mab-Tok glided into position next to the larger dragon and nodded his sincere thanks to her. He understood the issues that he and Mistry had raised, but it was necessity and not malice that drove his decision. Besides, he had known the story of the saddle all his life and always felt it was foolishness. To meet the two stars of the tale and see the hurt that lay behind it all, just annoyed him. It was passed time the entire episode was exorcised from both dragon folklore and the history of these obviously kindred spirits.

"Good idea," muttered Farthing, Fren-Eirol's voice still thundering around in his head.

Weasel had planned out the day's route with Mistry. She had knowledge of the main trail and he had knowledge of flying. He was relying on what he had sensed on Rondor Rocks since down in this hilly region he was unable to get a sense of anything and he feared their quarry had already passed into the mountainous region that lay between here and the North Hoar Ridge. His next proper attempt at scouting would be in those mountains, known, misleadingly, as the Black Hills, though he would do smaller checks, just in case their quarry turned off to another destination. In some ways, the route was straightforward. Here to the Black Hills, across the country of Great Plains into Wessen, then to the North Hoar Ridge, assuming that was where the girls were heading. In reality, it was still hundreds of leagues, perhaps another five days or so including scouting and flying up and over the Black Hills, and some of those were fifteen thousand feet high. How they had come to be known as hills was anyone's guess.

"Are we stopping at another village?" Farthing's head was pounding a little less.

"Why, up for another tavern?" asked Weasel.

"I was hoping more for an isolated wood with vicious tundra bears. It's safer than playing bowls with you!"

Fren-Eirol chuckled. "Oh, that was what you were up to last night. Weasel, what state are our funds in this morning?"

"Definitely a slight improvement," said the magician to the slowly flapping dragon.

"And the economy of Bekon?"

"It is safe. There is only one of me."

"For which my head is grateful," moaned Farthing. He shook out some of the numbness and sat up slowly, the gentle rolling movement of the flying dragon making him feel a little queasy. "We are not catching up with them, are we?"

"No. They are going to reach wherever they are headed before us," answered the magician seriously. "But what happens then is what concerns me."

"In what way?" Farthing was already worrying in a thousand different ways; another one seemed almost like nothing.

"I have no idea what to expect. Mistry's knowledge ends at the bottom of the Black Hills where they join Great Plains. The people of Tharkness have no trade with the plain's people or Wessen she says. Most trade is with her own small community and with North Bekon and Epinod to the south. She and her father were rarities when it came to trading any distance. She doesn't know this Tekkinmod at all or anything about those mountains in the north. We are going to need some information before we get there so we can plan what to do. Whatever happens, we are going to have to kidnap the girls back."

The reality of the situation hit Farthing like a hammer blow. Yes, he had known deep down that finding the girls was only part of the mission, and he knew getting them back was not going to be easy, but he had not put it into words so bluntly. To hear Weasel explain it sounded stark, cold, and even close to impossible.

"We're going to be criminals," he said.

Weasel said nothing, he didn't need to, but he had to find out what that entailed and that required a conversation with someone. The magician glanced over to the small dragon flapping along next to Fren-Eirol. Mab-Tok was being helpful, enthusiastic even, and generally a good member of the team, but he had stayed strangely silent about anything to do with northern Bind. Of course, it might be that he didn't have anything to contribute, but Weasel didn't believe that. The Draig Bach-Iachawr knew more than he was revealing, and perhaps it was time that he was persuaded to cough up a little of that knowledge.

They were flying into a headwind, which they had been doing for much of this trip. Flying higher would have helped a little, but not much. The fast winds, thousands of feet up, that had helped them across the Yonder Sea, turned sharply south partway across Bind, tangential to their course, which was of no help to them. A long, low rumble echoed beneath Farthing and Weasel. The magician grinned.

"Hungry, Snowy?"

The dragon growled. "I haven't eaten properly since the bear, oh aged one," she said pointedly. "Mab-Tok and I will need to eat soon; he especially as he cannot go as long as I." The dragon's stomach rumbled again. "Come on, Mab-Tok; let's up the pace." Fren-Eirol powered up to higher air and the smaller dragon moved over into her wake.

Sarn-Tailin was tucked into the woods at the narrow high end of a valley in a heavily forested range of steep hills. It had more houses than Sarn-Lien, but they were huddled closely together around three sides of a square, while the road wound down the long, steep valley that widened into farmland between the tree-covered hills. The dragons landed just before the village proper and took themselves a short distance off the road and into the trees to rest while the three humans investigated the village. The dragons had to eat, and for Fren-Eirol, that meant a spectacular sized meal, not just a couple of slices of meat and a chunk of bread. Mab-Tok was no rodent either when it came to his food.

"Half a cow each?" suggested Weasel with a grin. "Would you like that wrapped, Mistress Eirol?"

"Slightly smoked and peppered will be fine, Mr Weasel." She winked at Mistry, who was still catching on to some of the banter. Weasel and Farthing started up the road and Mistry trotted up behind them, slipping her arm through Farthing's.

"We don't see dragons up where I am," she said. "Oh, the odd one or two flying over, I suppose, but we don't trade with them or anything."

Dragons, having no respect for borders, should have been known by all the peoples around Dirt, but they were far less numerous than humans, and many communities would never have encountered them at all. Despite a long lifespan, they rarely gave birth to more than two children and most had none, so their population had shrunk as the human population had increased dramatically. In consequence, there were places on Dirt where dragons were rare, passers-by only, and were almost thought of as a myth.

Mistry pulled a face.

"What's up?" asked Farthing.

"Just that I don't know what they normally do about food. I mean, I haven't seen either of them eat other than snack on the bear."

"They will hunt if we cannot buy food," explained Weasel. "They are no lovers of eating raw meat, but they will eat it if they must. Fish, on the other hand, they love raw, and so food was not a problem over the ocean even if finding somewhere to land was." Farthing rolled his eyes up at the understatement. "Since they don't eat every day and their diet is mostly meat or fish with some fruit, they tend to cook over open fires, hence Snowy's comment about slightly smoked. The smaller dragons have a more varied diet and like cereals, especially a chewy honey and wheat cake they make. Don't ever try it, by the way, it will pull your teeth out."

"So, how much meat will we need to buy?"

"More than we can afford," said the magician. "I was serious about the cow, and whole cows aren't cheap. Snowy knows this and she'll be expecting us to find the local hunting ground. Actually, if I can leave that to you two, I need to see if anyone here knows more about Tekkinmod or anything about Wessen. We must get more information."

"Why do you call Fren-Eirol Snowy?" asked Mistry as they walked into the village square.

"He wants to get eaten," answered Farthing. "There's a general shop over there. If they sell hunting gear, they may know where to hunt. Weasel, your inn is that way." He pointed to an old, dark-brick inn called The Lost Man.

"I wasn't necessarily looking for an inn," commented the magician.

"Yes, you were."

"But since you have pointed one out..."

"We will meet you there shortly," finished Farthing.

"Me as well?" asked Mistry. Inn's in Tharkness tended to be habituated by men, and the only women were girls serving.

"We will fend off all the randy young farmers for you," said Weasel, and quickly trotted across the square, leaving the girl glowering at his back.

The general store reminded Farthing of Biggerman's map shop in Taken. It was deep rather than wide, and the small windows didn't let in much light. Most of the buildings here were heavy stone or brick with small windows, in contrast to the wooden-framed buildings of Sarn-Lien.

"Morning, sir, miss." A very tall, thin man stepped down the narrow stairs and positioned himself behind a long serving counter. "Travelling through?" He had a rich country accent.

"Going east, sir," said Farthing. "We need a few supplies and a bit of advice about hunting."

"Hunting, sir? Not much around here, to be honest; mostly a farming community. What supplies you be needing?"

Mistry had wandered into the back of the shop and was looking through some rough, peasant clothing.

"Dried beans and peas, if you have them," said Farthing, running through their cooking supplies in his head. "And some rice if you have any."

"Beans and peas we have a plenty. No rice in these parts; we are a potato people. If you want dried, we do straight wheat noodles in from Southern Bekon."

Farthing asked to see them. Noodles were popular in Redust as wheat and millet grew in the west of the Prelatehood and was imported from other Prelatehoods like Siinland. Wild rice was traded up and down the river Wead, and next to bread and dried beans was the main staple. The noodles were thin, short, and wrapped tightly into bundles tied off with dried grass. Perfect, thought the young man.

"So, is there no hunting around these parts at all?"

"I wouldn't say none, sir. We get the odd stray boar in the woods, but they are few and far between, and my lads go out rabbiting regular. I like to see what I can coax from the stream, but other than that it's sheep and turnips, to be honest. We like our sheep and turnips here."

Mistry came up to the counter carrying a short sheepskin jacket and some thick work trousers. They had liberated her money belt from the dead slavers and she paid a few coins for the clothes.

"Good idea, miss," commented the shopkeeper who towered over her. "If you are heading east and north up the road here, then it will be getting colder, despite it being the warm season. It's all uphill from here, you see," he added with a smile.

Farthing had been feeling the cold a little as they had walked up into the village and he had forgotten that Mistry was relying on the clothes she and Fren-Eirol had been making out of some of the dragon's printed fabrics.

"Is that going to be enough?" he asked, feeling guilty. "Maybe a couple of shirts?"

"Got some basic hemp ones for women cheap on the shelves, miss," suggested the tall man. "Can do you a deal if you need a few." Mistry followed the man to the back of the shop and returned with three lace-up dark-red shirts.

"A bit big," she said with a smile. "But a good idea, thanks." She handed over the coin and she and Farthing made their way back to the square.

"I need some herbs and some bacon, or something cured," said Farthing. He had more or less taken over the responsibility of the food because it took his mind off his worries and made him feel like he was contributing. Several times he had wondered if he was more of a burden than a help to Fren-Eirol and Weasel. "We should also see if anyone else has better information about hunting. Someone must do some, even if it's just for the sport of it."

Mistry agreed. "My community is all farming, but hunting is still popular. We get small deer and some boar up in the hills, and the farmers' sons love going out tracking them down."

"What are you going to do when you get home, Mistry?" asked Farthing. She had spoken a little about the problems with the farm now her father was dead, but he realised they had not really resolved anything.

"I don't know, Johnson," she replied, looking sad. "I will lose it; I know that. Women don't own farms in my world, end of story. No one, not even close neighbours would support that. And no one is going to take me in, not a girl my age. I had my own herd, but even that was frowned on. The only way they would take me in is if I married in." A look of distaste crossed her face. "The only people I know either have daughters or their sons are disgusting!"

Farthing laughed. "I would think you would have the pick of the crop!" He was pretty confident this young girl's big eyes could fell an ox at twenty paces.

"You would think? I don't know what girls are like in The Prelates, Johnson, but where I'm from I'm seen as some sort of stick insect! The men of Tharkness like their women comfortable, as my father always says. Said." She fell quiet again. "What will I do?" Her voice was almost a whisper. Farthing turned to her, looking straight into her eyes.

"You come with us, Mistry. And when we rescue my sister, you come home with us back to Wead-Wodder. We are as poor as rats, but we are a family." His answer left no room for argument. "Come on, there's a grocer."

Farthing had as much luck with the grocer as he'd had with the tall man in the general store, though he managed to get the other provisions they needed. Mistry had stayed outside sorting out her new clothes, and when he came out she was sitting on the step taking to a young girl.

"Her father is a forester, she says."

"He gets all the wood for all the fires in the village," said the small, flaxen-haired girl with pride. "Sometimes he is gone for days, right up to the top of the world, he goes!"

She pointed up at the woods at the head of the valley. It wasn't the tallest hill in the region by a long way, but when you were all of six and small, top of the world was as good a description as any.

"Tell him what he brings you, Silvi," said Mistry to the little girl. Apparently, they had become firm friends in the few minutes Farthing had been inside.

"He brings me teeth for my collection!"

"Teeth?" Farthing was not sure what he expected the answer would be, but teeth wasn't it.

"Big teeth!" said the girl, beaming. "Look!"

She shoved her hand down the front of her shirt and with a bit of a struggle and some face pulling she pulled out a small leather bag, hung around her neck on a string. She pulled the bag open and told Mistry to open her hand. Out of the bag, she tipped three decent-sized teeth. Mistry looked at one and Farthing at another, and then they looked at each other.

"Venison!" they said in unison.

"No!" said the girl, looking annoyed. "My daddy says they're from monsters!" She looked around to check if anyone was listening. "But it's a secret!" Farthing blinked, his mouth in a half grin, and Mistry poked him in the leg.

"Is your daddy in the forest now, Silvi," asked Mistry.

"No, Mistry, he's in the pub," said the girl. "I'll take you to him." She pirouetted around and shot across the square. Mistry and Farthing watched her speed off for a second, then chased after her.

The Lost Man was the largest building in the square, and Farthing wondered if there was enough passing trade through the village to justify its three floors. Like the other buildings, it was made of a mix of stone and brick with small windows, and it lacked that welcoming feel that inns and taverns normally have. Inside, however, it was warm and well-lit and surprisingly busy. They were only just behind Silvi who rushed across the main room and leapt like a bear cub into the arms of a huge, heavily bearded man.

"Silvi," exclaimed the man. "What's the rush?" She whispered into the big man's ear, burying her face in his hair. "Monster hunters?" She whispered a bit more. "Oh, yes, of course, it's a secret!" A few of the other men laughed quietly at the exchange. Little Silvi was obviously a bit of a local character. She whispered some more. "They want to eat a monster?" Silvi drew back, looked into her father's eyes, and nodded vigorously.

"They must be very brave!" the girl told him in a conspiratorial voice.

"I'm sure they are, Silvi," he said with a solemn expression. "Monster hunters are always very brave."

"Like you?" She giggled and gave him a big kiss on the nose. The man roared with laughter as did most of the locals.

"Right, little lady," he said, putting her on the floor. "You get yourself back home where you're meant to be! I won't be long." The girl rushed out of the door, then ran back in, gave Mistry a hug and rushed out again. Then suddenly she ran back in again, pulled Farthing down to her level and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Just in case the monsters eat you," she said helpfully, and rushed off home. Farthing blushed, and the bar erupted in laughter. He stood back up, touching his cheek, and walked up to the huge man.

Johnson Farthing was not short, was not thin and not weak. He spent his life pulling a handcart filled to overflowing with the finest red dirt all the way up the hill to the dumps. He was broad-shouldered, muscular, and was just over six foot five inches in height, and at nineteen years old was in his physical prime. But next to Silvi's father, he felt like a ten-year-old. The man was quite simply a bear. His long hair flowed out down his back. His beard was full and tightly curled. His shoulders seemed twice as wide as Farthing's and as he stood to greet Farthing and Mistry, his head neatly fitted between two of the low beams across the ceiling.

"Dawfoot." The man introduced himself and shook Farthing's hand. "Seb Dawfoot."

"Johnson Farthing," said Farthing, "And this is..." Farthing hesitated, wondering what kind of place this was, and how they regarded unattached, young, pretty girls. "This is my sister Mistry," he finished. The man nodded and smiled at the girl.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Farthing. So, you want to go monster hunting, Mr Farthing?" The forester waved over to one of the young women behind the bar and ordered beer for the three of them. Mistry started to object. "It will do you good, young lady," said the man, and passed over a terracotta pot of frothing beer. This was not the stout that Farthing had drunk so far on Bind but was more like the wheat beers they brewed back in Redust. It was good, and he smiled in thanks.

"Going by what your daughter showed us, you have deer up in the woods."

"Well, aside from the monsters, yes there is deer up on the far moorlands beyond the high forest." Farthing wasn't sure where that was. "That is up over the ridge up here," explained Seb Dawfoot, catching Farthing's expression. "It's a bit of a trek up through the forest and I must be the only one from this village that ever gets up there."

"The owner of the General Store said that apart from rabbiting and fishing, no one around here hunts much."

"We is all afraid of Dawfoot's Monsters, that is why," said a neighbour, laughing. Seb glared at the man.

"Come and sit down in the other room, Mr Farthing. There are tables in there and I can explain a few things."

He picked up his large pot of beer and ducked through the connecting door into the more peaceful back room. It was mostly empty, but the fire was up, and the floor littered with heavy, woven mats. Mistry sighed with relief. She had felt dwarfed by some of the tall men of this village and a little intimidated. They sat down at a table by the fire and a girl wiped the table down. Wishing to be seen as friendly, Farthing ordered three more beers, even though they were still drinking the first.

"Make that four," called out Weasel, appearing from the corner of the bar where he had been talking with a couple of travellers. He grabbed another chair and Farthing introduced him to Seb Dawfoot as he sat down.

"I was just about to tell Mr Farthing and his sister here about the hunting up on Tailin Moor."

Weasel looked at Farthing's "sister" and smiled in understanding. The young man was learning very fast.

"So, there is hunting here," he said. "That is good to know."

"Well, yes, there is hunting and then again, there isn't. Well, at least, not easy hunting." They looked at the big man, puzzled. He fidgeted and glanced around to see who was listening. "I get into a lot of trouble over this, you see." He took a breath. "That moorland used to belong to this family that lived up there until about fifty years back or so. Generally, they kept themselves to themselves and didn't get involved in any of the villages around here. The only thing they asked was that everyone kept off their land. To be honest, the Moorland is not much good for anything we do. Oh, we probably could graze sheep up there if we worked on it, and goats would be fine, but it's a long way from the village and we have all we need here. So, we were happy to leave them to it."

He finished off his first pot and took a sip from the second. Mistry looked at her barely touched beer guiltily, took a breath, and downed the lot. Farthing glanced at her sideways but said nothing.

"Anyway, about fifty years ago, the village got word that the last of the family had died. She was an old woman and had no sons and just a few men working for her. One of them came down and told us she had just died in her sleep. The men were not from around here but were all Wesseners. Now the old lady had died, they were going back to their families up in Wessen, but he told us she had said that Tailin Moor should become common land for any of the villagers to use for grazing or whatever, but it must never belong to any single family. They had papers and everything that they lodged with our elders here, and that is how the place has been since."

"I take it we don't need permission to hunt up there?" asked Weasel.

"No, not as such. Not as if you would be getting in the way anyhow. No one from any of the villages goes up there except me, and that is only to the edge as part of my forestry."

"What, no one at all?" Mistry was surprised. If there was deer and other animals up there hardly hunted and free to breed, she would have thought it was almost irresistible.

"Not a soul, Miss Farthing."

"Why?"

"Well, because of the monsters."

Weasel ordered a third round.

"So, have you actually seen one of these monsters?" he asked.

The big man had been explaining to them how he had found several deer over the past few years with huge chunks taken out of them. That is where the deer teeth had come from.

"I'm not a hunter myself, Mr Weasel," explained Seb. "I wouldn't know how to go chasing a deer on open moorland by myself, and I can't use a bow. Axe is more my weapon, but that is not much of a huntsman's choice. There have been tales of big beasts up on the moors for centuries, you see, and folk around here can be a suspicious lot, but there is a whole valley between being a bit suspicious and actually believing something is real. Suspicion might be keeping most from going and poking around at a place they have no need to go to anyway, but me turning up and telling them about the deer... Well, to be honest, I just got laughed at."

"Your daughter loves it," said Mistry, sipping happily at her third pot of beer.

The big man grinned. "She is my biggest supporter, miss." He looked at the young girl who had beer froth on her upper lip. "Are you alright with that beer, miss? We like a strong brew up here."

"Oh, fine, fine, fine." Mistry giggled. "It's really nice!" She guzzled down half the pot. Farthing lifted an eyebrow.

"So, monsters aside," said Weasel, "have you got any thoughts on what has been feasting on the deer?"

"Not really," said the big man. "I don't think it was bears. We don't have many around here and they are a smaller species anyway and stick to the forests. Bears would never leave a dinner half eaten. If any of them snagged themselves a deer, they would sleep on it rather than leave it. So, I don't think it's bears. Not dogs neither, for similar reasons. I have seen wolves with a carcass when I was young and travelling. They gut an animal inside out. These had a huge chunk taken out of them like it was one big bite. And it's not any of the Other People, neither. They wouldn't leave stuff lying around." Some folk in the more isolated communities referred to dragons and callistons as the Other People.

The serving girl came up and delivered another round of pots.

"From the gentleman in the corner with thanks."

"What was that about?" Farthing asked Weasel.

"Oh, he has been losing at cards badly to his business partner for their entire trading trip. While his partner was out back, I gave him a few tips."

Seb laughed. "Don't you be giving any of those tips to any of the locals in here, Mr Weasel. We likes it that we can win our money back from each other. Anyway, just to finish off, yes, there is hunting up there, but I'd be careful. There is something up there that obviously thinks this place is now all his, and he might not be too happy about some humans marching in." The big man stood up. "No, you stay sat and keep warm! I must get back home before that little scamp comes looking for me again, and it will be getting dark pretty soon. It's the downside of the valley. Once the sun goes, it turns dark quick. Good night!" And with that, he headed out of the bar. Farthing turned to Weasel.

"Well, one way or another, it looks like the dragons can hunt in the morning. How did you do?"

Weasel wiped the froth from his mouth. "That was a lucky find. Those two in the corner are just back from Tellmond in Wessen buying a couple of carts of tundra bear hides. They haven't dealt with Tekkinmod directly, but they certainly know of him. Looks like he controls the west half of Wessen and is very powerful. I now know a couple of places they might be heading to if he goes that direction, and I need to note those down." Weasel had kept notes ever since Mistry had sketched out her rough map on the rock. He had been filling in more and more as they went along with what they saw and what he was finding out. "Come on, drink up and let's go. Oh."

"What?" asked Farthing.

Weasel pointed at Mistry. The girl was face down on the table, sound asleep. "How much did she drink?"

Farthing looked at the pots in front of Mistry. "All of them."

"Damn it! Fren-Eirol is going to chew us up and spit us out for whatever is up on that moor to finish!"

Farthing grinned, then realised the magician was right. "What do we do?" he asked, biting his lip.

"Alright, wait there." Weasel went to talk to one of the girls behind the bar who gave him a key. Returning to the table, he handed the key over to Farthing. "I've got you a room. Take the girl upstairs and she can sleep it off."

"What, the two of us in the same room?"

"She has been curled up next to you ever since you two were captured, I don't see the problem. Anyway, you are brother and sister now, isn't that right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I will tell Fren-Eirol that Mistry was tired and cold, and I thought she should have a proper bed for the night."

"She was cold, and we have bought some warmer clothes for her." Farthing passed Weasel the provisions they had purchased.

"Perfect. Meet us early tomorrow and we can get up to the Moors. The dragons can hunt, sit around to digest a bit, then we can put in a long afternoon. We should reach the foot of the Black Hills the following day."

When Weasel left, Farthing looked down at the girl, lying with her head on the table, snoring. "Oh dear. Come on, little sis; let's get you to bed."

Farthing wasn't a stranger to the situation. His own sister had got into trouble a couple of times with a few friends on the rare occasion any of them had spare coin. He very gently lifted the girl out of her chair and draped her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. As he walked around the end of the bar and up the stairs, the sweet, pretty, big-eyed girl burped like a fisherman.

Weasel sat by the fire sketching in his bundle of papers. Fren-Eirol and Mab-Tok had found a sheltered spot between four huge, ancient firs, put up their canvas, and lit a fire. The sea dragon had been somewhat put out by the young people staying at the inn, but she accepted Weasel's explanation with only a touch of scepticism. Now, she was lying down on the pine needles, getting her sleep. More than the others, Weasel understood that his old friend was conserving her energy. She was a mighty dragon, but she was carrying two people and a large pack, and it was wearing her out. He only hoped the smaller dragon could keep up as he was also beginning to tire carrying Mistry.

"How are you doing, Mab-Tok?" asked the magician. The small dragon blinked.

"Unusual question coming from you, magician," he said suspiciously.

Weasel bit his lip. "As you have reminded me several times, Mab-Tok, I have lived on this world of Dirt a considerable time, and for someone who is not a dragon, I probably know them better than anyone. I know when one is tired." Mab-Tok was taken aback. Weasel looked at the small dragon carefully. It was a bad description, really. Sat down, he was still head and shoulders taller than Weasel, and several times his weight, but he was dwarfed by the oversized Draig Morglas. "I also know when one is being economical with how much they say."

"Really?" The small dragon's expression hardened.

"Really." Weasel's judgement was final. "So, healer, tell me what you know of Wessen, of where we are, and of the Black Hills."

"What makes you think I know anything useful?" The small dragon was being evasive to a point that was rare in dragons.

"For the same reason that Bren-Diath distrusts me so much." The magician looked deeply into the eyes of the dragon till Mab-Tok looked away in annoyance.

"So, it is true. You are more than you pretend."

"That idea is over-sold," snapped Weasel. "If you mean I am more than a one-trick sideshow, well then yes, but you knew that anyway. If you say I am some flame-throwing wizard, well sorry, that is all myth."

"I know that."

"Look, Mab-Tok, I still don't know why you are really here with us, but you have pulled your weight, and you are now close to exhaustion. I think you are clever, and closer to a bit of a trickster than I have seen in any other dragon. You must have been running rings around the lumbering reds up at the Neuath." Mab-Tok shrugged. "But we are flying into danger, and the more I find out, which is frustratingly little, the more dangerous it seems to be. I need help here. This might be Farthing's mission to find his sister, but he is nineteen and wound up tight inside. I don't blame him; his sister is quite literally half his world. Fren-Eirol has made this possible, but she needs to keep every tiny little bit of strength she has ready and waiting for whatever we run into. She knows that, which is why she's the first asleep every night. To add to this complication, we now have a fifteen-year-old girl who, though very capable, is probably homeless, and we are going to be carrying into a fight that she is simply not prepared for. Especially when it comes to the massive hangover she's going to have in the morning."

"I heard that."

"Oh, shit." Weasel closed his eyes. "Go back to sleep, Snowy." There was silence from the dragon. Weasel opened his eyes cautiously, but her tail was still. "So, help me out here, draig."

The small dragon looked over at Weasel. Despite being three hundred years old, Mab-Tok was far younger than the magician. Even Fren-Eirol was much younger than the magician. What was more, the young Eafa had grown up with Mab-Aneirin who had had lived hundreds of years, and he had died over three hundred years ago. To make it more complicated, Weasel wasn't even the oldest of his kind that Mab-Tok had met, and that was worrying him as well. There were things he was not prepared to say yet, but the magician was right. He needed his help and Mab-Tok owed them. They didn't realise it, but when he had left Taken in a hurry, he wasn't running away from someone else, not really. He was running from himself, or at least what he'd become. He leant over and took the notes and pencil from the magician and started drawing.

"You haven't got the lay of the land right, Eafa," said Mab-Tok, using the magician's real name without thinking. He rubbed out the markings Weasel had made for the Black Hills and Great Plains and redrew them. "Great Plains is twice the size you think. We have the advantage because we fly, but not much. On the flat plain, that calliston will be going like the wind. I have seen a calliston in full run; it's frightening." Weasel didn't ask where the small dragon had seen a running calliston as they were so very rare on Dirt, but he had a rigid rule about looking a gift-rathen in the mouth. He let Mab-Tok continue. "I don't know a lot about Tekkinmod, but everything I do know is bad. I also know it wasn't him at the fair, but one of his seconds."

Weasel frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Because Tekkinmod has several bases, which I think you know, and one is a hunting retreat up in the ices. He is famous for hunting and spends most of the summer chasing anything that moves. That is where he'll be now."

"Will the girls be taken there?"

"No, it is him and his men only. They could be taken to one of his mines, or go south, but I guess they will be taken to his hall. The good thing is that no one will dare touch them till Tekkinmod returns and checks them out or they would quite literally lose their heads."

"What else do you know?"

"Very little. He's a brute of a man, probably about the richest man on Dirt after the King of Wessen and they have always been friends and allies. Some years ago, he took the king's small army into Coldor and won it for Wessen. It made him a bit of a hero. He now has several mines up there as well. He has his own men run everything including the mines from where all his wealth springs, and they are known to be cruel and vindictive. Some of the workers are slaves. His real power has always been his wealth. Weasel, he could afford to buy half the Prelates if he felt like it."

The magician looked thoughtful. "I wish I knew more about where he is, what his halls are like, and anything else that would help us."

"I flew over that area a long-time back, but they shot arrows at me and I haven't bothered again. To be honest, there is nothing there I'm interested in. My interest is herbs and spices."

"And gambling?" The magician wasn't stupid.

"And none of that is there." The dragon lifted the lead and hesitated. Then he put a small X on the map in the middle of the Black Hills.

"What is that?" asked Weasel, turning the map around to look more closely.

"Where we need to go."

"Why? What is there?"

"Help." And with that, the small dragon stood and walked off into the darkness of the forest to be with his own thoughts.

Weasel looked at the map and then carefully folded it and put it into his soft bag. He knew he had pushed the small dragon perhaps harder than he should, and he hoped Mab-Tok would understand. Now, he would just have to wait to discover what the X stood for. First, they had to get there.

"You had no choice, Eafa, my friend," said Fren-Eirol quietly. "Mab-Tok has been playing a game and the time for games has gone."

"I thought you would be listening, Snowy," said the magician with a smile.

"You know me too well, little man," she said. He picked up his blanket, went over to the recumbent sea dragon, and made himself comfortable lying against her side like he had done so many years before. As his eyes slowly closed the dragon asked in a soft voice, "do you think you will be able to fool them forever?"

"No. But forever is a long time," said Weasel, chuckling. "Aneirin knew before even I did, but neither of us really understood everything; I still don't. I just know some things work and some things don't. You didn't notice for years."

"You and Aneirin were already ancient and wicked when I met you; what chance did I have?"

"None!" He laughed again. "It's what we loved about you, Snowy."

And the two old friends fell asleep enjoying a mutual touch of minds that no one else would ever comprehend.

# Chapter 14 – Monster

"Sister?"

Mistry walked through the village square as if she was tiptoeing over glass. Everything hurt. Her head pounded, her stomach ached, her arms were sore, and her knees wanted to buckle. She had woken at dawn with a raging thirst to find herself in a warm bed. She had sat up far too fast and her head had exploded. Looking around with blurred eyes, she had seen Farthing curled up in the corner of the room, cramped and uncomfortable. It had taken her several minutes to work out where she was and what had happened, but when she had, she had just felt all the worse.

"Why did you tell them I was your sister? I'm just a person you met a few days ago in a slave market."

Farthing turned to the small, aching girl, and held her gently by the arms, looking straight into her red eyes. "Mistry, I don't care how little time I've known you. I will keep you safe, I will give you a home if I can, and I will try to give you some sort of future, whatever happens. If nothing else, I owe you that. You kept me safe and strong and were prepared to give up even the most precious thing for me. But besides that, I really like you. You're very special. So, yeah, sister, whether you like it or not. And if I must sign something to make you believe it, I will." Farthing didn't do long speeches often, and he had no idea how to sign his name.

The girl looked at her feet, then up into the young face of the tall man who said he wanted to be her big brother. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek softly and tried to look sweet. Her hangover spoilt the effect and she just looked ill.

"How much trouble are we in?" she groaned.

"Terminal," he said, and took her by the hand and walked her down the road.

Fren-Eirol ignored the girl as she and Mab-Tok disassembled the camp, and Mistry was confused whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Farthing just smiled at the sea dragon, grateful that his own hangover was small enough to be covered up. He took Weasel aside to work out their next moves. The little lecture he had given Mistry had cleared his mind. The young cheese maker confused him. He enjoyed the attention and loved her company, but he had found his loyalty split between the mission to rescue his sister, and worry over this girl and her future now her father was dead, and she was probably homeless. It wasn't his fault, but it felt like it was. Making her part of his family, at least in his own head, made it all just the one problem again. Now he had to get on with solving it.

"I spoke to Mab-Tok last night," said Weasel as they sat on a log a little way from the packing. "I put him on the spot and it has left him rather less talkative this morning, which I can live with." Weasel grinned. "However, he did come clean at least about what he knows, and I now have a better idea of the geography."

Weasel laid out his small map and notes and showed Farthing the route he wanted to take. It looked so easy on the map, but Farthing was well aware it would not be so simple.

"What is this X?"

"That is important, apparently, but that was about as much as I was going to get out of the draig last night. When I asked him what it was, he just said it was help, whatever that meant."

"Do you trust him?" Farthing had been worrying about Mab-Tok since they first met him, even though he knew he owed him his life.

"Maybe more now, to be fair. I had the feeling he was telling me things he wanted to say to me rather than things he should say. He looked genuinely conflicted, to be honest; worried. Farthing, I think when we get up to Wessen we'll be flying into trouble. You might want to think about that before you drag your girlfriend with us."

"Sister."

"Hmm?"

"I told her she's my sister. She is not my girlfriend, Weasel."

"Oh yeah. And how did she take that?"

"Fine, I think. She's not very well." Farthing grinned.

"Fren-Eirol will have something to say about that."

"I think she has come up with a better punishment than a lecture."

"Really? Do tell!"

"She is smiling like a sunny day and letting Mistry suffer alone."

"Ah, that old ruse," said Weasel. "Used to do that to Aneirin. She is good at letting people rot in their own guilt. She and Geezen are very similar in that way."

"I thought it was familiar." The more Farthing learned about the close friendship between Geezen and Fren-Eirol, the more he wondered why he had never met the dragon before. Then again, aside from Truk, he didn't know much about Geezen's life. She had lots of packages of people she dealt with in all kinds of places around Wead but kept them all separate. But she had made the Farthing children feel special when they thought they had lost their entire world, and they would be ever grateful for that.

"Hunt first?" asked Farthing.

"Yep," said the magician, stashing his notes in his bag. "Mab-Tok is on his last legs and must eat. My plan is to get up to the moors now and let the two of them hunt and feast while we work out anything else that needs doing. They will want to rest for a couple of hours before we set off, and then we put in a long afternoon and see how far we can get by dark. It might not be as far as I hoped because the wind has come up overnight and it's blowing the wrong way."

"I'll make up torches and get kindling ready before we leave the moors," said Farthing. "I might make the beginnings of supper too so we don't have to do more than put up the canvas and light a fire tonight."

"Good idea," replied the magician. "Perhaps Mab-Tok will be more forthcoming about his mysterious X once we get to the hills tomorrow."

Farthing looked over to Mistry, who was leaning against a tree fighting with her insides. "I think someone is going to need sleep before she faces a long flight."

"It was good beer, though," commented the magician. Farthing smiled and rubbed his temples.

"Very good!"

It took only minutes to fly up to the head of the valley and land at the edge of the Moors. The wind was stronger up here, and a fine, misty drizzle blew across the rough grass and heather of the moorland. The dragons set off immediately to search for their feast while Weasel, Farthing, and Mistry backed under the cover of the huge, dense firs. The trees of the forest were mostly ancient cedars, many giants infilled with eager saplings battling for the light. It made a good shelter and Farthing lit a small fire in the lee of an especially rotund giant between two huge roots. No sooner had he put their blankets and bags into the dry hollow where the roots met the trunk than Mistry dumped herself on top of them, groaned like an old boat, and shut her eyes tight.

"Very sweet," commented Weasel, wryly.

"And smelling like a brewery," added Farthing, turning up his nose.

"It's all your faults!" slurred the unhappy girl, and she fell to snoring.

Farthing had always been a hard worker between rare bouts of swimming and sharing beers with Barkles. But over the last few weeks he had become much more organised. He quickly had a bean stew up to the boil and put out into the rain to cool, and he started shaving some dry sticks into kindling. Weasel appeared with a large armful of thin, dry timber and proceeded to clean it up so it could be bundled easily. Travelling by dragon might be fast, but they could not carry as much as if they had a line of packhorses behind them. What they did carry had to take up as little space as possible and not weigh too much. They had all learned to roll rather than fold their clothes to fit into the soft bags, and the canvases were scraped free of moss, leaves, and water before being tightly folded, rolled and stored. It was a routine that Mistry fitted into well, and Farthing suspected that her farm was going to turn out to be a tiny smallholding; she behaved like someone who had little coin and not much space. For the moment, however, she was no help at all other than peppering the woodland with entertaining grunts, snorts, and other less ladylike emissions.

"I suppose it has to do with scale," speculated Weasel. "Her body is less than half your mass, I would guess, so, in reality, she has consumed twice as much as you."

"Doesn't explain why she is four times as drunk for four times as long!"

"You didn't get this drunk when you were fifteen?"

"Never had the coin, mate. And you haven't been beaten up by my sister."

"I haven't even met her," pointed out the magician, then looked up at the young man. "But I will, you know, Farthing. I will meet her."

Weasel once again tried to work out what was wrong, what was missing in this entire affair. When he thought about Rusty and her brother, something didn't add up. The connection between them should have made finding if not easier, then at least a little more accurate, but he was struggling to get a proper link between them at all. He would almost doubt their ancestry except Geezen had been midwife to the mother and had brought both children into the world. Having said all that, when he had first found the boat, he had definitely sensed something from someone. He pushed the confusion to the back of his mind. With the weak connection he had made through the slaver back at the market, he was now certain he was following the right trail, and any problems from before were now unimportant.

Farthing put down his knife and stretched. "Why are you here, Weasel? I mean, you earned your bar bill back before we were even half way to Taken. I know you and Fren-Eirol are on a personal mission, and there is something important about the Prelate's daughter which I don't understand, but still, there is no need for you to be here, other than we need you to be."

Weasel sat down and grinned. "And that is why I'm here; for all of those things. Look, the bar bill was neither here nor there. Geezen only did that to get my attention, though trust me, I'm grateful. But as I heard more, it reminded me of how I used to live my life before I even met Fren-Eirol. There is a lot I don't really talk about, but I and Mab-Aneirin, as he was then, were a team. He was this huge, tough red dragon, like a lot of the reds, but he was also an idealist. His village thought he was nuts. I think that is why we got on so well. He was on this mission to make the world right, and I loved it. I'm pretty certain we made as much worse as we made better, but we were doing something, and it was important. Well, we thought it was.

"Anyway, after he died, and he died quite young for a red, my reasons for doing became fewer and fewer. The arguments between the dragons were just pointless, and when it got to the stage that even Fren-Eirol and I fell out, well, I had had enough, and I left. I have been suffering from having enough of other people's problems ever since. Seeing Fren-Eirol reminded me that I was meant to be doing something and not just sitting around achieving nothing. So here I am."

"And the daughter?"

"Not for me to talk about, Farthing. You need to ask Fren-Eirol about that. And what the hell was that?" Weasel turned suddenly towards the moor at the sound of an enormous crack of wood. Farthing leapt to his feet just in time to see the monster.

"Bloody hell!" shouted Farthing. "Mistry, wake up!"

"What is it?" shouted Weasel.

"You're asking me? Mistry, wake up, now!"

"It's big."

"Yeah, I got that. What's it doing?"

The monster, or whatever it was, was thrashing around in the undergrowth at the edge of the trees, howling and roaring in anger.

"It doesn't like the trees! Look, it isn't coming in," said Weasel.

"Why? And why is it here? That forester has never seen it, and he's been working up here for years."

"I don't know. Oh, bollocks!"

"What?"

"It's trying to come in!" The beast was feinting at the trees, half pushing in and then pulling back again. "What has attracted it?"

"Our fire?"

"Surely the forester had fires!" shouted Weasel. The roar of the monster was getting louder.

"Maybe not. He's a forester, remember. He's probably more careful than that, and when do you light a fire for just yourself when you're working?"

"Okay, doesn't like fire. The Stew?"

"Oh, come on, Weasel! You can't honestly be saying it likes a small pot of bean stew!"

"What... what is happening?" Mistry opened her eyes and staggered up next to Farthing, burying herself meekly under his arm. The beast went crazy. Farthing and Weasel looked at each other.

"Mistry!" said Farthing.

"What?"

Farthing didn't wait to explain. He simply grabbed the girl, threw her over his shoulder and ran down the hill deeper into the forest, Weasel on his heels. Still in a daze, Mistry raised her head just in time to see the huge teeth of the monster bite a small tree at the edge of the moor completely in half.

"Farthing! Run!" she shouted, bashing on his back like he was a horse.

"What do you think I am doing?" Farthing crashed down through the woods and skidded onto a trail. He turned right, heading downhill, and ran faster.

"Farthing, slow, stop!" shouted Weasel. "It isn't following."

Farthing slid to a halt, panting like a wild pig on the run, and feeling hunted like one. Mistry slipped from his shoulder and looked into his face.

"Alright?" He nodded. "Good," she said, and went behind a tree and puked. Weasel sat down on the bank by the trail, picking bits of forest from his hair and robe. Farthing flopped down next to him.

"Weasel?"

"I have never seen anything like it, Farthing," said the magician, shaking his head. "I couldn't work out what it was. Its head looked a bit like, I don't know, a bit like a red dragon? But without the crests and a different colour. But the rest? I couldn't see properly. I didn't see any legs. Snake like?"

"Worm?" suggested Farthing.

"What, those little wriggly things?"

"Well, bigger, lots bigger, obviously," said Farthing, wishing he hadn't suggested it.

Weasels face suddenly lit up. "Of course, wyrm!"

"That's what I just said!"

"Yes, I mean no, different spelling. And it can't be!"

"Can't be what?"

"A wyrm. Related to dragons but can't fly and has no legs. But it's a myth, well, extinct anyway."

"Weasel, I've gone off your definition of what is a myth. We spent two very wet days stuck on an island that was not meant to exist."

Weasel shrugged with a touch of embarrassment. "Well, if it is such a thing, or the thing the myth is based on, then the legend says nothing about hating trees or getting worked up over skinny young girls."

"I'm not skinny!" Mistry appeared from behind the tree. "Does puking always make you feel better after drinking?" She looked around for something to wash her mouth out with, and Weasel chucked her a skin from his ever-present bag. "What is that thing? And has it gone?"

"No idea to both," said Farthing. "But I think I have to go peek; it's gone quiet."

"I will go with you," volunteered the girl.

"No!" both said.

"What?"

"We think it's you that attracted it in the first place," said Weasel.

"Oh, that was what you were talking about. But why?"

"That is the one thing I am sure we have no idea about," said Farthing dryly. He stood up. "Both of you wait here."

"I can go more quietly than you," said Weasel.

"Maybe, but I can run faster. I think that's probably more important."

Farthing crept back to the camp but found no sign of the wyrm, or whatever it was. He grabbed a few of their things and quietly packed up as much as he could into Fren-Eirol's huge bag. Wanting to attract the dragons, he threw leaves on the fire to create more smoke, then headed back down to the trail. It was a testament to how fast he had run down the hill that it took him a good thirty minutes to make the round trip.

"How long will the dragons be?" he asked Weasel when he returned with another bag of water and Mistry's jacket. She took it gratefully as it was cold and damp in the forest.

"Depends on how long they took to find some game. With Mab-Tok's hunger and eyesight, probably not long now."

"Okay, I'm going back up. I've put some leaves on the fire, but I am going to build it up so the dragons see the smoke. When they get back I'll send Mab-Tok down to fetch you, and then we should leave quickly before we have another visit from whatever it was. We can stop just after the moor to let the dragons digest their breakfast."

"Good plan, Farthing," said Weasel. Mistry had disappeared behind the tree again.

"Can you help with that?" Farthing asked the magician.

"I'll settle her down. At least she won't have to suffer one of Mab-Tok's purges."

"Don't tell Fren-Eirol that!" said Farthing. "She might like the idea of the cure being worse than the affliction." A groan of agreement came from behind the tree.

Back up at the camp, Farthing fuelled the fire with some of the dried wood Weasel had collected, then added damp, lichen-covered wood and armfuls of pine needles and ferns. The thick smoke made its way up through the trees, and he hoped it would not be whipped away too quickly by the growing wind. They generally kept their fires small and he was hoping that the smoke would alert the dragons to trouble. Since it was a short stop, there wasn't much to pack, but he sealed the lid of the stewpot with flour paste and wrapped it up in sacking. Everything as ready as it could be, he crept slowly to the edge of the forest and looked out over the moor. The ground was flattened where the monster had had its tantrum, but Weasel was right, there were no signs of any footprints. A noise behind him made him jump.

"Sorry," said the magician.

"Where is Mistry? Have you left her down there on her own?"

"Did you know young farm girls can climb trees like squirrels?"

"What?"

"I sorted out the rest of her headache and gave her some biscuits to chew, but she was worried about you. There was no way I was letting her back up here in case she is the attraction. So, she just shot up this tree and sat on a high branch, leaning against the trunk, legs swinging, nibbling at the biscuits like a little rodent. Where is her farm?"

"Right next to a forest and they have problems with wolves."

"That would hone your tree climbing abilities I would think," commented the magician. "Very impressive, though."

"Is she going to be alright?"

"She's fine. Anyway, if she screams I'm sure you can run down that hill at speed." Farthing glared at him. "More seriously, when Fren-Eirol gets back, we better organise quickly. I suggest we help her with her pack, and Mab-Tok can take the saddle and fetch Mistry. There's a clearing just down the path from where she's hiding so they can fly from there. We can load up Fren-Eirol and get out of here. This place is making me nervous."

Farthing had to agree. Coming from a dry country like Redust, most of the last few days had been alien to the young man. This moorland might not be as strange as the plateau had been, but there was something about the constant wind and thin rain that was unnerving.

"Look, up there!" Weasel pointed high in the sky. Farthing looked up and saw the long, graceful wings of the sea dragon and the smaller, flapping form of Mab-Tok.

"Why are they so high?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Weasel. "Oh, here they come. Damn, they're diving fast!"

The two dragons came screaming down from the sky, landing with a crash on the edge of the forest.

"Wyrms!" shouted Fren-Eirol.

"We know, there was one here earlier," said Weasel.

"Well, there are five more coming this way. Where is Mistry?"

In answer, Farthing turned to Mab-Tok and threw him the saddle. "Down the hill, run! Turn right when you hit the trail and call; she'll find you. You can take off a bit lower down in a clearing."

Mab-Tok tucked his wings in and ran down the hill, crashing through the undergrowth.

"Help me, Farthing." Weasel was dragging over the large bag. "Snowy, drop down!" Fren Eirol lay down nearly flat, pulling her wings in, and the two men, working either side of her, dragged the bag unceremoniously over her tail and up her back. She stood up, reached down to grab the straps, and tied them around her waist.

"Get on!" she shouted, already walking out of the forest, and spreading her wings. They jumped up onto the bag and she ran to take off. She had only taken three paces when a massive head shot out of a ditch and grabbed her by the leg, pulling her hard down to the ground. The dragon's head snapped around and she bit straight into the Wyrm's neck. Farthing rolled off backwards.

"Fire," the magician called to him. "Everything hates fire!"

Farthing ran back to the campsite, kicked the leaves from the fire, and, using a shirt from his bag, beat at it until the flames rose. He grabbed two flaming branches and ran straight under the dragon, shoving them into the eyes of the wyrm. The beast howled and let go, and Fren-Eirol fell back, blood gushing from her leg.

The angry, black and brown and muddy wyrm, lunged again, and Weasel stuck it with his knife, but the beast seemed totally uninterested in the men; he wanted the dragon. Weasel looked panicked for a moment and started muttering.

"Why is he... Mistry... Eirol... Snowy! You're a girl! Stop fighting and get out of here!"

"I can't leave you!"

"You have to! We we'll be alright; it's females it wants. They are attracted to female anything! Farthing, drive it back! Snowy, fly back into the forest; find the clearing."

"Follow me!" Mab-Tok was overhead with Mistry.

Fren-Eirol cursed and leapt into the air, flapping madly, nearly sending the two men flying. Blood was pouring down her leg onto the ground, female blood, and the other wyrms were screaming from the distance.

"Weasel, we have to get out of here!" Farthing threw his burning branches at the wyrm and it reared up and danced backwards. The two men ran down into the forest. Farthing turned and watched as five huge, snake-like beasts screamed and danced at the edge of the trees. "Why don't they follow?"

Weasel slid to a halt and watched the frantic display, then slapped Farthing on the back. "Roots! Did you see how that one leapt out the ditch?" Farthing nodded, panting. "He was far too big to hide there, so he must have burrowed. They can't do that here. These trees are massive and so are their roots. It's like a barrier."

"But they could slide over the top."

"And risk not being able to burrow?" He let his breath out. "They won't follow; I'm sure of it. Come on, Fren-Eirol is in big trouble.

They ran down to the clearing to be greeted by a terrible sight. Fren-Eirol was lying on the ground, an enormous gash in her leg and her wing bent backwards. She looked half dead. Mistry was on top of her, pulling cloths out of the bag as fast as she could.

"Weasel, I need you now!" ordered Mab-Tok. Weasel just obeyed. When it came to injury, Mab-Tok was the boss. "I can't stop the bleeding," said the Draig Bach-Iachawr. "That thing you did?"

"What thing?"

"When you healed yourself after getting stabbed?"

"But that was just a cut!"

"No, it wasn't, magician." Mab-Tok's face was hard. "You should have died, and you know it." Weasel looked from face to face. "How did you survive? How did you do it?"

"I... I don't know. I willed myself into the wound."

"You can do that?" Mab-Tok looked stunned

"Yes, I think so. I don't know!"

"Right, I need you to do it again, but I will help and try to clean as you do it." He turned to Farthing. "Get a fire lit, a big one. Get water on and boil those rags. And I need herbs."

Farthing looked lost; he knew nothing about herbs.

"Which ones?" asked Mistry.

"Tindel, raithsporn and... er... fillenton?"

"In a wood?"

"Good point... Er, you know the Hithe mushroom?"

The girl nodded.

"Get me the stalks."

"They're poisonous!"

"They are? Oh, to humans, yes, not to us."

"On my way!" Mistry ran off, snatching Weasels knife smoothly from his belt as she passed.

"Remind me to buy her one, someone." The humour was not in the joke however and Weasel took off his robe, sat on the ground, and held the dragon's leg. Fren-Eirol howled. "Are you ready, Mab-Tok?" asked the magician.

The small dragon squatted down and put his large, leathery hands over Weasel's.

"Try it."

"Snowy, I love you like mad," murmured the magician. "And this is going to hurt like hell. I am so sorry." He closed his eyes and pushed down on the leg.

"All the gods," whispered Mab-Tok. "How is he doing this?"

Fren-Eirol screamed. It was not the roar of a beast or a shout of anger or even a howl of rage, it was a low, guttural cry. It started deep within her huge body, flowed up through her neck and poured out of her mouth. It was filled with death and pain. Farthing froze, his arms full of wood to tend his small fire. The scream sliced through his body like a sword, echoed through the trees then flooded the valley. And then it stopped like it had been cut off, and the world fell silent. Farthing looked at the dragon. She was out cold. Mab-Tok stood unsteadily and lifted up the unconscious form of Weasel, laying him gently against the dragon.

"Get the fire going," he said softly.

Mistry came running out of the forest, tears streaming down her face.

"It's alright, girl." Mab-Tok held her gently by the shoulders. "That was the healing. Have you the herbs?"

Mistry nodded. "I got you tind root too."

The dragon smiled. "You know your herbs!"

"I have to. My goats are always hurting themselves, as is my dad. Was my dad." She looked up into the dark eyes of the dragon. "Is she going to be alright?"

"For now, but I can't say more than that. Help me make a dressing, then I need to look at her wing."

Weasel stirred, and Mab-Tok handed him a waterskin. "Did we do it?"

"You did, though I don't know how, and with a dragon as well." The Draig Bach-Iachawr had a puzzled look in his eyes.

Weasel chuckled. "The crazy thing is neither do I." The dazed magician handed over a large crescent-shaped white object. "This was in the wound," he said. "It's a tooth." And he passed out again.

Farthing boiled the strips of cloth that Mistry tore up for him. It was a ridiculous job, he thought. The wound on the dragon was nearly four feet in length and although it was mostly closed, it was still oozing blood and gore.

"I cleaned it as much as I could while Weasel closed it," explained Mab-Tok. "But it's not clean enough. The dressing should help, but I'm worried that the weight of the leg will pull the wound open again. The wing is another matter."

"What has she done?" asked Farthing.

"She lost loads of blood, it was pouring out of her, and she simply fainted in mid-air and crashed to the ground. Her wing is broken and dislocated. I have no way of getting it back in."

"Then how?" Farthing's hopes crashed down around him once again.

"I need help." Mab-Tok looked up at the sky. "I hope my night sight is up to this."

"Why?"

"When the magician comes around, he and I are going to get help. You and Mistry will have to stay here with Fren-Eirol. We'll be gone for two days at least. Can you do that?"

"Yes, of course we can," said Farthing. "But what about Fren-Eirol?"

The small dragon handed over the tooth to Farthing then picked up the Hithe mushroom stalks and rubbed them together with something from his bag and some water till he made a paste. He went to Fren-Eirol's head and put his hand deep into her mouth, spreading the paste all over her tongue. He removed his hand and gently closed her mouth.

"There, that will keep her unconscious. Get a canvas over her and keep her warm, Farthing." He looked over at the girl who was trying to bind the dragon's leg on her own. "And take care of her too. She's special."

Mab-Tok helped Mistry finish the dressing and gave her instructions about tending the wound. They would have to remove the dressing, clean it, boil the rags, and redress it every few hours to fight infection. He then slapped Weasel round the face.

"Wake up, we need to fly."

The magician stood unsteadily and shook his head to clear it.

"Where to?"

"The X. Can you help me fly very high?"

The magician nodded. "Are you really going to carry me the entire way to the Black Hills?"

"If we can get up to the winds where the scimra fly, then yes, I can make it, I think. But I cannot do it on my own and stay up there, and I haven't Fren-Eirol to follow. I suspect you can make the difference. Am I right?" His look challenged the magician. "Then it will be mostly gliding, and I'll be fine with that."

"What is at the X?"

"You will find out. I really don't have time to explain now and I want to concentrate on getting there. Help is there, and right now, we are in desperate need of it."

Farthing and Mistry watched as the small dragon carrying the magician spiralled up and out of view, heading into the highest winds they could find. A gentle rustle of leaves made the two turn suddenly.

"Can I help?" asked Seb Dawfoot with a smile as big as his hairy face.

# Chapter 15 – X

Weasel had used the trick previously when he and Fren-Eirol had brought Farthing to Taken after being stung by the Onga. Draig Bach-Iachawr might be dragons with wings large enough to fly as high as a sea dragon, but they did not have the same lungs as the great dragons, and Mab-Tok would have trouble breathing. Weasel had to help the small dragon and keep him conscious.

"I'm worried this will make you sleepy!" he shouted at Mab-Tok against the growing wind as they spiralled up and over the Moor.

"I'm not Fren-Eirol and you're just by my ear. Don't shout!" shouted back the small dragon.

"Sorry," said Weasel with a little less volume. "How long can you go without my help?"

"Five more minutes before I get breathless I reckon."

"Get as high as you can and level out, then I will help. This will slow your heart rate down and you will feel like you're in a daze, but you should be able to ride the current. When you need more control, drop in height. I will take that as meaning you don't need me and stop helping you."

"Okay."

Mab-Tok pushed harder into the wind, trying to find the sweet spot that Fren-Eirol used to increase her climb. Suddenly he found it and let out a yelp of surprise. The Draig Bach-Iachawr was not used to flying high with a passenger and struggled to find his balance.

"Lean forward!" shouted Weasel as he felt the small dragon pushed upright. Mab-Tok dropped his head and tilted his wings forward, and they shot up into the high winds. For the next three minutes, he adjusted his flight till he could feel the winds beneath him, carrying him east. With any luck, he wouldn't have to flap at all. On his back, the magician placed his hands at the base of the dragon's neck and Mab-Tok felt a warmness creep over him. He locked his wings in position, letting the fast current of air hold them open, and let out a long breath. He had never flown like this. They were much higher than when crossing the eastern half of the Yonder Sea, and this was far faster too. He vaguely wondered how Weasel could survive such height. Any human would have been dead from lack of air and the extreme cold. Without the magician's help, he would be too.

It took nine hours to reach the Black Hills and as they descended, the dreamy warmth left Mab-Tok and he heard Weasel take a sharp breath.

"Are you alright?" he called over his shoulder.

"Sorry, yes. That was hard."

"You have my thanks. Can you see at night?"

"I will be fine," answered Weasel evasively.

"Well, just hold on. I need to land for a bit. My wings are as stiff as anything."

The trees on the slopes of the foothills jumped out of the darkness, and Weasel gasped in surprise. But the Draig Bach-Iachawr's sight was much better than his, and he steered them to a small glade. Once Weasel had leapt to the ground, Mab-Tok flopped down and rolled onto his back.

"That was tiring!" he said with feeling. "But incredible. I have always been envious of the true high-flyers, but now I have felt it for myself, I'm amazed they ever come down."

Weasel laughed weakly. He was exhausted. "Think about the scimrafugol, then. We saw them on the way over and they can stay up there for days on end. And they travel faster. Fren-Eirol thinks it's because of their long, thin wings. They are better suited to working with the high winds than a dragon's large, broad wings."

"That makes sense," said Mab-Tok with a sigh. Mention of Fren-Eirol was a sharp reminder of why they were here.

"Where are we going?" asked the magician. He wanted an answer this time.

"We are going to the ruins of an ancient abbey," answered Mab-Tok. "There are those there that can help where I cannot. I won't explain more now for we have a hard flight through the mountains." He stood up and stretched. "We should leave. I'm worried about Fren-Eirol, and our time is short."

Weasel climbed onto the dragon's back. "Do not compromise for me, dragon; just get there. I will hang on."

Mab-Tok took flight out of the glade with a shout. The mountains wrapped around them, and the small dragon powered his way into the high peaks of the Black Hills, twisting and turning through narrow gorges, sharp crags, and tall cliffs, while Weasel held still on his back. The magician could do nothing now but trust to Mab-Tok's exceptional night vision and hang on for dear life.

"Catch!"

Mistry threw down a thin line from the branch from which she was hanging. This was the third tree she had climbed, taking a line up each so they could pull a canvas over the unconscious dragon. They had already draped it over Fren-Eirol to keep her drier, but they wanted to suspend it to trap heat from small fires. The girl scampered back down the tree and grabbed the last line from Farthing.

"Can you get up that last one?" he asked, pointing at a conveniently placed giant which had little to recommend it for climbing.

"No lower branches to hang onto," said the girl. "Unless you can push me up."

"My job I think," said Seb Dawfoot, and he scooped up Mistry like his tiny little daughter and dumped her on his shoulders. She shrieked in surprise. He stood with his back against the tree. "Step onto my hands, facing the tree. I do this with Silvi all the time." As she did so, he raised her right up above his head, and she grabbed the lowest thin branch and swung herself up. He walked away and looked up with his hands on his hips. "You are good at that."

"Hey, don't go away! I have to get down yet."

"Jump?"

"From here? Forget it!" The giant of a man smiled, went back to the tree, and collected the girl. "Is that enough lines?" she asked.

"That will do us," said Farthing, threading the last line through the eyelets in the canvas and pulling it out.

"I need to find more herbs," said Mistry, frowning. "I used them all on the first dressing."

"Will you need more water?" asked Farthing.

"There is a small stream about 100 paces down the trail," said Seb.

"Thanks, I will find what I need down there too, I hope."

"What are you looking for?"

"Tindel, raithsporn and tind root."

"I don't know tind root," said the big man, "but the others you will find a bit of a way down the stream; they like it wet." The girl thanked him again, grabbed two empty skins, and trotted down the path.

Farthing watched her go. "Is it safe in the forest?"

"Oh, safe enough, lad. We don't have wolves here and bears are rare and are up north at this time anyway. The odd wild pig, but they will run the other way if they see her. So, unless she gets mauled by squirrels, she should be fine."

"We have had a lot of bad luck," said Farthing, pulling at each line in turn. Seb grabbed the oposite line in each case and pulled the other way until the canvas had lifted clear of the dragon but was sagging in the middle. The big man took his long machete from his belt, cut and cleaned two stout poles from younger trees, and used them to raise the centre of the canvas into a peak. Hopefully it would trap the heat and help the rain run off. Their timing was perfect as it began to rain more heavily.

"So, tell me about this monster," said the forester. "For all these years I've seen the signs and the carcasses, but I've never seen the beast."

"We think it's because you're not female," said Farthing.

"You're joking, lad!"

"No joke. The first one was attracted by Mistry, we think. When it caught sight of her, it went nutty, but it did the same when Fren-Eirol turned up. And when he bit her, and she bled, they all went barmy."

"All of them?"

"Six of them."

"Well, I never!" The big man scratched his head. "It was bad enough when I was telling stories about one, but if I turn it into six, they'll lock me up!" He laughed; a warm hearty laugh.

"Well, maybe this will help." Farthing handed the tooth over to Seb. "The wyrm left it in the wound."

"Silvi is going to squeak like a piglet when she sees this!" said Seb. "Can she have it?"

"I don't want it, and I doubt Fren-Eirol collects teeth. Does Silvi ever come up here?"

"I bring her up with me sometimes, but she has never been to Tailin Moor."

"Don't ever let her anywhere near it, Seb," said Farthing seriously. "I'm not joking about the female thing. We think the wyrms burrow under the ground which is why they were able to surprise us, but it may also be why they don't come into the forest. But on the moor? They are the kings up there."

"Thank you for the warning, Farthing. I will keep her away from the moors and maybe put out a warning to other villages too." The big man sat down and looked up at the grey sky. "Let me help you with the fires and then I must get back down to the village. I was on my way back there when I heard your dragon, and my missus will be wondering where I am."

"Thank you for your help, Seb. We would have been struggling."

"Oh, you look like you could have coped, but you are strange little band."

Mistry returned up the path, passing Seb as he headed down at a gentle trot. The two men had lit four fires around the camp, just outside the canvas. It would not keep away all the cold, but the forester had shown Farthing how to keep them compact and hot; more heat and safer for his precious forest.

"Help me with this?" Mistry asked Farthing as she struggled with two skins and a big bag of herbs and roots. "The roots need peeling and chopping and then boiling for ages, and I have some more of those mushrooms for keeping her asleep." Mistry put her hand on the side of Fren-Eirol's face.

"Is she alright?" asked Farthing.

"Her breathing is so light, Johnson," said the girl, her voice catching. "It's normally so deep and rich."

Farthing ached inside. It seemed that everything was stopping him from getting to his sister, and it was always his friends getting hurt.

"I'll keep the fires going to keep her warm," he said. Other than mash herbs, there was little else he could do. Mistry put a pot full of water on their small cooking fire at the edge of the clearing. They fell quiet as they prepared the ingredients they needed for the change of dressing.

The two small distant candles of light in the gloom grew into roaring beacons in the precipitous grey canyon as Mab-Tok flew down to the broad concourse in front of the ancient abbey. Great statues of mythical beasts looked down over the edge of the cliff, and either side of the main path sat two great black dragons. Weasel's mouth dropped open as they landed, and the two beasts raised their heads and sounded a long, deep, horn-like call in a welcome that bounced off every cliff and every peak.

"Draig Mynyth Dun," whispered Weasel, climbing from the back of the exhausted Mab-Tok. "I have never seen one before."

The black mountain dragons had little contact with other dragons and almost none with humans. They were thought to be few in number and no one knew where they lived except it might be in an isolated area near Hoar North. The greatest of all dragons, they stood three times as tall as a red mountain dragon and three times as long. Their heads, the size of a horse, stood out on graceful necks and their wings were long and slender, more like the scimrafugol than other dragons. They were sometimes known as moon dragons, and the stories told that they could fly between the two moons. To most, they were the stuff of children's stories and legend, and yet here were too monstrous beasts, looking down on the diminutive magician with intelligent and knowing eyes.

"Mab-Tok," he whispered, and turned to the small healer dragon, but he had collapsed on the ground. "Mab-Tok!" shouted Weasel, and rushed to the dragon, putting his hands on him. He was barely breathing. Weasel looked up at the huge, silent beasts. It was completely instinctive, as if he had known how to do this his whole life. He shut his eyes and called out with his mind with every ounce of power he could muster.

"Help us!"

The black dragons, first one and then the other, called out with their haunting, deep cry once more, and from the Abbey rushed a dozen of the smallest dragons Weasel had ever seen. Shorter than he, they were pure white, wore flowing white silk robes, and had no wings. The tiny dragons, chattering in an ancient tongue, gathered around Mab-Tok, gently lifted him, and carried him through the stone arch of the Abbey. Another took Weasel by the hand.

"Come," she said in a clipped, high-pitched, voice. "We will look after Mab-Tok, and I will show you to a room." She guided him through the arch into an atrium and led him up the stairs.

"You know Mab-Tok?" asked Weasel.

"Of course, he lives here," said the white dragon simply. She opened a door and ushered Weasel into a tiny room with a small fire and a warm looking bed. "Sleep now," she said. "We must tend to Mab-Tok. I will wake you in just a few hours."

The magician sat on the bed with no argument. He was close to collapsing himself, and his head was pounding from healing Fren-Eirol. He looked out of the small window across the dark, grey canyon. Looking up, he could see a glimmer of light over the peaks. Dawn was not far away. Mab-Tok had achieved an incredible flight for such a small dragon, but then the magician had fed him every ounce of energy he could. Weasel lay down feeling sick and exhausted, and fell quickly asleep.

"Farthing!" hissed Mistry urgently to the young man who was banking up the fires in the early light of another grey dawn. He put down his small shovel and came over to where she sat next to Fren-Eirol's head. "Her breathing, it's becoming ragged. That is bad!"

"What do we do?"

"I don't know!" The girl sounded so tired.

They had both been up all night; he tending the fires and cutting more wood in the shadows around the clearing as quietly as he could, and she sitting by the dragon, making dressings and grinding up mushrooms to mix with the spice that Mab-Tok had left for them. Twice in the night, Fren-Eirol had stirred and moaned in agony, and Mistry had put more of the paste on the dragon's tongue. Farthing looked to the sky and sat down next to the girl, putting his arm around her.

"It's near sun-up, but I doubt we will see much of it through the clouds. Does it ever stop raining here?" They were both soaked through.

Their fire was in one corner of the large clearing, and that had afforded them a degree of shelter, the tall, ancient firs towering above their heads. The ground was sloped and well drained, but Farthing had used his shovel to redirect a few impromptu rivulets of water that had threatened to soak the ground where Fren-Eirol lay unconscious. Farthing took the pot of beans out from the large bag and put it on his cooking fire to heat. A distant scraping of gravel caught his ear and he looked down the path. Trundling up towards them was a small cart pulled by a pony driven by Seb Dawfoot. Farthing grinned. The giant of a man looked ridiculous on the small driving seat with his knees sticking up at an angle. He stopped the cart before the clearing and out from the back jumped a small woman and Silvi. The little girl came running up the path excitedly, then skidded to a halt when she saw the dragon lying on the ground beneath the canvas.

"Mistry," said Farthing. She looked up at him. "We have company."

Mistry stood up from where she was hidden behind the dragon to see Silvi standing dead still chewing her finger. The woman walked towards them, carrying a large bag, followed by Seb who was carrying two huge bundles of dry firewood under his arms. Mistry smiled and walked down to meet the little girl and her mother.

"Hello," she said tiredly.

"You must be Mistry," said the woman. "I am Melini, Seb's wife, and I must say I don't know what you have done to my daughter, but this is the first time she has stopped chatting since we left an hour ago!" The woman smiled broadly. "Here, I've brought some bread and cheese."

Farthing trotted over to help Seb with the wood.

"I'm alright, lad," he said warmly. "But there is another on the back of the cart. I stopped early so I did not scare the pony. He ain't never seen a dragon before." He laughed suddenly. "And neither has our Silvi! Stunned her silent, by the gods!"

Farthing collected the remaining bundle from the cart and followed Seb, staggering under the weight.

"I haven't seen a dragon before, neither," said Melini. "How is she? Seb told me what happened."

Mistry was close to tears. "I think I'm losing her. Her breathing is ragged like a goat's kid is when it's too weak to survive."

"Come on, girl," said the young woman. "Let's have a look at your wonderful friend." She took Mistry by the arm and walked her up to the dragon. Seb Dawfoot stopped by his young daughter who didn't even reach the huge man's waist.

"You planning to stand there all day, or do you want to meet a dragon?" The little girl looked up at him with big, nervous eyes. "Well, come on then, climb on," he said, bending down while still holding the two wood bundles. Silvi climbed up him like he was a tree and scrambled onto his shoulder, burying her head in his hair to hide. He laughed and walked up to the camp, Farthing huffing and puffing behind him.

Melini dropped her bag and felt along the dragon's body.

"Well, I have never dealt with a dragon before, but I have dealt with most things, and this lady is cold. Seb, you and the lad get those fires built right up so we have lots of heat. I'll look at this dressing." She turned to Mistry who was standing with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. "Child, you will catch your death like that. Strip off those clothes by the fire and put something dry on! You too, lad." The young people stared at her. "Oh, don't be silly, you ain't got nothing none of us have seen a thousand times before. Get on with it." From the other side of the dragon, Seb laughed out loud again.

Farthing and Mistry pulled out dry clothes from their bags, and without looking at each other, stripped off and changed in lightning quick time. Farthing grabbed their clothes and hung them on a line which he tied beneath some of the denser trees. Amazingly, the rain had not made it through the canopy, and he wished he had noticed it earlier.

"This dressing needs changing again," said Melini. "How many times have you changed it?"

"I need to make up the herbs first, but we changed it completely three times last night and cleaned it too," answered Mistry.

Melini studied the girl. "Have you two slept at all?"

Mistry shook her head. "Fren-Eirol, the dragon, she was in pain last night, and we have been keeping her quiet with a paste made from hithe mushroom." The woman looked startled. "Apparently it's not poisonous to dragons, but it's keeping her asleep."

"What about something to fight the pain?" asked Melini.

"Mab-Tok, he is a healer dragon friend that has gone for help, he said pain numbing doesn't work on greater dragons very well, partly because of their size and something about the way their body works. I don't understand it, to be honest."

"Well, I'm learning too. You have been doing well, child, so let's see if we can do better between us. My Seb is the best forester there is, and he will get it warm like a southern summer sooner than anything. Now get yourself something to eat while I unwrap this and let the air get to it for a bit. We also need these cloths boiled off. Seb!"

"Yes, dear one," answered the big man, striding over.

"You got that big pot down by your charcoal clamp?"

"I moved it; it's in my shed up the path."

"Good. Go get it and some more water. I want to boil all these cloths."

Seb called over to Farthing. "You get those other two fires banked up with that wood like I showed you, and I'll be about ten minutes. We can get them scorching when I get back." The big man detached the small girl from his neck and put her on the ground. "Now, girl, you wanted to see a dragon, and there is one for you to see. You get yourself all brave and go say hello to it. Alright?" The little girl nodded and looked at the large sleeping dragon suspiciously. Seb kissed his daughter lightly on the top of her head, then disappeared up the trail in long, smooth strides.

Mistry took a bowl of beans and a chunk of the fresh bread up to where Farthing was building up the wood around the fire. The bread smelt like it had been baked just that morning. At what time had this little family woken to come and help? Farthing took the bowl from her and she leant against him while he ate.

"Are we losing her?" asked Mistry.

"I don't know," said Farthing, his face etched with lines of worry and tiredness. "I can't even think about it." He looked up to where Silvi was standing about ten feet from the dragon's nose. "Do you think you should introduce her while Fren-Eirol's not jumping around?" He was trying to lighten his own mood as much as Mistry's. The girl pushed herself off her newly adopted big brother and walked over to the small girl, still chewing on her knuckle.

"Hello, Silvi," she said gently.

"Is she hungry?"

"Er, I don't know." Mistry was taken aback by the question.

"I don't want her to eat me if she's hungry when she wakes up."

Mistry managed to fight off a giggle. "Shall I tell you a story?" The small girl nodded, her knuckle still taking punishment. Melini looked up from where she was tending the dragon's terrible wound and smiled. "Well, once there was this beautiful princess who every day went down to the market next to the castle to sell her cheeses."

"Princesses don't sell cheeses!"

"This one does. One day, bandits invaded the market looking for the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, and seeing the princess, grabbed her. Their leader threw her across his horse and rode out of the castle and far away!"

"Ooh!"

"Beautiful?" commented Farthing, stoking the cooking fire ready for the water pot.

"Oh, very! Anyway, the bandit was very, very mean, and he had this big ugly scar all the way down his face. 'I will take you for my wife,' the bandit said. 'And you will live with me in my cave in the mountains!'"

"He wasn't very nice, was he?" said Silvi, frowning.

"No, he wasn't," agreed Mistry. "Back in the castle, the King was frightened. The bandit was powerful and had a lot of men, and the king thought that he would never see his very, very beautiful daughter ever again."

"Did my daddy go and rescue her?"

"No, he was busy getting water."

"My daddy is very big; he could rescue anyone!"

"Yes, but he was busy that day, so he couldn't," said Mistry with a hint of impatience. "The next day, a tall, handsome young man called..." Farthing and Melini looked up expectantly. "Called Erik, rode into the castle and asked to see the king."

"Are you sure he was called Erik?" asked Farthing, who had been rather hoping for a part in the tale.

"Yes, I am. The king said he would see the young man in his throne room. The young man came in and said, 'My King, I hear that your incredibly beautiful daughter has been stolen by the evil bandit. I and my dragon will get her back!' The King looked up, startled. 'But dragons eat princesses,' he said in fear. 'Everyone knows that!' 'Girl dragons don't,' said the young man. 'And Fren-Eirol is a girl dragon.'"

"Is this Fren-Eirol?" asked Silvi.

"Yes, this is her."

"And she is a girl dragon?"

"Yes, she is a big girl dragon."

"If she is a big girl dragon, where are her-"

"Dragons are different. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?"

"Yes please!" called over Melini. Mistry sighed. She was beginning to wonder whether this had been such a good idea.

"So, after many hours of pointless argument, the king said that if Erik could rescue the princess, he would make him a baron."

"What is one of those?" asked Silvi.

"Very rich. The young man left the castle and went into the forest where Fren-Eirol waited for him. Fren-Eirol leant down and lowered her wing, and the handsome young man who was very definitely called Erik, leapt up onto her back and they flew off to the mountains. Down below, the king and his people looked up and saw the beautiful blue and grey dragon fly over the castle, her thin wings shining in the sun, and ribbons of fine silk flowing from her crest." Without thinking, Mistry touched a hand to the dragon's face. "It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen!"

"More beautiful than the princess?" asked Silvi.

"No. Now, when they got to the mountain, the dragon hovered in front of the cave and the young man called to the bandit. 'Bandit,' he called. 'Release the princess or we will shake your mountain down!' The bandit called back. 'No one is that powerful, boy. Go away and leave me to my beautiful new wife.' The young man frowned and called again. 'Bandit, I give you this last chance. Release the princess or we will shake your mountain down!' 'Go away, boy,' laughed the bandit from inside the cave, 'for you cannot harm my mountain!' The boy touched the neck of the beautiful dragon and said, 'Fren-Eirol, will you sing for me?' The dragon smiled and said, 'Erik, I would love to sing for you.' The dragon began to sing, and her song was beautiful and sad. And as she sang, her voice grew louder and louder and louder, and the ground began to shake, and rocks tumbled from the mountain!"

"Ooh, she is shaking it!" said Silvi, shaking herself in a little dance.

"Yes, she is. And one by one, all the bandit's men ran from the cave, and seeing the huge dragon, they ran away over the mountains and were never seen again. At last, the bandit emerged, holding the beautiful princess in front of him. The young man didn't know what to do. If he jumped off the dragon's back to fight the bandit, the princess might be hurt! But the dragon landed in front of the bandit and she spoke to him. 'Bandit,' she said in a golden voice. 'You are a brave man, but you are a sad man. All your men have run away, and the girl you hold in your arms hates and fears you. Will you release her? For if you do, I will let you go from these mountains and from this kingdom without harm.' The bandit shook, for he was very afraid of the huge dragon, but looking into her eyes, he could also see how beautiful she was, and he felt shame for what he had done. So, he let the princess go, and Erik jumped down from the dragon and comforted the frightened princess. The bandit started to walk away, and the dragon turned from him and faced the young princess. The princess knelt before the great dragon, and in the words of old she said, 'Fren-Eirol, may I ride?' And the dragon looked at her and said softly, 'You may ride, but ride as one who knows how to fly with grace.'

"And the young, very, very, very beautiful princess climbed onto the dragon's back and so did the young man who held the princess tightly so she didn't fall. But just as the dragon lifted her wings to fly, the bandit whipped out his sword and slashed the dragon's leg. Fren-Eirol let out a cry and in anger picked up the bandit with her huge clawed foot and threw him for leagues across the mountains to land no one knew where. Then the dragon, her leg sorely wounded, flew back to her forest and collapsed in a glade. The young man and the Princess slipped off the dragon's back and tried to tend the dragon's wound. The king and the queen road up with their youngest princess, and they worked all the night to make the Dragon better."

Mistry ground to a halt, knowing you should never tell a fairy tale to a child while a tear is running from your eye. The little girl stepped forward and hesitantly touched the dragon's nose. Fren-Eirol stirred very slightly.

"Did Fren-Eirol really rescue a princess?"

Farthing had come up and he knelt beside the girl and put his hand over hers on the dragon.

"Yes, she really did rescue the princess, Silvi," he said. "And she rescued me too. She is the bravest and the most beautiful dragon ever, and we love her."

The little girl nodded. "Can I love her too?"

"I think she would like that very much indeed," said Mistry, the tears overwhelming her. And she stepped quietly away and hid behind a tree.

A little while later, Melini came and found her.

"What happened to you?"

In floods of tears, Mistry told her of the death of her father and of her capture and of how Fren-Eirol had rescued her and taken her into her arms. And she spoke of her growing feelings for Farthing, and how he had taken her in as his sister.

"And how do you feel about that, Mistry?" asked the woman.

"I would rather him as a brother than nothing at all," admitted the girl. "He's a bit of a lump too." She smiled, and the woman hugged her and kissed her on the cheek.

"Mistry, we should change this dressing, and listening to your story, I think I should not call you child."

"I didn't mind, Melini. But now, I am afraid she is dying."

"Well, let's go to battle for Fren-Eirol together."

Weasel's head was pounding when he was awoken by the small white dragon. He sat up to find fresh fruit and a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him. Ignoring the fruit, he drank back the hot coffee gratefully, and slipped on his robe. Looking out through the window, he realised he had slept but an hour or so and it was only just past dawn. He stepped outside the room where the small dragon waited.

"I am to take you to meet the owner of this house," said the white dragon in her clipped, light voice.

"House?"

"It was once an abbey, maybe a thousand years ago, but was left in ruins for many centuries; much of it still is. The present owner is not a priest, so this is no longer an Abbey."

"What about Mab-Tok?"

"He will be fine. He was exhausted. Draig Bach-Iachawr are not the best flyers, and I am not sure we have heard of any of them flying so high. We must hurry, for you have things you must do, and we must go and rescue the sea dragon."

"Good. Mab-Tok told you about Fren-Eirol."

"No, you did. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

"Occupational hazard, apparently," said the magician wearily.

As they walked around the balcony that overlooked the atrium, Weasel could see many repairs, but even those looked centuries old. He wondered about the person who would live in such isolation. At the far side, they entered through double doors; heavily worked wood detailed with delicate decorations. Inside was a large room covered with rugs and lit by flaming oil lamps. A woman sat in a chair at a long table, her head bowed reading, her long hair flowing over her shoulders. When he entered, she looked up and smiled.

"Eafa," she said.

"Oh, shit!" replied Weasel.

In the ten seconds that followed, the small white dragon looked first at Weasel and then at the woman, grinned slightly, and shot out of the room.

"I would have thought that after all these years you might have said something a little warmer," said the woman.

"All these years? It's been a thousand of them!"

"That is not my fault, Eafa!"

"Of course it is! I thought you were dead. Father said you were dead, my brother's thought you were dead and most of Ein Town thought you were dead. Why would I think of contacting you? It was not as if we liked each other when you were alive. I mean before I thought you were dead." Weasel turned around to go, and then turned back. "What are you doing here, mother?"

"I live here, Eafa. This is my home. I found it a long time after I had to leave."

"What do you mean, had to leave?"

The woman looked pained, and suddenly very old. Weasel wilted.

His relationship with his mother had been terrible. She and his father had always argued, she had kept disappearing, and then he had left for several years to go up to the mines where he met Mab-Aneirin. When he had returned, he was told she had died. It had hardly bothered him. He never got on with most of his family anyway, and when he had left again, it had been for good. But this woman in front of him, though undoubtedly his mother, was not the person he had so quickly forgotten. She was old and grey and, well, still alive.

"I had to leave because of you."

"Me?"

"Yes, or because of who you are."

"I don't understand."

"I know." The woman stood and walked over to the magician. He always remembered her as taller, but now she was smaller than he. "I cannot explain now for I must go and rescue your sea dragon friend."

"How?"

"With my dragon family. We will go and fetch her."

"I will get my things."

"No, you will stay here, Eafa."

"What?"

"There are things you need to know, and you need to know them now. Well, actually you should have learned them ten years ago when I sent Mab-Tok to look for you."

"What happened?"

"I should know not to send a weasel to look for a weasel! On the table is a book. Read it all!" She strode from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Weasel sat down in the middle of the floor and did something he had not done since Bren-Aneirin had died. He cried.

Mistry was worried. Fren-Eirol's breathing was terrible, and she didn't know what to do about it. Worse still, the paste she had made to keep the dragon sleeping was no longer working and the dragon was stirring.

"Let her wake, Mistry," said Melini. "Perhaps we need her help to fight this. Better she gets to fight." Mistry nodded, and threw away the paste she had made. The healing that Weasel had done was failing and the wound opening and bleeding.

"How do we close it, Melini?" asked Mistry. "I can stitch a wound on my dad, on a person, even on a goat, but on a dragon?"

Seb walked up and handed over a rope. "Use that to tie around the leg."

Mistry picked it up and looked at it. "Might work at that. Seb, can you lift the leg? It's heavy!"

He looked at the huge dragon leg as if sizing up a log and nodded. "I can lift it, but I won't lift it much, it might make things worse."

Melini went to the other side of the leg and crouched down. "Pass it through to me, Mistry."

"Good idea. Ready, Seb?"

The forester bent down and gently put his arms around the lower leg and lifted. Fren-Eirol groaned in pain, but Mistry clenched her teeth and slid the rope under the leg to Melini. The woman picked up the end and handed it back over, and Mistry tried to tie it up. Seb lowered the leg and gently took the rope and pulled it tight. The dragon cried out, and Silvi, who was sitting by the dragon's head, jumped back in surprise, her eyes wide with fright. Seb ignored them all, and calmly pulled and knotted the rope, pulling the worst of the wound closed.

"It's not a proper job, but tie it up with more cloth and it might slow the bleeding."

Fren-Eirol's eyes flickered open. "Where am I?" Her voice rumbled and was painfully weak.

"A bandit has stabbed you with a sword and you have been very, very sick and I was very frightened of you, but I think I love you now!" The words tumbled from the little girl, and she stood in front of Fren-Eirol's face, twisting her hands nervously. Mistry ran up and touched Fren-Eirol on the head.

"Eirol, you have been severely injured by the Wyrm, and the wound is infected. Weasel and Mab-Tok have gone for help. You are sick, Fren-Eirol, very sick. We need you, I need you to fight." The dragon blinked at the girl and reached up with her hand. Mistry held it in hers.

"I will try, dearest girl. I have never had so much pain. I need water, I think."

Seb Dawfoot walked over to the large pot that was steaming with the water they were using to clean the dressings. He kicked it over, spilling the hot water onto the ground, then grabbing fistfuls of rags, he picked up the hot vessel.

"I'll be back in a moment." And with long strides, he ran down the path.

"Who is that?" asked Fren-Eirol.

"The best of people, Fren-Eirol; the very best," said Mistry.

Behind her, Melini beamed and scooped up her daughter to give her a hug. She desperately needed to hug something.

As Fren-Eirol drank awkwardly from the pot filled with cool spring water, helped by the strong forester, the sky suddenly blackened, and the air filled with the sound of a deep horn. Farthing looked up in alarm as two dragons swooped down, and then in joy as he realised that one was Mab-Tok and the other was a big Mab-Tok! Mab-Tok landed and shook Farthing by the hand.

"How is she?"

"Bad." Farthing was always to the point.

"I'll deal with it. This is my brother, Mab-Lotok. You need to pull the canvas down and clear a space. We need a lot of room."

"What for?"

"Him," said the dragon pointing up.

Mab-Lotok burst into laughter as Farthing looked up and his mouth dropped open.

"What the hell is it?"

"It's a Draig Mynyth Dun, and it needs to land," answered the bigger Mab-Tok.

"Right," said the young man, a bemused expression on his face. He snapped himself out of it. "Seb, we need to clear everything out of the way and get the canvas down now!"

"Done," said the big man, and taking his long machete he walked around the camp cutting the ropes while Farthing and Mab-Lotok pulled the canvas free so it did not fall onto Fren-Eirol.

Mab-Tok went straight over to Mistry. "Speak to me, girl."

"The wound is infected and wouldn't stay shut. I have dressed it like mad and Melini has been here all day helping and cleaning it. We have had to close it with a rope. The mushrooms stopped working, Mab-Tok, and her breathing..." It was coming out too fast and Mab-Tok put his hand up to stop the girl.

"Take this." He gave her a packet. "Mix it with a whole skin of water. It will smell terrible. Don't take it anywhere near Farthing."

"Why?"

"He won't thank you for the memory, trust me. Then bring it back here." He turned to Melini, who was looking around in awe at the proceedings. "When I pour this into her mouth, the dragon will try to vomit. We mustn't let her. I will hold her mouth closed, and you stroke her throat."

"Like a lamb?"

Mab-Tok looked at the size of Fren-Eirol's neck. "Well, more or less."

Seb strode up having cleared away everything he could mostly by picking it up and throwing it into the trees. Mab-Tok looked at the man's massive arms.

"You can hold her mouth closed," he said pragmatically. Mistry ran up with the skin, holding it as far away as possible.

"This is disgusting!" she said.

"Where is Farthing?" asked Mab-Tok.

"Throwing up."

"Oh. All right, here we go. Open your mouth Fren-Eirol."

"Why?" she started to ask, which is all Mab-Tok needed. He squirted the entire contents of the skin down her throat in one go.

"Now!" he shouted.

Seb wrapped his branch-like arms around the dragon's muzzle, clamping her mouth shut. Fren-Eirol's eyes bulged and her ears stood up on end as Melini rubbed her neck with all her strength.

"That's fine. She has swallowed it," said Mab-Tok. Seb gently released his grip and Fren-Eirol fixed Mab-Tok with one eye.

"You bastard," she said with feeling, and passed out.

"What's a bastard?" asked a small voice from behind them.

"Don't ask!" said three humans and two dragons.

And then, from the sky, the huge Draig Mynyth Dun flew down and landed, his long, long wings reaching over the entire clearing, and the small white dragons leaping from his back. Slowly, he pulled his wings in and lowered his head to the ground. Down stepped a small, grey-haired old woman.

"You must be the friends of my son, Eafa," she said.

"Your son?" asked Farthing in amazement.

"He's not very happy about it." Despite her obviously great age, the small woman walked gracefully, if rather slowly, to the comatose Fren-Eirol. She touched her gently on the cheek. "You have done well, and she has a chance now, but only if we take her to the mountains."

"How? She cannot fly!" said Farthing

"Yes, she can, young man," said the woman, winking at him. "Girls, get the ropes!"

The small white dragons ran up onto the back of the black dragon and pulled down long, cloth-covered lines which they laid out on the ground. Mab-Tok and Mab-Lotok flew up to the dragon's back and re-appeared with a large, heavy canvas which they unfolded into a long roll behind Fren-Eirol. They positioned themselves at either end.

"Stand back," ordered the woman. The vast black dragon turned his great head and opened his mouth. He wrapped it around Fren-Eirol's neck as if he were going to bite her in two, but instead gently lifted her upper body as if she were but a small child, her head flopping to one side. The two brothers pulled the canvas out under half of Fren-Eirol, and the black dragon laid her gently back down. He then reached across her, found her good leg, and rolled her over and onto the canvas.

"Now, we need to pull her onto Bell-Sendinar's back," said the woman.

The small white dragons tied the ropes onto the canvas, and the humans and the brothers joined the rest of the white dragons on the far side of Bell-Sendinar. Slowly, while the Draig Mynyth Dun lay as flat as he could, they hauled Fren-Eirol up his wing till she was safely between his wings. Farthing shook his head in wonder. The black dragon was so mighty that Fren-Eirol looked small and helpless on his back. He wondered for a moment, how, in this clearing, the black dragon was ever going to have enough room to stretch his wings and take to the sky.

"Johnson Farthing?" The woman walked up to the young man while the white dragons collected many of their things, stowed them in Fren-Eirol's big bag and tied it on next to the sea dragon. "You cannot come with us. There is a limit to what even these friends can carry. You should rest here for a day or more to recover, and then Mab-Tok and Mab-Lotok will bring you back to my home."

"I have to get to my sister," said Farthing, the trial of the last hours beginning to hit him.

"Mab-Tok has told me. I have sent someone to find out where she is and what is happening. It would be foolish to do anything before we know more. That will take several days; you will have to wait first for news."

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Sen-Liana," she answered. "We will talk more when you get to the Abbey. Now, I must go, or your friend will die."

She stepped up onto Bell-Sendinar's wing and strode to a position at the top of his neck, standing just behind his crown. The white dragons laid themselves flat on the dragon's back, holding Fren-Eirol safely. Sen-Liana put a hand on Bell-Sendinar's head and he stood up to his full height, then reared up vertically onto his back legs, standing taller than many of the great trees around the clearing. With a low growl, he leapt high into the air, leaving the ground shaking beneath him. His wings flew out sideways, and with one huge flap, he sailed into the sky and turned east. The humans staggered back in awe, and Silvi shrieked, not in fear, but in pure wonder. On this day, she had had all her fantasies fulfilled in one go, and had seen the rarest sight on Dirt, the great Draig Mynyth Dun. Silence settled over the clearing.

"I'll set up camp," said Farthing, wondering what he would use since most of their belongings had gone with Fren-Eirol.

"No, lad." Seb Dawfoot put a great arm around the young man's shoulders. "For now, you stay with us in the village. Dragons too," he added, turning to the brothers. "And I think a beer or five is in order."

"Five?" asked Mistry in dismay.

# Chapter 16 \- Healing & Learning

Mistry sat sideways in the back of the cart, her back rested on the sideboard. There were no seats in the little two-wheeler, so she sat on a pile of sacking normally used for kindling. Melini was driving and Silvi was on Mistry's lap, playing with her fingers and talking non-stop. Mistry didn't have the foggiest idea what the girl was chattering about, though she kept mentioning something about flying on her dragon, and Mistry was happy to let the chirping wash over her like a warm stream.

Back up at the clearing, Farthing and Seb Dawfoot, aided by the mismatched dragon brothers, were clearing out the remainder of the camp and returning the forest to its natural simplicity. Seb was not just a forester, he was warden of this precious and valuable resource owned by all in the village. This was their firewood store, their charcoal store, the source of most of their building material, from the wooden frames of their houses to the stone bricks dug from the quarry in the middle of the forest, and it was their shelter from the winds and rains that blew down from the moors and the hills that surrounded them.

"Thank you," said Mistry to Melini, getting up on her knees and leaning on the backboard behind the little driving seat.

"What for?" asked the woman. Melini was slightly taller than Mistry, though not by much, fuller in figure, but only in her mid-twenties herself, a fair bit younger than Seb, guessed Mistry. But she was the mother of a small, talkative child, and that put her in a different generation. Mistry found herself warming to and looking up to the woman.

"For everything, I suppose. We were losing up there. You came and changed that."

The woman chuckled. "You and Farthing were coping fine, Mistry, but if I have helped, then you are welcome to it. You are good people."

Mistry hoped she was. Her father had been a good person, a caring and clever man, quiet and hardworking. Her brothers were selfish and greedy; had taken and had never given back. Her mother had died when she was born, and she never knew her. Her brothers blamed her for that. They were much older than Mistry, and her mother had had her when she was perhaps too old to have another child. The brothers had married and moved away when she was no older than Silvi, and the rare contact was unfriendly.

"You live near the square?"

"Just behind it close to these woods. It's my father's old house, and his father before that, and is a rambling old building full of little corners and memories. I hope you like it."

"If it's warm and dry I will like it," said Mistry with feeling.

"Oh, warm it will be! My sisters will have seen to that."

"It's not just you, Seb and Silvi?"

"Oh, it's far too big for that luxury. Our little village cannot expand easily because the valley is so steep, and we need most of the level ground for crops. It's common for families to stay together and just add rooms and floors and bits on the back to house everyone. Ours is not as mad as some. My parents died last winter, and my two uncles and their families have moved to another village nearby to start a new smithy."

"I'm sorry about your mum and dad," said Mistry quietly.

"And I about your father, Mistry. That was all very wrong."

The girl nodded, then changed the subject quickly. "So, who is there?"

"My brother, who is older than I and is another blacksmith, many of the men in my family have that trade, and my twin sisters who are seventeen. You will like them, I think. They are very, umm, bouncy is a good word. I think Silvi is taking after them. Seb's sister and her husband are often there, but they're away at the moment as they are traders and travel for several months at a time."

"My father and I were like that," said Mistry.

"Who looked after the farm when you were away?"

"It's only two fields up by the forest, so not much of a farm. I had to graze the goats on common land a lot of the time. Our cheeses and our cured meats were our real business. But our neighbours look after my goats and in return, they can take two each year to butcher and sell." Mistry thought about how young Melini was. "Your parents were not very old?"

"No, not old, though my father was older than my mother, as Seb is older than me. It was a hard winter last year, and there was a lot of illness here. It took several people from the villages."

Mistry didn't know what to say and just put her hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Mistry is staying in my room," piped up Silvi. She had been busy trying to dig a knot out of the backboard of the cart, but had given up. Seb made solid carts, and they could easily withstand poking from little girls.

"Mistry will stay with Lina and Lena, Silvi, but I'm sure she will come and tuck you in."

"Tell me what happens next in the story?"

"I don't know what happens next, Silvi," said Mistry to the girl. "But when I find out, I will try my hardest to come back and tell you."

"Promise?"

"I won't promise, Silvi, because so many things might happen, but I will try very hard!" Silvi nodded and went back to the annoying knot.

"Thank you," said Melini. "That was very wise."

"It's not so many years since I was her," said the girl. "I remember what being disappointed was like."

Melini laughed out loud. "Well, let's try and make the next day or so a lot less disappointing. Starting with a hot meal. Lena is a wonderful cook!"

"Are you sure about this?" The big forester looked very worried.

"Of course I'm sure," said Mab-Lotok. "I'm much bigger than my brother. It will be no trouble at all."

Mab-Tok watched the exchange with amusement and whispered to Farthing. "You, however, are walking. I could not go farther than the length of this clearing with you on board."

"Am I really that much heavier than Weasel and Mistry?"

"Yes. And longer."

"Oh."

"But what if I fall off?" asked Seb.

Mab-Lotok thought it was just wrong that this big man had never had the chance to fly, and was on a mission to correct what he saw as a serious omission in his upbringing.

"Impossible!" Mab-Lotok assured him. His brother coughed meaningfully. "Improbable," the dragon corrected.

The four had cleared the rest of the camp, making sure all the fires were extinguished and the ashes spread. Seb Dawfoot had taken his extra ropes, his huge canvas, and the large pot back to his shed, and Farthing had scoured the area for any leftovers that should be removed. Nothing more had been heard from the wyrms, though Mab-Tok and his brother had flown up to check around. All that was required now was to return to the village.

"Come on," said Farthing to Mab-Tok. "It's getting dark, and though Seb says the trail is easy to follow, I don't want to be stuck in the forest at night. Besides, I am starving. Those two can either sort themselves out or trot along behind." He walked off down the trail, Mab-Tok walking slowly alongside, his wings tucked neatly back, and his hands held thoughtfully together in front of him.

"I really hope Fren-Eirol is going to be alright. I think I have done everything I could."

Farthing had not heard the small dragon sound uncertain before. "What will happen when she arrives at this place in the mountains?"

"The Abbey? The Draig Wen will look after her. They know more about dragons than any dragon does."

"What are they? They didn't seem to have wings."

"They are flightless, though they are dragons. Actually, they are more than just another dragon. The females have a close kinship with the black dragons and it's said some are their mates." Farthing skidded to a halt.

"You are joking!"

"It's why they are sometimes known as White Wives. Their society is completely different from any other dragon species."

"Wives? But the black dragons are huge, and the whites are tiny, how do they?"

"White Dragons sometimes produce an unfertilised egg, Farthing, and this is then fertilised by the Draig Mynyth Dun. They are the only species that does this since the rest of us don't lay eggs. It's not an issue and hasn't even happened in my lifetime. Sen-Liana knows more than most since she, unusually, can communicate with the Black Dragons to a limited degree. They don't have an oral language. Even so, Sen-Liana, after all these centuries, still finds them a puzzle. However, to your first question, the whites are very skilled and if anyone can fix Fren-Eirol, they can, I hope."

"Why are you so worried, Mab-Tok?"

"It's not the wound, Farthing, it's the wing. It's terribly broken, but it's also dislocated right at the spine. I have never heard of damage like that being repaired. The muscles around that joint are incredibly strong. It would be difficult to repair on me, and I'm far smaller than Fren-Eirol."

"This is not your fault, and Sen-Liana seemed confident."

"I know, and I hope she's right, but she and Weasel are very similar, Farthing. They both mess up regularly."

"She will be alright, Mab-Tok. I'm sure."

"She's my hero, you know," said Mab-Tok quietly.

"Fren-Eirol?"

"Of course. I'm younger than she is, and I was brought up on the tales of all the things she and her Bren and Weasel did to try and balance the relationships between all the mixed-up species on Dirt. You humans live such a short time and these things are ancient history to you, and mostly forgotten, but to dragons, they're very important. Even Weasel is seen by some as a bit of a hero."

"Not the saddle bit."

"Not that bit, no."

The quiet of the evening was shattered by a frightened yell followed by a huge, embarrassed laugh.

"I guess your brother won the argument," said Farthing with a grin.

Bell-Sendinar called out to his brother with a long, mournful note as he circled the Abbey. On his back lay Fren-Eirol, pain coursing through her body, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness. Bell-Sarinar lifted his head and sounded a reply, then jumped into the air and sailed to the rear of the Abbey where the old walled gardens lay, guiding his brother to land gently on the rich grass tended by the Draig Wen.

Weasel raised his head at the first call, his mind swimming with confusion from the ancient words of the book. He shook away the malaise and ran from his mother's rooms. The chatty Draig Wen who had first greeted him, took him by the hand.

"Come," she said in her light, simple way, and they ran through the ancient building into the ruined garden just as Bell-Sendinar landed. The white dragons swarmed off his back, grabbed the ropes, and gently slid the sea dragon down his wing and onto the grass. Weasel rushed to Fren-Eirol and put his arms around her head.

"Ir yrmr, Fren-Eirol, ir yrmr." I am here, I am here.

"Chr yrmin. Ir n fal," I am glad you are here, she told him in the language of the dragons, her voice weak and faint. Sen-Liana walked up behind her son and put her hand gently on his shoulder.

"Come, Eafa. The Draig Wen will care for her and heal her. We have much to talk about."

She leant down and took his hand, raised him to his feet, and led him into the Abbey kitchens just through the door from the garden. It was warmed by a large fire, and two women worked at the open hearth making bread on the stones. Sen-Liana took a coffee pot, kept gently warm on the edge of the fire, and poured two earthenware mugs of the dark brew, sweetening it with honey. She told Weasel to sit on an old rocking chair by the fire and sat stiffly on a stool opposite him.

"When this was an Abbey to the Church of the True, the Abbot would sit here and talk to the children of the cooks and the servants, telling them incredible stories of other worlds, lands and peoples. The monks built this place out of the ruins of another, older building, but they left a thousand years ago, I think." She looked into the eyes of her son, estranged from her for many lifetimes, her connection to him stretched so thin that it was less than a thread. "What have you learned, Eafa?"

Weasel sipped the coffee and looked up at her. "That you were afraid for me."

"Good. Then you know the truth. Do you know why?"

"Because if you stayed, then I would not have been able to hide who I am and would have been killed. At least, that is what the book leads me to think."

"Then you have learned the most important thing."

"I have not been ignorant of who I am, mother. I knew I was not just a finder or just a speaker or just a healer. And I am a wave talker."

"And that you are not, my son."

"But I have the skill."

"No, you have none of the skills you describe."

Weasel frowned. "You used to do this to me when I was young. You would twist things around and complicate things and make conversations impossible. Do you know what that is like for a ten-year-old boy who just wants to kick around in the dirt?"

The old woman looked down. "You do not need to remind me of the mother that I could never be; not to any of you. I have relearned and relived all the moments I got wrong a thousand times a thousand over the centuries, Eafa."

Weasel shrugged. "So, tell me why do I not have the skills I so obviously do have?"

"A finder," she began, "is a person who can trace signals and tracks through our world to find an object. A wave talker is someone that finds paths through currents and can sense their movement. You know all the others. All of these we call lesser magicians for some archaic reason, but really there's no relationship between them at all. They are not collectively magicians, but different people with different skills, just like a carpenter and a blacksmith. The only relationship they have is that they are good with their hands and happen to be human, but it's not an extension of something mystical they have in common. You are not one of these magicians. You are not someone with a particular skill like being dexterous that you can use in a limited way."

"But I can do those things!"

"Wait, I'm explaining, son." Sen-Liana sighed and rubbed her legs, shifting uncomfortably. "Your ability is different. You have power over the fabric of our world. You can look through it and feel it beat and breathe and live. Can you find something over water?"

"Sometimes. It's hard."

"No finder can do that; none of them. It's impossible. It's no more possible than it is for a bear hunter to track a bear the other side of a lake. There is nothing to look for as the water washes away all signs for both the hunter and the finder. You can do it because you are not using the finding skill; you don't have it to use. You achieve the same thing but in a different way. When you arrived, you called to Bell-Sarinar and he heard you. No speaker could do that. Black dragons do not have the empathetic sense that red dragons or sea dragons do; they communicate in an entirely different way."

"I didn't know that."

"Exactly, and yet you did it anyway, in the same way you would find something or someone or make your way through sea currents. Mab-Tok told me how you closed the dragon's wound and your own wound."

"I'm not good at healing," said Weasel defensively.

"Mab-Tok is one of the best healers there is, anywhere," said Sen-Liana. "Only the white dragons who heal are better. And yet neither he nor they could do what you did, because you didn't use a healing skill. You achieved it in exactly the same way as you find something or look for sea currents or speak or any other skill you think you have. You only have one skill, Eafa, a strange and unique skill, but with it, you can do just about anything. It's what I've called a True Magician."

Weasel tried to absorb all of what he was being told. It was what was in the book, but in there it was wrapped up in maddening riddles and philosophical discussion and so many styles and languages and other rubbish that he just did not need. There was one thing that had been clear, and that was on a piece of paper tucked into the back of the book. A family tree; his family tree. But he was not on it.

"I am not my father's son," he said.

"No, you are not." Sen-Liana looked at him carefully. "Does that surprise you?"

Weasel bit his bottom lip, a childish expression he had never quite managed to lose. "Not really. I didn't fit in with anyone."

Sen-Liana laughed. It was a warm laugh that took Weasel by surprise. His memories of his mother were pretty much cold. "I don't think that had anything to do with blood ties, Eafa, more that you really could be an awkward little bugger!" She looked at him and put her hand on his knee. "No, Eafa, you are your own man, neither like your adopted father or your real father."

"Who was he? Is he?" After everything else he had read, it was too much to suppose that anyone was actually dead. His mother was still here and a thousand years old.

"When you were born, he died. That always seems to happen with the True ones."

Weasel blinked. "So, if I had a child?"

"If the child born is a True Magician, it would signal your death. But it's complicated, and I have not unravelled it fully. First, your father. You have heard the stories of the mighty magicians that ruled arrogantly with kings and queens over Dirt?"

"The bards love those tales to this day," said Weasel. "There is not truth in them."

"No, there isn't. But the name Dierren is real."

"What, the great dancer who rode a dragon to the moons and set the eastern forest on fire?" Weasel looked at his mother in amazement.

"Well, he didn't actually do any of those things, since they are impossible, but he was your father."

"What? Mother, those stories are ancient. I mean, they are all but written on stone tablets!"

"Yes, he was a bit older than me, that is true. All right, a lot older. Fun, though." She dimpled, then remembered how stupid that looked when you were grey and over a thousand years old.

Weasel stood, poured himself another coffee and looked out of the window into garden. The Draig Wen had erected a tent over Fren-Eirol, had lit fires, and were covering her with great mats woven from grass. She probably was better in their care than his, he thought.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asked impatiently. "I don't understand why I need to know."

"Because one day you are going to suddenly want to have a child and that need will all but consume you."

"Why?"

"A True Magician has to produce a True Magician, Eafa. It's built in. Part of the deal. Instinctive, inevitable. It's a need so great that it wears you out and pulls you apart. But to produce a True Magician you have to mate with the opposite; a particular person who has everything you are missing. It's like two pieces in a jigsaw. I am one of such people and I gave birth to you. That is my lot. I cannot do that again. One day, you will need someone like me, and that person may be very hard to find."

Weasel looked around the room, his mother's house. It was warm in a way that his own home as a child had never been. It was welcoming too, and even his mother was welcoming. He had no such memories from childhood. He had always been the outsider, always looking for something, to be fulfilled by something. For many years, in the company of Mab-Aneirin and then with Fren-Eirol he had felt fulfilled, and was with people who understood him and shared his needs. That had been missing since he had taken himself off to be on his own. Now, for the last few weeks, he had felt like his old self again. Somehow, the idea he would not have a child seemed neither here nor there.

"I have always felt closer to dragons than to people. It seems to be a running gag that I do not understand others, especially humans. Dragons I get, though."

"It's not surprising," said Sen-Liana. "There is a strong bond between the True Magician and dragons that dates back many millennia. It's almost something in the blood though I do not understand it. It's common to all of them and to their mates, whichever way around it is."

"Have there been many female True Magicians?"

"Yes, from what I can discover, though there have not been many of either over the millennia. I have spent years researching all this, but I have discovered frustratingly little. My entire knowledge is written in that small book."

"Why is there so little?"

His mother smiled. "I feel there should be some wonderful mystical explanation, Eafa; some great prophecy hidden in the tower of a library on the mythical third continent, perhaps. But in reality, it seems like they have all been really bad at writing stuff down." Weasel actually looked a bit embarrassed. As far as he could remember, he had never written anything of importance anywhere, unless it was one of his indecipherable notes. "Perhaps that is not such a bad thing," added his mother.

"What I don't understand," said Weasel, "is why there should be only one of us? Why are there not huge tribes of us somewhere? My skills, my skill, feels very natural. It does not feel mystical or that it breaks any rule of nature. To me, it feels a lot more real and logical than the beliefs in gods, to which I have never subscribed. It's not fantastical in any way. Mostly, it's not even very useful. I might be able to slow down someone's urgent need for air so they can fly high on a dragon, but when they get hungry, I can only solve that by cooking them something to eat. I can't click my fingers and magic up a four-course meal complete with servants and silver cutlery."

His mother laughed. "And you never will be able to. Some things in that book will help you with your skill; just understanding what you are doing will make it more useful. But you will not be more powerful, just more adept. As to why only one? Well, I have a theory."

"And that is?"

"Accident. I think there was one person once who somehow had your skill. They met, by chance, another who had the matching skills. Your father and me sort of thing. They had a child, but the process of begetting that child was something the existing magician could not survive. When I became pregnant, your father was already getting ill. He slowly declined and became weaker, and he died about a month before you were born. Understand, he was incredibly old, and had had the yearning, the need to have a child, for a long time. I don't believe it's the birth that magically ends the life of the father or mother, I think it's the yearning that's the problem. It's like an illness that eventually kills you. Whatever the process, the result is there is only one True Magician for most of the time."

"And one... what is the matching half?"

"There seems to be nothing about that. They are just called the Mate. Mates all have a small amount of ability and also live for many years. I don't think the number of mates is limited, it's just they are so few and far between. And since there is no way of knowing in advance who they are going to be, the chance of meeting one is almost zero. Maybe this is why we all need to be so long-lived, to increase the chance of meeting."

"So, I might find a mate one day," said Weasel, irritably.

"If you don't I suppose there will be no more True Magicians. And then there is the yearning. Your father suffered from it for years before he found me, and it made his life very difficult. Sadly, for him, he had no association with the black dragons that I know of, and they seem to understand this need in some way, and perhaps can help. Eafa, this is part of why I sent Mab-Tok to find you. It was important you learned all this."

Weasel shook his head. He was far more worried about his old friend lying wounded in the garden than any guesswork as to who he was. It was all too mystical, too ambiguous, and very unimportant. Yes, he was intrigued. Intrigued enough to know that his long-lost mother had made some huge mistakes in her understanding somewhere along the line. This idea of a True Magician was simply wrong, and much of what he had read in the book made no sense at all. He knew it in his gut, and it angered him.

"I am... I don't know what I am meant to do with this, these ideas. They are crazy, mother! They don't make sense. I feel I want to just forget it all. I see no advantage in anything I have learned, other than the long-term possibility that I might get this yearning thing and need to pop over to the nearest Draig Mynyth Dun and ask for some therapy. Nice to know, but not life changing!"

"How have you stayed alive, Eafa?"

"Luck, mostly. I get a lot of it."

"Glad you think so! Pity it is not true, however." His mother's voice had gained an impatient edge.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, apart from the observation that no one is that lucky, the real reason is that your abilities have probably kept you out of more trouble than you think! You see or feel trouble coming. It is not infallible, as your recent wound proves, but you can do it and survive the attempts. So, now you know who you are, by the time you have learned more, you will be better able to stay out of trouble without relying on your so-called luck!" Sen-Liana glared at him. "Just in case it runs out!"

"Why do you care, mother?" snapped Weasel. "And don't say it's motherly love because you never showed any of that when I was a child!"

His mother looked hurt, but she didn't contradict him. "Because, belatedly, I have found out that this is my job. Dierren's mother Eorinna was the True one, and he was brought up by his father. Like you, family life did not suit him, and he went his own way in the world, but his father was always in the background. He had Dierren's back for over a thousand years until he himself died, and everything thing Dierren knew about himself, his abilities and how to use them, was from his father. That book has only been part written by me. It was also written by Dierren's father.

"When I found it, it looked like a family scrapbook, and the older bits were nearly illegible. I have that still, and I will show it to you one day. But I didn't have the book when I should have had it because Dierren had forgotten about it. He was nearly three thousand years old and the yearning had left holes in his memory. I didn't know I was meant to be there for you, and I didn't know what my role was. All I knew is that I might expose you and put you at risk, so I left. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. Fifteen years ago, I found the book, and then realised that I had abandoned you to a terrible fate. I didn't know how to contact you, where you were, or if you would want to see me. I wasn't even very sure if you were still alive. So, I patiently transcribed the entire book, thinking I might find you and get it to you anonymously. I sent out messages, one with Mab-Tok, to keep a look out for you. I have done much research over the years, even before I found the book, and it's all here upstairs in the library. As I have learned more, I have realised that the book itself is not enough. I need to take up my role, even if it's only to have this conversation. Perhaps I might even be able to find your mate for you one day."

Weasel's anger was boiling up inside. "So, you have now plonked yourself back into my life because you feel guilty for forgetting to help me over the last thousand years? Let alone the first ten or so when I could really have done with it!" There was too much emotion in the room; too much that Weasel was simply not prepared to confront either with forgiveness or anger. He walked over to the large kitchen table and put down his mug carefully. "I need to see my friend," he said quietly, and left the kitchen.

Along from the village square, over the small wooden bridge that spanned the sparkling stream as it made its way deeper into the valley, and up a short, but steep path, was a grass terrace that looked over the village of Sarn-Tailin. Centuries before, it had been the site of a great house, once the seat of some local baron, which had first succumbed to fire, then fallen into ruin, and finally had been absorbed stone by stone into the fabric of other village buildings. The family had already departed the valley, and with no other claims on the land, it had become a common space used for small local festivities. Today it was host to a very exclusive party of one little girl, one relatively small dragon, a young cart pusher, a cheesemaker, and two lively twin young women.

The relatively small dragon was wondering about the dignity of having the very young girl sat high on his neck tying ribbons around his horns, and the two golden-haired, bouncy twins were discovering how far they could tease the young man before he eventually, and hopefully, chased them into the forest.

Mistry sat with her chin on her knees wondering how she was managing to feel both scared for her future and happily relaxed at the same time. Tomorrow, they would head to the mountains on the backs of the dragons, a two-day trip that would end with her finding out the fate of Fren-Eirol. Melini had been very clear about pushing that worry out of her mind as much as possible. The sea dragon was in the best of hands, the woman believed, and their own part in the dragon's fate was now done. Whatever happened would not be changed by fretting. It was difficult, though. Fren-Eirol had looked so damaged and vulnerable on the back of the black dragon, very different from the great beast who had, just days before, dispatched a marauding tundra bear, and sent a vicious slaver to his death.

Melini made her way up the steep path, carrying a large cloth-covered basket, and Mistry trotted down to meet her, grabbing half of the handle to share the weight between them as they climbed the few stone steps, the only remaining evidence of the old house.

"Cured pork and fresh bread and jars of pickles from last year's gourds," announced Melini. "And some of your father's beers. Not for you, Silvi!" The small girl pushed her lip out and pulled one of Mab-Tok's pointed ears in annoyance. "And he is not a stuffed toy, dear, so stop decorating him, slide down, and come have your lunch."

The girl slid down the dragons back, bending every one of his fins all the way to his tail. Lena and Lina gave up baiting Farthing, who came over to Mistry and whispered in her ear.

"Help?"

"Your fault for being pretty, Johnson, so don't look for me to dig you out of that particular mess."

"Will daddy and his dragon be coming for lunch?" asked Silvi.

Seb had said earlier he wanted to check on the fires in the high forest to make sure they were fully out, though the heavy rain in the early hours had probably soaked them through.

"No dear, and it is not his dragon. Dragons are not pets they are people." Melini grinned at Mab-Tok. "Not that I'm any sort of expert; she is not the only one who has never met a dragon before, and now I've met, well, a lot of them!"

"As long as you don't also use us as climbing frames, it will be fine."

Melini looked a little guilty. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mab-Tok; she does that to everyone."

"Don't apologise," said the dragon, trying to shake life into his battered ears. "It's a new experience; that is all." He left the ribbons in place, however, as he laid back on the grass by the trees and dozed.

Mistry had been slow to get to sleep the night before, despite her exhaustion, and had welcomed the constant, gentle beating of the rain on the roof, something she had always enjoyed in her small attic room at her farm. She had slept on a spare cot in the twin's room up in the attic, while Farthing had shared with Denno, their brother. Mab-Tok and Mab-Lotok, though smaller than most dragons, were far too big for the house, and had bunked in the hayloft above the old stable where they kept the workhorses. Their snoring had kept Silvi awake, she had claimed, with no evidence.

Seb had decided, after his initial reluctance the day before, that flying was the best thing he had ever experienced, and Mab-Lotok had volunteered to fly the big man up to the high forest and to scout around the moors. Seb had been concerned at breakfast that the disappearance of a couple of people over the years might be attributed to the wyrms. He would meet with other members of the village that evening to tell them of the events, and the two dragons said they would support his story and give any other information they could.

Silvi was proving to be a different issue. She had spent the morning running around telling everyone she met how she was going to fly on her dragon, meaning Fren-Eirol, and had become anxious the sea dragon had not turned up to fulfil what she saw as a promise, even though none such had been made. Mistry hoped she would be able to tell Fren-Eirol more about this little girl; she would love it.

"How long will it take you to get to the mountains?" Melini sat down next to Farthing and Mistry.

"Mab-Tok says it will take a couple of days," explained Farthing. "There are more villages between here and there, and we we'll have to stop at one of them since we don't have any of our camping gear. It would be too heavy for the dragons anyway."

"Even Mab-Tok is the same size as our carthorse," said Melini.

"But your carthorse doesn't fly."

"Oh, I hadn't looked at it that way. Once you get to the Black Hills, is it far?"

"I don't know," said Farthing between bites of the still warm bread. Melini or Lena baked something at every spare moment they could find, and he was amazed her family were not all as round as balls. Quite the contrary, he considered, thinking about her twin sisters, then pushed that idle thought back into its box. "I know it's a hard flight through narrow passes, and Mab-Tok is keen to get there as early as possible so we don't journey in the pitch-dark. Mab-Lotok's night vision is not as good as his, I gather."

"Well, the two of you can rest well tonight as it sounds like it will be a hard couple of days, and I don't know what happens after that." She looked carefully at Mistry.

"Home," said the girl. "If I still have one."

Farthing put his arm around her. "Whatever happens at your farm, you have a home. That was my promise. Do you want to know what it's like?" She looked up at him and nodded. Melini smiled and just listened. "Rusty and me, we live in a part of Wead-Wodder called The Wealle. It's high up on a ridge, and from our window we can see the whole town and even the Prelate's Island where Rusty works, and right out to sea. It's very different from here because we don't have much rain. Well, that is not entirely accurate; in the rainy season, we have a lot of it, but in the dry season it's rare. Up on our ridge it gets dusty, but is nice and dry; no offence, Melini."

"I could do with dry, Johnson."

"We live on the first floor of a shaky five-storey building that is held up with big wooden beams stretching across the street. When I was little, my mother would get angry with me because I would climb out onto the beams with other kids. Anyway, we have just two rooms, not very big, and a small storage larder. The main room is where we cook, eat, and where I sleep. We have lots of old clay pots stacked up on shelves, and rugs and mats everywhere. There's a small table with three chairs, I broke the other one, and a tiny fire where we cook when we can afford wood. The window is really big and goes right down to the floor. My father nailed on a little ledge so we can sit on the window sill and have somewhere to put our feet. Rusty sometimes spends all evening there when it's warm, listening to the sounds coming up from the town."

Mistry leant against him with her eyes closed, listening to his description, and imagining this place that might be her home one day.

"The other room is our parent's old room and is where Rusty sleeps and where you will sleep too. We use it to store our clothes, and I've nailed together cupboards with drawers and doors all the way up to the ceiling. We don't have much, so there's loads of space in them for your clothes. The sleeping pallet takes up nearly the whole floor. The room is only a couple of paces both ways, and Rusty has it covered with rugs and blankets. When we were young, and we lost our parents, Hetty, who you will meet, had this thing about us getting cold. Every time she found an old quilt or rug someone was throwing out, she would get Barkles, her husband, to rescue it, and she would fix it up. She's a seamstress and really good. Our little home is overflowing with bedding! The two of you would be able to sleep in there and never find each other, I reckon." He grinned broadly. When Rusty went to bed, she just vanished beneath the covers. "The only other room is our tiny little storeroom, just a cupboard really, where we keep anything that might get in the way, and our bags of beans in pots."

Farthing took a breath and frowned. "Mistry, my sister and I, you know, we are really poor. What I have just told you is all we have, we only rent, and it's really, really small. Lina and Lena's room is bigger than our whole apartment. We wash in a small tub in the main room that we store hanging on the wall, trying not to look at each other, and there's a privy down on the ground floor which everyone in the building uses, and we take turns to wash out. But all our neighbours, all of us poor, are really proud. The buildings are falling down, and the town officials never come to see us or even admit we are there half the time, but we keep The Wealle patched up, painted, clean and bright. Everything is painted white or a bright colour, not very well, but we do our best, and the roads are clean, and people treat each other decent. This is as poor as it gets, you need to know that, and after rent and food, we rarely have any coin for ourselves. Most of the time if we have a beer, it's because Barkles has given us a bottle."

Melini looked down at the ground. Her people in this village had only what they grew or bartered for. No one had much in the way of coin, and it could be tough sometimes. But none of them lived as Farthing described. He had told her about all his recipes for beans over dinner the previous night, to laughter from the twins and some surprisingly rude comments from Silvi. She now realised that beans were probably what he and his sister lived on for most of the year. The young woman, a mother but only a few years older than Farthing, gently took his arm and put her head on his shoulder to hide a tear as she read beyond his words into the real, desperate world of town poverty. Mistry, however, smiled.

"My father and I have two fields against the forest wall, and a cottage between them. In one, we keep my goats and in the other, the bigger one, we grow crops or keep the odd pig. I graze the goats up the hill on the common land. We have a shed divided in two. I make cheese in one half and my father cures his meat in the other. Our cottage is just one room, bigger than your apartment, and we sleep in the attic, climbing up ladders. We have never had a proper bath, but our privy was all our own!" Mistry giggled. "Your home sounds like it's meant for young people, not old parents. I think I'll love it!"

"Well, it is not meant to be that, but yes, it is. My sister has made it that way. She is hardworking, clever, and strong as an ox, but she is small and silly too. Remind you of anyone?" Mistry had the good grace to blush. Melini took a deep breath and left to find her young daughter for one of those necessary hugs.

Weasel was sitting on the ground leaning against the sleeping Fren-Eirol. Her wound had been bound again, was clean, and holding properly, and the small white dragons had fed her with herbs and large buckets of spicy, perfumed, water. She was now lying peacefully, her breathing steady and even. Her wing, however, was another issue, and though he had asked, Weasel had yet to find out how it could be repaired, if indeed it could. The idea of a sea dragon unable to fly was intolerable, and it worried him sick.

"You were right; you do associate with dragons better than with humans." Sen-Liana looked tired. She was using a stick and Weasel raised an eyebrow. "Oh, this? Some of the time I'm fine, but when I get tired, my knees like to remind me how stupidly old I am. May I?" She pointed to the mat next to Weasel. He shrugged, and she sat down, crossing her legs carefully.

"If you are here to tell me more about myself, mother, I'm not sure I want to hear it."

"I thought that would be the case. No, I came to give you something." She took a small box from her coat, opened it, and brought out a very simple metal pendant on a chain. It was a dragon sitting down with its head held high on a long neck. It was made of copper, just stamped out, and then details scratched into the surface. Sen-Liana handed it over to her son.

"What is this? Some magic emblem of who I am?" He didn't think it looked anything significant and it was poor quality.

"No, nothing like that. It's what Dierren gave me when we first met. I think his father made it for him when he was a child, and he wore it all those years. He used to have to make the markings clearer every time they wore smooth. I suspect it looked a lot more handsome when his father made it originally." Weasel looked at it again. She was right; it had been cared for in all its simplicity. "He never said it was for you or anything so dramatic, but I think he meant that it should be one day. You never knew him, and after all these years, I doubt I can bring him to life for you in simple words, but maybe this does the job in its own way; sweeps away some of those myths the bards love to share." She stood up, leaning heavily on her stick. "There is fresh stew and bread in the kitchen. I will have one of the girls bring you out a bowl and some blankets. You should stay with Fren-Eirol tonight. I think both of you need that." She smiled softly and made her way slowly across the garden.

"When did you become so caring, mother?" her son asked.

"I'm not sure, dear," she said over her shoulder with a hint of irritation. "When did you?" And she left to find her bed.

A party was the last thing he had expected. Farthing had thought that he, Seb, and Denno would share a couple of beers at the local inn, then it would be to bed and back on their journey. Instead, it appeared that the contents of The Lost Man, including its beer barrels, had moved into Seb's barn, and everyone was invited.

"Well, lad," explained Seb, "it's not a party as such, it's a meet so we can discuss the problem of Tailin Moor. But we always reckon that if we've gone to the trouble of getting people together, it would be mean not to add a keg or two of beer to the mix."

"And the musical instruments?"

"Really? Oh, those. Well, some people have no sense of timing, lad. Must have been an oversight!" He winked furiously, which from such a big man Farthing found scary. Melini walked up to Farthing, put her arms around his waist, and gave him a hug. She had already had a beer, purely for practice, of course, and seemed to have the same tolerance as Mistry.

"You know, Farthing, Mistry is very lucky. Do you think me and my sisters can get to adopt you as a brother too?"

Farthing wasn't sure whether Lena and Lina had the idea of a brother in mind, and he was getting less sure about Melini. He blushed and looked over to Denno for help.

"Leave me out of this, Farthing," said the tall blacksmith from where he was tapping the second keg. "My sisters have charms that would see even your wyrms running for the mountains!" Mistry came over and rescued her new brother, dragging him away.

"They ain't the only ones," remarked Farthing. "Any more of this hugging business and I'll be off tonight and running all the way to the bloody Black Hills!"

"What, you gone off hugging, Farthing? Even me?" She grinned broadly.

"Have you been at that ale with Melini?"

"Might have been..." Farthing rolled his eyes. "Oh, you love it, admit it!" Mistry chided him, and she gave him a firm kiss on the cheek, just so he knew that on the adopted brother stakes, she had first claim.

The party that wasn't one didn't start immediately. First, there actually was some serious discussion about the Moors. Seb and Mab-Lotok had scouted most of Tailin Moor during the day and had checked out the old house in the middle. No one had been there for years and it was now overgrown, they said, but it was interesting that there was a moat dug deeply all the way around, and they suspected the family had also had problems with the wyrms, meaning they were not new to the moor. They had also dropped into the other two villages that were closest to the moor, Sarn-Appton and Sarn-Linton, and a couple of their village elders had ridden over for the meeting.

Farthing was asked to describe what had happened, including the wyrm's reaction to both Mistry and to Fren-Eirol. Mab-Tok added the little he knew, and Mab-Lotok said he would try to find out more from any older dragons, and he would return to the village. The discussion turned more sombre when an elder from Sarn-Appton told of a mother and daughter who were herbalists and had disappeared up near the moor ten seasons earlier. They were related to the old man, and he looked quite upset. Seb put his large, strong hand on the fellow's shoulder.

"We have been living in the shadow of Tailin Moor for many years," said Seb. "And partly through chance and partly through the habit of not having business up there, we have been living in ignorance. But Jecken's story shows that our luck has not been as rich as we may have thought, and we here in Sarn-Tailin believe we may have a couple of other sad cases from years back that might need to be accounted for. I haven't seen these wyrm for myself, but I saw the wound they inflicted on these good people's friend. I can tell you all it was longer than my whole arm and so deep I would have put my hand in up to my elbow."

"How big is this dragon then?" asked a villager. Dragons close up were a new experience for the people of all three villages, but though they weren't ignorant of them, Mab-Tok and Mab-Lotok were attracting a lot of attention.

"She would be hard-pressed to fit in this barn, Liefen," Seb answered the farmer who had broached the question. "I only saw her lying down sorely injured, and we hope she is recovering from that now, but she is a great and powerful person, and that wyrm near brought her to her death."

Mistry shivered at the memory, and Lina and Lena put their arms around her.

"Is there anything much we can do?" Several of the men echoed the question.

"For the moment, I doubt there is," said the forester. "Except we must keep the women and any female, be that goat or pig or dog, a long way from that Moor. Over here on our side, the forest and the tree roots seem to be an impenetrable barrier to them, and you over in Sarn-Linton have the crags between you and the moor. You over in Sarn-Appton are probably the most vulnerable," he said to the old man who had lost relatives. "For the moment, stay clear, and maybe we should get some tree planting done there. I have a near ton of good saplings I can dig up and bring over, but that will do little in the short term." Seb turned to Mab-Lotok. "I think we'll be interested in anything you can find out from your people. Now we know what is up there, it will nag us, I reckon, till we find some way to set our minds easy." The others murmured in agreement.

"I have several I can ask," replied Mab-Lotok. "And Fren-Eirol herself may know more. She is quite a store of knowledge and older than we."

"How old are you then?" called out a villager.

"My brother and I are twins, like the girls there," said Mab-Tok. "But we are young yet, only two hundred and eighty-five." There was a stunned silence. The villagers may know of dragons, but it seemed they knew almost nothing about them.

"Well, how old is this other dragon then?"

Seb gave the man a hard look. "Put it this way, Penton, I won't ask you how old your wife is, and you and I will both get to see the morning. Now multiply that up to a dragon the size of this building!" The laugh that filled the barn broke the sombre mood. Once it had calmed down, Melini jumped up onto a table holding Silvi on her hip.

"Now that is enough about big wyrms with teeth. We have guests here who have a long and hard journey ahead of them, and Baxter at the inn has these two kegs that he don't want back till they are empty. Shall we give him a hand?"

The cheer drew the meeting to a close, and the party started in earnest, followed by the twins kidnapping Farthing as fast as they could for a dance. Mistry watched them twist and spin into the centre of the barn, a little put out, as the music kicked in.

"I don't suppose you dance, do you?" Denno, the big blacksmith looked down at Mistry.

"I can try," she said with a grin.

"Well, that is probably better than I will do. Come on then!"

It took several songs and far too many kisses and hugs for Farthing to escape the attentions of the twins and their older sister, and he eventually managed to sit down at a table next to Seb and Denno. Mistry had been danced to near falling by half the young men in the village, and was now sitting on a pile of bales hugging Silvi, who had long since fallen asleep, the wyrm's tooth now hung around the little girl's neck on a braided chord. The music had taken on a lazier air, and some of the farmers, the early risers, had already left for their beds.

"You people fit in here well, lad," said Seb to Farthing.

Farthing smiled, sipping a fresh pot of the addictive local brew. "We have had a crazy journey, Seb, but you are the second lot of people I have met who have opened my eyes to a fair and pleasant world I didn't know existed."

"Don't get me wrong, lad, it's a tough life up in these valleys. Come winter, it closes down with the snow for two months and more, and we have nothing but ourselves. No traders or travellers can get near the place, and we survive on what we grew in the summer. But my Melini told me about your life back over in the Prelates, and you've it hard, son. A lot harder than you said, I reckon. If you and that girl ever need a family, you come knocking. We won't turn you away." The big man held out his big hand to Farthing. "Deal?"

Farthing smiled. "Deal," he said, taking the hand. He knew he could so easily live this life; make a home here away from the dirt of Redust. But even as he thought about it, in his heart, he knew he belonged back in his own town with Barkles and Hetty, Geezen and Truck and even old Fennerpop and Sally with her Virtues. He would never forget these warm, generous people of Sarn-Tailin, and he would try everything to come and see them again. Bringing his sister Rusty to meet them would be the perfect bonus.

"You will find her, you know," said Seb, almost reading his mind. "I've seen you and that girl and your strange friends, and I told my wife that if anyone could find your sister and the other girl, then you could."

Farthing drained his pot and stretched. "You know, for the first time since she was taken, even after so many things going wrong, I'm actually beginning to think we can. Don't ask me why, cos I really don't know, but that is what I think."

The barn cleared quickly once the music stopped, and since everyone took away what they had brought with them, within half an hour it was just a barn again, albeit with three very annoyed-looking horses who had had their quiet evening ruined. It was two hours before midnight, which was late for many of them, and Mab-Tok wanted to leave before dawn. Farthing and Mistry decided to sleep in the barn so they could leave as quickly as possible in the morning, and they said their farewells to the family. Farthing had to suffer more kisses from the twins, which were proving to be less and less sisterly, until their older sister chased them away so she could claim her own hug.

"Take care, Farthing, and look after that girl. You are doing something very important by taking her in, by sharing your small home with her. I cannot think of many young men or even older ones who would do so."

"I couldn't bear to leave her, Melini. I owe her so much. Fren-Eirol was not the only hero of the tale, Mistry is too."

"Well, when you have your sister safe, you all return on the back of that beautiful sea dragon, and you can tell me it all. We can cry and laugh together and make it all right again."

Farthing hugged her tightly. "You are good people, both of you. And you have given us a bit of your strength I think. Thank you."

The twins came rushing over dragging Mistry between them.

"So, when you have finished with him," Lena was saying. "Can we have him?"

"Sisters!" Melini told them sternly. "Bed! Now!"

"Yes, Mama Melini," they said in unison, then, dropping their tiring double act, they gave both Farthing and Misty a hug and left, looking more worried than happy. Melini and Seb followed quickly carrying the sleeping Silvi, and Farthing and Mistry made their way up to the loft where the two dragons were already asleep.

A little later, Melini lay by her husband, listening to the gentle wind blowing through the trees. It was not raining, for a change, and it looked like it would be clear, even bright the next day.

"You were talking to Mab-Lotok today, Seb," she whispered. "How dangerous is all this going to be?"

The big man sighed and stroked her hair. "Honestly, girl? They are going to be lucky to survive." Melini nodded, then buried her face in his chest and wept.

# Chapter 17 – To Plan a Rescue

Fren-Eirol awoke to a confusing array of faces gathered around her grinning with various degrees of success depending on species.

"Why are you all looking at me?" Her voice croaked, and she tried to clear her throat.

"I think they are pleased to see you alive, Snowy," said Weasel quietly.

"Eafa?"

"I am still here."

"Fren-Eirol, I am Sen-Liana," said Weasel's mother, bowing formally to the sea dragon. "Welcome to my home."

"Sen-Liana?" Fren-Eirol lifted her head gently, trying to avoid a dragon-sized headache that was waiting to pounce. "You mean... you are?"

"Eafa's mother, yes. He's still working on the idea."

"I can hear the resemblance," muttered the dragon, mostly to herself. "What state am I in?"

"Bad," the old woman told her. "But you were worse. Now you will live, but I would not have thought that possible two days ago. The Draig Wen have treated you well."

"You have white dragons here?" The memories started trickling back. "Oh, of course, I remember now. I was brought here. Strange thought." She smacked her lips. "Is that big man here with his pot of water?"

"Fren-Eirol, he is back with his family in Sarn-Tailin; we are many leagues from there," said Mab-Tok. "But my brother and I will fetch you water." He and Mab-Lotok left to get the large water bag the Draig Wen had been using to give the dragon water, even while she slept.

"Farthing?" Fren-Eirol peered up at the tall young man and the girl standing next to him holding his hand and obviously fretting. "I'm sorry," said the dragon as he moved up to her. "We will find your sister, I promise."

"We?" Farthing looked around in panic at Sen-Liana, who nodded to him. "Fren-Eirol," he said gently. "You cannot fly. Your wing is too damaged."

The dragon looked suddenly scared, tried to sit up too fast, and cried out. From behind the tent came a low, mournful rumble. Sen-Liana turned to a white dragon and whispered something. The Draig Wen trotted around the back of the tent, and, with the others, rolled up the canvas. In through the opening came the great head of Bell-Sendinar, who had refused to leave the side of the smaller sea dragon. He gently moved his head behind Fren-Eirol, and, with a soft push, helped her to sit up. He made a deep, warm, whispering sound.

"Bell-Sendinar says you are to lean on him, as you are not strong enough yet," said Weasel.

"You understand him?" Fren-Eirol looked at the magician. "I only heard an odd noise in my head."

"Apparently, I do," he answered, glancing sideways at his mother. He was still far from comfortable with all that he had been told, and was a long way from forgiving his mother or even wishing to, but he had been helped by the two massive Draig Mynyth Dun who had been gently pushing him to understand both them and himself, and the strange, unexplained connection between them all; something that he now knew his mother had completely misunderstood.

Fren-Eirol turned cautiously and peeked at her wing which had been tied to her side so she could not move it.

"Is this permanent?" she asked, her voice shaky with the idea she may be trapped here, unable to fly.

"No, it isn't," said Weasel. "The white dragons say they can heal your wing, but it may take some weeks, and they are going to have to cut open your joint to do it." He hesitated. "I will stay here with you."

Fren-Eirol shook her head; the headache was beginning to creep up on her. "You mustn't, Eafa. You must help rescue Rusty and the Cwendrina and get them home."

"Cwendrina?" Sen-Liana forgot to be quiet and Fren-Eirol winced. "So, this is what this is all about!"

"Who is the Cwendrina?" asked Farthing, confused. Fren-Eirol sighed, realising her error.

"Sorry, it's meant to be a secret," she whispered.

"I will explain to them," said Sen-Liana. She looked from her son to Fren-Eirol pointedly. "Though quite why you should have been keeping it secret from those risking their lives with you is beyond me. Come, we should leave Fren-Eirol to rest."

The sea dragon nodded her thanks. "Has anyone something for a splitting headache?" she asked.

"I have something I can try," said Mab-Tok with a smile as he and Mab-Lotok returned with water.

Fren-Eirol looked at him suspiciously. "Has anyone else got something for a headache?"

"It really is ancient history, all this," pointed out Weasel. "And most of it wrong. I think it's far more important that she's a girl who's been kidnapped with Farthing's sister than she is some distant relative of a long dead matriarchal dynasty." Farthing looked at him blankly. "They were thought of as queens, inaccurately."

"Which just goes to prove how out of touch you are with human affairs, or you are basing all your knowledge on the conversations with a pile of card sharps in taverns!" Weasel's mother had let her compassionate side slip.

"So, let me get this right." There was no escaping Farthing was angry. "My sister is captured by slavers, and the only reason anyone agreed to help me was because she happens to be with a forgotten queen? So, if that hadn't had been the case, I would still be banging my head in a hole in Wead while my sister was facing life as a slave!"

"No, that is not it!" Weasel was emphatic. "I agreed to help before I knew anything about this. Trust me, you paying my bar bill was not a factor. But I think Geezen used it as an unnecessary bargaining chip with Fren-Eirol; she would have helped anyway."

"Doesn't look like that from where I'm standing."

"Well, it should!" Weasel's patience was getting thin with everyone. "That dragon would lay her life on the line for you and Mistry; she has done several times already. If it was just about the Cwendrina, we could have left you two with Sirrupp and come and done the job ourselves. But that was not the deal. From the very start, it has been about both girls, not one with the other one thrown in. So, get that through your thick head, because your arguments are not helping!"

Farthing was close to storming out of the upstairs room where they had come to discuss their plans, but Mistry put a hand on his arm.

"He's right, Farthing. Fren-Eirol has been there for you and me, time after time. You know it too."

Farthing sat down quietly, still angry, but at himself, not just the secrets that were coming out.

"However, that still does not tell me why this archaic title still has relevance," continued Weasel. "We are going to try to rescue her anyway, and at the moment, as far as I am concerned, Farthing's sister has first billing, if for no other reason than I have just spent the last few weeks with her brother who I now regard as a friend!"

Farthing looked up in surprise. Once again, he had misread this most irritating of people. Sen-Liana sighed and sat down, looking so much older than the proud lady who had ridden down to their aid on the back of the mightiest dragon on Dirt.

"Two things are important," she said. "Firstly, the sea dragons swore an oath to protect this girl's great, great, quite frankly I do not know how many greats, great-grandmother, the then Cwendrina. Sea dragons do not break oaths, however ridiculously long ago they were made."

"I know about the oath, mother, but it's a stupid reason for people to risk their lives for someone who wouldn't even be remembered by my father if he were still alive." Weasel had told the others about his little revelation when they arrived. "I guarantee you that most sea dragons will see this almost as myth. It is all so old."

"I agree, the oath is not enough, though it's enough for the dragons, and there is nothing we can do about that. But there is another reason which worries me. In the Western Prelates beyond the Western Alps, there are those that cling to ancient feudal ideals. Some of these are ardent royalists who want to see the return of the Heinela kingdom, with all the corruption and wars that went with it. Dierren, as you rightly pointed out, witnessed the end of those days, the collapse of the old dynasties, and he fervently believed that the Prelates, despite their moralistic and oppressive code, were the better of the two evils by a long chalk."

"Have these people got anything going for them or are they just another faction?" asked Mab-Tok. He had an insatiable curiosity for all things political.

"If you mean are they powerful? Yes, they are. They rule the far West. Eafa, you know all this. You were brought up in Tepid Lakes on their border. They are like something from the ancient past over there. To a greater extent, they have been isolationists."

"I haven't lived there for centuries," said Weasel. "So, again, what has this to do with Precious Hearting?"

"I cannot claim vast knowledge, son, but in the last few centuries, the old Heinela families have risen to power again. If they discover the bloodline of the Cwendrina still exists, it might unite them and encourage them to expand their kingdom beyond the Western Alps."

"Geezen thinks the girl has no idea who she is," said Weasel. "For that matter, Fren-Eirol didn't know a thing until Geezen told her."

"Who is this Geezen?" asked Weasel's mother.

"Sort of old friend of everybody. She's a midwife who never lets go. Spanked this one and his sister into the world and half of Wead-Wodder too, if I'm any judge, and never lets any of them forget it." Weasel sat on a chair at the big dining table and stretched. He had spent two nights watching Fren-Eirol, giving whatever aid he could to the white dragons, and was shattered.

"Why didn't the Prelate send a search party for his daughter?" Sen-Liana looked perplexed.

"No idea, though the two never got on," said Weasel. "Her mother died in childbirth and he ordered the baby to be killed he was so upset. Geezen stepped in and persuaded him he was being stupid, but the damage was done."

"But still!" His mother pulled a face. "To know she has been kidnapped by slavers and do nothing? That is extreme."

"Well, that is all I know. Anyway, with any luck, he is going to get her back, whether he likes it or not." The magician chuckled at his own sarcasm.

"Whatever the background, the girl is dangerous enough that this Geezen, and I suppose a whole line of people she is connected to somehow, has kept this part of the bloodline protected and hidden." Sen-Liana rose from her chair with a creek, grabbed hold of Mab-Tok's arm and leant on him. "I have missed you around here, you know?" She smiled at the dragon.

"You have had my brother here."

"Lovely boy, but he is too tall and doesn't fit in the kitchen." She turned back to her son. "Our millennia old arguments aside, Eafa, you still have to rescue the girls which I think is difficult enough. Then you have to get them back across Bind and over the Yonder Sea with potentially one very wealthy and ungrateful Belin Tekkinmod on your tail. Added to that, you may have the problem of who the girl is. Eafa, you are going to need help, and at least I can help with the rescue."

"How?"

"I will know more when Eofin gets back with Be-Inua, a Draig yr Anialr."

"Eofin? My brother? Please, no!"

"No, you fool. There was nothing long-lived about any of the family other than you and I. This is your nephew Eofin, allowing for several generations."

"Oh, no, not another one calling me uncle!"

"Who is the other?"

"Moppy. She is my niece, according to Geezen. Actually, I think she is right; she's inherited Beala's forgiving nature."

"Your sister was the only person who ever listened to you."

"I know, mother. She was one of the good ones."

Farthing had had enough of this maddening history lesson, and he stood up abruptly. "When do we go?" he asked.

"As soon as Eofin gets back with more information. Tomorrow late, I hope." Sen-Liana turned to Mistry. "And you have something you need to do too, I believe."

"Mab-Lotok will take me in the morning. It isn't far."

"I will come," Farthing assured her.

"No, Farthing, not this time. I have to do this on my own. Mab-Lotok is going to drop me at the edge of my village and wait for me out of sight." She put her hand on his arm. "Whatever happens, Johnson, I'm not staying there. I know my brothers will not want me, and they'll just want the farm and my goats. I have no say in the matter. I just want some things from the house, and I must tell the neighbours about my father."

Farthing looked over to the taller Draig Bach-Iachawr, stooped over slightly with his head between the rafters of the high ceiling. The dragon nodded his head in understanding. He would watch out for the girl. Sen-Liana took Farthing by the hand.

"I know you are frustrated and angry, lad," she said quietly but firmly. "But if we do not do things in the right way now, your sister will be in even more danger, and that means we have to plan. You and your friends will not be going alone. I am sending others with you, and that will give you the chance that otherwise I fear you would not have. It will still be dangerous; have no illusions about that."

Farthing looked down at the ancient hands holding his own. He didn't really understand what was going on between her and Weasel, but in her eyes, he saw the same thing he saw in Fren-Eirol and in Geezen. He could trust her.

"Lotok, now!" Mistry came careering out of the village dragging a huge sack clanking and clunking across the ground. "We have to go, right now!" Behind her, three men were giving chase, shouting at her to behave and stop, but they skidded to a halt when the oversized Draig Bach-Iachawr stepped out from behind a tree and roared, his eyes blazing. Mistry jumped in surprise, then scampered around to his back, and threw herself into her saddle, dragging the large sacking bag after her. "Go, go, go, go! They want to marry me off!"

"What?"

"Just go!"

The dragon spun around as the men recovered from their surprise. He ran ten paces with them on his tail, while Mistry pulled the bag clear of his wings, then spreading them wide, he leapt into the air. He flew straight up a hundred feet, then turned and dived back toward the men. They slid to a halt, took one look at the dragon diving towards them with talons extended, and ran like fat gazelles back into the village. Mab-Lotok roared with laughter, swooped into the sky, and turned back towards the mountain.

"Who were they?" he called back to the still panting Mistry.

"My brothers and our neighbour," she shouted back. "They have been working out a way of taking our land while we were off at the market, and I thought that bloke was our friend! When I turned up saying that dad was dead, they pounced, and that pervert of a neighbour said he would take me off their hands as a new wife. Apparently, Tilly, his wife, died a month back. Sad, she was nice. He has to be at least sixty and as greasy as a half-cooked cockerel!"

Mab-Lotok chuckled at the description but then felt Mistry begin to shake and heard her sobbing. Below, he saw a small isolated clearing in the thick forest that separated the mountains from the farms. They were a fair distance from the village already and there was no trail here, so he landed. Mistry slid off his back, sat on the ground and wept, her face buried in her hands.

"That was my home!" she cried at him. The dragon leant down and held her hand.

"I know, Mistry. I know." He said no more, there was little he could say, so he sat by her side and let her cry it all out until she could cry no more.

"Shall I take you to the Abbey now?" he asked gently. "People are waiting for you there."

Mistry nodded and glanced over at her big sack. She opened it and emptied it out onto the grass. There were some pots, a couple of boxes, some tools and wooden cheese moulds, a bundle of clothes, plus a strange assortment of bits that looked like she had randomly collected them from shelves. She pushed most of it aside, picked up the bundle of clothes and one of the small boxes.

"This is all I really need. The rest can stay in the past."

"What's the box?"

"My father made it for me when I was little to keep my jewellery in. We could never afford any and it's empty, but it has him inside somewhere." She tucked it into her shirt and threw the small bundle of clothes over her shoulder. "Come on," she said as she climbed onto the dragon and sat in the small saddle. When Mab-Lotok flew up into the sky and to the mountains, she didn't even look back.

Weasel eyed his distant nephew suspiciously, waiting for the inevitable "uncle" reference, but it hadn't come yet. The tall, tough, man in his middle years had merely shaken his hand, then walked to the dining table and laid out a map.

"You are lucky," said Eofin. "Tekkinmod's hall is not far from the edge of Great Plains, but it's in a steep, unforgiving gorge. The man is arrogant, by all accounts, and the people of that part of Wessen are afraid of him, while they owe him both loyalty and their livelihoods. In consequence, this is no fortress, though men are guarding the building which is difficult to get to."

"Can you just attack it?" asked Sen-Liana.

"Not easily, great mother. It's very narrow and dark. To be honest, I have no idea why anyone would want to live in such a dismal place. Be-Inua pointed out there isn't much room to turn in there, so it gives him some protection, just wide enough to get the callistons in and out. There are two of them and they are kept in the open, but one of them is wearing heavy leathers, so I assume he is used as a fighter and not for riding. He will be unpredictable. Horrible, and so against everything that is a true calliston. So, either way, stealth would be better."

"A distraction might be good," suggested Weasel, studying the map. "I assume when it comes to stealth, you think we should break into the building. That would limit it to just humans, but if those callistons were lured away and some of the men followed, that might make life easier."

Eofin shook his head. "Dummerholes don't lure, you beat them into action. To be honest, if we pull a trick like that, they are going to know something is up and will protect the girls and other valuables. If the girls are redheads as you describe, this man Tekkinmod will think of them as his most prized possession. Talking of whom, he's not there, at least not yet, but he's due back in the next few days from the ices; he's been hunting up there. So, hopefully, that means the girls will be untouched."

"How did you find this out?" Weasel was impressed by Eofin.

"They're in a barren gorge and have to buy everything in. I went and sold them two dozen chickens."

Weasel barked out a laugh. "Why chickens?"

"Well, to start with, my father was a cook, so I knew what I was talking about, and secondly, kitchen staff can never keep their mouths shut." He grinned.

"If not a direct attack, what do you want to do?" Sen-Liana had called for tea and was pouring it out into beautiful ceramic mugs. Weasel had to admit his mother's life here was far from a hermit in a ruin, and he almost envied her.

"I can't pull the chicken trick again, but we could get in at night if the Draig Bach-Iachawr can drop us on the cliff above the building and we rope down. There's a ledge that might just be big enough, but it's a long drop. Getting back out might need to be more direct, however, and maybe your distraction idea could play a part there, Eafa."

"You mean fight our way out?" Weasel liked a good fight, but he also like stacked odds that were in his favour. This sounded the wrong way around.

"If once we are inside their attention could be drawn, then we can get onto the roof of the building and that would allow the Draig yr Anialr to fly down and grab us."

"Us?"

"Two is not enough, uncle," said Eofin. "It will need three or four of us I reckon."

Weasel tried not to wince as his nephew nailed him into the uncle-shaped box.

"Who would you take?"

"You and Farthing, myself, and one of my men; Gellin, probably. He is young, fast, and an amazing climber."

"Why Farthing? He's strong, but he's no fighter."

"This is to rescue his sister and the Prelates daughter. This should be his undertaking and he needs to be there, really. The dragons will prefer that."

"Who are your people, Eofin?" asked Weasel suspiciously.

"My family have been living in Ponack in the Sand Hills for ten generations, Eafa, working closely with the Draig yr Anialr. We often offer protection for the Pharsil-Hin and their caravans across the Eastern Plains. The entire plain and the desert are peppered with different bandit groups, often allied to the Keffra-See in An-Hellern, and there is no law there. The Nomads, who are the eldest of the people of the plains, sometimes get caught up in minor wars or are attacked for being in the way. They pay us to protect them."

Weasel sighed. "I'm sorry, Eofin. I am so out of touch with Bind. Your people have a long and noble history, but I had no idea that Ponack in the Sand Hills still existed. How many of you are here?"

"Ten riders and ten dragons."

"You still call yourselves riders? I often hoped the traditions with the Draig yr Anialr had survived."

"The desert dragons have no interest in the politics and gossip that so obsess the Draig Morglas and Draig Mynyth Coh, Eafa," explained his mother. "I doubt you ever saw them in Taken."

"No, I didn't. One thing concerns me," said Weasel, running his finger over the map. "You are going to use the Draig Bach-Iachawr to get us onto the ledge at night because of their good night sight, which counts Mab-Lotok out, by the way."

"There are a few others of his size here," said his nephew.

"But assuming that works, and we rope down to the house and get the girls, then your big desert dragons will have to fly down a narrow gorge in the dark and pluck us off a roof."

"That is a problem." Eofin looked thoughtful. "The dragons don't need much light, so as long as we can do this at dawn or maybe just before, they should be fine."

"Then we rope down onto the roof at night, so they can't see us up on the ledge, and we wait till just before dawn to rescue the girls? Will the others be able to see us from somewhere when we climb back to the roof?"

"The top of the opposite wall of the gorge is inaccessible without an arduous climb except to anything that flies, and we can see straight down to the building from there," explained Eofin. "We will gather there first, then it's a short flight across to deliver us to the ledge on the other side, and my flight can fly straight down to pick us up. I have an idea about that distraction. At the north end of the Eastern Plains, it's very rocky, and we have found that dropping bags of rocks on people is a really good way of dissuading them from attacking. So, if we collect some big rocks that the dragons can use to scare the fighting calliston-"

"Then if you upset him enough, he should become uncontrollable." Weasel grinned.

"If we do that at dawn, they won't know what the hell is going on."

"I assume Tekkinmod is not popular with dragons."

"What, with dummerholes? No dragon would have anything to do with him."

There may be arguments about whether dragons and callistons were related, but when it came to dummerholes, they were brothers in arms. No dragon would work for someone who went around performing frontal lobotomies on their relations. Weasel tapped the map and ran his finger around the thumbnail sketch of Tekkinmod's hall.

"So, that only leaves where in the hall the girls are."

"That was the easiest bit to find out, though it gives you the biggest problem," said Eofin with a frown. "They are being kept in a room right next to the kitchen. They were taken water while I was there, and I could hear one of them crying. But remember, kitchen workers are the first to wake; they'll be up before dawn."

Weasel bit his lip, and then a wicked smile crossed his face. "I need a chat with Mab-Tok. I think the kitchen staff should discover an unexpected problem with the quality of the water supply." Eofin and Sen-Liana looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Farthing had been taken through every step of the plan by Weasel and it had lifted his mood enormously; he had actually slept well the previous night. Mistry had not wanted to talk about what had happened in the village though Mab-Lotok had given a few sketchy details. She had spent the night with Fren-Eirol while Sen-Liana had forced Weasel to go to his room and sleep properly. Come morning, Fren-Eirol had made it clear to Mistry she was not part of the rescue.

"If I cannot be there to protect you," she had said, "you are not going."

Mistry's protests were ignored by the stubborn dragon, but with almost no sleep and the abrupt way her previous life had ended still haunting her, she gave in quickly and resigned herself to stay with the sea dragon and the immense black dragon Bell-Sendinar who was still refusing to leave Fren-Eirol's side.

Farthing was now sitting on one of the great Draig yr Anialr, the desert dragons who coexisted with humans in the far north of the Eastern Plains, the vast, arid tract of land that made up the eastern third of the continent of Bind. In many ways, these desert dragons reminded him of sea dragons. They were a similar size though much slimmer on the back and extraordinarily graceful and powerful. Their colouring was mostly a sandy-tan with distinctive cream markings on their heads and bellies. They came across as a fearsome people, wore oothen hides for protection, and leather decorations around their horns. There was no doubt they were prepared for a fight. Farthing sat on a hide into which had been stitched intricate patterns that depicted ancient stories, the dragon had told him. He had to admit the straps and ties of the hide made flying a lot easier than on Fren-Eirol, but he promised himself he would never tell her that.

The inhospitable country of Great Plains rushed passed below him. It was a stony scrubland with few trees and no forests. There was little to offer relief to the dry grass of the near flat expanse that spread across the one hundred leagues between the farmlands of Tharkness at the foot of the Black Hills and the dramatic wall of the North Hoar Ridge. Cut through the middle like a wound was a broad, fast river, a pale blue strip fed from the glaciers of the far Hoar North and the rains that plagued the ridges of Wessen. A chill wind blew across the plain, and the talkative dragon Be-Elin warned him the mountains of the ridge were colder than the Black Hills. He was glad for the warm riding leathers she had given him to wear.

They were a flight of fifteen dragons and six humans. Mab-Tok and three larger Draig Bach-Iachawr flew solo, their sole purpose to ferry the four rescuers across the gorge at night using their better night sight. The ten Draig yr Anialr, four without riders, would take the fight to the war dummerhole and any men in the gorge, and would collect the rescuers and the girls from the rooftop. The last dragon, riding behind Weasel, was the small Draig Wen who had taken it upon herself to fetch and carry for the magician, much to the amusement of many of the others. It had taken a while to coax a name from her as the small white dragons did not have a need for them when conversing amongst themselves in their chattering language or with the black dragons. She had admitted that she had always liked the name Lilygwin, which was a small-flowered white herb that grew everywhere and was used in medicines and cooking across Dirt. So, Lilygwin or Lily, she had become. Her role was simple and, hopefully, unnecessary. If it all went wrong, she would summon the massive black dragon, Bell-Sendinar.

The wall of the North Hoar Ridge grew in height and breadth as they lost altitude and flew fast and low across Great Plains, pacing themselves for the sake of the slower, smaller Draig Bach-Iachawr. Called simply the North Wall by the locals, it was well named; a jagged, unrelenting cliff up to three and a half thousand feet high and backed by mountains of ten thousand. Farther north, the mountains became higher still; an alpine range that included the remote Mount Wesser, sometimes known as the Black Mountain, the tallest mountain in Bind. Some said it was the home of the black dragons.

Farthing watched the young woman riding another of the dessert dragons to his right, leaning forward into the wind, her hair, decorated with leather strips and beads, blowing out behind her. She was one of the nomadic people, the Pharsil-Hin, this band of warriors strove to protect. Her skin was ebony and her hair black, though she wore the leather of the riders and not the clothes of her people. Farthing was reminded with sadness of the woman they had seen at the slave market. This was a mixed band drawn together by a bond each had developed with the dessert dragons. There was a closeness between peoples here that Farthing found difficult to fathom. An understanding between species that would have seemed impossible had he not seen glimpses in the relationship between Weasel and Fren-Eirol. They were helping him to rescue his sister, a person they did not know, the sister of someone they knew little about, and they did it as if it was the most natural thing in the world, no questions asked. So natural was it that he had feared to ask them why because it might sound stupid, or worse, offensive.

"When we reach the wall," said Be-Elin over her shoulder, "we will be flying very close to the rocks. Don't shift around so I have the freedom to move quickly and efficiently."

"Am I sitting forward enough for your wings?" asked Farthing. "You're a different shape to Fren-Eirol."

"Oh, you're used to this, then. Didn't know that. My apologies for instructing you, Farthing."

"We have flown from The Prelates with Fren-Eirol. I'm no expert, but I've flown as high as the Scimra."

"Then you have flown more than many who are not of Ponack, Farthing, and I am glad to be flying with you!"

Farthing put his hand on the dragon's neck to thank her for her kindness as he did with Fren-Eirol. The dragon glanced back in surprise. A rumble coursed through her body and she wriggled her shoulders a little. Farthing sat up fearing he had done something wrong, but the young dragon carrying the nomad woman burst out laughing.

"You're in big trouble now, mate. Be-Elin is purring!"

"Shut up, Mab-Abin!" snapped Be-Elin testily, and then apologised for her rudeness to Farthing.

They were certainly an interesting people these desert dragons, noted Farthing, but he suspected that in the morning when they confronted Tekkinmod's men, he would see a very different side to their nature. The dragon carrying Weasel pulled in alongside and the magician pointed at the high cliff, now but minutes away.

"Familiar?" shouted Weasel from two wingspans distance.

Farthing waved yes and pointed upwards. "Updraughts?"

"Probably," called back the magician, and then said something to the dragon he rode. The dragon said something back and the magician smiled. "He says yes; so, hang on!"

Farthing grinned and settled himself tightly and neatly on Be-Elin's back. She laughed in approval and changed her inclination so she was flying at the cliff head-on. The other dragons in the flight followed suit. Just as she reached the cliff, she billowed out her wings and the vacuum created when the wind blew down across the cliff top and out across the plain, sucked them straight up and over the cliff with a whoosh. Farthing gasped and then yelled in glee. Ahead of him, Eofin and Be-Inua had already landed on a grassy area, and the others gathered around them.

"From here it's only a league to the gorge, but it's rough going," warned Be-Inua. "I'm worried about noise, so we'll spread out and not all arrive at once. Sound carries over these mountains far too easily, so no talking, Be-Elin!" The young dragon huffed, and despite the seriousness of the moment, Farthing chuckled and whispered his thanks to the dragon for having chosen him. She had been good company on the long trip across the plain and was making the day less fraught than it might otherwise have been. She rumbled beneath him and looked back, smiling with her eyes.

One by one, they took flight again, but this time, they left a good minute or so between each of them, and silently twisted and turned their way through the crags. It was a short flight, but a difficult one, and Farthing found himself concentrating, trying to predict which way Be-Elin would turn next. When they landed a little way back from the cliff, Be-Elin turned her head and blinked a silent thank you to him. He bowed back to her with thanks of his own, then quietly slid down off her back and made his way to where Eofin lay on his stomach, looking down into the gorge.

As soon as Farthing looked over the edge, he realised why they had to be so quiet. It was five hundred feet down to the road leading to Tekkinmod's hall, but it was patrolled, and there was no foliage to deaden any sounds. He could hear the men below talking, but he could not make out what they were saying. Weasel lay next to them as did Gellin. Without using words, Eofin pointed out the hall and the ledge that was a good three hundred feet up a sheer face above the roof. The hall was long and narrow, a plain, stark structure, built partway into the rock. The top floor was smaller than those below, but it had a wide paved terrace in front of it, and a flat roof immediately below the ledge far above. Farthing guessed these were Tekkinmod's private quarters. Below that were two other floors and an extension at ground level housing the kitchen. Below that, down a few steps at the nearest end of the building, was the bottom of the gorge, and standing there, chained, were two huge callistons.

Farthing had never seen one of the beasts before and he was shocked. They had to be three times the size of Fren-Eirol and stood upon four huge legs making their arms look tiny, though in reality they were much bigger than his own. They were thicker set than the flying dragons and had a long, low-slung shape with broad backs and relatively short necks. The heads did look very similar to dragons, although they had shorter snouts and were much wider. One of the callistons was draped in a massive hide, reminiscent of that worn by Be-Elin, and the other was covered in thick leather armour and wore a leather helmet covered with vicious spikes. This must be the one trained to fight, and Farthing would not want to be anywhere near the beast if it lost control.

Eofin waved them back from the edge and they crept quietly to a sheltered area where the dragons had gathered. He took out a skin of water and they shared it between them.

"We will have a cold camp here, and in the early hours, the four Draig Bach-Iachawr will take us across to the ledge. We should sort out our ropes now, so we are ready.

"Where is Mab-Tok?" asked Farthing, looking around.

"He is scouting farther up the gorge to get a better idea of where they are flying since it will be dark." He pointed up. "No moons tonight, which is both good and not so good. We'll be abseiling down the cliff in almost total darkness and it's a long drop." He turned to his uncle. "Eafa, great mother told me of a trick you did when you were young with gauging distances. Can you work out how far it is from the ledge to the roof?"

"I had forgotten that. Yes, I can. Why?"

"We can tie knots in the ropes, and in the dark, we will know how far down the cliff we are."

It was an ingenious idea, and Weasel crept to the edge and made his estimate, then they sat and ate a cold supper and made up their ropes. When Mab-Tok returned, Eofin gathered them around again.

"When we land on the ledge, our friends here will hold the ropes while we climb down. We are only using two ropes so each is being held by two dragons."

They had spoken about this already before they left in the morning, but Eofin had years of experience as Dragon Leader in Ponack, and if he felt it necessary to repeat instructions, then Farthing was not going to object. The young man's heart raced as he looked across to the cliff edge. He knew he was tall and strong, but he was no fighter, and he had never put himself in danger like this. Eofin turned to the small dragons.

"Once we are down, coil the ropes back up quietly then head straight to the Black Hills. Once we have the girls, we need to get out of here as high and fast as we can. There will be no need to hide our presence and you won't keep up. The Draig yr Anialr are the fastest of all the dragons, outside of the black dragons," explained Eofin to Farthing. "Even a large sea dragon like Fren-Eirol would be unable to keep pace with them."

Everything agreed, Farthing settled himself against a rock next to Be-Elin and closed his eyes. He was certain he would not manage to sleep much, but he would grab what he could. Tomorrow, he would see his sister again for the first time in weeks. In their entire lives, they had never been separated for much more than a day, and always knew where each other was. It was the constant that kept them strong. He hated to think how his sister had fared and what he would find.

# Chapter 18 – Sisters

The room was three paces square with no windows and a cold stone floor. At one side, against the rock of the gorge, was a rough straw mattress, stained, old, and covered with a thin blanket. A bucket of water with a ladle sat by the door for washing and drinking, and another bucket sat the other side of the door for waste. Hanging from the ceiling was a simple oil lamp, nothing more than a wick in a metal clasp suspended in a dish of oil. It gave off a small, smoky light.

Rustina Farthing sat on the mattress cross-legged, a blanket around her shoulders, stroking the head of her friend Precious, who was lying on her lap, shivering. The Prelate's daughter had been gravely ill for many days. Their clothes had been taken when they had landed on the coast of Jerr-Vone. When they were presented to the buyer in the market in the back of a tea room, they were naked. Their buyer had kept them naked ever since, encouraging his men to leer at them. "You will get used to it. All slaves like you are naked, and you will get used to it." And they had, to a certain extent, but the cold of these mountains had been too much, and the kitchen staff had given them blankets.

The buyer had opened the door this morning for the first time and told them their owner would be returning this evening. Tomorrow they would be washed and presented to him, and from that moment, their fate would be his to control. The buyer would have no further dealings with them and would leave. Rusty would miss him. He was hard, unfeeling, and uncouth, but he had fed them and allowed them to bathe a couple of times in cold streams as they journeyed here. And he was the only one who had spoken to them or told them anything. The captain and crew of the boat had tied them up, beaten them senseless, taking care not to mark them permanently, and ignored them. Yes, Rusty would miss being talked to.

"Rusty, I'm so cold!"

"Hush, Pree," whispered Rusty to the young woman and pulled her closer to warm her. "We will be out of this room tomorrow, and then we'll be warm again I hope."

Precious Hearting wrapped her hands around her friend and hugged. "You and I, Rusty?"

"You and I, Pree."

When they had been taken from Slypa Burh, they had been put in the hold of the boat together. Rusty had never served the Prelate's daughter before and the young women didn't know each other. They had only had time to swap names and try to work out what was happening before the low-class maid and the high-class daughter of the Prelate, the ruler of Redust, were beaten and split up, kept in dark storerooms. When they landed on the Jerr-Vone coast, and were stripped and tied together, any remaining differences in rank vanished. They were only a year apart, Precious being the older at eighteen, had red hair, and were a similar thin but tough build. It was obvious they had been set up, and it was no coincidence that Rusty had been assigned to the daughter that day. Someone wanted two of a kind, and they were it. They became immediate and firm friends, and they had kept each other strong ever since over the weeks.

This morning, the riddle of their capture had been answered when they were told the identity of their owner, Belin Tekkinmod, because Tekkinmod was Prelate Hearting's cousin. The girls had not been stolen from the castle, they had been sold. The news had broken Pree. She was already terribly ill, but the shock of her father's actions had knocked her back, and she had been a shivering wreck all day.

Rusty stroked her friend's hair. She was not feeling well herself. On the journey through Bind, they had been treated as slaves, but they had been fed and given clean water. The ride on the calliston had been rough but fast, and though the girls had been exposed and cold, so very cold, they had been beaten less. They had soon realised they were being kept untouched for their new owner. It was a small mercy. Since arriving at the hall, they had only been fed scraps, and the only water was in the bucket.

It was difficult to work out exactly what time it was, but Rusty was certain it was night. The noisy kitchen had quietened, and now all she could hear was someone sweeping.

"Pree, lie down. I must put out the lamp so we don't waste the oil."

They had been rationing their little supply of lamp oil. Whoever brought in water in the morning would light it again, but they had yet to top up the fuel. Pree rolled over on the mattress, pulling the blanket around her. Rusty stood, pinched out the meagre flame, then cuddled in next to her friend. She must try to sleep.

Night times were the worst time for both of them. It was when the reality of their situation overwhelmed them, and both had spent many nights sobbing. But neither of them had during the day. They refused to give their captors the satisfaction of seeing how broken they were. This night, however, Pree was quiet, too ill to cry, and Rusty could feel the girl drift off to sleep. She cuddled closer. If Pree got any colder, she would worsen, and Rusty was desperately worried about her.

Rusty closed her eyes and immediately the face of her brother Johnson came to her. He was the first thing she saw when she closed her eyes, and he gave her strength to survive the panic and nightmares she would suffer the rest of the night. His face was warm and kind, and he was tall and strong. He had been her protector for most of her life, even before her mother died. He had been her brother, her best friend, and sometimes almost like a father, since the little they saw of their real father was nothing to take comfort from. Farthing still was her protector, even here. He had been for the whole journey if he had known it.

A quiet cough in the corridor made her open her eyes. Rusty had heard the sweeper leave and did not expect anyone else in the kitchen till the early dawn. She could hear the scrape of the kitchen door being opened, and through the quiet of the night, a few splashes and the soft clunk of pots being opened and closed. Then the door scraped shut again, and all fell quiet. A shiver passed through Rusty's body and she hoped she wasn't also falling ill. One of them had to be strong, and for the moment, it was her turn. She pulled their thin blankets tighter around them and tried to sleep.

"Bloody hell, it is dark down there, Mr Farthing!" Weasel pulled himself back onto the cold roof of the hall, helped by the strong hand of the young man.

"Were the girls there?" asked Farthing.

"I didn't dare look. I barely made it to the kitchen, and as I came out, I heard the guards pass by at the top end of the corridor. I did find out one thing, though; Tekkinmod is here. I heard the guards talking about it. Apparently, they have had some problem with a neighbour or something and they were saying that Tekkinmod is going to be furious. Anyway, that's his problem, but it also means he will have brought back more men with him."

"I was hoping he wouldn't be back yet," whispered Eofin. "Did you deliver our surprise?"

"Oh yes! That powder Mab-Tok made up is perfect. There is a well in the corner of the kitchen, but I didn't put it in there as it would probably just drain away. They have a handpump connected to it and a whole line of huge copper jugs ready to fill. So, I sprinkled a bit in each, put a handful in the stock, a load in the beer, and even put some mixed in with the bags of oats they have out for breakfast, and in the jar of coffee."

"How much did you use?"

"All of it."

"All of it?" Farthing nearly yelled out and was shushed quiet by the other three. "That's what Mab-Tok uses to purge red mountain dragons when they eat too much fat! He said to only use a pinch."

"Yeah, brilliant, isn't it?" Weasel sounded like he had just won a barrel of gold. "It's really fast working too. I don't expect them to be able to stand, let alone chase us."

Farthing chuckled, despite himself.

"Now, however, we must wait another couple of hours," Eofin cautioned them. "And I, for one, am already cold!"

"It's that thin Tepid Lakes blood, that is," said Weasel.

"I was born here, Eafa!"

"Oh, for the gods, call me Weasel! Only my enemies call me Eafa or people when they're annoyed at me,"

"Great Mother calls you Eafa."

"My point exactly."

Eofin looked sideways at the magician and shook his head. There was obviously a large difference in perspective here, and Farthing was sure he did not want to get involved. He was nothing, however, if not curious.

"Why are you called Weasel?"

"Great mother says it was a joke when he was young," said Eofin to Farthing. "When it became evident he had some talents, his brothers thought this wizard should have a grand title, so they called him the Doomed Wizard of Tepid Lakes. The trouble was, their kid brother, my great father, who was only five, couldn't say Wizard, and it came out as Weasel. So, The Doomed Weasel of Tepid Lakes is what he became. The better question is why did he carry on using it?"

Weasel just shrugged and didn't seem keen to finish the story. Another mystery for another day, thought Farthing.

"Farthing, wake up!" Eofin nudged the young man.

"What?"

"How do you manage to sleep on a roof when it's freezing cold?"

"I wasn't brought up with nice comfy beds and fires that burn all night. Are we going?"

"Right now." Weasel handed him the skin of water and he took a good slurp to wake himself up.

"Ready."

Of the four of them, Farthing was the biggest, with Eofin a few inches shorter, and Weasel and Gellin a similar size. Gellin, who was only a year older than Farthing, had been invaluable. When they had abseiled down, he had gone head first and had more or less run down the cliff in dead silence. He had held the bottom of the ropes to stop them flapping against the roof or the cliff while the other three had slid down backwards and far more slowly. The dragons had then coiled up the ropes and flown off to the Black Hills. That had been a trick in itself. Mab-Tok had realised that just flapping away from the ledge was going to make too much noise, so he and his friends had leapt off the ledge and swooped down the gorge in the opposite direction from the callistons before flapping. Farthing reckoned from what he saw the day before that they must have had very little room to pull off this feat without hitting the cliffs or the ground.

The route down was simple enough. Farthing dropped off the roof first to a broad ledge, and Gellin, almost hanging off the edge of the roof, passed down their swords and knives and a large club. Farthing had never picked up a sword, let alone used one, but there was a ball game in Redust that involved a large club-like bat that Farthing excelled at. When given the choice of weapons, he had warmed to the war club immediately. Gellin had pointed out that with its iron loops to stop it splitting, it was extremely heavy, and was then suitably impressed when Farthing waved it around like a walking stick. The hole-digging was paying dividends.

Weasel took the lead as he had found his way earlier. Two floors down and they were above a back door, but since Weasel had sneaked through it a couple of hours earlier, it had gained a guard.

"Damn," he mouthed silently. Gellin whispered something in Farthing's ear. Farthing nodded. Gellin carefully turned himself upside down and Farthing grabbed him by the feet. Gellin was light, like Weasel, but not that light, and the veins were standing up on Farthing's neck as, from a crouching position, he lowered Gellin upside down to the door. Just as the rider reached close to the guard, the small man pulled his heavy knife out of his belt and struck the guard hard over the head with the pommel. The guard dropped to the ground like a stone, and going by the cracking sound, Farthing suspected the guard was far beyond just being knocked out. Farthing dragged Gellin back up with the help of Weasel and Eofin, and they jumped down, pulling the lifeless guard out of the way.

Weasel put his hand and ear to the door and nodded. There was no one the other side of the door. He gently pulled the door open and the four of them sneaked in. From there, it was a long straight passage that ran all the way along the rear of the building to the kitchen, but there were no hiding places if any guards appeared. Weasel had hidden in doorways, but with four of them that was impossible, and they had to be a lot quicker. Eofin drew his sword, as did Gellin, and Weasel his knife.

"How far down?" whispered Eofin to Weasel.

"See the big door at the end? That is the kitchen you saw when you came selling chickens. The girls' room must be the door on the left just before it."

That made sense to Eofin. "Ready? We just go for it."

They all looked at each other, nodded in agreement, then trotted down the corridor. They were only ten paces from the kitchen when the door burst open and three men ran straight at them.

"Oh, shit!" said Weasel, but instead of a fight, the men pushed passed them, tugging at their belts, and shot into another room retching and puking. The four just looked at each other. "I love that Mab-Tok," said Weasel with quiet glee.

Ten paces later and they were outside the locked door.

Eofin touched Farthing's arm. "Both of us together. Ready?"

Farthing nodded, then aimed his shoulder at the door.

Rusty snapped herself fully awake. Next door in the kitchen something was going on. First, she had heard a lot of swearing but had thought that was a dream. Then she had heard crashing of metal and more swearing. And then the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up violently and even more swearing. Then she heard someone shout there was something wrong with the water and to take beers up to the guards, and someone else threw up.

"Pree!" Rusty shook the young woman next to her. Pree just mumbled. Rusty couldn't see her in the dark, but she felt her body; she was burning up. "Pree, you got to wake up, something is happening."

"What is?"

"I don't know, but something is going on."

There was more crashing and then someone shouted something like "that is disgusting, get out of here!" She heard the kitchen door bang open hard and the sound of running feet and gagging, and someone laughing? What on Dirt was going on? Pree moaned again and Rusty wrapped the blanket tightly around the shivering woman.

"Three, two, one..."

There was not a chance in hell the door was going to survive the combined force of a seasoned fighter and a big, young man who had weeks of rage to get rid of. The door didn't spring open, it just collapsed, and Farthing rushed in, his club held before him. There, on the far side of the small room, naked, dirty, and scared out of her wits, was his little sister. All his anger drained from him and he fell to his knees. He had found her.

"Farthing, get up!" Weasel walked past the young man, dragged off his robe and wrapped it around the naked young woman. He lifted her chin. "Who are you? Rustina or Precious?"

"I'm Rusty," she said, then shook the shock out of her head. "This is Pree, I mean Precious. She is dangerously ill."

"Farthing, pick up the Prelate's daughter. Rusty, we have only seconds and the guards are going to be down here wondering why all the kitchen staff are shitting everywhere."

"We have no clothes."

"Girl, I'm over a thousand years old. Your lack of clothes is nothing! Come on, we have to fly." He pulled her to her feet while Farthing, still in a daze, picked up the blanket complete with the Prelate's daughter. All he wanted to do was pull his sister into his arms, but that would have to wait.

"Who are you?" whispered the sick young woman into his neck as he followed the others back into the corridor.

"I'm Rusty's brother, and we are getting out of here." She whispered something soft and weak and passed out.

"Weasel, she's really, really ill!" said Farthing.

"Well hurry up then!"

Gellin and Eofin led them back up the corridor. As they charged passed the other doors, the smell of shit and vomit became almost overwhelming. But not everyone was affected, and out of a side corridor stepped two large guards. It took them just moments to realise what was going on, and they had their swords out. Gellin and Eofin charged, pushing the guards back; kicking, punching, and stabbing at them. It was not pretty or neat, it was barbaric, but within seconds the guards were dead.

"Come on, there'll be more!" said Eofin, wiping clean his sword.

The sounds of chaos drifted up to the dragons on the cliff. Be-Inua turned to Be-Elin. "Send the first flight down."

The young dragon shouted out orders loud and clear. Down in the gorge, the few guards standing with the callistons looked up and saw four great dragons sail down from the cliff top, each carrying rocks in huge canvas bags. The dragons swooped down and dropped the rocks around the armoured calliston. It shrieked in surprise and pulled hard at its chains, sending the guards scattering.

"Again," Be-Inua ordered Be-Elin, and the young dragon shouted out a second time.

A second wave of dragons swooped down, dropping their rocks with deadly accuracy. The calliston was infuriated, and wrenched hard at his chains, breaking them from their anchors. The other calliston bleated in fright and cowered away from the war beast, crushing two guards against the wall.

"Once again," said Be-Inua without emotion, burying the sick feeling she felt at the sight of the huge, once-proud callistons.

"Farthing, stop!" Rusty turned around to face her brother.

"We have to move," he said to her.

"Behind that door!" She pointed at a door in the corridor. "The other slaves!"

"Other slaves?"

"We could hear them. We have to get them out!"

"We can't, we have no way to carry more!"

"We have to give them a chance."

Farthing looked up the corridor where Weasel, Eofin, and Gellin were fighting more guards in a bloody struggle.

"Alright, sis."

He put Pree down on the ground, then braced himself and rammed into the door. It took him three attempts, and his shoulder was shot through with pain, but it opened. He was greeted by a room full of slaves, clothed, more or less, but blinking in the light. They were filthy.

"You are free," he shouted. "Get out of here!"

The slaves rushed out through the door and ran down to the Kitchen and to the door that led out into the gorge. He tried to tell them to go the other way, but they ignored him. He shook his head in frustration and picked up Pree again.

"Farthing, come on!" shouted Eofin from the back door.

"Go!" said Farthing to his sister, and he followed her up the corridor and out through the door, kicking it shut behind him. When he stopped, his sister turned and threw her arms around him.

"Up here!" called Gellin.

The others had started to climb up to the roof. Farthing pulled himself free of Rusty, wrapped the blankets tightly around Pree like swaddling a child, and passed her up to Eofin who was reaching down. He then turned to his sister.

"Up on my shoulders, sis."

She knew exactly what to do. They had been doing this trick since they were kids, sneaking in and out of their building when they were not meant to. She grabbed his hand, put a foot on his leg and leapt up onto his shoulders. Eofin put his hand down. She grabbed it and swung herself up. The fighter jumped back in surprise at how neat the manoeuvre had been, and then steadied Rusty when she suddenly wobbled. What little strength she had was draining fast.

"Farthing, now you!" called Gellin.

The young man took a few steps back to jump up when a guard burst through the door, sword first. The blade went straight through Farthing's thigh, crippling him instantly.

"Farthing!" shouted Rusty.

Gellin didn't hesitate. He pulled his knife out and threw it at the guard, straight into his neck. The guard collapsed, dying.

Farthing was rolling on the ground in agony. He looked up at his friends on the ledge. "Get my sister out of here!" he yelled in pain. "Get her out!"

Weasel grabbed Rusty. "We will save him, I promise, but we must get you and Precious up on the roof first."

"Why the roof?"

"Because it's the only way out of here!" He pushed her towards Gellin who shunted her up to the next ledge.

The dragons watched as the grisly scene unfolded below. The armoured calliston had gone berserk and was killing everything it could. The second calliston, panicked by the noise and commotion, had broken free of his chains, and the massive beast was cowering against the wall of the gorge. Then the kitchen door banged open, and a large group of frightened people piled out. The dragons peered over the cliff edge trying to make out who they were.

"Slaves," Lilygwin said, in her clipped voice. The small Draig Wen had crept up between Be-Inua's legs. "They are more slaves. See how they are dressed? Guards do not dress so badly."

"They'll be crushed," said Be-Elin. She looked around trying to see a way out for the people below. "Lily, can you communicate with that calliston? The frightened one?"

"Yes, I think I can."

"Calm him down and tell him to walk down the gorge slowly and quietly."

"I will try. That is very complicated." The small, flightless dragon lay down and closed her eyes.

"Be-Inua, we need to push the war calliston back towards the hall so the slaves can reach the other one," said Be-Elin. "They can then ride it to safety."

Be-Inua nodded in understanding. "I will get rocks. You look out for Farthing and the others."

She called to the other dragons and they grabbed up huge boulders and dived down at the crazed beast, driving him back onto his haunches and turning him away from the slaves. The slaves had stopped at the bottom of the steps, unsure what to do, but Be-Inua turned from her run and landed in front of them.

"Run to the beast. Get onto its back. Now!"

With nowhere else to go, the slaves ran down the gorge and scrambled up the slowly walking calliston. As the last of them made it up, so Lily told the beast to take them to safety. She gently caressed his mind and thanked him, telling him to find his home and live in peace. He called once in the manner of the callistons, unable to talk as he had lost that skill when his brain had been mutilated, and he ran down the gorge, the frightened slaves hanging on for their lives.

"Inua!" called out Be-Elin. She pointed to the roof of the hall where the others had appeared. At the same time, just below them, a large group of guards and a tall, well-dressed man came storming out onto the veranda. They heard the dragon shout and they spun around to see the fleeing women on the roof.

"Get them!" shouted the tall man, and his men started to climb up onto the roof.

Be-Elin didn't wait for the other dragons but threw herself off the cliff and dived towards the men. The other dragons had flown up and out of the gorge and were now high overhead, but they soon dived back down. Be-Elin saw the first guard pull himself onto the roof, and she put her sharp talons out in front of her and ripped him apart. The other men fell back off the roof while the tall man, obviously Tekkinmod, yelled at them.

Be-Inua came in next, grabbing another guard and throwing him down into the gorge. The next two dragons swept in and landed on the roof. From their backs leapt their riders who grabbed the unconscious Precious and carried her onto the first dragon, the rider sitting down quickly, holding the woman in front of her. The dragon ran off the roof and flew up to the safety of the cliff.

"Go!" shouted Eofin to Rusty.

"My brother!"

"We'll get him. Go!"

The other rider grabbed Rusty and bundled her up onto the dragon, and they left for the cliff. Be-Elin came crashing down onto the roof. The guards had bows, and arrows were beginning to fly. She shouted in pain as one drove deeply into her leg.

"Where is Farthing?" she said, looking around.

"Down there!" shouted Weasel, pointing to the far end of the building. "Down in the gorge. He's wounded."

Be-Inua landed and saw the blood pouring down Be-Elin's leg.

"You're hurt," she said. "Get up to the cliff."

"No," snapped Be-Elin. "Johnson Farthing is my rider!" She thundered down the roof of the building in three huge paces and threw herself off the end.

"We must go now," said Be-Inua to the others as more arrows flew around them, despite the hail of rocks coming from the sky. "I will carry all of you."

"What about Be-Elin and Farthing?" cried out Weasel.

"She will protect him," answered the big Draig yr Anialr, quietly cursing the rashness of the young dragon.

Eofin pushed Weasel up onto Be-Inua and leapt on after him, Gellin jumping up behind. The desert dragon ran off the roof and headed down the gorge, flapping hard to gain height with the three men on her back, and, at last, made it to the cliff. When she landed she was greeted by the small white dragon.

"The girl, the one in the blankets," said Lily. "She is near death; you must go now. Eafa can look after her, but you must rush."

"Farthing has been hurt and so has Be-Elin," Be-Inua told Lily.

"Go. I will stay for them, but go!"

Weasel checked on Precious with Rusty hovering over him, still wrapped in his robe.

"She is bad," he said to Eofin. "I must take her now."

Eofin signalled the other dragons over.

"Half of you, take Eafa and the two women to the Abbey. High and fast. The rest of you, keep those men busy!"

The rider who had brought Rusty up to the cliff grabbed her and put her onto his dragon. Weasel picked up Precious and just ran straight up the tail of Mab-Abin, making the dragon turn his head around in surprise.

"My apologies, great one," said the magician. "But I've been riding dragons since before you were born; I know where to tread. You can beat me up later, but now we need to go."

The dragon roared with laughter. "For the famous Eafa? I will fly you anywhere, mate." And the dragon leapt into the sky.

Be-Elin skidded off the end of the roof and put out her wings to slow herself down. Below, another guard was charging at Farthing. The dragon picked up the man in her mouth and threw him at the cliff wall, smashing him dead. She crashed down next to Farthing, her leg giving way beneath her.

"Climb on my back, Farthing!" she said breathlessly, the pain making her gasp.

"I can't stand."

"Climb on my back, rider! I can't help you."

She was losing blood too quickly and growing weaker. Farthing pushed himself up with his club and dragged himself up onto the dragon. Be-Elin heaved herself upright and jumped into the air as high as she could, slapping her wings downward. She flew painfully up the gorge amidst a storm of arrows, cheered on by the calls of the other dragons who rained stony hell onto the guards below. The desert dragon shuddered as three more arrows buried into her flesh. She fought with all her strength, flapping desperately until she was above the gorge, and then glided down to the cliff top, crashing in a heap, Farthing screaming in agony as he fell off her back and landed on the hard rocks. Eofin rushed over.

"I'll never get them back!" he shouted at the small Draig Wen. "Damn everything!"

"Be calm, Eofin. This is mine to deal with. Go." The man hesitated. "Go," insisted the small dragon. "If you leave, they below will think we have all gone, and that will give me the time I need. You must go, else they will hunt up here."

The Dragon Leader shook himself. The small dragon spoke perfect sense and he should have seen it for himself. "What will you do?"

"I will sing for Bell-Sendinar."

Lily comforted her two dying charges as the rest of the dragons took off from the cliff, making as much noise as possible so Tekkinmod and his men could see them all leave. And indeed, within seconds, the arrows stopped. Lily sat on the ground, covered her eyes, and in a very soft voice began to sing.

Secan yrmr ir

Min garad

Ire cryfen tir

Ar chr cyrm

Seek me here

My love

Our strength together

For you I cry

Mistry was sitting on the matting leaning against Fren-Eirol. She had not slept at all, and now it was dawn.

"They'll be rescuing the girls now," said Fren-Eirol quietly.

"I know, but it will take them the whole day to get back. I can't bear it."

Fren-Eirol desperately wanted to say something motherly and comforting, but she too was worried. "Neither can I, child."

Suddenly, behind the tent, Bell-Sendinar sat up. Raising his head high, he trumpeted a deafening, mournful call. He stood up tall, and raising his wings over the garden, leapt into the air, soaring high into the sky. Mistry jumped up and watched him go.

"Fren-Eirol?" she said, her voice shaking.

The sea dragon dragged herself from the tent, looking up as the black dragon disappeared from sight. "Something has gone wrong, Mistry."

Lilygwin pushed at Farthing's body with her mind. The man was barely hanging onto consciousness and Be-Elin had already lapsed into a coma. She whispered to the young human, caressed his face, and gave him a little strength, something so very difficult for her to do with someone who was not a dragon.

"You must climb onto her back, Farthing," said Lily.

"She's unconscious," he muttered.

"You still must do it."

Farthing pulled himself over to Be-Elin, and with the help of the Draig Wen, clambered painfully onto the back of the desert dragon, collapsing face down on the hides. Lily pulled at the oothen hide, freeing one of the leather straps. She bound the man tightly to the dragon and lay down next to him.

"Sleep, human," she said, and at the same time reached out to the dragon and caressed her gently. There was very little life left in her, but there was some; it had to be enough.

"What the hell happened?" shouted Tekkinmod. He pinned one of the guards against the wall by the neck, then let the confused man fall. He turned to his second who was just emerging from the lower floors. "I want those girls back, and I want the heads of those who stole them!" he shouted.

"What about the other slaves?"

"Forget them, Retton. The girls are worth ten times all those put together."

Retton put his hands up in confusion. "Where the hell do I start?"

Tekkinmod stared at the man. His second was the best hunter in the ices, but he knew nothing much about anything south of the ridge. But a hunter is a hunter, wherever they are. "Well, they were taken from Redust, so I suspect that is where they will be headed, don't you? That would be that way!" He pointed west out of the door of his top-floor apartment which now had a hole in the roof where a dragon had dropped a boulder. Suddenly the sky went black and Tekkinmod rushed outside. "What is that?"

Above him, filling the sky, was Bell-Sendinar. He swooped down and grabbed something from the top of the cliff in his huge claws and flew straight back into the sky. Tekkinmod swore.

"What has that bloody cousin of mine got me into?" He looked down the gorge and frowned, then looked up the other way to where the gorge narrowed and turned out of sight to a dead end. Then he turned to his men standing nervously behind him.

"And what the hell happened to my dummerholes?"

Farthing woke slowly to feel a soft hand on his face. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it when both his head and his leg began to pound.

"Shush, relax, Johnson. You're safe." The voice caressed and eased him like no other could. "And I'm safe too." Farthing smiled, and then very slowly, passed out again.

Farthing sat up with a start and grabbed his stomach. He felt sick. Very sick. Very, very sick.

"Mab-Tok!" he roared, just managing to stop himself from throwing up.

Mistry came running in laughing, and she threw her arms around him. She kissed him about thirty times until he pushed her away to get his breath. Behind her, Rusty came in slowly, supporting a young woman that could have almost been her twin. Mistry left the bed and moved to the side of the room and sat quietly on a chair. Pree sat down carefully on the end of the bed while Rusty collapsed into Farthing's arms. The brother and sister wept together in relief.

"This is Pree," said Rusty a few minutes later. "Precious Hearting, the Prelate's daughter." Farthing nodded formally to the girl.

"What do I call you?" he asked. He was a hole digger and cart pusher, what did he know about Prelates and their daughters?

The young woman made her way painfully closer, sat down next to him, and kissed him.

"You have just saved my life," said the Prelate's daughter in a weak, shaky voice. "What do I call you?" The tears trickled down her face.

"My name is Farthing, Johnson Farthing. Call me Farthing I suppose. Everyone else does." He looked into her eyes and almost felt he knew her.

"And you can call me Pree and friend," she said softly, looking around the room at Farthing, Mistry, and her friend Rusty with a timid smile.

Farthing pulled himself away from the green eyes of the Prelate's daughter and noticed Mistry sitting quietly.

"And this is," he started to say, but Rusty beat him to it, grabbed Mistry by the hand, pulled her over to the bed and dumped her on it, leaping on after her.

"My sister!" declared Rusty. Farthing opened his mouth in surprise. "Brother, you've been unconscious for two days and probably still would be if it weren't for Mab-Tok. I've had the whole story." Her smile faded, and she squeezed Mistry's hand, then brightened herself up again. "And she's absolutely coming back with us." Farthing grinned. "But it's more complicated than you realise."

"How?" Farthing was getting tired of playing catch-up all the time.

"She will tell you later. Girls, out of here!"

Sen-Liana was obviously not suffering quite so much from her knees today, and she shooed the three girls gently out of the room, Mistry and Rusty helping the fragile Pree. Farthing took the proffered mug of cool spring water from the old woman and drank it with relief; it took away some of the taste of Mab-Tok's vile medicine. Farthing looked up at Weasel's mother.

"What happened? I remember getting skewered by a guard and then Be-Elin... Be-Elin! Is she alright?"

"She is with Fren-Eirol. She's badly hurt. First, by several arrows, and then by crashing into the cliff. She was hurt a little more when Bell-Sendinar picked her up in his talons. He saved her, but he nearly crushed her in the process."

Something else was nagging at his mind. "Lily?"

"She is here too, and she is fine. She is a strange one. She has done something I have never heard of before."

"What is that?"

"She has decided to leave Bell-Sendinar," said Sen-Liana. Farthing looked puzzled. "I don't fully understand the relationship between the black dragons and the white, but they live their lives together, very tightly bound. It's why we sometimes call the female Draig Wen the wives of the black dragons, though they find that funny. Lily has always been different. She speaks our language fluently, and she helps around the abbey. The garden is much of her doing. Well, whatever is different, she is now going to break the bond with Bell-Sendinar and leave."

"Where is she going?"

"With you, apparently."

"What?"

Sen-Liana took the mug and walked from the room, laughing. "Dinner is in an hour. You must eat. There is a walking stick by your bed. Be careful of your leg; that was an appalling wound."

Farthing managed to stagger down to the garden, and he found himself wrapped tightly in the arms of Fren-Eirol. Then he hugged Be-Elin around her head and whispered his thanks to her for saving him. She was painfully weak and lying flat on the mats next to the sea dragon. Neither of them would be going anywhere for some time yet.

Dinner might have been in the grand upstairs library, but it was an informal affair, and most did not sit at the dining table. Eofin and Gellin were the only riders still at the Abbey. The rest had flown south and were then cutting across Bind to return to the Eastern Plains. They should have flown straight across Great Plains, but a huge storm had built up as they had returned from Wessen.

"These plain's storms rage for days, sometimes a couple of weeks," explained Eofin to Farthing, who was behind on the news. "Tekkinmod will be stuck in his gorge unable to move."

"What about the callistons?"

"The war beast ran up the gorge," said Eofin sadly. "We enraged him as planned, but he became completely maddened and he fell into a fit. One of the dragons dropped a gigantic boulder on his head to kill him in the end. It's very sad."

"And the other? Will Tekkinmod use that to chase us? I'm guessing he's not just going to let us go."

"No, I'm certain he'll come after you, but it's going to be at a normal speed. Lily has managed to put some new ideas about freedom and home into the head of the other calliston. She has not made him complete again, but he was last seen just about galloping across Great Plains with a lot of very scared looking slaves on his back." Eofin laughed out loud. "I have no idea where they will end up or even how the slaves are going to get off, but I suspect they have a very interesting life ahead of them."

"When are you heading to the Sand Hills?" asked Farthing.

"I'm going to check on the storm in the morning, though I think this is one of the worst for years, which is a good thing. We'll head south in a few days. I also want to say goodbye to Be-Elin. She is very ill, and we don't even know whether she will survive, let alone fly again." The man looked crestfallen. These dragons were family to him.

"That is my fault, Eofin. I was careless, and she risked it all for me."

"No, Farthing!" Eofin grabbed his arm. "You are her rider. She told us that when she came looking for you; though I have never heard of a dragon making a choice so quickly. She made you one of us, and we lay our lives down for each other. I saw you. You were going to sacrifice yourself for these girls. So, don't blame yourself because Be-Elin did the same for you!"

Eofin had raised his voice and the rest of the room fell silent. Weasel walked over and stood between them. He chewed his lip, then turned to look at the others.

"Wallowing in our brave deeds is a beautiful thing to do, but we have two problems and we are stuck between them. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to bring Farthing up to date and tell the rest of you what we need to do." Weasel was pulling rank as much as he could as the second eldest in the room. Sen-Liana, the eldest, smiled, lowered herself into a chair at the table, and let him have his moment.

"We have two girls here who have been rescued from the governor of a province of Wessen, one of the richest countries on Bind. From what I've been told, taking these red-headed girls, who are seen as a talisman of good fortune, is much the same as stealing the crown jewels. He will come after us, and he'll not be messing around when he does. He will want them back and he will want us all dead. We have a couple of advantages. He has no idea about this Abbey, and since the old pass is long since overgrown, unless he has a dragon, he is not going to find out about it. We will make sure word gets out about the callistons and no dragon will go near him, not that I think any would anyway. There is also a storm raging which will have trapped him in his gorge, so that buys us time, but it will end, and he will come after us. He is not stupid, and he knows where we're going.

"Now, back in Redust, we have another problem we were ignorant of until we rescued Precious and Rusty. We were reasonably confident the kidnap was an inside job since someone must have arranged for Rusty to be in the room with Precious at the right time so two young redheads were in the catch. It's also likely that the inside man was the Prelate himself."

Farthing looked sharply at the magician. "How do we know that?" he asked in amazement. Weasel pointed to Pree.

"Because, Johnson," said the young woman sadly, "Tekkinmod is my father's cousin." Farthing's mouth fell open. "Sorry, I meant my ex-father's cousin." She turned away quickly to hide a tear.

Everyone apart from Farthing had already heard this news, but the hurt that laced through the girl's words hit all of them. Farthing limped over to where the girl stood, her back turned towards the room.

"Precious," he started, then changed his mind and put his hand on her shoulder. "Pree," he said. "What are you going to do?"

She looked up at him. "I'm going back to face him." She was openly crying now. "I'm not going to let him get away with this; I refuse to."

He looked down at her and understood. "You're right. He is not going to get away with this." The room waited in silence, and when Farthing spoke again it was directly to Weasel. "Well, magician, you got us this far and have rescued my sister, which, quite honestly, I didn't think you were capable of doing. I only went along with this in the beginning because I had no other way of getting here, and I was desperate. I thought your abilities were a lie, and I didn't trust you as far as I could throw you."

Weasel looked at the floor. He didn't dare look at Farthing's face.

"Well, I was wrong. You not only have pulled it off, but you have become a friend. And you and Fren-Eirol have shown me time and time again not just the value of friendship, but of bravery, and of years and years of wisdom. I cannot think of anyone in this world I would trust more than the two of you. So, Eafa, help me; help us. What do I do? What is our next move?"

The magician, so old of heart, pulled at his robe, bit his lip, and squinted a little. Then he raised his head and looked at the boy who in just a few weeks had turned into the man.

"Well, first of all, we have to get ourselves back to Taken. And then, I need to get up on that hill and speak to the last person I ever thought I would need to turn to for help, and, perhaps, remind some stubborn old fools who they are meant to be." He looked around the room at the faces of this small group. Farthing, Eofin, Mistry, Mab-Tok, Sen-Liana, Rusty, Precious Hearting, Mab-Lotok, Gellin, and Lily. And he suddenly thought of the one face he needed to see more than any other.

"If you will excuse me, I need to talk to an old friend." And Eafa, The Doomed Weasel of Tepid Lakes, fled the room.

# Chapter 19 – All about Horses

The storms that rage from time to time across Great Plains are triggered when a fierce warm wind from the south hits the cold arctic winds that blow down from the ices and over the North Hoar Ridge. They get trapped between the Black Hills and the vast Alpine mountains of the ridge, and they circle around and around for days, raising the dust and then flooding the plain with mud, making it impassable. Eofin and Be-Inua had flown as high as they dared and could barely reach the top of the storm. This was one of the worst for decades.

On the south-western side of the Black Hills into the rolling dales of Bekon, the wind was up, but there was no ravaging storm; it could not break past the mountains.

Farthing leant against the farm gate, massaging his leg, and contemplating the two pairs of large draught horses that were staring him down.

"Are you going to harness those or wait for me to do it?"

"Mistry, I have only ever attached a horse to a cart once in my life, and it was half that size and not looking at me as if I was breakfast!"

The girl laughed as she walked from the farmhouse, stuffing her shirt into her new trousers, made for her in double quick time by the Draig Wen.

"To start with it's a wagon, not your little cart, and you should be glad we haven't been given oothen. They are even bigger and have foul tempers when they can be bothered to do anything." Lazy as an oothen was a common complaint.

They had been ferried down to the farm by Bren-Etan and Be-Inua early the previous day on their way south. The farmlands here were owned by the Abbey and run by a family who had been in Sen-Liana's employ for generations. They lived in a sizeable house farther up the valley. This small farmhouse was unused but kept clean and dry, and the little band had spent the previous day preparing for their journey, sorting out the wagon and draught horses and two other horses for riding. With Fren-Eirol unable to fly and the only other dragon available being Mab-Tok, the return journey would be in a wagon and slow. Tekkinmod would be seeking his revenge so this was the last thing they needed. But the storm would give them a head start, and Weasel had worked out a route using his mother's maps that would take them a longer but hopefully less predictable route via South Bekon.

In some ways, it was better not to rush. Leaving Tekkinmod out of the argument, Rusty and Pree were rescued and safe for the moment, and they didn't have to be anywhere at any time soon. Farthing's leg, now tightly bandaged, was still a problem, and though Mab-Tok had kept it clean and free from infection, Farthing could only just stand on it. More of a problem were the two young women. Pree was very ill, though food and water were making a difference, and as the realisation of their freedom had caught up with them, the trauma of their weeks in captivity had made itself known to both. The road to recovery would be as long as the road home. Mistry and Farthing had been lectured by Fren-Eirol and Sen-Liana. The women were in their care and were their first duty. Weasel and Mab-Tok would worry about the route and the wagon. It was a lovely speech, but it didn't take into account that Mistry was the most experienced of them all when it came to driving a large wagon and team.

So, Weasel would ride on one of the horses as would Farthing in a few days once his leg was a little better, not that he had ever ridden before. Mab-Tok would scout and keep an eye on their route as some of the maps were old and probably out of date. Mistry would drive the team, and Rusty and Pree would ride with her in the wagon. That only left the last, unexpected member of the band of fellows; Lilygwin, the unusual, flightless Draig Wen. Farthing felt the small white dragon brush against his leg as she came out from the house and joined him at the gate.

"I am going to fly with Mab-Tok today," she told him in her simple, clipped way.

It would be easy to think of this dragon as a child sometimes, but that would be a mistake. She was far older than everyone in their company, and though was not well travelled, had an intuitive wisdom that saw things very clearly at times.

"He will like that, I think," said Farthing with a smile.

"Tomorrow I will ride in the cart and look after Pree and Rusty. I think they will need me more then."

Lily didn't know very much about humans, and it was unknown how much the Draig Wen would be able to use her skills for them. But somehow, this diminutive and gentle person had managed to keep Farthing strong and alive while he and Be-Elin were carried back in the claws of Bell-Sendinar. In the last few days, she had spent most of the time talking to Mab-Tok and learning everything he had to give. Between the two of them, Farthing was sure they would all recover their physical injuries, and Pree recover from illness, but it would only be the bond between them all that would help them recover from the wounds they carried deep within; especially the two young women.

"You need to learn this even if you are limping, brother!" Mistry was standing in front of the first pair of draught horses which she had harnessed up. Farthing limped over to her and she handed him the two sets of reins. "These two horses are called the wheelers and we hitch them up closest to the wagon. The other two are the leaders. We back them up carefully so they are either side of the shaft and hitch them up. This cart has the short shaft I wanted. It means we can run it with only two horses if needs be and I can make sharper turns."

Mistry had scrutinised just about every cart in the huge barn at the main farm the previous day, and the farmer had been surprised that someone who appeared so young, knew more than even he did.

The girl stood in front of the two huge horses and patted one on the nose. "Stand to the side of the cart, pull the reins gently but continuously, and say 'back' to the horses. I will make sure they go the right way."

Farthing hobbled to one side and called 'back' to the horses. Not much happened.

"Keep saying it. The horses have blinkers, so you are asking them to go somewhere they cannot see and they don't like doing it."

Farthing tried again, pulling on the reins more firmly, and the horses gingerly stepped backwards until Mistry called for them to stop and patted them thank you. She lifted the thick shaft and linked through the chains to the horses' harnesses. Once done, she pulled out the yoke for the front pair on a long chain she had already attached.

"What time did you start harnessing up this morning?" Farthing was taking a closer look at all the tackle and could not believe how complicated it all was.

"Over an hour ago. It doesn't take long, but these gentlefolk have been rolling in the barn and I had to brush them down."

"Is that important?" asked Farthing innocently.

"Of course it is! You've got to keep your horses pretty!"

Farthing was reasonably certain that was the wrong answer, but he didn't press the issue.

"Now, the other two. You can bring them over. Take their reins and gently play them out behind them. Then give them a little tug and tell them to walk on. They won't run off; these are well trained. You can then walk them over here."

Farthing was amazed how easy it was, even allowing for his limp, but he was sure it was down to the training the horses had had at the farm, and no latent skill he possessed. Mistry took the reins and skilfully walked the horses in front of the other two and hitched them up.

"Just about ready to go now," said the girl, grinning.

They had packed the wagon the night before, so it was only their clothes and bedding from overnight. The wagon was not the largest they could have had, but it carried far more than they could with Fren-Eirol. They had decided on a covered wagon, though it was one with removable bows so they could take down or roll back the canvas bonnet if they needed to.

"You are looking forward to this," said Farthing with a little smile.

"I love driving, Farthing! Don't get me wrong, dragon is the way to go, but driving's just fun. Hard work, but fun. This wagon is so much better than mine it's a joke." Mistry looked a little sad for a moment. The loss of her father was still an open wound. So much was happening that is was easy to forget it was just a couple of weeks since they had been caught by the slavers in Jerr-Vone. "To start with, mine had never seen a lick of paint and was rough, unplaned wood, and all the chains were as rusty as hell. This is nearly twice as big, better wood, and has springs on my seat!"

Farthing laughed out loud. Mistry had spent a good half an hour bouncing on the seats to get the right one. However, she had yet to drive this splendid wagon as the farmer's young sons had brought it down to them later in the day after they had cleaned it out.

Rusty came down the front steps of the house buried beneath a big bundle of bedding, followed by a frail looking Pree, who was now walking without help. Pree came over to Farthing and leant on him, hooking her arm through his. He looked down at her in surprise.

"Sorry," she said. "I've never been so useless in my life. I can't lift anything, including me!"

"You will. Mab-Tok says you picked up one hell of a chill. You are lucky to be alive just from that, let alone everything else you and Rusty have been through." A look of pain crossed his face. "I wish I could have found you both sooner."

"You have been through bad times too, Johnson," said the girl.

"Not like that!"

It had turned out that the story Mistry had told the two red-headed women had been somewhat pruned down. She told them that her father had been killed and they had had a run in with slavers, but she omitted to tell them what that entailed. She had explained to Farthing quietly that what they had suffered was nothing to what their friends had gone through, and comparing notes seemed wrong. The wisdom that lurked inside the small cheesemaker caught him out regularly.

Rusty blindly dumped the bedding into the back of the wagon, surprising Lily who had climbed inside to look around. The small dragon shot out through the front drapes of the wagon, jumped up on the seat, her eyes big and round, then giggled in embarrassment.

"Sorry!" called out Rusty from the back.

Mistry leapt up onto the front of the wagon and climbed inside.

"I'll show you how to pack all this," said Mistry to Rusty. "These big wagons are high off the ground, unlike my little work wagon, so we must make sure the heavy stuff is at the bottom and the light things like the bedding is on top. Makes it more stable and easier to drive. More comfortable for those in the back too."

Apart from the large covered bed of the wagon, there were side boxes that doubled as benches inside, plus more underneath the wagon accessed from between the wheels. Some of these would be for the horse-related items like spare shoes and bits of tack, but others were reserved for cooking gear and Farthings ever-present bags of beans. Large it might be, but it was incredibly well organised, and Mistry had taken advantage of every nook and cranny.

Mab-Tok flew in about twenty minutes later. They were now packed up and Weasel had finished yet another mug of coffee. He was currently sitting on his horse backwards, tying on his bedroll and soft bag.

"I flew about five leagues down the trail," said the dragon, rummaging in one of the side boxes for Mistry's saddle. Lily had found she had a similar problem to the girl when sitting on Mab-Tok. Farthing had noticed that the smaller the dragon, and the more upright they were, the longer their legs appeared relative to their body. The white dragons were by far the smallest of all, and when it came to standing and running around, she more resembled a small human than she resembled dragons like Fren-Eirol. You had to ignore her long tail, of course, Farthing reminded himself with a smile. Either way, the saddle had been the solution again.

"Anything we need to worry about?" asked Mistry. They would cover the first five leagues at a slow wagon speed before midday.

"One narrow stone bridge, but it has a ford which looked shallow. The hills are not as steep here as around Tailin Moor, so I think you'll make good time."

"Are you going to fly on ahead again?" asked Weasel.

Mab-Tok and Lily were getting themselves into knots over the saddle, much to everyone's amusement. Mistry eventually gave up watching and showed them the tricks she had learned.

"I'm going to rest here for a bit first, and we'll catch you up about halfway. Then I'll check the next stage and look for a camp site."

"Remember we want to avoid villages for the first few days at least," said Farthing, helping Pree into the back of the wagon. She climbed to the front and gratefully slumped on the bedding.

"I know, but there are a lot of farms around here, and I can't avoid everything. I'm going to look for any high routes over heathland or through forests. Not as kind on the horses, maybe, but it makes us less traceable."

They had to make the best of their head start, and that meant getting themselves lost as quickly as possible. The fewer people they saw and saw them, the fewer there were to tell Tekkinmod and his men in which direction they were heading. This was partly why the wagon was so heavily stocked. Weasel wanted to be able to go a week without having to buy provisions. He hoped Farthing's leg would get better quickly with help from the dragons and himself. The faster he could get the big man on a horse and riding confidently, the more adaptable they would be as a team. For the moment, while they had the advantage in time, the health of Farthing, Pree, and Rusty was counting against them, and Weasel did not like that one bit. Of course, the ideal would have been to pile everyone on a Black Dragon, but those creatures flew so ridiculously high that only he would survive. When Bell-Sendinar had flown back across Great Plains, it had taken every ounce of Lily's will to keep him at a low level. The magician was beginning to have serious doubts about who was in charge of the relationship between the Draig Mynyth Dun and the Draig Wen; who had the brains and who had the brawn.

Mistry checked all her harnesses again and leapt nimbly up onto the driving seat next to Rusty ready to go. Farthing tied his unsaddled horse to the back and then climbed up the front of the wagon, grimacing at the pain in his leg. Halfway up, he reached for his sister's foot and flipped her backwards onto the bedding behind the seat. She rolled over with a squeal and said something very descriptive that made Pree chuckle wickedly.

"Sorry, sis, I need to sit upright with my leg or it will seize up."

"Well, you only had to ask."

"Where's the fun in that? Are you ready sister number two?" He smiled at Mistry who was sitting on a folded blanket with one foot tucked under her and the other up on the top of the footboard.

"What about me?" called Pree from the back.

"Well I know you're ready, I dumped you in there. Ow!" Farthing rubbed his back. "I didn't think well brought up prelate's daughters were meant to hit brave dragon riders!"

"This one does," came the quick reply. Farthing sighed. Learning to ride couldn't come too soon.

"Get a move on Weasel; you're in the way," said Mistry.

The magician, still sitting backwards and messing around with his various bags, glanced up and tapped his horse on the rump. She looked around at him with an evil eye, then huffed and plodded out through the farm gate while Weasel carried on with his sorting.

"Brake," said Mistry pointedly at Farthing.

"What?"

"The brake. It's your side."

"Oh." Farthing leant forward to unlatch the brake.

"Walk on," said Mistry to the horses, and gave the reins a light twitch. The four big draught animals leant into their collars and slowly walked down through the gate of the farm and turned into the lane. Weasel was a little way ahead, and, tying up his last bag, turned smoothly around in his saddle and urged his horse into a trot. Mistry gave the rains a twitch and made a clicking sound. The horses upped the pace, taking advantage of the gentle downward slope of the lane from the farm.

In the back of the wagon, Pree carefully pulled herself up behind Farthing and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Sorry," she said softly.

Rusty and Mistry exchanged knowing glances. Their journey might be about to get complicated.

Lunch, Farthing discovered, was very much a stop and eat affair as the horses had to be unhitched and grazed. He realised that by the time they reached the coast, which could take another two months, they were all going to be experts with the horses and tackle. Mistry was also keen to share the driving when the going was easier, and Rusty had already had a quick go at the reins. They hadn't yet reached the ford that Mab-Tok had mentioned, but as he and Lily flew in, he said they were only half a league away. They had also scouted a little farther ahead and had found a rough track that was less obvious and would bypass one of the villages. He described the track to Mistry who said it would be slower, but no real problem; this was a sturdy wagon and the Bekon Brown horses were strong.

Pree had been much quieter in the last hour and Rusty said the young woman had been sleeping. Lily checked on her and asked Farthing if he could brew some tea. He hadn't had any for days now, and brewed up enough for all of them, adding some of his favourite herbs and berries which Mistry foraged from the side of the track. Lily added some extra spices to one mug after talking to Mab-Tok and disappeared into the back of the wagon. When she reappeared, she said that Pree was slipping back a bit, but she had expected this with the travelling. Lily would stay with her for the afternoon. Farthing noticed that Rusty was not looking so wonderful herself and he took over a hot mug of tea to where she was sitting on a log.

"We never drink tea at home," she said, sniffing the steaming brew suspiciously.

"I learned about this in Taken. You'll love it. I brewed it most of the way across Bind."

He smiled at her jovially and put his arm around her. Farthing was not someone who asked continuously whether people were alright or not. He was much more likely to sit there with his mouth sewn shut trying to guess wildly, and probably get it wrong. Yet Rusty both loved and knew every inch of her brother well, and she answered the question he hadn't got around to asking yet.

"I don't know how I am, brother," she told him. "There is part of me that knows it could have been so much worse and would have been if you hadn't shown up. Farthing, they tried to shame us, to belittle us and to take everything away from us. They didn't, we hung onto each other and they didn't break us, but, oh brother, they got so close, so very close. And when Pree found out she had been sold by her father, you would have thought the world had just ended. She is angry now, but then she was heartbroken and I just couldn't help her. I had no hope to give her. You don't know how much you've saved her, and she is not going to let you forget it."

Farthing looked a little embarrassed, and Rusty turned his face towards her.

"We are going to be two months on the road together, brother, and I don't know what will happen, but be careful. I think all of us are a bit fragile, and Pree most of all, though I suspect that Mistry is hiding a lot too. But I know you, brother, and I love you more than anyone, and I know you will let people hurt you time and time again before you let on. So please, be careful and don't hide from me." She hugged him and then laughed. "Actually, don't let me out of your sight again either!"

Mistry walked over.

"Farthing, Pree is desperate to get out of the wagon to sit on the grass for a bit, but she's feeling dizzy and wobbly. Lily said can you help her." The young man finished his tea and hobbled over to the wagon. Mistry sat on the grass beside Rusty. "What's happening?"

"You mean with Pree? You haven't noticed she's falling completely and utterly in love with our brother?"

"Okay, yeah, I noticed. Is this because he saved her?" Mistry looked guilty. "Because I had a bit of that till I met this family who kind of cleared my head."

Rusty grinned. "I worked that out in about five seconds! No, this is partly my fault I think."

"How come?"

"Johnson is my entire family and I am his. So, while Pree and I have been chained together, I have told her every single story about him, every stupid thing he has ever done, which is a long list, and all about his handcart and our friends and our life and how thick he can be and how strong he is and... oh, I don't know. Everything, good and bad, even the arguments we have had; I left nothing out. I hadn't realised quite how unintentionally funny he is until I told her all the stories."

"So?"

"So, I think she had fallen in love with him even before we were rescued. I used to drag him into my mind before I went to sleep so I had fewer nightmares." In a second, the pain had returned, and Mistry held Rusty's hand. "I think Pree was doing the same. And then they met."

"And?"

"Well, in all the stories and all the lists of his good and bad points I'd forgotten to mention one thing him about him."

"And?" Mistry was getting impatient.

"I forgot to tell her how pretty he is!" Mistry whooped with laughter, and Weasel looked up from where he was map-reading with Mab-Tok. "Oh, and how tall and strong and... Well, come on girl, you know what he is." Mistry blushed bright red and Rusty nearly fell backwards in laughter, joined quickly by the girl.

"So," said Mistry, getting her breath back in gulps. "What about Farthing? What does he think?"

"He just thinks she's ill."

"Oh."

"Yeah, big oh. Will you help me walk them through this, Mistry? Look, I can see you like him, but I know that when he says you're his sister, he means it. He has that nailed down tight. So, will you put that aside and help?"

Mistry twisted her lip. "I thought I'd hidden it better."

"This is my brother we're talking about here; I'm going to notice that sort of thing."

Mistry smiled. "Yeah, I know. And I also know that it's true about the sister bit. When he told me he wanted to be my brother and give me a home, I was both thrilled and crushed all at the same moment. The bloody ox didn't notice at all!" She rubbed her hands as if chilled. "Look, I need to get over that, and if I still feel disappointed inside, well that's my problem, and it is a pretty small one now. I have to drive this wagon nearly five hundred leagues to the coast. So, yeah, I will help. But why do you need it?"

"I told Farthing to be careful just now, that we are all a bit fragile and he mustn't go burying his feelings all over the place like usual. You see, I'm not worried about Pree, at least not in that way, though I know she hasn't been in love before. I'm worried about my brother. I think he's a lot more fragile than anyone else has noticed."

Mistry looked over to the Wagon. Farthing climbed painfully to his feet from where he had been sitting with Pree and limped over to his horse. "I hadn't thought about it, but you're right." She turned to Rusty. "He keeps getting battered and bruised and he's nearly died twice now on the journey."

"Twice?"

"He was stung by some strange sea creature when they were flying to Taken. That is how they met Mab-Tok; he saved Farthing's life. He was in a really bad way, apparently. And then the slavers beat him up badly. And then he got stabbed when getting you guys. Lots of hurt you see, but he's spent so much time limping or aching, I haven't thought enough about what is going on inside." She bit her lip and cursed herself. "I should listen to that bloody magician more."

"Why?"

"Because Weasel doesn't see physical things as a problem. He looks at the person behind the problem, then probably shouts at them or takes the piss, but at least he notices."

"Get up, children," shouted Weasel on cue. "Mr Goatherd, are you going to mess with that horse all day, or are you going to hitch the wagon?"

"Hitch the Wagon, Mr Horseman!" Farthing hopped like a three-legged hog over to where the draught horses were tethered.

"What's with the names?" asked Rusty, getting to her feet.

"That's what they were calling themselves when posing as slave buyers at the market; right double act they were. Don't be surprised if they use the names in any villages we pass through, it will help us to hide."

"Slave buyers? You have got to fill me in on the rest of the stories, Mistry."

"Well, once the lump is up on his horse, we'll have the wagon to ourselves. We can share stories in our way."

"Good idea!"

They ran over to the wagon; Rusty to help Pree back inside and Mistry to save Farthing from four mean Bekon Browns.

Farthing sat on his horse, looking out over the moors. He had been three weeks in the saddle now and could honestly say that Mistry was right; dragon was better. More comfortable, for a start, but that was another thing he would never say to Fren-Eirol if he should see her again. He had first attempted to ride when they were five days out from the Black Hills. Pree's illness had worsened over the first two days, and he thought they were going to have to abandon their brave journey across southern Bind until she recovered. But then, she had started getting better and quickly. Mab-Tok said it was simply that whatever had infected her had run its course, and now her body was taking control better than any of his medicines had done. Farthing wondered whether it was because he had stopped giving her medicine that she had started feeling better, but that was probably uncharitable.

The horse riding lessons had taken a week before Mistry and Weasel, the only other two riders in the party, were happy he was not going to fall off. He had been in the saddle ever since. Inevitably he had still fallen off a couple times, but when you do several leagues a day on a horse, half of that scouting ahead on your own as he was now, you either stop falling off or give up. He had stopped falling off.

Farthing had spent the morning trying to find his way past a belt of villages that appeared to have some sort of festival going on, which was something they definitely wanted to avoid. A couple of Mab-Tok's detours had proved problematic since from the air he could not see clearly the state of the road or how steep it was. It was only through Mistry's extraordinary driving skills they had managed to get through at all. So, Farthing and Weasel had taken to working closer with Mab-Tok to find better routes. This moor was looking promising.

They were quite a bit farther south now and had turned south-west in the last couple of days, sticking more or less to Weasel's plan. They had first journeyed south through the county of Loffan, staying parallel to the central ridge of mountains that ran along the eastern border of Bekon. They had continued south through the rural counties of Essennor and DeVale until they reached Calon where they changed tack. There were much quicker ways to get across Bind, but they wanted to avoid the obvious routes. They had seen and heard nothing from Tekkinmod, but as time passed, Farthing was getting more nervous about the man. He and his men would probably be on fast horses, and though the hunters might take an entirely different route to the one they were taking, they would be covering far more distance than the wagon each day; they could afford to make mistakes. Also, Tekkinmod was incredibly wealthy. He could ride the horses into the ground and just buy more. Horses were very popular in Bind where the distances between towns could be many leagues, and there were small liveries everywhere.

There was another possibility that Mab-Tok had suggested which Farthing thought very likely. If Tekkinmod realised they had not gone back the way they had come, he could just take the straightest and fastest route to the coast and set up watches at the various ports. There were not that many major ports along the long coast of Bind that were used by traders that might cross the Yonder Sea. All he need do is get there first, put a few men in each and wait for them. Wherever they went, they would have to find passage to Taken which could take days and they would be vulnerable.

Farthing turned his horse and headed back at a fast trot. There was a crossroads a league back where he had arranged to meet with the Wagon and Mab-Tok who had been checking ahead with Lily. With Pree well and truly on the mend, at least physically, Lily was spending more and more time with Mab-Tok, enjoying the one thing she could not do as a dragon; fly.

It was coming up to midday when he made his way down the farmers track to the crossroads, and he could see the bonnet of the Wagon sticking above the hedges. Suddenly, he pulled to a halt. Horses, a lot of them, and they were surrounding the wagon.

"Get down! Over here!" hissed Weasel. He was hiding behind a wall, keeping his own horse quiet.

"What are you doing up here?"

"I was coming to see whether this farm had water."

"It's abandoned. What's going on?"

"I don't know, but I heard Mistry's voice, and she sounded annoyed."

"We better get down there."

"In a minute. I am waiting for Mab-Tok."

"Where is he?"

"Close."

Usefully, Weasel had discovered he could connect to Lily in the same way he could with the Draig Mynyth Dun, though he said she made far more sense than they did. When she and Mab-Tok were off scouting, he was able to keep track of them.

"Here they come."

Mab-Tok landed quietly, and, ducking low, came up next to them.

"Where is Lily?" asked Farthing.

"I've dropped her the other side. She said something about the cattle up there and insisted I drop her off. She doesn't always describe things well."

"Could you see what was happening?"

"Not clearly, but they're arguing with the girls and some of the men are armed. I don't know who they are, but they're not farmers."

"Tekkinmod?" asked Farthing.

"No, if it was him there would be no arguing going on."

"We can't stay here," said Weasel.

"What do you suggest?" asked Farthing.

"We have two swords, two big horses, and a dragon. I suggest we go wave them about."

Weasel jumped back into his saddle and rode down toward the crossroads. Farthing pulled his own sword, unstrapped his club, and followed quickly behind. Halfway down it was clear the situation was getting out of hand. Mistry was standing up on the seat, pointing her knife at the men, and looking angry.

"Shit!" shouted Weasel. "Charge!"

"What? Oh, bugger!"

Farthing galloped his horse down after the magician, his sword pointed straight ahead. Behind him, he heard a roar as Mab-Tok took to the air and swooped over his head, talons towards the men. Surprise was their only advantage, and the men spun around towards them in alarm. One man shouted orders at the others, and they recovered quickly, drawing their swords for a fight. Just as Farthing and Weasel dashed around the last bend, the hedge on the other side of the road erupted, and fifty or more angry bullocks steamed across the road and straight into the bandits. Mistry grabbed the reins of her horses in panic, shouting at the team to back up. The big draughts were not impressed, and as a couple of the men fought their way through the bullocks, the two lead horses reared up, sending the men's frightened mounts staggering back into the cattle.

"Back off!" shouted Weasel to Farthing. "Give the cattle somewhere to go."

Farthing and Weasel turned their horses and trotted back up the road, followed by the bullocks. Half of the men had come off their horses and the others were desperately trying to get their animals under control. Weasel spotted the man who was evidently in charge. He turned his horse back around, pushed through the bullocks, smashed the man's sword away, and held his knife to his throat.

"Drop your weapons," he shouted to the other men. "Do it, now!" The leader nodded to them to obey, his eyes wide. These men were thugs and brawlers, not trained fighters. "Who are you?" shouted Weasel at the man.

"They are highwaymen." An angry and frightened Pree leapt down from the wagon and picked up the man's sword. She looked at it carefully. "Bit rich for him, I would say. Looks like they steal their weapons too."

Farthing had grabbed one of the men who was trying to sneak away and rode over, holding the man dangling by his throat.

"What do I do with him?"

"He looks disgusting; drop him," suggested Weasel.

Farthing turned the man over and dropped him to the ground head first. Weasel glared at the leader and saw that Pree was pointing the sword at the man's stomach.

"I suppose we should take you into the local town and drop you off with whoever would be most interested," said Weasel. The man swallowed. "But to be honest, we don't have the time, so we need something more immediate. Especially since you have been threatening my family here!" Weasel was angry, and the man turned white.

"We only wanted what you have in the wagon, we don't want to hurt no one!" He was whimpering with fear.

Farthing and Mab-Tok had meanwhile rounded up the men who were trying to wander away and had them lying on the wet, muddy road; it had rained heavily the night before. Mistry and Rusty jumped out of the wagon and calmed the still jittery Bekon Browns. The bullocks, meanwhile, had worked out that whatever Lily had promised them was not to be found, and were sulkily climbing back through the hedge.

Weasel had a sword in one hand and his knife in the other and he sharpened one against the other. "Mr Goatherd!"

"Yes, Mr Horseman?"

"What is that thing that slavers do to shame people?"

"They strip them, Mr Horseman. Strip them naked, the bastards!" He glanced at his sister.

"That was it. Damned terrible thing to do to someone wouldn't you say, Mr Goatherd?"

"Terrible thing, Mr Horseman. No decent person deserves to be stripped naked." The banter may have seemed comical, but the dark tone of Farthing's voice was unmistakable.

"What about thieves and thugs?" Weasel looked down at Pree. "What do you say, Miss Sparrow? Should thugs be made to strip?"

Pree looked up at Weasel, quickly absorbing her new name, and thinking of the humiliation served on her and Rusty by the thugs of Tekkinmod.

"I say strip 'em, Mr Horseman," snapped Pree, sounding more like Farthing than her usual voice. She turned to the others. "What about you Miss Raven?"

Mistry decided that was her. "I say strip 'em!"

"And you, Miss Parrot?" Pree was enjoying this little play and the small moment of revenge.

"I say strip 'em!" shouted back Rusty, her voice full of anger.

Weasel looked at the man on the horse straight in the eye.

"Strip. Now," he said. There was no play-acting in his voice.

One by one, all the men stripped, and Mistry and Rusty collected up their clothes, took them up into the field, and dumped them in a dung heap.

Lily appeared from the side lane and Farthing jumped down off his horse and whispered to her. She nodded and went to one of the men's horses, reached up, and touched it on the nose, closing her eyes. The horse whinnied, turned, and galloped up the road. She did the same with the rest till all the horses had fled.

"So, thief," said Weasel to the leader who was now kneeling naked with his men on the road, all neatly bound with their hands tied to their feet behind them. "Please do not attack us again, because next time, we will not stop at games, do you understand?" The man nodded. "Mr Horseman, Miss Raven, let's get the family moving." And the small band turned left at the crossroads and headed up to the moors.

The men sat still for nearly twenty minutes waiting for their leader to say something. Eventually, one of them built up the courage to speak.

"Micky, are we going to chase after them?"

"No."

"Why Micky? They shamed us, we should get them!"

"I said no!"

"Why?"

"Number one, we have no clothes. Number two, we are tied up. Number three, our horses seemed to have left the county. Number four, I think we only just got away with our lives. And number five, that cow is staring at me, and I don't like what I think it's thinking!"

"Parrot?"

"I was running out of birds!" said Pree defensively.

"What did they teach you on your island?"

"Lots of things, just not about birds."

"What about dove? Or lark? Or swan? Or something else sweet and innocent?"

"I like Parrot," said Farthing.

"Shut up, brother!"

Farthing rode side by side with Weasel ahead of the cart as they made their way to the woods at the edge of the Moor.

"Just for interest, Farthing," said Weasel. "What did you ask Lily to tell the horses?"

"I asked her to put the idea of Sarn-Tailin and how to get there into their heads. They are short of horses in the village."

"It's a very long way from here."

Farthing shrugged. "They'll find it. I'm sure of it."

"Meanwhile, we have to get to the coast in one piece, and we are less than halfway there. We should camp, I think, and we better take turns at guarding tonight." Weasel turned his horse into the trees and dismounted.

"Do you think they'll come back?" asked Farthing, slipping off his horse.

"Not naked and with their horses heading north. No, they were just thugs. They won't risk we really know what to do with these swords, but where you get one bunch of bandits acting openly on the roads, you are going to get others. Let's hope these moors are safer."

# Chapter 20 – River

Weasel was once again sitting backwards on his horse facing the wagon as they carefully picked their way down from the high moorlands of south-western Bekon. It had taken them two weeks to get across the vast Bekon Moors. Mab-Tok had guided them in short stages, and at last, they had come to the end of the moor and the end of Bekon. They had kept well off any route useful to a bandit and had seen very few people. Cresting another rise, Mistry pulled the horses to a stop, leant over, and pulled on the brake. The ground was rough here and they were just ambling along carefully. Farthing had given up riding at this slow pace, tied his horse to the back of the wagon, and he and Pree were walking together a little way back talking quietly, which was now a daily ritual. Rusty had unlatched the backboard of the wagon and was sitting sideways chewing on a grass stalk with one leg hanging off the back swinging idly. It was her favourite place to sit. When Farthing and Pree caught up, she put her hand out to her brother. He swung her up onto his shoulders and walked to the front of the wagon where she jumped off and sat next to Mistry.

"Why are we stopping?" asked Weasel, looking up from the small map and the notes he had been updating from Mab-Tok's bird's-eye observations. Mistry stood up on the driving seat and pointed ahead of them.

"Downhill from here," she called out. "Looks steep too. I'll need one of you on the brake and someone else carrying the chocks, but I want to rest the horses first."

Though they had only been travelling at walking pace, the horses had been hauling the wagon in and out of small potholes and ruts. Mistry had kept them weaving left and right to miss the worst of them, Farthing sometimes pulling the lead horse's halter to encourage it on. Farthing walked past Weasel and sat on one of the large boulders dotted across this end of the moor. Pree sat up next to him, wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, and leant on his shoulder. Over the last few days, the ground had become harder and sandier, the water-loving heathers and lichen replaced with thin grasses, small sturdy shrubs, and the occasional stunted tree. Bekon Moor dropped down steeply from this point and he was surprised how high they had climbed.

"Must be a thousand feet," called out Mistry, as she and Rusty unhitched the horses and gave them nosebags of oats to munch on. "It's like a plateau around here."

Weasel jumped off his horse, plonked himself down on the other side of Farthing and passed him the map.

"How is our water?" he asked.

"I tapped the barrels as we walked past," answered Pree, sitting up. "About half full, I reckon."

Whatever high society airs and graces the girl may have had as the Prelate's daughter, had been stripped away by their ordeal as slaves. Now she had relaxed into the style of Farthing, Rusty and South Wead, and might almost have got away with being a Wealle native.

"The horses are going to need watering," said Weasel. "We only passed a couple of brooks I think this morning." He rubbed his eyes. The long journey was wearing them all down.

The barrels were a new addition as were a few extra boxes hung off the side of the wagon. After the incident with the highwaymen, they felt going across the Moors would be a safer route, but they would have less access to food and water. They had stopped at a village called Sone and the blacksmith there had been able to give them a good sense of how long the journey would be and what they would need. He had supplied them with the two large barrels which he had attached to either side of the cart between the wheels. The extra storage boxes, fruit boxes with canvas lids, they had picked up in the general store, and these increased the amount of supplies they could carry. Mistry had also asked the blacksmith to change all the shoes on the horses and replace some of the spares they had already used. One way or another, they were in good shape.

The blacksmith had been wary of Mab-Tok, which had surprised them, and it had turned out that the people of central Bind had little to do with dragons, and most had never seen one. He had suggested they might not want to blunder into any of the smaller communities with the dragons as it might not be tolerated. It was a short, unambiguous lesson on how the divisions between the intelligent species of Dirt had widened in the last couple of thousand years.

It was impossible to avoid contact with locals completely since they needed fresh food, and everyone except Farthing had grown sick of beans. Farthing had enjoyed his couple of excursions as they had given him a little break from the routine of the wagon journey. To visit a village without a list of probing questions and just buy something ordinary from a general store, was a welcome moment of normality. Mistry, Rusty and Lily wandered over and joined the others on the rock.

"Way over there to the right somewhere is Henderton, the old capital of Hendesse," said Weasel, checking his map. "The country stretches from about where we are all the way across to the Iron Mountains where we need to go. You can just about see them on the horizon."

"You've decided where we're heading now, then?" asked Rusty. From Hendesse they had a choice of places to aim for, and Weasel had been trying to make up his mind which road to take for several days.

"Down onto the plain then across to Henderton is the plan. Then from there over to the mountains and the mines and across to Tool on the coast. According to a trader I met in the last village, they've cut a new pass across the mountains so they can get the iron ore down to the coast of Peys. That means it will be wagon friendly. After that, it's a fast run on the main trade route heading west to Tool which is one of the biggest coastal towns, and probably our best bet to get passage to Taken.

"How long?" Mistry stretched and waved Farthing to his feet.

"Two weeks to the mountains? A few days up to Tool from there."

"Have you been there before?" asked Farthing.

"A long time ago. I like Tool. Hendesse is less pleasant."

"Why?"

"In recent years, they've become iron ore crazy. The ruling council here are obsessed with the iron mines, and don't give a damn about the people. Some of it is very poor and rough."

"Come on, Farthing," said Mistry, trying to pull him away from the conversation.

"What are we doing?"

"I want to water the horses, but I don't want to use up the barrels. Mab-Tok said there is a small river about half a league south. You and I can ride them over while the others get food sorted."

"What about mine and Weasel's horses?"

"We'll take those with us so you won't have to batter your precious bum riding the draughts. I could do with a ride too."

He and Mistry had ridden the big animals out for watering frequently on the journey. Rusty and Mistry had already unharnessed the Bekons so Mistry grabbed the reins of the two lead beasts and jumped up onto Weasel's horse. Farthing fetched his horse from the back of the wagon and grabbed the other two draughts, and they trotted off to find the stream with the big animals in tow.

There was no wind and apart from the odd insect and the sound of the horses' hooves, it was a peaceful, warm day. Farthing stood up in his stirrups and stretched.

"The river's up there. Looks shallow."

"Oh, good, we can lead in the horses to cool their feet for a bit, then give them a run around," said Mistry.

Farthing grinned. He loved watching the big horses frolic. They seemed to turn into foals and go completely silly which looked daft with such a big animal, and it always cheered him up. It was a shallow, stony river about twenty feet across, running slow and clean. Farthing detached the reins from his two horses and gave them a smack of encouragement. They went chasing after the first two that Mistry had already released, playing some complicated, horse-only game of tag. They unsaddled the other two horses and sent them chasing after the draughts.

"They've made quite a team," commented Farthing, sitting down by the small river.

"We all have, one way or another," replied the girl, sitting next to him. She played with a few pebbles around her feet. "How are you and Pree getting on?"

Farthing leant on his knees. "Fine, I suppose. She's nice; not like I expected."

"Oh, just fine then. That's good." Mistry smiled to herself. "She spends a lot of time with you."

"She does? Yeah, I suppose so. She likes talking about stuff."

"You both do by the looks of it."

Farthing nodded absently. One of the horses had just nipped another and was getting a right telling off. He grinned and pointed it out to Mistry.

"Look, sis. I think you're right, you know. That big mare is definitely the other one's mother. They're always arguing."

"You don't see their personalities when they're hitched up, especially when they are blinkered," said Mistry. "Watching them like this is essential for getting the pairing right."

"I noticed you always hitch them up exactly the same way."

"They know their place and are used to it," she replied. "That is why they've been so good on some of the rougher stretches. It's been a hard journey for them, though. They have all lost a bit of weight I reckon. Not enough to worry about, but we need to watch them, especially across Hendesse. It looks barren from up here."

Farthing slapped his own stomach. "They're not the only ones!"

"I had noticed you had lost some of that puppy fat," said Mistry with a wicked glint in her eyes.

"I have never had puppy fat!" Farthing sounded outraged. "And anyway, you shouldn't have been looking."

Mistry laughed and jumped up, whistling to the horses. "Oh, give over, brother, you know you are just way too pretty."

"Don't you start! If Pree goes on about my sweet looks one more time, I am going to dunk her in the next stream we find." He grabbed a passing, elusive horse by the halter and dragged it into the water like a spoilt child.

"Oh, you love it, Farthing, admit it! You like her."

"Well, course I do. She's nice. I like everyone here." He ran off to grab his own horse who was still into the idea of playing tag.

"Yes, Farthing dear," said Mistry to herself. "But there is like and then there is like. And you really like her." She screwed her face up and sighed. "Why couldn't you have had a brother, dammit? Oi! Horse! Stop splashing the others!" She calmed the big beasts down and let them drink and cool their legs.

"Pull it harder!"

"Got it!" Farthing pulled back on the long wooden brake handle, checking the brake shoe wasn't overheating.

"Weasel, if it gets much steeper, I'm going to need help." Mistry was trying to guide the draught horses around big boulders on the steep slope. She pulled it all to a halt and shouted to Rusty and Pree to shove the chocks in front of the wheels. Mistry jumped down and walked to the front pair of horses. "Weasel, give me a hand with these."

"What're you going to do?"

"Because these two are harnessed to a chain, they can't help to slow the wagon down, so they are more in the way than anything else. If you follow the wagon with them, if I get into trouble, you can rope them to the back and pull."

"Will that work?"

"Well, it's a bit of a last resort, but I've seen my father do the same trick through the hills with a heavy load."

The new arrangement worked a treat. With only two horses out front, the wagon was nimbler, and slowly but safely, they managed to make their way down to the plain of Hendesse. Weasel brought the two lead horses back around to the front of the wagon and Mistry used some of their water to cool their tendons.

"Give them half an hour and they'll appreciate a trot across the plain," she said. "Where is the road?"

"Mab-Tok is looking for it, but we know it's that way somewhere." Weasel pointed due north of their position. "Once on it, we can pick the pace up proper. I want to be in Henderton in the next few days if possible and restock before we head off to the mines."

Farthing took a rag from one of their new side boxes, wetted it and cooled his horse's tendons, then checked on Weasel's mare. Lily jumped down from the back of the wagon looking annoyed, walked over to where Weasel was staring into the distance and jabbed him in the back.

"What? Ow! Lily! What was that for... Oh!" Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Rusty was rolling back the canvas bonnet of the wagon by two bows to take advantage of the sun.

"I was trying to get hold of Lily to tell Mab-Tok something, but she hadn't gone with him. I think I shouted a bit loud."

"You can talk in my head, Eafa, but you don't understand how you are doing it. You should learn." She sounded irritated. The little wingless dragon closed her eyes. "He's coming back now."

"You can talk to him?" asked Weasel in surprise. Aside from himself, the white and black dragons only seemed to be able to talk to each other, though Lily could also influence other species like horses and cows. That was not speaking, however.

"I cannot tell him, but I can hear where he is." She nodded in satisfaction at her slightly strange explanation and climbed back into the wagon where she was sorting out her small supply of medications.

Since Pree's recovery, there had been no major ailments among the friends other than the occasional dodgy stomach or headache. But there had been plenty of scratches and grazes, and Lily had taken on the role of nurse and healer more and more, allowing Mab-Tok to stick to his role of chief scout. The two dragons had grown noticeably closer over the weeks, to the general fascination of the non-dragons in the party. Draig Bach-Iachawr would do their bit to keep their kind from becoming extinct, but never paired, and regarded romance as a mystery. Draig Wen were only known to associate with their own kind and the huge Draig Mynyth Dun. It should have been a clash of cultures, but for some reason neither of these two dragons were behaving to type, and it did seem to be working.

When Mab Tok landed he immediately confirmed the problem that Weasel had noticed on the map; a river.

"How big is it?" asked Weasel. He pointed to the map that just showed a very thin line with the lettering "R. Hend" on it.

"Big," replied the dragon. "And in the wrong place. It is north of us not south as on your map. We're going to have to cross it. If I had been thinking, the clue was in the word."

Weasel looked at the dragon, then at the map, then slapped himself in the head. "Stupid. The word Hend means river in ancient Adelan. The word Desser means plain. So Hendesse means River Plain. They are not going to name an entire country after the flood plain of a stream, so of course the river is going to be big."

"Shallow, however," added the dragon.

"How wide and how shallow, Mab-Tok?" asked Mistry.

"I was able to stand in the middle, so I doubt it is much deeper than the axels of the wagon, but it's very wide. It's going to be quite a crossing."

Everyone turned to Mistry.

"It's doable," she said, shrugging. "But it won't be easy. We haven't crossed more than a little ford so far, so I don't know how the horses will take to a big, noisy river. If they like it, then it will be fine. If not, I'll be fighting them the whole way across."

"Can we make it easier in any way?" asked Farthing. So much of this journey was landing on this girl's shoulders, and since her teasing earlier, he was feeling guilty he had been neglecting her.

"Not really, but once we are there, we might unhitch the horses and see if they want to play in the water. Maybe even ride them in a short way see how they like it. That might take a little of the worry away. My old horses were dreadful with rivers. I soon worked out it was the noise as much as anything. If this is slow running and not too noisy over rocks, that will be easier."

"It is not very fast running," said Mab-Tok. "I think it's too wide for that, but it is stony. I don't know how noisy it is by the banks, I didn't think to check."

"Well, we need to get there first," said Weasel. "If we can get the horses settled there overnight, we can try to cross in the morning. I don't suppose there are any bridges?"

"Not that I saw," said Mab-Tok. "If Henderton was on the river, then I would think there would be, but it is several leagues off."

"If it's as shallow as you say, it wouldn't be much use for navigation, so there is no benefit from building right next to it, especially if it floods, as the name implies.

The land of Hendesse on the south side of the river was not flat but was not exactly hilly either. It was a very gently rolling landscape of hard-packed, sandy-red dirt with mixed grasses and small, thorny gorse bushes. It was not as barren as it had looked from the top of the moor, but it was hardly good arable farmland. To Mistry's relief, the going was much smoother than she had predicted, and she could relax. They soon picked up a rough trail that headed as straight as an arrow towards the river, passing by the occasional poor hamlet of flat-roofed, single-storey, whitewashed buildings. Crops were few and far between, but there were some groves of olive trees and the odd small herd of goats wandering free.

"No fences," Mistry pointed out to Rusty, who was taking her turn driving and had the reins.

With the canvas bonnet rolled half back, Pree was now standing on the bedding holding onto one of the bows and enjoying the gentle breeze from the high-legged trotting of the horses. Farthing suddenly shot off at a gallop to one side whooping, and then returned at high speed across the trail chasing a large hare. He pulled up grinning, and turned in to trot alongside the wagon.

"No chance, Farthing. Not a hope of catching that blighter!" Pree was grinning.

"Well, it looked like it needed the work out, so I thought I would wake it up." He held his hand out to Pree. "Want a ride?"

"You bet!" said the young woman, and nimbly stepped off the wagon to sit behind Farthing on the big roan, cuddling into his back. Farthing kicked his mount into action and the horse galloped off, Pree screaming with joy. Rusty watched them go with a knowing look.

"I think we've lost control of that story, girl," she said with a sigh. "Are you okay with it?"

"I'm getting used to it," said Mistry, and then laughed. "I'm sixteen next week, you know. What are the boys like in Redust?"

"Not all like my brother, sadly," said Rusty, who was only young herself. "But there are some interesting hunks around, especially down at the old harbour where we all go swimming. The trick is to sort out the posers from the good guys like that." She pointed over to her brother who had slowed the horse to a walk, jumped off and was leading Pree through the trees. "Not that I get much chance, working on the island and everything." She frowned. "I don't do that any longer, of course."

"But that's what makes your brother so damned gorgeous; he doesn't know he is, or he doesn't care. I know it's what Pree sees in him. Have you noticed the way she looks at him?"

"What, you mean drooling?"

"Apart from that!" Mistry fidgeted in irritation. "I mean, she has all that man to look at and what does she do? She looks into his eyes and strokes his hair."

"Which is why I know we've lost control."

"What is going to happen when we get back to your hometown?" Mistry took the reins and hooked them over the brake, then turned to sit cross-legged on the seat, looking at Rusty. The horses could find their own way for a bit.

"I don't know. What I want is to go home, clear out my room so there is space for you, go down to the Hive, buy some cheese, bread, and a beer, then sit in our window and pretend none of this ever happened. But that's a silly dream, isn't it?"

"You think?" asked Mistry.

"This is going to be about Pree now. She will want to deal with her father and that will turn Wead-Wodder upside down. I don't know what that's going to mean for any of us, but if she wants to trigger a revolution, one has been dying to blow up in our town for years. Mistry, don't get me wrong, I love my home and I love my friends, but Wead-Wodder is not a happy place, not like how you described Sarn-Tailin. Everyone knows it needs to change, but nobody has had the guts to try. Pree has talked a lot about her father back in the wagon, and they have never got on. She doesn't like what the prelates stand for or their religion. I think she might use this as a way to change things, but it will be dangerous, probably impossible."

"What about Farthing?" asked Mistry, looking worried. "I know those two look like they're going to be married by morning, but in the end, she's the prelate's daughter and he is just a cart pusher. We all are really; you, me and Johnson."

"I can't stop them now, Mistry. They're enjoying the moment so much."

"Stop worrying about it, Miss Parrot, Miss Raven." They hadn't noticed Weasel riding up alongside. "We are still in Bind, and then we have to find passage to Taken. After that? Well, whatever happens, neither you nor Precious can just head back to Wead, Rusty. If Tekkinmod gets to his cousin first, none of us can go back unless we have some serious backup from others."

"What sort of backup?" Rusty felt it was all swimming away from her. There seemed to be something happening here that was beyond any of her knowledge of anything.

"Friends; some with teeth. I can't tell you much because I'm feeling my way here too. Several hundred years or more ago, there was a chance for Dirt, well, for The Prelates, to change, and for all kinds of maddening reasons, it didn't happen. Instead, dragons, callistons, and humans finished the stupid process that had been going on for generations, and that was turning their backs on each other. Prelate Oppression one, Freedom zero."

"We don't have that sort of system in Bind," pointed out Mistry.

"Perhaps not. Instead, you have vast tracks of the continent either run by bandits or by local dictators, like this dry place or the bit of Wessen that Tekkinmod controls. What we dreamt about all those years ago was probably idealistic twaddle, but at least it was about the ordinary people and not the elite. One thing I do believe is that this situation is far more complicated than the rift between a Prelate and his daughter."

"Where do you get that idea from?" asked Rusty. "I spent weeks close to her, quite literally chained to each other, and I never got anything like that from her. Until we found out who had bought us, I don't think it even occurred to her that Prelate Hearting was behind this. You didn't know either."

"That is all perfectly true," admitted Weasel. "My talent, if I have any at all, is learning bits and pieces at different times and then piecing them together to dig out the truth. And I have been doing a lot of piecing together in the last few weeks. I have yet to come up with a complete conclusion, and I don't think I am going to get the last bit of this puzzle till we are off this continent, but one thing I am sure of, what happens next is not going to include you being able to go back and just pick up where you left off." He looked over to where Farthing and Pree had, somewhat suspiciously, vanished behind a tree. "And that young lady is going to need that strong young man more than anything she has ever needed in her life."

"Why?" asked Mistry.

"Because he's ordinary. Now, get this wagon back up to speed, Miss Raven. I want to be at the river today if we can." He turned his horse around and galloped off towards the trees, shouting for Farthing to, "put that girl down and go do some scouting." A few minutes later he returned with Pree on his horse who was blushing right down to her toes. He dumped her on the Wagon and rode off to scout the other side of the trail.

"What?" snapped Pree when Mistry and Rusty turned to look at her.

"He's my brother, Pree," said Rusty.

"Well, I didn't think he needed any more sisters!" replied Pree, smouldering. "And I can't help it. And I need him too." She sat down in a pile on the bedding. "And it's taken me ages to persuade him that being with me is not being disloyal to you two!" The two girls continued to look at her as she sat cross-legged, tying up her long red hair in annoyance. "What do you want me to say? I love him, alright?"

"We know," said her friends in unison.

Farthing and Weasel dismounted in a small grove of twisted trees by the banks of the River Hend. They had ridden out separately for about a league either way from the trail till they hit water and then scouted towards each other to find the easiest place to cross the river. This spot was the best candidate. Although the river was wide here, much of it was shallow, and there were even pebble banks pushing above the surface at several points mid-stream. They would be able to cross in stages. Some of the channels were running faster than they had hoped for, however.

"When they catch up, you should go play with the horses while Mistry and I find the best route across," said Weasel. Farthing tied his horse loosely to a low branch, walked to the gentle shore of the river, and stuck his hand in.

"Not cold!" he shouted back. "Do we really need to wait till tomorrow?"

"In a rush?" teased Weasel, walking over. "Looking for a nice warm bed?"

"Watch it, magician," Farthing cut back. "One kiss is all it is at the moment."

"Bloody good one from what I saw."

"Well, you shouldn't have been looking."

"Don't you go speaking to Daddy Weasel like that, son," teased Weasel again.

"Don't even go there, Eafa!" But Farthing grinned in spite of himself and sat on the pebbles. "She is nice, though."

"And a prelate's daughter," Weasel reminded him, sitting down.

"A prelate's daughter in a lot of trouble, Weasel. She's going to need friends, and I think she's very short of them."

"What makes you think that?"

"How many people went chasing after her?"

Weasel shrugged. It was a good point and one that had crossed his own mind several times in the last few weeks. "Do you think we would have been better off hiding over here somewhere? Sarn-Tailin, perhaps? Change of name, hair dye, that sort of thing?"

"More sensible, maybe," replied Farthing. "But better? No. Not that."

Weasel raised an eyebrow. The young man had been thinking far more with his head than he had suspected. "So, what is the plan?" asked Weasel.

"I thought that was your job."

"Getting you back to Taken is, perhaps, but what about after that?"

"I don't know. Look, me and my sister, our life is not right. We're at about the lowest point in the heap that you could possibly be. There are thousands of us like that. But out of all of those people, I only know one who managed to push upwards, and he has still hit a ceiling."

"Truk?"

"Yeah, Truk, and a couple of his friends, probably. Most of the rest of the traders in Wead-Wodder are not even from The Prelates, let alone Redust. I didn't think I would ever have the power or know the people to make change, though I know a lot of people who would love to. So I have been resigned to my lot, and live the best I can and try to protect my sister at all costs; which I failed to do, by the way." Weasel decided not to comment. "And now, this descendant of some mad queen gets kidnapped and spends weeks with my sister hearing everything there is to know about my life. My life, Weasel, no one else's. She knows about all the times my cart broke. She knows about when we ran out of money and I ended up stealing veg and beans off a stall when no one was looking. She knows how angry I get when things go wrong, and that is regularly. She even knows how cold Rusty and I get in the wet season, and how we have been too frightened to tell Geezen and Barkles how hungry we are because we felt guilty about all the things they gave us when we felt we didn't deserve it. She knows all of it. It is a complete slap in the face for her entire life and everything she and her family and all the other prelates have ever stood for."

"What is she going to do then?" asked Weasel.

"What is she going to do? Well, that is simple, apparently. Today, she told me she's in love with me and owes me everything, and then asked me what I want to do. Me. Not her; me."

Weasel lay back on the hard ground and put his arm over his eyes to shade them from the sun.

"It sounds like a revolution, Farthing."

"I know what it sodding-well is, Weasel! I just don't know what to do about it."

"As I told the girls back down the road, no one can do anything till we get off this continent and find our way to Taken."

"And what then?"

"I don't know, Farthing. But if you want change, you and your little princess can do nothing on your own. You are right, you will need friends, and you need to be bloody sure that what you are fighting for is not worse than what you have already. Trust me, after a thousand years, I've seen a lot of that."

"Where do we find these friends? Where do I start? And where does Pree start?"

"You start there." Weasel pointed to the slowly approaching wagon which now had the bonnet removed completely and had gained the company of a couple of small dragons. "Those are already your friends. Maybe it's time you two stopped ducking behind trees with secret kisses and conversations and started including them."

"And when they get hurt because they happen to know two stupid teenagers who want to change the world?" Farthing felt annoyed and out of his depth.

Weasel sat up and looked at the boy-come-man carefully. He understood exactly what Farthing and Pree wanted, but he probably knew better than they what that entailed. He had lived a thousand years and had fought many fights. It gave him a perspective they didn't have. So, what should he do? He had the choice of killing off their passion for change now or of fanning the flames of their young ideals. Did he have the right to encourage them into something that would possibly be incredibly dangerous and may even get them killed? But then, in this fragmented world of Dirt, a world full of people, humans and dragons, who he really did care about, did he really have a choice any longer? Weasel sighed. It was now, this moment, here by the river, or never. He must make their choice for them.

"If you have already realised the danger, Farthing, then you are far farther down the road than you realise. I am not going to stop you; I'm going to help you. And yes, people do get hurt. When it's people who love you, that is worse, but it's nowhere near as bad as if you did nothing and gave them no hope at all. Aneirin and I failed in the long run. Apart from a few, most of the dragons have turned their backs on humans, and the callistons did centuries ago. That is the biggest cock up this world has seen in several millennia, to be honest. No one can say we didn't try. We spent six hundred years trying, and in the end, I even fell out with Fren-Eirol. So, if you want change, people will get hurt. Just make sure they get hurt on their own terms, and don't stop them from also wanting what you want."

"What about the dragons? They are part of this too from what you say."

"They should be. You two fight your fight and I will fight mine. I gave up when Aneirin died. That was my stupid mistake, and it's mine to rectify. Oddly, I have a feeling that the very person who won that particular showdown maybe the one person I can trust. But, as I said, that is my problem for the moment." Weasel looked out across the river and to the road that would take them to the still distant town of Henderton. "First of all, we have to cross this bloody river and get to Henderton, and you are not going to like it."

"Why?"

"Because it's just like Wead, only nowhere near as nice."

"Keep them moving, you idiot!"

"Oi," shouted back Farthing to Mistry.

"Sorry, darling Johnson. Please will you keep the dear horses moving BEFORE I BLOODY WELL DROWN!"

There was no question who was in charge. The first half of the river had been shallow, slow, and easy, and they had rested the horses on a bank midstream. The second half was deeper, faster, and far more dangerous. The only way to cross was to keep going.

Mab-Tok was currently passed out on the far bank, having been laden up with most of their belongings to ferry them across in stages so they didn't get wet or lost if all went wrong. Pree, Rusty, and Lily had been flown over which had just left the wagon. Weasel was on board with Mistry, and Farthing was on his horse up front with the draughts, keeping them moving. And the big Bekon Browns were scared.

"Pull them right, I'm getting stuck," shouted Mistry. "Right!"

Farthing turned his horse and pulled on the long line he had attached to the lead draught mare, pulling her sharply to the right. The wide-eyed animal was in the deepest part of the channel and not happy about it.

"Come on your bloody animal! Come on!" Farthing pulled harder and the horse turned her head and followed him up the other side of the channel to shallower water, the other three scrambling along after. Mistry stood up as the water washed over the foot board and yelled encouragement to the horses in a somewhat colourful way. Weasel looked at her shocked.

"I'm sixteen next week, magician. I'm allowed to swear. Yeehaw!" The horses pulled the cart up and out of the water. "Drop the backboard; let the water out!"

Weasel slid back down the cart and flipped the latch releasing the backboard of the wagon. The water rushed out nearly taking him with it.

"Next channel!" shouted Farthing. "Not as bad!"

Mistry and Weasel had already scouted the route across, planting a couple of long sticks on the banks to mark the way. The first thing that morning, Farthing had tried the crossing for himself, so he knew what was coming.

"Get the speed up!" the nearly-sixteen-year-old shouted, and then cracked the reins down on the horses to speed them up, mouthing a "sorry" to them as she did so. Weasel, soaked through, struggled up behind her.

"What do I do?"

"Nothing. Just hang on! Heeya, heeya, heeya!"

The horses forged forward, chasing the rump of Farthing's mount. They plunged into the next channel, thankfully half the depth of the last. The far bank was now right in their view, and Farthing watched in amusement as the lead horse focused on the nice, dry, safe bank, and just went for it.

"Whoa! Here they come!" he shouted as they headed straight for him.

"Bloody hell!" yelled Mistry. "Get out of the way!"

Farthing pulled his reins around and pushed his horse on fast through the water as the big draughts dug deep and powered their way across the channel, up the other side, then raced across the last shallow and onto dry land. The lead horse scrambled to a halt, slipped on the stones, and sat on her rump, nearly pulling the others with her.

"Whoa! Whoa!" cried Mistry, jumping off the wagon and running to the horses to stop them fighting and pulling. The Bekon Browns were panting and panicking, but they were standing still. "Whoa, girl, good girl." Mistry calmed the lead horse, and Weasel dropped down from the cart and starting calming one of the others as Farthing did likewise, patting his own horse on the rump to send him off to his friend. Weasel looked over to the half-pint girl who was calming down the massive mare.

"To hell with me being the magician of the party, girl. You got some magic in you, I swear."

"Just saying thanks, Weasel. Horses appreciate it the same as anyone else."

"Do you want them unhitched?"

"Wait until they are settled down first or they may decide that the moors are a better bet than here and run off. Pree, Rusty! Get a couple of those apples over; only one each or we will have four big tummy aches."

Eventually, with some nibbles and love, the big horses calmed right down. Mistry and Farthing unhitched them, removed their harnesses, took them for a gentle walk under some trees, and tethered them up on long lines so they could rest and roll in the dust. The girl then headed back to help with repacking the wagon.

"No way," said Pree. "You've done enough. Go and sit down. Lily, go make her, will you?"

The small dragon trotted over, grabbed Mistry by the hand and pulled her off to the trees.

"Farthing has taught me to make tea," said the straight-talking dragon. "I will make you tea."

Lily quickly arranged a small circle of stones, stacked it with fallen wood and bark shavings and went to fetch the tea things from the pile of stores. Mistry smiled at the little Draig Wen. It was so hard not to think of her as an eager young girl sometimes. Mistry pulled her tin from her pocket, took out her flint, and struck a spark into the bark, blowing life into the fire. She had insisted they all had these little tins containing something to make a spark and a little bit of dried moss to light in case nothing was available. No one should be without fire-making tools on a journey. The girl lay back, closed her eyes, and thought of her father, the man who had decided when she was just ten she should know how to drive a team. He had never taught his sons, he didn't think they were worth the effort, but he had spent months and years teaching her everything he knew.

"Thanks, daddy," she said to the ghost in her memory.

The open gates of Henderton had not seen guards for a decade, and as they walked the wagon up to the town walls there seemed to be few to care whether they came or went. The fifty-league journey down the main road they had joined soon after crossing the River Hend, had been dry and dusty, and they had put up the bonnet of the wagon and shut the flaps at each end to keep the worst out. Mistry had tied her scarf around her face and pushed her hair up under her hat. The land north of the river and all the way up to Henderton was flat with a mix of thin, yellow grass and the odd shallow lake. There were few villages here and the land had an abandoned and neglected feel that made travelling, though easy, unpleasant. Mistry pulled her scarf down and guided the horses through the large open gates and into an empty, dusty plaza. Bringing the horses to a halt, she stood up on her seat as Farthing and Weasel walked up either side of the wagon.

"No welcoming committee?" Mistry asked no one in particular.

"This place looks dead!" commented Farthing.

He looked around at the buildings the other side of the plaza. They were mostly windowless, single-storey buildings not so different from Thanks in Wead-Wodder, with similarly whitewashed walls and small lanes. However, there seemed to be no life here. Back in Wead, thin birch and caten-nut trees grew between the buildings, and sometimes within the atriums of the trader's houses. And small rooms had often been built on the flat roofs of the richer homes, decorated with wooden carvings and the rich hanging-cloths made by the sea dragons. There was none of that here. It was just plain, creamy-white, where it hadn't already peeled off.

"Let's find a livery and an inn. This place has certainly gone downhill since I was last here," said Weasel with a tired voice, and nudged his horse across the worn cobbles of the plaza and past an empty, broken fountain. The horse looked at it wistfully as she passed. "I could do with a drink too," said the magician with feeling.

"How long since you've been here?" asked Farthing. He had slid off his large gelding and was walking. Pree dropped off the back of the cart and walked next to him. She had been locked away from the dust in the back of the cart for most of the day and was feeling claustrophobic.

"Four hundred years, give or take."

"It would have changed quite a lot one way or another in all that time," said Pree. "What is it like to live as long as you have, Weasel?"

"I don't know," replied the wiry man with a shrug. "I haven't lived shorter to be able to make a comparison, but I reckon it's not much different to living a hundred years; the memories are just woollier."

Nobody believed him. His memories of hundreds of years before could be just as sharp as those of last week, and equally selective. They passed into the warren that was the town proper and it soon became clear that most of these buildings were abandoned. Many of the doors had been removed, their wood no doubt reclaimed, and drifts of dust had built up against walls and sills, with only the odd track of a lizard to show anyone had been through here at all. Farthing's initial comparison with Thanks was pretty much spot on, and Rusty joined him looking through some of the openings into small atriums that could have easily been something that Geezen and Truk would own.

"We could almost just dump ourselves in one of these as pay a livery," commented Farthing.

"Bad idea," said Weasel. "Where you get empty buildings, you get crime, and I would like to still have both the wagon and my life tomorrow morning, thank you."

"Wead could become like this if it lost its trade," said Pree. "If you think of the land immediately around behind the dust dumps and up the river, there isn't much there to support the town if we didn't have the traders. Not so many people fish now, and from what I saw when I sneaked out, most of the goods down in The Hive were imported."

"You sneaked out to The Hive?" asked Rusty.

"Too right. If I wanted to have fun, the only place I could go was the Mace Market in North Wead, and that was boring. The Hive is way better, but I wasn't actually allowed to go there. The ferrymen seem to be up for a bribe, though."

"I've never been to Mace Market," said Rusty. "We only got to go across to North Wead if we were delivering something. So, neither of us ever went since we didn't trade."

Farthing agreed with his sister. The only time he had ever gone north was as a kid when he had sneaked onto one of the goods ferries for a dare. He had been quickly found and dumped on the south shore with the warning that the North was not for his sort. To his surprise, that still stung a bit.

Pree slipped her hand into his and took Rusty's arm. "The list of wrongs is getting longer the more I hear from you two, and that is despite neither of you being into grumbling much about anything."

"You should try Farthing when you can't magic people out of thin air for him," said Weasel with feeling.

"Sorry, Eafa, was I being unfair that day?" asked Farthing sarcastically.

"No, you were no problem. Moppy hits harder than you do."

"Who's Moppy?" asked Pree.

"His niece, apparently," answered Farthing. "It's probably very complicated. Everything else about his family is."

"Is she very old then?"

"No, same age as us. That's the complicated bit."

"What is she like?"

"Nice. She works for Geezen and we kick around with her sometimes."

"Vicious and uncompromising," added Weasel without conviction, and then sighed in resignation. "Alright, she is nice, I admit it, and when I next see her, I should probably do as Geezen says and tell her."

"Denial is one of our magician's biggest failings, according to Fren-Eirol," called out Mistry from the wagon.

"Oh, she told you that, did she?" said Weasel over his shoulder.

"Twenty or thirty times, yes. Why?" she asked sweetly.

"No reason. Oh good, a side road that appears to have some market noise coming down it. We can stop tearing me apart now." Weasel turned left, and Mistry eased the wagon around the tight corner.

From the side road, they joined another main route which was a little busier with a few locals going about their business and ignoring theirs. The streets were just as dusty, and the general feel of the place was unloved. The walled town was built in a large square at the edge of the flats, and against the side of a barren, rocky hill. The principle structures were up on the rocks overlooking the rest of the town. This was an ancient place that predated modern Hendesse by a couple of millennia. The architecture of the older buildings displayed the stark square lines of the more ancient peoples of Dirt, decorated with large, worn, swirling patterns within geometric shapes. Farthing pointed out the ruins of a large turret not far from them.

"That looks like it was built by the same people who built your castle," he said to Pree.

She grinned. "Never really felt like mine, and the insides were stripped out several centuries back by an earlier Prelate, but I see what you mean. Similar decorations on the wall."

"Those were by some of the baddies," explained Weasel.

"What baddies?" asked Pree.

"Going back a few thousand years, there were basically two large factions of humans. The Heinela had a monarchical society much wedded to feudalism. Great horse riders and banner wavers. The Haftens were very different. They ran their lands with small autocratic councils, membership of which was won by the sword. Despite gallons of spilt blood, they were great builders, and you will find their buildings everywhere they managed to control, even as far as the north-west of the Prelates."

"Ooh, he does history lessons as well," remarked Mistry from the wagon. Farthing handed the reins of his horse to Rusty and jumped up onto the Wagon.

"Great, big, comfy bed for you tonight, sis. I have promised myself that," he said to Mistry. "We could not have got here without you."

She leant on his shoulder. "When we get off this continent, I am going to sleep for a month. What is Taken like?"

"Well, there is the mountain and the strange place halfway up it where the dragons meet, and then there is the port, Taken Town. It's small but busy. The bit I like is in between where the few small villages are. And I mean small; just a handful of houses each. That is where we are going to stay, I hope. With the Jippersons."

"Those two brothers that got you and Weasel into all this Mr this and Mr that stuff?"

"That's them. They own this tiny inn and a forge just next to a stream with a little bridge over it. You would only just get this wagon across. The place is all green and small and stone walls and big green oak trees. Ha! I can picture the drunk Fren-Eirol lying under a tree with her tongue hanging out."

"Eirol? You're joking!" Mistry hung her mouth open in amazement. Pree jumped up and sat the other side of Farthing. "Go away, Pree," said Mistry pompously. "I'm having some Farthing time." Pree pouted and leapt back off.

"Rusty, I need a hug! My man has run off with a younger woman!"

"So, anyway, what's the story with Eirol? Oh, hang on, tight turn. Weasel! Lead the big girl round, will you?" Weasel waved his hand and led the lead horse around the tight turn, making it easier for the rest to follow. "I told you that short shaft on the wagon was worth it. So, Fren-Eirol?"

"Oh, right. Well, after I was stung by the Onga, she and Mab-Tok flew back to the Shallow Sea to pick up all our stuff because she had abandoned it to get me back." Farthing shook his head. "I still don't get how she managed to fly me to Taken like she did. Anyway, on their way back, just as they landed, Fren-Eirol caught the end of her wing and tore the cartilage. Hurts like crazy, apparently. Mab-Tok and Weasel pulled it back in, then the elder Jipperson brings her out this bucket of rum-"

"Rum?"

"It's a drink and you find it in ports around the Prelates Sea. A bit like that dark whiskey up at the Abbey that Weasel and Eofin were gulping back."

"Oh, that stuff. I tried it and it nearly took my hair off!"

"Well, Fren-Eirol drinks back the lot, grins once and passes out, sliding down the tree till her head slips backwards and her tongue fell out." Farthing grinned widely. "One of a list of things I have that I probably should never talk to her about."

"You finished with him yet?"

"Not yet, Pree," shouted Mistry. She turned and gave Farthing a big wet kiss on the cheek.

"Okay, all yours!" she called out with a smirk. "You better get down to your lover-girl, brother, before she starts sulking."

Farthing chuckled.

"Livery ahead, Miss Raven!" called back Weasel. "Oh, goody, and it's attached to an inn. Ah, very tight through the gate. Can you get the wagon in there, girl?"

"Just watch me, Mr Horseman!"

# Chapter 21 – The Mines

The bed was not as comfy as Farthing had promised, but Mistry slept like a dead dog. When she woke, the first thing she noticed was how much her arms ached. This had become a bit of a problem on the journey, especially across the uneven moors, but the push across the river, followed by several days hard traveling on the dry road, had kind of finished her off. She nudged the place next to her where Rusty had been snoring to find it empty, then sat up to discover she was alone. The inn was close to a large central market and the noise from the sellers was filtering through the wooden shutters of the upstairs room the three girls had shared. Farthing and Weasel had slept in the Wagon for security, and the two dragons had flown on the day before as they weren't sure what reception they would get in the town.

Mistry stretched, pulled a sheet around herself, and opened the shutters next to the bed, blinking in the light reflecting off the white buildings. The room looked out over the main street, and she knelt on the bed to lean out of the window, looking up towards where the noise was drifting down from the market. The wonderfully confused mix of calls from the various sellers, the odd bark of laughter and occasional cursing of someone realising they had been done, brought the morning to life. A couple of men shouted out something rude from the street below, and she realised that leaning out of the window while wearing nothing more than a sheet, was probably not the best decision she could have made. She quickly pulled back inside and crawled across the bed to retrieve her travelling clothes.

"Come on, girl, breakfast is down in the common room." Pree walked in through the door, her hair wet from where she had been washing it under the pump by the stables.

"Get the dust out?" asked Mistry with a yawn.

"Most of it, but it's got into places I didn't even know I had," said the young woman, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"You should've been out front with me then. I feel like I am wearing half the country." Mistry dropped the sheet and put on her leather trousers and a loose shirt. "I'm going to wash first, then have whatever is on offer. Then back in the wagon, I suppose."

Pree gave her a hug.

"Sorry you have to do all this, Mistry. Weasel says the road is dead straight out of town, so once you get us through the walls, Rusty and I can take turns driving again."

"Thanks. I'll hold you to that. And stick to our other names while we're in town, Sparrow. Mr Horseman's orders."

"Oh, I forgot! You're the second person to tell me that this morning. Far... Mr Goatherd gave me a hard time when I woke him up."

"You went and woke... No, I don't want to know!" Mistry shoved on her boots, unlaced, and started down the stairs, the loose shoes clumping on the old wooden treads. "Where are they, by the way?"

"Gone to the market to pick up what we need," said Pree, following behind. "You can get out back through here."

They turned down a couple of steps into the livery yard. By accident, they had managed to find one of the better establishments, and Weasel reckoned it was worth forking out on a decent room for the girls and good oats for the horses for one night. The livery had had only two other horses stabled when they arrived so there had been plenty of room for their Bekon Browns. The wagon had been too big for the barn, and they had manhandled it into the corner of the yard. The water pump was behind a wall and they couldn't be seen through the gate, so, with Pree keeping watch, Mistry stripped off her shirt and gave her hair a really thorough rinse to get rid of all the dust.

"Rusty and I managed the same trick this morning," said Pree. "I get the feeling this place is empty a good amount of the time. The landlady who served up the breakfast this morning seemed thrilled to have us here. Certainly not like the packed inns of my town."

Pree worked the large handle on the pump vigorously to give Mistry as much water as possible. Mistry shook her hair out, scuttled over to the wagon and jumped into the back to dry herself off. She reappeared, sat on the driving seat, and dragged her fingers through her hair.

"Have you got that brush Farthing picked up on one of his shopping trips?"

"Hang on, it's in my box." Pree climbed into the back of the wagon and after some thumping around appeared with the thick brush.

"Thanks, my comb is on its last legs," complained Mistry.

"No problems, Miss Raven," said Pree with a grin. "We girls share, you know." A sort of whimsical look came over her face. "I've never had that before; sharing I mean."

"You haven't got sisters or brothers or anyone anywhere?" It was a stupid question really, considering that Pree had been kidnapped by her father's cousin, but Mistry knew nothing about Pree's younger life.

"No, I haven't, and I didn't get to mix with the kids of any of my father's servants either."

"Were you lonely?"

"Yeah, I suppose I was. It wasn't until I was chained up with Miss Parrot that I realised how much I had missed. Oh, I have been sneaking out and meeting the odd person my father and his guards had no idea about, but when I went back home it was just me. In the last few weeks, waking up to find you, Parrot, and Lily next to me every day, well, that has been pretty special."

"Sisters together?"

"Yeah, I like that." Pree looked at Mistry carefully. "Have I messed that up? I mean with Johnson and me?"

Mistry stopped her brushing and looked at Pree, the slim, strong girl with far too much flame-red hair. "What, you mean stealing the only really good man for leagues when I am turning sixteen in a couple of days?" Mistry smiled gently. "No, Pree. It's alright; it really is. I have no idea where it's going or what the future is for the daughter of a prelate and an orphan from the poorest part of Redust, but you have our support and our help if you need it."

Pree nodded and let out the breath that she had been holding, worried about what her friends really thought.

"Breakfast?" she asked.

"Yeah, breakfast, and quick!"

Henderton had once been the capital of Hendesse, and beneath the neglect and empty buildings there were still faint echoes of grandeur. But as it had lost its status, and the population had built smaller, poorer structures in between the ancient buildings, the greater thoroughfares had vanished. The big wagon only just made it through the narrow twisting streets that had grown up over the years. It took them nearly two hours to make it through to the west gate, and Mistry sighed in relief and handed the reins over to Rusty when they hit the empty but straight highway. Rusty had proved handy with the wagon before, but the journey had been so difficult across the moors, over the river, and along the rutted, stony road, that Mistry had not been able to give her much of a go. She decided to sit upfront for a while until she was happy that all was going smoothly, and then she had plans that involved doing a lot of lying around on the bed in the wagon. Weasel trotted up alongside on his brown-eyed mare who had also been washed down.

"It is till dusty, but at least it's clear and not so stony. We should make good time."

"Is it like this the whole way across?" asked Mistry.

"No, it isn't. I met Mab-Tok at the east gate this morning, and he and Lily have scouted a long way ahead now. About ten leagues down the road it becomes slightly hillier and more fertile and stays like that all the way to the Mountains. More villages too, though spread out, like over on the south bank of the river."

"We'll keep the horses well-watered and see if we can get to the end of this plain by dark," said Mistry. "If the road stays like this, we should do it."

"Mr Goatherd and I won't be doing any scouting today, nothing to scout for here, so we'll keep together. If you want to stay in the back, I can watch the girls to make sure they don't overwork the animals."

They would alternate between trotting and walking the horses to make the best speed with the heavy wagon, but it was important to get the balance right. Mistry smiled her thanks. She really needed this day off and she turned sideways on the seat and leant against Rusty. Mistry might not be quite ready to leave the driving seat yet, but at least she could get comfortable.

The wagon made its way along the dusty western highway, then picked up speed as the big horses broke into a trot, the two outriders keeping pace either side. Above the west gate of Henderton, a man, dressed in the style of men from Wessen, squatted on the wall and picked his nose. He watched the cart for a few minutes more and checked his map. It looked like they were heading to the mines and across the mountains or they would have taken the north-west road. They would go on to Tool, he reckoned, as there was nowhere else in that part of Peys where they could get passage. That also meant his boss had guessed wrong. The man stood up, climbed down the ladder, and walked back into the town to find his horse and buy a spare. He had a long, fast ride ahead of him to find Tekkinmod, and then they would have to race down the coast road to Tool. It was going to be tight, but they had a good chance.

"By an oothens fat arse!" Farthing had no one to swear at, but he thought he would get it out of his system before the others caught up. They had been ten days on the road from Henderton, an almost unerringly straight, but slow route that cut through low hills, small villages, and endless groves of olive trees, fruit trees and hillsides of vines. Weasel had picked up a very small barrel of some local dark-red wine which they had used to celebrate Mistry's sixteenth birthday a few nights before. The evening has seen the girl getting giggly, then far too cuddly, then very kissy, and finally managing to pass out before she did anything she or anyone else regretted. Still, it had kept Farthing on his toes and close to panic for most of the evening.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Mab-Tok was having a day without Lily on board, and he flew in from where he had been floating on the high winds, something he had come to enjoy more and more in recent days over the warm plain.

"It looks like something has eaten half the mountain away!" Farthing slid off his horse and stretched his muscles. From where he stood, the road dipped down into a very broad, shallow valley that ran all the way to the foot of the Iron Mountains. If Farthing had expected to see little tunnel entrances, he was mistaken. The government of Hendesse was taking the mountain apart, dumping the bits they didn't need anywhere on the foothills, and shipping the rest to whoever had the coin. For the most part, that meant the ports and over the seas to The Prelates, an enormous consumer of both coal and iron.

"What you can't see from here is how they're doing it," continued Mab-Tok. "They are using loads of workers and the small plains ponies we saw on our way across, and are just mining by brute force. I know I was way up above them, but it didn't look like it was clever; just big."

"Can we get through alright?" It was a bit late to ask really, but still important.

"We'll be fighting all the carts shifting dirt and ore, but yes, the route is straight through. Once we start up the hill, we'll need to keep going between the rest areas. When we hit the dumps, it's just dirt all the way up to the pass."

"Oh, great. Like I don't get enough of shifting dirt and dust at home." Farthing found a smooth rock under a tree and sat down. Mab-Tok ducked under the branches, gently pushed Farthing's horse out of the way and sat next to him.

"There is a village about halfway from here to the mines, two hours away I would guess." Mab-Tok pointed into the distance to where there was a small wood. "It's just off the main highway behind those trees and looks to be mostly farming, but it has an inn. It might be a good place to stop tonight. I'm concerned about the trip up to the pass through the mines. It's a wide dirt road with a long stream of big wagons carrying away the waste to the dumps."

"Why haven't we seen any wagons coming through here?" asked Farthing.

"I think they're shifting most of the ore and coal over the pass and down into Peys. But there is another highway going north-east back into Bind and that is the route the Bind traffic is taking."

"What is the problem with the road?"

"It's long and steep, and most of the wagons have teams of eight, even ten horses, and some are using oothen; they just don't stop. Our cart is a lot lighter, but with only two pairs of draughts, we may be slower. I need to take Mistry up for an early morning scouting trip so she can work out what she wants to do."

"She'll like that," said Farthing, laughing halfway through a stretch. "She's been desperate for a break, even though the girls have been doing much of the driving for the last week. I think she would like to get away from us all for a few hours."

It was odd, but they all still referred to Pree and Rusty as "the girls" even though they had now been rescued and there were two other girls in the party; Mistry and Lily. Mab-Tok stood and flapped out his wings to shake some of the dust off.

"There is so much dust from those mines that even thousands of feet up I can taste it," he complained. "Are you going to stay here? I'm going back to the wagon to tell them about the village."

"I'll go on ahead. See if I can arrange a bath or something just in case you guys take a while. I know it's going to get worse up at the mines, but I would like to start clean. And anyway, even Pree has been keeping her distance the last day so I think I'm overdue."

"That is the advantage of flying. Quick dip through a nice wet cloud and you feel lovely and scrubbed. See yer!" The horse-sized dragon ducked under the branch and leapt into the sky. Farthing took a slurp from his water bottle, then ran some into his hand so his roan could wet his lips. Down the road, he could see a small stream eking out a living between the dry rocks.

"Come on, horse, you can have a proper drink down at that stream." He swung himself up easily into the saddle and plodded down the hill. He might have only learned to ride a few weeks ago, but he had had so much practice it now felt natural, and he had almost forgotten what it felt like not to be able to ride.

"You, know, horse, I have no idea what your name is, or even if you've ever had one. I think you should be named. What would you like to be called? Ceddy? Tekky? No, too close to Tekkinmod. Rabbit? Well, we have a magician called Weasel, after all. What about Fennerpop? He might be flattered if I used his name. I wonder what he is doing right now? Oh, stupid question, he will be shifting dirt, of course. Barkles? Geezen? Oh, sorry, that is a girl's name and I checked; you might not have it all, but you are definitely a boy. How about... er... Rocky? Dusty? Mountainy? Sheepy? Olive? Apple? Grass? Hmmm. I suppose I could just call you Horse. It's worked so far. Right, Horse it is! I hereby name you Horse, horse. How do you like your new name?"

Mistry took back the reins on the way into the village of Lekid. The girls had done well on the long, straight highway, but neither of them had quite got the hang of sharp corners, and the trail through the woods to the village was narrow and twisty. As they pulled into the small square, a tall, good-looking, and incredibly clean young man came out to greet them, drying his hair. Mistry glared at him.

"Do not fret, fair maiden!" he said in as poncy a voice as he could manage.

"Hang on, I'm coming," Pree shouted from somewhere inside the wagon.

"He's talking to the other fair maiden, sweetheart," said Mistry.

"Ooh! Look who's all Miss Mardy!" called out Rusty with a laugh.

"Get on with it, Goatherd," said Mistry, with death in her voice.

"As I was saying, do not fret because in that barn there's a massive, great big copper filled up with clean water, a big bar of soap, and a pile of towels I managed to persuade the innkeeper to let me have. There are some big holes in the walls, but we promise not to peek."

Four blurs shot passed the young man leaving him staring at an empty wagon and four bemused horses.

"Okay, girls and boys," he said to the Bekon Browns, grabbing the lead horse by the halter, and leading them and the wagon slowly into a large livery yard next to the barn. "Your turn. I don't suppose you know where that bloody magician is? No, I thought not." He threw the towel onto the driving seat, put the brake on, unhitched the horses and lined them up at the trough to drink. They all stuck their heads straight in, right up to the ears. "Well, looks like I didn't have to make you," he said, wondering if they got the joke.

"What have you done with the female four sevenths of our band, Mr Goatherd?" Weasel walked his horse into the yard followed by Mab-Tok. A scream and a splash echoed from between the slatted wooden walls of the barn. "Alright, I worked it out. Now, how many barmaids did you kiss to pull that trick off?"

"Only a landlord at the inn when I arrived so I avoided that method. No, they were happy to help out. Seems that when they upgraded the main road for the mines they bypassed the village, and now they get almost no custom at all. He all but hugged me when I said there were seven for dinner."

"Did you mention two were dragons?" asked Mab-Tok.

"Oh, I might have forgotten that bit," admitted Farthing. "Any dietary considerations?"

"What is he cooking?"

"A sheep."

"I'll adapt," said the dragon, licking his lips.

Suddenly, the door banged open, and a small, white, and very wet dragon trotted passed wrapped in a towel. Mab-Tok stared with his mouth open.

"What's wrong?" asked Farthing.

"Dragons don't take baths," said Mab-Tok in amazement.

"I do!" called out the little dragon from inside the cart. "I do now! Bathing is wonderful!"

"How do you normally wash?" asked Farthing, realising that he had never seen a dragon washing or seen a permanently dirty one. "Apart from clouds."

"Just get very wet and the rest sort of just falls off. Soap is not needed. Slippery skin, you see. And imagine the size of bath Fren-Eirol would need. Or Bell-Sendinar?" It was a good point. "Lakes and oceans are very useful in those cases."

"But they don't smell nice," said Lily, climbing out of the wagon wearing one of the thin, silk, finely-woven gowns loved by the Draig Wen, and looking exquisite. Mab-Tok just sighed, and Weasel and Farthing looked at each other, grinning. Three more, towel-clad women sauntered out of the barn filling Farthing's arms with clothes.

"Rinsed and hung to dry out, boy," said Rusty in a haughty voice, and they dived into the back of the wagon.

"Well, you kind of set yourself up for that," remarked Weasel to the young man.

"It's alright, Mr Horseman. I had a chat with the barman about the road up to the Mines. It's going to be a really hard journey. At the very least, I owed Mistry that bath. Wasn't quite planning on doing the washing, but I'm sure you can help."

"Well, I think I have other things-"

"Oh, no, I'm pretty sure you can help. Right after you have also had a bath. How long has it been?"

"I had one!"

"Yes, we gave it to you back in Wead! Mab-Tok, Grab him!"

And for the second time since Weasel had known Farthing, he was picked up and thrown into a large copper of water, still clothed, and ordered to wash. He had no trouble hiding the non-existent smile.

Mab-Tok took Mistry to see the road that cut through the mines and up to the pass before dusk. She wanted to start out before it was properly light in the morning to give them as long a day as possible, knowing the journey was going to be slow. It had been weeks since the young woman had flown, and, feeling clean and rested, she whooped for joy as Mab-Tok leapt off the ground and flapped up into the air.

"Higher, Mab-Tok. Take me as high as you can!"

"Why?"

"Just cos!"

The Dragon, not always in tune with the wishes of sixteen-year-old human women, shook his head in puzzlement and headed into the clear skies till Mistry was near breathless. She leant forward on his back and put her face on his warm neck, closing her eyes as he swept across the valley to the mines.

It was still busy around the digs and the rows of tents in the mining town that had sprung up by the works, but it was growing too dark for the wagons, and the highway was quiet. Mab-Tok flew halfway up the mountain and landed on a sharp hairpin bend. Mistry climbed off his back and looked up and down the road. She could see the road ran dead straight from the broad valley in a long, long climb, though not particularly steep. But then, not far below where they stood, it became steeper and zig-zagged up the side of the broken mountain in long stretches with dangerous cliffs between the turns.

"This is going to be hard and slow," said Mistry, turning to watch the road disappear into the gloom. "How many turns does it make?"

"Twenty," answered the dragon. "They get much shorter towards the top and there're a few big rest areas on the way up."

"We are definitely going to be using those. What about water points for the horses?"

"At the rest areas, but I don't know whether we'll be allowed to use them or not. This has been built for the mines, though it is a public highway, I suppose."

"We better keep both barrels full then, and only use them for the horses and to cool their legs. I would have preferred a team of six, to be honest. We now have a lot of weight on that wagon."

"We have two other horses," pointed out Mab-Tok.

"I doubt they have ever been harnessed to a wagon in their entire lives; they'll just panic. No, we'll have to do it with the four, but I only want me in the wagon, or perhaps Weasel as well."

"Why?"

"Weight, for one, but if I lose it on one of these bends, I want to just jump off and not worry about anyone in the back."

"Does that happen?" Dragons, for fairly obvious reasons, knew little about wagons.

"Oh yeah," said Mistry. "One of our neighbours lost his back wheel off a bend in the Black Hills two years back. His son managed to jump clear, but he was on the cliff side of the wagon and didn't make it. He followed his cart down a three-hundred-foot drop. Anyway, I can't imagine any of the wagons here going faster than walking pace on these upper stretches, especially if they are using oothens, so the others can walk along behind." Mistry looked out across the plain to the small village where her friends were currently trying out the local brew. "Come on, Tok," she said, punching him on the arm gently. "Let's get back while the inn still has beer."

"Do sixteen-year-old humans always like beer so much?" asked the dragon as Mistry hooked her feet into the straps on his back.

"Given half a chance, yes."

"What about dangerous jumps off cliffs in the dark?"

"Why do you ask? Ooh..."

"What do you mean, a permit?" Weasel looked down at the small, annoying man sitting on a box at the bottom of the mine road, shaded by a tatty umbrella. The man held a clipboard and was ticking off the wagons passing downhill full of waste rock and dirt.

"This road cost a lot of money to build Mr...?"

"Horseman."

"Horsehoof. We charge people to use it. Have you mine business or passing through?" The man's annoying nasal voice was drilling into Weasel's head.

"Horseman. Going over the pass and into Peys. We have no business with the mines."

"Well, you still have to pay. Will you be using the stopping points? You will need to show a pass to get into those, Mr Horsehead."

"Horseman, and yes, we will need to rest the horses."

"Yes, you don't have the expected number I notice." He wrote something down. "I assume you will also want to water the animals, Mr Houseman?"

"Horseman, and yes, we will want to use the water."

The man scribbled down something else and tore off a piece of paper.

"That will be fifteen for the wagon and team, and another three for the two extra horses, Mr Headman if you please."

"Horseman, and thank you," said Weasel between gritted teeth, swapping the coins for the permit.

"Thank you. Now move on please Mr Headman."

"Horseman, Horseman, Horseman! My bloody name is Horseman!"

"Next!"

As they trundled up the first straight leg of the climb, Farthing leant over to the fuming magician. "I'm pretty sure his brother runs the dumps in Wead-Wodder. We all spend hours dreaming up terminal fates for the miserable little git."

"Anyone acted on any of them yet?"

"No, but it has been a close call a few times."

"I can imagine. Come on, let's get some distance up this road before we are forced back down to walking pace." Weasel nudged his mare into a slow trot.

Farthing tried to spot Mab-Tok and Lily, but if they were still airborne, he couldn't see them against the bright sky. He blinked the dust out of his eyes and pulled the scarf up over his face.

"First stopping point ahead!" he shouted back to Mistry, who had been keeping up a slow but steady pace for the last hour.

"Good. Has it got water?"

"Can't see yet."

"I want to cool their legs down if I can; more important than drinking at this point."

The last thing they needed was for a horse to go lame on this hill with nowhere to camp. Mistry had been right about the pace of the traffic, and they had slowed right down so they were not too close to the large wagon ahead of them and suffer a face full of dust from the road. Farthing turned into the rest area and led Mistry over to the far end where there was a huge raised waterbutt fed from a pipe coming down the hill.

"Must have tapped into a stream somewhere," commented Weasel, waving his pass to a small man with a satchel who ran over and clipped a hole in it.

"You can only use each stopping point once in either direction," explained the man in a near identical voice to the man who has issued the permit. "That mark is your first at this point. Good day." He scuttled off to wait for the next wagon.

"Good idea of yours to start early," said Farthing to Mistry as she jumped down.

"Grab the buckets, Mr Goatherd," she said, checking the harnesses, and adjusting a couple of straps. "Let's cool their tendons down a bit first and then they can drink." She had tied rags around each of the horses' legs that morning which they now removed, soaked in water, and then tied them back on.

Weasel looked carefully at the permit. "I just noticed there's a rough map sketched on here. Looks like they will punch their way up the sketch. At least we have a clue how far we have left to go."

"For now, it's all about up," said Mistry, wryly. She looked up the road where it headed to the first of the twenty hairpins she had to negotiate. "It's steeper from here on in, so everybody off." She wandered over towards the road to watch a team of eight pulling a large wagon. Although empty, the driver was still taking his time since the horses would do this route two or three times in the morning and he had to save the beasts. Of course, he was only going to the current mining operations halfway up the road. From then on, the wagons would be mostly full and transporting ore up and over the pass. Still, he was going slowly enough that his mate was walking in front with the lead pair. Mistry turned back to the wagon and jumped up onto the driving seat. Rusty was tying the wagon bonnet up tightly so it didn't fill with dust.

"Do you need a fresh skin of water?" she asked Mistry.

"I'm alright for the moment. Time to get going." If the young woman sounded unfriendly or abrupt, no one was going to object. She was in charge and it would be a long, slow, and unpleasant drive.

Two stops later they were two-thirds of the way up and it was lunchtime. Mistry desperately wanted to keep going, but she had to give the horses a longer rest.

"Get them unharnessed," she shouted to anyone listening, and climbed into the wagon and collapsed on the bed. Rusty peeked in.

"How are you doing, sis?"

"Tired. How much beer did we drink last night?"

"Not as much as we could have. We're going to get reputations at this rate, girl."

Mistry giggled. "Well, I can think of worse things to have a reputation for, and anyway, at least we get to choose what we do. We very nearly didn't." She looked up at Rusty with a searching look. "I hear you dreaming sometimes, Rusty. And Pree."

"Have you told the others?"

"No, but I think you should."

"I don't want them getting worried."

"What Weasel?" Mistry laughed gently. "He won't lose sleep over it, but he probably ought to be reminded exactly what you guys went through."

"What about Farthing?"

"Yes, he needs to know too. Trust me, Rusty, he will get it. I know he is your silly big brother and Pree's new-found soulmate, but I was chained to him by those slavers when we thought that was going to be our whole life. We didn't go through anything like you did, but he will still understand."

"It's difficult," said Rusty, furrowing her brow. "When I'm awake and with you lot, my family, I don't even want to think about it, let alone talk about it. I just want to be silly and talk rubbish and have cuddles and be, I don't know, young, I suppose. Pree is the same, even though she knows that once we get out of this, her life is going to change forever and my brother's life too." Rusty sighed. "It scares me, actually. It is not the romance thing, because most of the time they are just a couple of silly, infatuated kids."

"I can relate to that!" said Mistry with a wicked grin.

"So I noticed on your birthday. Pree was close to dunking you in the nearest lake."

"Oh. That bad?"

"Yeah, that bad. Anyway, what scares me is what they are planning, or at least what they want to plan. They are on this mission to change the world, to change my world and your world, to give us a better life. It sounds lovely, but I think it's going to be near impossible and dangerous, and they are going to end in serious trouble or worse. Frightens me stupid sometimes." Rusty sat down and rubbed her eyes. "Dust everywhere, Mistry! I need another bath."

"Well, if their grand plan gets me baths on a regular basis, it has my vote," said Mistry. "Look, I know this is all scary stuff, but they're not alone. Weasel might be a right irritating little sod, but he's not stupid. He's watching them carefully, talking privately to Farthing just about every day, and thinking about everything. I've seen him. And we have his mother and the dragons back in the Black Hills with those crazy people from the desert."

"What, like that cute young Gellin, you mean?" Rusty had a twinkle in her eye. Mistry looked away suddenly.

"Yeah, him too," she said nonchalantly. "And we are going to Taken first before anything happens. So yes, it is scary, but it hasn't happened yet, and I still have to get us up this bleeding hill!" Mistry stood, dragged Rusty to her feet, and gave her a hug. "One mountain at a time, sis."

"Yeah, one mountain at a time."

The road had steepened significantly, and they had slowed to a crawl behind a huge, six-wheeled wagon and trailer, pulled by a line of massive oothen. The large hexapods might be much stronger than even the largest of horses, but they were not exactly light on their feet, and they could be stubborn, going by the shouts of frustration from the driver. Weasel was sitting on the driving seat with Mistry since at this slow pace the horses were coping well.

"If this map is accurate, we have three more turns, one last rest area, then two more turns and we are on the pass proper." He showed Mistry the permit with its roughly sketched map.

"Map-Tok and I ran out of light, so I didn't see the actual pass at all," said Mistry.

"It's still a wide road and Mab-Tok says it has been cut through part of the mountain so it's not as bad as here. The Peys side of the pass is much gentler and with the wet winds in from the sea, it's greener and less dusty. That is about all I know, but it sounds an improvement over this." He waved his hands over the barren waste of the mine workings and the winding dirt road. "Are those oothen getting slower?"

"Oh, damn!" Mistry brought the horses to a standstill and Weasel pulled on the brake. "What the hell is he doing?" She stood up on her seat, still holding the reins. "He is really yelling at those beasts, you know."

"Is that the way to do it?" asked Weasel.

"Don't know; never driven an oothen. Doesn't work well with horses if you do it all the time, they get annoyed and stubborn and then... Oh, shit!"

"What?" Weasel stood up hurriedly.

"One of the oothen has broken his harness. He better have his brakes on."

Suddenly, the wagon ahead lurched as the oothens panicked and dragged it sideways across the road complete with its rocky load.

"Everyone, away from the back!" shouted Mistry, aware that the others were standing behind her wagon. "Weasel, hold that brake. Farthing! Go to the horses; keep them calm!" The young man leapt down from his horse and ran between the lead pair, making soothing noises. "What the hell is he up to?" Mistry sounded worried. "The idiot is whipping his oothen. They're going to freak."

The massive six-wheeled wagon suddenly lurched again, the oothens now fighting against their harnesses, and then it was tipping over.

"Farthing! Turn the horses, now!"

It was a wide road and with only two pairs, they should be able to get around.

"Too late!" shouted Weasel. There was a sound of ripping and cracking wood, and the trailer, filled with ore, rolled backwards down the hill towards them, its metal-rimmed wheels grinding heavily against the stone and dirt road as it picked up speed. Before Farthing could stop them, the lead pair of horses wrenched their halters out of his hands and backed up in panic into the wheelers, who backed into the wagon. They were on the steepest section of the road, and the brake couldn't hold them. Weasel pulled as hard as he could on the handle, but they kept sliding backwards.

"Put the chocks under the wheels!" shouted Mistry, desperately trying to get the big horses under control as Farthing grabbed for the lead pair again. Rusty and Pree shoved the chocks under the wheels and for a moment they held, then the chocks too started sliding on the loose road surface.

"They're not holding!" shouted Pree.

"Get out of there!" Mistry yelled back. The trailer ahead of them rumbled faster and faster down the road, and then one front wheel caught a rock, turned, and the trailer careered straight across in front of them, missing the lead pair of horses by inches, before it slid off the edge of the road and crashed down the cliff. The older mare rolled her eyes back in fear and bucked and reared. Farthing leapt into the air and wrapped his arms around her neck, forcing her back to the ground. Mistry, determined not to lose the wagon and team, yelled at the nearest pair to get them pulling.

"Mistry, your wheel!" Rusty shouted from the back, just as the rear wheel of the wagon started slipping sideways to the edge of the road. "It's going to go!"

"Come on! Heeya, Heeya!" Mistry shouted, while Farthing used every muscle he had to pull the great mare forward.

Suddenly, the cart jerked, and the rear wheel slid off the road and the wagon started rolling backwards, tipping alarmingly. Farthing growled as he pulled, and Mistry slapped the reins on the backs of the horses.

"Move, damn you!" she shouted.

And then there was a huge crash, and the wagon lurched sideways, sliding across the road and away from the cliff.

"Mab-Tok!" shouted Pree in shock.

"Get that brake off!" Mistry yelled at Weasel. He released the handle and Mistry and Farthing between them got the horses moving straight again. "Whoa! Stop! Farthing, stop them! Weasel, brake! Chocks!"

The big wagon lurched once more and ground to a halt, the horses panting, sweating, and foaming at the mouths. Pree and Rusty shoved the chocks under the back wheels then grabbed large rocks from the side of the road and pushed those behind the front wheels till the wagon was held fast. Mistry sat down and turned to Weasel, who was sweating from pulling so hard on the brake and staring down over the cliff.

"What happened?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought we were going over."

"Mab-Tok!" shouted Pree from behind the wagon. "Quick, come help him!" Weasel and Mistry jumped off the wagon to find Mab-Tok lying flat and unconscious in the middle of the road.

"Where did he come from?" Weasel asked the girls.

"He just flew in from nowhere and crashed into the side of the Wagon, knocking it back onto the road." Pree was kneeling by the dragon with her hand on his chest. "He's hardly breathing, Weasel. Where is Lily?"

Weasel shut his eyes and concentrated. "She's up on the mountain top. She can't get here without Mab-Tok."

Wagons were stopping everywhere, and two big men came up from the wagon behind them.

"Can't you keep control of your stupid horses?" one of them shouted.

Mistry lost it and marched up to the big man, twice her size.

"Me? Don't you call me out, thickhead. Look ahead of you! That idiot and his oothen nearly knocked us off the bloody cliff!" She punched the man in the stomach, not hard, but it made him step back in surprise. His fellow grabbed his shoulder.

"She's right, Den. Look. It's that mad bloke we ran into yesterday. Hey! He had a trailer earlier."

"Well, it's down there now!" shouted Mistry, the reality of how close they had come to following the trailer down the mountain hitting her hard. She started to tremble. Farthing came over and put his hand on her arm. She tried to shake it off in her anger, but he didn't move.

"Sis, go check the horses," he said firmly. "I can't calm them as you can. Now." Mistry stalked up to the horses. The man who she had hit looked up at the big, muscular young man who was obviously in no mood to argue.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "I got scared and angry." He looked down at the dragon. "Can we help?"

"We need to get him off the road, but he's out cold."

"I'm not surprised. Have you seen what he's done to your wagon?"

The man was right. The left barrel was completely smashed, and part of the thick sideboard pushed in.

"If he hadn't, we would have all been over the cliff," said Weasel. The second man pulled the first aside and whispered something.

"Look, we got an empty wagon here and eight horses," said Den. "It's bigger than yours. You get yourselves sorted and stay here. We need to get that idiot and his oothen out of the way and his wagon shifted, and then we'll get help from the other drivers and lift your dragon onto our wagon. Are you going over the pass?"

"Yeah, down into Peys," said Farthing.

"We're not going that far, but we can get you up into the old pass and there are places you can stop just off the road up there. There is even a small stream you can stay by." Farthing shook the man's hand.

"Thanks, and sorry about your stomach."

"I had it coming, mate, but it didn't really hurt," said the man, smiling. "Made me bloody jump, though!"

Pree and Rusty looked after Mab-Tok while Mistry stayed with the horses and Farthing and Weasel helped with sorting the capsized wagon. It had been badly damaged by the oothen, so the drivers from the queue of mining wagons simply pushed it over the cliff, to the loud protests of the driver. He shut up when he was told he was lucky they didn't tie him to it first.

Then it was the turn of Mab-Tok. Den and his mate brought up their wagon which was an open-top quarry wagon with sides that dropped down. It took eight of them to manhandle the small dragon up into the back, and then Rusty and Pree jumped up with him; there was no way they were going to leave him.

"I'm sure your dragon will be fine, miss," said Den, trying to be friendly.

"He is not my dragon, his name is Mab-Tok," Pree told him firmly. Den all but saluted her.

"Sorry, miss. I don't know much about dragons. I've never seen one before except in drawings." He smiled, a bit embarrassed by his own ignorance.

"They make the best of friends," Pree told him. "And the bravest."

"They do at that, miss. They do at that." The big brute of a man punched his friend in the arm and climbed up quickly onto his driver's seat to get the wagon and eight moving.

Weasel and Farthing threw the remaining bits of the barrel over the cliff. Weasel untied his horse and mounted up.

"I'm worried about Lily," he said. "Mab-Tok left her right up on the peak and she is trying to climb down, but she isn't very strong. I'm going to ride on up to the pass and see if I can help in any way, even if it's just to make sure she's careful." He handed the permit over to Mistry.

"Maybe she'll find a goat to follow," said Farthing.

Weasel smiled and galloped up the road. Farthing hung the chocks with their ropes around his neck and climbed up next to Mistry as she coaxed the still frightened horses up the hill. Suddenly, she pushed the reins into his hands, put her face on her knees and shook with sobs. Farthing didn't say anything, he really didn't need to. He just put one arm around her and pulled her close.

The old pass through the mountains was like a different world. They hadn't appreciated there was effectively two passes. The new wide road that had been hacked through the mountain for the big mine wagons, and the remains of the old pass through a narrow gorge, too small and winding for anything larger than their wagon and four, and unused now. The mine drivers carefully negotiated their big wagon as far as they dared, and then all of them slid the still unconscious dragon down planks onto the grass next to the path. Mistry helped the men unhitch their four pairs and led them back up the pass while Farthing and Weasel helped manhandle the wagon around. The men hitched back up and then Den came up to Mistry with his hand held out.

"Friends?" asked the big man. Mistry eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then took his hand.

"Yeah, friends, and sorry."

"No, I am. Look I'm not the brightest bloke, I know that, but I should have used my eyes first and my words second. My mum always used to tell me off for that." He smiled a bit sheepishly. "You know, I was watching you with your team just now and you are way better than most of the drivers on the job. We don't have many women drivers, but there are a couple. If you ever want a job, I'll vouch for you. It's hard, but its regular, and that is about as much as my brother and me can hope for. Anyway." He climbed up onto the wagon and picked up the reins where they lay over the foot board. "They are still clearing the new pass out, so we have a ton of rock to pick up and haul back down the hill. Enjoy the trip down to Peys. It's a nice run and the road up to Tool is good. There is also a big inn called Hilda's on the highway down at the bottom of the mountain. Food is straightforward, lots of it, and is cheap. Good luck, Miss. I hope your friend's alright." He clicked quietly, and his horses moved into a trot and back to the new road.

"Better than most, eh?" said Farthing, putting his arm around the young woman. "I said you were good."

"Or course I'm good, Farthing!" Mistry elbowed him hard. "And hungry. How is Mab-Tok?"

"Still out, but Pree thinks he's breathing easier. She's sitting with him looking as worried as hell."

"What about Lily?"

"I haven't seen Weasel yet, but hopefully, she's climbing down. If she's stuck, I'm going to have to climb up and help her, I think."

They walked back to where they had pulled the Wagon onto the grass just by a small stream that was winding down the rocky, tree-covered, steep hillside above them. Leaving Mab-Tok in the caring hands of Rusty and Pree, Farthing and Mistry unhitched and unharnessed the horses and walked them into the stream to drink, then tethered them safely to a line, giving them oats in nosebags. Farthing made up a fire, boiled up some water from the stream, and cooked beans with dried smoked ham that he had picked up a few days before.

Mistry was still trying to get over their narrow escape. She was all too aware that if Mab-Tok had not saved the wagon, there would have been a real chance that both she and Weasel would have died, and she was having trouble shaking it off. She hung onto Farthing for a good half hour, then excused herself and went to sleep in the wagon, even though it was not yet dark. Farthing took two bowls of bean stew over to Rusty and Pree, who took it thankfully.

"Any change?"

"I don't know," said Pree. "I really thought we were going to lose him on the way up. At one point, we thought he had stopped breathing."

"Anything broken? He must have hit that cart incredibly hard."

"We didn't even see it happen, it was so quick," Rusty told her brother. "Suddenly he was there, and the cart just skidded sideways. He must have rammed into it."

"Probably the only thing he could do," said Farthing. "He saved Mistry and Weasel. They would have gone with the wagon if he hadn't."

"Where is Mistry?" asked Rusty.

"She went to bed. She's still shaky."

"I'll go stay with her," said Rusty, standing up. "She shouldn't be alone."

"Thanks, sis."

Rusty shook some of the dust out from her clothes and untied her hair. "And I still want another bath!"

After a couple of minutes, she reappeared with blankets and one of the bedrolls and gave them to Farthing and Pree. "You mustn't get cold out here. Look after him."

Farthing laid out the bedroll, put a couple of the blankets over Mab-Tok, then sat down cross-legged on the ground. Pree lay down and put her head on his leg, holding his hand to her face.

"I'm scared, Johnson."

"I know. So am I."

She kissed his hand and closed her eyes.

A few hours later, with the sun now set, Weasel appeared on horseback from the shadows, the small white dragon sitting behind him. She jumped off the horse and rushed over to Mab-Tok. Farthing woke Pree, who sat up quickly.

"I'll get a couple of lamps," she said, and trotted back to the Wagon.

Lily was stroking Mab-Tok's head and whispering in her strange language that she sometimes used. Farthing took Weasel's horse from him as he climbed down.

"Where did you find her?"

"About half a league back down the main road," answered the magician. "She had a hell of a time getting down and couldn't work out where she was in the dark. Farthing, she was crying."

"She was upset!"

"You don't get it; dragons don't cry! I didn't think it was even physically possible. Anger yes, sob and shout when upset, but not crying, not like that. It was like a child. There are things about these Draig Wen I just don't understand. They are definitely dragons, but then, you know, they're almost human too."

The magician looked positively confused which was something Farthing had rarely seen before. Pree emerged from the back of the wagon with three lanterns, handing one to Farthing then hanging the other two from branches by Mab-Tok.

"Oh, no!" she said. "Farthing, Weasel, help me, will you?" Pree pointed at the small white dragon. In the lamplight, they could now see how hard the climb down had been. Her clothes were torn to shreds, she was filthy dirty, and she was covered with cuts, scratches, and bruises.

"I must help Mab-Tok!" Lily pulled away from Farthing when he put his hand out to her. "He's getting worse!"

"Lily, you both need help," he said gently. "Let Eafa check Mab-Tok and let us help you. Then you will be able to help Mab-Tok better."

She looked undecided, but Pree took her hand.

"Let them help, Lily," she said.

Rusty and Mistry appeared, and seeing the state of the Draig Wen, they helped her to her feet and the four of them climbed back into the wagon.

Farthing knelt beside Mab-Tok. "She's right mate; he's hardly breathing!" Farthing looked up in panic. "Weasel, you need to do this."

"He is a dragon. I don't know anything about dragons. Lily needs to do it."

"Lily can't. You saw the state of her, and you helped Fren-Eirol."

"That was different, I was just closing a wound I could see. This needs proper healing, and I'm not a healer, Farthing!"

"No, you are not. That is what your mother told you. You are not a healer, or a finder, or a speaker, or a wave talker, or any of those stupid things, but you can still do them. You can do this. Weasel, you must do this." The magician looked suddenly very old and very nervous. Farthing reached up, grabbed him by the arm and firmly pulled him down next to the dragon, pushing the magician's hand down onto Mab-Tok. "Do it, Eafa, or he will die."

Weasel looked up at the young man, then down at the dragon, his friend. He frowned, then closed his eyes and put both hands on the dragon, pushing gently with his mind. He jerked back and looked up at Farthing. "Definitely not a human," he said, shaking his head. Then he tried again, cautiously.

For the next hour, Weasel delved into the strangeness of the dragon's body, trying to find his way around, to understand how he was constructed, what made him work. As he had said, Mab-Tok was not human, but he was not unfamiliar either, not in a way he thought a dragon should be. The sweat was pouring down his brow and he began to shake and go white. Suddenly he opened his eyes in shock and toppled over backwards, out cold.

"Oh, sod it, not again," muttered Farthing. But then Mab-Tok stirred slightly, blinked a couple of times, and licked his lips.

"What happened? Oh, I am so tired!" And he fell asleep.

Lily climbed down from the wagon nervously, wearing one of Mistry's shirts. She rushed over to Mab-Tok, put her hand on his head, then sat up in surprise.

"Mab-Tok is well? He is sleeping! How?"

Farthing pointed to the unconscious Weasel. Lily blinked several times.

"How? He should not be able to cure a dragon!" said the Draig Wen.

"But I thought he was special, different."

"He is, but he still shouldn't be able to do it. No human can. Never ever."

Farthing thought this idea of never was getting tired. "Weasel said dragons can't cry, but you had tears in your eyes."

"Draig Wen are complicated," she said dismissively.

"Well, it looks like Weasel is complicated too, then," said Farthing softly.

The small dragon contemplated the idea. "That might be true too," she said. "Will Eafa be alright?"

"Yes, he will. He won't be in a good mood and will have a bad headache, but he'll be alright. What about Mab-Tok?"

"He is already alright," said Lily with some amazement. "I, I..." She hesitated and looked up at Farthing. "I couldn't have done that." She shook her head. "I will stay with him now because he will still hurt when he wakes." She lay down and curled up next to the Draig Bach-Iachawr and rested her head on his shoulder.

Farthing shook his head, not even bothering to try to work it all out. Standing up, he picked up the bedding role in one hand, then picked up Weasel with the other and slung him over his shoulder. Taking him over to the wagon, he dropped the bedding roll on the ground, and gently lowered the unconscious magician onto it, covering him with a blanket.

"Now," muttered Farthing to himself. "Where the hell am I going to sleep?"

A small, timid, young woman with rich, red hair popped her head around the end of the wagon, smiled a small smile, and held out her hand.

# Chapter 22 – A Friend in Need

"Mummy, mummy, mummy! My dragon has come to fly me!"

Melini looked up from behind the table where she was cleaning up after breakfast at the bouncing little girl. "Silvi, what do you mean?"

"My dragon, mummy. You know my dragon. She is here! Quick, mummy!"

Melini sighed. All they had heard about for the last few weeks was how the girl's dragon would be coming back to take her flying. But Melini knew it was pretty unlikely the sea dragon had lived, so terrible had been her injuries, and if she even knew that the little girl had wanted to go flying, it would be, well, incredible.

"Come on, mummy! Now! And she has brought her friend to see us!"

"What friend?" Melini stood up. She was becoming aware of some sort of commotion outside in the village. "Silvi, what is going on?"

"I told you, mummy," said the little girl with her hands firmly on her hips. "My dragon has come to fly me. Now come on!" The girl turned tail and rushed out of the door.

"Silvi?" Melini took off her apron and followed to see what on earth was going on. Walking around the corner into the square, she stopped dead in her tracks. There, surrounded by most of the village and her grinning husband was Fren-Eirol, standing up tall and proud, and another huge dragon standing next to her. The big sea dragon looked at Melini, closed her eyes, and bowed low in greeting.

"You are alright," said Melini in a near whisper, and then shouted it out. "You are alright!" And rushed to the dragon and hugged her head.

"Yes, Melini, I am alright, thanks to you and everyone else. This is Be-Elin and we are on our way to find our friends."

Melini's smile dropped. "And the girls?"

"They were rescued, but the story is far from over, and I fear they might be in trouble."

"Why have you come to see us then? You should go."

"I have something very important to do first," said the dragon in a warm voice. And she whisked her head around to Silvi, who shrieked in surprise. The sea dragon lowered her head right down to the ground so that her nose was nearly touching the little girl's tiny face. "Silvi," she said very seriously.

"Yes, Eirol?" said the small girl in a shaky voice, chewing her knuckle.

"I believe I promised to take you flying."

Pree walked from the cold stream and wrapped her towel around her. With Mab-Tok and Weasel both still recovering, they had spent the last two days in this almost forgotten little pass through the mountains. Other than the men who had helped them with Mab-Tok, no one else had been through. Farthing had been gone since the previous day scouting ahead, Weasel was sleeping inside the wagon as he had been for almost the whole time, and Mab-Tok had been taking short flights to try to ease his stiff muscles while Lily paced around fretting about him. Quite how badly injured he had been was a mystery to all except Weasel and Mab-Tok himself, and neither of them was keen to talk about it. Pree had found it puzzling, but Farthing had pointed out that Weasel was so tired and confused about it himself that he was happy to let it ride. Mab-Tok was alive when he probably should not be, and Farthing was not going to question it.

Farthing was the other issue of course. The first night in the pass they had spent together, hidden behind a tree a little way from the wagon. It had been gentle and honest, and Pree was pretty damned certain she was not going to let anything stop her and Farthing being together from now on. In that respect, it was almost a bonus that her father had turned against her. He had been the one person who could have stopped her being with the poor cart pusher from The Wealle. And yet, she still had to finish crossing that bridge from being the spoilt prelate's daughter with servants. When they reached Taken, she was going to be Prelate Hearting's daughter again, and Farthing would still be the cart pusher. She somehow had to reinvent herself and her role so she didn't have to ask Farthing to be something he simply wasn't capable of being. If he had been such a person, she wouldn't have fallen for him in the first place, and she wanted him just as he was. Mistry had spoken about Fren-Eirol a lot during the journey, and Pree was dearly wishing the sea dragon was with them now. She felt she needed this ancient, wise, person; like Mistry, she found herself wishing for a mother.

"If you have finished prancing around in the stream, Pree, Farthing has returned, and I would like to get going down the hill." Mistry walked up and poked Pree in the tummy. "And you ain't properly wrapped up!" Pree stuck her tongue out. Mistry threw her own towel over her shoulder and headed to the stream. "Just keep them away for me while I wash. Soap?"

"On the rock, boss," said Pree, and danced off to the wagon.

When Mistry returned, Farthing and Pree had the horses harnessed and hitched, and Rusty was changing some of Lily's dressings. The small dragon had been far more hurt than she would admit to, but she refused to let Mab-Tok try to heal her while he was still weak from his own injuries, so Rusty had more or less bullied Lily to let her help her out. Sometimes Rusty seemed closer to the little dragon than any of them, as if there was an actual bond between them, a kinship. Mistry stopped by a tree and looked at her family. It was an odd bunch in so many ways. Farthing had made it clear at the abbey that Weasel was in charge, but the magician had spent more time deferring to her as wagon master than anything else. The result was that at only just sixteen, Mistry felt she was responsible for all of them, doubly so now that Weasel was currently almost incapable of standing up.

"Miss Sparrow, how is your riding getting on?" Mistry asked Pree as she double-checked the horses. She knew Farthing and Pree would have harnessed them perfectly, but no driver ever took out a team without a last-minute check themselves.

"Alright, as long as I am on the mare," answered Pree. "Farthing's gelding is too frisky for me."

"Fine, you are on Mr Horseman's mount with Mr Goatherd riding next to you. Miss Parrot, you are up with me on the front of the wagon, Mr Horseman and Lily are in the back, and Mr Dragon, are you alright to fly?" Well, she thought it unfair that Mab-Tok did not have some sort of pseudonym, even if it did lack in originality.

"As long as I take it in stages, I'm fine, boss," said Mab-Tok, bowing slightly in his dragon way and grinning. "I will fly on ahead a couple of leagues and if I see no problems, I will just wait off the road for you. If I'm worried about anything, I'll come back and find you. I will have an easier day than you, I suspect."

"Mr Goatherd, how far did you get?" Mistry was in bossy mood.

"Almost to the bottom, boss," said Farthing, picking up on the general theme of the conversation. "Not quite as far as the inn, but I could see it in the distance. There are two steep sections, but they are short, and most of the larger wagons were only slowing a little for them. I ran into Den and his brother again. He's become a bit of a fan, you know." He grinned wickedly. "Anyway, he said that driver with the oothens is in right trouble with the mines. Apparently, unlike many of the other drivers, the wagon was theirs not his, and they are trying to get him to pay up for the loss."

Mistry smiled. It made sense. If the beasts and wagon had been his, maybe he would have been more responsible. "Can we keep going down this old pass, or do we need to cut back to the new road?"

"Stay on this pass. It's really busy up on the new pass because they are trying to level out the road. The two roads join quite a bit farther down, so you'll miss it all. It winds a lot, but nothing dramatic for you."

"Right, let's get going," said Mistry. "Inn and beer await, and then we have a long haul to the port at Tool."

Just before they left, Lily clambered sorely out of the wagon, gave Mab-Tok a hug, then climbed back in. Pree hid a grin. She was aware that she and Farthing had attracted some puerile comments with their little affair, but when it came to cute, they had no chance of competing against the diminutive Draig Wen and the permanently confused Mab-Tok. She mounted Weasel's horse carefully as she was still learning, and waved at the dignified dragon. He waved briefly, and then, with a bit of an effort, launched himself into the air and disappeared over the trees. Pree looked back to the patch of flattened grass by the small stream and fixed it into her memory. Whatever happened next, this place was going to be very important to her for a long time to come.

"Beer!"

"Three jugs over here!"

"More pots please, love!"

"Any of that stew left, Hilda?"

"Beer!"

"Hey, that was my beer, fathead!"

"Joey, you put your fists down or I'll crown you myself."

"Sorry, Hilda!"

Farthing, Pree, and Rusty stood in the open doorway of the large, busy inn at the bottom of the climb from the pass.

"Now, this is more like it," said Rusty with a grin. "Brother, you get the beers I'll grab that lady and see what she's serving. Coming, Sparrow?"

"Want me to find a table?" asked Pree.

"Think you can? It's packed!"

"Well, let me have a look, and see if someone wants to move."

Farthing pushed his way through the deafening crowd of drivers and their mates. Many of the men were big, but he was still taller than most and managed to make his way through to the bar. "Barkles, you would love it here," said Farthing to himself, looking at the big pots of frothing beer that were being thrown back.

"What do you want, mate?" shouted one of the barmen to him. It was a long busy bar and there must have been six or seven barmen behind the counter. It reminded him of the Long Tavern in the Skattlings just up from Sally's place. "Come on, mate, loads of people waiting."

"Sorry!" said Farthing. "What is that beer?" He pointed at one of the big frothing pots.

"Wheat beer; strong and long."

"Perfect. Five of those, please."

"Six coin, two-thirds, mate." Farthing handed over the coins as he finally reached the bar. "First time on the trail?" asked the barman, filling the pots from the barrels stacked up along the wall.

"Yeah, came down this morning."

"Hauling?"

"Just travelling, the family and me."

"I saw you and the girls at the door. Nice family!"

"Very close, mate," said Farthing with a grin. Nothing wrong with making sure people knew up front where things stood.

"Quite right too. Want a tray?"

"Better had. Know much about the trail to Tool?"

"Easy travelling, mate," said the barman. "But keep it tight. Get some opportunistic types on the road, if you know what I mean."

"We've met some of those before. Thanks for the tip. I'll keep my eyes open."

The barman turned to serve another customer, and Farthing carried the tray above everyone else's heads till he reached a long table by the window that had five empty chairs, by some miracle.

"What did you promise them?" he asked the grinning Pree as he sat down.

"Oh, nothing more than a smile, lover," said Pree, winking.

Rusty fought her way back across the room, and Mistry pushed in through the door, helping the still weak but now awake Weasel to the table. Mab-Tok had taken a fretting Lily off hunting.

"It was a choice of stew, stew, stew, or stew," explained Rusty. "So, I went for the stew, for a change."

Mistry sat down next to the magician, and Farthing pushed one of the big frothy pots in front of her.

"Oh, man! Now I think I really am in love!" She stared at the beer with big eyes and took a huge gulp, emerging from behind the pot with foam all around her face. "That is really nice!"

Weasel smiled at the girl and took a rather more cautious sip at his beer, nodding in approval.

"I needed that," he said seriously and a bit hoarsely. "Sorry I've been out of it, but that was hard."

"I realised it was," said Farthing. "Want to tell us what you had to do?"

Weasel shook his head. "No, not really. I'm not sure how to describe it, and, well, let's just say that was one messed up dragon. I think that needs to be between him and me."

"Well, and Lily."

"She didn't see everything in her state. Can we leave it there?"

"Yeah, no problem," said Farthing, taking a really good swig of his beer. "Wow, this is good!"

The big woman Hilda arrived with a tough looking serving girl who gave Farthing a once over with an appreciative nod. Pree smiled, slipped her hand through Farthing's arm, and looked at the girl with a "try it lady" look on her face. Mistry nearly choked on her beer.

"Five stews, five loaves, five forks. No stabbing with the forks and no throwing the bread, it might hurt someone." The big woman would have made Geezen look small and grinned twice as wide. Farthing liked her immediately. "Want anything more, shout for Hilda," she told them, turning away, and pushing the serving girl before her.

"I am going to have to watch you," said Pree to Farthing, tapping him on the head with her bread.

"Ow! Why? Hey, that actually is hard!" exclaimed Farthing. Pree looked at the bread in surprise. "Don't you trust me?"

"You yes; her no," she said, pointing over to the serving girl who was having a long-distance look.

"Don't worry, Sparrow," said Rusty. "They have to get past me and Miss Raven first."

"Counting on you, sisters," said Pree with a grin. She lifted her heavy pot and held it out in front of her. "To family. Our family!"

"Family!" the young people answered with a shout.

"Family!" most of the bar added in a louder shout followed by laughter.

Weasel gazed at the young people gathered around him, laughing and drinking. Johnson Farthing, the eldest at nineteen, but in a lot of ways, more grown up than many in this bar. Precious Hearting, not many months behind him, yet strong and with a dangerous, unpredictable future. Rustina Farthing, seventeen, smart and beautiful, and a survivor of the most horrific few months. Weasel looked at her again. Not for the first time, there was something about Rusty that puzzled him. And finally, Mistry Jinks. The youngest at just sixteen, she was probably more grown up than all of them.

And here he was. If you added all their ages together, he was still nearly a thousand years older than they, and today he could feel every year of it. He smiled, and then his thoughts drifted hundreds of leagues to a garden behind an ancient abbey, and to the dragon he had left behind.

"To family, Snowy," he whispered to himself.

Farthing looked up, having heard what the magician had said, and he too lifted his beer quietly to the health of the dragon.

After five days of hard travelling on the main highway from the mountains, the sight of the walled port of Tool was welcome. They had decided to just keep going. There were plenty of inns and liveries on the road set up to serve the traffic from the mines, but none had been as friendly as Hilda's. So, with the young women getting a bit too much attention from some of the drivers, they had stuck to watering the horses and fending for themselves. They could have taken one of the quieter back routes through the villages, but they were all getting nervous about how long it had taken them to cross Bind, and they desperately wanted to get off this continent.

When they reached the town walls, the road split. All the mining traffic turned left before the gates and headed to new quays built outside the town, while they trotted in through the gate, and asked one of the gatekeepers for the shortest route to a good inn and livery.

"Good-sized cart you got there, sir," the man said to Weasel. "Passing through?"

"Picking up a berth, we hope, so we'll be selling up."

"Oh, right. Well that changes things a bit then. I was going to send you off into the main town, but you are better turning right up here and making your way along the wall to about halfway around to the north. There're a couple of big liveries up there that deal in wagons as well as horses. The inns are not much to write home about, though, so do whatever deal you need and make your way down to the old port. The best inns are around the harbour, and it's where all the boat owners and agents are. Can't miss it when you find it, it looks old!"

Weasel thanked the man and Mistry turned the horses right and walked them along the road by the wall. Rusty was sitting on the folded down backboard of the wagon, as usual, and she glanced up at the gatekeeper. He grabbed some young lad and pointed in their direction, then handed something to the boy and sent him scurrying off into the town.

"That's odd," she said to herself, and climbed through the wagon and onto the driver's seat where she called over to Weasel and Farthing.

"That gatekeeper. I think he is up to something."

"What you mean?" asked Farthing. She told him what she had just seen.

Weasel frowned. "That sounds suspiciously like our luck has just run out. Pull up here, Mistry."

Mistry brought the horses to a halt. "What you want to do?" she asked.

"Just stay here a few minutes. There's no one around." Weasel leapt from his horse and disappeared down a small alley.

"He's been here before," explained Farthing to the blank faces.

"A few hundred years back, maybe," said Mistry.

"Well, let's hope his memory is good then."

"Actually, it's rubbish," said Weasel, reappearing. "But I haven't lost the ability to stick my head into someone's house and ask a question or two. Mistry, turn left down the next lane. There's a small livery yard right down the bottom that's always looking to buy and repair wagons. More to the point, he's not one of the big concerns that everyone knows."

Mistry walked the big horses on, then turned down the little lane. "I hope it doesn't get much narrower down here; this is tight!"

"We are one barrel thinner, so you should be fine," said Weasel. "Hang on, I'll just get this bloke to shift his handcart."

"I've got one of those," said Farthing, a surprising wave of nostalgia washing over him. Pree climbed up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest.

"Do I get my own cart, or do we share?" she asked with a grin, cuddling into his back.

"Oh, definitely no shares," he said. "Man and his cart is a special relationship, you know."

The livery yard was tiny, but when the proprietor emerged, he looked at the wagon and the well-kept Bekon Brown horses once, and immediately started negotiating with Weasel. Mistry knew that Weasel was not going to mess around for the best price ever, it was more important for them to do a deal as soon as possible, so she started unhitching the horses. Within minutes, a deal was done, and they stabled the horses and manhandled the wagon into the yard.

"What about your stuff inside," asked the yard owner.

"We need to find an inn down at the docks first," replied Weasel. "Can we leave it till then? We'll grab a handcart, come and collect it, and sort out the coin. We'll leave you all the tack, naturally, and you can have the spare canvases. They are a bit worn, so I'll just throw them in."

"Not going to argue with that. Anyway, I need to fix the wagon up and give it some paint before I sell her on, so no rush. You done me a fair deal, sir."

Weasel shook the man's hand. "Come on, let's go find an inn," he said to the others.

As they walked on down the lane and farther into the ancient town of Tool, Farthing caught up to Weasel.

"We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"Well, we knew we'd be walking into something. Mab-Tok guessed this might happen weeks ago and it was the most obvious scenario."

"It might have been nothing; the gatekeeper might have been doing something entirely innocent."

"Could be, but I trust your sister's instincts. Like you, she is used to this sort of town and the people in it."

"Yeah, just trying to keep my hopes up," admitted Farthing. "Look, I know nothing about finding a boat, but I think we need to get a move on. So, why don't we split up? I'll go find an inn, then the girls can go and get whatever we need from the livery. I'll track you down at the docks and we can take it from there."

"Sounds like a plan," said Weasel. "See if you can find an inn farther into the town since the Gatekeeper is expecting us to find one at the harbour. Now, if I remember correctly, there is a big market square up on the right here, which my gut says we should avoid. So, let's take a detour."

The Anchor was one of those inns that had existed for so long it had sunk into the very fabric of the town, and you had to walk down three stone steps once you entered through the door, ducking in Farthing's case. He had looked at three other inns so far, but they had been busy, and he was nervous that they were too close to the harbour. This old inn was several streets back into the poorer part of the town and the common room was empty.

"Beer, son?" asked the innkeeper, broom in hand.

"Not yet, sir," answered Farthing with a smile. "Name is Goatherd, and I'm looking for a couple of rooms for my family. Five of us; three in one, two in the other."

"Rooms I can do for you, Mr Goatherd. Downy's the name." Farthing shook the proffered hand. "How long? We've got a big market coming up in a few days and I have people booked in."

"Only a couple of days, I think. So that should be fine."

"Do you want a price, then?"

Farthing grinned, it was normally the first question you asked. "Yeah, sorry. Been wandering around trying find rooms for the last couple of hours."

"The inns fill up at the harbour first, Mr Goatherd, and then it sort of works its way back to us."

"I realised that a bit late; I could have saved myself a walk!" The two men laughed, agreed on a price, and Farthing stepped outside to send the others back up to the livery to get their things.

"Just grab what you can carry," he told them. "As long as I have a couple of shirts and trousers, I don't the care about the rest of my stuff. I want all of us out of here as soon as possible."

There was a tension building up in the little party, and Mistry, Pree, and Rusty headed off without a word, their expressions business like. Farthing popped back into the inn.

"My sisters will be back with our stuff in about an hour, Mr Downy. I'm just going to find my uncle and we'll be back later."

"You all be wanting supper, sir?"

"Yeah, that would be good. Something simple and some of your stout would be welcome." Farthing smiled. He needed to keep this light and uneventful, and to blend in as much as possible.

"My wife does an excellent potato and fish casserole with home-baked bread, Mr Goatherd. I will ask her to put some on."

Weasel sat on the harbour wall, took off his old hat and wiped his brow. Even several days after healing Mab-Tok he still felt beaten up inside. Mab-Tok had had some appalling internal injuries that had been bleeding badly, and Weasel had just worked his way through, healing as he went. Thankfully, by some miracle, the only broken bones had been two ribs and one of Mab-Tok's toes. Broken bones were very difficult to deal with. He had not managed to fix the toe before passing out and the dragon was still limping.

He had spent two hours now walking up and down the harbour going from agent to agent, and no one knew of any boats with room for passengers anywhere. The best he had been offered was some old sea dog and something about a vessel with problems. The agent had been vague but had told him he would send for the man and to meet him here, just by where they stored the lobster pots.

"Mr Horseman?" asked an achingly familiar voice from behind him. Weasel spun around. "Mr W..."

"Shush! Yes, it's Mr Horseman, and who be you?"

"Oh, right, er, yes. Mr Jipperson at your service, sir. I gather you be looking for passage?"

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Jipperson. Shall we go somewhere quiet?"

"I know just the place, sir. Follow me!"

Weasel followed the short, bandy-legged seaman like a puppy following its long-lost mother. Nathan Jipperson ducked down an alley and in through a door into some modest lodgings. Climbing the stairs, he entered a room with a single bed, turned around and held out his hand. Weasel shook it with both of his.

"Mr Jipperson, you don't know how glad I am to see you!"

"Mr Weasel, and well met to you too. Now, I know that expression. How much trouble are you in?"

"Plenty."

Weasel gave Jipperson the potted version of rescuing the girls from Tekkinmod and their fear they had been spotted. He left out just about everything else; that would have to wait.

"Well, that sounds like a much more complicated story in the offing, Mr Weasel, but I get your gist. Now for the bad news. To start with, I think you be right. There have been some men asking for a group seeking passage, just like you be, for several days now. Mercenary types they be and waving a lot of coin around. Now, I might have a boat for you, but it's not that easy."

"How come, Mr Jipperson?"

"Well, I have been on a small whaler as master for the last three months, but we had some bad luck. The owner has gone bankrupt and has had to let the crew go. I am stuck here till I can sort it. I've paid off some of the debt out of my own pocket so the boat is easier to flog, and I still have access to her, but the rest of the debt needs clearing, the mooring fees are unpaid, and it has no crew."

"I can sort that out."

"You can?" Jipperson looked surprised. "It is a fair amount of coin."

Weasel stood up and fiddled around under his robe.

"Nearly had a problem with this when some fool decided to throw me in a bath, but..." He struggled some more and came out with a chunky, leather bag. "How much is gold worth in this town?"

Farthing leant against the wall of the alley and peeked out. There was no mistaking the three men leaning against the railings by the slipway; Wesseners. He had nearly walked straight into them, and it was only because of a couple of kids who knocked into the men first causing a shouting match that he had seen them at all. He had been here for a quarter of an hour, trying to see what they were up to, but they were just standing there talking. As he watched, another man came up, short and stocky, but dressed better. He said something to them, then the four men split up, walking along the harbour questioning the fishermen. Farthing slipped back down the alley. He had to get hold of Weasel and let him know what was happening. All he could do for the moment was to return to the inn and warn the girls. First, he had to make his way back, and he wasn't entirely sure where he was. If he could find his way towards the market, however, he thought he would be alright from there to the Anchor.

The first couple of alleys he tried were dead ends, but at last he found one that led up to a bigger thoroughfare. He looked out cautiously and saw two more of the Wesseners. How many were here? He looked up the other way and cursed. There was Weasel, walking straight towards the men. When they had raided Tekkinmod's hall, Weasel had insisted on wearing his stupid hat, and now he had it on again. It was certain the men knew exactly what to look for. Farthing tried waving at the magician, but he was looking at his hands.

"Damn it, Weasel," said Farthing under his breath. "Oh bugger. I'll have to risk it!"

Making sure his back was towards the Wesseners who were talking to a group of seamen, he walked confidently up the crowded street, grabbed Weasel by the arm, spun him around, and pushed him into another alley.

"Wesseners, I know," said Weasel before Farthing had a chance to open his mouth. "They're everywhere."

"You nearly walked into two more!"

"Did I?" Weasel grinned. "No, I knew they were there. I saw you hiding in the alley and was coming across to you quietly."

"What do we do? We have to get out of here tonight!"

"I know."

"We could just leave the town and make our way up the coast."

"We've had some luck."

"What sort?" whispered Farthing.

"Brotherly luck, Mr Goatherd. Brotherly luck."

Farthing looked blankly at the magician and then a couple of cogs got the right the idea. "You're joking. Here?"

"Here and with a boat."

"When? How?"

"Back to the inn first. I tell you what is what then."

Weasel detoured into a small herbalist shop first, then they wound along the alleys until Farthing got his sense of direction back. When they arrived at the inn, the smell of fish stew filled the common room, and the young women were sitting at a table drinking stout. Weasel smiled broadly and sat down at the table, quietly shoving a small packet into Rusty's hand. Farthing had already told Weasel who was meant to be related to whom.

"Well, nieces. You have found a beautiful place here. And fish stew too!" The innkeeper brought over two stouts and Weasel thanked him, introducing himself with a shake of his hand. "Now, I hear there is some kind of celebration tonight in the square."

"That there be, Mr Horseman, sir. Night of the angels it's called, and quite a spectacular it is. Always have it before the big annual fair."

"Well, that sounds like our destination once we've eaten your wonderful-smelling stew. And then back here for more stout, I would say!" Weasel was being a bit over the top, but he was keeping their invented plans memorable.

"Sounds like a perfect evening sir. I wish I could join you." Downy politely disappeared into the back.

"Upstairs, Parrot and Sparrow; lose that red hair!"

"What?" Pree sounded shocked.

"Pree, the place is crawling with Tekkinmod's men," said Farthing urgently. "They know exactly what to look for."

Rusty was peeking into the packet. "Come on, Sparrow; always fancied black hair for fun." She grabbed Pree's hand and dragged her upstairs.

"How much did you get from the wagon?" Weasel asked Mistry.

"Only what we need. It is all upstairs. I've got the coin too."

"You keep hold of it. Which way are the rooms facing?"

"Ours is out the front, yours is looking over the side alley."

"Farthing, get out to the alley while I go and distract the innkeeper and his misses. Mistry, you chuck our bags down to Farthing through the window. Then I must go to the north-east gate and meet with Mab-Tok and Lily. We have to be out of here just after sunset. The tide turns at nine tonight, and I want to be on it."

"Can we navigate out of the harbour in the dark?" asked Farthing.

"I bet Jipperson can." Weasel didn't wait for questions. He put on his biggest smile and headed for the back of the inn. Farthing and Mistry waited for Weasels loud, exaggerated performance and then she shot upstairs, and he went outside.

"The sea dragons were definitely working from here a year or so ago," said Mab-Tok to Lily. "A few of them came over to Taken a couple of times."

They were standing in the middle of a small dragon village, about size of the one at Wead-Wodder, but now abandoned.

"Why have they left?" asked Lilygwin.

"I don't know. No work maybe? Not friendly? We have had to be careful on the way across Bind."

"I am not used to being not wanted," said the small dragon in a tight voice.

"Well, you are wanted by me, Lilygwin," said Mab-Tok with a smile.

"And you by me. Now we must meet with Eafa." She stepped lightly onto the back of the Draig Bach-Iachawr, and he jumped into the air with a huff. The toe was still annoying him.

Weasel was already at the gate when they arrived. The sun was low in the sky and Mab-Tok landed quietly.

"News, Eafa?" he asked.

"We have a boat at the far end of the South Pier. Do you know where that is?"

"I scouted earlier, so I think I know."

"The boat is the Melina and you already know its master."

"Who is that?"

"Nathan Jipperson."

"My goodness," said Mab-Tok. "That is useful!"

"Very. Now, what about the dragons?"

"Gone. Abandoned."

"It is completely empty," added Lily. "I think they went ages ago."

Weasel frowned. "That is odd. That village has been there centuries. No clue as to why they went?"

"None," said Mab-Tok. "And I wasn't about to start asking the locals."

"Fair point. Look, I need to get back. The Wesseners are everywhere. They know we are here and are asking questions. It's not going to be easy to get down to the harbour." He held Mab-Tok and Lily's arms briefly. "It might get dangerous. Be careful." He left and headed back into the town quietly.

"I wish we could do more," said Lilygwin.

"We will do what we can, Lily, but we need to wait till it's darker first."

The fish stew was good and so was the stout, though they all drank less than it might have appeared. Rusty and Pree were sitting together, clean, spruced up and resplendent in their new black hair. The innkeeper didn't say anything, but they had been so dirty earlier, and both had had their hair tied up out of the way under scarves, so it was doubtful he had noticed the sudden change. Mistry sat a little more quietly than the others and Farthing asked her whether she was all right.

"I know I have nothing left here, Johnson," she said a little sadly. "But Bind is my home, and I've never left it before. My father's body is in the desert up at Jerr-Vone somewhere and my little farm is four hundred leagues east, but it's all in Bind. Tonight, I leave it behind."

Farthing put an arm around her. "I know. I'm beginning to feel the same about Redust."

"Why?"

"Because I have no idea whether we can actually return. Pree certainly can't without a lot of help, and I'm not going back without her. Rusty can't either. But wherever we go, it's all of us together now, Mistry. Not just Pree and me, or me and Rusty. All of us."

The girl nodded. She knew she should be overjoyed to get away from what her life had become, but it was proving more difficult that she had imagined. She desperately wanted Fren-Eirol here, more than anything else. Downy, the innkeeper, appeared with his wife to collect their plates.

"You might want to be getting down to the market soon," he suggested. "There is a little parade of the local children first and then it gets going pretty quick after that. We have some other guests coming in soon or we'd be coming with you, but we'll have some stout ready for you when you get back." The rotund man grinned broadly.

"Well, your fish was delicious," said Weasel to Mrs Downy. "And we are looking forward to more of your cooking tomorrow. Come on family, let's away to the market!" They all stood, and with the three young women arm in arm, piled out of the door to have fun, making lots of noise. Weasel and Farthing turned quickly down the side alley and grabbed their few bags of belongings.

"Did you leave a note upstairs?" Weasel asked the young man.

"Rusty did. I don't write," admitted Farthing. "And we left a few coins. Nice people."

They sneaked passed the inn's shuttered windows and ran after the young women. At the corner leading to the market, they each grabbed their own bags then sneaked off down a dark alley towards the harbour. Mistry looked back up the lane one more time towards the western wall.

"What is it, Mistry?" asked Rusty.

"Best wagon and four I've ever had. I'm going to miss them."

Rusty stood for a moment too. "Yeah, so will I. Come on."

"Quiet, stop!" Farthing reversed back into the alley. "Wesseners," he said in a whisper.

Weasel pushed passed and peeked around the wall of the inn they were standing next to at the harbour.

"Dammit! They're right at the pier. And with everyone else up at the Market tonight, it's dead quiet. We can hardly sneak up there."

"No other way?" asked Farthing.

"No, it is just a long thin pier. Only one way on or off unless you swim. I looked into that harbour earlier. Bad idea."

"Do you think they'll move?" asked Mistry.

"I doubt it. They know we have to get to one of the two piers and really it needs to be this one since it's where all the traders moor up. The bigger boats are too deep to use the north pier; that's just used by the local fishermen. They know we are here, just not exactly where. So, all they need to do is wait for us."

"They have been doing that all along, haven't they?" said Farthing in a tired voice. "Didn't need to chase us, just wait for us."

"Well, maybe we could have headed east instead, but there are no boats that side of Bind that would take us around to here, so we would've been stuck."

"Can we draw them away somehow?" asked Rusty, then immediately wished she hadn't when Farthing and Weasel looked at each other.

"How fast can you run, Mr Horseman?"

"As fast as you I would say, Mr Goatherd."

"And how fast do you think those kind gentlemen can run with all their lovely leather and big heavy weapons, Mr Horseman?"

"I think they will give it their best shot, Mr Goatherd."

"Do you think they would like a race?"

"Why not, Mr Goatherd!" said Weasel with a grin. He turned to the young women. "Look, this is going to be dangerous, but we have no choice. We will draw them off and you get to the boat."

"What if they don't all follow you?" asked Pree.

"If they think we are going to find you two," said Weasel to Pree and Rusty, "then they'll follow."

"How are you going to get back to the boat?"

"We won't. Get to Jipperson and tell him to go to the North Pier, or as close as he can. With any luck, Mab-Tok is already at the boat, and he might be able to help us, at least for a short hop."

The women looked at one another and then at the men.

"Not happy about this, Weasel," said Mistry.

"Have you got a better idea, girl?" he asked, more unkindly than he meant. He grabbed her by the shoulders gently. "If we don't get away tonight, we'll be dead. Tekkinmod wants the two redheads. Not us. Though he might want you for the same as Sirrupp did, I suppose. He won't want Farthing or me at all. So, we are fighting for something too."

She nodded, then threw her arms around the magician and kissed him hard. "Don't you lose my brother, magician. You hear?" He nodded. "And don't you lose yourself either. I need both of you. Family." Rusty, Pree and Mistry hugged both men, and Pree looked deeply into Farthing's eyes. She didn't need to say anything.

Farthing and Wesel got rid of their belongings to the women, dumping some of the less important stuff to lighten the load, then took off their coats.

"We walk out, Farthing, nice and slow like they are not here. On my cue, we run."

"What will the cue be?"

"Me running."

The eight Wesseners had had a dull day and were itching for a fight. They had been marching up and down the harbour and through the town, and there had not been a sign of the two slaves anywhere or the people who had rescued them. Their messenger from Henderton had given them a good description of who they were looking for, and another one of their spies at Hilda's had confirmed they had come over the pass. Tekkinmod walked out from the shadows where he had been relieving himself.

"They will have to come here. If not tonight, then tomorrow. We won't have to wait long, and I have men at all the gates, so they are not heading back into Bind. Remember, keep the slaves alive, but the others, just kill them."

"What about the dragon?" asked one of the men.

"It's only a Draig Bach-Iachawr," sneered Tekkinmod. "A spear will finish him quick, which is why two of you have got them, idiots. Retton, any sign?"

Tekkinmod's shorter second appeared from across the street.

"We found their wagon. The bloke who bought it said they picked up their things earlier and were staying at an inn near the market. I've got a couple of people poking around in case. But this town is stuffed with inns."

"Good. Just need to wait then." Tekkinmod stretched and scratched at his crotch as two men sauntered past chatting. It took him a moment to register who they were. "It's the men; get them!"

The shorter man looked over in alarm and grabbed the bigger man's arm. "Quick!" he shouted in panic. "Get to the girls!" And the two ran off along the harbour wall.

"They're going after the slaves!" shouted Tekkinmod. "After them, catch them!" He and the men ran off leaving Retton standing there undecided. Something was not quite right.

"Oh, sod it, Tekkinmod," he cursed, and ran off after his boss.

"Wait!" Mistry ordered the girls. "Wait until they pass those sheds." The two men were risking everything and there was no way she was letting them down. "Alright, come on, quietly." She grabbed two bags, hers and Weasels, and slipped across the road and onto the pier, Rusty and Pree following. The pier was surprisingly long and when they reached the end where the boat was berthed, Mab-Tok was waiting with Lily, oblivious to what had happened. Mistry quickly explained, and without saying another word, Mab-Tok leapt into the night.

"Who is who, Miss?" asked Jipperson, walking down the gangplank.

"I'm Mistry, and this is Pree and Rusty, Farthing's sister."

"I am Mr Jipperson, Miss Farthing, Miss Hearting and...?"

"Er, Miss Jinx," said Mistry in confusion. She hardly ever used her family name.

"And the two gentlemen?"

"Running for their lives!" Mistry explained the plan. Jipperson didn't even question it.

"On board, now!" The politeness vanished. "Sebbon!"

"Aye, Sir!"

"Get us into the middle of the harbour, now. Tides turning, you should be able to drift her. Franks?"

"Aye, Sir!"

"Two of you into the Jolly Boat and over to the North Pier."

"It is eight hundred paces, sir!"

"Well, you better row fast then, mister!"

"Aye, Sir!"

"You four." He turned to the three young women and Lily. "Don't need you in the way. My cabin is aft. Get in there and stay there." They hesitated.

"He said now!" Mistry shouted at them, and Lily, Rusty, Pree and Mistry ran into the aft cabin, taking all their bags."

"Little one is sweet," said the boatswain. "Someone's kid?"

"That is a dragon, idiot," said Jipperson.

"Oh. I only ever seen one other dragon, sir, and that was this evening."

"Well, you're going to get your right fill of them in a few weeks at Taken, son."

Farthing couldn't believe how fast the magician ran off, but he picked up his cue and got his legs moving.

"Get to the girls!" shouted Weasel back at him, far louder than needed.

He grinned. "They're up the far end waiting," he shouted back.

"Come on then!" yelled Weasel and picked up the pace.

The roar of the men behind Farthing was deafening and frightening, but he heard one voice clearly. He had heard it when lying on the ground in Wessen, bleeding out from his leg wound; Tekkinmod.

He and Weasel weren't wearing armour and were carrying nothing except Weasel's hat, but the men behind them were fit hunters from the ices, and they would not be left behind that quickly. One in particular, was closing. Farthing grabbed a lobster pot on his way past a pile and pulled the whole lot down behind him. He was hard on Weasel's heels.

"They are gaining; speed up!" he shouted.

Weasel nodded breathlessly, and dug his heels in.

"Up here." Weasel jumped up onto the harbour wall. The road twisted and turned through sheds and crates, so the wall was more direct. Farthing scrambled up after him, pulling some nets down. The men behind split up, some on the wall and some on the road. Farthing and Weasel pulled a little ahead. Suddenly, Weasel slipped on the wall and went crashing into a pile of crates. The men behind yelled for Tekkinmod.

"Get out of here!" shouted Weasel at Farthing.

"No way, magician!" Farthing reached down and pulled Weasel straight back onto the wall. "Run!" He could feel the first of the men right behind him.

Mab-Tok flew straight up from the pier, looking for his friends. He heard shouting from the road and he saw Farthing and Weasel running along the harbour wall, closely pursued by two of the Wesseners, the others not far behind. Suddenly, Weasel slipped, and Farthing pulled the magician to his feet, but the men were too close now. Mab-Tok growled and plummeted out of the air, slamming into the backs of the two Wesseners, then soared into the sky, back into the dark. He saw two others turn and look up. They were carrying spears. That was a problem. A spear could down him, he knew, and he had no real protection. Still...

He dived again, farther back, knocking another man over and flew back into the night once more, circling around, ready to strike again. If they didn't know where he was going to target next, then it would slow them all down. Suddenly, he felt the air move around him, and something brushed his wingtip.

"Ignore him. Get the men!" Tekkinmod jumped over the lifeless form of one of his men, his back torn open by the dragon. "There is only one of him." Tekkinmod leapt up onto the Harbour wall. He was no young man, but he spent months hunting tundra bears up in the ices every summer. He was tall, strong, and fit, and he was angry.

"Where are the slaves?" shouted Retton from behind him. "They are just running!"

"What?"

"It's a bloody diversion, Belin!"

"Dammit. Right. Kill them! Five hundred coins to the man who kills them."

His men sped up.

"The pier is on the left!" shouted Weasel. "Where are those men?"

"Er, don't know! Fell off?" Farthing was running out of breath and he had no idea what had happened to the two men who moments ago were right behind him. Above them, they heard a roar. "Mab-Tok?"

"A bit deep!" commented Weasel. "Left turn here!"

They leapt off the wall, skidded on some fish oil, and shot up the wooden north pier, their boots banging on the planks. Behind them, they could hear the battle roar of Tekkinmod's men.

"Up the pier! After them," Tekkinmod shouted.

Farthing risked looking back; the Wesseners were closing in.

Mab-Tok peered into the gloom to his right to see a big, smiling face.

"Hello, Mab-Tok."

"Fren-Eirol?"

"And me too," said another voice to his left.

"Be-Elin?"

"Shall we go rescue our friends?" asked the sea dragon.

"Oh, yes!"

"Where is he?" shouted Weasel. "Where is Jipperson?"

They had reached the end of the pier and had run out of places to run. He could hear splashing of oars and a call from out in the harbour. It was the Jolly Boat, but it was too far away.

"Jump?" asked Farthing.

"No point, they will just chuck spears at us. Come on." Weasel turned and walked back down the pier, Farthing following, getting his breath back. Tekkinmod's men skidded to a halt, jostling for position. All of them wanted the money for themselves. Tekkinmod pushed through his men.

"Kill them, now."

"Kill us and you will never find your property, Tekkinmod," said Weasel, sneering. "Two redheads? Quite a prize. Don't find that often, do you? How much are they worth? How much did you pay?"

"I will find them. I'm good at finding things."

"And I'm good at hiding things, Tekkinmod."

Tekkinmod hesitated for a moment. "He's bluffing; kill them both now. Five hundred to each of you!"

That broke the stalemate, and the men rushed forward.

"Run!" shouted Mab-Tok from overhead as the pier shook like an earthquake.

Tekkinmod's men slid to a halt, and Farthing and Weasel spun around to see what was happening behind them. The two looked at each other in amazement. There, sat at the end of the pier, their backs towards them, their wings out wide and their tails out straight, were two of the most beautiful dragons on Dirt.

"Run, you idiots!" shouted Mab-Tok again, and Farthing and Weasel charged back up the pier, ran straight up the tails of the dragons, and threw themselves onto the hides. The two huge beasts leapt straight into the air, Mab-Tok hard on their tails.

Back in the harbour, Jipperson helped pull up the small jolly boat.

"Sebbon!"

"Aye, Sir. Already turning."

"Good man. Grab that tide and get us out of here."

Farthing hung onto Be-Elin like life itself. The big desert dragon turned her head and rumbled in pleasure.

"What are you doing here?" Farthing asked the dragon in amazement. "You're a desert dragon from the Sand Hills."

"You are my rider, Johnson Farthing," purred the dragon. "And I will never abandon you." Farthing was speechless. He owed this beautiful person his life twice.

"How can I ever pay you back, Be-Elin."

"Never be so stupid again would be a start!" said the dragon with a chuckle. "Now, where are we flying to, rider?"

"Er, can you take two?"

Weasel sat cross-legged on Fren-Eirol. They had flown high into the sky, leaving Farthing and Be-Elin far below. Fren-Eirol just drifted. The two of them had been silent for many minutes.

"You are wearing hides, Snowy," said Weasel.

"I'm an honorary desert dragon now," said the sea dragon with amusement. "And anyway, I rather like them. I think they suit me."

"I think they do too." Weasel stroked the dragon's soft skin on the back of her neck and she rumbled in pleasure. "Family."

"What?"

"A week back in a tavern we toasted to family. We meant you as well."

"You have a lot to tell me."

"I do, starting with Farthing and the Prelate's daughter." Weasel chuckled.

"Oh dear," said Fren-Eirol. "What about Mistry?"

"About them? She's fine. Well, she is getting fine. But then, she has done more than anyone to get us here. You should be proud of her."

"I have missed her, Eafa."

"I know you have, Snowy."

"You need to get down to the boat, wave talker. They are going to need you."

"In the early morning, if you can bare me till then. We have much to talk about and more to plan for. I'm sorry, old friend, but I think I might have started something."

Fren-Eirol frowned. What had her magician been up to?

Tekkinmod sat on a barrel, cursing.

"I should learn to listen to you, Retton."

"No way could you have known. It just struck me as odd. What do you want to do now?"

"Well, you are by far the better hunter of the two of us, old friend, but I am the richer. Go buy me a boat; a fast one."

"We are chasing them?"

"No, forget them for the moment. We're going to see that idiot cousin of mine. Damned if I will have dragons messing in human affairs, and it's time we move our plans forward. I've waited long enough. Now, go."

Retton nodded and headed back along the harbour, taking three of the men with him. Tekkinmod walked up to the top of the pier, looking at the deep score marks where the dragons' talons had gripped the edge.

"Lord Tekkinmod?" From out of the shadows stepped a small thin man and a young woman.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Eritarlin and this is Senin," said the man. "And we can get you across the Yonder Sea far faster than you can possibly imagine. For a price."

Enjoyed this book? Please leave a nice review for me! Now, off you go and read Bloody Dirt, book two in series one of Dirt. Things are about to get a whole lot more complicated.

# Find out More about Dirt

Learn more about the World of Dirt, the characters, the people, the dragons, the history and the background to the story at the special A World Called Dirt website.

More about the books, plus The Abbey, a section dedicated to everything about the world including character lists, pronunciation guides, maps and more. Also, comments from C. C. Hogan, explaining more about how he created the story and why he made certain plot decisions.

Don't worry, each section is marked up so that if you do not want to know details in advance of where you are in the books, you don't have to.

www.aworldcalleddirt.com

# Books by C. C. Hogan

Dirt - Series Two

Five hundred years have passed since the war in The Prelates, now called Preland after Pree. The people have squandered the legacy left by Pree and Johnson Farthing, and the federation founded by the southern states has collapsed. Across both Preland and Bind, the population is smaller, poorer and fragmented, and the people are ruled by greedy, petty kings, barons and warlords. The humans of Dirt have forgotten their past, have few hopes for their future and the dragons are now nothing more than silly tales in children's stories and songs.

But the disease that threatened to destroy all the dragons has changed and is no longer fatal. And in Angyn, some of the dragons want to come home.

Girls of Dirt

Silvi Farthing did not have the best of childhoods, despite living on the warm, safe Isle of Hope. She is now seventeen, has left her misogynistic family and has started her own little farm, breeding goats and making cheese for the local fishing village of Bay. She knows nothing about her family's history, other than she is related to some man called Johnson Farthing who was a founder of the community on the island centuries before. But when her brothers destroy her farm and attack her, saying that she should be married, she is rescued by the most incredible of creatures; Be-Elin the desert dragon.

So begins a new chapter in the story of Dirt as Silvi, Be-Elin, Mab-Abin and the Ancient Ferret, Weasel's daughter, work to bring back the dragons, and look for a country where they will be accepted by the people and can help build a better future for all of Dirt. Includes a recap of series one.

Dragons of Dirt

The dragons are beginning to return, but it is early days and the two kings and their new dragon friends have many hills to climb. But the friends know that without finding the long-lost descendant of the Cwendrina and setting up a council on the Isle of Taken to bring the disparate people of Dirt together, their plans might fail.

Silvi and Ferret with the dragons Mab-Abin and Be-Elin set off across Preland in search of the descendant of Rustina Farthing. But across the Yonder Sea, enemy forces are building and it will down to Edver Kellin and Silvi to defeat these new threats and build new alliances.

People of Dirt

The ghost of General Johnson Farthing has settled on the young shoulders of Silvi Farthing, and more and more, people are turning to her to lead them. In the north of Preland, a new threat is growing, one sworn to destroy the dragons once and for all, and in the beautiful kingdom of Sarn, the warring neighbours have attacked, Queen Fena is dead and the town of Don is besieged.

Can Dragon Leader Silvi and her dragons beat back these new threats? Does this young cheesemaker from the peaceful Isle of Hope have the strength to pick up the banner of her great father Johnson and build a new army?

Read the thrilling conclusion to series two of the fantasy saga, Dirt.

Dirt – Series One

Johnson Farthing is tall, blonde and muscular. He is also desperately poor and makes his living shifting dirt for others in the dusty town of Wead-Wodder, Redust. He knows his life is far from perfect and he, like so many others, is at the bottom of the heap, but he is a young man with an optimistic streak, and he makes the best of a simple life.

But when his red-headed sister is kidnapped along with the daughter of the Prelate, the ruler of Redust, his life is changed forever, and he chases across an ocean and a continent with the help of a strange magician and an incredible sea dragon.

In the first series of Dirt, follow Johnson Farthing and his young friends as they join forces with the huge and beautiful dragons of Dirt to fight against conquers who would take the world for their own and destroy any who get in the way. This is not a tale of kings or princesses, but of ordinary folk, human and dragon, and their hope that they can build a bright, future based on fairness, equality and freedom.

Start your journey with Dirt, then continue the story with Bloody Dirt, The Fight for Dirt and Hope. Available as both e-books and in paperback.

Yona and the Beast – Free short story

Yona is cold. She and her friends are locked up in Tekkinmod's hall and they are dying from starvation, maltreatment and cold. When a young man breaks down the door and tells them to get out of there, their lives change dramatically.

Find out what happened to the slaves as they escape across Bind on the back of a huge Calliston in this free book available from the Dirt website: aworldcalleddirt.com.

The Stink

North London, 1976. The longest, hottest summer on record. The dustmen are on strike, the water is running out and the kids hate their parents. Which bunch of idiots would think it is a good idea to start a band?

Stench, Aroma, Smell, Haze and Fart might not have the sweetest nicknames in town, but these five have just finished their O-Levels and are on a mission to take their fledgling little band and get themselves a half decent gig. Songs are good, playing is getting better, Smell's voice is wicked, so what could possibly go wrong?

Aside from the National Front, smelly teens, the lead singer falling in love with the drummer and a double murder. But this is 1976. It is not only a different decade, it is a different planet.

If you were a teen back then, you will lap up the nostalgia. If you are a teen now, you will wish you had been there. The Stink. It was what the seventies were all about! Out Now.

www.thestinkbooks.com

# About the Author

C.C. Hogan is a writer, musician and occasional voice, originally from North London. He is a lover of both London and Fantasy. Find out more at his website: www.cchogan.com

