Challie shook her head. “I’ve tried to eat, too, and can’t. Bridget is in the kitchen fixing these enormous meals, and no one can eat them. Even Cosmo is off his feed.”
The dwarf sat on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands. She wore the blue tunic and baggy pants that made up her uniform, and her silver axe hung at her belt, but her face was pale, and the dark blue of the tunic only enhanced the dark circles around her eyes. “Lucy, I’m nervous,” she admitted. “I never thought I’d admit this, but that dragon terrifies me. I have never been so close to a dragon before. What if I can’t do what I am supposed to do?”
Lucy stood by her friend’s chair. “I know,” she said. “All of us are terrified. I won’t hold you to this, Challie. If you want to leave, one of the Fox’s men can take you to one of the camps in the hills.”
“No,” the dwarf said vehemently. “I will not run. I made an oath to serve you and this town, and I will, but … I will be very glad when this is all over.”
Lucy couldn’t agree more. To occupy her mind, she put on her clothes, meticulously brushing the dust from her pants and tunic, donning everything so it all hung just right. She fastened her belt around her waist and slid her dagger scabbard to her right side. Her leather boots slid on easily, and she tucked her pants’ legs into the soft cuffs. Last of all, she picked up the turban from its resting place on the table and gently set it on her head. The moment when the creature returned to its preferred place never failed to amaze her. It wrapped itself happily about her chestnut hair like a cat snuggling into its bed for a nap, and the pleased mental thoughts of its consciousness settled around her in a comforting aura. Taking a deep breath, she half-bowed to Challie, and the two of them left the inn to face the day together.
Shortly after sunrise, the familiar figure of Knight Officer Venturin was spotted riding along the road into town. A sentry quickly steered her to the festival site where the sheriff was waiting for her. When she reached the street, she slowed her horse and looked around in surprise at the picnic preparations.
Lucy barely nodded to her as she handed Venturin a packet. “It’s all there: a map, tax records, and signed statements. Keep riding until our messenger catches up to you. I will not reveal your name to Fyremantle, but keep the information in case you need it in the near future.”
Venturin glowered down at her from the saddle. “My men?”
Lucy whistled loudly and pointed down the street. From the Game Cock, two men led a Dark Knight out the door. It was quite obvious, even from a distance, that he had been enjoying himself. He waved drunkenly to his commander. “As you can see, they’re fine.”
“Who is this messenger? How will he be able to catch up with me?”
“The messenger is on loan from a friend. It is a hawk, specially trained to deliver messages. It will find you.”
“One of the Silver Fox’s?” Venturin demanded. “Is he involved in this?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m not surprised.” The Dark Knight snatched the packet from Lucy’s hand. “Don’t try to cross me, Sheriff.” She spurred her horse around and galloped southeast toward the Desolation.
Mayor Efrim had told Lucy that the tax collection in Flotsam usually occurred around midafternoon on Visiting Day. Fyremantle collected the taxes from several places and usually needed the day to cover all his obligations. This day, they hoped, would not be different.
Everyone who volunteered to stay behind gathered in the new festival ground. Most of the kender were there with their containers of pickled eggs and their faces unclouded by fear. The city council, Mayor Efrim, and those of the Vigilance Force not guarding the camps made their appearance. There were enough people there, Lucy hoped, to give the dragon the impression that the whole town had come for the festival.
At her request, the firepits were uncovered and the sides of meat on their spits were raised and set to keep warm over the coals. Sniffing appreciatively, Ulin pulled out a leather bag and sprinkled the contents liberally over the roasting meat. He and Lucy watched as the white powder blended with the meat juices and slowly disappeared.
“What will that do?” Kethril asked curiously.
“With luck? Buy us some time. It is supposed to make the dragon drowsy for a short while. Don’t let anyone touch that meat. And the same with these barrels of beer.” He pried off the lids of three large kegs of beer and poured the contents of a second bag into the golden liquid.
Notwen tugged Lucy’s sleeve. “Sheriff, I’ve been meaning to tell you. The reason we had to make these powders …?” He hesitated and looked at Ulin then back at Lucy. “Well, I did some calculations last night, and I’ve rechecked them dozens of times. My, uh, trap will hold, but not for long. I estimate you will have about fifteen minutes before he breaks out.”
Appalled, Lucy stared at him. She had thought they would have ample time to convince the dragon to see things their way. “Fifteen minutes?” she gasped.
“It was the best we could do in such a short time,” Ulin said apologetically. “You and Kethril will have to talk fast.”
“Me?” Kethril exclaimed. “Why me?”
“I have to handle the rockets and the ropes and be close by in case the trap doesn’t work properly. You started this whole mess.” Ulin said pointedly. “You can help finish it.”
Lucy’s father nodded gloomily. His fingers went to the silver ring on his right hand and began to twist it around and around.
Challie and a guard arrived, driving a laden freight wagon covered with a tarp. They parked it near the fire pit and unhitched the horses.
Around noon people brought out the rest of the food prepared for the feast and set it out on tables under fly-proof screens. No one ate very much. Almost everyone stood around and watched the sky. A few musicians set up their instruments and played dance tunes, but no one danced. Lucy, as she walked around the grounds, thought the festival did not look very festive. The day was very warm for spring, and the heat rose in wavy sheets above the dry hills. The wind stirred dust into tiny whirlwinds and sent them spinning through the streets of the town. A large tumbleweed broke loose from its dry stalk and rolled through the festival grounds, enticing the kender to chase it. Notwen checked his trap for at least the thirtieth time and made sure the lamps were lit.
An hour after noon Lucy, Saorsha, and Aylesworthy climbed the path to the top of the Rock to wait for the dragon. In the meager shade of the hidden guard post, they sat without saying a word. Lucy kept her eyes to the west where the sky remained maddeningly empty.
“There he is.”
The guard’s soft words did not penetrate Lucy’s thoughts at first. She tore her eyes away from the sky and said, “What?”
Instead of answering, the guard lifted his horn to his lips and blew the first signal to the town below. In the festival field, the people froze in place and waited, their hearts pounding, for the second signal.
“There,” Saorsha said, pointing to the north. “There he is.”
They could all see him now, a dark shape against the summer sky, coming fast on his beating wings. The guard blew the second signal.
“Here we go,” Saorsha muttered. The three of them climbed out of the guards’ post and walked across the windswept stone.
Fyremantle flew over the last row of hills and swept down over the town. He circled once, twice, his head lowered to see the buildings and streets. He curved south and angled over the festival. The people below screamed and shouted and ran in all directions. Huffing his pleasure, Fyremantle beat his wings and soared over the Rock.
Abruptly the sun was blocked out on the headland. Lucy tried to look up, but fear of the dragon nearly overwhelmed her, and she screwed her eyes shut and tried to stifle the scream that gathered in her throat. She heard the heavy rustle of his leathery wings and the scratch of his claws on the rock as he came in to land. A rush of wind blew the sulfuric stench of his body around her and made her gag.