To prove his point, Burr punched Jeremiah in the stomach. After that, the lesson had devolved into a rather thorough beating that drew a crowd. No one intervened. In the end, they'd tossed Jeremiah, half conscious, into the kitchen and said, "This is your new home. We'll come around in a few days to train you some more. Next time, don't drop the damn sword."
Life in the kitchen wasn't completely miserable. It was warm, at least, with the wood-fired ovens churning out endless trays of cornbread. On the stoves, pots of beans and potatoes simmered night and day. Thankfully, no one tried to talk to Jeremiah other than the occasional grunted command. No one cared who he was or where he'd come from. Jeremiah took comfort in this, since he was certain that, if he did talk about everything that had happened to him since the night the long-wyrm riders attacked Big Lick, he would cry. That could only result in further beatings from Presser and Burr.
Even without talking, he still found tears welling up in his eyes, which was odd. He wasn't always the bravest boy in the world, but he wasn't a crybaby. The only times he normally felt weepy was when he was getting sick. Maybe it was more than the stench of rotting vegetables that made him queasy, or the heat of the stoves that made him feel feverish. His sweat smelled funny. He was so tired. He wondered if anyone would notice if he crawled into the back room and took a nap.
Before he could act on the impulse, the door to the kitchen burst open. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sunlight outside. The chill wind cut right through him. Two shadows stood in the doorway.
"Rabbit!" one of the shadows shouted. "Time for another lesson!"
Jeremiah blinked, bringing Burr and Presser into focus.
"I-I've got to peel potatoes," he said, his voice faint and quavering.
Presser stomped inside and grabbed him by the wrist. He dragged Jeremiah toward the open door and threw him into the street.
"Everyone fights! You don't fight, you don't eat!" Presser yelled.
Jeremiah lay on the cold, packed earth of the street. A crowd was already starting to gather. Burr's feet came round to his face. His boots were scuffed and worn. The right sole was peeling away at the toe, revealing a gray wool sock.
A sheathed sword dropped to the ground next to Jeremiah's hand.
"Get up," said Burr.
Jeremiah shook his head.
"Get up or I'll kick the snot out of you," Burr said.
"I feel sick," said Jeremiah.
"You feel chicken," said Burr. "Presser, help him up."
Presser leaned down and grabbed Jeremiah by the hair. He pulled and Jeremiah found the motivation to rise to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Presser let him go and Jeremiah stood, swaying in the bright sunlight, feeling the world spinning beneath him.
"Pick up your sword, Rabbit," Burr said.
Jeremiah didn't move. It wasn't fear that held him motionless. In truth, he didn't feel anything at all beyond the terrible dizziness. It took all his will to stay on his feet.
"He looks like he's about to faint," Presser said with a giggle.
Jeremiah felt like he was about to faint.
"This will wake him up," said Burr. He charged forward and delivered a powerful punch to Jeremiah's gut. Jeremiah instantly vomited, spraying a jet of thin yellow fluid as he doubled over.
Burr cursed as he staggered backwards, wiping the vomit from his face.
Presser giggled as Jeremiah fell back to the dust. He vomited again, heaving and heaving. He was stunned by the amount of liquid pouring from him. He hadn't eaten a thing all day, and had only taken a few sips of water.
Presser continued to giggle, but the rest of the crowd grew deathly quiet. The circle of men drew back further, dispersing. Some of the men took off running. Only as he watched the frightened reaction of the crowd did Presser's giggles trail off.
Jeremiah stared with unfocused eyes as a pair of black boots came up from behind the crowd. The crowd parted at their approach. The man who wore the boots fearlessly approached Jeremiah, kneeling before him, rolling him onto his back. The man was white haired, his face dimpled with countless scars. His left ear was nothing but a mess of scabby ribbons. The white-haired man looked down with concerned eyes. On one of his hands, several of the fingers were set in splints. He pressed the back of this hand to Jeremiah's forehead. He pulled open Jeremiah's mouth with his good hand, tilting to better see inside, and frowned.
"Whose son is this?" the man asked the crowd.
"He arrived alone," said Presser. "Said he'd escaped from Vulpine himself. He's been working in the kitchen since."
"What's his name?"
"We've been calling him Rabbit."
Jeremiah swallowed, then whispered, "Juh…Jeremiah, sir."
"Where'd you come from?"
"F-from the m-mountains," he said, his teeth beginning to chatter as chills seized him. "B-Big Lick. I w-was sold into s-slavery."
"To which dragon?" the man asked.
"R-r-rorg."
A second pair of boots approached. These were the biggest feet he'd ever seen on a man. A deep voice asked, "What's happening, Frost?"
Frost shook his head. "Stonewall, you don't want to know."
"I'll be the judge of that," said the big man.
"This boy has yellow-mouth. Probably contracted it in Rorg's cavern."
"You're right," said Stonewall. "I didn't want to know that."
"And he's been working in the kitchen."
"Oh." Stonewall was silent as he contemplated this news. "Can yellow-mouth spread through-"
"Yes," said Frost. "Since he can still talk, he's not yet in the final phase. He won't live too many more days, though. I had the disease when I was his age, but I was healthy. He's half-starved and infested with lice. He won't make it."
Stonewall rubbed his eyes. "How widespread do you think-"
"He worked in the damn kitchen," snapped Frost. "Everyone in Dragon Forge is at risk."
"You've survived the disease," said Stonewall, sounding calm and thoughtful. "Others have, too. Spread the word that I want anyone who's survived yellow-mouth to gather at the kitchen. The men who this boy has been in contact with will need to be quarantined. We need to find out what his kitchen duties were. If he was in contact with the food before it was cooked, it may be that the grace of God has spared us. Not much survives the cooking here."
"This isn't something to joke about."
"Nor is it something to panic about," said Stonewall. "We have to have faith we'll get through this. We'll control the outbreak. We'll isolate those most exposed. We'll start a regimen of checking people's gums daily. Swift action is the key."
Frost scooped Jeremiah up and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder. "Swift action works for me. You go update Ragnar. I'll take care of the boy."
Stonewall looked at Frost. "When you say take care of the boy…?"
"This isn't the time to argue."
Stonewall frowned. "After what you did to Biscuit, I-"
"I know what I'm doing. Go!"
Stonewall slowly turned away, then loped off on search of Ragnar.
Jeremiah kicked as Frost turned and walked in the opposite direction, but Frost only grasped his legs tighter. Jeremiah lifted his head, straining to see where they were going. They were heading toward the foundry. The double doors stood open-even in the dead of winter, the interior of the foundry was sweltering. The doors looked like the gates of hell. It was dark and shadowy within. White flames danced above a red stream of molten iron flowing into molds.
"Put me down," Jeremiah said. "I can walk."
"You can run, you mean," said Frost.
"I won't run. I'm sick."
"I know," said Frost. "Very sick. You're going to die, boy. Yellow-mouth is a bad way to go. It's not a quick death. So, I'm going to throw you in the furnace."
Jeremiah didn't believe him. "What are you really going to do?"