Matt had a notion he'd like to meet them.
Well, no man ever got anywhere by wishing. Though in this universe ... No. Even here, he'd have to know how to wish properly. And he'd better learn fast; Malingo might get impatient.
How do you cast a spell?
So far, from all indications, it was done by poetry - or verse, anyway. And Malingo's gestures seemed to have a place in it, too. Would Matt's beggar summons have worked if he hadn't adopted a Statue of Liberty pose?
Matt took a deep breath. The next move was to experiment, validate the theory. Okay, he'd conjure up something - something safe, such as light. Only without a match at all, this time; he didn't need a bonfire.
Then a happy thought struck him; instead of fire, why not call for a fire-lighter? Or a lamplighter, at least ... No, the way things worked here, he might wind up with a Victorian streetboy with a match on the end of along pole. He wanted a local; might as well get some information, as well as company.
He felt the familiar gathering of force as he began to recite, but stronger now; much stronger.
There was a shattering roar, and light seared Matt's eyes. He fell back against the wall, covering his face, while something huge and scaly rasped and grated against the stone walls. Fool! Matt's monitor-mind gibbered. When will you learn to be specific?
The roaring slurred into words; heat seared Matt with syllables. "Who? Who hath done zhish to me? ... Thou!"
Matt jerked his head up, staring. The light winked out, but the afterimage showed two burning eyes...
Light came again, a five-foot gout of glaring flame, showing a mail-scaled snout with flaring nostrils over pointed teeth and huge, scaly-ridged eyes. "Thou! Vile dung-heaped hunter of hatchlings! What! Dursht summon a grown dragon to ambush? Temeritoush idiot! If thou dosht hope to drain Shtegoman's blood to shell to a shorsherer, thou'rt a fool, and will shoon be a dead one!"
A gout of flame seared out again. Matt yelped and leaped aside just in time. The dragon took a breath like a bellows and lurched against the wall with a clash. "Where art thou, worm of a man? Thinkesht thou to hide from Shteo ... Shtegoman ... in sho shmall a shpace? Thou'lt ... thou'lt..."
The flame suddenly seared out again, and Matt leaped. But he needn't have worried; the fire missed him by five feet as the dragon lurched to the side. The great eyes were filmed and bleary in the firelight.
Then light snapped out like a strobe and, in the darkness, Matt realized. The fool beast is drunk! And getting drunker.
But apparently he was the unpleasant type of boozer, the kind that gets mean in its cups; and he was taking another blast-furnace breath.
"Hold it!" Matt snapped up a hand, palm out. "I'm innocent!"
"Indeed?" the behemoth sneered. "Then thou art the firsht man to be sho, shince Adam. Wherefore didsht thou shummon me here, if not to drain dragon'zh blood?" The glowing eyes seemed to wince slightly.
"Well ... curiosity! I was just doing research!"
"Belike," Stegoman sneered. "And what wazh thish 'reshearch?' Didsht thou sheek to dishcover the limitsh of a dragon'zh enduranshe? How mach pain I might withshtand? Nay!" The blowtorch spat again -- but it wavered this time, inscribing a zigzag of soot on the wall; and in the light, Matt definitely saw the dragon wince again, eyes almost squeezing shut with pain.
Then it was dark once more, but Stegoman was inhaling. Delay! Matt thought frantically and called out, "What's the matter?"
There was a moment of silence; then the slurred voice asked suspiciously, "Matter? What dosht thou shpeak of?"
"Your pain!" It was an opening. Get him talking! Keep his mouth too busy to use for afire thrower! "I saw you wince. Does it hurt much?"
"What conshem izh it of thine?"
"Well, gee ... I just hate to see a fellow being in pain." Matt crossed his fingers in the dark and added, "I'm a doctor." Well, not yet, and the wrong kind-but it's not too much of a lie.
"Doctor?" The dragon fairly leaped at the idea, and Matt sighed with relief. "Mmm ... indeed?" Now the beast was trying to sound casual. "And what conshern izh that of mine?"
"Well, I know pain when I see it and I hate seeing it. What's bothering you? Maybe I can do something about it."
The dragon rumbled deep in his belly, and his voice was surly. "I have a tooth in my jaw that cauzheth me pain, if thou musht know; but it will not keep me from roashting vile hunterzh who prey upon hatchlingzh!"
"Toothache, huh?" Matt commiserated. "Yeah, that can really get you down. But, if you don't mind my saying so, you seem a bit young to be having trouble with your teeth." Wild guess; all he'd seen so far was flashes of a huge, scaly head.
But Stegoman bought it. "A dragon is young for a century or two, ignorant mortal! The first hundred years are, I assure thee, quite long enough for teeth to begin to rot and to pain us."
"Really?" Matt frowned. "I should think you'd grow new ones every few decades."
"Thou art indeed ignorant of our ways," the dragon snorted. He seemed to be sobering up already, Matt noted. Strange, very strange. "We are born with the teeth we must keep all our lives; they are in our mouths when we hatch; they grow as we grow,,. like our skins."
"Your skins grow? I mean, you don't have to shed them once a year?"
The dragon gave a metallic rattle that might have been its equivalent of a superior chuckle. "Nay, certainly not! We are not snakes or lizards, man, though related to them, I doubt not, as thou are related to the kobolds and snow-apes. But dost thou scurry about in tunnels beneath the earth, or swing by long arms from a mountain peak?"
"Well, no - at least, not in most cases. Although I've heard of... Well, never mind. As you see, I don't know much about dragons."
"Thou art indeed a strange mortal," the dragon huffed. "What manner of man art thou, to be so ignorant of our race? Or dost thou not know our importance to thee?"
"Not really," Matt confessed. "A dragon's a pretty rare sight, where I come from."
"Scandalous!" The dragon snorted. "Are all men of thy land so unlearned?"
"You might say so. In fact, there are a lot of us who don't even believe in magic."
The dragon was silent, dumfounded; and Matt had that sinking feeling that, as usual, he'd said the wrong thing. "What manner of man art thou?" the dragon exploded.
Matt shrank back against the wall, but he managed to shrug his shoulders. "Well, the usual kind. You've seen me."
"Not well," the dragon rumbled. "Art thou afeared to show thyself?"
He had a nasty, suspicious tone to him. "Of course not!" Matt said quickly. "You want some light? I mean, something a little smaller and more constant than your house specialty?"
"That might be advisable."
"Oh, sure, sure! Right away." Matt yanked out his matchbook and tried to remember what spell he'd used.
"What dost thou wait for?" Stegoman growled.
"Uh, it takes a little time." Matt recited the skewed Blake quotation under his breath while he struck a match, remembering to hold it at arm's length. A twelve-inch flame gushed, and he ad-libbed quickly: