But did Tharn have to die, just because he was a dragon?
There had to be someplace a dragon could live.
She stopped, out of breath, at the corner of Center Street. Tharn tried to stop beside her, but tripped over his own foreclaws and fell in a tangle of wings and tail. Sirinita laughed, but a moment later Tharn was upright again, his head bumping scratchily against her hip. If she’d been wearing a lighter tunic, Sirinita thought, those sharp little scales would leave welts.
He really did have to go.
But where?
She peered down Center Street to the west; that led to the shipyards. Tharn would hardly be welcome there, especially if he started breathing fire around all that wood and pitch, but maybe somewhere out at sea? Was there some island where a dragon could live in safety, some other land where dragons were welcome?
Probably not.
There were stories about dragons that lived in the sea itself, but somehow she couldn’t imagine Tharn being that sort. His egg had been found in a forest, after all, up near the Tintallionese border, and he’d never shown any interest in learning to swim.
The shipyards weren’t any help.
In the other direction both Center Street and Wargate High Street led to the Arena — Wargate High Street led straight to the south side, four blocks away, while Center looped around and wound up on the north side after six blocks.
Could the Arena use a dragon?
That seemed promising. Dragons were impressive, and people liked to look at them.
At least, in pictures; in real life people tended to be too frightened of adult dragons to want to look at them.
But Tharn was a tame dragon, or at least Sirinita hoped he was tame. He wasn’t dangerous, not really. Wouldn’t he be a fine attraction in the Arena?
And she could come to visit him there, too!
That would be perfect.
“Come on, Tharn,” she said, and together the girl and her dragon trotted on down Wargate High Street.
There wasn’t a show today; the arena gates were closed, the tunnels and galleries deserted. Sirinita hadn’t thought about that; she pressed up against a gate and stared through the iron at the shadowy passages beyond.
No one was in there.
She sat down on the hard-packed dirt of the street to think. Tharn curled up beside her, his head in her lap, the scales of his chin once again scratching her legs right through her tunic.
People turned to stare as they passed, then quickly looked away so as not to be rude. Sirinita was accustomed to this; after all, one didn’t see a dragon on the streets of Ethshar every day, and certainly not one as big as Tharn was getting to be. She ignored them and sat thinking, trying to figure out who she should talk to about finding a place for Tharn at the Arena.
There was one fellow, however, who stopped a few feet away and asked, “Are you all right?”
Sirinita looked up, startled out of her reverie. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said automatically.
The man who had addressed her was young, thin, almost handsome, and dressed in soft leather breeches and a tunic of brown velvet — a clean one, in good repair, so Sirinita could be reasonably certain that he wasn’t poor, wasn’t a beggar or any of the more dangerous inhabitants of the fields out beyond Wall Street.
Of course, people who lived in the fields rarely got this far in toward the center of the city. And there were plenty of dangerous people who didn’t live in the fields.
She had Tharn to protect her, though, and she was only a few blocks from home.
“Is there anything I can help you with? You look worried,” the man said.
“I’m fine,” Sirinita repeated.
“Is it your dragon? Are you doing something magical?”
“He’s my dragon, yes, but I was just thinking, not doing magic. I’m not even an apprentice yet, see?” She pointed to her bare legs — if she was too young for a woman’s skirt, she was too young for an apprenticeship.
In fact, she was still a month short of her twelfth birthday and formal skirting, which was the very earliest she could possibly start an apprenticeship, and she hadn’t yet decided if she wanted to learn any trade. She didn’t think she wanted to learn magic, though; magic was dangerous.
“Oh,” the man said, a bit sheepishly. “I thought... well, one doesn’t see a lot of dragons, especially not that size. I thought maybe it was part of some spell.”
Sirinita shook her head. “No. We were just thinking.”
“About the Arena? There’s to be a performance the day after tomorrow, I believe, in honor of Lord Wulran’s birthday, but there’s nothing today.”
“I know,” Sirinita said. “I mean, I’d forgotten, but I know now.”
“Oh.” The man looked at them uncertainly.
“Do you work in the Arena?” Sirinita asked, suddenly realizing this might be the opportunity she had been looking for.
“No, I’m afraid not. Did you want....” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“We were wondering if Tharn could be in a show,” Sirinita explained.
“Tharn?”
“My dragon.”
“Ah.” The man scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “Perhaps if you spoke to the Lord of the Games....”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh, he’s the man in charge of the Arena,” the man explained. “Among other things. His name is Lord Varrin.”
“Do you know him?” Sirinita looked up hopefully.
“Well, yes,” the young man admitted.
“Could you introduce me?”
The young man hesitated, sighed, then said, “Oh, all right. Come on, then.”
Sirinita pushed Tharn’s head off her lap and jumped up eagerly.
Lord Varrin, it developed, lived just three blocks away, in a mansion at the corner of Wargate High Street and, of course, Games Street. A servant answered the door and bowed at the sight of the young man in velvet, then ushered man, girl, and dragon into the parlor.
A moment later Lord Varrin, a large, handsome man of middle years wearing black silk and leather, emerged and bowed.
“Lord Doran,” he said. “What brings you here?”
Sirinita’s head whirled about to look at the man in velvet. “Lord Doran?” she asked.
He nodded.
“The overlord’s brother?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I... um...”
“Never mind that,” Doran said gently. “Tell Lord Varrin why we’re here.”
“Oh.” Sirinita turned back to the Lord of the Games, grabbed Tharn by his head-crest to keep him from eating anything he shouldn’t, and explained.
When she had finished, Lords Varrin and Doran looked at one another.
“I’m afraid,” Lord Varrin said gently, “that your father is right; we don’t ever keep dragons inside the city walls. It simply isn’t safe. Even the most well-intentioned dragon can’t be trusted not to do some serious damage — quite by accident, usually. A full-grown dragon is big, young lady; just walking down a street its wings and tail could break windows and knock down signboards. And if it loses its temper — anyone can lose his temper sometimes.”
Sirinita looked at Lord Doran for confirmation.
“There’s nothing I can do,” that worthy said. “I’m not even sure my brother could manage it, and I certainly can’t. Our duty is to protect the city, and Lord Varrin is right — that means no large dragons. I’m very sorry.”
“Not even for the Arena?” Sirinita asked.
Lord Varrin shook his head. “If we ever really needed a dragon,” he said, “we could have one sent in from somewhere, just for the show. We wouldn’t keep one here. And we’d have a dozen magicians standing guard every second, just in case.”