The man in brown was gone.
Dumery stared, horribly disappointed, at the empty table where the wizard had bought the flask of dragon’s blood. The boy turned, quickly scanning the rest of the room, but he saw no sign of his target.
How had the man slipped away? Dumery had never turned his gaze from the tavern door for more than a couple of seconds. He looked around the taproom.
There was the hearth, and a door to the kitchens, and a long wall adorned with a strip of scaly green hide-from a genuine dragon’s tail, perhaps? Then came a broad, many-paned window, and the door to the square, and then the stairs.
The stairs. Dumery finished his circuit of the room, past the curtained booths below the stairs and past an open door that appeared to lead to the cellars, and back to the hearth.
Unless there was a way out through the kitchens or the cellars, or behind one of the draperied private booths, none of which seemed like anywhere an ordinary customer would go, the man in brown had probably just gone up to his room.
Of course, if the man in brown thought that Thetheran was angry enough to try some dire revenge, then perhaps hehad gone out through the kitchens or cellars or booths-thoughts of secret passages and ancient crypts and hidden tunnels came to mind.
That didn’t seem very likely; Dumery was old enough to know that most of the more romantic tales he had heard were exaggerated, and that as a general rule everyday life did not include many hairbreadth escapes or mysterious passages.
All the same, this was a man who dealt harshly with wizards. If anyone might anticipate a need for a secret departure, he might.
“Hai!” Dumery called, waving to a young woman in a white apron, carrying a tray under her arm.
She saw him, and sauntered over.
“What is it, boy?” she asked. “Aren’t you a bit young for a traveler?”
“I’m not a traveler,” Dumery said, concocting a lie on the spot. “I’m a messenger. My master heard that there was a man here selling dragon’s blood, and as it happens, he has need of a pint or so.”
The woman frowned. “Oh? And who would your master be?”
“Doran of Wizard Street,” Dumery improvised.
“And the name of the man he sent you after?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Dumery admitted. “A tall man in brown leather, I was told. My master said I’d be sure to know him when I saw him. But I’ve looked, and I don’t see anyone here like that. Thisis the Dragon’s Tail, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is!” she snapped. “You saw the signboard, and there’s the skin of the tail itself.” She gestured at the hide stretched on the wall.
Dumery nodded. “Of course. Well, maybe he’s stepped out, then, this man I was sent after?”
“No,” she said, “I know who you mean. He’s upstairs, settling his bill and packing his things; he’s been three days here, and he’s done his business and ready to go. I don’t think he’s got a drop of that stuff left, but if you want to ask him, he should be down again any minute.”
“Oh,” Dumery said. “Thank you.”
Someone called, and the woman turned away, lifting her tray. Dumery sat down on a nearby chair and waited.
While he waited, he tried to figure out just how he wanted to approach the situation.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, when Dumery was beginning to wonder if he’d been tricked, two people came tramping noisily down the stairs. One was a plump, elderly woman wearing a white apron and carrying a plump purse-the innkeeper, presumably-while the other was the familiar man in brown. The man had a large pack slung over one shoulder.
Dumery waited until they had passed him, then got quickly to his feet.
The innkeeper turned left and headed for the kitchens; the man in brown turned right and headed out the door.
Dumery followed the man in brown.
The man marched across the market square, Dumery staying close behind, watching his every step. It appeared he was heading for the south gate-tower once more.
Sure enough, he stopped and exchanged a few words with the guard; Dumery was not close enough to catch the words this time. He worked his way through the crowd, and emerged a pace or so away just as the man in brown turned away and marched on-out through the city gates and into the wide World beyond.
A sudden irrational terror struck Dumery at the thought of following him.
Never, in all his life, had Dumery left the protection of Ethshar’s city wall.
Venturing out of the streets into the wilderness beyond-or at least, comparative wilderness-was truly frightening. Dumery knew that the real wilderness didn’t begin for a hundred leagues or so, butanything that wasn’t city seemed dangerous and alien.
Still, this was his one chance at becoming a dragon-hunter.
“Hai!” he called, running after the man.
Even as he ran, Dumery was surprised to see that the market continued outside the gate. The city did not; to either side of the bare packed dirt of the highway lay open green fields, rather than streets and shops. Even so, wagons lined the sides of the highway, and farmers were selling their wares to a milling crowd of city-folk just as if they were all safely inside Westgate Market.
“Hello,” he called, “dragon’s blood! In the brown leather!”
The man in brown heard him, and stopped. He turned, startled, as Dumery ran up to him.
“Yes, lad?” he asked.
Dumery had to catch his breath. Furthermore, he was disconcerted to find himself actually outside the wall, and the broad expanses of open space, dotted with trees and farmhouses, were so strange that his eyes kept being drawn away from the man’s face. By the time he could gather himself sufficiently to speak impatience showed in the man’s features.
“Please, sir,” Dumery said, “I’m of an age to begin an apprenticeship, and I saw you selling dragon’s blood, and I thought that you must be a dragon-hunter, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than to become one. A dragon-hunter, I mean.”
This was not the careful explanation and appeal he had tried to plan out while sitting in the Dragon’s Tail, but rather a rush of words that got out before he could stop them. He shut his mouth, cutting the flow off, and bit his lip nervously, trying to think what he could say or do to improve the impression he was making.
The man stared coldly down at him, and for the first time Dumery really got a good look at him.
The man’s hair and beard were dark brown, almost black, and both were long and thick and not particularly tidy. His eyes were brown and sunken, beneath heavy brows. His nose had obviously been broken at least once, and three scars ran parallel across his right cheek, as if something had clawed him badly once. He was big, well over six feet, probably over six and a half, and he was broad, too-his chest and shoulders looked as if he’d have to turn sideways to fit through most doors. His hands were gnarled and scarred and looked strong enough to crush stone.
He wore a heavy brown leather tunic, cut longer than was the fashion in Ethshar, and matching breeches that were stuffed into the tops of his heavy brown boots. A wide brown belt held three knives of different sizes, an ordinary purse, and a larger pouch. He carried a pack on one shoulder that was roughly the size of Dumery.
He did not actually look like very pleasant company, but Dumery had committed himself.
“Ah...” the boy said. “My father can pay all your expenses, if you take me on...”
“Boy,” the man said, interrupting him, “I don’t want an apprentice, and if I did, it wouldn’t be a runt like you. Go home and find something else to do.”
Dumery’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.