He was glad that Kensher hadn’t thought to let the dragon out, hadn’t come after him with it.
That assumed, of course, that dragons could track, like dogs or cats, and really, Dumery didn’t know for certain that they could. And Kensher probably had good reasons for not letting the watch-dragon out; could he control the beast outside the fence?
Maybe the fence was there to keep the watch-dragon in, more than anything else.
Whether dragons could track people or not, witches surely could; why hadn’t Teneria found him yet?
And while all this speculation was very interesting, it wasn’t getting him any closer to setting up his own dragon-breeding operation.
He sat and thought, uncomfortably aware that Teneria might appear at any moment.
He devised scheme after scheme for stealing a pair of hatchlings, but they all fell apart upon close inspection. He could think of no practical way to deal with the watch-dragon, or with Kensher and his family if he tried to sneak in when the dragon wasn’t on duty. He had no way of killing a dragon that size.
Besides, killing it seemed a bit extreme. It was Kensher’s dragon.
It hadn’t been that hard to talk himself into stealing a couple of hatchlings; after all, Kensher had lots of them, and most of them were destined to be slaughtered in a year or so anyway. The watch-dragon, though, was fifteen or twenty feet long, and must be three or four years old, at least. Kensher had clearly put considerable effort into training it, judging by the way it had behaved-and Dumery was grateful for that training, because without it the monster might have gone ahead and eaten him.
He was also grateful to Kensher and the rest of the family for taking him in, when he turned up on their doorstep. Yes, it was just normal hospitality to take him in and give him a meal, but even that much wasn’t something everybody would bother with, and they had gone further than that, giving him days to regain his strength, feeding him generously, and giving him clothes and supplies for the journey home.
He began to be ashamed of himself for plotting to rob the people who had saved his life. Was he that low a person? Was he that desperate to get hold of a couple of dragons?
He shook his head. It wasn’t right. He had let his obsessions get the better of him. He had done Kensher quite enough harm already. He had repaid kindness and succor with threats, attempted blackmail, burglary, and a broken fence. He would do no more harm in return for good.
It was time to get away from Kensher and his farm.
It was time to go home.
For one thing, he didn’t really want to get caught.
Ostensibly, all he had to do was loop back around the way he had come, and head on down the trail to the river.
There was a problem with that, however. A problem named Teneria.
He was sure that she would know what he had done. She would know that he had tried to steal those hatchlings. If she went home with him she would probably tell someone, like his parents. And even if she didn’t, she would certainly be keeping a close eye on him every step of the way home.
He didn’t think he could face that.
And for that matter, did he really know anything about her? Had his parents sent her? It didn’t seem like them. After all, they knew he was all right; they’d talked to him in that silly dream Thetheran had sent.
Maybe someone else had sent her, or she had come on her own. Maybe the magicians, including the witches, were all out to get him.
Was she really a witch, though? He hadn’t seen her work any magic. She had found him, somehow, which was impressive, and she seemed to be able to tell lies from truth with phenomenal accuracy, but neither one proved she was actually the witch she said she was. He hadn’t seen her fly or anything.
But even if she were exactly what she claimed to be, he really didn’t want to go home with her, having her there gloating over him the whole time.
He would find his own way home-overland, not by the river. And south, where the witch wouldn’t dare follow, if she was really a witch.
And if she hadn’t lied about the Warlock Stone.
He didn’t really think she had. He set out down the slope, to the southeast.
As he walked, he considered.
True, he didn’t want to rob Kensher, and he couldn’t think of any way to do it in any case, but did that really mean he had to just give up and go home?
He still wanted to do something about his thwarted ambitions. He couldn’t be a wizard, he had established that. And he couldn’t seem to find an apprenticeship in any other branch of magic, either.
Controlling a supply of dragon’s blood would let him lord it over the wizards.
He couldn’t wangle an apprenticeship in the dragon-farming business, that was clear, and he couldn’t see any way to get hold of any of Kensher’s livestock to set up his own farm-but were those the only possibilities?
All he needed was a pair of dragons, and while Kensher might have the only dragon farm in the World, he didn’t have all the dragons in the World, by any means. There were plenty of dragons out there.
Wild dragons.
Dragon-hunting as a career didn’t sound very promising, though. He remembered the sight of that gaping, tooth-lined maw when the watch-dragon had roared at him, and Kensher had said that the farm dragons were nowhere near as big as dragons could get. Presumably there were wild dragons that were much bigger and fiercer.
But what if he were to find and capture a pair of baby dragons? Or better yet, find unhatched eggs? It happened; he had seen dragons in the Arena that had been hatched in captivity.
That would be perfect.
But how could he hope to find them? He looked out over the edge of the cliff he was skirting, and saw forest stretching to the hilly southern horizon.
That was a lot of countryside, and dragons might be anywhere-or nowhere-in it.
He could look, though, couldn’t he?
If he did, he might search forever without finding anything. Or he might starve to death, or get killed by a wild dragon, or by wolves or bandits or something.
On the other hand, who knew what he might find?
Wolves, pitfalls, bandits-or a dragon’s lair.
Wolves, pitfalls, and bandits were probably far more likely, and if he did find a dragon’s lair it might well have a mother dragon at home, guarding her young.
That was a good way to get killed, finding an occupied lair.
No, the thing to do was to go home, to his own home, back in Ethshar, and then see if he could somehow buy a pair of dragon eggs.
A thought struck him. If he demanded that as his patrimony, would his father cooperate?
He should, Dumery thought. After all, Doran hadn’t come through with the promised apprenticeship to a wizard. Millenium-old tradition said that every child was entitled, between his or her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays, to demand that his or her parents provide some way to establish a future career-arrange a profitable marriage or an apprenticeship, guarantee an inheritance, something. Demanding a pair of dragon eggs was unusual, but it ought to qualify.
That, then, was what he would do. He would go home and demand a pair of eggs.
All he had to do was find the way.
He knew he was somewhere in Aldagmor, in the Baronies of Sardiron. That meant that he was far to the north of Ethshar of the Spices. And he was east of the Great River, since he had gone ashore on the eastern bank, while all the cities of Ethshar were more or less to the west of the river’s mouth.