Chapter 17
The Dervish sighed as one of their attackers captured Edmund as easily as one might scruff a kitten.
The sword wanted him to lunge across the clearing, but if he did, he was going to take a knife directly into the jugular.
He fought it for as long as he could, and then, thankfully, Edmund’s captor tied his hands together and released him, and the magic eased off.
Getting old, he thought. Getting careless.
He’d heard them coming, but he’d thought it was just Edmund returning, and then there was a knife at his neck, being held by someone who clearly had some experience in that particular field.
He’d managed an “Ulp!” and Large Francis had rolled into a ball and Sweetness had stamped her feet and Dog Violet …
actually he had no idea where Dog Violet was. He hoped she’d gotten away.
His attempt to warn Edmund hadn’t worked out, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There were at least three of them. He recognized one of the men who had been skinning a deer earlier.
His hands were tied roughly together and he was shoved down to the ground next to Edmund. The rope around his wrists was a reminder of too many things, and if he let himself feel any of them, he was going to be useless.
Bound, bound, trapped, tied …
“I’m sorry,” said Edmund, which jolted the Dervish’s thoughts out of the tight, panicky circle they’d been running in.
He focused on the other man, forcing himself to notice every detail—the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shadow of stubble that darkened the fading bruises, the tight, unhappy line of Edmund’s lips.
Oh, he means that. He thinks this is his fault.
The desire to lash out and heap blame on someone willing to take it was immensely strong.
That righteous burn would drive back the panic even further, give it a focus, and better yet, that focus was a wielder and the Dervish hated his wielders, always had, and even if he couldn’t lash out physically, he was skilled at using his tongue as a lash.
He looked at Edmund hunched in the firelight and thought of Edmund handing him the cursed sword and found he couldn’t do it.
“Not your fault,” the Dervish said. “Even if you’d figured it out, there’s more of them and they know the woods.”
“Still. I swear, people don’t usually take me captive this often.”
“It does seem to come up a lot.”
“I’ve gone decades without being kidnapped.”
“Perhaps you were overdue.”
“Enough talk.” One of their captors nudged the Dervish with his boot. “Otto, we’ve got them.”
Otto came into the circle of firelight, scanned the area, and frowned. “There’s the mule, but I don’t see any others. You said you were meeting friends.”
“I may possibly have exaggerated,” said the Dervish. “I didn’t trust you.”
“Hmm.” Otto’s frown deepened. “What else have you lied about?”
There was such condemnation in his tone that the Dervish fought back an urge to laugh. The man had taken them captive and he was judging someone else?
“There’s also this thing,” one of the men said, poking his knife at the waist-high ball of Large Francis.
“Careful with her!” the Dervish snapped. “She’s worth a lot of money.”
“What?” The man actually stepped back.
Otto folded his arms. “How so?”
“She’s a new type of draft animal from…” Where would a giant pillbug be from? “… Anuket City. They’re very expensive.” He hoped Large Francis could hear him and wouldn’t start talking and ruin the cover story. She had rolled up around the music box, so he couldn’t be sure.
“A draft animal?” Otto raised a skeptical eyebrow. “More lies?”
“Not at all. She can live on moss and she can carry almost as much as a mule. And she doesn’t bite or kick.” The Dervish would have felt guilty about this, but like he’d told Edmund, people who would kill a monster would be far more interested in keeping an expensive exotic animal alive.
Otto gazed at him for a long moment, then turned suddenly to Edmund. “You. Is this true?”
“Huh? What?” Edmund blinked at the man while the Dervish cursed internally. The whole world’s full of born liars, and then there’s Edmund …
“What your friend is saying.” Otto’s expression still didn’t change, but the Dervish was getting the impression that the man was nearing the end of his patience.
To his mild astonishment, Edmund came through. “Oh yes. The Temple of the Many-Armed God in Ghaston would pay a lot of money to get her back safely. Us, too.” Which was almost true, so far as it went, and probably why the scholar was able to say it with such absolute sincerity.
“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere,” Otto said. He actually sounded a bit regretful. “If the dragon’s awake this early, it’s going to be hungry. The two of you should take the edge off its appetite.”
“I bet the mule would work even better,” the Dervish said brightly. Edmund shoved his shoulder into the Dervish’s. “What? She would.”
“The mule is useful to us. You are not.”
“How hurtful,” said the Dervish. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he was—well, not enjoying himself, certainly, but a kind of dark cheerfulness had descended on him.
The worst had happened, might as well amuse himself.
The alternatives all involved screaming or curling into fetal position, and given the choice, he’d pick maniacal humor every time.
“You have no idea how useful I could be.”
Otto did not look impressed. “Besides, if we let you two go now, I expect you’d be back quite soon, probably with guards or a half dozen paladins.”
“Mmm. There’s that.”
“People are going to notice when we don’t arrive at our destination,” Edmund said. “The temple will investigate.”
“We’ll tell them the truth,” Otto said. “The dragon got you.” He nodded to his men, who pulled the captives to their feet. “Put them in the wagon, and bring their gear. Bring the mule, too, just in case.”
“What about this thing?”
“A draft animal that eats moss might be useful.” Otto looked over at the Dervish. “How do you get it to move?”
“Come on, girl,” the Dervish called, pitching his voice up and hoping like hell that Francis followed along. “Time to get moving.”
The pillbug slowly unrolled onto her side, then righted herself. She kept her head low, and the Dervish couldn’t see the music box. Hopefully it was tucked away somewhere safe.
“Lady of Grass, it’s a giant roly-poly.” Otto laughed. He wasn’t good at it. “How do you control it?”
“Tug the feelers there in the direction you want her to go. Gently.”
One of the men reached out and gingerly touched Francis’s left antenna. Francis obediently began to trundle in that direction. “I’ll be damned,” the man said, with an incredulous laugh.
Relief flooded the Dervish. If they thought she was an animal, Francis would be able to escape as soon as they turned their back on her. Mind you, Edmund and I may still be dragon food …
With my luck, it’ll eat the damn sword by accident and I’ll wake up inside its gizzard. If it even has a gizzard. Edmund would probably know.
“Hey Edmund, do dragons have gizzards?”
“I don’t believe the matter has ever been adequately explored.”
“Perhaps we should look closely on the way down.”
“Enough of that.” His captor poked him in the back. “You talk too much.”
The Dervish had any number of clever remarks, but since his final hours wouldn’t be improved by a gag, he said nothing.
He and Edmund reached the road and were loaded into a wagon, which was clearly for moving hay when it wasn’t being used to transport prisoners.
Another rope went around their necks and through the slats on the sides of the wagon, which put a certain damper on the Dervish’s thought of trying to jump free.
I will not panic, he told himself. There was plenty of slack in the rope. He wasn’t immobilized. And he was sitting up, so it wasn’t the same. No one was about to start cutting him.
No, they’ll just feed me to a dragon. Nothing to worry about at all.
“Are you okay?” Edmund asked.
“Fine,” said the Dervish, closing his eyes. “Everything’s going just fine.”
They did not get fed to the dragon that night, which the Dervish could only think was positive.
Instead the wagon creaked and thumped over the road, back the way they had come, until they reached the cluster of houses.
The men were untied from the wagon—the Dervish went almost weak-kneed from relief—and ushered into their temporary prison.
Which actually turned out to be a rather comfortable bunkhouse, with four beds, pillows, thick blankets, and even a chamber pot.
The windows were tightly shuttered and the door had a barred opening, but that was the only indication that they weren’t in someone’s bedroom.
The bars were even pretending to be decorative wrought iron, although they weren’t doing a terribly good job.
“Huh,” said the Dervish, looking around. “This may be the nicest jail cell I’ve ever been in.”
“Been in lots, have you?” asked one of the guards.
“A few, yeah.”
The guard grunted, and settled himself on one of the beds. Another shut the door, locked it, and took up a post outside the room. Light spilled through the iron bars.
“Dragon doesn’t wake up ’til dawn,” their guard said. “Might as well settle in.”
For lack of anything better to do, the Dervish sat down on a bed, and after a moment, Edmund took the one next to him.
“I don’t suppose you could untie our hands?” asked Edmund hopefully.
“I don’t suppose I could, no.”
“It’s just that this isn’t terribly comfortable.”
“Otto’s orders.” The guard scratched the back of his neck vigorously. “Believe me, I’d rather not be here either.” He scratched again.