Avram Davidson - Rogue Dragon

“Please get me ConfedBase on the communicator,” he said. “And then… then… I think I’d better see a physician…”

Wills H’vor waved a trembling fat flipper of a hand. Jetro Yi’s instinctive and obsequious reaction lacked much of its usual fulsomeness, but he hastened to comply. Voices came and went behind the blind face of the comspeaker, Jon-Joras wearied of repeating himself over and over again only to be switched on to someone higher up — and then having to begin yet again. Finally—

“Delegate Anse on. Who is this?”

It might have been imagination, but it seemed to Jon-Joras that on his mentioning (for the tenth time, perhaps) the phrase, “… Private Man of King Por-Paulo of M.M. beta…” he heard the voice of the Galactic Delegate undergo a clear but subtle change. But he did not pause to question this, went on with what he had to say. He stumbled, repeated himself, but he kept on talking.

“All right… No more for just now,” Anse’s voice instructed, interrupting him. “We’ll finish this up together. When. Mmmm. See… Today is Thirday… You missed the ferry, won’t be another till next Firsday. I can’t take the time off just now, or I’d come up by special. Should I send a special to bring you here?”

It was decided, finally, that Jon-Joras should rest, under medical care, until the regular weekly ferry trip the following Firsday. There were special facilities at the Lodge; he should take advantage of them.

“Meanwhile,” concluded Delegate Anse, “this information had best remain uncirculated. Does anyone else… Companymen Yi and H’vor? I’ll get on to them. And you, P.M., take it smoothly. Heal well.”

Under the ministrations of Physician Tu, graduate therapist of the famous schools of Planet Maimon, Jon-Joras’s injuries soon ceased to vex him. In his quiet room at the far end of one wing of the Lodge, he lay on his couch looking out the transparent wall. Dark and green rose the wooded hills afar off, the great river flowing silvery as it bent in the middle distance. Dimly, like a picture scroll slowly unwinding, images, images passed before his eyes.

The hall at Aëlorix… the young archers at practice… the singing passengers flying to the impromptu dragon hunt… the incredible moments while the great bull-dragon failed to be diverted… the stumbling through the forest… barking dogs… musty tunnel… cyclopean and secret-keeping Kar-chee castle… training the rogue… blood spattering… midnight raid and smoke… free and open, life in the nomad camp… the heat of the fire and Thorm straining to place his knife… gliding down the broad moonlit river… the stinking prison room, the cold, impassive face of the Drogue Chairman, the mob raging…

But gradually these images faded and were gone, were replaced by others: the central lawn at the Collegium, like blue-green velvet… a crowd of boys taunting one of their number, black-haired and white-faced and defiant…

Then, slowly, slowly, this too vanished. He continued to lie on his couch, increasingly tranquil, and the afternoon sank beneath the weight of night. Only when the great red sun hesitated on the horizon he arose. And it was then that the shot pierced the transparent wall and shattered the panel lamp no more than an inch or two over his head.

He gazed at it, more curious than disturbed. It was the second shot which convinced him that while he was visible he was in danger. Unbothered but obedient, he lay down on the thick, soft rug. The vibration of the floor reminded him of what his ears had failed to convince his mind: the thick, unceasing clamor of alarm bells.

The door burst open and many men rushed into his room.

Physician Tu insisted that the health of his patient was paramount; questions, he said, could wait. And over the protests of Senoeorix, Commander of the Peramisian force, he had Jon-Joras removed to a room within the lodge’s central core. The wall was turned to opaque, guards posted, the sick man placed under drugs intended to counteract the shock of his attempted murder.

Senoeorix, claiming that the physician’s interference made his task impossible, engaged in no search of the countryside. But the lodge staff responded to the claim, next day, of a free farmer whose name no one bothered to learn, that he had seen someone fleeing in the dusk a few leagues off at about the time of the attempt. They followed his directions. And there in the woods they found a huntgun and two spent capsules.

“Off hand,” Physician Tu said, reflectively, “I’d say that there’s a huntsman who doesn’t like you.”

Jon-Joras nodded equitably. “Affection cannot be forced,” he said, the last word echoing in his drug-happy mind: forced, forced, forced. His lips moved, obedient to the echo.

The therapist threw him a sharp, appraising look. “I may have given you too much. I’m not certain I’ve ever treated anyone from your world with it before, and, while there appears to be no morphological difference, well… diet… environment… it’s difficult to tell. I — Well.” He dispelled his doubts with brisk directions. Go to bed. Eat your dinner when they bring it. Don’t go out of your room. Don’t go out.

Jon-Joras nodded with a dim smile. Out. Out. Out.

He went back to bed, ate his dinner, didn’t go out. Nevertheless, as he lay back after the tray had gone, he had a definite impression that he was losing consciousness. It was not with the suddenness of shock nor the slower procession of a faint, but he was (slowly, slowly) fading away from the world of the senses.

The opaque wall showed a dim forest scene. If he looked carefully, he thought, he might see what was lurking behind the trees, before the scene ebbed away — might see the mysterious, slouching, chitinous Kar-chees themselves. I will grasp the mil of this bed, he thought, with all my might, and hold on tightly, tightly; if I find my hands anywhere else I will know that I’ve been unconscious…

It seemed, somehow, important that he should know. And so, he did know, when he found his hands clasped on the coverlet, that he had slipped away. It must have been then that the man had entered his room.

“Now, please, Big,” the man said, in a hoarse whisper; “don’t make no noises. Listen to what I got to tell ya, huh.”

Jon-Joras nodded. “Doghunter,” he said, pleased with himself at having made this out.

The man didn’t bother to affirm or deny his class. “They want to kill ya,” he said. “You know who I mean. The bigs. The gents. Before the king gets here. Your—”

“My king?” He struggled against the sweet mists of indifference to understand.

“King… King Paul? He gets here tomorrow. And I can tell you — they’re not going to wait. You stay here, you’ll be dead by then, huh.”

Jon-Joras swung his legs over the side, feeling the railings cold to his flesh. “I won’t wait,” he said. “I have to see him. I’ll go…”

He paused. Go where? Where would he be safe. The man in the darkness thumped his chest. “Go with me,” he offered. “We’ll see you safe. I won’t mention no name, but you know who I mean. Him: tall. Her: young. With me.”

Jon-Joras nodded. Hue and Lora. Naturally they’d want him kept safe — now. If he were to be killed before he could talk, tell of what he knew, they’d have to begin from scratch, find some other safe and far-off den to bring their dragons to and train them there. “I’ll go with you. Just lead me. Just lead.”

The corridors were filled with soft darkness here and there spotted with tiny small lights. A thin thread of very quiet music seeped from hidden speakers. The man was a big man, but he moved silently. It could have been no more than a pair of minutes before he had found a stairwell which led them soon to the cool and safety of the darkness without.