Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“I think,” said Vicia, “that I ought to learn how to count.”

“Why should I?” Heinox replied, somewhat puzzled by the idea.

“In order to play the game better,” Vicia answered himself. “I have played it so long, yet what have I to show for it?”

“Nothing,” Heinox answered. “But then, I don’t have anyone to show it to, either. Nor any reason to show it. Nor any reason to count—whatever counting is.”

“Counting is what the merchants do when they try to bargain with me,” Vicia observed.

“Which is foolishness,” Heinox replied, “since I take what jewels I like and eat what food suits me.”

“That’s why I don’t need to learn to count,” Vicia nodded in agreement, and reached down to grasp a particularly large and beautiful stone between scaly lips. The jewel was gigantic by human estimation, but it was dwarfed by the dragon’s gleaming teeth. With a mighty flip of his neck, the head known as Vicia launched it sparkling into the air. But Heinox heard a commotion from the southern approach to the pass, and the diamond bounced unnoticed off the dragon’s hide.

“Why didn’t I catch that?”

“Because I hear a noise in Chaomonous,” Heinox growled, and the right-hand head craned over the left to peer deeply into the pass. Vicia dropped an ear to the ground, listening closely and hearing now the approach of a force of men.

“Of caravan size,” Vicia murmured, “but coming much faster than a caravan would normally.”

“Armed?” Heinox asked, rearing high into the sky, to the full extension of his mighty neck. There was a flash of reflected light far below him, like sunshine glistening off the golden armor of Chaomonous.

“Perhaps not the first party,” Vicia advised, “but there is a second group of riders behind the first that may be. It moves much faster.” Vicia-Heinox leapt into the sky, wings unfurling lazily. He soared upward, well above the lofty mountain cliffs surrounding his home, one head circling from south to west to north and back toward the south, the other head gazing intently at the column of armed warriors hesitating at the mouth of the southern entrance. The dragon screamed—a dreadful, piercing, full-throated duet of screeching sound—then flapped slowly toward the troop, both heads focusing carefully on it. The column broke immediately. Horses tossed riders, riders fought to turn their mounts from the dragon’s gaze, and screams of terror echoed the dragon’s screech back up at him. Within seconds the pass was clear of warriors. Those unfortunate enough to have been carried up the road by their panicked mounts, rather than down, died with their horses in an inglorious blaze. The dragon dropped down to investigate the remains, then jumped lightly over the caravan, now halfway up the incline. He settled slowly and gracefully onto the road thirty yards ahead of the struggling band, bringing it to an abrupt stop. Vicia glared straight down on the merchant captain, while Heinox cocked himself slightly to the side in a look of deep puzzlement.

“Merchant Pezi? And a week ahead of time?” The merchant reined in his horse, which was well used to the sight of this particular, dragon, and dismounted. He hitched his pants and started up toward the beast on foot. Pezi was fat and out of breath, and his pants immediately gave up and slipped back to their original position. He stopped to hitch them again, but couldn’t find the strength. He looked up at Heinox and nodded. “Your Dragonship,” Pezi acknowledged, puffing.

“Why so soon? And so hurried?” Heinox asked.

“And why do you bring soldiers to my nest?” added Vicia.

“I didn’t bring them. They brought themselves.”

“Against me?” Vicia growled.

“Against me,” the fat man muttered. He pulled a handkerchief from his handbag and blew his nose. It was a purple and red handkerchief, the colors of the merchant house of Uda. Pezi’s own colors were dark blue and lime, the colors of the house of Ognadzu. Perhaps Pezi became self-conscious, for he explained: “It’s a Uda trade gimmick. Free hankies. Let me blow my nose on the opposition.” The dragon didn’t comment, and Pezi shoved the scarf back into his bag. “What is happening is this. I’ve got some valuable cargo, your Dragonship, and a certain ruler of Chaomonous—”

“Who?” asked Vicia.

“—who shall remain nameless, tried to steal it away.” The two heads rose into the air, and looked one another in the eye.

Pezi took several steps backward and looked around for a good place to run. When the dragon looked at himself, that wasn’t good. The great head named Vicia turned to stare at the fat merchant once more, and began slowly dropping out of the sky toward him. Closer and closer it came, until one eye gazed into Pezi’s face from only a yard away. Pezi had backed into his animal, and now the horse, too, was spooked. The dragon rarely came this close to a living thing he did not intend to eat.

“I don’t believe you,” Vicia hissed. He spoke quietly, Vicia thought, but at this distance the noise rattled through Pezi’s relatively empty skull, and the merchant slammed both hands over his ears. Heinox had by now surveyed the entire length of the caravan, eyeing everything carefully and throwing a terrible scare into all present. He investigated particularly a curtained litter that was being carried by a team of eight slaves, all Maris. It was a nobly carved carriage, from what he could see, but what most attracted his attention were the drapes. They shimmered as only fish-satin shimmered, and they were interlaced with threads of finely spun gold. Only a member of the royal house of Chaomonous would travel in such a booth as this, and the dragon knew it.

“Is this your cargo?” Heinox thundered from right above the litter. Pezi jerked around to look up at the head high above, but he quickly turned back to look at Vicia as the left-hand head snorted behind him: “I was talking to you, merchant!”

“Oh, ah, yes, ah…”

“Is this the cargo, merchant?” Heinox roared behind him, and Pezi looked around again, but: “Answer me, merchant!” Vicia snarled, and that was all for Pezi, at least for the moment. He fell into a dead faint beneath his trembling horse.

“Now what have I done?” Heinox murmured.

“I was only asking him a simple question,” Vicia grumbled. Then he growled loudly, “Can’t any of you answer me?

You!” Vicia-Heinox zeroed in on a pale rider in blue and lime who held tightly to the pommel of his saddle to keep from shaking all the way out of it. As Heinox darted down from nowhere to look him in the face, the rider threw up his hands in dismay… and fell out of the saddle, flat on his back. Had he, too, passed out? “You are faking. Get up!” Heinox ordered. The rider stayed put. “Get up or I’ll eat you!” Still the rider lay in peaceful silence on his back, and Vicia-Heinox threw up his heads in disgust. He was focusing four eyes, on the entire caravan, preparing to burn it all away, when someone spoke: “Excuse me, your Dragonship, but perhaps I can shed some light on this situation.” The dragon stopped in mid-bum and looked himself in the eyes. Vicia dropped down to look at the speaker, a ragtag character near the end of the line.

“Are you of the family of Ognadzu?” the dragon asked. “You are certainly not dressed for it…”

“I am not of the house of Ognadzu, nor of any of the trading houses. I am Pelmen, sometimes called Pelmen the Player, lately of Chaomonous. I was enslaved by the King for making an allusion to one of his mistresses in an ill-received play.”

“The Player? I’ve never heard of the family of Player,” Vicia observed.

“But you can’t be a slave,” said Heinox. “You see, I’ve just eaten.”