Энн Маккефри - Dragon’s Kin

He almost fell into the eggs when she gave her wing a sudden flap and folded it against her backbone. Her spine did not have prominent ridges, as a dragon’s would, so they’d be more comfortable to sit on. If one ever did. His father had ridden Dask, on some evenings when the air was heavier and easier for the watch-wher to fly in. Usually watch-whers didn’t make the effort, especially with a rider, but Kindan had seen it happen.

Then he brought his mind back to the present and the realization that she had dropped her defensive posture. He made an interrogatory noise, and with a grace he hadn’t expected she made a small gesture with her wing tip, from him to the eggs.

“I should choose?” he asked. Ever so carefully he extended his hand to her again.

She licked him, her tongue rasping his skin, before she inclined her head to him and then to her eggs.

“Oh kind one, oh gracious watch-wher,” he said, trilling with his tongue when he finished speaking. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Shall I come rescue you?” Master Aleesa called.

“She’s let me see her clutch,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Then she means you to have one, young Kindan. Pick it, make your farewells of her, and leave. There are others here who want to try their luck.”

Kindan shook his head in surprise, breathless with his success. Only which one should he pick? The children’s selection chant popped into his head. Well, why not? Pointing his finger at each egg with each syllable, he chanted, “Eeny, meeny, tipsy teeny, ah vu bumberini. Isha gosha bumberosha, nineteen hundred and two. I pick you.” His finger was pointing at the one with the odd ring.

He bundled it into his arms. It was heavier than he’d thought, and warm, but then the sands under him were warm as well. The shell felt hard enough that he could clasp it as tightly as he needed to and do no harm, which was fortunate, as he found it very awkward to clamber around on one hand and lurch forward. He turned back briefly and gave the loud trilled tongue sound of gratitude.

“Is the boy hurt?” someone outside asked.

“No, sir,” Kindan said, ducking under the screen above the entrance to the lair. “Just happy.”

Hands came under his arms and whooshed him out and onto his feet.

“All right, it’s your turn, Losfir,” Aleesa said, motioning for a short chunky man to enter the watch-wher’s lair. She grinned at Kindan, her eyes twinkling with an expression of surprised approval. “Got the ringed one, I see. Good choice.”

“Why? Why is it a good choice?” Natalon demanded.

“Just is,” Aleesa said. “Knew how to talk to her, didn’t you?” Grinning, she cocked her head at the lair from which only the sounds of scrambling could be heard. Then she chuckled. “That one hasn’t a clue.” She gave Kindan’s right hand a look. “At least you knew how to talk and what to show for her favor.”

“What? What?” Natalon demanded, irritated by all these cryptic remarks.

“Your lad here can explain at his leisure. Here come the others. You see that I get a delivery of that fine coal of yours by the next trader through Crom, or you’ll never hear the last of it, Natalon. Away with you. You bore me.”

Somehow Kindan knew not to take Aleesa’s comment personally and helped stow the egg in the fleece-lined bag they had brought to protect it on the journey back to Crom.

“How long before it’ll hatch?” he asked her, deciding that was a perfectly legitimate question.

She put a hand on the top of the egg in its bag. “Hmmmm. I’d say within the next sevenday. Possibly sooner. I’ll have my drummer warn you if I hear others are hatching.” She gave the egg a final proprietary caress.

“One more detail,” Kindan said, as she began to turn away from them.

“Yes?” she replied, half-turning back to him. Her expression suggested he should not have to ask her details.

“My father raised Dask before I was born, so I just don’t know what he ate right after he hatched.”

He had phrased his query correctly.

“We’ve been experimenting, actually, on the best post-hatching meal. Watch-whers are not as insatiable as dragons, but they will gulp meat down and sometimes choke, as you know.” She pinned Kindan with a fierce glare, and he nodded as if he knew exactly what she meant. “D’you have oats?”

Kindan nodded, glancing over at Natalon to be sure he was also listening to Aleesa.

“Then arrange to get fresh blood from whoever butchers at the camp. Make a porridge of the oats, using water, and add the blood as the oats thicken in the pot. I’d say a half-pail a day would be sufficient. If you keep the blood cool, a pailful should last over a day or two, no trouble. Most Camps or Holds slaughter every other day. Feed it as often as it wants, and some of the liver and lungs that might go to waste otherwise. Don’t start meat hunks until three months, when it has enough back teeth to chew with. You can continue the porridge feeds in the morning until the hatchling starts to coat out.”

Kindan nodded, mumbling something in his throat about being glad to start out this watch-wher with the best possible feeding in between his thanks for her suggestion. Then she turned back to deal with the newcomers.

“Well done, Kindan,” Zist said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Well done, lad. What sort of soft talk did you employ?”

“Something learned from you, no doubt, Zist,” M’tal said teasingly. “No matter, Kindan, well done. Let’s get the two younglings back home, and then we can all celebrate.”

“And in time, please,” Zist said with a bit of a bow to the dragonrider.

“No easier said than done,” M’tal replied. “Come, lad, step up on Gaminth’s knee and grab the safety strap. I’ll give you a bit of a heave.”

Keeping one hand firmly under his egg, Kindan made it to the dragon’s back and settled down between two ridges with a sigh of relief. Curious, he glanced over at the lair just in time to see the man erupting out of it as if propelled by something strong and annoyed. He couldn’t help giggling at Zist’s remark about some folks not knowing when they weren’t welcome.

“Didn’t know how to sweet-talk her, I guess,” M’tal added. “Proud of you, boy. Glad to have been able to help you out.”

“This is just the beginning,” Natalon remarked. “Are you up to it, lad?”

“Sir,” Kindan said, swiveling around to speak to Natalon, “would you give Ima”—who was the main hunter and butcher for the camp—“the orders to let me get the blood I’ll need? And to Swanee to allow me enough oats?”

“Of course I will,” Natalon said briskly. “And loan you a big enough pot to make porridge for the watch-wher in. I doubt you’d have one large enough for the purpose.”

The Miner looked a bit uncomfortable at the reminder that the lad was no longer living in his own home, where he would have had a good selection of pots.

“And I have some herbal candles to burn to get rid of the stench,” Zist said, making a face as if he already knew how noxious the mixture would smell. “And you must promise me not to burn the oats.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kindan said and fixed his face forward just as M’tal warned them of their passage between.

When they returned to the camp, it seemed to Kindan as if they had only just left. It must have taken several hours to complete their mission, and yet not much had changed; the first carts, full of the black rock, still hadn’t reached the top of the rail where their contents would be tilted over in the huge storage area. He shook his head as the dragon made a careful landing near the watch-wher’s lair.

Natalon called out as the dragon settled to the ground. Tarik came rushing out of the shaft.