Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

The Prince took a moment, shifting in the saddle and rubbing his buttocks. Then he patted the dragon on the neck again. “You’re getting it.”

Mugwump’s head came around. The dragon stared at him with a single golden eye. It seemed to Vlad as if the beast was saying, “Was that it? Was that what this is all about?”

The Prince found himself nodding. “Yes, that’s what I want. We need to get your wings strong so you can fly.”

As if he understood, the dragon loped off toward the first wall, barely faster than a man could trot, and leaped high. His wings snapped out. His tail twisted. He soared over the wall and flapped his wings to slow his descent. He landed hard again on his haunches, but he’d managed to stay level. Vlad had braced for the landing, so he didn’t slam into the saddle again.

From that point forward Mugwump needed no encouragement, but followed no direction. He wandered through the field, sometimes taking the fences, other times just leaping into the air as if a cat pouncing on a mouse. He’d stop, nibble the forward edge of a wing, then trot off again. His behavior bordered on playful, but he pursued it with a concentration that bespoke far greater intelligence than most people knowledgeable about wurms would allow.

Perhaps wurms are intelligent, or, rather, dragons are. Most wurmwrights considered wurms to be on an intellectual par with draft horses. For as long as Mugwump had been in his care, Vlad would have pegged him as being a bit smarter than that. Since the chrysalis, however, the dragon had been brighter. Prince Vlad would have matched him to a dog and yet, the way he approached testing his wings, took him further than that. Vlad had seen his son exhibiting similar self-awareness.

Vlad flicked the reins. “Time to go home, Mugwump.”

The dragon came about and started trotting back toward the wurmrest. As he went he would spread his wings and give one solid beat. His body rocked and got a little lift, but not nearly enough to sustain flight. He stopped trying to fly as he came back into the yard and he shied from where Miranda and Richard were running around-something not terribly easy for a sixty-foot-long lizard to manage.

Prince Vlad remained in the saddle until Baker caught up and took charge of the dragon. He watched the dragon return to the wurmrest, then began to think. At the battle of Anvil Lake, Mugwump had scaled a sheer cliff as if it was nothing. If he were to gain height that way, then leap into the air, he might be able to glide or actually fly. Bats, who had similar wing designs, roosted upside down in attics and caves, allowing them to drop into the air before they had to begin flying.

That gave the Prince one area of inquiry to pursue. Then he turned back to the question of intelligence. At the time Mugwump had entered his cocoon, Msitazi of the Altashee had arrived with a gift to celebrate the dragon’s birthday. That day, correctly predicted, was really the day he emerged from the cocoon. It occurred to the Prince that he’d been judging intelligence incorrectly simply because the wurm was almost seven centuries old. In any other creature, that would have established his being an adult and fully grown.

But what if the clock started anew when he emerged from the cocoon? If that were true, then Mugwump was, in effect, only three years old. Given the likely timescale of a dragon’s life, he was, for all intents and purposes, still an infant. Assuming his intelligence was developing at a rate that roughly paralleled that of his physical development, he might quickly work his way past the intelligence of a dog and on up to a small ape. Or even a man?

Part of Vlad wanted to dismiss that idea out of hand, but another more tantalizing thought tempted him to go beyond it. No one truly knew the limits of a dragon’s lifespan. While stories told of repeated raids by the same dragons over a number of centuries, old bards’ tales were hardly reliable sources of empirical data. Still, if dragons could outlive men by a factor of ten, who was to say that they could not also become ten times smarter than a man? Judging by skull volume alone, Mugwump’s brain had to be at least ten times the size of a man’s.

The implications of what he’d seen and was thinking made Prince Vlad want to retreat to his laboratory and scribble copious notes. He wanted to set up some experiments to determine just how smart Mugwump really was. He had Richard for comparison, and Miranda. He could pose problems for them, measure how well they solved them, then offer the same problems to the dragon. He would do these things. Science demanded it.

Then he stopped. He could gather his data, test his theories, but then what? He couldn’t possibly share them with anyone else. Others would want to duplicate what he had done, which meant creating more dragons, or having Mugwump taken away from him. An intelligent creature, capable of flight, capable of carrying small swivel guns could terrorize cities and towns. People feared wurmriders and they would find dragonriders infinitely more terrifying.

The greater moral dilemma struck him. He owned Mugwump. The dragon was chattel. But if Mugwump proved to be as intelligent as a man, or even more intelligent, did Prince Vlad have any right to own him? The Prince and all civilized nations had long since repudiated the horror of slavery. Indentured servitude often amounted to the same thing, though the contract did contain limitations which, in theory, prevented abuse. And what would become of all the wurms whose growth and development had been stunted by their long captivity? Could a thinking man condone their enforced infantilization?

He looked up and saw his wife out with the children. She’d told him that he’d train Mugwump, but would educate his children. How will you take it, my dear, if Mugwump needs educating?

A cold chill ran through him. He wished, just for a moment, that both he and dragon were stupid. He literally had no choice. He had to educate Mugwump and determine just how smart he truly was. He would have to encrypt all the records, and likely needed to create two sets containing disparate data that he could untangle with the proper key. They would send anyone who stole his information off in the wrong direction.

Gisella approached him, her brow furrowed. “What worries you? Have you had bad news?”

“No, good news, I think.” I think. Is that what Mugwump can do? He slipped an arm around her slender waist and watched his son bend down to pick something off the lawn. It appeared to be a twig, which the boy peered at closely, then immediately attempted to stick into his nose. Madeline took it from him, which appeared on the cusp of starting him crying, but Miranda presented him with a yellow flower, which distracted him.

“Are you going to tell me, husband?”

He smiled. “Nothing to tell yet, darling. When there is, I will let you know.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And did Mugwump take well to his training?”

“Dashed one fence to pieces, and did more hopping than flying, but his landings became less and less jarring.” He kissed the top of her head. “Which reminds me that I’ll likely need a pillow on my chair for the next several days. If a bruise comes up, you must promise not to laugh.”

Her blue eyes flicked up and she smiled. “I would never…”

“…laugh aloud?” He squeezed her tightly. “As long as you keep it a secret, darling, I think we will do just fine.”

18 April 1767 Plentiful, Richlan Mystria

Out of respect for Prince Vlad, Nathaniel Woods had done his best to reserve judgment on Colonel Rathfield. The Norillian officer didn’t shy from hard work and took to paddling a canoe pretty easily. Even though he carried a smooth-bore musket, he proved a fairly good shot with it. Of course, that meant he was still the worst shot on the expedition, but he was worlds-away better than most Norillians straight off the boat.