Michael Stackpole: At the Queen_s command

Without a second thought, Owen descended into the pit. He kept toward the edge where the mud remained shallow and worked his way toward the beast's head. The Prince, who was better dressed for a foray into the pit, followed him. Owen moved slowly, taking great care not to slip-less out of concern for his clothes than not wanting to excite the wurm.

Ten yards from Mugwump's head he squatted, gathering the tails of his coat into his lap to save them from the mud. He smiled; he couldn't help it. Of the many wurms he'd seen, Mugwump was by far the most impressive.

Forty feet long, perhaps a bit longer, the wurm was covered with black scales. Though the wurmrest's dim light made it difficult to be certain, the scales shone far more brightly than the dull wurmflesh common in the Regiment. The beast's horns and claws appeared more substantial than on Regimental wurms. Moreover, gold and scarlet stripes and dots decorated the scales and horns. Owen had never seen anything like it on a living wurm.

Mugwump lay his lower jaw in a puddle, a leafy branch from some bush sticking out of it. As the men drew close, he opened one golden eye, the tall, slender pupil narrowed slightly, and a semi-opaque membrane nictitated up over the golden orb. The creature raised his head slightly, dark water dripping from his jaw line.

"Captain, beware."

Though Owen knew what was coming, he didn't move.

The wurm dropped his wedge-shaped head. A wave of mud splashed up, coating Owen from the waist down and spattering him above.

Owen howled with laughter and the wurm snorted. The soldier wiped mud from his face and smiled broadly. "My uncle had one that pulled similar tricks. He was vicious at molt. We'd have to wait until he'd almost finished shedding, then deal with him."

Prince Vlad raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you were not a wurmwright."

"I'm not, but the Ventnor family wurmwright was a good man. Lost his wife and children to the Black Pox. He took me under his wing whenever I was home from school. Time in the wurmrest kept me out of sight and from having to deal with my cousins. It became my refuge."

"Then,if I might, I would like to avail myself of your experience." The Prince whistled.

Mugwump shifted. Plowing up a muddy berm, the great beast swung his head around and thrust his snout between the two of them. Hot breath came in short blasts from his nostrils, strong enough to almost knock Owen over.

Steadying himself with one hand on Mugwump's muzzle, the Prince moved toward his eyes. "Go over on the other side. You know where the aural canal is?"

"Yes, Highness." Owen advanced, ending up ankle deep in mud just behind the creature's jaw, a couple of feet below one of the golden eyes. The wurm's aural canal sat just behind and a little above the corner of the jaw. An armored scale as big as a dinner plate shielded it.

"Now, if you will, Captain, take hold of the canal cover and try to shift it. Gently."

Owen cautiously slid his fingers under the scale. Dragons had two layers of flesh. One, the scales-hard like fingernails-were anchored in the lower layer. That lower layer felt supple and warm, much like a snake that had been sunning itself. Mugwump's flesh felt normal, reassuring Owen.

He manipulated the canal cover, slowly at first, then with a bit more vigor. It felt loose, like a tooth almost ready to fall free. For contrast he tried another scale, but it held firmly. A third had a moderate amount of give.

"Have you discovered it, Captain?"

Owen moved back to where he could see the Prince. Vlad leaned against Mugwump's muzzle, his elbows and forearms resting there as if the wurm were just a piece of furniture. He paid no apparent attention to the golden-eyed stare. Or his proximity to a mouth full of razor-sharp ivory.

Owen frowned. "It was loose, Highness. Scales do fall out from time to time. I don't see any Green Bloom on him. He seems warm. If he is eating well…"

"No sign of molt, Captain?"

Owen shook his head. Wurms periodically shed their scales and spun cocoons of dragon silk. Very strong, it would be harvested and spun into wonderfully tough and lightweight garments. All of the Regiment's Wurmriders had combat uniforms cut from it. The cocoon was a harbinger of a molt, and cutting a wurm prematurely from the cocoon was vital because no wurm survived chrysalis.

When freed from their cocoon, they remained asleep for weeks. Some even slept for months. They sloughed off their skin, which had to be cut away. Men highly prized the outer layer of flesh. The Wurmriders all had boots and gauntlets of wurmleather. Once freed of their old skin, the wurms woke up and within a month had grown new scales. Those trained to war took to the their old duties without requiring additional drills.

"I did not feel any silk, and he has too many scales yet."

Vlad stroked a hand over his chin, smearing mud. "Your observations concur with mine and those of my wurmwright, Mr. Baker. My concern is that the loose scales are distributed over Mugwump in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern."

Owen frowned. "But it can't be a molt since he has not spun."

"Do we know that cocoons are necessary for a molt?" The Prince held his hands up. "I don't mean for you to answer that. It's a question of some minor debate between me and some of my Auropean correspondents. I find the pattern intriguing because birds, to maintain stability in flight, molt in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern. If the ancient stories are true, and dragons could fly, perhaps this loosening of scales presages something more?"

"Highness, that's not a question I can answer."

Prince Vlad laughed. "It takes a wise man to admit ignorance. There can be other explanations, of course. Mugwump has been in the royal stables for centuries, but he's not been fought in the last fifty years. Being as how he's the only wurm in Mystria, there has been no reason to bring him to combat."

"It could be, Highness, that he's about to shed armor he's not using." Owen frowned. "I do have to say, he's the biggest wurm I've seen, and…" Owen traced a finger along some scarlet and gold striping running up the muzzle. "I've never seen markings like these before."

"Nor have I. The Truscian painter, Giarimo, did his portrait just over a century ago. No sign of the markings then." The Prince patted Mugwump on the muzzle. "If only you could talk, my friend, you could tell me. Is it your peaceful life, or it is something else? Your reaction to this land, perhaps, as Mister Baker believes?"

The wurm lifted his head and brought it, dripping, over Owen and back toward the puddle. His thick, black tongue swept out, dragging that branch into his maw, then his mouth closed. Mugwump eyed them for a second, then twisted and rolled down into the center of his wallow. He writhed there, grinding his back into the mud, his four legs reflexively clawing toward the roof. His mouth opened again, his tongue lolled out, and his eyes closed.

The Prince sighed. "Things would be much easier if he shared my love of science and discovery. And forgive me boring you with my inquiries."

Owen held his hands up. "Please, Highness, it was an honor."

Prince Vlad pointed at the gold band on Owen's left hand. "Did you bring your wife with you?"

"No, Highness." Owen smiled. "Though had she known I would be meeting you, she would have endured the journey."

"I'm certain your wife would be delightful company."

"You're very kind, Highness."

The Prince's eyes glittered. "Shall I gather that if I wanted to know any Norillian court gossip, she would have been a good source?"

"Her one failing, Highness." Owen sighed. "She told me a great deal before I left, but I did not pay attention. No matter; it would all be old."

"And given my aunt's often mercurial personality, it would likely have changed, or changed back, since you sailed." Vlad laughed. "There are times when the ocean is welcome insulation from her guidance."