Page 100 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

“Oh, the years have accustomed me to that. You’re not cruel. I lived among barbarians when I was very young. Dragons aren’t cruel to those in their power. They don’t go out of their way to make captives miserable to amuse themselves.”

“You’re never afraid I’ll lose my temper and eat you? I thought that all thralls, free or no, lived with that fear.”

“Not particularly. It would be an easy death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever seen a really old dwarf?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the Copper asked, puzzled.

“I am getting to that. They get so they just sit. Can hardly lift a finger anymore, but too stubborn to die. Some get wheeled about in tiny pushcarts, for a time, while they still talk and give instructions. Eventually, when truly ancient, they lapse into silence. They get fed and washed off once a day, from the same contraption, a sort of portable pump you wear on your back. They might as well be a potato plant. Rows of statues in the hall of ancients.” Rayg shuddered. “Just eyes, glaring out of this bird’s nest of hair. I think death’s better.”

“You’re not a dwarf,” the Copper said.

“No one can accuse you of being of philosophical mind,” Rayg said. “I only mean I’m troubled by the frailties of inevitable age.”

“I’ll see to it that a few of your children are around to help as you get older.”

The Copper looked at Rayg. He knew him to be at least a score of years into adulthood, yet he still looked hale and hearty. He wondered if he didn’t have a secret source of dragonblood or something to keep himself so youthful looking.

A pair of young drakes, glaring at each other, approached, but the Copper waved them off.

“More grievances to be settled,” the Copper said, trying to put a briskness in his voice that he didn’t feel. Rayg’s talk of decline depressed him. “It is enough to make one wish for a return of dueling.”

“But you hate duels.”

“Oh, I’m just tired and I didn’t enjoy my wine. Just last night I had my meal interrupted by two dragons—never mind their names; they were sort of a charcoal and a dull bronze. Charcoal sold a herd of cattle, an even score, to Bronze in exchange for three young thralls. By the time Bronze delivered the thralls and picked up the cattle, two of the beasts had sickened and died. Charcoal insisted that Bronze take the carcasses, as they could still be eaten.

“Neither could resolve anything between themselves, so they brought it to me. Bronze wanted to keep the ten kine but give only two slaves, but Charcoal demanded that the original deal for the herd be kept.”

“What did you do?”

“I told Charcoal that if dead cattle were so valuable he should keep them and replace them with live beasts. Bronze claimed that he would be given two more sickly beasts and insisted on the return of one thrall and that anything else would be a cheat. Now both are more angry with me than with each other. United in their disgust at my decision, they had a fine session of tail-bowling after, it seemed.”

“Dwarves had disputation hearings,” Rayg said when he’d finished chuckling. “I saw one once. Part of one—I’m told it went on for much of the day. Each side brought several others to give their version of events.”

The Copper couldn’t dig teeth into it, but something about speaking to Rayg always settled his mind. Or the purge settled his mind and he was simply used to venting his firebladder—figuratively—in Rayg’s presence. It often gave him ideas. Maybe Rayg’s manner of settling disputes could be put into practice here.

“Speaking of disputes, may I ask you for a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Those twins, SiHazathant and Regalia. They’ve been giving dragonblood to the expectant mothers among their thralls, trying to breed extra-strong humans or something. A little dragonblood is a fine thing, but a diet of it exclusively—the babies are born dead, or don’t live long. Which is probably just as well. The mothers are deeply grieved by the . . . the mutations. One killed herself. Would you tell them to stop experimenting?”

Idle fools. Of course, it wasn’t all that different from what he’d done with his bats, but the bats weren’t dangerous to begin with and had been much improved by doses of dragonblood. Humans, on the other hand, were and always would be a threat.

All those old rumors about the Dragonblade drinking the blood of dragons he’d slain. If those two were to inadvertently breed a generation of dragonblades . . .

An ugly doubt crept in on claw-sheathed saa. What if it wasn’t inadvertent? What if they were trying to breed another dragonblade, or two, or six, or a score? He would have to keep an eye on those two, and his eyes already had too many other dangers to be watching.

“I’ll put a stop to that.”

He sent Rayg and his collection of climbing gear away. Even if Rayg had dazzled him with lies, suppose he did escape? He owed such debts to Rayg—he should really grant him his freedom and let him enjoy the sunshine in the Upper World.

But it wasn’t up to one sentimental, indulgent young Tyr. The Lavadome needed Rayg’s skills.

NoSohoth spoiled his digestion with a new round of complaints from Upholds to the south and northeast. The Ghioz were stealing cattle, brigands were raiding their blighter allies on the world’s end.

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