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| wChapter 9: In which Madrul goes to town: Sunday, November 27, 2005 | |
Chapter 9 The next day was consumed with chores and studying. Drademar produced, from some unknown crevice within the caves and tunnels that apparently littered the dormant volcano, a stack of scrolls and books. Madrul was very fortunate in that his mother had insisted upon his learning to read, though the skill was rarely used in a village that got its fill of stories and history from the telling. He was not very good at it, but as he examined the lopsided pile of material on which he would practice, he gathered that he had better become good at it, and rather quickly. He did not have much time that day to become good at it, however, for around midmorning, a number of hours after sunset but far before midday, the dragon crouched down on the floor and told him to climb up. He hurriedly obeyed, taking the now emptied sack with him--what remained of the food was carefully wrapped in cloth and stored on a rock ledge. Madrul had not really counted himself lucky but he should have; besides the dust, the cave in which he lived, though sparse, was neat and clean, and uninhabited by any creature, since no sane creature would enter a domain that hung heavy with the spicy scent of dragons. He had no problems with storing food nor with dripping water, to judge from the dry, near perfect condition of the books. The dragon pushed off from the ledge, his wings flapping as he dropped slightly before a breeze caught him and lifted him away, carrying him up into the air. They soared over the landscape and Madrul admired his surroundings and their proximity to the clouded sky with delight. “Do you know what to get?” Drademar queried. Madrul nodded and then remembered where he was. “Leather gloves, a leather smock, leather closed boots, two smaller hammers and a larger one, a set of detail tools, and two decently sized pairs of tongs. Also foodstuffs to last for several weeks.” “Indeed. Your memory is excellent. The money I gave you should be sufficient for everything. Now I am afraid I shall not be able to drop you off at the town.” Madrul puzzled over that. “Why not, sir?” “It is not their week to feed me and I have no desire to drive off their herds and earn their enmity. You will not have too far to walk, Madrul.” He did land along a relatively uninhabited stretch of road some distance from the city, and Madrul reluctantly slid down from his back and sized up how far he would have to walk with a scowl. Then he bent and brushed at the scales that had accumulated around his toga during his ride--the dragon was in shedding season, and sometimes the scales appeared to be everywhere. “I will wait here. Try to get done by sunset; if you are not, I will come looking for you.” “Yes, sir,” said Madrul, trying to suppress a sullenness in his tone, and he turned and trod briskly towards the town with the empty sack on his shoulder and the pouch full of coins tucked deep under his slightly stained toga. As he walked, pushing himself along with the muscles developed after almost a month’s worth of repeatedly enforced hard climb up the hill, he could not suppress his sudden elation, however. The closer he got to the city the more excited he became--it had been so long since he had seen or talked to a human being! And though this was not Lohien, nor Buoka, still it felt as if somehow he were going home. He approached the outskirts of the city faster than he perhaps thought he would, mainly because of those previously mentioned powerful muscles, and as he strode down the street little boys and girls ran from their porches to congregate around him and bury him in questions. He ignored them--Rebe’s friends had often done the same thing back home, and that was the only response one could have when one was short on time. Soon he left them, still complaining, behind, and entered more crowded streets. Small shops stood at each corner, but more prominent were the guild houses, their signs advertising the profession they trained. Weavers, blacksmiths, merchants, even professional bards were gathered outside their respective centers of learning for the city, trying to gather passersby to train. More than one bard told Madrul he had the perfect hands for a lute, and once a shifty little man in a cloak approached him and started advertising the assassin’s guild. Madrul thanked him kindly--surely it was best to be polite to someone who claimed to be a trained assassin, whether or not that was actually true--and told him he was already apprenticed, and the man scuttled away. He followed the growing crowd of people until he entered the merchant’s district, focused around a square so crammed with people that moving through it was impossible. He hesitated. Perhaps plunging headlong into that mess wasn’t the best idea--it would probably only get him robbed. He scowled, and turned back to the guild district from which he came. Eventually he found the blacksmith’s guild a second time and entered through the creaky old wooden door at the front of the building. A congregation of large, rough looking men pushed past him on his way in. One said, “Forget it, lad! You don’t have the build for it.” Madrul turned after him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, and the man swiveled to eye him. “I am looking for a shop where I can purchase blacksmithing goods.” “There’s Grabajda’s shop down the way--he sells the dragon’s goods in this town.” “No, I’m sorry, I meant a store where I can buy blacksmithing tools.” A month of being constantly on his toes concerning politeness around the dragon was difficult to shake off. “The guild sells them, but you’ve got to have a contract with a master to buy blacksmith’s goods,” said the man. “I am under contract.” “Take your paper in to see the man.” He gestured beyond Madrul into the hall and turned his back. Madrul scowled slightly and went inside. Behind a low table there sat a man who looked every inch a blacksmith, except he had a pair of tiny spectacles perched on his nose and he was bent almost in half over a thin, illustrated book on the table before me. He did not look up, and Madrul’s curiosity got the better of him; he leaned half over the table to examine the book’s drawings. The book snapped shut. “Can I... help you?” said the man in a thin, dry tone. “I’ve come to buy blacksmith’s tools, sir, and the man said I was to see you—“ “Do you have a contract?” “Yes, sir.” Madrul was feeling slightly bewildered by this time. Why was such an emphasis placed on his blasted contract? What did it matter if he bought tools without being a blacksmith? “Well?” the man snapped. Madrul stared at him. “Don’t stand there gaping, boy, show me your contract.” “Show--oh...you want... a written contract?” Madrul flushed. “I... my contract was never written—“ “It either is written or it does not exist.” “That is not true!” “Look, boy, either you can show me the signed proof that you work for a blacksmith or you can get out of my business.” Madrul stared pugnaciously at him for a long moment and then turned and stormed away. The door swung shut behind him before he would allow himself to emit a burst of mild obscenities over which his mother would have surely beaten him and his father probably would have beamed. Someone laughed behind him, and he turned half furious to be confronted by a girl. She wore a dirty, ragged woman’s toga that had once been too long for her and was now cut up to her knees, far too short, in a shade of dark green; her eyes were a dark indistinguishable color that verged on blackness, and her hair was light colored--the brightest, yellowest hair he had ever seen. “You’d put your father to shame, swearing like that,” she said, scratching at one cheek and leaving a dirty smear on her skin. “He’d probably be proud,” growled Madrul. “What gives you the right to laugh at me?” “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.” She smiled, suddenly. “What do you have to curse about?” He scuffed his toe awkwardly in the dirt. “They won’t sell me smithing tools because I don’t have my contract in writing.” She laughed again. “And aren’t you a bit young to be an apprentice, anyway, then?” He scowled. “I’m twelve years old.” “As am I, but do you think that matters to the likes of them? They don’t care for anything that doesn’t come with a master’s title attached to it.” In response to his deepening scowl she reached out and poked him in the arm. “Lighten up, all ready? By the dragon, you’ve more frowns in you than a rainy day. No reason you can’t pass a moment or two smiling now, is there?” He sighed deeply. “I need those goods.” “I know a shop as that sells them. Affiliated with the guild but at least you’ll have a chance, being outside the bureaucratic center and all. You want me to show you where it is?” He blushed. “I don’t have anything to give you.” “You can give me your name. I’ll take that as proper payment for my help.” With that she turned and ran down the alley. At the far end she beckoned him; hesitantly, then more confidently, he followed her. “My name is Madrul.” “Mine is Iakena.” Their awkward encounter continued until they reached the smithing shop she had mentioned earlier, with much carousing in between. He thanked her and went in. The man behind the counter was another of those buff, obviously smith type people. He looked up as Madrul entered. “Can I help you?” he said quietly. “I need to buy some smithing tools, but...” The man sat back in his chair. “But?” His tone was amused. “But my contract as an apprentice is not written, so the guild wouldn’t sell to me.” The man snorted. “I am guild affiliated. What makes you think I might break the guild’s rules so easily?” Madrul swallowed. “Nothing makes me think that, sir, it’s just that... that...” “That? Yes?” “That I had to try, sir.” Madrul swallowed again. The man stretched his long limbs and pushed his chair back from the table, getting ponderously to his feet. “I admit I have dealt with verbal contractors in the past, but to receive the guild price your master’s name must be in my book.” He patted a nearby tome. “Just so as we keep the guild prices fairly distributed.” “I did not know that the guild gave tooling discounts,” said Madrul carefully. “No matter,” said the man, waving his hand. “What is your master’s name?” Madrul swallowed. “His name is Drademar.” The man began to flip through the book. “Description?” This last question made Madrul’s throat seize up. The man stopped turning the page and let his finger trace up and down the column of names. “Well, boy? Your physical description of him had better match up in some mann--erk.” He broke off, and his finger stopped. Madrul swallowed yet again, choking against the lump that had risen in his throat. “He is the dragon,” he said thickly around a suddenly dry tongue. The shopkeeper closed the book heavily and sat down. “You’ll need to give me more proof than that that you aren’t... that you’re...” “That I’m not lying?” Madrul scowled. “You don’t trust me?” “To say you are an apprentice to the dragon...” The boy nodded. “Very well.” He thought for a moment, and then fumbled in the pouch at his belt until he encountered some of the scales he had brushed from his toga earlier in the morning, and showed them to the man. The man swallowed hard a few times, bobbing between his chair and a standing position, until at last he shook his head. “For the love of all that is great, boy,” he said. “How on earth did this come about?” “I do not know,” Madrul admitted, and then his story poured out of him in a rush of words. It had been so long since he had had the chance to talk to someone and also it was the first time he was able to truly explain what had happened to him. Once he started talking all that had happened slipped from his lips. “But when it was time for the dragon festival at my family’s village, Lohien, some friends and I snuck out to see the dragon where he was going to meet the men in the field. And once he saw me he said something about the men remembering his request after all, and sent me back for my things (yay, resummerizing!). When I told him later we didn’t know anything about his requesting an apprentice he didn’t seem to mind.” The shopkeeper shook his head again, pushing himself to his feet. “However that works out, young man, I will gladly sell at guild prices to Master Drademar’s apprentice. What was it that you needed?” Madrul recited his list. “Leather gloves, and a leather smock... one other leather thing, too... oh yes, leather closed boots. If you don’t have them I’m to go to the cobbler’s. And for tools two small hammers, one large hammer, a set of detail tools, and two pairs of tongs.” “Whoa, slow down, whoa there,” laughed the man. “Give me a moment to look for some things.” He found the smock and the hammers and placed them on the counter; Madrul tried on the apron as the shopkeeper rummaged around for boots and gloves that might fit him. He came back in a short time later with the items and handed them to Madrul, who was still examining the smock. The boy accepted them wordlessly and tried them on. The leather boots were heavy and extremely uncomfortable, especially for someone who had spent the majority of his life going barefoot. He had rarely worn sandals and had never owned boots. What use did the son of a fisherman and a dyer have for boots? There was nothing particularly dangerous around home or in the woods that boots would protect him from. Now they chafed and rubbed at his ankles and heels. A slightly larger size materialized by the shopkeeper proved to be slightly more comfortable, but only just. The gloves that he tried on were awkward and hot but at least they didn’t irritate his skin as badly as the boots did. He reached for the closest hammer and lifted it--it was heavy, and while he did not strain too much it still took effort to pick it up. The gloves, however, made the rough wooden handle far more comfortable, and the shopkeeper suggested he take a second, larger pair—he was assured that he would go through them quickly, working in the heat of the forge. Madrul acquiesced and as the shopkeeper began to total his purchase, he dipped into his tunic and located the bag of coins the dragon had given him. He counted them out carefully to the shopkeeper and stowed his new things in the bottom of his bag, stopping only at the man’s suggestion and trading his sandals for the horrible boots, having been reassured that the more he wore them the sooner he would get used to them. Then he shoved the sandals into the bag, and thanked the man. “On the contrary, it is I who owes you a great debt,” said the shopkeeper. “An amazing thing, I swear to you, that the dragon has taken an apprentice.” Madrul fought down the hotness in his cheeks and stumbled out the door. “I told you,” said someone’s voice right by his elbow and he turned to find Iakena had been waiting for him. “I told you he’d sell to you.” Madrul nodded, and showed her his boots. She laughed when he told her how uncomfortable they were. “Oh, yes,” she said. “They do take a bit of getting used to once you start wearing them. I hate my pair. And I don’t wear them, not around the city. Mother makes me wear them when we go places.” They walked together towards the market, and she told him about her mother. She did not mention her father and Madrul did not press her—she probably had her reasons. When they reached the marketplace she insisted on following him as he made his way through the crowd, and he decided that he had no reason nor desire to chase her away. So he told her about his family, and where he came from—about Keirun and Jorreked, Rebe and Pedrac and Niruy, his mother and father, even the Siqan Drema. “We don’t have the telling more than once a month here in the city, not when we’re past seven years of age. The children need more stories, and more instruction, of course, but sometimes I sneak out on weeknights when Mother is late at the pottery shop and listen to their instruction just to hear it.” She sighed as Madrul approached the closest food stall and started haggling over the price of something dried and long lasting. They spent two hours in the market and by the end of that time Madrul’s bag was full and he was excessively pleased with himself. He had not had such a good long conversation in a long time, considering how little he and Drademar actually spoke. Well Drademar spoke a lot but Madrul realized that most of his end of the conversation usually consisted of, “Yes, sir,” and, “No, sir,” or decent variants thereof. “Well,” said Iakena. “Did you want to come see the pottery shop?” He smiled. “I would like that, yes. Are you sure your mother and your grandfather will not mind?” “I am not sure but probably not. They have no reason to send you away.” She led him through the depths of the street as fast as her small, churning legs could carry her. He followed her more slowly than he would have liked, because the boots were rubbing at his ankles so badly that he was sure some sort of wound had opened up in his soft flesh and was bleeding all down his heels, although when he looked he could see nothing at all on the back of his boots. But when they reached the shop Iakena’s mother was not there. She shrugged off her mother’s absence. “She is probably at the market herself. I am lucky that she did not see me; I am supposed to be at lessons.” Then she dragged Madrul around the shop by one hand, showing him the pots her mother had made the day before and which ones her grandfather’s trembling hands had formed and where the paint room and the clay room were, and the firepit for baking. “You let them flame for only so long, you see,” she said. “That’s how you keep them from breaking.” At last they left the shop, and she showed him where the ladders lay at the sides of some buildings, leading up to the flat rooftops where people kept gardens and across which the knowledgeable traveler could walk with ease, instead of in the busy press that was the streets, lined with people. They climbed one and scurried from rooftop to rooftop until they reached the outskirts of town. There they climbed down and darted through the streets until the streets faded into mud and dust pathways and then died off into the open fields and the one long stretch of road down which Madrul had first come. It led off distantly into the forest that was never far from any island city. The herders were driving their cattle and their goats--he could see their wooly white backs crossing the fields. His eyes continued along until the horizon and then started the journey back to his feet but before they made it, Iakena grabbed his arm. “There!” she said, and pointed. “What?” he said, twisting to follow her gaze, for there was shock in her voice. “It’s the dragon,” she hissed in his ear. “I didn’t think he’d be so close to town, not this time of year. Our dragon festival isn’t for another few months. What is he doing? It looks like he’s talking to someone!” Before Madrul, suddenly remembering himself, could say anything she grabbed at his arm again and then darted off. “Let’s go look,” she called over her shoulder. “Wait!” he yelled, but she didn’t listen and he muttered a few choice oaths under his breath and raced after her. He caught her, fortunately, before they got close to the dragon. “What’s the matter?” she said, and laughed. “Don’t want to be seen?” And then she laughed again. “Nothing to be afraid of, you know!” “I know,” he snapped. “It’s not that. I’m just... I... I don’t want...” “You don’t know what you want,” she said, and darted off again. Again he raced after her. Drademar was lying by the side of the road about half the distance between the city and the point at which he had originally landed, and he was indeed talking to someone. They approached slowly, as carefully as they could, hiding behind the occasional tree stump and boulder as they went, and each time they crept closer Madrul felt more and more foolish, even though he knew that this was what he and the boys had done so few weeks ago. “This is spying,” he said quietly to her as they inched their way closer. “I just want to take a look and see,” she said. Madrul nervously realized he could not explain to her his situation now that they were so close. They would be heard. He gulped and decided not to say anything at all. They watched the dragon and the person to whom he was talking. From this close he could see that it must be a woman, for she was wearing a woman’s toga in deep blue of a shade that his mother might have made, fresh from the dyeing tubs. Her hair was black and she wore it tied up in a braid but it was still a deeply lustrous shade that scintillated in the sun. She and Drademar were speaking familiarly but they weren’t close enough to hear their words, and Madrul was glad. He did not feel right spying on Drademar. It was true that he had thought the dragon might have had an ulterior motive in bringing him to this particular city because they had passed over a number of towns almost as large on the way. At first he had thought that it was because Drademar might have known one of the smiths, but he had made no mention of it, and this woman was hardly a smith Iakena stood to make her way over to the next available tree trunk and Madrul muffled another curse and followed her, but before they could make it Drademar glanced up. The woman, startled, turned to follow his gaze.
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