Beautiful Blood

He checked the ledge beneath the wing and called out to the shadows deeper in. Nothing, no response. He proceeded farther along the dragon’s spine. If she were headed for the plain below, he might never find her. He shouted her name and listened to the winded silence that came back to him. The brush grew thicker and his step faltered when he moved past the point where the spine began to slope downward. Only the boldest of scalehunters ventured beyond this area—he remembered old Jarvis telling him that something big lived in the thickets above the haunch, some kind of animal, possibly a bear, that could tear you apart—remains of its victims had been found and there had been a handful of sightings, albeit fleeting and unreliable ones. Of course that had been years before and it might be that the animal had gone elsewhere or had died, but Rosacher had learned it was unwise to disregard such warnings, because more often than not the consequences of flouting them proved severe. The moon, silvery and almost full, was at its zenith and in its light he could make out palm crowns on the plain below, but not their trunks. A thin mist veiled the brilliance of the stars. Insects chirred and a nightjar cried. Rosacher felt as alone and frightened as he had on that long-ago night when he had drawn blood from Griaule’s tongue, yet he pressed forward into the thickets, made wary by every rustle, every shadowy twitch and tremble of leaf or twig.

Another quarter of an hour brought him to what was essentially a bald patch on the dragon’s back, an oval area some fifty or sixty feet across, and perhaps much larger than that (he couldn’t judge how far it stretched down the slope of Griaule’s side), scantily covered in dirt and weeds, but free of brush. He stepped out onto it and understood the reason for the lack of vegetation. Some idiot had cleared it away—within the past year, he guessed—and attempted to pry loose the enormous scales, shattering them into dozens of pieces that shifted under his weight. The danger associated with trespassing in places like this was that Griaule might mistake you for a scalehunter come to violate his body, and though Rosacher believed the dragon capable of distinguishing among humans and had evidence aplenty that Griaule recognized him for who he was, that belief was nothing he cared to rely on in this situation. Best, he decided, to go to Martita’s, have a glass of ale and think things over. Perhaps he could prevail upon the scalehunters there to assist him in the search. And then he spied Amelita. She stood facing away from him, her figure obscured by the gray cloak, so low on the dragon’s side, some twenty yards distant, that if she took another step or two forward, she would be unable to keep her footing.

“’lita!” he shouted.