With a loud, rumbled hough, the dragon let him up.
Jakkin turned off the shower, grabbed up his clothes, and put them on hastily. Then he took Brother's ear and jerked him up. Forgetting the warning bellpull because of the pain in his leg, and limping, Jakkin led Blood Brother back around to his newly cleaned stall. Luckily no one was in the hall.
Slakk and Errikkin were sitting by the stallside. Slakk was fingering his bag and talking. Errikkin was smiling and nodding his head. They jumped up when they saw the dragon coming.
"Fewmets!" Slakk yelled. "Why didn't you warn us? That big lump could have stepped on us, and then where would we have been?"
Jakkin didn't reply but shoved the dragon into the stall. Smelling the fresh food, Brother went in willingly. Jakkin latched the door and turned back to his friends.
It was Errikkin who noticed his leg. "That's awful red. You look like you've lost some skin. Does it hurt?" he asked, pointing, his bland handsome face creased with worry.
Before Jakkin could answer, Slakk said, "I told you he was dangerous. They ought to send him to the stews before he kills someone."
Jakkin answered angrily. "He was just being playful. And grateful. And—worm waste!"
"What is it?" asked Errikkin, parading his concern.
"I left the bagged brush in the shower."
"I'll get it!" cried Slakk, jumping up. Before Jakkin could stop him, Slakk was running down the hall, his bag bouncing crazily against his tunic. But once around the turning, he slowed down. He would walk from here. If he took enough time, the others would start on the next stall and bath without him.
4
AT THE SHOWER-ROOM door, Slakk hesitated, bent down, and removed his sandals. Wet feet would dry faster than wet shoes. He heard a noise and looked up. Likkarn was standing over him, glowering, the bath brush in his hand.
"I—it—wasn't me—" Slakk began under the man's hooded gaze.
"It will be when I get through with you, you empty-bagged piece of waste. Tossing Master Sarkkhan's property around and dodging work. I know you—bonder." Likkarn spoke it all with a quiet that exaggerated his fury, and his weed-reddened eyes seemed to grow bloodier with each word. He grabbed up Slakk's tunic and slowly raised the boy off the floor so that only his toes touched it. Then he gave Slakk three hard shakes and dropped him. Slakk fell heavily, twisting his leg and giving a sharp cry of pain.
"Now, if it isn't you, who is it?" Likkarn asked. He knew that fear and pain could control the bond boys and he used his knowledge with precision. In his blister fury, Likkarn was—like all weeders—practically unrestrainable. But during the day he did not allow himself to smoke. "Who—is—it?" he asked again, coldly, spacing the words without obvious passion—that he saved for the dragons he helped train and for his nights of blisterweed.
Again Slakk sobbed out, "It wasn't me." And then, under his breath, as if whispering might excuse his betrayal, he added, "It was Jakkin. Not me. Jakkin."
Likkarn stepped over him and went down the hallway, heedless of Slakk's sobbing. He strode eagerly, not bothering to mask his elation. Jakkin was the one boy who irritated him beyond measure: Jakkin, with his sure touch with dragons, his aloofness, his ability to read. Jakkin had already caught Sarkkhan's eye. The nursery owner had asked about Jakkin once or twice already. Such a boy, a hard worker who kept himself apart from the other bonders in their games, could not be easily manipulated. "It will be a pleasure breaking Jakkin over this," Likkarn told himself, knowing it would keep the other bonders in line, knowing that to empty the boy's bag over such a slight infraction would be personally sweeter than waiting for an important mistake. He allowed himself a small smile.
Errikkin was already in Bloody Flag's stall, calming the dragon in preparation for the bath. Flag was a phlegmatic beast, hard to rouse even for mating. That calmness was what Sarkkhan hoped to breed into future dragons, without Flag's habitual torpor. Breeding was an inexact science, but Sarkkhan's work had always had a high percentage of correct guesses.
Jakkin was still with Blood Brother, finishing the grooming by trimming the dragon's nails with a large hasp. It was a job that had to be done within the confines of the stall so that the dragon could not strike out if a sensitive claw was cut carelessly. Many breeders had their stud dragons declawed, since the beasts were no longer used in the pits. But according to Sarkkhan, a declawed dragon could not catch its mate easily in flight and the extra energy the stud had to expand chasing down the elusive female reduced its potency.
Jakkin did not know if such a thing were true; but still, he thought, If Flag were declawed he'd never breed. Not if it meant an extra-long chase. He must have said it out loud, because there was an answering chuckle from Errikkin in Flag's stall.
Neither boy heard Likkarn coming down the hall. The old trainer moved silently over to Blood Brother's stall, his fury and eagerness tight behind his smile. The dragons sensed Likkarn's heightened emotions. Flag merely houghed once and stopped. But Brother began to sway back and forth.
Jakkin stood, not knowing what was wrong. He tried to calm the worm, stroking its nose and crooning to it. But the dragon would not be soothed. Trails of smoke began to leak through his slits. Jakkin closed his eyes and again tried to reach the dragon's mind, but the dark red mud it projected was now shot through with flashes of bright yellow lightning. Brother was really disturbed. Jakkin knew that the only thing to do now was to get out of the stall as quickly as possible and bar the door. Then he would have to get one of the extinguishers—the stun guns—that hung by the main door. If necessary, he'd have to use the stinger to knock Brother out for a while. Once a dragon began thrashing, no one was safe.
Jakkin ducked under Brother's neck and slid along his side, timing his run to coincide with the sway. Just as Jakkin reached the door, Brother grunted and threw his head up, giving a soft whine. It was like the early screams of pit dragons warming to a fight. Jakkin knew that in minutes the dragon would hackle if he couldn't be put to sleep.
Jakkin clawed at the inside latch and pushed the door open. He started out and ran straight into Likkarn, who waited there.
"Messy," sneered the old bonder. "Careless and messy." He held up the bath brush like a weapon and was so intent on beating the boy, he did not notice the dragon's whine.
"Blood Brother—" began Jakkin, trying to warn the trainer out of the stall doorway.
But Likkarn lifted the brush high up over his head and brought it down with contained fury on Jakkin's shoulder. The bristles made a bloody pattern where they slipped off Jakkin's tunic and onto skin. Jakkin cried out.
The dragon answered him, scream for scream, rearing up in a hindfoot stand that pulled its leather halter out of the ring. As Brother's head touched the wooden ceiling beams, he dropped again, angered and confused, an orange light pinpointed in his black eyes. He kicked out with his rear legs, sending Jakkin tumbling into Likkarn. They fell together, the boy on top.
Blood Brother backed out of the stall screaming, and stepped slantwise on part of Jakkin's back, pressing the boy down heavily on the trainer. The dragon never noticed, but moved on, unfurling his wings until the tips touched the walls. The scarred wing scraped past a pair of hooks, and one hook caught the tender membrane, ripping it open. Frantically the dragon tried to shake his wing loose, screaming his fury over and over into the cavernous barn. Other dragons in their stalls up and down the hallway screamed back, terrifying the bonders working there. Errikkin cowered in Flag's stall, his back against the bin.
Blood Brother gave one last mighty pull and his wing tore free, the hot blood dripping down onto the dust, burning the floorboards where it fell. Three drops spattered onto Jakkin's back, leaving deep pits. But he had been unconscious since the first blow and did not feel the burns.
The dragon roared once, then stopped at the smell of his own blood and stood trembling.
Likkarn crawled out from under the boy's body and put his back against the wall. He edged toward the barn door where
the extinguishers hung, three on a side. He moved slowly because he could feel that some of his ribs were broken and because he knew that any other sudden movement could send the dragon into new furies. Likkarn was breathing in great gasps by the time he reached the door. His fingers found the gun but his eyes never left the dragon. Trembling, he brought the stinger up and sighted between Brother's eyes, sliding the force regulator to Stun.
At the gun's movement, Brother moved his head up and whined once. Then he lowered it again and stared at Likkarn with shrouded eyes. He sensed, in a muddled way, the man's purpose. He whined again.
Likkarn's hand on the regulator hesitated, then rammed it right on to Kill. He fired once into the dragon's head, shattering the black eyes, and once more into the front of the neck, severing the sternum muscles and making a crimson flower burst and trickle down onto the dragon's breast. First the mighty wings collapsed, helpless, at the dragon's sides. Then slowly the great beast fell, shaking the floor of the barn. At his collapse, all the dragons in the stud barn set up a howling.
Tears, nowhere near as red as dragon's blood but colored from blisterweed, ran slowly down Likkarn's cheeks in familiar grooves.
"You gutless lizard," he hissed. "You piece of waste. Whine at me, will you? I bet everything I had on your third fight. You were going to be a champion. I was going to be a man once more. You ruined me."
Likkarn dropped the gun and walked over and began kicking the dying beast in the side. The rhythm of the blows seemed to echo in the hall. Kick after kick he delivered until the kicking tired him out. He began to shake violently, the first sign of weed hunger or shock. He turned abruptly and went out of the barn, dropping the extinguisher in the doorway. He spoke to the first bonder he saw.
"Send Brother's carcass to the stews. And get a good price for it. It's prime. Then take care of that other piece of waste, that boy Jakkin. If he's still alive."
Shrugging off any help and holding his sides, Likkarn went toward the bondhouse without looking back.
5
JAKKIN WADED THROUGH muddy nightmares and woke a dozen times. Each time, pain and drugs sent him spiraling back to blood-colored swamps, where he slogged toward the light yet one more time.
At last he came to and discovered he was staring into a starched white pillowcase and breathing through it with difficulty. Since his bunk in the bondhouse did not include such niceties, he realized groggily that he must be in the hospice. He tried to turn over, and the pain in his shoulders and down his back was so intense, he screamed weakly and buried his face in the pillow again.
"I think you'll live," came an amused voice, cool and gentle.
Jakkin lifted his head and turned slowly till he reached the outer edge of the pain. He could see the speaker now. It was Akki, the girl that Slakk said should be in the baggeries. Even in his state, Jakkin could see why. Her black hair hung straight down her back; her skin was the pale cream of a hatchling. She had a generous, mobile mouth that right now was laughing at him. Jakkin winced again and Akki moved to the head of the bed, where he could see her more easily. She held out a glass filled with iced takk.
"Here. Drink this. And now that we both know you'll make it, I have to get back to work. There are a couple of really sick people in here, you know. Not just ones with dragon footprints up and down their spines."
Jakkin groaned and managed to gasp out, "So that's what hurts." He had only a vague memory of what had happened, ending with Brother's kick.
"That and three nice deep blood scores," said Akki cheerfully. Her smile was slightly crooked. Jakkin liked that, except it made her seem to be enjoying his discomfort. "Too bad. They were the only pits on an otherwise scoreless body."
He could feel himself blushing and pushed the takk glass back into her hand. Then he buried his face in the pillow. When he raised his head again, Akki was gone. He couldn't decide if he was happy about her disappearance.
Jakkin glanced out of the window. It was shut and the blackness outside made him gasp. It was almost Dark-After. Hurt or not, he would have to get out of the bed, out of the hospice, and back to the incubarn. The hatching must be nearly complete by now. If he didn't get himself an egg or a newborn hatchling before the morning count, it might be another year before he could try again.
He eased himself into a sitting position, keeping his mouth open. He breathed deeply, willing himself to forget the pulsing ache in his back, the three hot points of searing agony that were the blood scores. He put his feet over the side of the bed and waited out the next pulse of pain. Except for some bandages on his back, and his bond bag, he was naked. His pants and tunic were folded neatly on a chair by the bed. He managed to move to them, hunching like an old man, shuffling carefully so as not to jar his wounds.
"Fewmets," he cursed. "At this rate I'll be lucky to get out of here by dawn."
Somehow he managed to get into his pants. He had to carry his sandals and tunic. Inching toward the door, he listened for footsteps in the hallway. He heard none, opened the door, and sighed with relief to see that his room was only about ten meters from the front door. To call it walking, he thought, was an overstatement. He moved like an injured fifty-foot, the awkward insect that went in circles if it lost even a single leg. Only, his back was not going to regenerate as quickly as a fifty-foot's foot. He was going to have this pain for a long time—and the blood scores forever.
By the glass door he hesitated once again. Pushing it open was going to require some extra effort. He saw that it was not quite Dark-After, but the two moons were squatting on the horizon and Akkhan was already leaking its color along the line. All the pain, his awkward, hurting shuffle, had been for nothing. He pounded his fist impotently on the door, almost hoping the glass would break. As he did so, he thought he felt something break open on his back. The new pain made him whimper and he slowly slid down the glass door and collapsed onto the floor.
***
JAKKIN WOKE WITH his face in the pillow again and wondered if he had dreamed his walk down the hall.
"And what were you trying to do, hero?" Akki's amused voice told him it had not been a dream after all. "You managed to rip off a bandage and start some bleeding again. And I'm the only one on night duty. Do you know how heavy you are?"
Jakkin lifted his head high enough to see Akki scripting something on a chart at the foot of his bed. He noticed that his pants and tunic were once again on the chair and his embarrassment was so great he did not even blush this time, just put his head back on the pillow and was silent.
As if she had not noticed any movement, Akki continued her monologue. "Were you planning to run around in Dark-After? Hobble-hop here and there? Why, boy, enjoy your rest. You'll be back with the dragons soon enough. You remind me of ... Why, even old Likk-and-Spittle let his broken ribs get him off for three days. He just lay here and loved every minute of our coddling. Loved it, that is, until Sarkkhan came here with blood on his mind and broke that bagged weeder back down to stallboy again. Imagine, extinguishing a stud like Blood Brother when all he had to do was stun the worm. All he had to do was—"
Jakkin pushed himself over on his side, ignoring the dancing knives in his back. "Three days? Likkarn was here three days? I don't understand. It's Dark-After. How could it be three days? How long have I been here?"
Akki came around with another glass of takk, this one steaming hot. She held it out to him. Her mouth was serious. "You've been in and out of consciousness almost a week," she said. "There was even a time when we thought we might lose you. But Sarkkhan said you have too much fight in you to die young, and that your head is harder than dragon bone. He should know. He has a head like that himself."
"A week. Dark-After—a week!" Jakkin's face lost what color it had and he pushed Akki's hand away. The glass fell and splintered on the floor. The takk splattered. Jakkin threw himself down on the pillow and began to weep, heedless of Akki's hands on his hair or her soothing voice. He was fifteen and could not remember ever crying before—not as a child
when his father had died so brutally; not in bond when his mother slipped away so quietly in her sleep; not when Likkarn had tormented him with the memory of his father's death under the feral's claws. He sobbed—for this lost chance, for the death of Blood Brother, for the aching scores on his back, and even with the remembered pain of his parents' loss.
Akki's voice came to him as if from far away. "It's the medicine, Jakkin. The medicine makes you weak, makes you cry."
He ignored her and let the waves of uncontrollable sorrow wash over him until he fell into a deep, troubled sleep. When he woke again, it was afternoon and Akki was gone.
***
GETTING OUT OF bed and dressing was nowhere near as hard as it had been the day before. Jakkin's back was stiff and he had a continuing headache, but the dizziness, the depression, the pinpoints of pain were gone. He decided not to wait for a visit from the doctor. He had to find out what had happened in the week missing from his life. He had to know if all the hatchlings had already been counted and settled in with their hens.
The sun was bright and hot overhead, and there was no breeze as Jakkin walked the short distance between the hospice and the barns. He met no one on the path. In the intense heat of the day, everyone either worked inside the cool barns or napped. Bonders worked.
Jakkin tried to remember back before he had been a bonder. He picked through his meager store of memories: the sight of his father bleeding on the sands while the feral dragon, a black blot in the sky, winged toward the farthest mountains; his mother threading her thin, fragile fingers through his as they walked toward Sarkkhan's Nursery, a pack filled with their few possessions on her back. Her voice came suddenly to him out of the past. "We may be bonders, but we will fill our bags ourselves." The memory of her voice was more vivid to him than the picture of his father's body. But whether that walk had occurred before they had become bonders or after, he did not know.