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“And so he can very soon,” said Zubeida, sitting down beside the brownie. She was holding a small red glass flask that contained a silvery liquid. “I’ve collected every drop I could from the petals of the dragon-flowers. I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you. Here you are, dragon rider,” she said, giving Ben the bottle. “Look after it carefully. I hope you won’t need it, but in case you do I feel sure it could help Firedrake.”
Ben nodded and tucked away the moon-dew in his backpack, where he had the rat’s map close at hand, too. He had discussed the djinn’s instructions with Barnabas Greenbloom. The professor thought that the palace Ben had seen in the djinn’s eye sounded very much like a monastery the Greenblooms had once visited on a field trip. It was not far from the place where the Indus changed course deep in the Himalayas, and the way to its source went east. Gilbert Graytail’s map showed a great many blank patches in those parts.
“Zubeida,” said Sorrel, “do you think a hungry brownie could take some of this human food along for the journey?”
Zubeida Ghalib laughed. “I’m sure she could,” she said. “After all, you must keep up your strength. Who knows how many more enchanted ravens you’ll have to drive out of the sky?”
“Yes, who knows?” murmured Sorrel, looking up. Her sharp eyes couldn’t make out the smallest black speck among the stars, but she didn’t trust this lull in hostilities. Night was a good disguise for black feathers.
“Hey, Twigleg,” she said, tugging the manikin by the sleeve, “find yourself a pool of water. It’s time you had a word with your master.”
Twigleg jumped. He had been sitting on Ben’s knee, dreamily watching the people enjoying themselves. “What did you say?”
“Nettlebrand!” repeated Sorrel impatiently. “Your old master! Find out if he’s still in the desert. We’re leaving soon.”
“Oh, yes.” Twigleg’s shoulders slumped.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Ben.
“Would you really, young master?” Twigleg gazed at the boy gratefully.
“Of course.” Ben put the manikin on his shoulder and stood up. “But if you say ‘young master’ once more, I shall go away and you can talk to the monster on your own.”
Twigleg nodded, clutching the boy’s sweater.
“Good. While you two do that,” Professor Greenbloom called after them, “Zubeida and I will rescue Firedrake from his admirers.”
Ben carried Twigleg to the field of dragon-flowers, where a shallow water basin had been dug in the ground near the fence. Zubeida watered the flowers from it when the heat made their leaves droop. It was covered with black plastic to keep the precious water from evaporating in the sun.
Ben put Twigleg down on the ground, pulled the plastic cover off the basin, and sat on the fence. The dragon-flowers were wide open now, and their prickly leaves shone in the dark.
“Suppose he really is still in the desert?” asked Ben. “Can he answer you all the same?”
Twigleg shook his head. “Not without water. But I don’t think Nettlebrand will be in the desert anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I just feel it,” murmured Twigleg. He picked up a small stone.
Ben shifted uncomfortably on the fence. “If he does turn up in the water,” he said, “do you think he’ll be able to see me here?”
Twigleg shook his head. Weak at the knees, he went to the rim of the basin. His reflection was paler than the moon, but the fragrance of the flowers filled the night and calmed the frantic beating of his heart.
“Stay as you are, please!” whispered the homunculus. “Stay dark, water!”
Then he threw the stone. Splash! Shimmering circles rippled over the surface of the water. Twigleg held his breath. An image appeared in the dark pool, but it was not the image of Nettlebrand.
“Gravelbeard!” Twigleg stepped back in surprise.
“Oh, Twigleg, there you are at last!” The mountain dwarf pushed his big hat back on his head. Large tears were trickling down his nose. “His Goldness, our master,” he gulped, raising his short little arms and then letting them sink again, “he’s … he’s …”
“He’s what?” stammered Twigleg.
Ben leaned over from the fence to hear better.
“He’s buried in the sand!” moaned Gravelbeard. “Gone, just like that! Oh!” He rolled his eyes and went on hoarsely. “It was terrible, Twigleg. The crunching. The squealing. And then suddenly” — the dwarf doubled over until it looked as if his nose would come up through the water — “suddenly everything was still. Perfectly still.” He stood up again, shrugging his shoulders. “What was I to do? I couldn’t dig him out. I’m much too small!”
Twigleg scrutinized the sobbing dwarf thoughtfully. He didn’t believe Gravelbeard’s story. Was it really possible that the source of all their troubles lay buried in the sand of a distant desert?
