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“Lost a rotten tooth, and good riddance to it.”
DharSii’s wings rippled, and the Copper felt that the great Red was getting set to end the interview. He had something on his mind, obviously, and he might give a quick agreement just to return to whichever intellectual obscurity was working on his thoughts this week.
“I need a favor, DharSii. When you have the time, I was wondering if you’d take a look at this wing joint of mine. A band or something has come loose.”
“Thinking about flying again? Excellent. A dragon needs exercise. I’ll see what I can do. There’s a decent blacksmith among the blighters who will assist.”
“More than exercise. A change of scenery, now and then. I was thinking of going west. Sort of an extended hunt. I’m famished for wild game and some decent metals.”
DharSii looked closely at him. “Not breaking the terms of your exile, I hope. I wouldn’t want the Aerial Host to get an excuse to appear over the Sadda-Vale.”
“Nothing like that. Though I do hope they’ve forgotten about us. I feel like I’ve gone venerable here, it’s been so long.”
DharSii’s tail lashed. The Copper suspected he hated Vesshall, the Sadda-Vale, and his relatives here, but he felt bound to them. “It’s the fogs and mists. It feels like one endless season, or being underground.”
DharSii was an exile, too, the Copper decided—an internal exile, forbidden from indulging his own preferences.
“You have powerful enemies,” DharSii said. “They’ll kill you if they can.”
“AuRon slips into the Empire now and then to see his mate. I don’t intend to fly anywhere south.”
“AuRon was never anyone of consequence in the Lavadome. You were the Tyr, and as it stands now, you’re the only former Tyr who has survived the office since my grandsire’s egg was laid.”
“About my wing?”
“I’ll get some blighter toolmakers and have a look tomorrow. Good enough? I’m off to Scabia’s wine-cellar. I think there’s a brandy mix that would do your sister and me some good at the end of this hunt. It’s been an arduous one.”
“Why didn’t she return with you?”
DharSii made that throat-clearing rattle he liked to do when making up his mind or stifling the truth. He was an excellent dragon, but he couldn’t lie convincingly to save his life. “Ahem. She’s exploring a cave to make sure the troll didn’t leave another generation behind.”
“Grim business. I don’t envy her the job,” the Copper said.
“Grim business indeed,” DharSii agreed, and this time the Copper was sure he meant the words.
DharSii was good to his word. He and a few skilled blighters bearing tools and materials showed up after breakfast.
The Copper smelled a good deal of wine and brandy on him the next day, and his eyes were exhausted and red. It wasn’t like DharSii to overindulge in anything save boring conversation. He ate lightly and politely, was often the first dragon up and about in the morning and set an example in enthusiasm as he “chewed his gravel,” as Scabia liked to put it to the hatchlings.
They worked on the broken pulley, with DharSii trying different qualities of rope, wire, tendon, and banding DharSii kept applying some sort of blue goop to the wood of the pulleys to see where the pressure was falling hardest. The Copper’s wing began to hurt from the constant strain of extending it without the assistance of the artificial joint.
Finally, he was able to take a short flight, keeping low to the ground. Sure enough, the joint gave way, and he came to a clumsy, tail-dragging skid of a landing.
“Were there only a dwarf about,” DharSii said. Written on his face, clear as dwarf letters, was pity with his relative’s state. With most dragons, pity and contempt were one and the same, and the Copper suspected this was so of DharSii. “We don’t have the right kind of material.”
“I remember Rayg speaking of ‘gut-core,’ ” the Copper said.
“Not familiar with that,” DharSii said, pulling leather tighter with his teeth.
DharSii took the afternoon off and flew south to see Wistala again, bearing two bags across his chest. The Copper wondered if they hadn’t found a comfortable cave and were setting up digs where they could be free of Scabia six days out of seven. They were suited for each other. DharSii’s scale hardly twitched when Wistala’s name was mentioned, but that was just his self-possessed nature. His sister, however, practically dropped scale with the intensity of her prrum when they spoke of DharSii.
“What is that you’re doing there with my nephew?” Scabia herself said, as the blighters reattached the joint on his wing. It might not work right for flying, but it was comfortable and provided support when it was folded, so the relief was palpable.
“We’re trying to fix this wing of mine,” the Copper said.
“In better days a dragon would use crippling injuries to improve himself in philosophy and mind the next generation, Tyr RuGaard. You hardly spend any time with the hatchlings. They might benefit from a better male example than NaStirath.”
Scabia never said so directly, but she treated the Copper as an equal and gave him grudging respect. She was a great one for titles, and the fact that he’d been Tyr of Two Worlds, etc., etc., meant more to her than it did to the Copper. To the exile, it was just a stream of words his court majordomo used to recite to save himself having to come up with anything pertinent to the matter at hand.
