Heart's Blood Read online

  "Anything else I should know?" he asked at last.

  Trikko said, "The rebels."

  "Senator Golden told us something about them."

  "Rounded up," Trikko said.

  "The rebels," L'Errikk added, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "They were all rounded up. And rounded upon." It was a stupid joke, but that was L'Errikk. He, at least, hadn't changed in the year.

  "Of course they no longer have anything much to rebel against," Slakk said, smiling. "No bonders, no rebels. What do you think of that?"

  Jakkin returned the smile, but then remembered that Golden had added that the worst of the rebels—the ones who'd set off bombs and planned other disasters—had been sent offplanet to penal colonies maintained by the Federation.

  "I think," he said, "that I have lots to learn about the last year."

  Slakk banged his fist on the long table. "Lots to learn!" he said in rhythm to the bangs. "Lots to learn!" And soon everyone at the table except Jakkin was banging away. The takk pot bounced up and down precariously. Kkarina stomped out of the kitchen, charging toward their table and brandishing a large wooden spoon.

  "Fair warning," she cried, slapping the spoon down on the table by Slakk's fist. "Next time it's your head, Master Slakk. And that fat bawbie will split open like an old mello." Mellos grew in the back kitchen glasshouse, yellow and round. If not picked in time, they cracked open and spilled out their bright red contents.

  Everyone in the room applauded and laughed and the game was over.

  "Some of the old rebels are even working in nurseries now." Arakk spoke quietly, looking down at his plate, which had been scraped clean as if he—and not Jakkin—had spent a year eating poorly. "The ones who are left on planet are to be considered led astray."

  Jakkin remembered the meeting with the rebel cell. None of them seemed to have been led astray. "Except for us, of course," he said under his breath. The real rebels had all appeared horribly committed to what they were doing, especially those angry acts of random—or not so random—violence. "Are there any here?"

  Just then, Kkitakk, a large, plain-faced man, sat down at the table, his plate piled with slabs of lizard meat. "Not here, boys. We won't have them rebels here." Jakkin recalled that Kkitakk had been Balakk's helper. Before. And hardly so large then. "Not since those lizard drools killed our Master that was, Sarkkhan."

  There was nodding agreement all around.

  Jakkin let out a huge sigh. "Then who are all the new faces?" Jakkin gestured with a hand that took in the entire dining room.

  Looking at his full plate, Kkitakk said, "Workers from other nurseries, dragon handlers who'd worked Rokk Major. Folk who had nowhere to go after the explosion."

  Jakkin nodded and filled his cup with some cooling tea. He said quietly, "So— our nursery took them in. That's good. It honors Master Sarkkhan's name. "

  "The odd thing is," Kkitakk added, "only a handful of nurseries are still open. Bond kept 'em together. Freedom's torn 'em apart."

  "More Errikkins around than we knew!" Slakk said.

  "What do you mean by that?" Jakkin asked.

  Slakk shrugged, but the girl with hair as red as a fighting dragon answered in his stead. "My nursery mates took a vote and most decided to go work in The Rokk. In groceries, feed stores, restaurants, bars. A couple joined the wardens. One took nurse training. 'No more fewmets' was what they all said. But I think they expected to work less now that they were out of bond. Hah! What slackers. 'Freedom takes more work, not less,' I told them. No one listened to me. But when our old master sold up and moved to his other home to live off his winnings, I came here, because it's the best nursery that's still running."

  "It's always been the best nursery!" Kkarina said curtly.

  "That, too," the girl agreed, "but as a bonder I couldn't very well choose where to work, could I? And now I can. Still, I'm a country girl and dragons is what I know. So, here I am!" She grinned after delivering this speech, and several of the men gave her a flat-hand salute to their chest, which she returned.

  "And Austar now embargoed for up to fifty years." Slakk said this with a satisfied look. "We should be well settled before then." He nodded at Jakkin, clearly expecting him to agree that such an exile was good for the planet.

  "But we'll all be as old as Likkarn then," Jakkin said, which made everyone laugh. Slakk slapped him on the back, hooting.

  Still standing over them, Kkarina nodded. "We need the Federation. We need their metals and supplies."

  "Nah, nah," Slakk said.

  Jakkin had a sudden memory of the trogs and how they worked metal. He could tell the nursery folk where to go to find metal; he could tell Golden. But then the secret about the dragons would be out as well. And the killing of all the dragons would begin. He couldn't hazard that, not till Akki solved the problem with science.

  Kkitakk said, "What have the Feders ever done for us but stop in for a quick bet at the pits and off again. We've never been anything to them but the back end of the world. It's the dragons they like, not us. Dumped our great-grands here and forgot about us."

  "Time to forget about them," agreed the redheaded girl.

  Trikko added, "And if you think being part of the Feders will mean anything good, well, we'd have to use their laws, and a Feder governor instead of the senators. We should stay a Protectory."

  "Protectorate," Jakkin corrected.

  "At least the senators know us," Balakk said.

  "And their hands always out for something," put in Kkarina.

  "Like that Golden you love so much, old woman?" Balakk said.

  "Hmmmph!" Kkarina slammed her spoon down again on the table, as if it were an enormous gavel, reminding them that she was for the Federation. "Golden and I go further back than senator. I'll say no more."

  "Small chance of that, Kay," Trikko said.

  She tapped the spoon on the top of his head, spun around, and stomped back to the kitchen.

  The young nursery workers were aroar with laughter, only some of it with Kkarina but most of them laughing at her. They all knew she'd been a bag girl once, but really, it was hard to see a slim alluring girl in that huge shapeless form.

  "That's all very well," Jakkin said, "but what about the Feders bringing in medicines and truck parts and such? What about news of the latest scientific developments? Couldn't we just use what we want and ... and..." Without some of those things, Akki would be seriously handicapped in figuring out how to give the dragon gifts to everyone on Austar.

  But there was another side of the Federation. Jakkin remembered a book of Golden's that he'd worked hard at reading. It said that the Feders—having outlawed violence in their home worlds—encouraged blood sports on non-Feder worlds so that those who still needed a shot of blood-spilling came to Protectorates like Austar IV.

  All of a sudden he knew what to say. "Think of the Federation as a super-big dragon. Dangerous and unpredictable. And didn't Master Sarkkhan always tell us, 'A man should learn from his dragon, just as a dragon should learn from the man.'"

  "Not a dragon," Kkitakk put in. "Saying Feders are like dragons maligns dragons."

  "Well, I have a different question. With all of us free, whose going to deal with the fewmets!" Slakk asked.

  Kkitakk and Balakk laughed and Kkitakk said, "That's easy. You boys will do it!"

  "What about us girls?" asked the redhead. "I'm as strong as all of you boys. Stronger than some." Pointedly, she named no names.

  And then the arguments really began, quickly jumping over to the other tables. Soon the dining room was aboil in loud talk.

  It was suddenly all too much. Weary of the intensity of the talk, battered by the noise, Jakkin stood.

  "Where are you going?" Slakk asked. "Start an argument and then duck out? You think you're Errikkin?"

  "I need sleep." In fact, Jakkin's face was gray and he was swaying.

  Slakk and L'Erikk nodded together. "Exhausted."

  Suddenly, it was true. Jakkin needed to li
e down, to be alone, and after, to talk with Akki, mind-to-mind.

  Slakk stood, too, slapping Jakkin enthusiastically on the back and nearly knocking him over. "You're bunking in the old room, with me and Errikkin and—"

  "And me!" said Arakk. He seemed genuinely pleased at the idea.

  "So all being masters now doesn't even give us our own rooms?" He'd had one before. That rankled a bit.

  "The older men get the singles now. Seemed fair. We voted on it," Kkitakk said, not adding what everyone knew: that there were more older men than boys voting. "And Kkarina has one, too."

  "What about Sarkkhan's house?"

  Kkitakk appeared peeved. "What about it?" He sounded oddly defensive.

  "Who lives there now?"

  "We've turned it into a guesthouse for visitors who want to spend a few days at a dragon farm."

  Maybe I should declare myself a visitor so I can stay in that quiet house. Not that anyone would let me get away with that. Suddenly light-headed, he still made it to the door with his head held high. Behind him the babble of voices continued, like the pick-buzz in a field full of insects. He paid them no more notice.

  On his way to the bunkroom, Jakkin forgot about the argument over Federation status and thought instead about the way Errikkin had angrily fled the dining hall. It was puzzling. A year ago he and Errikkin had been close. Best friends. He'd bought Errikkin's bond with the money he made when Heart's Blood became a champion. Even offered to free Errikkin—had forgiven him.

  But now Errikkin seemed changed.

  In truth, everything was changed: Jakkin's friends, the nursery, the world. Some for the better, some for the worse. And he and Akki—especially—had changed. More than anyone at the nursery could imagine.

  Shivering suddenly, as if the earth beneath his feet trembled, Jakkin sighed. We're going to be more alone here, surrounded by everyone and everything we know, than we were out in the mountains. There was no comfort in that thought.

  5

  NIGHT.

  Dark.

  Jakkin woke and stared at the ceiling of his shared room for a long while before deciding to get up. The mattress felt uncomfortably soft beneath him and he was no longer sleepy. And even if he were, the snores of the boys around him guaranteed that falling back to sleep would be impossible.

  Careful not to make any noise, he got dressed in his bonder pants and shirt. Though he supposed they weren't called bonder pants anymore. Maybe freedom pants?

  Carrying his old sandals, he tiptoed along the corridor until he got to the front door of the bondhouse. He eased it open, careful not to let it squeal, and stepped out into the black night.

  Once outside, he put on his sandals, then stared up at the twin moons. Soon it would be Dark-After and its death-bringing cold. "Dark-After, nothing after," bonders said. Everyone knew that only crazy people, no-hopers, or weeders went out once the bone-chill settled in. And if they went out, they died.

  Of course, he was neither crazy nor suicidal, and once away from the bondhouse, walking quietly along the path, Jakkin would be safe. No one else could follow him into the night—except Akki, of course. Most of the windows would be shuttered against the cold and everyone was asleep. No one would see him. He felt an iciness on his cheeks, on his hands, but it was more of a tingle than a searing cold.

  Above him, in their red phase, the twin moons sailed across the sky, leaving a trail of crimson. The path was outlined in their red light. He shivered. Not with cold, but with a chill of premonition. He felt the moons were scribbling a warning. A warning written in blood.

  The blood of the egg chamber?

  He shivered again. Maybe it was a premonition of spilled blood. The blood of all the dragons on the planet, slaughtered so humans could have the gift of mind-sendings, the ability to withstand the cold of Dark-After. This time when he shivered, he couldn't stop.

  Reaching the round incubarn, Jakkin hauled on the door. As before, it squalled in protest. He heaved again and at last got it open. Inside, the heat was so intense, he felt as if he were walking into a stone wall. The barn was kept at a constant thirty-four degrees centigrade, partly by electrics and partly by dragon body heat.

  In the cozy stalls where hen dragons bedded down with their dragonlings, something squawked. He figured it was one of the little dragons, for they often peeped and piped their distress at being awakened before they were ready. In separate quarters, half-grown dragons huddling together for company and warmth houghed as Jakkin went past. Only the full-grown males were separated in the stud barn.

  Jakkin kept his thoughts mute. No need to disturb the dragons any more than he had already with the noisy door. He didn't want the hens standing and stomping their huge feet, challenging him, and perhaps inadvertently stepping on some of their broods. Or the half-year hatchlings might get into squabbles brought on by lack of sleep, injuring one another or themselves. There were hundreds of ways dragons in nurseries could be hurt, mostly by the carelessness of their human caretakers. He didn't want to harm any dragon, by intention or inattention, and certainly not on his first day back.

  Jakkin let a bit of the dragons' thoughts leak into his mind. They were puzzled but not alarmed. Their sendings were pale blues and greens, not the sharp reds and blacks of fear.

  As he kept on down the hall, the barn behind him finally quieted. The hens and their broods settled back into sleep so quickly, his mind was soon filled with their low, hazy dreams. As he neared Auricle's back stall, he hoped he would find her asleep with her great jointed wings folded up against her sides.

  Lifting her head, Auricle sent him a tentative rainbow in shades of gray. He picked up her sending, shot soft color through it, and sent it back. "Thou art fine, little mother."

  He and Akki had let everyone think Auricle was a wild dragon. That wasn't strictly true. She'd been rescued, from the trogs, the same cave dwellers who'd made Akki and Jakkin slaves—another secret to be kept. Until he and Akki had returned to the nursery, Jakkin hadn't realized how many secrets they'd been burdened with in a single year.

  "Thou art fine, little mother," he repeated, this time aloud. Though she wasn't fine. Not yet. She was gravid—pregnant—but with all she'd been through, there was a good chance her eggs wouldn't hatch. They might have already broken apart inside the egg chamber. Though she'd had no viscous bleeding, which at least was a good sign. Or the eggs could emerge cracked, the dragonlings dead inside. But Akki had assured him that if the worst happened, Auricle would still be able to breed again, have eggs again, raise a brood.

  The hatchling nestled, wide-eyed, between Auricle's front legs. Some of Jakkin's thoughts must have leaked to her, or maybe his voice had awakened her. She looked up, pipped for a moment, sent him a picture that looked remarkably like Akki, then settled down again. She fell asleep almost instantly, her mind fuzzy, the colors softened by sleep.

  Jakkin smiled and—only when he was sure the hatchling was deeply asleep—opened the stall door. It was well oiled, not like the front door, and swung open without a sound. He went in.

  Kneeling by Auricle's side, he scratched behind her ears. She thrummed her pleasure, the throbbing pulse going through her and right up his arm and into his body. The hatchling neither noticed, nor stirred.

  "I will stay with thee awhile," he sent her, keeping his own colors muted. Then he sat down, his back against the dragon's broad shoulder, and began recalling in strong colors how the copter had rescued them from the mountains and the silent, murderous trogs.

  "Thou art safe here," he finished, "in my home."

  If he'd meant to calm her he was wrong, because she started to stir uneasily as soon as he mentioned the trogs.

  Fewmets! I've gone about it the wrong way.

  Auricle stretched out one pale wing, then snapped it shut again, as if closing a door. At the sound, the hatchling opened its eyes and began a frantic pipping. To soothe the little dragon, Auricle lapped its head with her rough tongue. Finally the dragonling calmed down and fell back
to sleep.

  Worm waste! Jakkin cursed himself. She doesn't need any reminders of where she's come from. Closing his eyes determinedly, he put all thoughts of the rescue out of his mind. But his determination itself communicated to Auricle, and she suddenly moved behind him, sending back a stuttering bit of color.

  "Danger?" she asked in a shower of gray and red. Little shivers, like tremors on a hillside, ran down her back.

  "No danger," Jakkin assured her, his sending a cooling, watery blue. "No danger." Because at the moment there was none. His sending must have convinced her at last, for Auricle drifted back to sleep.

  But Jakkin couldn't fall asleep as easily. Instead, he forced himself to sit quietly for a bit longer, an hour or more, hardly daring to breathe.

  Everything is changed, Jakkin thought as he had earlier in the evening. He wondered what Golden might be thinking, whether he agreed Austar would be better off fixing its own problems than relying on the Federation. Wondered whether Golden would now have to run against KKers for the senate. Wondered if he could win.

  Maybe, Jakkin told himself, maybe the embargo's meant to be. Since he and Akki needed to solve the problem of the dragon's blood without help from anyone else, why shouldn't the planet do the same with its problems? Some of those problems were already solved, anyway. With the bond system dismantled, no one could rebel against it, could they? His mind was racing now; he felt like a child spinning around and around, getting dizzy by its own exertions.

  Why can't I just lie down here with Auricle, shut down my mind, and go back to sleep like the dragonling?

  He sighed deeply, and some of the sigh went out as a sending. In reaction, the soft skin of Auricle's underleg trembled, like ripples skimming over the surface of a pond. Luckily, she didn't wake.

  Jakkin wondered if Akki was sleeping soundly, or if she wanted to talk. "Akki," he whispered, sending out a tentative pale pink tentacle, but her mind seemed firmly shut against him, as it often was when she slept.

  "Fewmets!" He hated being so cut off. Which was odd, seeing that they'd only had the ability to send for a year. But that year had made all the difference.