I stop walking again. "You’re asking me if I’m an ally of Praxigor? No, but I do know him and I’m friends with his wife. That’s all. I’m not his enemy."
He keeps going. "The wife. Yes, that could be an avenue. You’re in an indirect alliance or possibly a servant arrangement with Praxigor through his wife.”
“If I am, I don’t know about it.” I have to speed up to not hold up the Plood entourage.
“Hm,” he ponders. “Some of the purpose of the alliance would seem to be lost if one party doesn’t know they’re in it. But again, I know little about alliances. It is possible that that is a hallmark of a particularly effective alliance.”
I try approaching the problem from a different angle. "Why are you talking about alliances and conspiracies? If anything, I’m in an alliance withyou."
He gives me a surprised glance. “With me? You think this is an alliance? Between equals? When in fact I have only accepted your services? Such as they are.”
“You’re the one talking about alliances,” I tell him. “And spells and potions. Are you feeling all right?”
He ignores my question. “Another hypothetical thing I want to ask you."
"Fine."
"If a male dragon found himself unusually interested in a particular female of a lesser species, what explanations would you consider most likely?" His expression remains carefully neutral. Unfortunately, his ears have turned slightly blue.
I don't know enough about dragons to understand what that means, but it feels important. "I don't know," I say carefully. "Maybe he likes her."
“Safely assume that dragons never likeanyone. How would that change your answer?”
“He likes nobodyexcepther? He finds her charming and attractive and he enjoys listening to her voice? Or he’s interested for some other reason, such as her knowledge or her skill at cooking. Or something else. It’s a very strange question. Can I ask why you ask?”
“You may not. If that is really the only answer you can give, it’s plainly suspicious. You carefully avoided the most obvious reason, indeed the only viable one.”
“And what is that?”
“She’s a witch and used magic,” he says. “You didn’t think I’d find out, but here we are. No, don’t try to deny it. It all fits. Now we have been walking in the jungle for two days and we still have no destination. You led me to believe that Praxigor’s hoard was in this direction, and yet we see no sign of it.”
“It could still be far away.” At some time I may have to admit that I don’t think Praxigor has a hoard out here. But last time I tried to tell him that Praxigor’s hoard is Astrid, Vyrathion threatened to kill me. It’s a risky thing to bring up again.
For a while we continue through the jungle in silence. The Plood remain close behind us, walking with an eerie silence. Their big, black eyes are focused on me. Clyde walks ahead of the others, like a small, waddling general in front of his troops. I wonder how much pull he has with them now. They are a creepy bunch and I’d prefer to not have them follow us.
The more I think about our situation, the less reassuring it becomes. We have no real destination. A hostile tribe is hunting us. Praxigor is somewhere nearby. And our current strategy appears to consist of walking until circumstances improve.
"Vyrathion."
"What now?"
“These Plood that follow us… it would be better if they dropped all the trash they carry and keep searching for gold. Real gold.”
Vyrathion stops, turns and strides back to the Plood. “Slaves! Drop whatever you’re holding. You keep bringing me useless and worthless items. That has to stop. Bring me gold or I will kill you all!”
The Plood scramble away in every direction, shocked by the dragon’s outburst. I feel their fear, too. A dragon is scary enough when he’s calm, but an angry dragon is significantly worse. Five seconds later they’re all gone.
But Clyde stays. And now I notice something in his hand, something that’s not gold.
“What you got there, Clyde?”
The object rests in both his three-fingered hands, presented with all the solemnity of a sacred relic. For a moment I don't understand what I'm seeing. It's dirty and faded and partly crushed, but the shape catches at something deep in my memory.
I carefully take it from him. It's a comb. A cheap plastic comb, with two size teeth. Pink once, though the color has faded from months or years beneath an alien sun. Several teeth are broken off. Dirt fills the grooves. On one side the letters VEGA have been embossed in the plastic.
For a few seconds I simply stare. The jungle vanishes. The dinosaurs vanish. The dragon vanishes.
It's a comb. An Earth comb. And none of the girls I know have said they’re missing one. Indeed we treasure nothing more than the few items we happened to have on us when we were abducted. This could belong to another girl.
