had gathered at her approach. Thymara didn’t recognize the beast she had dropped. It was larger than any deer she had ever seen and had a rounded body with coarse hair. She glimpsed a thick leg with a split hoof before the mob of dragons hid it from her view. She didn’t think that was a deer; not that she had seen many deer. The swampy tussocks that characterized the forest floor of the Rain Wilds were not friendly to deer. One had to journey days and days to get to the beginning of the foothills that edged the wide river valley. Only a fool hunted that far from home. Such hunters consumed food on the way there, and had to eat from their kill on the way back. Often the meat that survived the journey was half spoiled, or so little of it remained that the hunter would have been better off to settle for a dozen birds or a good fat ground lizard closer to home. The dropped creature had a glossy black hide and a big hump of flesh on its shoulders and wide sweeping horns. She wondered what it was called and then a brief touch of dragon mind told her. Food!
A rising note of anger in Rogon’s voice drew her unwilling attention back to the men’s conversation. ‘All I’m saying, Jerup, is that if those creatures don’t get up on their legs and learn to fly and hunt for themselves within the year, they’ll either die or become menaces to folk. Bargain or no, we can’t be responsible for them. Any creature that can’t feed itself doesn’t deserve to live.’
‘That wasn’t the bargain we struck with Tintaglia, Rogon. We didn’t barter for the right to decide if those creatures would live or die. We said we’d protect them in return for Tintaglia protecting the river mouth from Chalcedean ships. The way I see it, we’d be wise to keep our end of the bargain, and give those youngsters a chance to grow and survive.’
‘A chance.’ Rogon pursed his mouth. ‘You’ve always cared too much about giving chances to things, Jerup. One day it will be the death of you. It nearly was today! Did that creature think about giving you “a chance” to live? No. And we won’t even speak of what sort of fortune you bought for yourself eleven years ago with the last thing you gave “a chance to live”.’
‘No. We won’t,’ her father agreed abruptly, in a voice that was anything but agreeable.
Thymara hunched her shoulders, wishing she could make herself smaller, or suddenly take on the colours of the bark like some of the tree lizards could. Rogon meant her. And he was speaking loud and clear because he wanted her to hear. She shouldn’t have tried to speak to him, and her father should not have tried to force him to acknowledge her. Camouflage was always better than fighting.
Despite his harsh words about her, she knew Rogon was her father’s friend. They had grown up together, had learned their hunting and limbsman skills together, had been friends and companions throughout most of their lives. She had seen them together in the hunt, moving as if they were two fingers on the same hand, closing in on whatever prey they stalked. She had seen them laughing and smoking together. When Rogon injured his wrist and couldn’t hunt or harvest for a season, her father had hunted for both families. She had helped him, though she had never gone with him to deliver the food they took. No sense rubbing Rogon’s nose in the fact that he was accepting aid from someone who should never have been born.
Their friendship was what had made Rogon come down the tree so swiftly to check on her father’s safety. It was what had made him angry at her father for risking himself. And ultimately, it was why he wished that she didn’t exist. He was her father’s friend, and he hated to see what her existence had done to her father’s life. She was a burden to him, a mouth to feed, with no hope that she would ever be an asset.
‘I don’t regret my decision, Rogon. And make no mistake about it. It was my decision, not Thymara’s. So if you want to blame anyone, blame me, not her. Ignore and exclude me, not her! I was the one who followed the midwife. I was the one who went down and picked up my child and brought her home again. Because I looked at her and from the moment she was born, I knew she deserved a chance. I didn’t care about her toe-nails, or if there was a line of scales up her spine. I didn’t care how long her feet were. I knew she deserved a chance. And I was right, wasn’t I? Look at her. Ever since she was old enough to follow me up into the canopy or along the branchways, she has proved her worth. She brings home more than she eats, Rogon. Isn’t that the measure of a hunter or gatherer’s value to the people? Just what is it that makes you uncomfortable when you look at her? Is it that I broke some silly set of rules and wouldn’t let my child be carried off and eaten? Or is it that you look at her and see that those rules were wrong, and wonder how many other babies could have grown up to be Rain Wilders?’
‘I don’t want to have this conversation,’ Rogon said suddenly. He stood up so abruptly that he nearly lost his balance. Something her father had said had hit a nerve with him. Rogon was among the best of the limbsmen. Nothing ever rattled him. Sudden cold crept through her. Rogon had children. Two of them, both boys. One was seventeen and the other was twelve. Thymara wondered if his wife had never been pregnant in the years between the two. Or if she had miscarried. Or if the midwife had carried a squalling bundle or two away from his home and off into the Rain Wilds night.
She turned her gaze back to the riverbank below and kept it there. She wondered if her father had just ended a lifelong friendship with his harsh words. Don’t think about it, she counselled herself, and stared down at the dragons. There were fewer than there had been, and almost nothing remained of the logs that hadn’t hatched. Some people would be disappointed by that. Wizardwood was a very valuable substance, and there had been speculation that when the dragons did emerge, the log husks that were left might be salvageable. Of the folks who had gathered to watch the dragons emerge, some would have been hoping for a profit rather than coming to witness an amazing event. Thymara tried to count the dragons that remained. She knew there had been seventy-nine wizardwood logs to start with. How many had yielded viable dragons? But the creatures kept milling around, and when Tintaglia made another pass and dropped a freshly-killed buck, it created a chaos that destroyed her effort at counting. She felt her father move to crouch on the limb beside her. She spoke before he could. ‘I make it at least thirty-five,’ she said, as if she had never heard his words to Rogon.
‘Thirty-two. It’s easier if you count them by colour groups and then add them up.’
‘Oh.’
A little silence fell before he spoke again. His voice was deeper and serious.
‘I meant what I said to him, Thymara. It was my decision. And I’ve never regretted it.’
She was silent. What could she say to that? Thank him? Somehow that seemed cold. Should a child ever have to thank a parent for being alive, thank her father that he hadn’t allowed her to be exposed? She scratched the back of her neck, digging her claws along the line of scales there to calm an itch, and then clumsily changed the subject. ‘How many of them do you think will survive?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose a great deal will depend on how much Tintaglia brings them to eat, and how well we keep our promise to the big dragon. Look over there.’
The strongest of the young dragons had already converged on the fallen meat. It was not that they deliberately deprived their weaker brethren; it was simply that only so many could cluster around the kill, and the first ones there were not giving way. But that was not what her father was pointing to. At the edge of the hatching ground, a group of men were approaching carrying baskets. Many of them had Tattooed faces. They were recent immigrants to the Rain Wilds, former slaves trying to build a new life here. As she watched, the foremost man darted out, dumped his basket and hastily retreated. A silver heap of fish spilled out, skidding against each other to spread over the dull grey of the riverbank. The second man added his load to the slithering pile, and then the third.
The crowded-out dragons had noticed. Slowly they turned, staring, and then as if animated by a single will, they left the huddle of feeding dragons and raced toward
