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before buying.
To him the roar sounded as if it had all its power in the top tones and none
that resonated. Perhaps he was wrong, but if his red could make this a long
fight with the orange, it might impress this crowd.
In his eagerness to help his dragon, Jakkin moved to the pit rail, elbowing
his way through some older men.
Here, boy, what do you think you re doing? A man in a gray leather coverall
spoke. He was obviously familiar with the pits. Anyone in all leather knew his
way around. And his face, what could be seen behind the gray beard, was scored
with dragon-blood scars.
Get back up in the stands. Leave ringside to the masters and money men, said
his companion, taking in
Jakkin s patched, foodspotted shirt and short bonder s pants with a dismissing
look. He ostentatiously jounced a full bag that hung from his wrist on a
leather theng; an ex-bonder often wore his old bag on his wrist.
Jakkin ignored them, fingering his badge with the facs picture of the red on
it. He leaned over the rail.
Away, away, good Red, he thought at his dragon, and smiled when the red
immediately wheeled and winged up from its blooded foe. Only then did he turn
and address the two scowling bettors. Pit right, good sirs, he said with
deference, pointing at the same time to his badge.
They mumbled, but moved aside for him. A trainer, even though he had no money,
had precedence at the pit.
The orange dragon in the pit shook its head and the blood beaded its ears like
a crown. A few drops spattered over the walls and into the stands. Each place
a drop touched burned with that glow peculiar to the acidic dragon s blood.
The onlookers ducked. One watcher in the third row of the stands was not quick
enough and was scared on the cheek. He reached up a hand to the wound but did
not move from his place.
The orange Rum stood up tall again and dug back into the dust.
Another stand, said the gray-leather man to Jaudn s right.
Pah, that s all it knows, said a dark-skinned offworlder beside him. That s
how it won its three fights.
Good stance, but that s it. I wonder why I bet it at all. Let s go and get
something to drink. This fight s a bore.
Jakkin watched them leave from the corner of his eye, but he absorbed their
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information. If the orange were a stander, if the information were true, it
would help him with the fight.
The red dragon s leap back had taken it to the north side of the pit. When it
saw that Bottle O Rum had chosen to stand, it circled closer warily.
Jakkin thought at it, He s good in the stance. Do not force him there. Make
him come to thee.
The dragon s thoughts, as always, came back clearly to Jakkin, wordless but
full of color and emotion.
The red wanted to charge; the dragon it had blooded was waiting. The
overwhelming urge was to carry the fight to the foe.
No, my Red Trust me. Be eager, but notfoolish, cautioned Jakkin, looking for
an opening.
But the crowd, as eager as the young dragon, was communicating with it, too.
The yells of the men, their thoughts of charging, overpowered Jakkin s single
line of calm. The red started to move.
When he saw the red bunching for a charge, Rum solidified his stance. His
shoulders went rigid with the strain.
Jakkin knew that if his red dived at that standing rock, it could quite easily
break a small bone in its neck.
And he knew from Akki s lessons in anatomy that a dragon rarely came back to
the pit once its neck bones had been reset. Then it was good only for the
breeding nurseries-if it had a fine pit record-or the stews.
Steady, steady, Jakkin said aloud. Then he shouted and waved a hand. No!
The red had already started its dive, but the movement of Jakkin s hand and
his shout were signals too powerful for it to ignore, and at the last possible
minute it pulled to one side. As it passed, Rum slashed at it with a gaping
mouth and shredded its wing tip.
Blood, the crowd roared, and waited for the red dragon to roar back.
Jakkin felt its confusion, and his head swam with the red of dragon s blood as
his dragon s thoughts came to him. He watched as it soared to the top of the
building and scorched its wing tip on the artificial sun, cauterizing the
wound. Then, still hovering, it opened its mouth for its first blooded roar.
There was no sound.
A mute! called a man from the stands. He spit angrily to one side. Never saw
one before.
A wit near him shouted back, Never heard one, either.
The crowd laughed at this and passed the quip around the stands.
But Jakkin only stared up at his red. A mute, he thought at it. Oh, my poor
Red. You are as powerless as
I. His use of the distancing pronoun you further confused the young dragon,
and it began to circle downward in a disconsolate spiral, closer and closer to
the waiting Rum, its mind a maelstrom of blacks and grays.
Jakkin realized his mistake in time. It does not matter, he cried out in his
mind. Even with no roar, even voiceless, thou wilt be great. He thought it
with more conviction than he really felt. But it was enough for the red. It
broke out of its spiral and hovered, wings working evenly.
The maneuver, however, was so unexpected that the pit-wise Bottle O Rum was
bewildered. He came out of his stance with a splattering of dust and fewmets,
stopped, then charged again. The red avoided him easily, landing on his back
and raking the orange scales with its claws. That drew no blood, but it
frightened the older dragon into a hindfoot rise. Balancing on his tail, Rum
towered nearly three meters high, his front claws scoring the air, a single
shot of fire streaking from his slits.
The red backwinged away from the flames and waited.
Steady, steady, thought Jakkin, in control again. He let his mind recall for
them both the quiet sands and the cool nights when they had practiced against
the reed shelter a game of charges and clawing. Then he repeated out loud,
Steady, steady.
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A hard hand on his shoulder broke through his thoughts and the sweet-strong
smell of blisterweed assailed him. Jakkin turned. Not so steady yourself,
came a familiar voice.
Jakkin stared up at the ravaged face, pocked with blood scores and stained
with tear lines.
Likkam, breathed Jakkin, suddenly panic-stricken. He tried to turn back to
the pit, where his red waited. The hand on his shoulder was too firm, the
fingers like claws through his shirt.
And when did you become a dragon trainer? the man asked.
At first Jakkin thought to bluff. The old stallboy was too sunk in his smoke
dreams to really listen. Bluff and run, for the wild anger that came after
blister dreams never gave a smoker time to reason. I found&
found an egg, Likkam, he said. And it could be true. There were a few wild
dragons, bred from escapees that had gone feral.
Sometimes a lucky bonder came upon a dragon-egg cache out in the sand.
The man said nothing but shook his head.
Jakkin stared at him. This was a new Likkam-harder, full of purpose. Then
Jakkin noticed. Likkam s eyes were clearer than he had ever seen them, no
longer the furious pink of the weeder s, but a softer rose. Obviously he had
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