The Tinker's Daughter: The Chronicles of Lucitopia, #2

1

Y ou don’t have to do this, you know, I say.

Now, now, Jonara, sighs Grieves, the butcher. My hands are just as tied as yours. We both glance at the iron shackles scraping at my wrists, and at his clearly free ones. I raise a doubtful eyebrow at him. You know what I mean, he says, soldiering on. You lost the lottery fair and square.

Fair and square? I repeat, just short of shrieking. My name was the only one in it!

It’s not our fault you were the only virgin over the asking age of sixteen, Tabbal the tailor rebukes in his smarmy way.

I’ve always liked Grieves—always being the handful of days I’ve known any of the people in this town—but Tabbal has never been my favorite. Especially since he has tried to relieve me of my virginity on more than one occasion. Unfortunately for him. Being a tinker’s adopted daughter, and spending my life traveling from town to town has made me quite good at defending my virginity. Unfortunately for me, I’m now finding out.

We told you about the dragon when you came to town, Grieves says apologetically.

"But you never told me you were going to feed me to it!" I holler back.

Grieves looks over at Ramel, the fat mayor, as if to say that I have a point. Ramel rolls his eyes.

Look, it’s bad luck all around, but we need to give that dragon a sacrifice before he flies down the mountain and burns our village to the ground, yeah? Ramel says sensibly.

I thought the lottery was to win a pig! I say, dumbfounded. "You didn’t even bother to tell me I was going to get eaten until after we’d been climbing for three hours!"

Ramel ignores me and calls over his shoulder to address the torch-bearing mob that has escorted me up this mountain. Do these shackles attach to the chains on the stake? he asks anyone at random. He looks at me. Been almost nine months of this virgin-stringing-up-business, once a month at the full moon like clockwork, and I still don’t have the hang of things, he tells me, bouncing on his toes and smiling abashedly at this personal foible of his.

You don’t say, I comment. Unfortunately, my dry wit is lost on him.

Lakonius, the blacksmith, comes forward out of the mob, ducking his head between his hunkering shoulders in shame.

You do it up like this, he mumbles as he threads a chain dangling from the top of the stake to a big ring on my shackles. I squint meaningfully at Lakonius as he hoists my arms up over my head.

How many times have I helped you fix something at the forge, Lakonius? I ask him.

Sorry, Jonara, he says quietly. Can fix anything, you can. It’s a shame to lose you, but some of us have daughters.

And I’ve got a father! I retort. A thought occurs to me. Where is he, anyway?

Lakonius and Grieves share a look. Well, your father’s getting on in years, Grieves replies haltingly.

He’d never make the climb with that bad back of his, Lakonius adds. Too much strain for an old man like him.

I look between the two of them. You didn’t tell him, did you? He still thinks I’m getting that pig, doesn’t he? They share a sheepish look. Unbelievable, I say, turning up my hands. Which is awkward because they are shackled and chained over my head. This is murder, you know.

Now, now, Ramel the mayor interjects nervously. He doesn’t want any legal entanglements, that’s for sure. The lottery is unbiased.

It’s not a lottery if only one name is in it! You say you’ve done this nine times already? I ask, noticing the rig they’ve got all set up here. Were all the other victims from out of town as well?

The mob moves away, leaving me hanging from my shackles. They all take cover behind the giant rocks strewn about the mouth of the enormous cave, before which I am staked. Nothing happens. Time passes and still, nothing happens. My arms have gone numb.

How do you know he even likes virgins!? I yell.

What do you mean? Everyone likes virgins, Ramel, the fat mayor replies.

Why? I press.

Well, you know. They just do. I hear mumbling as he confers with others. They taste better.

I wonder what happens between a man and a woman that would make a woman’s flesh taste bad afterwards. Do men marinate women in something?

You honestly think that I, lean as I am, taste better than you do? I ask. "And why only girls? Why not male virgins?"

Because girls aren’t as useful as men. I hear Ramel yelp as his wife hits him.

What would the son of a tinker do that I don’t? I ask.

He’d fix stuff, Tabbal the tailor says.

She’s better at fixing stuff than her father, Lakonius informs him.

I hear more mumbling.

A son would carry his father’s pack. Right heavy those are, someone—I don’t know who—yells out from the darkness.

"I always carry the pack, and it is quite heavy, I say. You’ve seen my father, haven’t you? If he could stand up straight, he’d still be half of me."

A boy would, you know… the voice trails off, trying to think what else a boy would do.

My temper slips. I’ll admit it: staring into the black mouth of that cave, imagining a dragon coming out of it, is starting to work on my mind. I am not useless, and I deserve to be more than a dragon’s dinner.

Would he keep the house, too!? I shout into the darkness. Would a boy get up before his father to prepare breakfast and then spend just as many hours doing just as much if not more work as his father, only to come home, fetch water, chop wood, cook dinner, clean the laundry, do the dishes, sweep the floors, and finally go to bed four hours after his father’s been sleeping, only to get up an hour before him to do it all over again!? Hmm? Would a boy do that!? Come to think of it, why am I even fighting this whole getting eaten by a dragon business!?

Exactly! Why are you fighting it? The other girls had stopped crying by now.

I’m not crying! I snap. I’m pointing out that there are grave injustices in both the distribution of labor and the expectations that society places on women.

There’s a pause. "Well, stop it. You’ll give the other women funny ideas."

I sigh deeply, and we all wait some more. Some of the townspeople have started back down the mountain, grumbling about an early start in the morning. Nice to know my death is so boring they can’t be bothered to wait for the climax. My arms are all pins and needles. If it was going to take this long, they could’ve made it more comfortable. They could have tied me to a chair, or something. The stake is pure theatrics at this point.

A thought occurs to me. Why haven’t any of you tried killing the dragon? I ask.

Why would we do that? the unknown voice responds. The dragon’s the only thing keeping the bandits away.

There have been an awful lot of bandits about since the old king died with no heir, and some upstart sorcerer started challenging all the peacekeeping knights to single combat. Asphodel is the sorcerer’s name and blasts it if he doesn’t keep winning. There are practically no knights left.

"Why don’t you hire the bandits to kill the dragon, then? I suggest. Times are tough, you know. Most of the bandits I’ve encountered on the roads are only dabbling in banditry because they are in need of gainful employment."

And a lot of them are starting to join up with Asphodel. He’s building a bloody army. Won’t be safe on the roads anymore for Da and me. Not that I am going to be doing much walking about, presently, as it seems I am to become some dragon’s dinner. Unbelievable.

I hear more whispering. I believe someone says that virgins are cheaper. I’m working myself up to a decent-sized rage when I hear something coming from the cave.

There is a great rumble and a gust of dry, burnt air belches out around me, blowing my white dress and my unbound hair back in such a forceful gust that my eyes water. I hear the hidden townsfolk scream and the sounds of them scrambling to get farther away.

From the darkness, there is a scraping sound and a giant sniff. I feel the air around me getting sucked toward the mouth of the cave. There’s another scraping sound and a scaly claw, each talon longer than my body, comes into view. Then, the tip of an enormous golden snout appears over the claw and two green eyes glow in the darkness. The rest of the dragon’s face still hidden in the gloom.

Bollox.

My whole life I did everything right. I kept my head down, I did my work, and now I’m going to die because of it. I know that at twenty I’m quite old for marriage and that any halfway decent village girl is usually betrothed by the time she’s fifteen, but there were plenty of boys (okay, maybe just one) who had shown interest in marrying me. I’m no great beauty, but neither was he, and I’ve got skills, hang it all.

But I didn’t even let him court me because that would have meant that I’d have to leave my poor father—who, honestly?—is a terrible tinker. Couldn’t fix a nail to a board with a hammer, that one. Actually, I never trusted him with the hammers. Mostly, I just let him drink tea with the customers and keep them entertained while I got down to the business of fixing things. Very entertaining, my da. Stories are his life. He’s got a story about everything, and he’s fantastic at telling them.

Storytelling isn’t very lucrative. But I stuck with my adopted father because he took me in as a babe and taught me everything he knew. Then I figured out the rest on my own when I realized that he didn’t really know very much. He did teach me to read and do arithmetic, which has been quite useful, though I’ve had to explain to him on many occasions that zero coins equals zero food. He hasn’t quite understood that subtlety in mathematics just yet.

Still, I love my da. But that’s not the only reason I’ve stuck by him. It’s the principle of the thing. You don’t leave a kind old man who took you in as a child, just because an enterprising young man says he likes the look of your ankles. Which wasn’t even a very good compliment, come to think of it. No, if I’m going to abandon my aged benefactor and earn a living for some other man, it’s going to be for one who can come up with something better to talk about than the first body part he happens to look down and see.

Maybe it’s just the hot breath of doom stirring my blood, but I’ve suddenly decided that I want poetry, dammit. Love. As hard as I’ve worked, I deserve some of that romance my father is always spinning yarns about. Failing that, I definitely don’t deserve to get eaten by a bloody dragon—but apparently that’s what’s going to happen because that’s what I get for being a good girl. Ruddy bastards, the lot of them. Especially that blasted dragon.

Well, what are you waiting for, you big lummox!? I shout at the green eyes hovering over the golden snout. Go ahead and eat me, and may you choke on my bones!

I hear the few remaining townspeople gasp from behind their rocks.

The great head of the dragon finally emerges from the mouth of the cave. His scales twinkle like oiled gold. His big, liquid eyes are pools of pure emerald with a dot of inky black in the center. The sharp teeth showing along the edge of his lower lip are ivory white, except for the left canine. That tooth is a spike of diamond, longer than my leg. I gasp. I can’t help it. He’s more gorgeous than the dawn.

Wow. You’re beautiful, I say, mesmerized.

He snorts smoke and rumbles, breaking my momentary reverie. My legs start to shake in panic. Until now I was too angry about being duped to feel much of anything, but it occurs to me that I could quite possibly be eaten. What a horrible way to die.

One of his claws reaches out for me and I scream. I scramble around to the other side of the pole, barely evading him. He snatches at me again and I use the chains to hoist myself up over his scaly grasp. Carrying that tinker’s pack from town to town has made me heartier than most girls.

Ha! I yell, emboldened by my small victory, though my voice quavers with a healthy dose of terror. I can do this all night!

Dragon jerks back and puffs hot air through his nostrils, as if surprised. He leans down again, one of his emerald eyes peering closely at me. His eye is as big as I am. I scurry behind the stake, keeping low and feinting left and right in an asinine attempt to keep him guessing. My options for concealment are… limited. He peers at me curiously, not like a ravening beast at all. Though I may be a fool for it, I can’t feel as frightened of him as I probably should be. If he smelled like carrion, or if there were carcasses strewn about, I’d certainly be able to muster up the requisite shock and horror, but this lair of his is quite tidy. Nary a skull in sight.

I promise, I’m not worth the effort, Dragon, I call out, offering a truce. You’ll work up a bigger hunger trying to catch me than eating me could ever slake.

Dragon reaches again, and though I dodge him, he’s too fast for me. He catches me by my leg and pulls. But of course, I’m chained to the stake. I stop short and scream with the pain of being nearly torn in two. Dragon drops me at the sound of my distress, and I slam against the stake. My head explodes and my vision blurs. I blink my eyes, trying to remain conscious, and see him reaching for me again. This time he grasps me around the waist, dare I say… carefully? He tugs on me a few times in an exploratory way. He’s not trying to hurt me, but it still feels like my arms are getting yanked out of the sockets.

"I’m attached to it, you glittering oaf!" I holler, pointing to the stake.

He makes a rumbling sound deep in his throat, and maybe it’s just the knock I took to the head, but it sounds like he’s laughing. Dragon easily plucks the stake out of the ground and gathers me and the stake into one of his front claws. As his talons close to form a cage around me, I capitulate to the swirling feeling in my head and everything goes black.

2

I’m aware of the pain first, then the sound of flowing water.

I have to convince myself not to fall back to sleep no matter how hard it is to stay awake. I hit my head quite hard, and I know that sleeping after a blow to the head can mean death. In the last few years, I’ve seen many head wounds as the byways have become more treacherous and banditry abounds. I’ve learned much of healing since the name Asphodel began to be whispered in taverns not two years ago.

I know I must open my eyes, even though my head is splitting, or else I may never open them again. But sleep beckons.

I hear a deep rumbling sound. Like a dragon. My eyes pop open. I am now fully awake.

Dragon has his head resting next to mine. One of his giant eyes is peering at me, half shut. He rumbles again, and I sit up, kicking myself away from him. Gold coins and jewels fly up from under my feet. My chains jangle and clank among them until they stop me short. I’m still attached to the stake, and though Dragon pulled it from the ground as easily as I would a blade of grass, I can’t even make the thick pole budge an inch.

He doesn’t lunge after me. He isn’t salivating, as far as I can see. When my breathing finally settles down, I cautiously accept that Dragon has no plans to eat me. At least for now.

When I’m sufficiently convinced of this—and equally confused by it—I risk peeling my gaze away from Dragon long enough to have a look around.

A soft light suffuses the cave, but I can’t locate the origin. Everything around me sparkles and amplifies the light, bouncing it around and refracting it in prisms. I put my hands down among the dragon horde. Rubies, opals, and amethysts spill through my fingers. Emeralds, topaz, and sapphires slip under my bare feet. I gaze further. Dragon and I sit atop a heap of gold and jewels larger than the biggest house in the village.

A dark, still pool of water lies at the edge of the horde. The trickling sound I hear comes from the walls, which run with crystal-clear melt water from the mountaintop piled above us. I can’t see the mouth of the cave and I still can’t tell where the light is coming from. I wonder how deep inside the mountain we are.

I look at Dragon suspiciously. Why haven’t you eaten me? I ask him.

He puffs hot air through his nostrils in answer.

Are you saving me for later?

He rumbles deep in his chest. Almost like he’s saying maybe. I can’t help it—I laugh. I realize I am not afraid of him. In fact, after that first moment of abject terror when he reached for me, I don’t think I ever fully squared with the notion that he was going to eat me. Something about the utter lack of bloodlust in his eyes told me I was about as palatable to him as a hedgehog would be to me.

Well, while you’re deciding, I’d like to take these chains off. They hurt.

Now that I may take a good look at my bonds, I can see that the shackles are held together by a peaked pin. To remove the pin, all one needs to do is rotate it in the correct pattern through the hasps. Not too hard for anyone to do, really, and for me it’s child’s play. Devising locks to safeguard a town’s treasures, and even for some of the wealthier people’s personal use, has become something of a specialty of mine in this age of mounting lawlessness. This land is in dire need of a king. Anyone, really, who can stand up to Asphodel and his growing army of bandits.

I twist and pull, twist again, and withdraw the pin. The shackle on one wrist falls open and I look at the skin under it, rubbed red and raw.

Well, I suppose there’s no need to go about devising a warded lock to use on a frantic girl, I say, insulted. And chagrined. I could have gotten out of these as we climbed the mountain, but I didn’t think about getting away. I was too… I break off, not knowing what I had been, and look up at Dragon’s hooded eye. No one even tried to stop it, I say because it seems like he’s waiting for me to finish. It’s like I don’t even matter.

My face gets hot. Rather than cry, I look down at the second shackle and work the pin out of the hasps in stages.

"It’s not