“Kafira, help me!” pleaded Arthur McTeague, as he hung his face over the railing and vomited once again into the white-tipped waves of the open ocean.

“Buck up, my friend,” said Augie, slapping him on the back.  “Kafira helps those who help themselves.”

McTeague rolled over, hanging so precariously over the railing that Augie felt compelled to grab him by the collar and pull him back.  Though he had been fine for the first two days of the voyage from Birmisia, once they had hit the first bit of rough weather McTeague’s seasickness had surfaced.  He hadn’t been able to keep a meal down in almost a week.

“Curse you, Dechantagne.  How can you look so pleasant?”

“Well, I am pleasant, come to that.  You’ll be right as rain in um… well, a week or two.  A week or two in Mallontah, and then home to Brechalon.  And when we get to Mallontah, I’ll make you forget all about it.  I’ve still got that check from my sister.  Remember?  Wine, women, good food.”

At the word food, McTeague turned around again and spewed toward the ocean.

“I didn’t think you could have any more in you.”

“I should have just stayed in Birmisia.”

“You liked it there?”

“God no.  I hated it, but at least I didn’t puke my livers out there.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m coming back,” said Augie.  “You could come with me.”

“If I survive this trip, I’m never setting foot on a ship again.”

 

* * * * *

The inside of the divination shop was dim and smoky, but the room was rent by daylight, seemingly as bright as lightning, when Wizard Smedley Bassington swept in from the street, his rifle frock coat trailing behind him like a black cape.  In two long steps he was at the comfortable chair by the fireplace.  Sweeping the coat to one side, he sat down and placed first one black hobnail boot and then the other on the corner of the sorceress’s desk.  He crossed his arms and stared, his horn-rimmed glasses making his beady eyes seem even beadier.

“Madame de la Rosa,” he said.

The old sorceress behind the desk looked as though her skin was made of dried apples.  She was small and hunched over, even sitting there.  She raised a wrinkled hand and waved at the strikingly beautiful olive-skinned woman behind her.

“Amadea, get the wizard a cup of tea.”

Bassington waved the girl off, though his gaze carefully took in all of her curves.

“So what do you know?”  Though his eyes were still on the young woman, his question was for her mistress.

The old woman reached beneath the desk and pulled out the perfectly round pearly white orb, precisely thirteen and three fifths inches in diameter that Bassington had left in her care two days prior.  Given that Madame de la Rosa was a diviner, one could have been excused for assuming that it was a crystal ball of some type, but it wasn’t.  From its complex swirly white, silver, and grey appearance it might have seemed a pearl taken from some gigantic oyster, but it wasn’t.

“It is a dragon egg,” said Madame de la Rosa.

“Don’t waste my time.”

“Watch your mouth, Wizard,” hissed the young woman.

“Don’t mind Bassington, Amadea,” the old woman soothed.  “You may leave us.”

“What kind of dragon is it?” asked the wizard, once the girl had left.  “Gold?  Silver?  Flame?  Red?  Green?  Night?”

“It is a Mirlughth Dragon.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Mirlughth is an ancient shiny substance.  That’s all I can tell you about it.”  Madame de la Rosa pressed her fingertips together creating a steeple.  “There hasn’t been a Mirlughth Dragon seen in millennia.  This particular dragon will be very powerful and important.  He is destined to rule a vast land and be worshipped as a god.”

“Maybe we should destroy it now.”

“If you did, and I’m not sure you could, but if you did, you would be destroying an important ally of the Kingdom of Greater Brechalon.”

“Oh?  What else did you see?”

“The dragon will be raised and protected.  He has to be, you see.  He has to be raised and protected by someone powerful enough to be the surrogate parent to a dragon.  Do you know anyone like that?”

“I know who you’re talking about, but she’s in Schwarztogrube.”

“She won’t stay there.”

A look of panic briefly crossed the wizard’s face.

“Don’t worry.  She won’t get out for some time.  You have plenty of time to get out of the country.”  Her laugh was like seeds rattling inside a gourd.  “I don’t blame you.  I wouldn’t want her after me either.  But I know a magister we can trust, who will sell her the egg.  She’ll never know that either of us had anything to do with it.”

“How do you know she’ll even want a dragon?” asked Bassington.

“Come now.”

“Alright, but Zurfina’s not going to stay in Brechalon if… when she gets out.  What if she takes it to Freedonia or Mirsanna?  We certainly don’t want either of them to have a pet dragon.”

“You don’t want that,” replied the old sorceress.  “I don’t care one way or the other.  But there is an easy answer.  Do you know the name Dechantagne?”

“Vaguely.”

“The Dechantagne family is planning to build a Brech colony in Mallon or some other distant place.  A Brech colony would be the best of both worlds.  The dragon would be safe from Brechalon’s enemies and Zurfina would be safe from you and your masters.”

“How do you know that she’ll go to this new colony?”

“I’ll put a bug in her ear.  I feel certain that when she hears about it, she’ll be very interested.”

“I’ll leave it to you then,” said Bassington, getting to his feet.  “And don’t even think about playing any games.  I know where that egg is at all times, and you know what will happen to you if you cross me.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” said Madame de la Rosa, her eyes looking at some distant object.  “Its future, like my own, is foreordained.”

“And keep an eye on that pretty little apprentice,” he said as he headed for the door.  “She’s already steeling from you.”

“I know.”  The old woman cackled again.  “Oh, Wizard Bassington?”

“Yes?”

“Wouldn’t you like me to answer the question that everyone else who comes to see me wants answered?”

“I’m not everyone else.”  He crinkled his forehead.  “What is it?”

“How you will die.”

“Alright.  Tell me.”

“Wouldn’t it be ironic if you, who have dealt such a blow to dragons by stealing their eggs, were to be killed by a dragon?”

“No.  It would be, um… whatever the opposite of ironic is.”

“Well, this is how you will die.  You will be killed by a dragon.”

Bassington looked thoughtful.  “Good,” he said, and left.