Free Bazil Broketail by Christopher Rowley Page A

the northlands.”
    Relkin looked to the balcony rail and calculated his chances. The woman looked up, saw him and snapped her fingers twice. Relkin followed her inside, walking as if he was in a dream. He sat in a chair in a room suffused with an amber light and furnished with heavy bookcases bulging with tomes wrapped in deep brown leather. He still felt distinctly nauseated, but the pain between his legs was ebbing slowly.
    The woman rang a silver bell. A guard appeared and received instructions.
    She turned back to Relkin. “Now, tell me exactly what it is that’s wrong with your dragon.”
    Relkin tried to speak, but his thoughts were filled with fog and he was unable to articulate.
    “Come along, young man!” she said. Then seeing his trance-struck eyes she caught herself.
    “Oh, silly me. I’m sorry.” She snapped her fingers a third time and broke the declension. Relkin’s mind cleared from the spell for obedience.
    “Now,” said the lady. “What’s wrong with your dragon?”
    “His tail tip was cut off by a sword.”
    “And what is this dragon’s name and of what breed is he?”
    “Bazil is his name, Bazil of Quosh. He is a Quoshite leatherback, brown on the back, green on the belly and strong in the shanks.”
    “I’m sure he’s a beauty. Well, I’ll be just a minute. Leave the flowers you stole upon this table. I will have them returned to their rightful owner at once.”
    Glumly Relkin removed the flowers from his satchel. Now he would be punished and later Bazil would fail the battle tests, and they would be sent to Quosh to become farm labor for the rest of their days.
    He waited for a minute or so and the guard returned, now accompanied by a pair of monitors, young seniors from the Chapterhouse who assisted in the maintenance of order in the Tower of Guard.
    The guard pointed to Relkin.
    “A thief. Take him down to the crypt and deliver him to the disciplinarians. I recommend perhaps a quick dip in the sound.”
    “He’ll need a dip once the drubbing women have finished with him,” said one of the monitors, a pinch-faced youth with weaselish eyes.
    “They’re in a fettle tonight!” added the other one. “We’ve had three drunken apprentices and a pickpocket already,” he said in a cheerful voice. “It’s the full moon, of course, happens every month—and the drubbings! Oh my, oh my, what a night we’re having.”
    The fellow’s good cheer did not hearten Relkin a whit. He was pulled to his feet, his hands were cuffed before him and the monitors prepared to lead him away, when the door opened and the pale lady with the tired eyes returned.
    “One moment. Before you take him away I have something for him.”
    She pressed a small packet, a brown envelope folded tightly, into his shirt.
    “Here, Master Relkin. Boil the contents of this packet in a pail of water and give it to your Quoshite leatherback to drink. He’ll hate the taste, I can guarantee it, but it will help his condition as you described it.”
    Relkin had barely time to thank her before he was pulled through the door and down the stairs to the crypt in the cellars.
    On the landings he was led through the various crowds of servants, novices, guards and occasional notables. On the lower floors the landings were larger and broad corridors ran away in three directions.
    On the ground floor Relkin passed a party of female novices scrubbing down the marble flags. The girls giggled to themselves as he was pulled past them towards the stairs leading to the crypt.
    “Guess who won’t be walking so insolently later tonight!” said a voice. Giggles resounded.
    “Give him a dip in the sound, that’ll cool them down again!” said another voice.
    And then he was tumbling down the stairs to the guard post. He was logged in and sat on a bench outside the small gymnasium used for peremptory punishments. Several other youths were already sitting there. Mostly they were apprentice boys, rounded up for fighting. They sat there