A rider or two went south; Auron took care to stay downwind from the road so the horses would not become alarmed and warn the riders. He kept himself fed at the innumerable little rivers, all moving westward down from the mountains to the far-off coast. Plentiful fat and tasty fish were fighting upstream and dying along the riverbanks, and their red flesh was welcome. After watching a bear do it, he learned to raid honeycombs; his skin might not keep out arrows, but it was impervious to bee stings. A little honey went a long way: after a few tonguefuls—and some crunchy insects—he left the bees to buzz out their outrage.

It was raining again when he saw the tradesdwarf.

Auron was sleeping out the rain with one water-lidded eye open, his belly pressed to pleasantly warm mud in a runoff-filled ditch, when he saw the red-and-gold cart and string of ponies going south along the road. The cart had two horses drawing it. It was an odd two-wheeled construct, too big to be a chariot but too small to be called a wagon. A beardless dwarf sat at the reins, dry under a canopy that extended from the covered cart behind. The unhappy-looking string of ponies walked behind, packs tied to their backs. The dwarf grumbled to himself as he drove, a studded leather face-shield muffling his words.

The dwarf was not dressed for war. There was not so much as an ax or a spear in sight. He wore simply cut brown clothes with polished metal buttons holding the double-breasted front closed, and leather pants that had boots built in, or perhaps boots that extended high on leather pants. A sagging, brimless leather cap, not a helm, sat on his head.

Auron could never say for sure what inspired him to do what he did next. The horses looked tempting, but he was far from starving, so it wasn’t hunger. And had he desired murder, he would never have trotted out into the road and reared up on his hind legs.

The dwarf pulled up his horses with a cry of “Pogt!” He did not reach for a weapon, but a purse, and flung a handful of coins past Auron and into the woods.

Something about the motion caught Auron’s eye. He glanced to see where the money landed before he turned back to the tradesdwarf, who now had his whip ready to put his horses into a gallop. If only Auron would get out of the middle of the path.

“Money, dragon . . . there! Silver!” the dwarf shouted in Parl. “A mouthful at least!”

Auron flicked out his tongue and smelled the horses.

The dwarf whipped his horses, and they took a few steps forward, but when they smelled Auron, they reared up, protesting with high whinnies.

“Klatta buggak!” the dwarf shouted. Auron caught a flash of white eyes from the slits in his mask.

Auron dropped back onto all fours and cleaned an ear. Couldn’t the dwarf see that the fans weren’t extended down from his crest?

“Well, creature, what is this? Robbery? I carry trade goods, not gold.”

Auron extracted a tick from his earhole.

The dwarf rose in his seat. “Murder? You’ll find me a poor meal, and I have many kinsmen to avenge me. I’m a journeyman of the great Chartered Company of the Diadem.” The dwarf pulled a chain from his shirt—a diamond-shaped pendant in silver hung from it. “If your sire and dam taught you any wisdom, I’m sure they told you not to cross us.”

“Neither,” Auron said. “I came to beg a favor.”

The dwarf made a noncommittal noise, then settled for pushing the cap back on his head. “A favor? A favor? What favor can I grant a young dragon? I, a poor dwarf in my company’s service.”

Auron hooked the collar in the ear-exploring claw. “This souvenir. I wish to be rid of it. Before I get any bigger and . . . air-starve—and choke.” Auron hoped his slow, awkwardly phrased Parl got the point across.

“Hmmmpfh,” the dwarf said. He hopped down from the driver’s seat and clumped over to Auron. “Now you’ve got me curious. A collared dragon. But then I’m young, and haven’t seen much of the world. I was apprenticed to a miner, you see. It wasn’t a life of new experiences.”

Auron lifted his head, watching the dwarf’s hands.

The dwarf took up the collar. “Man-work. Shows all the craftsmanship of a warm pile of horsechunt. Follow me. There’s an old bridge ahead—I was going to camp beneath it for a dry fire.”

“I can offer you little in return, save a hunt or two. What forest meats have you a taste for?”

“This will be our bargain. Gather all the coins I threw, don’t eat any of them, and follow behind and return them to me. I’ll take care of your ‘souvenir.’ ”

Auron rooted for the coins—he smelled precious metals easily enough, though he had no appetitie for them—and carried them in his mouth well behind the dwarf and his animals.

The road sloped down and turned, coming to the broken bridge spanning a river-carved gully. Once the bridge had stretched above the riverside willows; now only broken columns remained past the first arch. The dwarf pulled his cart under it and unburdened his animals.

When Auron joined him, the tradesdwarf touched his nervous horses and muttered soothing words to them. He blocked the wheels with stones, put down an extra set of legs for the cart, and unharnessed the draft animals. The dwarf took the string of ponies from the back of his cart and tied them beside the newer road at the drift that had replaced the bridge, using the stone pillar to shield them from wind and weather. When the animals were munching in their nose bags, he returned to Auron, wringing water from his cap. Auron saw straps holding the face-shield in place, fixed across thick, woolly hair.

His companion resettled his cap. “What a land. When it’s not raining, it’s snowing,” the dwarf said, opening the back of his cart. Chests with rows of tiny drawers, glass jars with crystal stoppers, and tools hung inside with cooking and camping equipment.

Auron spat out the coins. “I’m a stranger to this land, until a moon or two ago, that is,” Auron said.

“That so? I’m not surprised; dragons don’t stay long hereabouts. The men got them all, or so I’m told.”

“I’ve met the hunters,” Auron said.

“Then you’re doubly lucky. Wise to go south.” The dwarf found a hammer and a flat piece of metal.

“I’m trying to get over the mountains. I wish to go far east and find others of my kind.”

The dwarf raised the face-mask to him, paused, and then set his tool against Auron’s collar. “That so,” the dwarf said.

Auron watched him adjust the collar out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t like the feel of a hominid at his neck. Auron both felt and heard a sharp tap, and the collar dropped to the ground, opened wide.

“Your favor has been granted, young dragon, by Djer of the Diadem. Do you like sausages better than silver?” the dwarf asked.

“My name is Auron, son of AuRel. I’ve never had sausages, but I’ve no appetite for coin.”

“My store of dragon lore isn’t great,” the tradesdwarf Djer said, building a tent of kindling on the ground. “You’re only the second I’ve seen in my travels, and the other was high up and far off. But I’d heard if you’re cornered by a dragon, offering them coin to eat will save your skin. Is that just a tale?”

“No, it’s the truth. I’m scaleless. Scaled dragons eat the metal. It gets turned into armor. Since they shed them sometimes, a dragon will hoard money so his coat stays healthy.”

“Ahhh. So the legend I’ve been told has some truth to it for a change. A dragon with no appetite for gold, eh? Wait a moment, Auron, and have a meal with me before you move on. I’ve never talked to a dragon before.”

Auron found he liked being called a dragon, though any fool chickadee could see he had no wings. “I’ve never talked to a dwarf although I’ve seen them before. They were geared for battle, the Wheel of Fire dwarves.”

Djer rubbed his hands clean on a soft piece of leather hanging from his belt. “We of the Chartered Company don’t think much of them. We’d rather earn our riches than kill for them. We have little to do with the Wheel of Fire and their ilk, or their wars. Silly and dangerous way to accomplish a simple task. We’re not far from their lands now, in the by.”

Auron gulped down his excitement, picked his words carefully. “Are there any dragons in the area? Perhaps a bronze who fought with the Wheel of Fire?”

“I see. A feud.” The dwarf started a fire.

“Please.” Auron said the world with difficulty.

“No. I know the Dragonblade spent some time here . . . oh, last summer, I think, hunting for one of your kind. A bronze, this pelt-trapper told me.”

Auron stared at the burning twigs as they licked at a larger piece of driftwood. So the Dragonblade’s story was not just brag meant to cow a young dragon.

Djer got out a frying pan. Auron was grateful for his silence. As darkness fell, the fire grew brighter against the now-shadowed riverbank. Djer threw a spoonful of delicious-smelling lard and strips of meat into the pan, and soon they were sputtering, all the while the dwarf grumbled in Dwarvish as though in an argument with the hot iron and its contents.

When the meat was ready to be turned, he spoke again to Auron. “Let me tell you something about dwarves, young dragon. Who you’re related to determines your future, unless you’re a granite- hardworking dwarf. I was born not even to miners, but to diggers. Plain tunneling folk, my father and his before. My father gave all he had to get me apprenticed to a miner, and I spent weary years working double-time saving to buy into the Chartered Company at my age. Gave up tobacco and beer, ate day-old bread so I could save to buy in.” The dwarf sighed. “Even so, I’ll never go anywhere with the Company unless I work out my life behind these horses in unprofitable lands—and I’m getting tired of the view—or do something special for the Company.”