Brode only released Holt once they were clear of the hatchery. The old rider barked an order and the guard locked the door.
Holt rubbed at his sore neck and trudged back to the kitchens. He thought he could still feel the heat from the dragon egg in his hands. What a horrible business.
Everyone has their role, he thought. Only order can defeat chaos…
Not even the dragons could escape it. If you weren’t fit to fight the scourge, you weren’t fit at all.
With his head still reeling, he mechanically made his way over to his basin. Someone was already there, using his brush and washing his dishes. He blinked. Then his mind refocused and he heard someone calling him.
“Holt?” his father said. “Where have you been all this time?” “Helping Lord Brode.”
“I know that,” his father said exasperated. Poor Jonah Cook looked exhausted. If there was any lingering frustration over their argument earlier, neither had the energy to revisit it. “But it’s past night fall already. And you’re so pale – are you feeling well?”
“I’m a little lightheaded—”
“And, oh blazes, Holt where’s the serving dish you took?” “What?”
His mind caught up. The silver serving dish – the expensive silver serving dish. He’d left it in the hatchery.
“I left it. Sorry, father I—” “Well run and fetch it.”
“But the washing up—”
“Somebody else will handle it. Someone else picked up after you all afternoon.”
Holt heard it; that edge of annoyance and disappointment in his father’s voice.
“I’ll go then.” And he left the kitchens.
He made his way back to the hatchery. It meant climbing the kitchen stairs, making his way through the servants’ courtyard, entering the Crag’s tower through a servant’s door, then descending again, deep into the heart of the rock. With everyone so pre-occupied with the feast and Silverstrike, Holt felt like he had the run of the place. There was of course still the same guard at the hatchery door.
The guard’s eyes lingered upon Holt’s apron. “You lost? Feast is upstairs.”
Servants really were invisible to them. He’d only just come out of the hatchery and the guard had even seen him do it.
“I left something inside. A silver serving dish.”
“That so? I’m not to let anyone in without Lord Brode’s permission.” “I was just here. He won’t mind.”
“Go and get him then.”
Holt did not wish to do this. Aside from the hassle, he didn’t feel like being in the presence of that sour old berk if he could help it. Brode the Brooding indeed.
“No one will know,” Holt said. “I’ll be quick. In and out.” The guard was unmoved.
“I don’t think Lord Brode will thank you for making him leave the feast to come all the way back down here,” Holt added, thinking on his feet. “You know he’s a close friend of Silas Silverstrike, don’t you?”
Brode’s icy tone had suggested the friendship was no longer cordial; indeed, Brode may well like an excuse to leave the feast, but Holt bet the guard wouldn’t know that.
“He is?”
“Oh yes,” Holt said. “Lord Brode wouldn’t stop talking about his friend Silverstrike and how they fought side by side at the battle of – oh what was it – the battle that ended the last great incursion?”
“The Battle of Athra.”
“That’s the one. I forget these things so easily,” Holt lied. “We servants often do.”
The guard inclined his head sagely. “Fear not, young master. There will always be a role for those with slower minds.”
“Indeed,” Holt said, straining not to bite upon the word. “But you’ll agree that to pull Lord Brode away at this hour would be quite—”
“Yes, most unsatisfactory for their lordships.” The guard tensed at the thought of it. “Very well, I’ll let you in but make sure you’re quick about it.”
He opened the door. Holt bowed his head and thanked him profusely before entering.
The night air and crashing anger of the sea greeted him. The serving tray was easy to spot, for it glinted under the cold starlight. He ran over, bent to pick it up, and that’s when he saw it.
The doomed dragon egg.
It was on the edge of the condemned pile, just where Brode had placed it before leaving. Even compared to other eggs on this pile, it stood out, its white scar thick and prominent.
And perhaps it was his frustration at playing dumb to the guard outside; Brode’s insistence that he wouldn’t be a rider; the strange warmth he’d felt in his hands while holding the egg, but Holt was struck with a mad idea.
He would save it.
Yes, he admired the riders; he thanked them daily for keeping them safe from the horrors of the scourge. Only order defeats chaos, as it had done for hundreds of years. But he didn’t see why this Order had to be cruel.
He hadn’t had the guts to throw the egg off the cliff, but he would save
it.
In that mad moment, Holt threw a glance over his shoulder to check on
the guard. He wasn’t paying attention, so Holt lunged for the egg, picked it up, placed it inside the silver serving dish and covered it with the lid.
He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding, and his heart thundered.
“You found it yet?” the guard called form the doorway. “Y-yes,” Holt called back.
Fighting to keep his hands from shaking, Holt stood, grunted from the weight of the egg, then made his way out of the hatchery. The guard closed the door without a second look.
“Now, you weren’t here, understand?” the guard said. “Perfectly.”
And with that, Holt had stolen a dragon egg.
Although what he would do now was the more pertinent question. He had no answer. In the meantime, he walked in something of a trance, back through the Order Hall and toward the servants’ courtyard as though heading for the kitchens. Staff were running hither and thither as they attended to the riders up in the tower.
Now the deed was done, he couldn’t very well retrace his steps and put the egg back. That only left one option. Hide the egg. But where?
Thankfully, the solution to this dilemma came in haste.
First, he continued to the kitchens but made for the back entrance; the one riders and squires would never take. In this dark alcove, hidden away under a canopy of rock, was where waste from the kitchens collected. Barrels and crates full to bursting with fish heads, animal bones, sinew, eggshells, vegetable stalks and cores. Tonight’s refuse was still fresh, so it did not yet smell foul, although Holt was well used to such odors.
As it was, part of his duties included taking crates of waste down to the Muckers’ hut. If this was going to work, he’d have to move quick. Empty crates here and there signaled that kitchenhands were already moving it.
Holt searched for a crate of the right size which was not yet full. Finding one, he placed the silver tray inside it. It struck him that the silver lid would draw attention to anyone he might meet on the journey.
Maybe I should take the egg out first?
Before he could conclude on the problem, the yard door opened, and a kitchenhand came out with a bucket. Holt sprang up in alarm, leaping to block the silver dish from view.
“Evening,” Holt said much too loudly.
The girl started and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, Master Cook you gave me the frights – jumping out the shadows like that.” She tutted. “Your da is lookin’ for you y’know.”
“I must have missed him,” said Holt. “Thought I’d get started on taking some of this down. I’ll take that.” He gestured toward her bucket.
Please no entrails, he thought as she handed it over. To his great relief it was only carrot peelings and onion skins.
“Ta,” she said, turning back without a second glance. When the door closed, Holt breathed easy again.
What was he doing? Too late now.
He dumped the bucket of peelings over the top of the silver dish. A sliver of metal remained visible in places, but it would do. With a grunt, he picked up his load. He groaned from the weight but marched on, worried with each step that something would give him away.
Yet Holt needn’t have worried. A cook he would be one day. A pot boy he was currently. Few people give a pot boy much attention, let alone stop and look closely at what he is doing. Or what he is carrying. And seeing a pot boy carrying a waste crate was hardly conspicuous.
Just like that, as easily as he’d taken the egg, he made it to the servants’ stairs; the roughhewn, narrow, switch-back flight that led to the poorer part of town. It was this area where he and his father lived in their squat little house.
He passed some kitchenhands on their way back from the Muckers’ hut, carrying empty crates or barrels of their own. He nodded and smiled, fearing his thumping heart would be audible through his ribs.
Nearing his destination, he saw the Muckers’ hut at the end of the winding street, casting soft light whereas other homes were darkened or had their windows closed. He could just make out the Muckers readying their horse and wagon for the night’s work. Then they set off.
Not wishing to be asked to offload his crate, Holt ducked into a darkened alley by the Fuller’s house and waited as hooves clopped up the hard dirt street. The elder Mucker had begun his route. He stopped at each house, picking up smaller buckets of waste and upending them onto the back of his wagon, muttering to his horse all the while.
Once Mr. Mucker was well past, Holt poked out his head to check that the younger Mucker was not in the street. Seeing the road was clear, Holt emerged from the alley and carried on.
Across from the Muckers’ hut was an old store house which stood rotting against the rock of the Crag. Once the Muckers had used it as an extra midden, but the practice of storing such quantities of waste inside the town had long been outlawed. Yet given its location, previous use, and proximity to the ripeness of the Muckers’ working hut, no one had found a new use for it.
Holt threw a final glance around, then dashed inside. Entering did not bring any relief from the night. The roof was in such need of repair that he still felt half outside. Not even the destitute would camp here. There was a
thick smell of mildew, the straw either sodden or brown and withered. A rat scurried past. It was a good sign. Not even Mr. Catcher ventured here.
There was nothing left for it. He got to work. Eventually he’d have to figure out a way to get the egg past the town guards, perhaps taking it out to the woods somewhere. But that was a problem for another night.
For now, he rummaged for all the dry straw he could find and made a pile of it under the most intact section of the roof. Then he brushed off the peelings, took the lid off the dish and brought out the egg.
Holt shivered, whether from nerves or the chill air he couldn’t say. Then he felt it again; the egg sent out a wave of heat.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
He rested the egg on the straw, then stood back to observe his work. Deciding there wasn’t much more he could do regarding the egg’s comfort – if the egg even cared for these things – he raked his mind through the chances of someone finding it.
Not too likely, he concluded. Few people would come to this dead end of town, other than the Muckers and the odd kitchenhand. Everyone else placed their waste outside their homes for collection. This area was poor and who else would wish to venture down to the Muckers’ hut? Not only for the smell, but because people feared the insects said to be drawn to rotting things. Vethrax.
Those bugs were hated almost as much as the scourge, although Holt had never actually seen one. Probably because the Muckers and Sweeps did such a good job of keeping the streets clean.
Fearing his absence would be noted again, Holt crouched and, not entirely sure why he was doing this, patted the top of the egg.
“I need to go,” he said stupidly.
No heat came from the egg this time. Disappointed, Holt realized he’d been hoping it could hear him. Maybe dragon eggs became warm at random and he’d given it more meaning than it held.
He got up, returned to the crate of food waste and the silver dish and realized his issue. If he covered the dish to sneak it back up and was spotted, it would look strange to be returning waste to the kitchens. Carrying the dish on its own was out of the question. He could leave it here, but his father had asked him to go get it in the first place. Someone might look for it tomorrow and then there would be questions.
He had no choice. With luck he wouldn’t run into anyone. Covering it back over with the peelings as best he could, he picked up the crate with the dish concealed inside it and started back up the road. At least it wasn’t so heavy now, but even a light weight will become a burden when climbing.
Halfway back up the winding servants’ stairs, breathing hard and legs burning from the effort, he heard voices coming from around the corner above.
“Stop frettin’,” a woman said. “We’ll just be cooped up for a bit while the riders go off and do their business.”
“Nowhere’s completely safe,” came her male companion.
Holt thought fast. He put the crate down, leaned against the rock and placed a hand to his stomach. Two kitchenhands came around the corner, neither mercifully the girl he had run into earlier.
“You arite, Holt?”
“Just catching my breath,” Holt said, which was true enough. “Embarrassed to say I got a stitch on the way down.”
“It’s been a long day,” the man said knowingly.
“Yer father’s dismissed us for the night,” said the woman. “We were just headin’ home but if you want a hand with that—”
“No, no,” Holt said. “You two go on. I’ll manage.” “Right you are, Master Cook.”
They both continued down.
Holt didn’t waste a second more than he had to. Taking the stairs as quick as his body allowed, he went to the refuse yard, removed the dish and placed the crate down with the others. After a feast, no one would think twice that not everything had been emptied yet. Wiping his hands on his apron as best he could, he retrieved the dish and entered the kitchens through the back door.
He hung back, peeking around the corner until he saw his father descend into the larder for a stock check. With a window of opportunity to avoid immediate questions, he ducked in, made for his wash basin, and began cleaning the silver tray. He scrubbed a little too hard, as though he could scrub the evidence of his crime away.
The kitchens were quiet now. Most of the staff had left for the night and when Holt dried and replaced the silver dish there wasn’t a utensil out of place nor a workspace that wasn’t clean.
The larder trap door opened, and Jonah Cook emerged with a wearied groan.
“There you are,” he said. He raised a hand to dissuade any excuses for Holt’s tardiness. “We’ll talk in the morning. Let’s go home.”
They made that journey in silence and Holt stripped to his small clothes and got into bed with nothing more than a sullen, “Good night.” He wasn’t sure whether his father was angry with him or just exhausted from the day. For his part, Holt was too anxious to dare utter a word, fearing his voice would give away his secret.
Lying in bed, a fresh wave of guilt washed over him for abandoning the kitchens earlier. If he hadn’t stormed out, he may never have been asked to go to the hatchery and would never have learned the terrible truth behind the choosing ceremony. He shivered, although this time not from the cold, but pulled his sheets tighter around himself all the same.
Sleep eluded Holt, even long after his father’s snoring filled their little house.
What have I done?
