and strongest poles you can find to support this side," Martik continued, not even noticing the dirty look the captain of the Serpent gave him. Kenward tried a little harder.
"Don't forget you've got dragons at your disposal," Thundegar said.
Martik took a moment to consider. Kenward imagined many of the things Martik had done would have been made easier with a dragon's assistance. The man surprised him, though, when he said, "All the same, I think we'll do it ourselves. I don't know that I could communicate well enough with a dragon to keep anyone from getting hurt. It'll take us a half a day, but we'll get it done."
Allette grimaced at the prospect of waiting, but she was getting the coal and buckets she'd requested. For the moment, it had to be enough. The people of Dragonhold rallied around the common purpose, looking as if they might complete the task in far less time than Martik had predicted. A wise man always overestimated the difficulty of a task, and Martik Tillerman was a very wise man.
Chapter 5
Nothing belongs to anyone.
--Sevellon, thief
* * *
The Godfist had never been an easy place to live. The years following Istra's return had made it even more difficult. Anyone who saw Sevellon looked at him with distrust, not because they knew he was a thief, but because they trusted no one. Complacency was a thief's best friend. Here, though, the people had already lost much. This was why Sevellon chose not to go anywhere near the Masterhouse or Lowerton, but instead to the outskirts, where much of what had been destroyed had never been rebuilt. Many had died here. What most would see as modern ruins represented opportunity for the thief. Such places often held some small treasure if you knew where and how to look.
The cover of darkness was another tool he'd learned to use well, and preserving his night vision was a skill he'd finely tuned over many years. Still, avoiding frequent patrols sent out from the Masterhouse and remaining watchful for dragons, demons, gray soldiers, and giants proved difficult. Outsiders were not welcome here; that was something Sevellon understood, and he had no good way to explain his presence. Lying came naturally to him, though. In the event he was captured, he had a number of tales prepared. He hoped to play on their sympathies since trust was unlikely.
Guilt was not an emotion a thief could afford, and once again he suppressed it.
The metallic click of harness announced another patrol's imminent arrival. Sevellon crouched down behind an old chimney. Much of the place had burned, but charred floor slats remained. Part of being a good thief was knowing what things were valuable, what things you can manage to get away with, and where most people hide the things they cherish above all others. Remaining still, Sevellon relied on the fact that these patrols had found nothing lately, based on their idle conversation. These people were bored. Understanding human nature was another tool Sevellon relied on heavily. But one thing he had very little control over, much less understanding of, were animals.
Perhaps these beasts could sense him in ways humans could not, or perhaps it was simply the smell of him. It mattered little since the end result was the same. Two of the patrol's horses spooked. Sevellon could not see the whites of their eyes from where he hid, but the way their hooves pounded against cobbled stone spoke of fear. Next came the sound of boots. His muscles tensed and his heart raced.
"Probably nothing," one man said.
Sevellon was already moving, half walking, half running straight back from the chimney that had hidden him. Near the crumbling remains of a barn, he broke into a full run. If not for the torches the patrol carried ruining their night vision, they might have seen him. And if not for the horses' continued fussing, they might have heard him, but Sevellon had the thief's luck. Soon, having found nothing around the dilapidated house, the patrol moved on.
"Don't forget you've got dragons at your disposal," Thundegar said.
Martik took a moment to consider. Kenward imagined many of the things Martik had done would have been made easier with a dragon's assistance. The man surprised him, though, when he said, "All the same, I think we'll do it ourselves. I don't know that I could communicate well enough with a dragon to keep anyone from getting hurt. It'll take us a half a day, but we'll get it done."
Allette grimaced at the prospect of waiting, but she was getting the coal and buckets she'd requested. For the moment, it had to be enough. The people of Dragonhold rallied around the common purpose, looking as if they might complete the task in far less time than Martik had predicted. A wise man always overestimated the difficulty of a task, and Martik Tillerman was a very wise man.
Chapter 5
Nothing belongs to anyone.
--Sevellon, thief
* * *
The Godfist had never been an easy place to live. The years following Istra's return had made it even more difficult. Anyone who saw Sevellon looked at him with distrust, not because they knew he was a thief, but because they trusted no one. Complacency was a thief's best friend. Here, though, the people had already lost much. This was why Sevellon chose not to go anywhere near the Masterhouse or Lowerton, but instead to the outskirts, where much of what had been destroyed had never been rebuilt. Many had died here. What most would see as modern ruins represented opportunity for the thief. Such places often held some small treasure if you knew where and how to look.
The cover of darkness was another tool he'd learned to use well, and preserving his night vision was a skill he'd finely tuned over many years. Still, avoiding frequent patrols sent out from the Masterhouse and remaining watchful for dragons, demons, gray soldiers, and giants proved difficult. Outsiders were not welcome here; that was something Sevellon understood, and he had no good way to explain his presence. Lying came naturally to him, though. In the event he was captured, he had a number of tales prepared. He hoped to play on their sympathies since trust was unlikely.
Guilt was not an emotion a thief could afford, and once again he suppressed it.
The metallic click of harness announced another patrol's imminent arrival. Sevellon crouched down behind an old chimney. Much of the place had burned, but charred floor slats remained. Part of being a good thief was knowing what things were valuable, what things you can manage to get away with, and where most people hide the things they cherish above all others. Remaining still, Sevellon relied on the fact that these patrols had found nothing lately, based on their idle conversation. These people were bored. Understanding human nature was another tool Sevellon relied on heavily. But one thing he had very little control over, much less understanding of, were animals.
Perhaps these beasts could sense him in ways humans could not, or perhaps it was simply the smell of him. It mattered little since the end result was the same. Two of the patrol's horses spooked. Sevellon could not see the whites of their eyes from where he hid, but the way their hooves pounded against cobbled stone spoke of fear. Next came the sound of boots. His muscles tensed and his heart raced.
"Probably nothing," one man said.
Sevellon was already moving, half walking, half running straight back from the chimney that had hidden him. Near the crumbling remains of a barn, he broke into a full run. If not for the torches the patrol carried ruining their night vision, they might have seen him. And if not for the horses' continued fussing, they might have heard him, but Sevellon had the thief's luck. Soon, having found nothing around the dilapidated house, the patrol moved on.
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