mow felt good on his back. It eased the ache.
Jakkin went first to the eggroom, where all the clutches were kept together for hatching. He knew at once that the hatching was finished, because the room was completely dark, but he went back into the hall and borrowed a lamp anyway, and returned. Little round shadows pitted the walls as the lamp lit the broken shells. Jakkin kicked through the sand floor, smashing pieces of the brittle casings. Jakkin knew, as any nursery bonder knew, about shells. When they were laid, they were elastic, cascading out onto the birth sands in numbers too plentiful to count. They piled up in great slippery pyramids that stuck together with birth fluids during the ice cold
of Dark-After. Only when the temperatures on the planet rose again, and the fluids melted, did the eggs drop from the pyramids into the sand. That was another reason why the barn was kept heated, to hasten the hatching process.
Jakkin knew that, touched then, the eggs would break open, revealing a viscous yellow-green slime. Yet left alone the eggs hardened in a day, sheathed in a covering that even a sharpened pick could hardly openâfrom the outside. The growing hatchling within could break apart the shell with a horny growth on its nose. So once the egg had hardened, it was considered fair game for any humanâthief, trainer, man, or boyâwho thought he could sense a living dragon in the shell.
The living dragon. That was the irony. So few of the eggs held living dragons. Most were decoys for the predatory drakk. How often a bonder had had an opportunity to steal an egg, guarding it zealously, only to discover days later that it contained a heavy liquid and nothing else.
The shells were brittle now because the hens had licked the insides clean of the
remaining birth fluids. One by one, the bonders had led the hens in to choose their own hatchlings and suck some sustenance from the sticky fluids. He could see the prints of hen feet in the sand. Angrily, Jakkin kicked at the shells. Then he bent down and picked one up, crunching it in his hand, delighting in the pain as parts of one scratched his palm, drawing blood. "Fewmets," he cursed, and stood.
He knew he should go back to the bondhouse. Stealing an egg was one thing, a kind of acceptable thievery. Stealing a hatchlingâthat was something else. Eggs were not counted, but hatchlings were, counted and recorded and set down in Likkarn's careful script on the doorway of each hen's nestroom. He had never seen it, but he knew it was so, just as he knew about eggs. It was part of every nursery bonder's knowledge, the rules and lore with which he had grown up.
He knew what he
should
do, but something drew him toward the nestrooms, some thin thread of sound. It was the peeping of a hatchling and the snuffling answer of a hen.
He closed the eggroom door and moved on down the hall.
***
A T THE FIRST hen's compartment, he read Likkarn's list out loud. "Heart Worm (4) out of Heart Safe by Blood Bank. M. Blood Brother. 7 hatchlings, 5/27/07."
He lifted the latch and, holding the lamp overhead, stared in. Heart Worm was a yellowish color, not much darker than the eggskin of a newborn. She looked back at him with shrouded eyes and houghed in warning.
Jakkin squatted back on his heels and sang in that low croon, "It's all right, mother worm. It's all right."
She put her head back down and nuzzled the seven dragonlings one by one. Jakkin counted with her, saying the numbers in the same low voice. He watched her tail. The tip twitched back and forth, but he could tell that she was made only slightly anxious by his presence. He stood up slowly and backed out of the door.
The second hen was Heart to Heart, also out of Heart Safe by Blood Bank. She was a
yellow-orange with a deep streak of red from her muzzle to her hindquarters. It spread like a bloodstain over her legs, then spattered like scores (or, Jakkin thought, like Kkarina's freckles) along her tail. She
Jakkin went first to the eggroom, where all the clutches were kept together for hatching. He knew at once that the hatching was finished, because the room was completely dark, but he went back into the hall and borrowed a lamp anyway, and returned. Little round shadows pitted the walls as the lamp lit the broken shells. Jakkin kicked through the sand floor, smashing pieces of the brittle casings. Jakkin knew, as any nursery bonder knew, about shells. When they were laid, they were elastic, cascading out onto the birth sands in numbers too plentiful to count. They piled up in great slippery pyramids that stuck together with birth fluids during the ice cold
of Dark-After. Only when the temperatures on the planet rose again, and the fluids melted, did the eggs drop from the pyramids into the sand. That was another reason why the barn was kept heated, to hasten the hatching process.
Jakkin knew that, touched then, the eggs would break open, revealing a viscous yellow-green slime. Yet left alone the eggs hardened in a day, sheathed in a covering that even a sharpened pick could hardly openâfrom the outside. The growing hatchling within could break apart the shell with a horny growth on its nose. So once the egg had hardened, it was considered fair game for any humanâthief, trainer, man, or boyâwho thought he could sense a living dragon in the shell.
The living dragon. That was the irony. So few of the eggs held living dragons. Most were decoys for the predatory drakk. How often a bonder had had an opportunity to steal an egg, guarding it zealously, only to discover days later that it contained a heavy liquid and nothing else.
The shells were brittle now because the hens had licked the insides clean of the
remaining birth fluids. One by one, the bonders had led the hens in to choose their own hatchlings and suck some sustenance from the sticky fluids. He could see the prints of hen feet in the sand. Angrily, Jakkin kicked at the shells. Then he bent down and picked one up, crunching it in his hand, delighting in the pain as parts of one scratched his palm, drawing blood. "Fewmets," he cursed, and stood.
He knew he should go back to the bondhouse. Stealing an egg was one thing, a kind of acceptable thievery. Stealing a hatchlingâthat was something else. Eggs were not counted, but hatchlings were, counted and recorded and set down in Likkarn's careful script on the doorway of each hen's nestroom. He had never seen it, but he knew it was so, just as he knew about eggs. It was part of every nursery bonder's knowledge, the rules and lore with which he had grown up.
He knew what he
should
do, but something drew him toward the nestrooms, some thin thread of sound. It was the peeping of a hatchling and the snuffling answer of a hen.
He closed the eggroom door and moved on down the hall.
***
A T THE FIRST hen's compartment, he read Likkarn's list out loud. "Heart Worm (4) out of Heart Safe by Blood Bank. M. Blood Brother. 7 hatchlings, 5/27/07."
He lifted the latch and, holding the lamp overhead, stared in. Heart Worm was a yellowish color, not much darker than the eggskin of a newborn. She looked back at him with shrouded eyes and houghed in warning.
Jakkin squatted back on his heels and sang in that low croon, "It's all right, mother worm. It's all right."
She put her head back down and nuzzled the seven dragonlings one by one. Jakkin counted with her, saying the numbers in the same low voice. He watched her tail. The tip twitched back and forth, but he could tell that she was made only slightly anxious by his presence. He stood up slowly and backed out of the door.
The second hen was Heart to Heart, also out of Heart Safe by Blood Bank. She was a
yellow-orange with a deep streak of red from her muzzle to her hindquarters. It spread like a bloodstain over her legs, then spattered like scores (or, Jakkin thought, like Kkarina's freckles) along her tail. She
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