4.2 - Remara and the Book Thief

Note: Warning. Depiction of a brutal act at the end of the chapter.

Market day is miserable in every way for Ha'Drak. His scales crawl with the need for food. He pictures his own little cavern in the hillside—lined with mirror shards all the way in so that he can remain hidden while feeding on sunlight as soon as day breaks—and he moans with desire. He can manage, as he has before during lengthy rainstorms where clouds cloak the land for miles in all directions.

Even so, he's still growing, and he is expending a great deal of energy to heal cracked bones, bruises, and scales burned by his captor's gloves.

His captor opens the cage door just long enough to cover the exit with the sack. "Climb in," says the distorted voice. "It's a rough ride in the cage with me on foot. Tried it my first time. That flit lost most of its scales by the time we got there."

Ha'Drak shivers, picturing that poor voidflyer banging against the poison bars of the cage as the human walked. Keeping his wings tucked close, he slithers on his belly out and into the sack. He's thrown over the human's shoulder, and the journey resumes. Ha'Drak no longer struggles, aware that the sack is the only thing separating him from the Deathspill cloaking the human.

It is a shorter journey than his first, but long enough for Ha'Drak to tell himself an abridged version of his favorite story four times end-to-end. It's a story about a prince who was sold into slavery, and how he fought many other slaves and became a strong, mighty warrior. Maybe Ha'Drak can be like that. Maybe he will be okay, and he'll get very strong and escape someday. Not right now, he probably can't escape the sack and he probably can't escape this human, but maybe he can escape the next human.

No, no maybes. Definitelys. Definitelys escaping next one.

This unshakable resolve to be patient and wait lasts him right up to the moment after the mouth of the sack opens up to dump him back into the cage. His claws scrape along the bottom of the cage as he barely keeps himself from sliding into the bars. The door closes behind him, and he gets his first look at the Wing Market.

All wrong! All wrong!

His instincts immediately screech at him, but the wrongness comes from all around and he can only curl up in the center of the cage as his eyes dart in opposing directions, processing the horror.

They are in a clearing, surrounded by tree trunks as thick as a horse is long. But there is barely any light. Even with a heavy canopy, there should be sunlight filtering down! Instead aheavy gloom saturates the entire area. Light reaches a layer that seems to devours it. Torches and carefully tended pit-fires dot the clearing, offering just enough visibility to navigate sections of the Market and give an idea of its size.

"Is day?" Ha'Drak asks, desperate to be wrong. "Is not night?"

"It's day. Light never makes it down here." The human adjusts the hood of the Deathspill cloak. Not a flicker of light makes it to that face. "Hungry, huh? Don't worry. I'll tell your buyer to pick up a sun-dot from the Skyte farmers. If they don't want to, you'll get plenty of sunlight tomorrow."

Ha'Drak has forgotten hunger. The dark is all wrong, all wrong! And the all-wrongness is all over the humans meandering around, inspecting wares. All of them are wearing those terrible cloaks and none of them have faces!

His cage is set on a table barely larger than the cage itself. There is a single torch atop a tall stick planted in the ground next to the table and the paper his captor drew up about Ha'Drak the previous night is secured to the front of that table. Ha'Drak is the only merchandise this human seems to have.

Beyond their spot, there are a couple of ramshackle stalls being tended by cloaked humans and another few tables like his in sight. There's one blanket, too, spread out on the ground with tiny glass bottles lined up on it. Beyond those, it is harder to see anything other than the torches, extending many paces in all directions.

Whipping his head around, he inspects the door of the cage. It has the most Deathspill wound around it, but maybe he can get at the latch. If the human stops watching for just a few seconds, and if Ha'Drak can bear the pain, maybe it's worth trying to see how secure the lock is.

A frantic squawk in the darkness. Ha'Drak lifts his head to see another voidflyer, outlined clearly by its flameweave harness, tearing down the aisle.

"Ah, got a runner already." His captor laughs like it's a loose puppy. "That happened my first time."

The voidflyer darts past Ha'Drak's table, barely clearing the neighboring tent when a huge beast hits it midair, slamming it into the ground. Ha'Drak nearly inhales his tongue at the sight.

The creature's blue scales are muted in the dim torchlight, but there is no mistaking the fine, light bone structure of the fire-spewing dragon that rules the skies. The firetongue is maybe twice as tall as a human, though more fragile than the burrowers. It doesn't have to be afraid of anything in the sky and very few things on the ground can keep up with it.

Ha'Drak turns his eyes down to the firetongue's claws, which clutch a limp voidflyer.

A cloaked human scrambles up to the firetongue, demanding the return of the voidflyer, and the firetongue releases its hold. It soars up to a tree at the edge of their section and perches on a thick branch overlooking the Market.

Ha'Drak's captor calls, "Still breathing?"

The other human inspects the limp voidflyer. "Barely, but yes. Depths take that firetongue, it's supposed to be careful with escapees! I was told—"

"I'm sure you were told a lot of things. New sellers! If you want to speed up regen time for your wares, go get a good quality sun-dot to feed it. Otherwise you'll have to mark it down, and you're already going to be fined for being careless."

"Careless! I—"

"Relax. Just take the hit and learn. We all slip up toward the beginning. Make sure to pay your fine when the Collector comes around and don't complain. You don't want that firetongue on your back. It sees the whole market and it keeps everything running smooth and friendly-like for the Merchant."

Ha'Drak unfolds his wings just enough to draw them over his eyes as his captor continues to give advice to the new slaver who is holding a voidflyer that might or might not die very soon. His breath comes in great gusts through his nose.

Am not here. Am not in cage. Am not near poison. Am not trapped by people wearing death and commanding firetongues. Am home in cave. Got my good book away from nasty human. Am reading it. Is new favorite. Is best book ever. Am soaking in sunlight, getting strong. Big enough so hawks don't bother no more. Am safe. Am home.

His heart bangs against his ribcage and his throat is too tight to swallow his own lie, but he does not know what else to do. He is no brave prince, he is the smallest of dragons, in the grip of giants who will crush him if he disobeys.

The day slogs on. From time to time, a cloaked human comes up to the table and discusses his price with his captor, who expands on his valuable qualities.

"Look at these scales. Pitch-black, healthy gloss. Lively as any juvenile I've had."

"See the shape of his head? Only a year or two old. He'll last a good long time."

"A book hoarder is a reasonable find. Some of the little flits go for gemstones, and that's a pain to satisfy."

"Comes with this cage and your choice of either three flameweave harness replacements or a pair of ten percent darkweave gloves to keep him in check."

Most potential customers shake their heads and walk away when his captor won't haggle on the price. After one such encounter, Ha'Drak spits, "Stupid. Why offer gloves? All'em have horrible nasty gloves on already."

"The gloves aren't for them. Hah, you think anyone here is here buying for themselves?" The human sighs and slumps into a chair. "Have to wear darkweave to even enter the Market, 'course they don't need gloves for themselves. Most actual clients are still getting a taste for darkweave, and the other wares, so all you see here is the clients' middlemen. Whoever ends up with you probably won't have their own gloves yet. It's good policy to include ways to rein you in."

Ha'Drak whimpers, his claws scritching the bottom of the cage. He doesn't like the sound of that. His limbs are all trembly and he's not sure if it's from fear or hunger. He needs sunlight. Water would also be welcome.

" 'Phany," his captor swears, gesturing at a figure making a slow circuit of the tables. "Market day's over. The Collector's coming 'round to levy fines and take cuts. Looks like I'm stuck with you for another day."

Ha'Drak hates the person trying to sell him, but his gut nearly crawls out of his body at the sight of the form meandering its way closer. He has been unable to tell one cloaked human from another ever since he was taken, but this one he would see standing out in a whole knotted mass of them. As the figure passes by torches, their flames flicker lower. In a forest of murk, this human trails a thick patch of inky fog that annihilates any remaining light.

Like a patch of Deathspill walking.

His captor sighs. "Beautiful. That's got to be, what… forty? Fifty percent weave? And head to toe, too. It'd take me years to afford just a scarf that pure."

Ha'Drak uncurls and his back arches as the horrible thing aims itself toward his table and draws near. He inches back as far as he can without touching the bars and bares his teeth. As the figure pulls up to the table, what little warmth remains in his body drains. His limbs shake under him as he bares his teeth, hissing.

His captor hits the cage and he stumbles, smacking into the bars with a sizzle. "Oy! Calm your scales. Evening, Collector. Haven't got anything for you today, no sale yet."

The figure might be staring at Ha'Drak or it might be staring at the person behind him, there's no way to tell where the face is pointed.

Is monster! Light dies near it!

"Oh, I'm not here for the fees. The Collector will be by in a bit," the figure says, calmly.

Ha'Drak's captor sucks in a sharp breath and bolts to a standing position. "Merchant. Forgive me. Never had the honor of hosting you at my stall. Welcome. Market's up to satisfaction?"

"Mhmm. Several new vendors tripping over their own feet, but they're good for the Market in the long run. Good to see a tightly run table. Did he give you much trouble?"

"This one? Got a bit of a mouth on him, but he plays along if you show him who's master."

"Hah. Spirited. The fire never lasts, but it keeps them going longer."

Ha'Drak does not like this talk. Does not like this conversation, which is different than any of the other talk he's heard today.

"At least you kept yours intact," the Merchant muses. "Only one other voidflyer for sale today and it's half-dead."

"Let me guess. Idiot didn't mark it down because he didn't want to eat losses from the fine and a cut-price over damaged goods." His captor shakes his head. "I remember those days. They learn. Me, on the other hand," and here, his hand rests on the table next to the price paper. "I know how to take care of my goods and how to price 'em."

That is enough. Ha'Drak is not going with this new monster. If this captor yanks a limb off, he can regenerate it. Better torn up than owned by this horrible thing. "Poisonous bunch-backed toad!" he screeches, flaring his wings as high as he can. His earfins snap out as well, and he roars as deep as his lungs will go, "Busy meddling fiend!"

Again, the slaver smacks the bars. "Oy," he warns, but Ha'Drak is just getting started. He delves into remembered text as the bars bite him again, spewing, "Mammering motley-minded malt-worm! I bite! Scratch you! Away, you moldy rogue, away!"

The Merchant chuckles. "A little extra spirit, eh? I see why the price is so high. I'll take him. The last one I got didn't spit half as much fire and she wasted away a few days ago."

"Excellent!" Relief is plain in his captor's voice. "Ah… pointless to give you vouchers for extra flameweave or new gloves, eh?"

"Indeed. However, I like your way. You're a tidy vendor with good product and a clean payment record. Here." The Merchant lays a piece of paper on the table.

Ha'Drak's captor seizes it, holding it up to his face. "Free weaving… Merchant, I'm thankful, but I haven't any…" the protest trails away as the Merchant proceeds to set six finger-length black vials on the table in a row. "Depths take me. You… you're the first to pay in vials."

"Clearly you've been hoping for that, or you wouldn't have written it in as an option." The Merchant indicates the price sheet with a hand, then drops it back down. "I see you're wearing fifteen-percent weave. It takes a long time to trade up, doesn't it? Believe me, I know. Take the voucher, take the vials. Get yourself a solid upgrade. Who knows, my Collector may wear out in a year or two. I could always use someone with a good head on their shoulders."

His captor shudders and snatches up the vials. "Yes, Merchant. Do you… you want me to…?"

"No need. I can deal with that myself."

"Yes, sir. Good luck with the beast, you'll bring him to heel."

"No!" Ha'Drak screeches, snapping his teeth desperately. "Mangled, ill-nurtured hornbeast! Not yours! Scratch your eyes out, shard-born varlot!"

But the monster takes the handle of his cage and sweeps him off the table, leaving his captor behind to figure out the cut he owes the Collector.

The Merchant follows a well-cleared road out of the Market and approaches half a dozen horses tied up, some with carts. By the time the Merchant sets the cage into one of the carts, Ha'Drak has hit the bars a dozen times. The Merchant must be doing it on purpose. It is harder to stay in the center with the cage always moving and his limbs going numb from proximity to this monster.

He is grateful when the Merchant finally sets him down the cart, along with a hand-sized bundle carefully swaddled in cloth. The Merchant sits up front and takes the reins, slapping them on the horse's back to get it going.

"I don't mind you spitting a bit in private," the Merchant says mildly, "But when we're in public, or if I have visitors, you'd do better to save your thoughts up for later."

Ha'Drak hisses.

"You will accompany me most days. I have a special shoulder saddle so you have an easy perch and you won't be in contact with my clothing. There, see? I know how to take care of a voidflyer."

Ha'Drak shivers, his earfins pinned flat to his skull. "That's why you needs new one, is it?"

The Merchant chuckles. "Well. Some of you do better and some do worse. The last one—lovely little lady, Na'Shad, I believe—wasn't quite stubborn enough and gave up too quickly. I've noticed ones like you last longer in my house."

Ha'Drak wants to scream, but his voice comes out threadbare. "How many?"

"Does it matter?"

"Whats you need-for?" he asks, the words crackling with desperate fear. "Needs sneaky-thief? Needs pretty ornament? Whatfor you needs so much voidflyer?"

"What-for." The Merchant laughs a little more. "You're a funny one. What-for you needs books?" he mimics back. "What-for you goes to drag pretty stories into your hidey hole?" He clucks at the horse, urging it to go faster. "I paid six vials for you. I put down another four for some other unique trinket in the Market. I could do that every day for a week and it would be nothing to me. Figure the rest out yourself, little flit."

Ha'Drak doesn't want to think about anything but escape right now. He scratches at his harness again, but his claws pass through. It is only firelight. His captor talked about replacement harnesses, maybe it wears out? How long? No use asking the Merchant.

"So. What do I call you? You're male, so that would be Ha…?"

Ha'Drak clamps his teeth together, growling.

"Hm. Well, maybe you'll tell me later. Suppose I'll call you Little Flit for now."

The air grows lighter. An inky cloud still surrounds the Merchant and the whole front of his cart, but the gloom of the Market falls away as the horse follows the trail away.

A few rays of sunlight trickle down from the canopy overhead and Ha'Drak stretches as far as he dares to catch all he can. The feeble warmth tickles his burnt scales, seeping into his body and offering a measure of strength. He shuts his eyes for the rest of the ride, denying healing to his stinging hide and reserving the new energy. It will be needed for his escape.

He wakes with a jolt as the cage is lifted from the cart. The Merchant has exchanged the heavy darkweave cloak and gloves for lighter darkweave gloves and a scarf, gear that still draws Ha'Drak's eyes like a magnet.

His owner is a man whose face is lined from his forehead to his eyes and down around his mouth. His pale blue eyes are set deep into his face, like he's staring out of hollows, but his bristly jaw is firm. A hat covers his head, securing white-streaked brown tufts of head-fur, and there's a set of parallel scars carved deep across the bridge of his nose, like he was attacked by some creature.

Maybe something he bought, Ha'Drak thinks bitterly.

The Merchant has the small cloth bundle tucked under his arm and a bag slung over the other arm, but even so he manages to keep Ha'Drak's cage steady as he approaches a house. Now the voidflyer is sure that his earlier injuries were purposefully inflicted.

As soon as they pass through the doorway, Ha'Drak shrieks. It worse than entering the Wing Market. Every two steps there are wall-candles or tiny orbs of brilliant light, but each illuminated sconce fights a losing battle. The Merchant wades through ankle-deep Deathspill. Ha'Drak can barely see two wingbeats ahead.

"Right on cue. Every time. Yes, welcome home, Little Flit. I wouldn't try to muck about on the first floor, if I were you. By the same token, I wouldn't trust any shadows in the whole house, hmm? Might not go so well for you. Come, let's take you upstairs where it's a bit safer, eh?"

Ha'Drak stares at the Merchant, his eyes bulging and his lungs pumping like he's been on a day-long flight. Why's he so friendly? Why's he talk like it's big joke? Why so much Deathspill?

Upstairs, it is only as murky as the Market, and Ha'Drak is unnerved at how grateful he is for the comparative visibility. They enter a study, and even now Ha'Drak's heart leaps to his throat with longing as he makes out a whole wall of shelves lined with books. His wings lift and flutter a little as he fixes his gaze on them.

"You want them, don't you? Consider them yours."

Ha'Drak's head whips around, his eyes narrow.

The Merchant smiles like a painted dummy. "Truly. Any book you can pull down and read is yours. Consider it a replacement for the hoard you lost."

Confusion mounts. Dead voidflyers and Deathspill on the one claw. On the other, a human-sized room full of books all for himself. Smiles and threats.

Is human? Is monster?

His cage lands on a desk. There is an inkpot and a quill. A stack of papers. A row of leather books that look like the boring kind that hold nothing but numbers, money, and names. The Merchant sets the cloth bundle down.

"You know what my real costs are around here?" he asks, unwrapping the bundle with care. "Keeping a measure of visibility in my house. You wouldn't believe the amount of candles and sun-dots I go through. I was assured this beauty would last longer and shed stronger light in my study. Let's hope the seller was correct. If it lasts any less than six months, I might come back with some… complaints."

Glass. It is a tiny glass statue of a human, about the size of the Merchant's hand. It looks female—they often have long fur on the head like this one has. No hands, though, or feet. Or even legs. So, maybe not human? Instead of legs, there is a thick, solid base with little glass flares sticking out; a tapering, sinuous column for the body; two thin tendrils sticking out near the head for arms. It has a detailed human face, though. The mouth and eyes are open wide, as if screaming, and the body seems to cringe back from whatever it sees.

Beautiful. Terrible.

But what draws Ha'Drak is the light. In the middle of the column is a ball of light that fills the entire center of her. As he studies it, Ha'Drak sees how a wingspan of air all around her is perfectly clear, as if the gloom cannot get close enough to touch her surface. The area encompassing the desk is noticeably brighter than the rest of the room.

The Merchant nods, running a finger along the statue's hair. "Passable, passable. We'll see about endurance, but for now, good visibility. Now, I suppose you are hungry, Little Flit." He opens a desk drawer and produces a brilliant orb about the size of his thumbnail. "I'll thank you not to tax the ones lighting my hallway, but I have plenty of sun-dots for you to absorb."

Ha'Drak opens his mouth to ask questions, but quickly finds he doesn't need to. Already his scales are soaking up the sunlight trapped in this pellet. Another Skyte-made thing, has to be.

The Merchant sets the dot on the desk and opens the door of Ha'Drak's cage. "Go ahead. Enjoy." The Merchant bends down and rummages around in a lower desk drawer.

Immediately Ha'Drak scans the rest of the room. Window shut, curtain drawn. Door shut. Any shadow will lead back to this room, and with the harness on he would chase them for eternity and never touch one anyway. Still, he can take the sun-dot and fly up to the top shelf of the bookcase.

Maybe keep out of reach. Ignore Merchant's commands? Start pulling out books. Reading them. Claiming them, as promised.

He exits the cage, muscles tensed to pounce on the nourishing little orb. He feels stronger, bolder, more vigorous already.

Heavy cloth drops over his body. Before he can blink, he is rolled up and swaddled from hindquarters to shoulders so tight he cannot move. "What?! What is?!"

The Merchant has changed one glove. He still has the lighter glove on the left hand but is wearing one of the very bad ones on the right. Even the light from the little glass statue can't peel back the fog surrounding the Merchant's right hand.

The Merchant pins Ha'Drak's swaddled body down with his left forearm and grasps his neck with that hand. It freezes his already injured scales, creeping down to the skin and chewing it away a little at a time. He squalls, thrashing with all his strength, but he's bound too tight and he's so small.

"Shhhhh, shhhh. It's okay. I've done this a hundred times," the Merchant soothes. "Hold still and it will be over faster."

Over? What—

For a moment, all Ha'Drak can see is the very bad glove curving in an odd way, such that he can see a thumb and forefinger on either side of his head. The hand hovers there for a moment.

Then it drops down. Pain ravages Ha'Drak's head, reducing the attack on his neck to nothing but prickles. There is no thought, there is only agony.

It begins to subside. Each moment of subsidence brings a wave of exhilarant relief. Ha'Drak sobs at the absence of pain, treasuring every second. He is dimly aware of the swaddling being pulled off. He opens his eyes, snapping his wings out. He has to get away. It doesn't matter, he will… any corner. Any shelf. He'll never come down, not for anything. Never again…

He doesn't move. The room is pitch black. He stretches a foreclaw out, scraping it across the desk. The desk is there, under him. His tail swipes slowly back and forth, bumping into the glass figure behind. She was the brightest thing in the room, surely… he turns around until he is facing her.

Nothing.

Ha'Drak is screaming.

"Ahhh, it's okay, it's alright." The Merchant says softly. "It's got to be done, you know that. I'm a clever man, but even I can't watch you every moment, and I'd hate to see you vanish just when we're getting to know each other."

Ha'Drak can't stop.

"Here, I know what will make you feel better. Keep calm, I'm putting regular leather gloves on. Up we go." Hands lift him off the desk and deposit him up higher. It feels like a thin wooden ledge. A quick swipe of his tail tells him there is a drop-off on his left side. On his right is a strangely ridged wall smelling of musty leather and paper.

Ha'Drak presses the bridge of his muzzle into the spine of a book he cannot see and weeps.

"Well, it's been a long day and I'm hungry. I'll leave you alone for a few hours to get acquainted with your hoard. When you're ready, make your way back down to the desk for your sun-dot. Try to get to it before it winks out, hmm? And think about whether you're ready to tell me your name when I come back."

The door opens. The door closes. Ha'Drak lays down next to his new hoard and draws his wings over his ruined eyes.

No escaping. Never.