Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [61]
Librettowit spoke around a mouthful of gooey pie. “Don’t think you can say that variances possess noses with which they poke.”
“Ah!” Fenworth looked fondly at his librarian, then winked at Bealomondore. “I’ve missed him, you know. Did you note how he did not end the sentence with a preposition? It’s a good trait in a learned man, the ability to speak a sentence properly arranged. But the variance with a nose is a figure of speech, not meant to be taken literally.”
Bealomondore tensed, trying to control his frustration. “How do you know she’s gone down that other branch?”
“I wouldn’t be a very good wizard if I couldn’t pinpoint the location of a damsel in distress.”
The younger tumanhofer nearly dropped his pie. “Distress? Tipper’s in distress?”
Fenworth shook his head again and settled himself on a thick root extending from the spinet tree. “Figure of speech. Damsel? Yes. Distress? Only moderately so. We’ll have plenty of time to backtrack and take the correct path.” He raised a big slice of pie to his mouth, but before he bit into it, he gave Bealomondore a scowl. “Eat your breakfast.”
Tipper shifted in her nest of blankets, trying to find a more comfortable position. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the serenity of her surroundings, before opening her eyes. Water sloshed against the sides of the raft, and the air smelled of wet riverbank, the dirt sodden and somehow fresh. Birds and insects overindulged in chattering their early morning messages. The warmth of the sun bathed her face, and her dark blankets had absorbed the first rays. The chill of the night vanished, her covers felt toasty and comforting, and the idea of being lazy enticed her to stay cocooned and not bother with questing today. The only sensation that disturbed her was pressed against her elbow. The raft was not a downy mattress.
Rayn! Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. She searched the blankets and then the shore. Where was the little dragon?
Roots from a tree entangled the front of her flatboat. One corner wedged into a thick mud bank. She stood. Since Paladin had first given the sad and puny dragon into her care, Rayn had always been on her or beside her when she first woke.
“Rayn! Rayn!”
“Is this what you are looking for?”
She whipped her head toward the sound, trying to find the person who spoke. If he hadn’t moved, she doubted she would have seen him. Just six feet away, half hidden in a bush, a creature rested. His size and ugly features alarmed her. But more frightening than his wild animal appearance, he held Rayn. The unknown man-animal pinched the dragon’s tail between his thumb and forefinger. Rayn’s drooping gray body hung from his meaty hand.
Tipper gasped. She looked from the tiny dragon to the beast. His large face had some of the characteristics of a grawlig. He was bigger and dressed better, and his eyes, though cold, glimmered with intelligence. His speech sounded much more like one of the high races.
“I decided not to eat him.”
Tipper stuck out her chin. “Give him to me.”
Promptly, the beast flipped the little dragon toward her. Tipper snatched Rayn from the air. She held him close under her chin, then lowered her hands to study his limp form.
As she stroked his belly with her finger, Rayn twitched. “He’s alive.”
“Of course,” said the creature. “I didn’t mean to kill him. If I had, he would be dead.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing but catch him as he flew by.”
“He’s hurt.”
“Perhaps I squeezed too hard.”
The beast’s steady breathing and his unwavering gaze teased the fine hair on her neck. She turned away from his staring eyes, then whisked back. Better to face the abomination.
Tipper almost asked what he was but caught herself in time to say, “Who are you?”
“I’m called The Grawl.”
“Where do you come from?”
“North.” An unpleasant smile twisted his lips. His