Then from the intruding mind came a questing thought, in both the human tongue and in the ancient language: Who are you?

  Alarm threatened to disrupt Murtagh’s focus. He couldn’t wait any longer. If his attacker learned his name…He had to find a way to disrupt the elf’s attention and slip away.

  With his off hand, he fumbled at his belt until he found the hilt of his dagger. He drew it, and then—with grim-minded determination—stabbed his right forearm.

  Not deeply. Not enough to cause major damage but enough to cause pain, and it was pain he wanted.

  His face contorted with agony, and the dagger fell from his fingers. The unexpected spike of pain passed through his mind into the elf’s, and as Murtagh had hoped, it broke his attacker’s focus.

  Freed from the immobilizing influence, Murtagh dropped the scale. As it left his hand, the mental contact vanished, and with it a sense of oppressive weight.

  The reprieve would be short-lived.

  Using the corner of his cloak as a protective mitten, he again picked up the scale. The layer of cloth was enough to avoid triggering whatever spell had been placed on it. He dropped the scale into the purse on his belt and then went to retrieve the dagger.

  A few paces away, Mallet was watching, a look of horror on his face. The smith sputtered and pointed and said, “That’s…you’re…You’re no friend. Graverobber! Desecrator!” His voice rang out in the evening air, cutting through the lamentations of those around the barrow. The men and women turned, their expressions alarmed and hostile. Mallet was still shouting. “He took a scale of th’ dragon! I saw it! Thief! Graverobber!”

  The smith swiped at him, trying to grab Murtagh with his long, hooked arms.

  Murtagh spun and ran. He ran like a common thief, and he hated himself for it with every step.

  I shouldn’t have told him my name was Tornac, he thought. The elves might know enough to realize who he was. And if not they, then perhaps the magician from Du Vrangr Gata.

  A pulse of pain from his forearm caused him to look down as he sprinted across the landscape. A blot of blood had soaked through his sleeve, and his whole forearm was hard, knotted, as if cramped.

  He pressed his left hand over the wound. “Waíse heill,” he growled. Be healed. It was a risky spell to cast without knowing the exact nature of the damage he was attempting to repair, but he trusted it wasn’t too much, and his guess proved correct. His arm burned and stung, and he felt lightheaded for a moment, enough to make him stumble a few steps. But the pain vanished and his muscles relaxed, and he was able to open and close his hand as before.

  Losing the dagger hurt nearly as much as stabbing himself. He’d had the weapon since Galbatorix had armed him in Urû’baen, and it had served him well in the years after. Moreover, Murtagh had set spells on it—spells to strengthen it, to protect the sharpness of the edge, and to help it pierce the wards of other magicians.

  I’ll have to get another one and start all over. It was a matter of practicality, if nothing else. He needed a knife for many of the tasks around camp.

  He threw back his hood, slung his cloak over the crook of his left arm, and concentrated on running. Behind him, the angry shouts of the mourners faded into the night.

  A bad start, Murtagh thought. But he couldn’t stop. Silna was still in danger, and there were answers to be had from Carabel.

  Grim, he quickened his pace.

  CHAPTER IV

  Fish Tales

  Murtagh ran until the burning in his lungs forced him to slow to a quick walk. Then he ran again, then walked, then ran. In like fashion, he hurried back to the hollow where Thorn was waiting.

  Always you stir people up, like a hill of ants. Thorn was crouched, tense and ready to take off from within the ring of willows and poplars.

  “I know,” said Murtagh, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “It seems to be a bad habit.”

  Will the elves find us here?

  “I don’t know,” he said, straightening. “But I don’t think it’s safe to stay.” He went to the waterskin he’d left hanging on a branch by his bedding, unstoppered it, and drank his fill. The water was warm and somewhat stale, but it was a welcome treat after a day of thirst.

  Thorn watched, unblinking. Let me see the scale.

  Murtagh wiped his mouth. He tossed the empty skin onto his blankets, fetched his gloves, and then carefully removed the gleaming scale from his purse.

  With an excited hum, Thorn crept forward until his nose nearly touched the topaz plate. The dragon’s hot breath created droplets of moisture on the scale, and they reflected its inner light in a dazzling display.

  The stubbed end of Thorn’s tail slapped the ground. A crow rose cawing from the top of a poplar.

  Murtagh studied the puckered white scar that marked where Glaedr had bitten off the last three feet of Thorn’s tail. His tail was a normal length now—Galbatorix had seen to that—but the healing had been a forced, imperfect thing. What had been lost could not be replaced, so instead the king had set spells on Thorn to stretch the bones and muscles left to him. It had taken Thorn weeks to relearn how to balance himself in flight.

  Thorn let out a long breath. Glaedr was a worthy foe.

  “Yes, he was,” said Murtagh.

  He died as every dragon should: fighting on wing, in the sky.

  “He’s not entirely dead.”

  Thorn blinked. But he can no longer fly. He cannot move. He can only think. I would sooner crash myself into the side of a mountain than live like that.

  “I know,” said Murtagh, soft. They had been fortunate Galbatorix hadn’t forced Thorn to disgorge his Eldunarí. Young as he was, Thorn would have ended up with a severe mismatch between the size of his mind and the size of his body.

  After Murtagh wrapped the scale in cloth and carefully stowed it in a saddlebag, Thorn said, What now?

  Murtagh checked the sky. The stars were fully out, and the horns of a crescent moon were peeking over the horizon. Perfect. Just dark enough to help conceal them from watching eyes, but not so dark they couldn’t see their work.

  “Now,” he said, rolling up his blankets, “we go fishing.”

  * * *

  Murtagh let out a sound of frustration and slumped back in Thorn’s saddle.

  An hour of flying around and across Isenstar Lake had proved fruitless. The lake was huge, and they had no idea where to look for Muckmaw. Moreover, it was impossible to see anything useful in the dark water, even with the help of the crescent moon, and Thorn didn’t dare fly too close to the surface, lest night fishermen spot them. Murtagh had used his mind to search for creatures in the water, but from high above and at speed, it was easy to overlook the cold thoughts of a fish. Especially if it were sleeping. In any case, he didn’t know what Muckmaw’s consciousness felt like.

  They landed upon several sections of isolated shore and he dangled Glaedr’s scale in the still waters, hoping it would attract the fish’s attention, as Carabel had claimed. But the waters remained smooth and untroubled, and the hoots of sleepy loons echoing across Isenstar were the only sign of animal life.

  Frustrated, they took to the air again.

  This isn’t going to work, said Murtagh, using his mind so the sound of his voice wouldn’t carry over the moonlit water. We could spend days patrolling Isenstar and have nothing to show for it but flies in our teeth and elves on our tail.

  Thorn gave an irritated shake of his head. It is a good night for hunting, but only if we know where to hunt.

  Exactly…. Murtagh glanced back toward Gil’ead. A scattered constellation of lanterns and torches lit the city, forming a warm welcome in the darkness. If he were a fisherman, he thought the sight would have been comforting indeed. He tapped Thorn on the shoulder. Turn around. I have an idea.

  Why do I have a feeling in my belly that your idea will be dangerous?

  Because you can read my mind, that’s why. And it won’t be that dangerous. Not if I’m clever.

  Try not to be too clever. Clever fails more often than simple.

  Mmh.

  At Murtagh’s direction, Thorn landed behind a small hill half a mile from the northeastern side of Gil’ead. Hopefully the elves wouldn’t be looking there. Surrounding the hill was a dense patchwork of cultivated fields: clover, wheat, and close-planted rows of various root vegetables.

  Murtagh slid to the ground and took a moment to study the land. There was a farmhouse to the north, closer than he would have liked. “You’ll have to be careful. There could be dogs.”

  I know how to hide, said Thorn, sounding vaguely offended.

  He smiled. “Yes, you do. But listen, if I’m not back in a few hours, leave. Don’t wait for dawn. Farmers rise early, and if they see you—”

  They’ll cause no more trouble than we’ve faced before. Thorn huffed, and white smoke billowed up from his muzzle.

  “Let’s avoid it all the same.”

  Squatting, Murtagh dug a handful of moist dirt out from under the grass and rubbed it into his hands and onto his face. He hated the feel of the grime, but it would help age him and make him look more like a commoner.

  He had a sudden, intense sense of familiarity, as if he’d already lived this moment. In a way he had, he supposed. Before entering Gil’ead to help rescue Eragon, he’d done exactly the same.

  “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  Thorn cocked his head. And what help is it knowing that?

  “Not sure. Maybe we’ll learn to recognize the patterns, and we can avoid making the same mistakes twice.” He stood. “I’ll be back soon.”

  And he set out at a steady trot, again heading toward Gil’ead.

  Behind him, Thorn let out a concerned growl.

  * * *

  This time, Murtagh didn’t enter the city through a main road. Instead, he made his way to the lake and continued along the water until he arrived at Gil’ead’s outer docks. From there it was a simple matter to walk out on the strand, climb a muck-encrusted dock, and slip past a watchman preoccupied with his pipe.

  The docks had a very different smell from those at Ceunon. Isenstar was a freshwater lake, and the absence of salt resulted in a cleaner, fresher scent. Even the odor of fish was more mild, inoffensive.

  Murtagh skulked along the lakeside buildings—past sorting houses and storage barns and dry goods stores—searching for what he knew had to exist. But all of the taverns and common houses he found were already shuttered for the night, and dogs, not drunks, ambled across the packed dirt of the street, sniffing and snapping at one another in a desultory manner.

  The patter of light footsteps passed behind him.

  He turned fast, only to see the same two ragged urchins who had accosted him outside Gil’ead’s fortress. They held up their dirty hands, their faces pale and wide-eyed beneath their poorly cropped hair. “Please, master, sir,” they said in a pleading tone.

  Murtagh frowned, his senses alert for an ambush. “What are you doing about at this time of night?”

  The two glanced at each other with bright, impish expressions. They were brothers, he thought, only a year or two apart. The taller one said, “Oh, nothing much, sir. Just trying to find food.”

  The shorter one piped up: “That’s right, sir. Food for our poor mum, that is.”

  The brothers exchanged delighted glances again. Then, from both of them: “Please, master, sir.”

  Trouble, that’s what you are, Murtagh thought. He eyed the length of dark street. A watchman appeared between a pair of buildings some distance away; the man’s lantern cast a key of yellow light across the street before he walked on and a corner cut off the glow.

  Murtagh looked back at the two incorrigibles. He fished out a pair of coppers. The boys reached for them, and he lifted the coppers over their heads. “Ah-ah. Not so fast. Tell me first, are there any taverns still open at this ghastly hour?”

  The boys bobbed their heads. “Oh yes! Several.”

  “And where might I find the nearest?”

  “Right down thataways, sir!” said the shorter one without the slightest hesitation, and he pointed along the lakeside buildings. “Right past th’ stables and to the left. The Rusty Anchor. You can’t miss it.”

  Murtagh dropped the coins, and the boys caught them out of the air, fast as birds. “My thanks. Now off to bed with the both of you, and don’t let me catch you out here again.”

  “Yessir! Thank you, sir!” they said, bowing and laughing. And then they ran off into the dark city, the shorter leading the taller.

  Murtagh shook his head and continued in the direction they’d indicated.

  The way was farther than he expected. He had nearly lost faith in the boys’ instructions when he spotted a battered old tavern with light in the windows at the western end of Gil’ead, where the buildings were low and shabby. True to its name, the Rusty Anchor had a ship’s anchor hung over the front door, along with a sign featuring a pair of beer mugs clinking together.

  “The more things change…” Out of habit, Murtagh touched his belt to check on the position of his dagger. But, of course, it wasn’t there, only the empty sheath.

  He scowled. He was running a risk going to a place like this unarmed. It was the sort of disreputable establishment where strangers often woke up the next day with a lump on their head and a purse empty of coin. If they were lucky enough to wake up at all. More than once, he’d heard about the sons of nobles who had gone out drinking in such establishments and ended up robbed, bruised, or worse.

  Of course, now he was the sort of person that others needed to be afraid of. He couldn’t lie to himself: the thought wasn’t entirely unpleasant. After the past few years, Murtagh would settle for inspiring fear if it would keep him and Thorn safe.

  He took a moment to set his mind and assume the needed persona. Then he moved forward with a rough stride and entered the tavern.

  Unlike the Fulsome Feast in Ceunon, the Rusty Anchor was a dark, grim place that smelled of smoke, sweat, stale urine, and despair. The floor was a mess of muddy boards, and there were only a few bottles and cups on the shelf behind the bar. The barkeep himself sat in a corner, next to a cask of tapped beer, head against the wall, snoring loud enough to wake a dragon (and Murtagh knew exactly how loud that was).

  The patrons of the establishment were a mix of fishermen, laborers, and several men who Murtagh guessed were either swords for hire or—if they didn’t get hired—footpads looking for their next object of prey.

  He could feel them watching him as he made his way across the room. The barkeep woke the instant he placed coppers on the scarred wood counter.

  “Beer,” said Murtagh. “Cheapest you’ve got.”

  “Cheap is all we ’ave got,” said the barkeep, slowly getting to his feet. He had a pregnant paunch that stretched his apron as tight as a drum. He made the coppers disappear in his pudgy hands and gave Murtagh half a copper in return. Then he grabbed a mug that looked none too clean and filled it from the cask.

  Murtagh eyed the beer. It was totally flat. He decided not to press the point and carried the mug to a table by the small stone hearth. The fire was almost dead, barely more than a bed of despondent coals.

  As Murtagh settled into a chair, one of the hired swords—a short, bird-chested man with a nervous tic in his left eye—cleared his throat and said, “Yuh come in w’ one of th’ caravans?”

  Murtagh nodded. “Straight from Ilirea. We got in two hours before dark, but it took this long to shift everything out of the wagons.”

  A man with a dwarflike beard and a scar through his left eyebrow spoke up: “What news of the road?”

  The beer had all the flavor of thinned barley water. Murtagh grimaced and put it back down. “The road is fine. Dusty, that’s for sure. We made do without anyone waylaying us, so I reckon the queen’s men are doing a good job of keeping order.”

  The bird-chested man and his bearded companion exchanged a glance that seemed somewhat conspiratorial. Bird-chest said, “Were yuh working as protection for this said caravan?”

  Murtagh nodded. “Didn’t even have to draw my sword none. Can’t complain with that.”

  “Always a good day’s work when you don’t have to work,” said the bearded man.

  “There’s a truth worth drinking to.” Murtagh raised his mug and took a quaff. Then he looked over at the fishermen in their cabled sweaters and woolen caps, which they kept on even indoors. “I heard tell there’s good fishing in Isenstar Lake.”

  “Passable good,” said the near fisherman, keeping his gaze on his mug.

  “One of the men I stood watch with wouldn’t shut his gob about it. Kept going on and on about the summer pike. That and the eels. Always the eels.”

  “The eels is fine enough eating,” the fisherman allowed. “Long as you ain’t overcook ’em.”

  Murtagh nodded, as if this confirmed what he’d heard. “Seeing as that’s the case, I might try my luck with a hook and line while I’m here. I used to be a dab hand at fishing.” He lifted his mug again and then shook his head and put it down. “Only…It’s a silly thing, and I’m dead sure this watchmate of mine was tozing me, but, well, he kept talking about how it was right dangerous to drop a line hereabouts. On account of some fish called Muckmaw. Said it was the biggest, meanest fish in the whole lake. I figured he was talking out his ear an’ it were all stuff and nonsense. Right has to be, no?”

  The fishermen tensed, and one of them made a motion to ward off the evil eye and leaned over and spat on the floor. The spittle was dark green from a plug of cardus weed tucked in his cheek. “Blasted thing.”