CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

AN OLDER MAN, tall, with a blue-grey stubble of a beard and a sharp, intellectual eye, watched the boat turn towards the
Ilkand Locks. He had a staff by his side which he leaned on, resting in the shade. After the barge had gone he straightened up and turned. There was a brief glow from the staff in his hand and he took a purposeful step towards the river.

The step ended with Dr Fisher standing on the muddy bank beside the ravaged body of the dead river dragon. He set the Staff of Striding aside and took out a large, beautifully polished magnifying glass from his dainty leather satchel. Crouching down, he used a twig to poke about among the few remaining feathers and the large, unpleasant pile of innards. After a time he got up and eased his back, leaving the flies and beetles to get back to business on rendering it all down.

“Natural causes, Catty,” he murmured, as if his companion were at his side and in conversation with him. “Looted and left.” There was a pause as he considered. “Yes, I agree, I should get to Tzarkona Gate. But why would it drop dead so conveniently? Well, all right all right, don’t get your earwax rattled, I’m going.” He took up his staff and turned his nose up to the wind, sniffing and changing the direction of his nose until something told him that was the right way, then strode off and vanished from the scene.

He came back a moment later and picked up the little silk bag for the looking glass from where it had fallen on blood-soaked mud, tutted and then sighed and strode off again.