The clatter of wheels rang emptily in the night, as Baneck hid under the canvas in the horse-drawn cart, and Torsar guided them out of Dumian and toward Khostead’s western rocky shore.
Granholm continued refining orgite in the Lichner forge, while Honee let herself be seen coming and going around the house, giving the illusion Baneck was present.
Five days later, Baneck sat on the seat, as he and Torsar returned in the dead of night. He motioned Honee aside, as Granholm helped them back the cart into the forge, obstructing the view from outside.
The driftwood that washed up in the small inlets and coves on the southwestern coastline presumably came from some foreign land, far beyond the blue horizon to the west, to pile up in ample heaps on the shore. Soaked in the sea, it became iron-hard when dried in the sunlight. Used in the specially-treated furnaces of the Coastal smiths, it produced heat great enough to smelt the precious orgite ore.
The men unloaded the wood, methodically and with practiced efficiency, to reveal sackcloth bundles underneath.
Torsar waved Honee over, where he took an iron pole, and slid it into an inconspicuous crack in the flagstones between the anvil and the furnace. Baneck took hold of the anvil, and tilted in on a hidden axis, until it was tilted 90 degrees, revealing a secret chamber underneath.
Torsar pushed the pole deeper, using the same mechanism to lock the anvil in place. “Hold it there,” Baneck instructed her.
She took hold of the pole, while the men dropped the strange sacks into the space. Torsar stopped beside her, and pulled from a sack a strange, flat object the size of a dinner plate, with odd sparkles on its surface.
It was a dragon’s scale, glittering, even in the dim light, like specks of diamond were imbedded in it.
“Where?….”
Quickly though, he dropped it back in the sack.
Baneck saw her looking at him with new seriousness, but ignored her scrutiny.
Then he tilted the anvil and stone back into place. The lock clicked. The anvil was once again seated and level, with the whole world none the wiser.
As they started unhitching the horse, and tending things for the night, Baneck whispered to Honee, “White dragon.”
“White dragon?”
“We think. We’re really not sure. A magnificent beast. But none of that now. Look to see if anyone’s seen us.”
Honee, though, pinned Baneck between herself and the cart.
“You ‘think’? A dragon lets you come into his lair and pick up scales? Are you servants there to sweep the floor?!”
“She’s long-dead,” Baneck whispered.
“What dragon is this?” she hissed. “And how do you know it’s a ‘she’?”
“It’s just one of our little secrets. Don’t ask about it.”
“Little secrets, my arse! What dragon is this, and what’s it about, your business with her?” Her tone was more terse, set to rise above a whisper.
Torsar calmly cut in. “All in due time. Right now, suffice to say these scales are the greatest treasure to us. Now, quickly back into the house while we store the wood.”
Baneck turned to go, but in the moment she glared at him, he saw more than curiosity in Honee’s eyes.
