Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“Salaam alaikum. Khu — er — khuea hasiz” repeated Ben, trying to get his tongue around the words.

The children laughed, clapped him on the back, and talked faster than ever.

Ben raised his hands in protest.

“Stop!” he cried. “No. I don’t understand. Just a moment.” He turned his head. “How do I say, ‘I come from far away’?” he hissed over his shoulder.

The puzzled children stared at his backpack. Then, to Ben’s horror, Twigleg suddenly crawled out of it. Hauling himself up by Ben’s hair and ears, he climbed on top of the boy’s head and bowed low to the children.

“A very good morning to you all!” he called, in less-than-perfect Urdu. “We come with friendly intentions. There’s someone here we want to visit.”

“Twigleg!” whispered Ben. “Come down at once! Are you crazy?”

Most of the children retreated in fright, but two — a boy and a girl — stayed where they were, staring in amazement at the tiny man standing on top of the foreign boy’s head and speaking their own language. By this time some of the grown-ups too had realized that something unusual was going on. They left their work, came closer, and then, like the children, they stood staring in astonishment at the sight of the manikin.

“Oh, don’t, Twigleg!” Ben groaned. “This isn’t a good idea. I expect they’ll mistake me for a wizard or something.”

But the villagers suddenly began to laugh. They nudged one another, lifted up their small children, and pointed to the homunculus as he stood on Ben’s head, his chest swelling with pride, bowing again and again.

“Thank you, good people, thank you very much!” he cried in Urdu. “My master and I are delighted by your kind welcome. Would you now be so good as to show us where the famous dracologist Zubeida Ghalib lives?”

The people frowned, looking puzzled. Twigleg spoke a very old-fashioned Urdu, as old as the books from which he had learned it. Finally, the boy who was still standing close to Ben asked, “You want to see Zubeida Ghalib?”

Ben was so pleased to hear the dracologist’s name that he forgot Twigleg was on his head and nodded vigorously. The homunculus toppled off— and landed on the hand of the foreign boy, who gazed at him with great respect before carefully placing him on Ben’s own outstretched palm.

“Oh, really, young master!” whispered Twigleg, straightening his clothes. “I might have broken my neck!”

“Sorry,” said Ben, putting him on his shoulder.

The little boy who had caught Twigleg took Ben’s hand and pulled him along the beach. The villagers all followed them past the huts and the fishing boats, until they reached a hut standing a little way from the others.

A stone statue of a dragon with a wreath of blue flowers around its neck stood beside the door. There was a full moon painted on the wall above the door frame, and flying from the roof were three long-tailed kites shaped like dragons.

“Zubeida Ghalib!” said the little boy, pointing to the doorway, which had only a brightly colored curtain over it. Then he added something else.

o;Oh!” he murmured, disappointed. “She’s gone.”

“Easy come, easy go,” said Sorrel, stuffing a reed between her sharp teeth.

Firedrake looked up at the sky, where the moon was just coming out from behind the clouds. “I hope the human woman really has found a substitute for moonlight,” he murmured. “Who knows, the moon might leave us in the lurch again as it did over the sea.” He sighed and nudged Sorrel. “Come on, let’s sweep away our tracks.”

Quickly and quietly they set to work, while Ben set off with Twigleg to look for Zubeida Ghalib, the dracologist.

26. An Unexpected Reunion

Birds fluttered up into the night sky, squawking loudly, as Ben waded through the warm water of the river. Huge turtles were hauling themselves out of the sea and lumbering up over the sandbanks to lay their eggs, but Ben scarcely noticed them.

With a sigh, he looked at the dracologist’s card, the one that Barnabas Greenbloom had given him. He didn’t think it was going to be much use. There were two addresses on it, one in London and one in Karachi, and her name: Zubeida Ghalib. Ben looked out to sea and saw a pale streak of light sky just above the horizon. The day’s hot fingers were beginning to push the night away.

“Perhaps I’ll just show this card to a few children,” murmured Ben, “and one of them will be able to tell me where she lives.”

Twigleg tugged the lobe of Ben’s ear. He had crawled out of the backpack and was making himself comfortable on Ben’s shoulder. “They won’t be able to read the card,” he said.

“Why not?” Ben frowned. “I can read it all right. Zu-bei-da Gha-lib.”

“Well done!” Twigleg chuckled. “Then you’d better read the name aloud. There won’t be many people around here who can read those characters — if the children in this village can read at all, that is. That’s English lettering on the card, young master! People here write quite differently. The dracologist gave the professor a card in his language, not hers, see?”

“Oh.” Ben looked at the homunculus in surprise and almost fell over a passing turtle. “What a lot you know, Twigleg.”