Dragon Rider (Dragon Rider 1)

“Oh, well.” Twigleg shrugged his shoulders. “I spent many, many nights in my master’s library. I’ve read books about magic and the history of humankind. I’ve studied biology, so far as you can from human books, I’ve studied astronomy, astrology, geography, calligraphy, and any number of foreign languages.”

“You have?” Ben was climbing the low hill that hid the village from sight. Soon he could see the first huts and the fishing nets hung up to dry outside them. The sea was breaking on a wide beach where boats were drawn up side by side. Men wearing turbans were standing among them.

“Do you know the language they speak here?” he asked the manikin.

“Urdu?” Twigleg made a face. “Yes, of course, young master. I learned it when I was studying the great religions of the world. Urdu isn’t my favorite language, but I can get by in it.”

“Marvelous!” That was a load off Ben’s mind. If Twigleg understood the local language it wouldn’t be too difficult to find the dracologist. “But I think it would be better if no one saw you for the moment,” he told the homunculus. “Can you hide among my things somewhere and whisper what they’re saying to me?”

Twigleg nodded and clambered into the backpack.

“How’s this?” he said softly. “Can you hear me, young sir?”

Ben nodded. He climbed down the hill and came to some fields of goats. Chickens were scratching around on the ground. In the morning sunlight, children were playing outside low-roofed huts. They were chasing around the women who were seated outside the huts, laughing together as they cleaned and gutted fish. Hesitantly Ben approached.

First to notice him were the children, who ran forward and crowded around him, full of curiosity. They spoke to him, grabbed his hands, and pulled him along. Most of them were smaller than Ben. Their faces were almost as dark as their eyes, and their hair was as black as coal.

“How do I say hello?” Ben whispered over his shoulder.

The children looked at him in surprise.

“Salaam alaikum,” whispered Twigleg. “Khuea hasiz!”

“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.