Peregrine by Piper Scott
Peregrine
1508
It was noon or close to it, judging by the length of the shadows cast by the waterfront stalls, and the port at the heart of Ljouwert was bustling. Men and women crowded the streets, some on the hunt for any of the fine spices, grains, or fabrics brought in from lands beyond the Wadden Sea; some simply out and about to enjoy their day; and some simply to gawk at the ships most recently moored, from which imported goods were being unloaded. The clatter of crates being hauled ashore and the smooth sound of rolling barrels undercut the murmur of conversation, and while Peregrine was too far back in the crowd to see any of the goods for himself, he could tell by the design of the ships what had arrived today: wine and grain from France, English woolen cloth, and sugar from Portugal. Farther ahead moored a passenger ship, and farther than that a ventjager from one of the Dutch herring busses currently at sea, the lattermost of which being his destination.
It was a pity he hadn’t left the cloister a half hour earlier—if he had, the crowd wouldn’t have been as thick, and he wouldn’t have had to duck around half as many codpieces.
Codpieces aside, Peregrine was adept at fitting into small and sometimes unusual spaces, being small and somewhat unusual himself, and as such had no problem advancing. The issue came when he arrived outside the passenger ship and found himself face to face with a dragon.
“Good day,” said the dragon in English. He blinked his purple eyes at Peregrine, then cocked his head to the side like a dog might when faced with something it couldn’t quite comprehend. The dragon’s hair, which he wore loose and to his shoulders, flopped over his brow and partially obscured one of his eyes. “And who might you be?”
“I am Peregrine, my lord,” Peregrine told him. How lucky he was that he’d been educated in languages. The dragon had no doubt noticed the emblem on his tattered tunic and pieced together that he was of the Pedigree, and it would not have done to ignore him.
“Have you seen my brother?” the dragon asked.
Peregrine had not. It was uncommon enough to see one dragon, let alone two.
“He’s quite a bit bigger than me, and taller than me as well,” the dragon went on, as if the description would jog Peregrine’s memory. “Not one for words, really, or art, or… well… anything, but he is quite strong, so if there were any altercations in the last few minutes, he may have gone to stick his nose in them. Have you seen any?”
“No, my lord.”
“Mm.” The dragon stuffed his hands into the pockets of his gown, which was made of a fanciful purple silk brocade with golden thread. Beneath he wore a plain doublet and hose of exceptional quality. “I see. Well, this adventure has gotten off to a great start. We weren’t supposed to be separated. If you see him, will you tell him his brother Alistair has forged on ahead and is waiting at the inn?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good boy.” The dragon—Alistair—patted him on the shoulder, causing Peregrine to go very still. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.”
When Alistair said nothing more, Peregrine bowed his head and took a small step back with the intention of continuing on his way. Before he could, Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Oh, and by the way—what are you doing out of your cloister?”
Peregrine froze.
“I usually wouldn’t ask, seeing as how you’re not of my clan, but I must say it is rather unusual to see one of the Pedigree out and about, especially dressed as you are.” He gestured at Peregrine’s shoddy tunic. His hose was in similarly disastrous state, although the dragon didn’t seem to focus on it. “I haven’t the foggiest idea how Sapphire cloisters are run. Is this standard wear? It’s horrendous.”
“No, my lord.”
“Are you on the run, then?”
“No, my lord.” For every answer he gave, Peregrine’s heart beat faster. He had been nothing but truthful with this English dragon, but his scrutiny had begun to make him feel guilty all the same. “I would never run.”
“One should hope not. Terrible things happen to omegas who do.”
Peregrine was well aware.
“In any case,” Alistair continued. “Pray tell, what are you doing out here?”
Peregrine gestured at the ventjager. “I was sent to fetch herring for my cloister. Mistress Fokje always sends me so the others are not deprived their education.”
“I beg your pardon.” Alistair’s eyes went very wide. “Mistress who?”
“Mistress Fokje. She is the one who oversees Ljouwert’s cloister.”
This gave the dragon pause. He rubbed his chin and knit his brow, then shook his head as if chasing off a fly. “Well, flavorful name aside, I suppose there is no issue. You should be on your way, and I should be on mine. That brother of mine has to be around here somewhere. Do remember to tell him where I’ll be should you meet him.”
“I will, my lord,” Peregrine promised. “Good day.”
“And good day to you, fair Peregrine.”
Peregrine did not feel very fair in his ragged clothing, but he bowed prettily as he’d been taught and hoped he’d been courteous enough not to disgrace the Ljouwert cloister. If Alistair complained to Mistress Fokje about his behavior, she would have his hide.
Happily, the dragon went off in the opposite direction from the cloister, and when Peregrine could no longer see him from his bowed position, he righted himself and continued on his way. If he was out too long, he’d be punished, and he’d rather not go without dinner again.
* * *
In the time it took Peregrine to breach the general vicinity of the ventjager, its barrels had been rolled off the ship and set bung-side up on the towpath. The crowd had thinned somewhat, but it still took a significant while before Peregrine was able to approach the seafaring merchant overseeing the sale of offloaded goods.
To his delight, he discovered Lus was the one hawking the ship’s wares.
“Good day, Lus.” Peregrine smiled at the Attendant, who was nearing his fortieth year, and had started to go silver at the temples. Years at sea had toughened his skin, and fine lines now wrinkled the corners of his eyes. One of his ring fingers was missing—the result of an accident during a catch—but rather than hide the imperfection, he wore colorful woven bracelets on the wrist of his damaged hand that Peregrine was sure were meant to draw the eye. To most, it would seem intimidating to so boldly display an injury, but Peregrine was of the opinion that Lus was one to celebrate differences. He was rough-and-tumble, yes, but beneath his hardened exterior lived a gentle soul Peregrine had come to consider a friend.
“Good day, Peregrine,” Lus said with a curt nod. “Harbert came through this time, didn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
Lus slapped the top of one of the barrels of herring several times, drawing Peregrine’s attention its way. “He’s afforded the cloister an entire barrel. About time, with the king’s ransom he’s been making from the fishery. Rumor has it there will be fifty new herring busses joining the fleet next season.”
Peregrine cared little for the size of his grandsire’s fleet. What he did care about was the barrel Lus had declared the dragon had set aside for his cloister. If set upright, it would come squarely to Peregrine’s chest and was twice as wide as he was, if not more. And filled to the brim with salted herring, it would weigh twice as much as well.
“You can’t be serious.” Peregrine flicked his gaze from the barrel to Lus, but there was no trace of humor in his eyes. “All of it?”
“Every last stave.”
“How am I supposed to carry this?”
With a grunt, Lus rolled the barrel forward. “You aren’t. You’re supposed to push.”
It seemed impossible for someone as small and slender as Peregrine to be able to push such a massive thing all the way back to his cloister, but he had no other choice in the matter. Lus was busy with his work, and the crew was not responsible for ensuring delivery. Mistress Fokje would punish him if he returned empty-handed, and that would mean no dinner for the foreseeable future. And if he were to request one of the Pedigree omegas abandon their lessons to help him, he might never eat again.
“It isn’t that bad,” Lus assured him as Peregrine positioned himself behind the barrel and braced his palms against its metal rings. “Once you get it moving, it’ll stay in motion. From there, all you need to do is steer.”
“Steer?”
“With your body weight,” Lus explained. He came behind Peregrine and leaned over him to give the barrel another push. With his help, Peregrine was able to get the barrel pointed in the right direction. “Now, off you go. Come track me down in the next few days if you find yourself in want of a conversation and I’ll regale you with tales from my adventures at sea.”
“I will,” Peregrine promised as he rolled the barrel down the towpath. “Good day, Lus.”
“Good day, Peregrine.”
With nothing more to say, off went Peregrine and his barrel. While he walked, he dreamed of the stories Lus would share, and hoped someday he might have one to share of his own.
* * *
An incline brought the barrel to a slow stop minutes from the cloister. To keep it from rolling backward, Peregrine had to throw his body against it and push with all his might, but he wasn’t strong enough to get the thing to budge. The more he pushed, the weaker he became, until the barrel began to slip.
“Please, no,” Peregrine begged through gritted teeth. “Don’t roll back. You can’t. I need you at the cloister.”
The barrel, curmudgeonly as it was, did not listen. Worse, it seemed to grow heavier. Peregrine’s arms began to tremble, and even as he leaned into it with his shoulder, he was aware that he was being pushed back.
Mistress Fokje would not like this one bit.
Peregrine squeezed his eyes shut, dug in his heels, and fought, but it was a losing battle. The barrel would not go up the hill. He would have to set it somewhere, return to the cloister to ask for help, and pray no one took it while he was gone. When Mistress Fokje found out, he would be denied dinner, and he would go to bed more hungry than he already was.
It all seemed so impossibly cruel.
Tears leaked from Peregrine’s closed eyes, and he pushed with everything he had, but it made no difference. The barrel was too heavy. There was nothing he could do. Bit by bit, the barrel slid back until it found level ground and came to a stop. Too exhausted to get it back into motion and too emotionally drained by the prospect of another day without a meal to dream of, Peregrine crumpled down onto the barrel and allowed himself to silently cry. It was unbecoming, but what did it matter? All the standards he was expected to live up to were pointless. He was the son of a Disgrace, and therefore regarded as a Disgrace as well. He would never be chosen by a dragon.
“There he is, Sebastian,” came a very familiar, very English voice, sealing Peregrine’s fate. A dragon had seen him at his worst, defeated and crying over herring, of all things. Peregrine did not know what happened to Pedigree omegas who disgraced their cloisters to such a severe degree, but whether his suffering was short or prolonged, he was sure he wouldn’t live to see his twentieth year. “Do you see him?” Alistair continued. “Tiny thing, isn’t he? Little more than skin and bones, if you ask me. Don’t you think?”
There was a grunt in reply.
“Do you think they’re starving their omegas? I can hardly believe it. We simply must tell Father.”
Another grunt. This one sounded closer.
“Sebastian?”
There was no grunt this time.
“Sebastian, what are you doing?”
Arms scooped Peregrine up from his resting place on the barrel and lifted him into the air. Peregrine gasped and opened his eyes, but the world was a blur—he was being turned around. When he came to a stop, he was face to face with a dark-eyed Amethyst dragon who made Peregrine’s heart stand still.
“Sebastian!” Alistair chided from a safe distance. “We do not touch the omegas!”
Sebastian stared deep into Peregrine’s eyes, and despite all of his training, Peregrine couldn’t look away. Sebastian was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.
“Sebastian!”
“What is your name?” Sebastian demanded, paying no attention to the dragon behind him.
“Peregrine.”
“Who is your master?”
“I answer to Mistress Fokje of the Ljouwert cloister, my lord.”
Sebastian grunted, then shifted Peregrine so he was tucked beneath his right arm. With his left, he pushed the barrel up the hill, crouched so his hand was palm-up and flush with the street, then let the massive thing roll onto it. Once it had, he scooped it up like it was nothing and rested it on his shoulder. Peregrine stared up at it with wide eyes and said nothing. He’d known that dragons were strong, but Sebastian had to be the mightiest of them all.
Once the barrel was settled, Sebastian began to make his way up the hill.
“Come,” Sebastian demanded.
“Come?” Alistair squawked. “God’s teeth, Seb! To where?”
“The cloister.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“What for?” With the way he was being carried, Peregrine couldn’t easily get a good look behind him, but he heard Alistair trailing after them helplessly. “Do not tell me that you’re about to start trouble. Father sent you with me for protection, not so you could go making enemies with other clans and throwing me into harm’s way!”
“I’m not looking to start trouble.”
“Then why are you going to the cloister?”
“Because I’ve found something that belongs to me,” Sebastian rumbled, stirring Peregrine in ways he’d never felt before, “and they need to know I’m taking it.”