At the Queen_s command

"I'm not, but the Ventnor family wurmwright was a good man. Lost his wife and children to the Black Pox. He took me under his wing whenever I was home from school. Time in the wurmrest kept me out of sight and from having to deal with my cousins. It became my refuge."

"Then,if I might, I would like to avail myself of your experience." The Prince whistled.

Mugwump shifted. Plowing up a muddy berm, the great beast swung his head around and thrust his snout between the two of them. Hot breath came in short blasts from his nostrils, strong enough to almost knock Owen over.

Steadying himself with one hand on Mugwump's muzzle, the Prince moved toward his eyes. "Go over on the other side. You know where the aural canal is?"

"Yes, Highness." Owen advanced, ending up ankle deep in mud just behind the creature's jaw, a couple of feet below one of the golden eyes. The wurm's aural canal sat just behind and a little above the corner of the jaw. An armored scale as big as a dinner plate shielded it.

"Now, if you will, Captain, take hold of the canal cover and try to shift it. Gently."

Owen cautiously slid his fingers under the scale. Dragons had two layers of flesh. One, the scales-hard like fingernails-were anchored in the lower layer. That lower layer felt supple and warm, much like a snake that had been sunning itself. Mugwump's flesh felt normal, reassuring Owen.

He manipulated the canal cover, slowly at first, then with a bit more vigor. It felt loose, like a tooth almost ready to fall free. For contrast he tried another scale, but it held firmly. A third had a moderate amount of give.

"Have you discovered it, Captain?"

Owen moved back to where he could see the Prince. Vlad leaned against Mugwump's muzzle, his elbows and forearms resting there as if the wurm were just a piece of furniture. He paid no apparent attention to the golden-eyed stare. Or his proximity to a mouth full of razor-sharp ivory.

Owen frowned. "It was loose, Highness. Scales do fall out from time to time. I don't see any Green Bloom on him. He seems warm. If he is eating well…"

"No sign of molt, Captain?"

Owen shook his head. Wurms periodically shed their scales and spun cocoons of dragon silk. Very strong, it would be harvested and spun into wonderfully tough and lightweight garments. All of the Regiment's Wurmriders had combat uniforms cut from it. The cocoon was a harbinger of a molt, and cutting a wurm prematurely from the cocoon was vital because no wurm survived chrysalis.

When freed from their cocoon, they remained asleep for weeks. Some even slept for months. They sloughed off their skin, which had to be cut away. Men highly prized the outer layer of flesh. The Wurmriders all had boots and gauntlets of wurmleather. Once freed of their old skin, the wurms woke up and within a month had grown new scales. Those trained to war took to the their old duties without requiring additional drills.

"I did not feel any silk, and he has too many scales yet."

Vlad stroked a hand over his chin, smearing mud. "Your observations concur with mine and those of my wurmwright, Mr. Baker. My concern is that the loose scales are distributed over Mugwump in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern."

Owen frowned. "But it can't be a molt since he has not spun."

"Do we know that cocoons are necessary for a molt?" The Prince held his hands up. "I don't mean for you to answer that. It's a question of some minor debate between me and some of my Auropean correspondents. I find the pattern intriguing because birds, to maintain stability in flight, molt in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern. If the ancient stories are true, and dragons could fly, perhaps this loosening of scales presages something more?"

"Highness, that's not a question I can answer."

Prince Vlad laughed. "It takes a wise man to admit ignorance. There can be other explanations, of course. Mugwump has been in the royal stables for centuries, but he's not been fought in the last fifty years. Being as how he's the only wurm in Mystria, there has been no reason to bring him to combat."

"It could be, Highness, that he's about to shed armor he's not using." Owen frowned. "I do have to say, he's the biggest wurm I've seen, and…" Owen traced a finger along some scarlet and gold striping running up the muzzle. "I've never seen markings like these before."

"Nor have I. The Truscian painter, Giarimo, did his portrait just over a century ago. No sign of the markings then." The Prince patted Mugwump on the muzzle. "If only you could talk, my friend, you could tell me. Is it your peaceful life, or it is something else? Your reaction to this land, perhaps, as Mister Baker believes?"