by Heide Goody
He had hoped to find more evidence of dragon presence (dragon dung, dragon eggs, even an actual dragon) rather than evidence of previous dragon occupation (fires, ruins, screaming people). He had clearly arrived a day too late. He had hoped it would be a simple in-out affair and that by now he would be on the road again, richer or wiser. He had not expected to be given a position on the privy council or the title of master of dragons. And he had certainly not expected to be given a luxurious room in the semi-ruined keep at the heart of the city.
Several times in the night, he poked his head out the door and found one of the royal red cloaks standing guard in the corridor. Each time, Pagnell had given the bloke a politely firm nod of greeting and returned to his room, to wait out the night.
Come the morning, the red cloak was still there but at least it now seem socially acceptable for Pagnell to be out and about so he gave one more politely firm nod of greeting and went exploring.
At the steps of the partially demolished tower at the southern corner of the castle, he found a broom, perhaps abandoned by someone who thought brooms were not up to the task of clearing this mess, perhaps even someone who had seen their broom as an analogy for the futility of human endeavour in the face of the wanton primal destruction and buggered off to seek a better life elsewhere. Pagnell picked up the broom and explored the tower further, confident now that anyone who saw him might assume he was a castle drudgeon about his business. In this way, the broom was merely a form of disguise but he did a little sweeping as he went, for what harm could it do?
A castle servant, a handsome if filthy young chap with a shock of blond hair, was hauling rubble down the stairs. He saw Pagnell approaching, opened his mouth to question him and then saw the broom and simply gave a nod as of one servant to another. The power of the broom was working!
“Now, where would a dragon roost?” Pagnell asked himself as he climbed the stairs. “If I were a visiting dragon, where would I make my nest?”
He had heard it from a number of sources that the dragon had taken up residence atop the South Tower. Pagnell inspected every level of this southern tower — abandoned rooms, web-filled corners and long forgotten spaces. He found an astronomical observatory, a bathroom containing a shattered porcelain bath and a unexpectedly large aviary (where cages were sadly occupied by a significant quantity of dead and mummified birds). Signs of dragon habitation were completely absent.
The information he’d gathered about the dragon was clearly duff. As he made his way back through the castle, he passed through the throne room where a number of Gromish thanes slept drunkenly at the trestle tables, exhausted by their arguing of the day before. He swept aside a couple of drinking horns and smiled at the guards as if he was meant to be there.
As he entered the hall of the privy council, he found the other members already there. Jynn and Chrindle sat at the table, one cleaning his fingernails with his knife, the other polishing her knife with a cloth. Maegor the scribe and Cunnan the sailor stood at a balcony overlooking the city. Pagnell joined them.
The city did not look much better in daylight. Smoke drifted across the streets. Various streets were just mounds of rubble.
“Contemplating the task ahead,” Pagnell noted.
“Actually, we’re watching them lads down there,” said Cunnan and pointed.
A group of people, tiny figures when viewed from this height, were gathered along a long strip of bare earth. Several were cautiously stepping out onto it.
“The River Turge,” said Maegor. “One of two that runs through the city.”
“And the one that every man jack plus his wife, household and dog uses as their cesspit,” said Cunnan. “It does not so much flow as ooze.”
“Now, baked solid by dragonfire. If it’s been, um, cooked all the way down then it will be quite solid.”
A young man was edging further out onto the sandy brown surface.
“The smell’s improved enormously,” said Cunnan.
“We were debating whether to have it paved over,” said Maegor. “Have it buried underground.”
“There are better things to spend the city’s money on,” said Chrindle.
“Yes, yes,” said Maegor, ambling back to the table. The man’s heavy chains, symbols of his learning, hung heavily about him, defining his gait. Pagnell was unimpressed. One of the few advantages of symbolism was that symbols didn’t have to weigh anything. If your symbols were an actual physical burden then someone had made a bad design choice somewhere along the line.
The privy council were called to order. Pagnell put his broom to one side. Cunnan gave him a questioning look.
“Thought I might make myself useful as I wandered around the castle,” said Pagnell.
“And what were you doing wandering around the castle?” said Chrindle.
“Looking for dragons,” he said and smiled to show he was joking, which he wasn’t.
“The dragon has gone,” Maegor pointed out.
“Ah, but they do lay dragon eggs and from them mighty dragons do grow.”
“We must discuss the city’s defences today,” said Chrindle.
Maegor grumbled and rearranged his papers. Pagnell could see that the master of seals maintained his position as chair of the meeting by having the most paperwork in front of him. In a successful bureaucracy, he who controls the paperwork, controls the world.
“We must indeed discuss matters of expenditure,” he said. “The destruction of the city presents us with one significant opportunity: the chance to rebuild Grome as the city it should be rather than the city it was.”
“I liked the city as it was,” said Jynn.
“I’m sure you did,” said Maegor. “All those twisting alleys and dead ends. The city was like a rabbit warren.”
“Our priority,” said Chrindle, “should be the defence of the city.”
“Maegor and I were discussing sanitation,” said Cunnan. “The digging of sewers. The sinking of wells.”
“Is that important right now?”
“I would like to live in a city where people do not throw their slops out into the street,” said Maegor.
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Jynn. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“Cleanliness is important,” Pagnell pointed out. “Keeps a population healthy. Extends life.”
“Take a look at some of those poor buggers out there,” said Jynn. “You think they want their lives extending?”
“If we want to keep the populace alive then we must build up our defences,” said Chrindle. “We must prepare for another dragon attack.”
“Gods preserve us all,” said Maegor, exasperated. “The dragon is gone. We are talking about saving the people from plague.”
“How many people died of plague in the city last year?” said Chrindle.
“We’ve had this argument before, dear lady.”
“How many?”
“Specifically of plague, eight hundred.”
“And the dragon killed?”
“Our best guess would be somewhere around nine thousand,” said Cunnan.
“Dragons kill ten times as many people as plague,” said Chrindle.
“Eleven times,” said Pagnell.
“But that was a one-time incident,” said Cunnan.
“But it only happened three days ago,” said Chrindle, “so on average that’s…”
“Three thousand dragon-related deaths a day,” said Pagnell.
“Precisely,” said Chrindle.
“But up until now there’s never been a dragon attack on Grome,” said Maegor.
“Maybe this is a sign of things to come.”
“There might not be another one for another ten years, though.”
“That would still be nine hundred dragon-related deaths per year on average,” said Pagnell. “More than plague.”
“You are not helping,” said Maegor through gritted teeth.
“Sorry. I can’t resist arithmetic,” Pagnell admitted.
“It
remains a leading cause of death in the city and we should prepare,” said Chrindle, emphasising a point with a thump of her fist on the table that sent her iron arm greaves ringing. Why the woman was wearing armour to a meeting was slightly beyond Pagnell although he suspected that either she was one of those people who wanted to be prepared for every eventuality at every moment or, as a woman in a man’s world, she wanted the most obvious signs of her womanhood to be buried under several layers.
“As master of horses, what do you recommend?” said Maegor.
“Giant crossbows to be positioned every fifty yards along the city walls.”
“Fanciful nonsense.”
“Actually, the Satheans have made siege engine crossbows a successful addition to their army,” said Pagnell. “It’s improved their effectiveness in the field of combat enormously.”
“See?” said Chrindle.
“It’s true that they’re notoriously capricious machines. The string are prone to breaking and, when they do, the recoil from the string is liable to behead anyone within ten yards.”
“And how is that supposed to improve combat effectiveness?” scoffed Cunnan.
“The siege crossbow crews are entirely made up of soldiers who have shown cowardice in battle. Nothing instils bravery like the threat of random bowstring decapitation. I have seen these devices myself and I have some experience with the construction of siege engines. There was this one time when some tribespeople mistook me for a salt-witch and —”
“No giant crossbows,” said Maegor.
“We can’t afford them,” agreed Jynn.
“Then we arm and train the general populace in the use of longbows,” said Chrindle. “If we can’t kill a dragon with a giant crossbow, we can at least drive it off with a thousand arrows.”
“How will we train them?” said Cunnan.
“Sounds expensive,” agreed Jynn.
“Make it the law. An hour’s practice a day for every man, woman and child in the kingdom.”
“And the expense of enforcing that law?” said Jynn doubtfully.
“Set up regional archery contests,” suggested Pagnell. “Small prizes. Promise a grand competition by year’s end. Do you have a national sport?”
“Jousting?” suggested Chrindle.
“Dice?” offered Jynn.
“Archery it is then. You have a national hero?”
“Eh?” said Cunnan.
“Someone you sing ballads about.”
“Not in the ballads I know,” said Jynn.
“There are a few celebrated kings and queens,” said Maegor.
“Probably not popular at the moment,” said Pagnell. “May I suggest your new national hero be, um, Brad Bowman.”
“Who?” said Chrindle.
“Or whatever his — or her! — name might be. The legendary local hero who sent the dragon fleeing by — why did the dragon leave?”
“My guess would be boredom,” said Cunnan.
“Stormed off in a fit of pique after his queen was slain,” said Maegor.
“Nothing left to burn?” said Jynn.
“Well,” said Pagnell, “in your new narrative, it was a solitary arrow from Brad Bowman’s bow —”
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Chrindle.
“No, I know,” said Pagnell patiently. “We’re constructing his myth now.”
“I’m just saying that if we’re going to be spinning stories, shouldn’t it be about someone famous.”
“He will be. For driving off the dragon. A story to inspire the Gromish to take up a new sport, a new weapon to protect the realm from enemies foreign and draconic.”
“The Yarwish have adopted this system already,” said Cunnan.
“Finest longbowmen in the world if I do say so myself,” said Pagnell.
Maegor looked uncomfortable.
“Trust me,” said Pagnell. “You’d never want to face a Yarwishman in a shooting contest.”
“My concern,” said the master of seals, “is putting such, er, military power in the hands of the peasant classes. How do the Yarwish kings rule if every subject can take up arms against him?”
“Carefully,” said Pagnell.
The members of the privy council looked at one another and then, recognising that none of them were of royal blood and recalling what poor experience they had had with kings and queens of late, gave a collective shrug and mumbled assent.
“Dragon drills,” said Chrindle.
“What?” said Cunnan.
“Dragon drills. Every week, to prepare us for —”
“No,” said Maegor.
“I have designs for a dragon-shaped kite and fire lanterns that will —”
“No.” Maegor was firm. “We had enough trouble caused by crocodile drills.”
“Crocodile drills?” said Pagnell.
Maegor closed his eyes and shook his head. “The last queen. Mad as a sack of fairies. It’s a pathetic tale. No. No dragon drills.”
Chrindle huffed. “None of you are willing to spend coin —”
“Coin we haven’t got, love,” said Jynn.
“No simple defences. No giant crossbows. No dragon drill. Spikes on the roofs of buildings?”
“That could be reasonable,” said Maegor.
“Thirty foot spikes of beaten steel.”
“Ah, not three inch spikes of bog iron then?”
“We’re dealing with a dragon, not pigeons. What about the creation of fire breaks across the city?”
“And that would be?”
“Open areas with no buildings in so that should — when a dragon attacks, the fire won’t spread from building to building across the entire city.”
“Like parks, then,” said Cunnan.
“If you wish.”
“To protect the city, we should avoid rebuilding parts of it?” said Maegor. “Will that cost us anything?”
“Not building things tends to be quite cheap,” said Jynn.
“And will provide open spaces for the practising of archery,” said Pagnell.
Maegor dipped his quill in ink and put a big tick on the parchment in front of him.
Chapter 3
Digesting a lunch of fresh bread and beer, Pagnell stood with his fellow privy councillors and observed the men on the baked River Turge. The distant figures were getting bolder now.
“Bet you a crown that one makes it to the other side,” said Jynn.
“Would that we had time to waste in watching,” said Maegor.
“I suppose,” said Pagnell after some thought, “that could be carved up and burned as fuel.”
“Burned turds?” said Jynn.
“If the eastern tribes can burn horse dung…” said Cunnan.
A timid fellow in scribe’s robes entered and passed Maegor a sealed scroll. Maegor opened it and read and then cursed softly.
“And they brought you this just, Zirocks?”
The young man nodded and was dismissed with a wave.
“Our duty is never done,” said Maegor and directed them all back to the table.
“But I would have a wager on those mudskippers down there,” said Jynn.
“There will be other men and other wagers,” said Maegor.
“We were discussing the imposition of a curfew in the city,” said Chrindle as they sat.
“That may have to wait.”
“But there is widespread looting at night.”
“Is it looting,” said Jynn, “when people are simply picking up what they find in the street?”
“I think it’s poor justice for a fellow if he has thrown his worldly goods out of his front window to save them from the fire, only for passers-by to take them,” said Cunnan.
“But does the law not say ‘finders keepers’?”
“It does not,” said Chrindle firmly.
“Perhaps it ought to,” said Jynn. “Any man not wise enough to hide his gold probably doesn’t deserve to own any.”
“And on the subject of gold, Master Pagnell wa
s telling me that gold has a ‘specific gravity’ and I am more and more concerned that it will pull in fresh dragons.”
“It’s… it’s not that kind of gravity,” said Pagnell. “I don’t think it really matters —”
“It does not matter,” said Maegor. “We have this fresh matter to deal with.” He waved the scroll.
“What matter?” said Cunnan.
“The dead bodies in the street.”
“Hardly fresh,” said Jynn and chuckled at his own jest.
Maegor scowled at him. Pagnell watched the silent interplay between the privy councillors. Maegor as representative of tradition and the old ways, Jynn as representative of the new thrusting and dynamic nature of society (thrusting with concealed daggers and dynamically relieving people of their purses, if Pagnell was any judge). Chrindle and Cunnan as pragmatic moderates, one who saw the world as a fight between ‘them’ and ‘us’, the other seeing the web of trade and culture that tied Grome to the world.
“A delegation has been sent from the twelve temples in the city,” said Maegor.
“Priests working together,” said Cunnan. “Wonders shall never cease.”
“Wonders are their business,” said Pagnell.
“As is disposing of the dead,” said Maegor. “There are several thousand corpses in the city and the priesthood have declared that there will be room in their graveyards, crypts and ossuaries for them all.”
“That’s all good then,” said Jynn.
“But,” said Maegor, “their services do not come for free.”
“Pardon?” said Chrindle.
“They want paying. And so they have formed a collective bargaining organisation, a union, and have written a list of demands — and, yes, I believe I recognise the hand of the high priestess of Buqit on this parchment.”
“They want paying to bury stiffs?” said Jynn. “With the numbers we’ve got, we should just have a big pit dug and tip the bodies in. Job done.”
“And the priests, foreseeing your suggestion,” said Maegor, “have predicted that the gods will be most angry with this sacrilegious treatment of the righteous dead. Divine retribution has been hinted at.”
“Dragons!” whispered Chrindle fearfully.
“Unspecified,” said Maegor.
