The Dragon Waiting

by John M. Ford

  Soon it was hands and one knee. Her right leg trailed behind her, useless, or at least too painful to be of much use. She tried to assess the damage by the twinges and stabs as she dragged along, knowing that if the ball were still in the wound she might be destroying herself with every movement.

  Closing her eyes, she saw Hywel, boots hitting him, and it drove her on, as the rain began to fall hard.

  Then she dropped, just on the edge of another rain-swollen ditch, and her arms would not lift her again. She saw them lying in front of her face, but they did nothing. She could not remember how to make them move.

  There was light on the water before her, like moonlight. Were the clouds finally breaking, to let the moon through? Wizards sent things in moonlight, she remembered, and sometimes died in the sendings.

  She had lost Cecily's owl, she realized. Her eyes hurt, as if she were crying, but any tears would be lost in the rain. Lost the silver owl and gained an ugly blob of lead, an alchemical miracle.

  Then she lifted her head a little, and saw what creek it was that washed her fingertips, and the source of the light, and who was hurrying from the thatched cottage, singing the rain off her shoulders; and in a fleeting moment of absolute clarity Cynthia understood the difference between magic and miracles.

  "Here are the forceps, sister. Can you feel them?"

  "I—" Cold metal. A linkage to pain.

  "They're on it now, Cynthia. Pull now, slow and smooth."

  A pull on the metal. At the other end of the link, pain flaring. What in the White Lady's name was she doing?

  And then she knew, and relaxed; she steadied her grip, and drew the bullet from herself.

  Mary Setright had called it a providence: if the shot had been a fraction higher, less than recoil would have done in a less adept gunner's hands, or if there had been a pinch more powder behind it, the ball would have shattered the socket of Cynthia's hip. She might still have reached Mary's cottage, but she would never have walked again.

  Of these things are legends made, she said finally to Mary, thank all the Gods our Lady Cynthia was shot in the rump... and Mary went, very quickly, from the room.

  Later, Cynthia said, "Why did you do that... run away?"

  "Why, sister, I didn't want you to see me crying."

  "But it was a joke, Mary, that's all," and she reached up from the bed to pull Mary close, afraid suddenly that she had insulted the healer's strange quiet god.

  "I know, sister, of course I know that; and I couldn't but cry, because I knew then you were going to be well."

  Eventually they had to talk about Hywel. "I cannot find him,"

  Mary said, simply as fact. "I have faith he is still alive " Cynthia knew she must be frowning; Mary took her hand and smiled. "Yes, just faith. Peredur is so torn, between his wish to go light on the earth and his need to do When he leaves us, I think something will happen, but I think it will be quiet."

  "Did you love him?"

  "Why, I do love him, sister." Mary began to rock her chair. "And yes, I loved him, and would again if he asked me. Someday we will be only spirit, and all one; but here on earth we're made of earth, and sometimes flesh must touch." She got up, poured hot water from the kettle into a pot of dried dandelions.

  "When I first knew Hywel, he had two eyes, you know; and they were of different colors. He had made the one. I don't know how he lost the eye he was born with, or if he never had one there. But this eye troubled him. What it saw was... different from what his natural eye could see."

  "Different?" Cynthia took a cup of tea.

  "As you may look at a forest one day, and see this tree and that, and some day other trees, and another day just a mass of woods. Sometimes it hurt Hywel to look with both eyes at once, 'like a hot knife splitting my brain,' he said. And, being Hywel, he began to worry that he should prefer the made eye to the born one." Mary looked into her teacup.

  Cynthia said, "You...put out his magic eye." She could see it being done, in her mind: she had done it, with the small curved knife and the hot cautery, before the healthy eyeball could sag and die in sympathy.

  "Oh, no, sister. There are things one's own hand must do. But I cared for his wound."

  And in her thoughts, then, Cynthia was not cutting out an eye, but pulling a bullet from a wound; she hurt beneath her dressings.

  "You see, sister," Mary said, sweet analgesia in her voice, "why I could not have restored your leg entire. Hywel does not know he taught me this, but he taught it me with the eye from his own head. How could I not love him?"

  "Here she is, Doctor."

  "I can see that, porter."

  Cynthia heard the Italian accent. She kept her eyes closed, trying to place it: Genovese, she thought. Thank Minerva, a free state. Perhaps it was even someone she knew.

  "Will she be all right, Doctor Argentine?"

  "I am certain she will be fine. But there is scarcely any air in this room with three; would you leave us?"

  "Of course, Doctor. Shall I tell—"

  "There isn't anyone with any time to spare." Was that impatience in the doctor's voice? "Besides, I'm certain she'll be on her way in a very short time."

  She opened her eyes as the door closed. The doctor stood looking after it, a thin man in a light gray gown. He turned toward her.

  She did not suppose at all that the flush in his cheeks was from the cold.

  "Are you awake, Signorina?"

  "Si, Dottore."

  Argentine tilted his head, leaned over her with a curious expression. Then suddenly his left hand came down on her throat, his whole weight behind it. The crook of his thumb pinched her without quite strangling, but she could get no leverage, certainly not with her bad hip, and his fingertips might have been iron spikes driven into the tabletop.

  "Per che, Dottore...?"

  "Because I'm hungry, uccellina. That old simpleton Giles caused me to have strawberries for breakfast Wait a moment." Argentine's thumb scissored on her throat, and his face swam in grayness. "I know who you must be," he said. "You're the Greek's woman."

  Dimitrios, she thought.

  "Magnifico! You may join him, then. There's plenty of room for you."

  Where did he mean? In the grave?

  "Very little light, I admit—"

  Her right hand brushed her cane, on the table beside her.

  "But he'll be pleased to hear your voice."

  All right, she thought, so coolly she surprised herself; I will allow you your lust, and then when you have taken me to where Dimitrios is, then we shall see.

  Gregory said he needed no more than a cupful. That would not weaken her too much, if Argentine did not spill much. There was the possibility he would batter her. And there was the chance that he would give her the disease, but it was small in a single feeding. One in eleven, she recalled. She started to catalogue every article on hematophagic anaemia she had ever read, titles and authors, sending her mind away; even lost Fiorenza was a better place than this.

  Argentine said "The Greek captain's probably almost dry by now... but you and the German can quarrel over his dregs." He brought his face to within inches of hers, bit his lip. Thin blood welled. Contaminated blood; certain innoculation if it entered her system.

  No, she thought, not that, not for anyone's sake.

  She grasped the jade handle of Cecily's cane, squeezed the ferrule. The handle and a six-inch stiletto blade parted from the wood with no sound at all.

  Argentine showed his teeth, and she slipped the knife into the back of his neck, pushing at his chin with her left hand to keep the teeth away.

  He cried out, lost his grip on her and then his balance, fell on the floor as his brain sought to recover his muscles. She dragged herself off the table, crouched, slashed across his gown, his shirt, his chest, his pulsing heart.

  It was terrible surgery, and she began to weep for the profanity of the act. But as the tears ran, she searched his body, and found a ring of keys.

  She stood, draped her cloak to
hide the pale bloodstains on her dress, and went to find the locks to Argentine's keys.

  She had no great trouble moving about the Tower; there were too many people too intent on their business. She simply acted as if she knew where she was going, and would make trouble for anyone preventing her. Someone had left a pile of gowns upon a hall table; she lifted one near enough to her size and changed in a convenient closet, using a wall hook to pull the back lacings tight.

  One of the keys opened a suite of rooms, Argentine's by the equipment scattered around it; others unlocked the apartment closets. Another appeared to be for a similar suite elsewhere, but she could not find it. It seemed doubtful that Dimi and Gregory would be confined in these rooms.

  That left one key, of black iron and oversized. And it left a great deal of the Tower to search—assuming it was even to a Tower door. They might as easily be prisoners in any cellar in London.

  Cynthia started for the door, then paused and slipped Argentine's medical pannier over her shoulder. Feeling more whole than in months, she went into the corridor.

  The old porter was standing there, holding his partizan at an alarming angle.

  Cynthia paused before him. He did not seem to see her. She took the iron key from the ring and held it out to him.

  He took it, shouldered his spear, and without a word started down the corridor. She followed, through a hall, and a gallery lined with dusty armors, and down a staircase five full turns; she realized they must be well below ground level.

  Very little light, Argentine had said.

  The porter struck fire to a wall lantern; Cynthia saw a short corridor with two doors to either side. The porter put the key in a door, turned it.

  She could not wait any longer. She pushed past the old man as the door opened, stepped into the darkness beyond. "Dimitrios? Gregory?" Her foot struck something soft, and she knew what it was: a man, dead. It was too dark to tell any more.

  "Cynthia?" said a weak voice.

  "Yes, Dimitrios. Is this... is Gregory—"

  "Gregory's sleeping," the voice said. As her eyes adjusted, she could just make out the figures at the back of the cell, faint gray shapes in the lanternlight from the door.

  "Then... who is this?"

  "A man named Dominic Mancini... a Byzantine spy at the end of his usefulness. Cynthia... are you all right?"

  "Fine," she said. There would be time later for details. "We must get you out of here. Wake Gregory."

  The only response was a long, shuddering sigh. Pneumonia, she thought. Doubtless it had killed Mancini.

  Dimitrios said "How did you find... this place?"

  "A Doctor Argentine—"

  "Run," Dimi said, grating. "Run, Cynthia, now."

  "The vampire is dead," she said, and at once hoped Gregory had not heard. "He told me you were here, and Gregory. But he did not mention this man."

  "He wouldn't have known. Buckingham brought him, only... well. Not long ago."

  Buckingham, she thought; we will find him next, and he will tell us where Hywel is. Then Dimi's statement penetrated. "But then... what did this man die of, so quickly?"

  There was a pause.

  "Dimi?"

  "He lost too much blood," Dimitrios said weakly.

  And Gregory is sleeping, she thought, and wondered that she could at once feel so revolted, and so sad.

  Dimitrios said "And then I stuck a pin in his heart, and broke his neck, and cut the cord with half of one of his eyeglasses. Then, just before he went to sleep, Gregory made me promise to do the same to him, before he woke... but I couldn't, I just couldn't

  "Buckingham brought us another present, along with Mancini, you see. I used it on Mancini's neck. It's still there."

  She reached to the dead man's collar. Silver flashed, and diamonds. The owl pendant looked up from Cynthia's palm, shadows making it look mournful.

  Dimi's voice fell to a whisper. "After I saw that, I thought... just what he wanted me to think. And I couldn't lose all three of you."

  Richard Gloucester, Protector of England, sat in the Council Chamber with his head on his folded hands. "The Duke of York is with the King," he said, supremely bitter. "The Protector, in his wisdom and power, succeeded in withdrawing the King's brother from sanctuary." He brought down his hands hard on the arms of his chair.

  Dimitrios said "The Duke of Buckingham, Richard, and the wizard—"

  "We'll get them. Oh, yes, we'll get them." He stood up suddenly, walked behind his chair. "But in two days' time we're to crown King of England a boy who cannot possibly be accepted as king

  "And yet there has to be a king. When Hastings... died... there were nearly riots in the streets, people thinking we were back to the successive wars again." He went to the windows overlooking the spot where Hastings had been killed. Snow was falling, straight down and becoming heavy. "Oh," Richard said. "Hastings's mistress ... she's still in a cell. There just isn't any limit to the people needlessly hurt by this, is there." He turned back, shaking his head, his shoulders very bent. "What are we going to do about the boys?"

  Cynthia said "Does their mother know?"

  "No."

  Dimi said "Can you communicate with her at all, without Hastings or Mancini?"

  "Oh, we found her sanctuary." Richard looked at Dimitrios. "It wasn't in the Pantheon at all; they were in a cellar of Warwick's old inn—certainly not a place I'd have looked early. Master Mancini was leading you on a dragged scent."

  Dimi nodded, disappointed and a little angry. Then he thought of the two Mancinis he had seen, just before the trail went cold. "Your pardon, sir, but I wonder. Suppose Mancini were going to a meeting, but not with the Queen."

  Richard looked thoughtful. "You want Buckingham, don't you, brother?"

  "Yes, my lord, I do."

  The door opened; a woman and a child came in, with a man

  behind them. The man was James Tyrell. "Annie!" Richard said, and went to put his arms around his wife, while his son looked up curiously. Dimi turned away, saw Cynthia looking at Duchess Anne with a vaguely concerned expression.

  Richard broke the clinch, looking only slightly embarrassed. "Tyrell, I was going to fault your timing, but it's perfect as always." He knelt. "And how fare you, my lord of Middleham?"

  Dimitrios looked at Tyrell, and was surprised: he had never seen the man look so uncomfortable. Sir James had a wife, Dimi knew, and sons. Surely he was not so put out by little domesticities. Or maybe he was just homesick.

  Richard looked up. "You may not have Buckingham, Dimitrios. He is still a duke, and more things that we have hastily made him, and he requires Royal justice."

  "I understand, Your Grace. And is the wizard—"

  "I'm not done with Harry Stafford yet. Nothing is emptier than justice passed on an absent party. Hunt him down, Captain, and fetch him back. I know it isn't nearly enough, but it's what I can give you. As for the wizard, no obligations of nobility apply, but he's not worth losing anyone to his curse."

  Edward of Middleham said to his father, "Mama said we were going to see the King get his crown. When, Papa?"

  Richard looked at Anne, whose expression was first simply unknowing, then apprehensive as she saw Richard's face.

  The Duke patted his son's shoulder. "Soon, Edward." He stood up. "Tyrell, get a coach for my family; they'll be staying with the Duchess."

  Anne said "Is something wrong, Richard?" Her voice was thin, and a little shrill.

  "You like staying with Mother, don't you? I've never heard you say otherwise, and you know how Edward is about her picture books." Then Richard said suddenly "The King's got a cold. The doctor"— he indicated Cynthia—"says it'll be all right, but it's catching like fire, he's already given it to Dick of York."

  Anne looked at Cynthia, who sat uncomfortably on a straight chair with her jade-handled stick against her knee. If anything passed between the two women, Dimi could not detect it.

  Anne said "Well, then, dear, we'll be going. Say good-bye, Edward, and Sir
James will take us to Grandmother's." Dimi could see that she did not believe her husband, supposed he wouldn't have, either. Richard simply wasn't a very good liar, and Dimi felt be bad seen enough expertise to judge.

  Edward bowed gravely from the waist, said "Good day to you all, my lady and gentlemen, and to you, my noble father."

  When they had gone, Richard said "And now..." He held up his left arm, felt the spot where he had been bled at York. "And now we begin breaking oaths."

  The last of the fir branches about the image of Janus had crumbled to the littered floor of the temple cubicle. Even the minor, half- forgotten gods were getting offerings now, with the Coronation coming, but this temple was utterly forgotten.

  Except, Dimi thought, that one of the wall mirrors was clean of dust.

  "This one," he said, "you two cover us," and stepped clear. His two crossbowmen braced their backs against the opposite wall, aimed at the panel. The two spearmen raised the butts of their weapons and smashed the glass.

  Beyond was a passageway, large enough for a crouching man, light flickering at its end.

  There was a muffled explosion across the room, and the sound of glass splintering. One of the crossbowmen cried out and dropped his bow; the quarrel slipped from its notch and the spring thumped. The man fell, folding over. At the small of his back was a red crater. A set gun, mounted in the wall behind one of the mirrors, had cut him almost in two from zero range.

  "Sir, is there more o'such... ?" one of the spearman said. "Probably," Dimi said, drew his long sword, and started into the tunnel.

  He emerged into a circular room, larger than the first, hung with red velvet and white silk. On a wall between red draperies and a pair of wildly flaring silver sconces was what Dimi at first thought was a doorway, but it was a mirror, framed like a doorway. There were elaborate carvings, like knots, in the posts and lintel.