“And my knowledge of what we saw in the cave is far more complete than yours, Mr. Wilker,” I shot back. “I saw with my own eyes the carcass of our slain dragon, whose bones should have fallen to dust long since; and on that I base my judgment of these fragments.”
It was not kind of me, but I laid my own stress—not nearly as faint—on his own form of address. He heard my implication very clearly. Mr. Wilker was not a gentleman by birth, and in those days I did not understand what effort had been required for him to lift himself above his humble birth, obtain an education, and bring himself into the circle of a man as socially and scientifically exalted as Lord Hilford. I therefore did not understand why he should resent me, and my presence on this expedition. But the blame must be shared equally; neither of us behaved very well toward the other, as I was in the process of proving.
Mr. Wilker reddened. “Your judgment, Mrs. Camherst? I was not aware that you had any authority in this expedition, except that of which pencil to choose in your drawing. But as you seem to have adopted your husband’s trousers, perhaps I was wrong.”
“Now see here—” Jacob said, his voice rising.
“I should hardly—” I began.
“Enough!” Lord Hilford slammed one hand down on the table before we could answer the question of who was about to say the more unforgivable thing, me or my husband. “For God’s sake, Tom; you know these aren’t bear bones. Even with the mineralization, they aren’t nearly heavy enough. Mrs. Camherst, Tom Wilker’s birth may be below your own, but he has raised himself up by his own brilliance and effort, which is something I should expect you of all people to respect.”
He paused long enough for shame to secure its grip on me. Then, in a more moderate tone, he said, “Now, if someone will fetch me a magnifying glass—”
Mr. Wilker leapt to do so, caught halfway between scowling and red-faced embarrassment. My hands went by reflex to straighten my skirts, encountered the trousers, and sprang away as if burned; my own face heated. But I bit down on the impulse to excuse myself and go change.
Lord Hilford accepted the magnifying glass and spent a long moment peering at the various fragments, murmuring excitedly to himself. “How I wish we had brought a bone saw!” he said. “If we could cut a thin enough slice of this—” Then he recalled our presence, and looked up. “It’s difficult to be certain; the bone has become saturated with all manner of minerals. But I’ve long speculated that dragon bone, where not hollow, is spongy, far beyond what we find in other creatures’ skeletons; in fact, a crystallographer of my acquaintance thinks the material may be arranged quite regularly, to provide strength while minimizing weight. We may at last have a sample with which to answer that question! Where did you say you found this?”
I left it for Jacob to explain. Lord Hilford was, of course, correct; but his insight did not go far enough. I envied Mr. Wilker, for the simple fact that our society made it easier to transcend class than sex. Which was not only unfair of me, but in some respects inaccurate: there is sometimes a greater willingness to make an exception for a woman than a man, so long as her breeding is good enough. But at the tender age of nineteen, I had not yet seen enough of the world to understand that.
Fortunately, Mr. Wilker seemed as eager as I to sweep the matter under the rug, at least for the moment. I sent Dagmira to roust up our cook; our group of four talked animatedly all the time we waited for supper, and all the way through it. “I should set out tomorrow morning to see it for myself,” Lord Hilford said, “except these old feet demand a rest. The day after, perhaps.”
I had nearly forgotten about his own journey, and its purpose. “What did the boyar say?” Jacob asked.
“Ah, that’s right; Tom’s heard, but you haven’t.” The earl laid his napkin aside, looking sober. “It didn’t go as well as we might have hoped. Khirzoff didn’t come out and say this—it would have made him look rather foolish—but I don’t think Gritelkin’s arrangements with him were nearly so extensive as I’d been led to believe. Arrangements concerning our visit, that is. He seems to have expected us to be Scirling tourists.”
“Not natural historians on an expedition,” I said.
The earl nodded. “He knows now, of course; some gossip carried word to him, no doubt. He’s not unfriendly to science, mind you. That guest of his, Gaetano Rossi, is a scientist himself. But our welcome was chillier than I might have hoped for.”
Jacob had been picking at his remaining food; now he laid his knife down. “So he will not help us?”
“Oh, he will,” Lord Hilford said. “The man is a razesh of his, after all, and can’t be permitted to simply vanish. Khirzoff’s guess is that Gritelkin fell prey to a dragon; his people have had quite a bit of trouble with the attacks. But he has promised to mount a search, and someone will come around to inform us if they find anything. Or, for that matter, if they don’t.”
It should have reassured me, but it did not. Very few things since our arrival had made it quite so clear to me how isolated we were here: Gritelkin was more than an ordinary villager, and still, his absence had managed to go unremarked for all this time.
The natural thought, following on that, sprang from my mouth without waiting for permission. “Did none of the villagers report the disappearance to him?”
Lord Hilford frowned, shaking his head. “This was the first Khirzoff had heard of it.”
“A villager would not have got in to see the boyar himself. Perhaps they reported it, but no one wanted to trouble Khirzoff himself with the matter,” Mr. Wilker said. He did not sound as if he was even convincing himself.
“I can ask the mayor tomorrow,” Jacob said. Then he sobered. “If the man will help us. The villagers haven’t been fond of us at any point, and these strange troubles have soured opinion even worse.”
“Would you like me to ask Dagmira?” I offered. “I would not go so far as to say that she likes me, but I think she would answer.”
Mr. Wilker did not make the disparaging comment he might have indulged in before. Lord Hilford said, “You may as well try, Mrs. Camherst, and if that fails we can approach the mayor.” The gentlemen then agreed that they should spend the next day studying the bone fragments and asking about for delicate stone-cutting tools (though for the latter, they did not hold out much hope), and so we all went to bed.
But as so often happened during this expedition, nothing went as we had planned.
I did not hear any sounds in the night. But others did, and even had their neighbors doubted their word, the remainder of the evidence was plain for all to see.
There must have been a dozen prints burned into the ground, all around the village. Perhaps more; I did not count. I might have—as before, scientific modes of thought provided me with some refuge against fear—but we were not permitted to go in search.
We were not permitted past our front door.
I would not term them a mob, precisely. As Mr. Wilker said, rather sourly, there were not enough people in Drustanev to get up a proper mob. Nor, it being daylight, did they have burning torches. But there were various tools in their hands, from shepherd’s crooks to hoes to, yes, a couple of pitchforks, and there was a great deal of angry shouting.
Menkem did not lead the charge, but he was up among the leaders, just behind Urjash Mazhustin, the mayor. When Lord Hilford stepped out to speak with him, the man held up one hand, looking regretful, but also frightened and determined.
“You must leave,” Mazhustin said. “All of you. Gather your things and go, and take the demon with you.”
“Come now, man,” Lord Hilford answered him, with poorly concealed impatience. “Your priest there dunked me in the stream; wasn’t that to wash this ‘demon’ of yours away?”
That was when we heard of the disturbances elsewhere in Drustanev. Not in any orderly fashion; despite the fact that Mazhustin had clearly been nominated to speak for them, the villagers called out a dozen accusations, each more panicked-sounding than the last. I was standing behind Lord
Hilford, on the bottom step of the stairs, with my robe clutched around me; Jacob drew me back with one careful hand on my arm and bent to speak in my ear. “Isabella—it might be best if you go upstairs.”
“Will that protect me if they decide to break in here and thrash us all?” I whispered back.
Jacob’s jaw tightened. “No—but I would just as soon you not be where they can make an easy target of you.”
Guilt twanged in my heart again. Though Jacob was too polite to say it, the ruins expedition had happened because of me; I was the one who had leapt upon Astimir’s suggestion, and persuaded Lord Hilford to join me. Some out there might remember that. I wondered, with brief bitterness, whether anybody was mobbing Astimir’s house—and then, with much less brief fear, whether they had already dealt with him in some fashion.
It might be better after all if I were not where the villagers could see me. The mayor’s voice pursued me as I went up the stairs. “This creature is beyond Menkem’s strength to conquer. You carry Zhagrit Mat’s corruption with you now, and for the safety of my people, I cannot allow it to remain in my village!”
My toe caught against the edge of the top stair, and I nearly measured my length on the floor. Mazhustin’s words echoed in my ears: You carry Zhagrit Mat’s corruption with you.
Dagmira was in the bedroom Jacob and I shared, throwing my dresses into a chest without any attempt at folding. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Better if you go now,” she said. “There are donkeys that can carry your things. Some of them, at least,” she added doubtfully, as if thinking of Lord Hilford’s beloved chair.
She seemed willing to arrange the donkeys for us, which was more charity than I expected, given the mood outside. But it was a different favor I needed from her now. I crossed the room with quick strides and addressed her over my shoulder as I rummaged through a pile of my stockings. “Dagmira, do you know how to get to the ruins?”
By her stare, she thought I had gone completely mad. “Why would you go there?”
The object I was looking for fell into my palm, out of the stocking I had concealed it in. “To return this.”
Even in the wan light coming through the louver, the firestone glimmered. Dagmira’s jaw sagged. “Where did you—” She caught herself before the foolish question could make it the rest of the way from her mouth. “You’ve had that, all this time?”
“Is there anything about firestones in the legend of Zhagrit Mat?”
“No. Well, he was very rich, they say.”
It was good enough for me. “This and some drawings are all I carried away from the ruins. A rubbing, too. Unless you think one of those is responsible for this trouble, it must be the stone.”
Dagmira backed away, shaking her head. “I cannot go there. It would only make things worse.”
“You needn’t go into the ruins,” I said impatiently. “Just bring me within sight of them—or not even that far, if you prefer. I can find it well enough, if you bring me most of the way. But if we are going to do this, we must do it soon.” I threw off my robe and reached for the nearest shift.
I had not intended to put her friendship to the test in such fashion, not when I was still uncertain whether I could even call it “friendship.” It might only be grudging neutrality. But she had unbent enough to send Iljish with us to the cave, and now, after a moment’s hesitation, she came forward and helped me dress.
“I know a quicker path,” she said. “But it’s hard.”
After the journey to the cave, I no longer felt so daunted by the prospect of a strenuous hike. And even if Lord Hilford managed to talk the mob down—which, by the sound of it, he was making some progress at—the sooner this was settled, the better.
It almost made sense … so long as I did not let myself think about danger from the dragons.
I tore a page from my notebook and scribbled a quick message on it, then nodded at Dagmira. “Lead the way.”
Dagmira’s way was indeed quicker than Astimir’s—and far, far harder. Rather than curving south into the gentler part of the valley, and then back up again toward the ruins, we went at them straight, along a path better suited to deer than women, and very nearly vertical.
My legs complained mightily after their exertions of the previous days, but I clamped my jaw shut, refusing to let my voice do the same. At least we had packed very light; since I had no intention of sightseeing this time, Dagmira promised we would be back before dark.
I’d thought to ask her about Gritelkin as we went, but I had no breath to spare for it as I picked my way down one side of the valley, then hauled myself back up the other side, puffing like a bellows all the way. I managed only one brief, regretful curse that I had not thought to put on trousers again. Not for the first time in my life, I envied dragons their wings.
Dagmira’s path at least had the virtue of being heavily sheltered by trees, which reduced the risk that we might attract draconic attention. And if my calculations were correct, it would bring us up to the back of the ruins, which suited me entirely. It seemed best to leave the firestone where I had found it, and the less time I spent in that accursed place, the happier I would be.
Just when I thought I might have reached the limit of my strength, Dagmira stopped and turned to wait for me. “We’re nearly there,” she said, while I tried to slow my breathing enough to drink water without aspirating it. “I will not go with you,” she added fiercely, as if I might have forgotten.
I nodded and wiped away the water dribbling down my chin. “I understand. Just show me which way to go.”
“You can see them from up here,” she said, gesturing to a large outcropping of rock. I withheld my sigh; if she was willing to come within eyesight of the ruins, it was more than I had expected, and surely climbing a boulder was not such a large price to pay.
After casting a wary look around for dragons, Dagmira scrambled up it like a mountain goat. I followed with much less agility, splitting one of the seams of my skirt with a noise like breaking wood. I half expected her to frown at me for the sound, but Dagmira, I realized as I achieved a better foothold, was lying flat on the stone, and staring unblinking toward the ruins.
Had she seen a dragon? I eased myself up alongside her, and found that she had not.
We had a fine view of the back end of the ruins, the place where I had fallen through into the little cave below. The slope there was crawling with men: only a dozen at most, but busy as ants on a hill that’s been kicked. We were not so far from them that I could not make out their yellow hair. The Stauleren smugglers were visiting their cache.
“Damnation,” I swore under my breath, in Scirling. Why had they not moved on yet? This would make it a great deal harder to return the stone. Did I dare circle around to the front of the site, and throw it down any old where? But I had no certainty they were not keeping watch, or that there were more men where I could not see.
I opened my mouth to ask Dagmira what she thought, and stopped.
A dozen men there, not just behind the ruins but in them; I could see one man on the same bit of wall I had climbed, who I thought might be Chatzkel, their leader. They had surely been there before. And why in heaven’s name should Dagmira know of a quick path to the ruins—one direct enough to allow an energetic hiker to go and return in a single day—if no one ever went there, for fear of Zhagrit Mat?
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you,” I whispered.
Dagmira flushed and did not meet my eyes. “Children do stupid things. But we all know better than to disturb the demon!”
So none of them had ever carried anything away from the site? Not a firestone, I would wager; that would be unimaginable wealth in Drustanev. Such a tale would be as famous as that of Zhagrit Mat. But I was increasingly unconvinced the stone had anything to do with it.
I was about to press her further when she made a small, startled noise. Following her gaze, I saw a new man moving through the trees, one with dark hair cut to just above his c
ollar, and a fur-trimmed hat on his head. Not Stauleren, and by his finer clothing, not a smuggler of any race. “You recognize him?” I asked, still keeping my voice low. They could not hear us, not at this distance—at least, I did not think they could—but my nerves demanded it.
“No,” Dagmira murmured, still staring. “But—”
She paused. “But?” I prompted.
Dagmira flattened herself even more against the stone, as if newly afraid of being seen. “He’s one of the boyar’s men.”
The fellow in question carried a rifle, but was not pointing it at the smugglers; rather he strolled among them with the attitude of an overseer as they lifted bags from the hole. Small bags, but apparently heavy. What was in them? Not brandy; that much was certain. Opium? I knew almost nothing of it, except that the plant had been brought over from Yelang, and was now grown widely in certain parts of Bulskevo; addicts smoked it, and doctors used it for medicine. But its form was unknown to me. It might be carried in sacks.
An entirely new explanation for the haunting incidents was taking shape in my mind. This one had very little to do with ancient demons, and a great deal more to do with the note I had left on the smugglers’ crate.
I pounded my hand against the stone, cursing my stupidity. I had honestly forgotten about that note. A lie is most plausible when the teller believes it; I had so rehearsed the false tale of how I hurt my ankle that it had all but painted over the truth in my memory. Now that I remembered—
Dagmira’s hand landed atop my own, trapping it. “Stop that!” she hissed. “Do you want them to see us?”
No, I most certainly did not; the smugglers might think of something worse to do than strange sounds and alien footprints. Gritting my teeth, I wriggled backward down the boulder until I could no longer see the men, then turned and dropped to the ground. The breeze through my split skirt felt very cold indeed, and woke up my mind. Jacob and Lord Hilford should hear of my theory first, before I went babbling it to anyone in the village; but that meant securing Dagmira’s cooperation. “Never mind returning the stone,” I said. “I must tell my companions about this, as soon as possible. But I must also ask you to keep silent, at least until we have had a chance to confer.”
A Natural History of Dragons: A Memoir by Lady Trent Page 21
