by David Estes
For the first time, the crowd went completely silent.
Raven strode over to her sister, kneeling down to check that she was uninjured. She looked back at Gwen, a question in her eyes. “Who…who are you?”
Gwen hated this woman’s dark eyes, her short blue-black hair, her form-fitting battle leathers…
“We lost two-hundred-and-fifty legionnaires during the Dragon Defense,” Gwen said. “Three children, too.”
Raven winced as if she’d been struck. Her hand brushed her cheek, smearing the blood. She didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t raise the dead. You gave the orders.”
“I know. You’ve come to kill me then?”
Gwen glanced around the arena, where several pit masters had blocked each of the staircases. There were more just inside each of the closed gates, too. She was surrounded. “Yes.”
Raven nodded. “I understand. But please. Spare Whisper. She had nothing to do with any of it. She counselled me not to declare war. She is a kindhearted—”
“Stop saying that,” Whisper said, squirming away from Raven. “Stop coddling me. You said it yourself. I am a Sandes. I must start acting like one.”
“Too late for that,” Gwen said, fitting an arrow to her bow. She eyed the pit masters, who were now three layers thick, surrounding the arena, both the staircases and underground tunnels. She considered her situation. She could kill Raven and Whisper now, but she would likely be caught. There were simply too many, even for her.
Am I making excuses? she wondered inwardly. She wasn’t certain.
She drew the arrow back, taking aim.
Raven moved away from her sister, not in fear, but to protect her. Gwen couldn’t help but to respect her for that. Raven’s dark eyes never left hers.
Gwen hesitated, her heromark pulsing on her cheek. Something felt…off. Wrong. Like she’d woken up in a strange world and only just realized it was a dream.
Slowly, she lowered her bow. Dropped it to the arena floor. “I surrender,” she said.
Guards rushed forward to grab her, securing her arms and legs with chains.
And Raven’s eyes never left hers, her expression unreadable.
Twenty-One
The Southern Empire, the Dreadnoughts
Goggin
Something felt cool on Goggin’s forehead.
Which was strange, because the rest of his body felt packed with lit coals.
Where…where am I?
He tried to open his eyes but they felt hammered shut with nails.
Like a coffin lid, he thought. His mind was full of sandflies, and he tried to swat them away with memories. Sailing into battle, surrounded by his guanero, anticipation in the air. Raven’s countermand. The aerial coup by the dragon master, Shanolin. How he’d pitted the dragons against each other.
Pits of fire, Goggin thought, remembering how the largest of the dragonia, Heiron, had fallen from the sky.
I’m alive?
“It would seem so,” a voice said. Only then did Goggin realize he’d voiced his question aloud.
“I can’t open my eyes.”
“I sealed them with gum wax.”
What? Goggin tried to sit up, feeling a swell of nausea, his body slumping back down onto something soft. He scrabbled at his eyes with his hands, feeling the soft mold of wax from brow to cheek. He tried to rip it off, but couldn’t seem to find the strength in his fingers.
“I can take it off if you are ready,” the voice said calmly. The speaker sounded male, his voice gruff.
“Please.”
Gentle hands pulled his own large fingers away from his face. Something cool brushed his cheeks, forming small circles. “Give it a moment. The solution will soften the wax.”
“Thank you.”
A few moments passed and then he felt the wax being peeled away from his skin. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking at the bright light.
“Take it slow.”
He did, cracking his eyelids, getting them used to the light. Little by little, he drew them open further, until he was looking upon a small gray face bearing a dark-lipped smile. It was the same man he remembered from the beach, his chin square, his forehead broad and flat, his skin grizzled and rough. Around him was a small stone room. There was something odd about the way the walls and edges shone, as if they were glossed with something…
Gum wax. Just like what had been covering my eyes.
More memories flashed past. Being lost at sea, clinging to the wreckage of his ship. Washing up on shore. Being saved.
“The Dreadnoughts,” he whispered, licking his dry lips.
“Yes. I am Joaquin. At your service.”
“Goggin. You saved my life.”
“You saved yourself. I offered only water and a place to rest.”
“Still, I am in your debt.”
“We do not believe in debts.”
Goggin knew that, too. Dreadnoughters were a strange people, and though Calypso maintained a small population of the island people, his interactions had been limited. Most he’d met were quite large in terms of size, though this man was remarkably small. “Calypsians do, and I will find a way to pay you back for your kindness.”
The man shrugged. “As you wish. But first you must eat, drink, and rest some more. Your body has had too many days without sustenance.”
“How long have I been…”
“Sleeping? Many moonfalls. Ten? Twelve? I’ve had to squeeze water and lemon juice into your mouth.”
By the gods… “I have to go,” Goggin said, trying to sit up again, fighting off the wave of nausea this time, closing his eyes until the room stopped spinning.
The same gentle hands pressed lightly on his chest. “You must rest. Regain your strength.”
“I have to get back to Calyp. The empress needs me.”
The hands pressed harder. Goggin tried to fight them, but despite his size advantage couldn’t muster the strength. He slumped back onto the soft mattress. “Fine. One more day of rest, and then I will need a boat and sufficient provisions to sail across Dragon Bay. You will be rewarded handsomely by Empress Sandes, I promise.”
“We shall speak of that later,” the man said. “Now you must sleep.”
Something strong-smelling was thrust beneath Goggin’s nose. A dark wave seemed to crash over him as the world faded.
Goggin awoke to an earthy scent, one that reminded him of the magical time after a rare rainfall, when mist rose from the hot Calypsian desert.
He opened his eyes and sat up, feeling much stronger than before.
“Meet the day!” a voice said, and Goggin recalled that was the standard Dreadnoughter greeting. The man—Joaquin, he remembered—was tending a small fire, the smoke escaping through a vent in the roof.
“Uh, aye. The day is met?”
“May the sun shine brightly on you and yours,” Joaquin said with a smile. Right. The islanders have strange traditions.
Goggin put that thought aside, however, because something smelled good, the aroma of his favorite spice, mixa, strong in the air, combining with the earthy scent he’d noticed first. “What’s cooking?” he asked.
“First meal in just a moment,” Joaquin said. “White tubers, green shoots, and a hearty helping of red radishes.”
Sounded…interesting. There had to be a saving grace. “And the meat course? Did I mention you will be compensated for all of your kindness?” His stomach growled.
“No meat.”
“What?” His gut seemed to shrivel, closing in around itself.
“There is none on the islands. Spill no blood.”
The phrase jogged something in his memory. That saying had always been associated with the island chain, but he’d never known it was literal. “There are no animals here?”
Joaquin laughed. “Of course there are. We just don’t kill them.”
“Why not? Have you ever tasted meat?”
The ma
n nodded. “Once I took a trip to Citadel. They served it on a stick. I vomited shortly thereafter. I won’t eat it again.”
The idea was so foreign to a man like Goggin, whose life had been filled with meat thrice a day, that he felt numb. Any strength he’d felt when he’d awoken vanished at the thought of a meal contrived of tubers, shoots and radishes. At least they have mixa, he thought.
Joaquin used a long flat spoon to transfer the vegetables from his pan to a wooden plate, before handing it to Goggin. He inspected it like he might a strange new bug that had landed on the hilt of his scimitar.
He picked up a white tuber, which was dusted with spices. It felt rubbery to the touch, and even more foreign on his tongue. It tasted…good. “Mmm,” he said, despite himself. He tucked into the rest of the food, shoveling it into his mouth like he might devour a heaping plate of smoked pyzon. Even the radishes were flavorful, a bitter, spicy mix that left him wanting more.
When he finished, he found Joaquin grinning at him. “Do you still desire meat?”
“I want more of that,” he said, pointing at the half-full pan still simmering over the small fire.
“You don’t want to become ill. That is my first meal, or breakfast as the Calypsians call it.”
Goggin fought off the urge to leap from bed and push the man aside to get to the food. “When is second meal?”
“Midday.”
“Wake me up then.”
Goggin lay back down and promptly went to sleep, feeling righter than he’d felt in days.
The midday meal—stewed tomatoes and pumpkin—was even more delicious than breakfast had been. Again, Goggin’s plea for seconds was rejected. “Take it slow,” Joaquin cautioned.
“Aye. Slow,” Goggin muttered, handing over his licked-clean plate. He watched longingly as the small Dreadnoughter man ate his own meal, seeming to chew each bite a hundred times before swallowing.
Finally, after an eternity, he pushed his empty plate aside and said, “Time for a walk.”
The idea chased away any thoughts Goggin had of more food. He missed fresh air. In this stone gum-waxed box the air was stale. The only window didn’t even have a latch to open and Joaquin never seemed to open the door.
The man helped Goggin to his feet, and seemed pleased when he managed his first few steps on his own. “You are healing quickly.”
Almost two weeks didn’t feel fast to Goggin, but maybe time was different on the island. Plus, he had almost died out there in the ocean.
“I feel strong. Must be the tubers.” It was meant as a joke, but Joaquin nodded seriously in agreement.
“Come. Let me show you our city.”
He opened the door and Goggin was surprised to find a smaller room attached to the first, like an entryway. The small man waited for him to pass through, before shutting the door behind him and moving onto the next door.
Yet another room, even smaller than the first two, awaited them. Goggin had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, his elbows scraping the waxy walls.
“Why all the wax?” he asked as Joaquin awkwardly maneuvered around him to close the second door.
“To keep out dirt,” Joaquin said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. He turned and opened the third door, which finally seemed to lead outside.
Well, sort of.
Goggin craned his neck back and followed the path of the enormous wall rising overhead. It arced across, supported by thick, sturdy-looking columns. Glass skylights provided light from a bright sun in a cloudless sky.
Everything was covered in wax.
Large stone steps were attached to each wall, and numerous Dreadnoughts scurried up and down them, dipping brushes into tin cans and smearing them across the wall. Wherever their brushes touched, the wall took on a bright sheen. Fresh wax, Goggin thought.
He shook his head, focusing on the structures within the city. Like the one they’d just exited, each was constructed of stone, the cracks filled in with wax on the outside as they had been on the inside—to keep out dirt. Also like Joaquin’s residence, each structure had a strange, three-level snout at the front. A small door leading to a narrow room, and then a slightly larger door and room, and finally the main living space.
They were the most peculiar buildings Goggin had ever seen. And yet not nearly as peculiar as the fact that the entire city was walled and roofed in, covered with gum wax. Several gray-skinned Dreadnoughters, all larger than Joaquin, walked by, their gazes flitting past Goggin quickly, without lingering.
“You are amazed, no?” Joaquin said.
It wasn’t the word he would’ve chosen, but… “Yes. I am amazed. But where does all the wax come from?”
“There are entire forests of gum trees on the island. Once a year, brave volunteers harvest the wax.”
Brave? What was so brave about harvesting wax from trees? Goggin chose to ignore it for now. “It’s used to…”
“Keep out the dirt. In the city, you’ll find no dirt. Not a speck.”
“Dreadnoughters like things to be clean?”
Joaquin chuckled. “In the city, yes. There’s nothing we can do about the rest of the island.”
It was another strange response, but Goggin was getting used to it. He wasn’t, however, getting used to the stale-tasting air, which permeated the city as much as it had Joaquin’s home. “I would like some fresh air.”
“Then just breathe.”
“No. I mean, outside the city.”
Joaquin frowned. “Too dangerous.”
Dangerous? Attending a dinner party in a lion’s den was dangerous. Dancing the Calypsian shaka with a pyzon was dangerous. But going outside? “Why?”
“Too much dirt.”
Goggin felt like his guanero were playing their annual prank on him. My guanero are dead, he reminded himself. And he was losing patience. “My second wife—she was dangerous. Dirt is not. Dirt is just dirt. Washes off with a little water.”
“Spill no blood,” the man said.
“Aye, I’ve heard saying. But what does it mean?”
“It means don’t leave the city unless you have to.”
“Well, I have to. And anyway, you left the city to find me.”
Joaquin nodded vehemently. “Exactly. The scouts spotted you through their looking glasses. I was given permission to leave by our dalla. Without her permission, the airlock never would’ve been opened. I was sent to ensure you didn’t destroy everything.”
Goggin was tempted to check behind him to see if he had grown a tail, one which he was now chasing in circles. Permission to leave? Airlock? Destroy everything? Wha-what?
Joaquin touched his arm in that child-gloves soft way of his. “All will be made clear soon. I have requested permission for a demonstration, and the dalla has accepted. You should feel honored! She does not often grant such requests, because of the risks.”
Goggin didn’t have the faintest idea what this man was talking about, so he only nodded. “Lead the way.”
Goggin was ready to scream. They’d been walking for an hour through the maze of odd-looking structures, each step soft and springy due to the thick layer of wax smeared on every inch of ground. Their pace had been…slow. No, slow wasn’t even the right word. Whatever came before slow. From time to time, he glanced about him to see if he was being passed by a snail.
Each time he tried to walk faster, Joaquin would place a gentle hand on his arm and say, “There is no need for haste, my friend.”
Everyone else moved in the same manner, like they had all day to get where they were going, like they would be rewarded based on how long it took them to arrive at their destination. When Joaquin approached a fellow Dreadnoughter, they slowed even more, exchanging pleasantries, before giving each other a wide berth and accelerating from molasses to sluggish.
“Are we close?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes. Very. Should be there in another hour.”
Gods give me patience. His third wife had had patienc
e, at least until she’d run him off with a serving fork and meat cleaver.
Finally, after what felt like half the day, they reached their destination, a larger version of the same buildings they’d been passing all day. “The dalla,” Joaquin said, as if that explained everything.
This structure’s “snout” contained five rooms of steadily increasing size, each with doors on either end. There was a Dreadnoughter for each door, some men, some women, though Goggin had always had trouble telling the difference, but they weren’t guards, exactly, for they carried no weapons. They held the doors without question, closing them as soon as they passed through.
Eventually, they reached a large well-lit atrium with a high window on each wall. Hanging on the walls were dozens of paintings. By the leather armor and knife-strapped ankles and wrists, Goggin knew the paintings were of Phanecians, though he could not tell by the faces, which had been scratched out. Something about the depictions gave him the shivers.
In the direct center of the space sat a woman on a carpet. She was broad-shouldered, her skin even more grizzled than most, her forehead so broad it might have been its own island. She wore a black dress from neck to ankles. Hidden beneath its folds, her legs must’ve been crossed beneath her as she stared at them. “A Calypsian, and a guanero at that,” she said without introduction. “I am the dalla. You must be Goggin.”
“My fifth wife liked to call me ‘drunk bastard,’ but that’s a story for another day.”
If the dalla was amused, she didn’t show it. “You would like a demonstration?”
Goggin still didn’t know what that even meant, but anything was better than being cooped up in this confounded stale-aired city. He nodded. “If it pleases your dalla…uh…ness.”
“It doesn’t, but I will agree, so you might understand why you cannot leave this city.”
There was something about the way she said it that made him add ever in his head. “I thought the demonstration involved leaving the city.”
