The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

The guards ignored him, but turned as the door opened from the inside. The old servant shuffled out, leaving the heavy iron-bound door open behind him. Althume slipped inside.

  One of the soldiers said “Where are you bound, Urlic?” and closed the door on Urlic’s mumbled reply.

  I care not where you go, old man; do not return until I call you, the mage ordered. He heard one guard remark, “Poor old Urlic; his wits have gone soft. Hope he don’t fall down the stairs,” and the other’s grunted agreement.

  Althume stood alone and unguarded. He sensed Urlic moving away. Good; he’d have the time he needed.

  “I hadn’t meant for this to happen,” Linden said. His contented tone took any sting from the words.

  His scar was rough under her cheek, shifting a little with the rise and fall of his chest. Maurynna raised herself up on one elbow so that she could look at him. “I’m glad it did. And you were right.”

  He lay with one arm cushioning his head; his free hand pushed her long hair behind her shoulder, then cupped her cheek. “I’m glad, too, though it was not the wisest thing.”

  She wondered what he meant. Was he afraid he’d gotten her with child? She longed to ask, but his lazy smile said that she’d wait a long time for an answer—and she’d not beg for an explanation. Instead she wrapped herself around the warmth of his body and said tartly, “Indeed? I thought it a fine idea myself.”

  He laughed. “So it was, with no harm done.”

  And what did that mean? How could he know already if he had gotten her with child? Aloud she said, “I would not consider it ‘harm’ to bear a—Oh! I forgot.”

  She rolled away from him. The grass was cool on her bare stomach. So, she would not have even the hope of a child from Linden. Nothing but memories when he finally left her. Not that she could raise a child herself; a ship was no place for a baby. Perhaps it was just as well.

  He caught her chin, turned her face to look at him. “Even between ourselves children are very, very rare—even if the female Dragonlord doesn’t drink daishya tea. Which most do; there is no guarantee that such a child would be a Dragonlord. And to watch your child grow old and die—no.”

  “Oh gods, what a horrible thought,” she said, and hunched her shoulders against it.

  Linden sat up and reached for the untidy heap of his clothes. He said softly, “I always wanted children. It’s the one thing I regret about being a Dragonlord,” and pulled his tunic over his head. “We’d best go back.”

  Maurynna bit her lip and nodded. She got to her knees. “I wish …” She let the words hang in the air. If she tried to finish, she’d cry.

  “I, too, love. But I think this will be over soon and I shall find you wherever you’ve sailed to.”

  “Truly?”

  He met her eyes. “Yes,” he said, his deep voice quiet and sure. “Yes. But for my peace of mind, Maurynna, promise me that you will leave tomorrow.”

  She hated to, but what choice had she? “I will.”

  Althume examined the rooms, looking for a hiding place. It could not be too obvious; he didn’t want his treasure found too soon. But it had to be somewhere large enough to hide the thing. Once again he shifted the heavy greatsword in his arms as he passed into the sleeping chamber.

  Not the clothes cupboard, or someone would realize it should have been found long before now. And no one would believe under the mattress.

  He frowned; there must be somewhere …

  The windowseat caught his eye. Spanning the width of two windows, it was easily long enough for the greatsword. He hurried to it. Someone might find the wandering Urlic, bring him back; it would not do to be caught here.

  His long clever fingers felt under the lip of the seat and quickly found a catch. “Ah, good then; there is a chest beneath,” he said under his breath. Releasing the catch, he swung the lid up, scattering the cushions.

  The heavy scent of the herb bags within greeted him: wormwood and tansy, lavender and lemon balm. He looked down at heavy woolen blankets and the thick curtains that would hang from the canopied bed in winter. Althume lifted the top blanket and laid the greatsword down. He replaced the blanket, tucking the bags of herbs into the folds. “Until the proper time, sleep well, Tsan Rhilin.”

  He set the scattered pillows to rights and left the sleeping chamber. Once more he stretched out his mind to Urlic, bidding the confused old man to return so that he might repeat the ruse and exit.

  Althume was well pleased with this night’s work. Peridaen would have his piddling regency—for however long events decreed. And the Fraternity would have a Dragonlord slave. But now it was time to meet Pol in the clearing.

  A final cup of wine, and then Maurynna would have to leave. Barely suppressing a sigh, Linden pulled her close to him once more. She leaned against him, fitting along his body as if they had been molded for each other, as they watched Otter filling the goblets.

  When they each had goblet in hand, Linden raised his and said, “To being together once more.”

  They drank.

  Otter, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, raised his goblet for another toast. “Happiness to each of you: Linden, Maurynna, Rathan …” He smiled as he let his voice trail off and drank.

  Nearly choking on a laugh, Linden followed suit, as did a puzzled-looking Maurynna. He wondered what name the fourth, unnamed one carried; he wouldn’t know until Maurynna Changed for the first time.

  Maurynna looked up at him and said, “Why name you and Rathan separately? Aren’t you two the same?”

  Linden shook his head. “No. We’re two different beings who share the same body, and that body can shift between our forms. I have my own theory as to why—” Linden paused, remembering Rathan’s amusement “—the dragon half slumbers with only occasional intrusions, but that’s what happens until the human half grows weary of living. Some Dragonlords pass on while still very young as Dragonlords go; it’s not easy when everyone you loved and knew as a truehuman is gone. Others of us, well, perhaps we’re made of sterner stuff or we’re just more stubborn. When that weariness happens to me, I will cease to exist and Rathan will come into his own as a truedragon.”

  Maurynna said, “You mean you’ll …” She reached up to the hand he rested on her shoulder. Her face was pale in the coldfire’s glow.

  He caught her hand. “Die and my soul pass on like any truehuman’s. I’ll simply have had hundreds of years more. But it won’t happen for many, many centuries, love. Not now.” How could I become weary? There won’t be enough time to spend with you.

  Her fingers gripped his. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” he said.

  A tired but contented Eel sauntered through the byways of Casna, eager to get to the little dockside hut he called home. He’d done so well tonight that he considered taking a holiday the next day. It would be, after all, the Solstice. Ah, he’d think about it later. The night was fading fast; to the east the sky was streaked with the coming dawn. Time to sleep.

  As he turned a corner he came upon the panderer known as Mother Sossie herding her little flock of prostitutes back to the abandoned building that sheltered them. The youngsters—most in their early teens, a few younger, none older than twenty-two, Eel knew—followed like sleepy chicks after a hen.

  “Heyyadah, Eel,” Mother Sossie called. “Stoppin’ a moment, hey?”

  Eel pressed his lips together. Mother Sossie catered to a particular clientele that he didn’t care much for. Even her eldest whores looked to be little more than children; she kicked them out when they looked too “old.”

  Still, no sense in making an enemy. Sossie could be a flaming bitch. He stopped. “Heyyadah, Mother. What do for?”

  “You seen Nobbie? Lazy sod not tartin’ where he s’posed. Little bastard run, I beat his ass but good when I grab him. Third one this month.” Mother Sossie spat in indignation at such ingratitude.

  Eel scratched his head under the grimy cap. “Did see, but long ago—deep darktime. Shoulda been long time done. You say
there been others, hey?”

  “Oh, aye. Fillies and colts—mostly colts—been bolting the stables past month or so; mine, others too. Bah, Nobbie pure trouble. Always been. Little bastard.” She stumped off, shooing her flock before her.

  Eel continued thoughtfully on his way. He pondered Mother Sossie’s news; now that he thought about it, he had heard about one or two other whores running away, but hadn’t paid the gossip any mind.

  But it was usually a few in the span of a year. This was as many in a month, and from only one panderer. It had happened to others as well, Sossie had said. Curious.

  And disquieting. There were always a few whores who thought they could do better on their own. Sometimes they were right. Most often they were very, very wrong. He hoped Nobbie wasn’t one of the last; little Nobs had helped him out once or twice when the pickings were lean.

  Eel sighed. He’d nap a bit, then go look for the little idiot and try to talk some sense into him; even Mother Sossie was better than being out on the streets alone.

  What in the world had possessed Nobbie to run, anyway? And all the others—what had happened to them, as well?

  Sixty-one

  Maurynna finished licking her fingers as Aunt Elenna brought out yet another tray. She groaned in mock misery, complaining, “Not another bite or the Sea Mist will founder under me! This is already the largest and best breakfast I’ve ever eaten. Um—what are those?”

  Maylin laughed. “Sweetmeats; try one and tell me what you think. They’re for those who’ll come to visit after the Perfumers’ Guild feast tonight.”

  Maurynna studied the dainty confections on the tray and selected one crowned with a crystallized violet blossom. She popped it into her mouth. “Mmmm—lovely. Now I’m sorrier than ever that I can’t stay. Where is your feast this year?”

  “At our new guild hall,” Aunt Elenna answered. “Are you certain you can’t delay one more day? You’re welcome to go with us, you know.”

  “I know. But I promised Linden that I would leave today—and my crew is ready.”

  Her aunt held up her hands in resignation. “If a Dragonlord wills it … Ah, sweetheart, I wish I could stay longer as well, but I have to go help old Shaina oversee the final preparations for the feast. Happy birthday, dear heart, and good-bye.”

  Maurynna stood up from her chair, then bent to hug her tiny aunt and searched for words of thanks. Good-byes always made her feel awkward. “Thank you for everything. I know I haven’t always been the best company this time around, but …”

  “You have had,” Aunt Elenna said wryly, “some small reason for that.”

  “Indeed yes,” Maylin said. “More than enough to bear for any … truehuman.”

  A holiday it was; even a thief needed time off. Eel wandered through the streets looking at the vendors’ wares. He even went so far as to buy, rather than steal, a meat pasty from an old couple doing a brisk business on a corner. Munching happily, he continued walking and enjoying the Solstice.

  He was standing outside the door to the Juggling Cow and debating whether he wanted to start drinking now or wait a bit when the hard-faced man he’d seen talking to Nobbie the other night walked quickly out. From the way one hand rested on his belt pouch Eel guessed that the man had something important in there. Gold? At once the sharp, tiny knife was in Eel’s hand; then he reconsidered. Could Nobbie have gone off with this fellow?

  Eel plunged into the crowd after the man.

  The late afternoon was even more oppressive than the morning had been. The heat did nothing to improve the usual harbor stinks: river mud, tar, dead fish, and other pungent odors that Maurynna preferred remain unidentified. Yet even through the miasma she caught the clean salt smell of the ocean. She yearned toward it, even as the greater part of her wanted to stay in Casna. That would have been the best birthday gift of all.

  “Almost ready, Captain,” Master Remon called from the Sea Mist.

  She waved an acknowledgment and said to Otter standing by her side, “I’ll miss having you on board, you know, even if you are a dreadful tease.”

  “And I’ll miss you—even if you are more stubborn than a certain Dragonlord I know,” he replied.

  She smiled wanly at the joke. Gods, how she wanted to turn back and find Linden. But she had given him her word to leave this night. “I wish he could have come to say good-bye.”

  Once again Otter’s hand closed over his belt pouch as it had done now and again all day. She wondered what was concealed in there.

  “So does he,” the bard said. “But Kief decided upon a surprise meeting of the council before the festivities begin in earnest. I think you might be seeing Linden a little sooner than you’d thought you might.” He grinned. “Ah. Thought that would make you smile.

  “And there’s this: he gave me something for you for your birthday. His instructions were to give it to you in private and just before you left. I’ll wager this is the right time and—blast it all, girl, I’ve no idea what it is and it’s driving me mad! Where—”

  “My cabin,” Maurynna broke in, half laughing and consumed by curiosity. “Quickly, we must cast off soon if we’re to make this tide, but there’s a little time yet to spare.”

  She ran up the gangplank, Otter hot on her heels. “Master Remon! Hold off for a bit, if you please. Bard Otter will be leaving shortly.”

  Ducking into her cabin under the stern deck, Maurynna pushed the hangings over the window aside to let in the slanting light. As an afterthought she opened the window as well; the cabin was hot and stuffy. By the time she’d finished, Otter had placed a small wooden box on the table bolted to the floor. She picked it up—the weight surprised her—and studied it.

  It was made of rosewood and inlaid with gold wire in a pattern of interlacing lines in the Yerrin style. The crafting was exquisite, from the tiny gold hinges and clasp to the enamelwork of the central design: a dragon in full flight. She tilted it gently; something inside shifted with a tiny thunk!

  All she could do was stare at the beautiful thing in her hands, overwhelmed by the knowledge that this had to be a treasured possession of Linden’s. One did not find work like this sitting about a marketplace to be purchased on a whim.

  And he had given it to her.

  Otter broke her reverie. “Rynna, if you don’t open that thing before I die of curiosity, I shall haunt you!”

  She laughed a little, nervously, and undid the latch. Holding her breath, she eased the lid back to reveal black silk folded over something. As if she opened the petals of a rose, Maurynna turned back the layers of silk one by one.

  A silver fox looked up at her, its amethyst eyes winking in the late sunlight, brushy tail wrapped around its feet. Caught by the laughter in the vixen’s face—How do I know it’s a vixen?—it was a few moments before Maurynna slid trembling fingers beneath the fox and removed it from its box.

  She heard Otter gasp, “Gods have mercy!” at the sight of it, but paid no attention as she lost herself in her gift’s beauty. It was a domed circular cloak brooch the width of her palm, the fox in raised relief against a granulated background, all within a frame of smooth, heavy silver wire. As she rubbed her thumb against the hundreds of tiny silver balls of the granulation, her other fingers noticed the thickness of the pin in the back. This brooch was meant for a cloak made of a loosely woven wool; she’d never before seen one like it.

  “This is very old, isn’t it?” she whispered, awestruck.

  “Yes,” Otter said. His voice was strained.

  When she tore her gaze away from the treasure in her hands she saw that he stared like one dumbfounded, shaking his head slowly as if he didn’t believe what his eyes told him. It made her uneasy. “Otter?”

  “It was Rani’s,” the bard said, sounding as stunned as she now felt. “Bram gave it to her; Linden said he always called her Shaijha—‘little fox.’ She gave it to Linden not long before she died. Save for his memories, that … that and Tsan Rhilin are all he has left of them. I—I told him o
nce how much you loved the stories about them. He must have remembered.”

  She made it to a chair before her knees turned to water. “Dear gods, Otter; can he truly mean for me to have this?” she asked. The amethyst eyes winked at her.

  “Ho! Captain!” Remon’s bellow cut through her confusion. “We must cast off now or miss the tide. Time for shore, Bard, unless you’re sailing with us again.”

  All at once Maurynna was aware of the tug of the tide against the Sea Mist’s hull. “Otter, Remon’s right. I can’t miss this tide; I promised Linden.” Though the gods know I want to stay more than ever. Why? Why give me such a precious part of his life? “You’ll have to leave now.”

  Somehow she scrambled out of the chair, legs shaking like the veriest landlubber in his first storm at sea. She laid the brooch in its box once more and hustled Otter out to the deck. He stopped, one foot on the gangplank.

  “Rynna—remember what I told you about what’s happening to you. It’s only because you and Linden are so close. He said that in a short time it should end,” Otter said. “Please remember that.”

  “I will. I promise,” she told him, hardly knowing what she said. She was still stunned by her gift; she felt like a storm-tossed ship with its anchor ropes cut, not knowing which quarter the gale would come from next. “Go.”

  The bard looked no better off than she, trotting obediently down the gangplank like a sleepwalker. His face, when he turned to wave farewell from the dock, was pale. She suspected her own matched his very well indeed.

  She never remembered what orders she gave to set the Sea Mist on her way again. But she must have done it right, for they neither ran aground nor rammed another vessel. Still, as the tide carried the little cog down the river to the waiting sea, Remon approached her.

  “With your permission, Captain, you should go lie down. You look as bad as the bard did after that storm. It wasn’t bad news about your family, was it?” the first mate said anxiously.