Rune Song (Dragon Speaker Series Book 2)

by Devin Hanson

  Motive, then, was still a mystery for now. The other balai following him were either under his orders or had fallen to the same siren call that can taken in the colonel. Nothing to be gained there, unless she was lucky enough to capture one for questioning.

  What else did she know? The alchemist was powerful: they had expected him to be able to eliminate her squad easily. If she was being perfectly honest with herself, she felt a little bit insulted. She did not know anyone who would bet against her in a fight with confidence, alchemist or no. They must have been blinded by their awe of his powers. That did not lead her anywhere either. For all his supposed power, he had drowned in his own blood out in the desert three days ago. For now, at least, the alchemist was a dead-end too.

  What was left? A Ranger or perhaps a balai had bullied his way into Jeb’s inn and strip-searched the building. That meant someone had brow-beaten the information out of the gate captain. Not that it would have taken much. City guard were militia, locally hired, locally trained, easily impressed. He would have folded like a house of cards as soon as the Ranger started pushing.

  Time to go ask the gate captain some questions of her own, then.

  Following the gate captain home had been almost ludicrously easy. Access through the gates ended at sundown, and with it the captain’s duties for the day. If you had a really good arm, you could probably lob a rock and hit the roof of the captain’s house from the bottom of the tower where he worked. Iria did not even have to shift position from her spot on a nearby roof to find out where he lived.

  The captain did not know anything, which was not a surprise. He tried bluffing her, puffed up with his own importance, but wilted after Iria put a blade against his throat and ruminated on what his kids would think if they walked in and found him bleeding out on the floor.

  Local militia.

  Following the unimpeded flow of information from the captain, Iria tracked down the Ranger who had searched the inn. Not a balai, as she had feared, but she could not break him as easily as she had the captain.

  The Ranger turned out to be more difficult to track down than the gate captain. She had his name, his rank and a description. Nok Norrah was the city of her birth and where she had joined the Rangers. Taking a chance and hoping that Mohandi had not put out a broad arrest warrant for her, she visited a Ranger dive bar and was immediately recognized with friendly cries.

  She bought a few rounds, endured some slightly-exaggerated story telling at her expense, was able to get the bartender alone long enough for him to elaborate on the description of the Ranger she sought, and got a list of favorite hangouts and a residential address. A last round and a promise to drop by later in the week, and she was back on the streets again, slightly tipsy.

  It was good to know that Mohandi had not tried to get her black-barred from the balai. Accusing a balai of treason required proof, and wild stories about an alchemist and dead dragons would not be enough. By the time she found the neighborhood where the Ranger lived, her buzz had worn off, leaving her feeling slightly soggy. She did not often drink heavily and the unaccustomed alcohol was not doing her any favors.

  The Ranger’s house turned out to be a cramped second-story apartment. She picked a spot where she was confident that she would be able to spot him if he arrived or left, then squatted down next to a beggar and bought the rest of his rancid-smelling rotgut off him with a bent coin. In the shadows, with the beggar for company, she made herself comfortable with her hood pulled down low over her face and settled down to wait.

  She was starting to drift a little bit. Her buzz faded to a lingering pressure at the back of her neck, precursor to a hangover. Maeis had risen and set again, and Romeda was settling into the last of her arc when the apartment door swung open and the Ranger strode out, still tucking his shirt in. He gave a cursory glance around and set off at a brisk walk toward the center of the city.

  “Well, friend,” Iria said to the beggar, “turns out I need not your booze after all.” She handed the bottle back to him, refused the return of the coin and set out after the Ranger, her hood casting long shadows over her face.

  She let him get half a block ahead of her, then switched across to the other side of the road and followed. The streets were empty this late at night, and it would only take a glance back for the Ranger to spot her. Wherever the Ranger was going, it occupied all of his attention as he did not look back once.

  Of the three oases in Nok Norrah, two were set aside for agriculture, industrial and civil uses. The third was a swampy public park, ostensibly a place for recreation, but with additional military significance as a reserve water source. It was into this park that the Ranger headed, with Iria following behind.

  As the path grew closer and visibility dropped, Iria shifted off the paved pathway and into the dense vegetation. The Ranger slowed and started glancing behind himself, checking for someone following. Iria smiled to herself a little grimly. Far too late for that. From her shadowed cover in the marsh, she could see the Ranger clearly in the dim blue light of Romeda, but he would have to have eyes like a night owl to make her out among the reeds.

  The Ranger did not lead her on much of a chase. He cut straight through the swamp, and took the shortest path to the great granite fountain at the center of the oasis. The fountain was plumbed down directly to the opening of the artesian well and the water filled an enormous cistern before spilling out and forking into a dozen separate streams, each providing a constant flow to bathing houses, swimming holes and saunas before draining out to the swamp.

  Iria followed him to a torch-lit square surrounded by a columned walkway where he nodded to a thug standing watch and vanished within. She watched from the reeds for a few moments, making sure he was not coming out again, then circled around the structure to where a massive live oak tree overhung the walkway. A child could climb the tree easily, and within seconds she was running soft-footed along the roof.

  Voices drifting over the cricket song drew her down to a walk, and she crept to the edge of the walkway roof. The center of the courtyard held a burbling fountain, and between it and the crickets she could not make out more than an occasional word. She did recognize Malik’s voice, but she could not place for certain any of the others.

  The tone of the conversation came through just fine, though. Malik was bored, tired and clearly thought the whole meeting was a waste of time. One voice was apologetic and defensive in turn, and she attributed that to the Ranger she had followed here. Another was angry, impatient and haughty. The last voice, one that stayed silent throughout the clandestine meeting and only spoke up at the end was commanding, cold and had an odd tightness to it that she could not figure.

  The sweat cooling on Iria’s body had not dried before the meeting was adjourned, and she silently lowered herself down flat against the roof. From where she lay, she had a clear line of sight down to the entrance. The thug on watch went first, then Malik, clearly recognizable by the set of his shoulders and his loose stride. He had one hand on the Ranger’s shoulder, speaking quietly to him. Following them came the other pair, a tall, gangly man that seemed strangely familiar and another dressed in the desert robes of the balai.

  They were facing away from her, and Iria frowned to herself. All of this was for nothing if she could not see their faces. Malik turned back to wave goodbye and the trailing pair paused, speaking to each other. The balai turned and held out his hand and Iria recognized him as Colonel Mohandi. His companion turned so Iria could see the profile of his face and Iria’s world came to a momentary halt.

  It felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over her as she made out the hawkish nose, the wide, mobile mouth. The last time she had seen him, he had been lying on his back in the desert, blood bubbling from his lips. It was the alchemist. The man she had fatally wounded and left dying in the desert, an impossible distance from the rest of the Ranger band and the slain dragon. There was no way he could be alive.

  The man shook Mohandi’s hand and winced, pres
sed his free hand to his chest where Iria had drove her blade up into his lung. It was definitely the alchemist, there was no doubting it. Iria froze, her heart thundering in her ears, hardly daring to breathe until they dispersed and were gone for several long minutes.

  By the time Iria got back to Jeb’s inn, the sun was peeking up over the walls. She knew who was hunting her now, but the knowledge did nothing to comfort her. A deathless alchemist, a lethal balai colonel, her traitorous captain, and whatever of the Rangers and balai they could coerce to their will. And those were just the ones she knew about.

  The cramped garret offered little in the way of comfort. It was hidden for the moment, but that would not last for long. Such defenses were temporary. At least Jeb had moved an extra pallet in next to Rajya’s.

  Iria knelt down next to her companion and touched a finger to her forehead. Her fever was gone. A glance down showed someone had been in while Iria was away and had changed her bandages again. She prodded at her own wound, and felt only the expected pain of recently stitched flesh. No swelling, no infection. Marata’s healing poultice was a blessing.

  The rising sun glinted in through tiny flaws in the roof as Iria lay her head down on the pallet. There was time enough to change her dressings tomorrow. Time enough to figure out what to do next. And, hopefully, time enough to work out a way to kill an alchemist who would not stay dead.

  Chapter 6

  Ranno Kossar

  Professor Aaron Milkin sat idly contemplating a flaw in the pewter mug in front of him as he listened to the debate raging around him. His knees hurt, like they always did after climbing the flights of stairs to the Oratory, and he wished nothing more than to have this pointless verbal scuffle come to its foregone conclusion.

  Milkin was seated on the far left of a curving table, otherwise occupied by the delegation sent to examine Andrew Condign. Facing the table, in serried ranks, every alchemist worthy of the name crowded into the auditorium.

  Nearly every person there was shouting. Some were shouting at each other, some merely shouting to be heard, all of them discussing Andrew. Some of the words he heard thrown around were positive: savior, lord, alchemist, and the like. Others attempted to cast young Condign in an entirely negative light: betrayer, thief, and worse.

  He glanced up at the high stained-glass windows circling the stage, gauged the time by the position of the sun. The shouting had been going on for a good half hour, and had no sign of slowing down any time soon. Time to put an end to this.

  Milkin pushed himself to his feet with his cane, attracting some attention, but not nearly enough. With a drop of dragongas from a vial and a muttered alchemical command, one he was quite proud of, having invented it himself, he slammed the butt of his cane into the hardwood stage. The thump boomed out like a cannon shot, alchemically amplified. Those in the front rows winced at the volume of the noise. Out of spite, Milkin thumped his cane twice more, though the first one would have probably been enough.

  The auditorium fell into a dead silence. Milkin cleared his throat. “Thank you. Order will be maintained, or the findings of the investigative council will be discussed behind closed doors.” This, of course, was the last thing he wanted, but he judged the threat was enough to keep people in line, at least for now.

  “Thank you, Professor, for your intervention,” reedy Professor Kilpatri, nominal president of the investigatory committee and Guild councilmember, pushed himself to his own feet. Milkin gave him a short bow and sank back into his chair.

  “This committee,” Kilpatri continued, his tenor carrying to the furthest corner of the auditorium, “went to meet with Andrew Condign, formerly a resident of Andronath, to investigate the claim of him being a Dragon Speaker.”

  Mutters from the crowd as Kilpatri started from the beginning of his speech again, but they quieted away quickly.

  “The traditional test was given, the ancient verification of real communication between human and dragon. Additionally, a secondary test was given, one of our own manufacture. The boy passed the first test without flaw. He did indeed speak to the dragon as he claimed. The second test was deemed inconclusive. But as it did not actually challenge ability, it was discarded in favor of the first test.

  “The committee held a vote, given the evidence, with the conclusion that Andrew Condign of Andronath is indeed a Dragon Speaker.”

  Convenient of them to claim citizenship, Milkin thought glumly. Wouldn’t do for the first Dragon Speaker in two thousand years to hail from another nation. Wouldn’t do at all.

  This was the point in Kilpatri’s speech where the audience had lost it, and the hearing had devolved into chaos. This time, besides a few murmurs, quickly hushed, and the rustle of people shifting in their seats, the auditorium stayed quiet.

  “After the test,” Kilpatri continued, “Speaker Condign spoke of his intentions and goals. He does not claim his legal right within the Guild, preferring to learn alchemy from a tutor and develop his skills to the appropriate level before formally introducing himself to the Guild and claiming his place among us.

  “This was accepted by the committee. He also clarified his early accusation regarding the status of Trent Priah. Lord Priah, are you present?”

  The audience turned to look as Trent stood up from the front row and made his way to the center of the stage to stand before the assembled committee.

  “Lord Priah, you have been accused of being Ranno Kossar by an accredited Speaker. What say you?”

  Milkin watched as a tumble of emotions rolled across Trent’s face, none of them pleasant, before he schooled his face back to a neutral mask. Say what you would of Trent, his training for politics was solid, if a little out of practice. “President Kilpatri,” Trent said, giving the professor the unnecessary but flattering title, “what can one say, when one’s accuser is not present? No doubt he offered some version of events, but the facts as I see them hold Mr. Condign in poor light.

  “He assaulted my airship, violated my sovereign rights, murdered my crew, and stole from me. During the course of this piracy, he did call me by such. But what meaning does it have? And to what kind of… boy… would we grant such authority? The laws regarding Ranno Kossar are obsolete at best. Men have been branded as such in the past, some not so far gone, for crimes committed against the Guild. Yet no Speaker declared them as such as per the law.

  “Are we now to hold strictly to the dicta of antiquity? What shall we do with these criminals earlier branded? Grant them clemency? These men were found without shadow of a doubt to be guilty of crimes against the Guild. For them, such punishment is just, and righteous.

  “What have I done that would put me alongside such villainy? While carrying out the requests of my king, I offended the sensibilities of a boy, and he struck out at me, no doubt coached to do so by Jules Vierra, in an attempt to discredit me before this august body.

  “And now we find he speaks with dragons. Of what weight this? The accusation is meaningless without a crime. This I say, that I am innocent of wrong-doing, that the accusation comes from a jealous boy caught out in his own violent disregard for law.”

  Trent bowed to the seated committee and stood at ease, hands clasped behind the small of his back, his face serene, with perhaps just a hint of insulted nobility showing in the tilt of his mouth. His whole body language screamed that this was a waste of his time, an attempt to smear his good name, and that only his respect for Guild law held him here at all.

  Kilpatri tapped the block in front of him with his gavel, bringing the hushed muttering of the audience to silent attention. “Your defense has been heard, Lord Priah.” Trent half-turned to return to his seat, but Kilpatri continued, jerking him to a halt. “You have not been dismissed, my lord. Some version of events was, indeed, presented to us, and they align with your story but for choice of verbs.

  “For more than two thousand years the Alchemists Guild has existed. Our laws are the oldest written documents in existence. Over the millennia, those laws have constant
ly come under criticism and scrutiny. Some feel that the laws as they stand are meaningless, that they hold no bearing on modern times. This is not a new notion. Countless times in the past has one law or another been deemed to be no longer applicable. In every instance, bar none, tragedy has come to pass and the laws reinstated.

  “The ancients, in their wisdom, built the laws of the Guild to last the trials of time. For the record, the law states: Should a known Dragon Speaker accuse a man, woman or child of Ranno Kossar, the accused shall be turned forth, branded and banished, forbidden the fruits and labor of alchemy.

  “That is the law. We have not yet had an opportunity to discover what may happen should we spurn this law, but I and my fellow council members have come to the decision that there must have been a good reason for it. Lord Trent Priah, we find the law to hold against you. You are Ranno Kossar, as called by Speaker Condign. Henceforth, you shall practice no alchemy, or hold the right to own that which was produced by alchemy. Should you be found in violation of this ruling, you will be cast forth. In deference to your station in the nation of Salia and in the interest of remaining neutral, we will forgo the mandated branding. Do not consider this to be a lessening in the punishment. Should you flaunt the decree, you will be held accountable as a banished member of the Guild, not as a noble.”

  The not-so-subtle threat of summary assassination hung in the Oratory like a tolling of a cracked bell. Trent stood, hands clenched at his sides, his face struck with disbelief and pale with rage. Milkin fingered the vial of dragongas in his robe pocket, wondering if he would have to resort to violence to stop Trent if the man lost control.

  The moment passed and Trent turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  In the shocked silence of the Oratory, Kilpatri continued. “Trent Priah is to be stricken from the rolls and public announcement of his status is to be made at every Guild hall and charter house in every nation. This is the first Ranno Kossar properly called such, and we will show that we hold our laws in reverence.”