Knighthood of the Dragon

by Chris Bunch

  "I'm not suicidal."

  Hal remembered that Hachir had appeared quite nerveless behind him on a dragon, even though he'd never been in the air before.

  "I'll be cold about this," he said. "I can tell you haven't gotten over what happened yet from your voice. I don't need any volunteers who're looking for me to help end their problems."

  "As I said," Hachir said. "I'm not that suicidal."

  "I hope you're telling me the truth," Kailas said. "Dragons are expensive."

  He stuck out his hand, and Hachir took it, grinning.

  Now all he needed was another five to be full up.

  But he wanted ten or more, if he could get away with it.

  * * * *

  Unsurprisingly, the lords and ladies of Bedarisi did not look as if they were dying of hunger. The tables were piled high with the finest foods, and a different bottle of wine accompanied each course.

  Hal could have gotten angry, could have stamped out. But what good would that have done?

  But the food was tasteless in his mouth.

  He pretended hunger, pretended interest in the lord to his left, the lady to his right, who'd made it most clear that her husband was off with the Fourth Army, and she would dearly love someone to see her home after the meal, "considering just how dangerous the streets are these days."

  Hal made polite noises, had as much interest in going home with her as he would slithering into a snake's den, and then he saw someone, a small, thin, expensively dressed man, sitting halfway down the right table.

  "Who's that?" he asked the woman.

  She brightened—that was the first interest she'd gotten out of Kailas the whole meal.

  "Why, that's one of our noblest. Lord Scaer. From a very old family."

  Hal's smile was tight.

  "I think I want an introduction to him."

  After the interminable meal ended, the woman obliged.

  "I'm surely pleased to meet the Dragonmaster," Scaer said.

  "And I you," Hal lied. "Actually, I've heard of you in Rozen."

  "Oh," Scaer said. "It's delightful that my reputation has gone before. In what area?"

  "I've heard that you're a sporting man," Hal said.

  "Well, yes," Scaer admitted. "I do like to hear the rattle of dice and the whisper of the cards."

  "Since I plan another day here in Bedarisi," Hal said, "perhaps we might have time for a friendly game or two."

  "Certainly," Scaer said, looking at Hal's expensive uniform. "Certainly. I'd be delighted to share a table with Lord Kailas… at any stakes you prefer."

  Hal was starting to accept the possibility that there might really be a live god or two.

  * * * *

  "Innaresting," Farren Mariah said. "But I've a wee bit of a problem with this."

  "Which is?"

  "I'm not thinking, shrinking, that this business necessarilably has a great deal to do with winning the war. And as we all know, I'm a deep-down patriotical sort, who'd shrink, nay, vanish, at the thought of doing anything not dedicated to movin' the end of the war one day, nay, one minute, closer."

  "What he means," Gart said, pouring another round of wine, "is that his curiosity's eating his weather leg off, and he won't help you with any magic until you fill him in on the details."

  Hal ground his teeth. He didn't much like indiscriminately telling his secrets.

  But Mariah seemed firm, and so he told him the story of Athelny of the Dragons.

  "Y'see," Farren said at the tale's end, "you don't give yourself near enow credit for being a duty soldier. I think this Scaer is definitely a villain, and don't it say somewhere in the King's Regularations that we should trample villains?"

  "Probably," Hal said.

  "Is Scaer a cheat?"

  "I don't know," Hal said. "It wouldn't surprise me, although Athelny didn't need a sharp to clean him out."

  "Now, let's us to practical thought. We want to punish this bastardly bastard, in his own style. Now, it'd be easy to stack a deck, or even use a little wizardry to make certain cards come up in that deck at a certain time.

  "But assuming this Scaer-face shit is a confirmed gambler, he'd be the first to call for a new deck if he even suspicioned the one he was using happened to be rigged. Hmm, hmm, hmm."

  He sat in silence for a moment.

  "I have it, I have it fine.

  "I think," Mariah continued. "This is one I've not cast nor seen, and all I've done is heard my grandsire prattle about it, and how proud he was for having come up with it.

  "It's a bit tricky, but I think, maybe, with different matters…"

  Again, he lapsed into silence.

  "Yes indeedy, I do think," he said. "But what we'll need is a few little herbies here and there. Lord Kailas, do you have any idea where we might find a little vervain?"

  "Maybe one of the chirurgeons?" Hal said.

  "Of course, of course. Now, you toddle off and get some, since you're the rankest person around, in more ways than one.

  "Mynta, dost thou happen to have any beeswax in your traveling gear?"

  "I do, for my saddlery."

  "If you'll go and procure… I'm for whittling a bit of oak off one of those trees out there in the downpour."

  It took almost an hour, but the necessaries were procured.

  "Now, the spell," Farren said, "assuming it'll work, which is a great assuming right there, is to be keyed to something. Like… like… ah-hah. Lord Kailas, if you'd beg me the borrow of your little dragon flier's emblem?"

  It'd been given to Hal when he graduated from flying school by Garadice, and become an emblem for all dragon fliers since.

  "You'll not hurt it?"

  "Sounds like a little weenie girl," Farren said, "wavin' her butt around the street fair. No, I'll not hurt it."

  Hal unpinned the emblem, passed it across.

  Farren opened a fresh deck of cards, separated the high markers from the rest, laid them flat, face up, on the table.

  He consulted a scrap of paper he'd been scribbling on, while he rubbed the emblem in the wax, in the juice of the vervain, and against the oak.

  "Now, you think of a word that'll set this off," he told Hal. "And I'll want you to say it, proper loud, but not shouting, when I point, which shall be after I mutter twice."

  Rubbing the emblem against the cards, Mariah began chanting:

  Your enemy

  Turn away

  Find another

  For this day.

  Scaer's luck

  Is gone

  Long in disarray

  And his goods in pawn.

  Shun the man

  Fortune's foe

  Give your best

  To the one who sowed.

  He repeated it again, pointed at Kailas, who snapped: "Athelny."

  "There," Farren said. "That's that.

  "And some damned rotten poetry to boot. I think I'm losing my touch. Mrs Mariah's favorite son used to be the bard of the boulevards… but now, just another mangy, rag-tail soldier."

  He passed the emblem across.

  "Rub it on the deal when you want to change somebody else's luck… and your own.

  "So that's that. Lord Kailas, if you'd to bed… you've work to do on the morrow evening."

  * * * *

  For the first time in his life, Hal Kailas wished he had the unctuous smoothness of one of the sharpsters he'd seen working the fringes of a dragon show.

  He had to force himself to be polite to Lord Scaer, but couldn't manage the cloying friendship he knew to be required.

  But he made it through a dinner that was even more painful than the one the previous night, and accepted the fine brandy Scaer poured.

  Scaer's townhouse, which he made sure to tell Kailas, was very small, modest, compared to his country holdings which "if it weren't for the damned war, I'd be preparing for the racing season," was, in fact, most palatial.

  There were two other men invited to dinner. One of them wore some very flashy uniform o
f a unit Hal had never heard of.

  He asked, found it was a cavalry reserve squadron, kept on standby in case "those damnation Roche dare come back across the border. Plus it lets me get paid for spending time in the saddle."

  The other man, Bagseg, was no more than a sycophant of Scaer's, always ready to laugh at Scaer's quips, or prod him into another reminiscence of the "old days."

  Hal thought that a bit odd, since Scaer was no more than in his mid-forties.

  The idea of a round of cards came up.

  The idea met with approval, and they moved into the library, with leather-bound books and scrolls that looked unread, and riding and hunting gear that looked very well used.

  Hal waited for almost an hour into the game, making sure to lose a couple of hands, then suggested maybe the stakes were a little low.

  Scaer licked his lips.

  Hal wondered if Bagseg was feeding Scaer cards or information, wasn't enough of a card player to tell.

  He made sure he lost another hand, then, when Scaer was shuffling, touched his dragon amulet, and whispered "Athelny."

  Scaer's eyes widened, seeing his hand; then he hastily covered his reaction.

  Hal didn't think he was bluffing.

  Kailas let his own eyes go wide.

  "I think," he said carefully, as if the brandy was beginning to work, "something this good needs to be treated right."

  "Like a lusty trollop," Bagseg said.

  Hal made himself laugh with the others.

  Scaer raised the bet. Hal reraised.

  The toady and the horseman tossed their hands in.

  Scaer matched Hal's bet.

  "Beat this," and laid down a high hand.

  The two Bedarisans whistled in awe.

  Hal set his hand down.

  "Damn!" Scaer said. "I've but seen a hand that precious half a dozen times in my life."

  "Just lucky," Hal said, raking in the pot.

  "I don't suppose you'd be interested in raising the stakes again," Scaer said.

  "Well," Hal said, pretending to think. "I'd be less than a proper guest if I didn't, though it's getting steep for a mere soldier."

  Scaer won the next hand, Hal the next two.

  Again, the stakes went up, and again Hal massaged the little dragon.

  After three more rounds, the cavalry sort pushed back.

  "I'm skint," he said. "Spent more'n my wife allows per night, anyway."

  He pulled on his cloak, made noisy farewells, left.

  Bagseg stayed in for one more round, then folded out, but stayed, watching.

  "Shall we make this a final round, Lord Kailas? Hardly any fun with only the two of us," Scaer said. His thumbs were working rapidly against the base of his index fingers.

  Hal nodded, unobtrusively stroking the dragon emblem.

  Scaer didn't ask Hal if he wanted to deal, and Kailas suspected the fix was in, however Scaer could rig it.

  There was no sound but the whisper of the cards sliding across the felt.

  Hal picked up his hand. His face showed nothing.

  Scaer bet, very heavily.

  Hal matched the bet. Almost half of his stake was in the pot. But Scaer had even fewer coins left.

  "This is getting expensive," Kailas complained.

  "You could always use some of the king's gold you're carrying," Bagseg suggested.

  Hal looked at him, and the man shriveled.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean anything."

  Kailas turned back to the game.

  "I'll take one card," he said.

  "I'll play these," Scaer said.

  Hal shoved the rest of his stakes into the center of the table.

  Scaer counted them.

  "I'm shy," he said.

  Hal shook his head.

  "So I'm winner."

  "No!" Scaer said, almost shouting.

  "We agreed, table stakes, didn't we?"

  "Will you take something else to make up the difference?" Scaer said.

  Hal pretended to think, looked about the room.

  "I rather fancy this mansion," he said. "And Bedarisi might be a good place to live… after the war."

  "That's absurd!" Scaer stormed. "This place is worth a million, maybe more."

  "Play fair, Lord Kailas," Bagseg whined.

  Hal said nothing.

  Scaer looked again at his hand, stared hard at Hal, then at the huge pot.

  "If I didn't believe in what I hold… very well then."

  "I'll take a bill of sale first," Kailas said.

  "Don't you trust me?" Scaer said, his voice ugly.

  Hal, again, didn't respond.

  Scaer went to a sideboard, found paper and a pen, scribbled, tossed the paper scornfully onto the pile of silver and gold.

  Hal picked it up, read it, while Scaer fumed.

  "It seems in order," he said.

  Slowly, having full faith in Farren Mariah's spell, he laid his six cards out, one at a time, snapping them against the felt.

  At each click, Scaer's eyes got wider. He wasn't aware that his mouth hung open.

  "And yours?" Hal said.

  Scaer looked at Kailas, then hurled the cards against the wall, and stamped out of the room.

  Hal picked them up.

  "Tsk. Tsk," he told Bagseg. "I'm afraid Lord Scaer is going to need a new place to live."

  "Won't you give Lord Scaer a chance to come up with the money to redeem the deed?" Bagseg asked.

  "No more than he gave a man named Athelny a chance," Hal said.

  Bagseg looked perplexed. Hal didn't explain.

  He folded the deed, put it inside his uniform. He saw a pair of saddlebags on the wall, pulled them down, and started filling them with the gold on the table.

  "Tell Lord Scaer I'd appreciate his vacating my mansion within the week," he said, putting on his cloak.

  * * * *

  The charity hospital was very crowded, very busy, and it took Hal almost an hour before the hospital's director was free.

  She looked at him, and her expression made it very clear she had little use for soldiers, evidently considering them, and the war, as the cause of all her patients' troubles.

  "I want to make a donation," Hal said. "You seem crowded here."

  She softened. Just slightly. "We are," she said. "All the wards are full, and we've patients on mattresses in the halls, and my chirurgeons are working themselves to exhaustion."

  "First, I wish to donate this mansion to your order," Hal said. He handed the deed across, waited while the woman read it, then took it back and countersigned it. "Sell it, use it, do what you will with it."

  "Gods," the woman whispered. "That's Lord Scaer's. Isn't it?"

  "It was,'" Hal said. "And you might need some gold to refurbish it into a proper hospice."

  The saddlebags went across. The woman almost dropped them from their weight.

  "Why… why are you… who are you?"

  Hal thought about it. No, titles weren't right.

  "The name's Kailas," he said. "Hal Kailas."

  "Why are you… I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Taking care of an old debt," Kailas said. "And, by the way, I'd like you to name the place after someone I knew.

  "A man named Athelny of the Dragons."

  Hal hoped that the bones of the old reprobate stirred a bit in amusement, wherever they lay scattered in some unknown forest.

  20

  Hal gladly left Bedarisi behind, and moved on into Sagene flying territory. Their fliers did things a little differently than Deraine's. In fact, from what Hal saw, they did everything their own way.

  Discipline was a bit more relaxed, but when it was applied, it was far more severe, and with less appeals than Deraine.

  When fliers weren't required for duty, they could go and do as they pleased.

  The flight roster was taken most casually, but there was always the required number of fliers on their dragons at the appointed time.

  The fliers wore pretty
much whatever they wanted, frequently civilian clothes when they were off-duty.

  The dragons were well-kept, if a little dirtier than Hal would've allowed, just as the enlisted men and their billets weren't always of the cleanest.

  But the flights were very aggressive, and would attack any Roche dragons they could.

  Tactically, they could do with some lessons, but that would be a simple matter to teach.

  One thing Hal thoroughly approved of was the diet. Working with pretty much the same issue rations Deraine had, a Sagene mess cook would improvise them into a masterpiece, using local herbs, garlic, wine, and careful attention.

  Naturally, Farren Mariah despised the diet. "Foreign muck," he'd growl. Gart, too, didn't seem that impressed with the cooking, but was more politic about her comments.

  At one flight, she was utterly charmed by a slim, well-spoken young flier, and disappeared with him for the night. The next day, she was a bit sheepish, but both Hal and Farren behaved as if nothing had happened.

  Hal figured a flier's life, as long as it didn't get in the way of flying, was his—or her—own business. It would be short enough as it was.

  * * * *

  Hal had four more volunteers when he came to the Sagene 83rd Flight. He'd been told about the 83rd's best flier, stories both good and bad, and was very unsure about the man.

  Once again, the man came to him, lounging into the farmhouse room Hal and his fliers had been given.

  The man wore a thin mustache, carried himself like royalty, and somehow managed to have a sneer on every inch of his slender, small body.

  "Good morning, Lord Kailas," he said, ignoring Farren Mariah and Mynta Gart. "I'm Rer Alcmaen. I assume you want to talk to me."

  "First," Hal said, "you can stand at attention, and salute as you've been taught."

  Alcmaen unfastened himself from the doorway, and managed a salute. Somehow that sneered, too.

  "Now, why do I want to talk to you?" Hal said.

  "Because I'm easily the best flier in all Sagene," Alcmaen said. "Not to mention I'm the high-scorer. Or would be, if those shitheels at army headquarters weren't hells-bent on denying my victories."

  "Why do you want to join me?"

  "Because I think you'll give me a chance for some action, more than I'll see here with a solitary flight. And you also seem to be close with the taletellers. A little fame never comes amiss," Alcmaen said.