The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2010 (volume 1)

by Paul Haines

  Pater Claudio sighed, then called for Mirko. “Go with her,” he instructed. “Our deadline fast approaches.”

  * * *

  “Let me take that,” Casco said. “I’m going that way.”

  The courier paused, but did not relinquish the carefully wrapped package. He was new to Verre’s House—she could tell by his boots, which were still shiny and looked stiff. His gait told her that his feet were pinched and blistered after hours of delivering the Guild’s creations to buyers. Sweat ringed the cowl of his woollen tunic—he would learn, if he lasted long enough, that it was too hot to be worn in late spring. A saturated strap-mark ran diagonally across his chest where his messenger’s porte-livraison had been hanging moments before.

  “It’s no trouble,” she continued. It wasn’t really a lie. She would have done anything to get out for a while; away from Claudio’s advances, Mirko’s watchful eye, Feus’ unrelenting call. As she made to sneak through the vestibule she had heard the young courier being given his assignment. She had also heard his worn out sigh. If she could inveigle the boy, she would simply need to remember to bring something sweet back to placate Mirko. Then again, making the delivery would take no more than half an hour; he might not even notice her absence.

  “I know where the Belluaire house is—it’s right next to the arena, beyond the square with all the pigeons. The large one with the gables, right? I’m sure I’ve seen it before.” Her voice was sweet and low; something of the dragon’s song limned her tone. She could see it working: his shoulders slumped, the lines of his face relaxed and she knew she’d won even when he tried to argue.

  “But, Engraver,” he said, clutching the parcel close to his sodden chest, “this must be delivered to Sevante Belluaire himself. Do you know him?”

  Casco grabbed the package and he did not fight her. She smiled. “Oh, yes, I know him very well.”

  She pushed the messenger toward the glass doors and told him to find himself lunch at the Dragon’s Breath Inn down the street. She would meet him there and hand over the signed chit to say Belluaire received his parcel. In a flash of cunning, she told him to drop by the bakery and get the sesame pastries Mirko liked so much. The boy’s face broke out in a dazed smile when she pressed first a tarnished silver coin into his palm for the breadman, then a crystal shilling for his trouble.

  If only her thoughts were as easy to organise. Parcel in hand, her mind wandered as her feet travelled the familiar route to the Arena Quarter. The sun shone warm on Casco’s face, easing the tension that had settled in her shoulders. Turning the corner at Lost Kraken’s Shrine, Casco passed a troop of hunters gathering supplies for their next expedition. Their wagon was pulled by a pair of mangy dragons, both too small to do more than menial labour. The beasts’ hides were dull, not just from a coating of dust. They looked unhealthy: their scales scarred, their wings clipped. They smelled sour, not musky; not virile, like—

  Stop it, she told herself, but she still felt the ache at the base of her spine, the tingle left by an imagined talon. The citadel’s clock chimed the hour; she hitched up the porte-livraison. It was midday, the perfect time to be out in Sepphoris. The streets teemed with people: guildsmen ran errands or scrambled at food carts for quick luncheons; gutterscoops bumped through crowds, saving boots from the mess transport dragons deposited in their travels; hawkers set up shop on the roadsides, selling everything from pontils to marvers. Casco’s heel spurs clicked a merry rhythm as she picked up the pace, her hair scales streaming like quicksilver behind her.

  For a moment, surrounded by the throng, she felt inconspicuous. With such a diverse mix of people and dragons about, nobody paid her any attention. As she ran toward her father’s house she felt, however briefly, like a normal girl.

  This is how it should always feel, she thought with a smile, when you’re going home.

  * * *

  Casco’s hands shook. Her palms were cool and dry on the package, but her heart raced. She knocked, quickly but insistently, then stepped back. When the heavily carved door swung open on well-oiled hinges, Casco’s breath stopped.

  Would he recognise her? What would he say? Did he think of her? Did he think of the day when he left her in the Dying Place? Did he regret what he’d done? Was he proud of her skill as an Engraver? Would he call her by name? Would he even remember her name?

  “What can I do for you, miss?” The housemaid’s raisin brown eyes, set in a shrivelled face, stared back at her.

  Casco knew herself for a fool: Sevante Belluaire hadn’t answered his own door in years. She said nothing, but held the chit out and the woman used a stub of pencil fished from her apron to scribble her sigil on the bottom of the paper. Casco handed the maid the parcel and the servant curtsied. Casco turned to make a quick exit.

  She ran head-on into her father.

  “Afternoon, sir,” the maid greeted him.

  He didn’t seem to register Casco’s presence. “Afternoon, Antonina.”

  Casco stared straight at Sevante. His skin was a deep golden brown, his wide eyes green and a scar bisected his left cheek, giving the permanent suggestion of a wink. His ruddy hair was peppered with white.

  Her mood shattered, like a parison rolled too swiftly from the furnace. She couldn’t quite understand why she was drawn back here. In the last year she had begun to gravitate to the house on Murano Street, surreptitiously watching Belluaire and his family (second wife, four new daughters, the youngest only three). She sipped at the dew of their lives like a moth drinking from a raindrop. Looking now at her father’s striking face, Casco knew only longing and ache. Hatred overwhelmed her; hatred for the man who had cast her aside because she was different, because she reminded him that he had caused Priling’s death with his arrogance. She shared nothing with Sevante Belluaire except blood. She glared at her father as he studiously avoided looking at her.

  From inside the house a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Antonina? Send them away before Sevante returns, won’t you?”

  The maid opened her mouth to respond, but Casco’s father cut her off with a brisk wave.

  “It’s nobody important,” he replied, finally looking Casco full in the face. “It’s no one.”

  Casco stumbled down the stairs, her heel-talons making a silent retreat impossible. It didn’t matter: Sevante had already gone inside, closing the door noisily behind him.

  * * *

  “Casco? Engraver Casco?”

  Casco did not slow down. The crowds parted in front of her. There was the sound of running and a hand caught at her arm. Casco did not like being manhandled; she swung about, her fingers splayed and her nails caught the sun.

  “Engraver?” the young man said faintly. He was tall, handsome and muscular, but she could see he was terrified of her.

  “Master Fourneau,” she said. “Forgive me. You startled me.”

  He recovered his good grace, hooding his fear as quickly as one might snuff a candle. But she had already seen it; and she knew that hatred often sprang from such things. Forneau, son of the Master of Vitrine’s House, Verre’s greatest rival, made her uneasy. She had not forgotten his torments when they were children in the schoolroom.

  “Easily forgiven and most understandable. My apologies for—mauling you, it was not seemly.”

  She gave a vague smile and waved his words away. “How may I help?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing particular. I simply wished to say hello. I have just returned from seeing Pater Claudio. Two of our dragons are almost at the end of their span. Nothing for them but the arena. Vitrine is sending its dragon-catchers out soon and wondered if Verre would like to join the expedition.” He smiled.

  Sometimes rivals joined a hunt together—the cost and risks of the dragon harvest were huge and not even Houses as rich as Verre or Vitrine liked to bear the expense alone.

  “I understand you have only that young firedrake—the rest are, shall we say, superannuated? Barely fit for arena fodder.”

  “They’ve served our
House well,” she said defensively. “They deserve better than slaughter for petty amusement.”

  “The firedrake, though, would be a fine sight under Belluaire’s instruction!” he said, more to himself than her.

  “Thankfully Verre’s House does not waste its finest resources,” she said coldly.

  “Of course not.” He raised his hands to placate her. She wondered why he was going out of his way to be so agreeable. She backed away. He followed, drawing near enough that Casco could practically taste his breath. His face, pressed so close to her own, had lost its veneer of kindness; his jaw was set with a disdain that barely masked his hunger.

  “You will forgive me, Master Forneau, I am very late and must return. They will be looking for me.”

  “Yes. Strange to see you without your guard-dog. Give the big man the slip?” he sneered.

  “Good day.” She turned on her heel and dived into the wash of the crowd, losing herself to his gaze as soon as she could.

  * * *

  “How much trouble can you get yourself into?” Mirko asked as Casco handed him a sesame pastry, cold and rapidly stiffening. He closed the door to her work-cell.

  “I was asked to make a delivery, Mirko. That’s why I’m late.” She stood in front of the Empire bottle, trying to gather her thoughts.

  “You’re certainly a popular girl. Suitors coming out of the cracks hither and yon,” he said around the pastry. Casco frowned.

  “Forneau was here, you know.”

  “I know. Saw the little weasel in the street and he told me so.”

  “Did he tell you why he was here?” Mirko keep talking and chewing at the same time. Casco knew that if she looked at him, she’d be treated to the sight of masticated pastry being tossed about in his mouth. She chose not to look.

  “To see if we wanted in on their dragon hunt. He made fun of our dragons, by the way.” Not Feus though, she thought, his tone was quite envious of the firedrake. She ignored the flutter this realisation caused in her belly.

  “Least of his sins. Claudio yelled at him within five minutes. Fool had the gall to ask for your hand. As if Verre will give you up.”

  Casco felt cold.

  “But, I don’t want to marry anyone.” It was true. She had never wanted it, had never felt an attraction to another person so strong as to warrant any action.

  Mirko spoke gently. “Casco, everyone marries. It’s the way all the guilds work. Glassblowers, engravers, incantors, all pair off with one another; the Houses stay populated; Sepphoris prospers. It’s natural. You’ve been an exception this long because—well, Pater didn’t want you to marry outside the House. He was . . . waiting.”

  “I won’t marry anyone.”

  “Then they can appeal to our Guild. You know that. You know they can rule on marriages. If you really wanted to marry outside the House, you could put a case together, present it at the Assembly if it came to that. They might let you go.” He shook his head. “But, in the end, you’d still have to marry someone, here or elsewhere.” He popped the last bit of pastry into his mouth. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re kind of unique. Any children you have will be valuable.”

  He could see her trembling, whether from grief or rage he wasn’t sure. “Casco, your life doesn’t belong to you, sweetheart.”

  She fled. Out of the room and down the stairs, down, down, down, to where the firedrake’s hum was strongest. She had ignored him for so many, many days. It felt like months, but she wouldn’t relax until she felt the deep rumble of his song in her bones, soothing her, calling her down. The fact that she noticed the dragon’s absence so keenly told her, to her chagrin, how much she had come to need him.

  Only Feus was in his cage. It wouldn’t be long before the keepers came for him; the others had already been taken to their cells for the night. Casco stormed across the room. Feus raised one eyelid, kept his chin resting on the floor, his long tail curled around the great expanse of his body.

  “Why did you call me?” she yelled. “Everything’s gone wrong since then.”

  “I am not the catalyst, Casco. I’m merely at the confluence of events.” He paused, then went on, less certainly. “My kind mate for life. When a dragon finds his equal, he knows. The song begins—it is a sound we cannot produce at any other time. For better or worse, little half-thing, you summoned my song.”

  Her hands pushed through the bars. She ran them over his scales; heat wafted from his open mouth as he sighed. Then she scratched, hard with her diamond nails, and left marks. He laughed, breathy, aroused. He hooked one claw through the bars, and caressed her neck, the talon sharp enough to sever her head in a heartbeat should he wish it. It felt nothing like when Pater Claudio touched her.

  Fire raced through her veins as Feus traced the outline of her clavicle, her arm, her hand. Blue sparks struck from her fingertips as she scratched him more vigorously; she inhaled the heady steam of his breath and watched as curls of smoke escaped her lips. His tongue flicked at her torso, grazing her stomach, her breasts. Flames swirled in Casco’s eyes; the dark scales of her hair stiffened, bristling up until a magnificent crest draped her head and shoulders like a queen’s mantle. Feus wrapped his tongue around her wrist, drawing her closer; he gently nipped at her fingers. Casco pulled back, but didn’t step away from the cage. A bead of warm blood welled from her index finger.

  She stared at the crimson stain.

  “My mother was in the arena,” she whispered. “Dragon’s blood killed her.”

  “It’s poisonous, little half-thing. But you were very small, not fully formed. What killed your mother merely changed you: it made you what you are. But blood calls to blood, Casco. You’ve been a chrysalis for too long. Let go of your human flesh. Come home.”

  “I don’t know how,” she said, her voice trembling. His silvery tongue caressed her anew; its touch was dry and surprisingly smooth, intimate.

  “Fire,” he whispered. “It burns away the meat, leaving only the dragon.”

  “I’ll die,” she said.

  “Trust me.”

  There was a rattle from one of the tunnels. The keepers were returning. Casco pulled away, her breath coming in ragged bursts, and shook her head.

  * * *

  Casco stood alone before the wide expanse of the East Salon’s windows, looking out over the sea. Floor to ceiling ran the strongest, thickest glass Verre’s House could produce, strengthened by myriad incantations etched around the edges. They would last a thousand years against storms, attacking dragons, whatever might be thrown at the House’s waterside facade. She was reflected against the dark glass. Out beyond her, lightning bolts threw themselves across the night sky, danced above the sea, writhed like serpents.

  The girl concentrated on her reflection: the ghostly impression of her dragon self seemed to stretch higher and wider than the window could capture. Her scales, lapis lazuli in colour, were accented with starlight. She had a long tail, lovely wings, her eyes were lashless, slanted and silver, her limbs were muscular and sleek; she was monumental and beautiful and overwhelming. Never before had she seen this aspect of herself. It was breathtaking.

  She was so absorbed that she did not hear anyone enter the room, nor did she see Pater Claudio until he seemed to materialise next to her in the glass. She started, focused on his image. His outline was not solid, a weak wavering line.

  He rested his hands on her shoulders, tried a smile. Casco smiled back, a broken fleeting expression.

  “Casco, it’s time we had a talk.” He directed her to one of the couches. “I’d wanted to leave this discussion a while longer, but circumstances have forced my hand.”

  “Pater—”

  “No, let me finish. You know how fond I am of you, how we have always cared for you. You are important to us not merely for your exquisite craft, but also . . . in a personal sense. I know it isn’t many months since my dear wife died, but I feel it is time to take another bride.”

  “Pater, I—”

  “Casco,
please! I have no children. There will be no further Claudians to follow unless I do. You are young, exceptional. I would be honoured if you would agree to be my wife.” There was no question in his voice.

  Casco tried to swallow her revulsion. “Pater, I have always thought of you as a father. This is a—great change.”

  “I know, I know,” he said kindly. “But there is no blood between us and the Guild has given its consent.”

  “You have already been to the Guild?” There was an edge to her voice that he could not have missed.

  “Of course, child. And they were only too happy to see us settled.”

  Casco rose, strode back to the window. Her reflection had withdrawn its wings, lost its vibrant blue glow, dwindled in size. Now she faced the version of herself she’d seen every day for eighteen years: a pale girl with fire smouldering in her eyes. Outside, winds whipped the seas into a fury. A clap of thunder muffled Casco’s response.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” Pater Claudio said, leaning forward, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  She didn’t turn from the window. “I said, what if I decline?” Irritation flashed across Claudio’s reflected features, and Casco heard him exhale sharply.

  “Perhaps I’ve misled you,” he said, standing. “By implying you had a choice. The proposal was merely a courtesy; a token of my affection.”

  Casco spun around. “Affection?” She laughed bitterly. “Is that what you call it? Tethering me to a workbench, treating me like a prisoner, punishing me if I steal a few precious moments for myself? Never caring about what I want—and then offering me a lifetime of the same? Spare me the joy of such affection, Pater. I’ll have none of it.”

  “You won’t deny me, child. Not after all I’ve done for you.”

  Casco’s face flushed. Her eyes gleamed with unbridled rage and her incisors glinted as she growled, “I would rather you had left me to die.”

  “Of all the ungrateful, half-blood things to say—”