The Varn beside the leader reached up and removed a flowing headdress. Like breaking free of a cocoon, a red-haired woman shook herself free of the coverings. She dropped the elaborate veils to the ground.
That’s all the cloaking mist proved to be—many layers of soft, translucent cloth. The woman concealed beneath the drifting draperies seemed to be human.
Quinnault gasped. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Her small heart-shaped face was framed by a cap of short curls. A snub nose gave her a look of youth. Big green eyes seemed to sparkle with humor and mischief, another hint of youthfulness. Her full-lipped mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile.
“Am I valuable enough?” Her voice lilted over him as if she sang a sweet love ballad. Her accent hinted of exotic lands.
Fascinated, Quinnault stepped forward. He needed to be closer to her, make certain she was truly human and real. The heavy swathing veils still hid her figure. Below the neck she could be a many tentacled monster.
He didn’t care.
“The ladies of my court will frown at your hairstyle while they rush to mimic it. There will be an abundance of shorn locks for the gentlemen to collect as talismans of luck and favor.” He felt himself smiling and wanted to burst out laughing.
“I . . . I am not used to dealing with court ladies.” She gnawed at her lower lip with small perfect teeth.
A sense of panic invaded his mind like a telepathic probe from a dragon. He looked at the woman, stunned. No other human had ever been able to awaken his dormant talent.
Are you reading my mind? he asked her.
Not intentionally, she replied. Her eyes opened wide, startled.
He nearly lost his balance gazing into their green depths.
Many of the women in my family have green eyes. It is considered a sign of inherited intelligence. Her mental chuckle told him that she didn’t believe the family superstition.
And suddenly he realized that with the lines of communication open in his mind this woman couldn’t lie to him. He relaxed a little.
I don’t want to lie to you, ever, Your Grace. Please don’t lie to me. She gnawed her lip again in uncertainty.
This crack in her composure struck Quinnault deeply. He needed to reach out and protect this woman. He didn’t even know her name, and yet he found himself dreaming of long years with her, of children and shared memories.
Katie. The name came to him without a deliberate probe.
The woman shifted her shoulders as if pushing aside her doubts. She extended her hand in a masculine gesture to shake his. “I am Mary Kathleen O’Hara. My friends call me Katie.”
So her companions didn’t know that he had established a telepathic link, and she didn’t want them to know.
“Quinnault Darville de Draconis at your service.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips. When he lifted his head, he couldn’t let go of her hand. “My friends call me Scarecrow, but don’t tell anyone at court.”
Scarecrow? The mischief returned to her eyes. “I can think of many names better suited to a handsome bachelor king.”
“I haven’t been called Scarecrow since I was a teenager, actually, all arms and legs and clumsy as a newborn colt.”
“Does that mean you haven’t had any friends since?” Concern touched her voice and her smile. I would very much like to be your friend.
Quinnault fell in love.
(Offer them half the Tambootie.)
Sense reasserted itself into his brain. “If we can negotiate a treaty, you may have half the Tambootie requested, harvested in thirds. We will deliver the first load when the marriage banns are posted, the next when the marriage takes place, and the final third when our first son is born.” He had to keep his eyes closed to keep from giving them everything up front without a thought for the future. If he looked at Katie any longer, he’d give away his entire kingdom without regret.
“We need the Tambootie now,” the leader asserted. He tried to push his body between Quinnault and Katie.
Neither of them yielded to him. Nonetheless, Quinnault dropped her hand. “I have a marriage treaty waiting for my signature that promises me a perfectly good princess. My people know her lineage and will welcome the alliance. Her family will secure my entire western border.”
“And leave you more vulnerable to the south and east.”
“Do you have a name? Perhaps we could retire to my palace for refreshment. These negotiations could take some time. I will need to consult my Council and my magicians.” Quinnault cocked one eyebrow, trying to appear as if his sanity didn’t depend upon grabbing Katie’s hand again and never letting her go.
“You may call me Kinnsell, Scarecrow. And we can finish this here and now if you are reasonable. Katie could be your wife by tomorrow night.”
“You may call me King Quinnault, or Your Grace. I rule by the grace of the dragons and I will not hesitate to call them up to dispose of my enemies.” He glared at Kinnsell. He didn’t need to tell these Varns that no dragon had been seen in Coronnan since his sister had been spirited away.
Behind him Buan snorted as if amused. Quinnault cursed the steed under his breath.
“Magicians and dragons,” Kinnsell snorted. “I guess you use the Tambootie to induce hallucinogenic trances that make you see dragons and believe in magic.”
“If that is what you believe, then we have nothing to discuss.” Quinnault turned on his heel and grabbed Buan’s reins. He didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave Katie. But he had to show strength, knock some of the arrogance out of these beings.
“Your Grace, there is no need to go through the lengthy process of banns and an elaborate marriage ceremony,” Kinnsell said mildly, almost politely. “A simple exchange of vows is all we require. Your laws do say that when marrying a foreigner the bride’s customs prevail at the ceremony.”
“But I am a ruling monarch. My people must accept Maarie Kaathliin,” he repeated her name with the softer intonation of his people, “as their queen as well as my wife. We must all know her lineage and her dowry.” Maarie Kaathliin. The name had a familiar ring to it. Where had he heard it, or read it. Kinnsell, too, sounded familiar. . . .
Kinnsell! the servant of the Stargods. Kimmer, Konner, and Kameron O’Hara. No. The Varns couldn’t be delegates of the Stargods. The three red-haired brothers who had saved Kardia Hodos from a plague and given the people justice and magic belonged to the people of the Three Kingdoms, not to the Varns, who hailed from some unknown, unnamed location.
“I assure you, Quinnault,” Katie said. “I am the daughter of an emperor, descended from seven hundred years of emperors. I believe you value people descended from your Stargods? My family dates back to them. My lineage is impeccable. We would not press you to hasten our union if the lives of many millions of people did not depend upon access to the Tambootie.” She captured his gaze with her own.
He fell into their green depths and knew she spoke the truth.
We need you as much as you need me. But be careful of Kinnsell. He has his own agenda aside from the issue of the Tambootie.
(She will do.)
Quinnault almost laughed at the amused voice in the back of his head. He had no doubt that Shayla eavesdropped on both conversations, spoken and telepathic.
“Half the Tambootie, delivered in two batches—at the marriage and half when our first son is born.” He felt an odd reassurance as well as a chuckle of approval behind his heart where the dragons dwelt. “But we must have a public marriage and posting of the banns.”
Kinnsell and Katie exchanged another of those meaningful glances. The leader turned away first, sighing heavily.
If this haughty leader bowed to her demands, she must be very strong-willed. Quinnault was glad she was on his side. She couldn’t lie to him. He’d know it in his mind and in his heart. So would the dragons.
“You need to protect your shipping channels without challenging your neighbors by building an extensive navy.” Kinn
sell removed the elaborate headdress of veils and shook his head as if freeing it of the weight. Taller and older than Katie, he, too, bore a head full of red hair, cut short. His complexion and green eyes matched hers. A similarity of jaw and mouth shape suggested close family ties. Father and daughter?
“Agreed,” Quinnault said warily. These people knew too much about his situation and he had no bargaining tools other than the unacceptable marriage treaty with SeLenicca. He clamped down on those thoughts lest the Varns read them.
You have the Tambootie. He cannot harvest it without your permission. Our family covenant requires your permission and trade of equal value.
“The mudflats of the Bay offer a natural protection for your harbor but prevent shipping into the harbor,” Kinnsell continued. He drew the arc of the bay in the ground with a stick. He marked the mudflats with squiggles. “We will build a series of jetties and bridges among the islands at the beginning of deep water. Flat-bottomed barges can transport people and cargo from the port into your city.” He finished off the drawing with the exact placement of the four islands.
Nimbulan had suggested the same solution to the problem. It would work. Quinnault forced himself to reply levelly. “Such a venture will take many moons to construct. Possibly years. Plenty of time to post the banns and prepare a great marriage ceremony.”
Kinnsell sighed again as if incredibly weary. “We have the technology to build the port in the space of one long night.”
“My boatmen will need many seasons to learn the changes in the currents to guide the barges through the mudflats safely.”
“We will lend one, I repeat, one, of your boatman a device that will show him the shifting currents and channels. Marry the girl tomorrow and while you conceive the first child, we will build your port. But we must have the Tambootie. Three quarters of the original demand delivered in halves.”
Can you spare that much Tambootie? he threw the question at whatever dragon might be listening, and he had no doubt they heard every word of every conversation he conducted.
(Not all at once.)
“Two thirds. Half of it this season. The remainder next year. Too heavy a harvest will cripple the trees and prevent them from leafing out properly next year.” Quinnault didn’t know where that information came from, but he sensed it was true. “If you destroy the trees, you won’t have a source for your medicine should your plague break out again.”
“You will marry the girl in the morning?” Hope colored Kinnsell’s voice for the first time.
“My western and southern borders are still vulnerable.” How much could he trade for the Tambootie?
“Ties of friendship and trust will protect you better than anything we can give you. Will you marry Katie in the morning?”
“In the evening. We will have to prepare a gown and a feast.” And convince the Council. Soothe the ruffled feelings of the Commune. Placate the ambassador from SeLenicca . . .
A candlelight wedding in an ancient temple. Her mental sigh of delight filled Quinnault with deep satisfaction.
And the fairy tale gown of your dreams, white satin and pearls. He completed the mental picture for her. Seamstresses would have to work all night and all day tomorrow to alter his mother’s gown to fit this slight woman.
Katie smiled at him, only for him, and he knew the bargain was worth going to war with SeLennica. The dragons had said she would do. He agreed.
Nimbulan eased behind a tumble of boulders near the gateway into Hanassa. He fished some oddments from his pack for a disguise. Behind another jumble of rocks, Rollett squatted and made similar preparations. No sense in risking a magical delusion slipping if they had to hold the spell too long. Nimbulan loosed his hair from its queue restraint and tangled it into a rat’s nest with his fingers. Then he slipped an old black patch over his right eye. The molded fabric was threadbare and ragged around the edges. An equally ragged robe, similar to the one General Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse wore, covered his ordinary shirt and trews. The last item in his pack looked like more rags. He wound these around his head in a slipshod turban. Durt on his face and a stooped posture, dependent upon his staff for support, transformed him into an out-of-luck mercenary from Rossemeyer, seeking employment with the gangs of mercenaries headquartered in the city.
Rollett looked a little firmer of step, but equally ragged in his black robe and disintegrating turban. His own dark beard hadn’t been shaved since the morning before the battle and effectively covered the lower half of his face in shadow.
Nimbulan worked his way around the back side of the boulders so he could approach the gate from the direction of the stairway. Rollett followed silently. The sound of shuffling feet and a mournful dirge sung by a few male throats brought them to a hasty halt.
Nimbulan peered over the cliff edge toward the staircase. Nothing. The sounds echoed in the thin mountain air, defying direction. He extended his FarSight with the few reserves of dragon magic he’d gathered from Seannin.
Around the side of the mountain, on a narrow trail, level with the gate, marched several dozen people. An aura of despair, hunger, and fatigue hung over the marchers. Their emotions beat against Nimbulan’s heightened sensitivities. Beyond hatred and anger, they plodded through a routine guided by heavily armed guards.
As the group came closer, Nimbulan saw with his normal eyesight heavy, iron collars around their necks. Slaves! his mind screamed in outrage. No one had the right to own another human being. No one!
The Stargods had outlawed slavery a thousand years ago, likening it to the horrible human sacrifices demanded of the ancient demon Simurgh.
Outrage and disgust almost pushed him to confront the guards and free the captives. Where would they go in these trackless mountains without supplies, a leader, and a destination? How could he get into the city to free his wife if he disrupted the routine so boldly?
Breathing deeply to calm his rapid pulse, he clung to his hidden position, observing the sentries and their curious wands.
As he expected, the troop of slaves with their eight guards halted abruptly on the little plateau by the gate. The slaves ceased walking in unison, almost as if minds and bodies were controlled by a magician. Televarn’s Rover magic could do that. Nimbulan had barely escaped the man’s magical manipulation. He’d been looking for it and blocked the spell with his own magic. What could these poor slaves do against so insidious a master?
The rear guards set aside a pile of pitchforks, hoes, and rakes. None of the slaves carried the tools. They might use them as weapons on the march back from the fields. How were they controlled in the fields?
The two sentries with wands slapped the instruments against a rock—the same rock they’d used before. Instantly the high-pitched ringing assaulted Nimbulan’s ears. He resisted the urge to hide his head and block the sound with magic. He had to know how mundanes reacted to the noise.
Every one of the slaves froze in place. The guards with the wands moved among them, passing the magical instruments up and down, seeking. Seeking what?
As the guard approached a tall man in the center of the slave group, his wand glowed hot green, as if lit by fire within. The guard’s partner searched the immobile slave with his hands, slapping the man hard. He lingered in the region of the slave’s waist. Then he pulled a metal belt buckle out from under the man’s loose shirt. The wand faded back to its normal black iron color.
Farther down the line, the guards discovered an assortment of metal buttons and eyelets among the slaves’ ragged clothing. None of the slave collars or leg shackles reacted with the wands.
Curious. The iron must be specially treated. Nimbulan wondered if he could analyze the shackles and fabricate weapons of a similar material.
“They’re clean,” the sentry announced. At last the obnoxious humming ceased. The slaves roused from their stupor and shuffled forward, through the gate as if they hadn’t been standing frozen in place for several long minutes. Nimbulan longed to dash forward and cross the threshold with t
hem. The sentries resumed their watchful stance. He’d never get past them.
He had to divest himself of any metal not part of his disguise. Reluctantly he removed his glass from his pocket and directed Rollett to do the same. Unwrapping the layers of silk protection, he revealed the large square of precious glass framed in gold. Rollett’s journeyman’s glass was smaller and framed in bronze. Apprentice glasses were little more than a shard without a frame.
Nimbulan dented the gold rim with his belt knife until he could slip a broken fingernail beneath it. He stripped away the expensive casing, ripping his fingernail further.
The thin rim of gold weighed heavy in his hand. What to do with it? Rollett squeezed his bronze frame into two small coins. With magic, he imprinted them with a fuzzy image similar to the coins of Rossemeyer. Nimbulan chuckled to himself as he formed his gold into three slightly larger coins. What mintage should he mimic? A mercenary from Rossemeyer might have coins from a dozen countries. He settled on the image of the king of Jihab, a country that hired many mercenaries to protect their jewel merchants.
Slowly, Nimbulan counted one hundred heartbeats. Then another one hundred. The slaves were well within the city. The sentries assumed a pose of casual wariness. Rollett offered Nimbulan a supporting arm. They dragged themselves toward the gate, leaning on their staffs, as if incredibly weary.
“Who are you, and why do you approach the Dragon’s City of Hanassa?” the first sentry asked when Nimbulan shuffled to a stop in front of him.
“Dragon’s City?” he returned the question in a weak and shaking voice. The dragons, the real dragons, had said they wouldn’t approach the city. “I hope the dragons inside need another soldier for hire.”
“You don’t look strong enough to wield a belt knife, let alone a sword.” The guard with a wand stepped forward.
“Lost my sword to the bay in the s’murghin’ battle with Coronnan a few weeks past.” It had only been two days since King Quinnault and Nimbulan won that battle, but the guards wouldn’t know that. “Had to jump ship to avoid the witchfire. S’murghin’ unfair of that upstart king to fight with magicians. An honest soldier ain’t got a chance against ’em,” he grumbled.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 56
