The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

“I want to sail with you on your next voyage, Father,” Bran said with a firm, unwavering voice.

  Rhian put down her cup of afternoon tea noisily and looked at her two men with concern.

  Out of the question! Dylan wanted to say, but only sat down and started at his son, dumbfounded. He suspected Bran’s primary motive was a trip overseas and back, giving him at least a year to decide about his future.

  “You’ve told me so many stories about your youth out at sea,” argued Bran, as the silence prolonged, “but I’ve never been anywhere. My idea of a ‘faraway land’ is Glowancestre!”

  “I only joined the corps after eight years in the Academy,” Dylan reminded him, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  He had sailed around most of the Dracaland’s colonial dominion before the age of twelve, accompanying Ifor on various merchant and warships. He had witnessed all the perils and dangers of life on the open sea and hoped to shelter his son from them, but it seemed the call of blood could no longer be ignored.

  “And you are certain this is what you want?”

  He raised his green eyes and looked straight into Bran’s to try to discern the truth.

  “On my dragon’s wings,” the boy replied with an oath understood by every dragon rider.

  “Let me talk to your mother in private.”

  Dylan stood up and nodded at Rhian. They disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I knew it would end like this. He kept asking me about your father, he did.”

  “It was bound to happen. He’s got the Sea in his blood. Like me.”

  “You’re not thinking of letting him go with you?”

  Dylan bit his lips nervously and took her by a hand.

  “Is that such a bad idea? A trip like this would be a perfect opportunity for us to bond.”

  “He’s your only son, Dylan. He should be at school. You could force this decision on him if needed be.”

  “Then he will despise me even more.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous out there?” she asked.

  It’s not exactly safe here, either, thought Dylan, remembering the bone dragon.

  “I have been sailing for almost thirty years now and no harm has ever come to me. Besides, this is just a simple diplomatic mission.”

  “He is not you,” she said.

  “He’s not a dwt anymore — he’ll be sixteen next year. His friends are already joining the army.”

  Rhian sat down on a stool and gazed outside the kitchen window.

  “You Gwaelod folk just can’t stay in one place for too long. It’s that damned sea at your doorstep. I should have gotten used to it by now.”

  Dylan embraced her tenderly.

  “Look at the boy, Rhian. I can sense his dislike. He thinks I dislike him! I’ve never taken him anywhere; I’m always late for everything. We’d be back before summer.”

  She gave him the look of silent, resigned disapproval he had known so well.

  “I will consider it,” he told Bran when they returned to the room. “I’m to sail to the land of Qin in October, so I’d suggest you learn whatever there is to learn about it. At any rate, a little knowledge never hurt anybody.”

  “Yes, Father,” Bran said, bowing respectfully, barely containing his excitement.

  He walked slowly out of the living room, but as soon as he was out through the doorway, he sprinted to the stables.

  Dylan looked after him and shook his head.

  “I do hope he’s not planning on taking that thing with him…”

  CHAPTER VII

  Gwynedd, October, 2606 ab urbe condita

  “What’s that on the coast, Father?” Bran shouted over the wind.

  Emrys was slowly growing tired, barely keeping up with Dylan’s silver dragon. They had travelled over a hundred miles since leaving Cantre’r Gwaelod early in the morning, and were flying over the mighty Severn Barrage construction grounds — an imposing wall of faer iron and silksteel, stretching for over ten miles across the estuary, that was to provide the Dracalish mages with an inexhaustible supply of Water Elementals — when an even more unusual sight on the horizon caught the boy’s attention.

  “That’s a city, boy!” laughed Dylan. “That’s Brigstow!”

  The city surpassed his boldest expectations. Neither Aberdaugleddau, a port town in southern Gwynedd he had often travelled to, nor Caerlion, the largest settlement west of the Dyke, could even compare to this immense expanse of stone, timber and tile.

  Before reaching Brigstow itself, they first had to pass over a deep gorge, carved where the river raced towards the sea. A tremendous tower of gleaming white marble spiralled upwards some three hundred feet, parts of it still under construction, cranes and scaffolding climbing around crenelated walls, peaked arches and buttresses. On the other side of the gorge another smaller tower grew over a golden dome and a grandiose sandstone building. A broad bridge thrown over the gorge, suspended on silver silksteel ropes, connected the two structures.

  “That’s Clistane, the Tower of High Magic,” explained Dylan as they circled the taller spire, “and the Brigstow Academy on the other side. Designed by the arch-thaumaturgist Brunel, himself.”

  Dylan’s voice, used to shouting orders in the midst of battle, carried loud over the buffeting of wind above and the din of harbour below.

  “And that one?” Bran mouthed, pointing to another tall ornate spire of red brick and white limestone.

  It towered over a vast vaulted structure, with copper roof supported by a forest of wrought iron columns, hidden behind a turreted facade of black granite. A huge tube of imbued glass emerged from the eastern side of the building and disappeared into a nearby hillside.

  “That’s a terminus of the Atmospheric to Lundenburgh,” his father replied. “A two-hour journey takes you straight into the heart of the capital. That’s also one of Brunel’s.”

  The city spread out for at least three miles each way, street after street of tall, massive stone houses, palaces, towers, warehouses and wharves. Bran felt as if they had travelled not only in space, but in time. A few hours before they had left their little slate house where Rhian was baking cakes for breakfast using an old iron griddle and a single fire faery. The house and the little town of Caer Wyddno — with its grey stone walls, fishermen coming from their morning catch, farmers departing to till the barley fields — seemed like something out of the Age of Unbridled Flame now as they circled over the naval harbour, a marvel of engineering and thaumaturgy, floating above the river in a series of terraced cascading docks supported on arches of wrought faer iron.

  Modern, sleek, mistfire-powered ironclads prepared for their long journeys, spreading the power of the Dracalish Empire over the high seas. There were battleships and frigates, infantry transports and dragon carriers. A few airships hovered above it all, ever watchful. One of them, a streamlined chaser, approached Bran and his father menacingly, to ward them off, away from the docks. The Dracaland was always at war somewhere with somebody; it was its way and purpose.

  They ascended to avoid a large glowing orb, travelling slowly in a perfectly straight line — a carrier wisp, delivering some important message to one of the ironclads. Another long line of warships piqued the boy’s interest, steaming out of the harbour at full speed.

  “Where are they all going?”

  “There is some trouble brewing in the Scythian Sea,” said Dylan. “The Varyaga and the Shahr are at each other’s throats again, and Rome will not stand by idly either, when there’s fighting so close to Taurica.”

  Bran was barely familiar with the names his father dropped so effortlessly. He knew only that the Scythian Sea was somewhere east, far beyond Midgard.

  “Taurica?”

  “A province of Rome on the northern coast of the Sea, stuck like a thorn in Varyaga’s side. Remind me to show you the map later, if you’re curious. The koenigs of Varyaga have been eyeing it for a long time.”

  “And why is our fleet involved in this?”

  “The
balance of power must be sustained. Rome, Varyaga and the Shahr are the most powerful nations on the continent — we can’t let any of them grow any stronger.”

  “We will stand against all three?”

  “By Owain’s Sword, no!” Dylan said, laughing. “That would be our doom. Diplomacy, trade, spying — that’s the great game the Dracaland plays, son. The navy will be just one of our assets.”

  They banked to avoid another airship emerging from beyond a steep tower. It was black and threatening, armoured with iron spiked plates.

  “A Midgard delegation,” said Dylan, pointing to the Fafnir insignia painted on the side of the ship, an emerald dragon over two crossed swords, volant, which served as the symbol of this militant northern nation. “I wonder what their official business is, apart from spying on our fleet. You know, I’m glad we’re leaving now. Your mother worried needlessly — the East should be a much more peaceful place than here.”

  Bran looked down to the bustle of the streets below, overwhelmed by the immense splendour of the city. He could not believe the crowds moving along the broad pavements and boardwalks. They seemed like living creatures, giant, thousand-headed serpents slithering their way in every direction.

  “How many people live in this place?”

  “More than in all of Gwynedd combined!” his father yelled back over the noise of the factories, mills and mistfire plants they passed as they circled the eastern industrial district. One of the multitude of chimneys belched out a great cloud of thick, black sooty smoke. Dylan’s dragon swerved right immediately, but Emrys was too slow and rushed straight through it.

  Bran and his dragon hovered over the factory, both covered in soot, coughing and spluttering. The boy futilely tried to wipe the black dust from his goggles. The silver drake looked at them with scorn. Dylan stifled a laugh and sighed.

  “All right, that’s the end of sightseeing. I can see your dragon is too exhausted, let’s get you to the hotel. There’s only one in Brigstow, but it’s quite decent.”

  “What’s a hotel?”

  “An inn! Of sorts.”

  The Brigstow Grand looked like no inn Bran had ever seen. The ground floor was shot through with giant panes of crystal glass, and there were three more rows of windows above it, dividing the yellow facade with straight stylish lines. A balcony with intricate iron balustrades spanned the length of the second floor. The roof was surrounded with a line of sculpted plaster supported by heavy stone brackets.

  The valets reached for the dragons to take them away to the stables. Emrys was anxious at first, but Bran managed to placate the beast and it shuffled off, still snorting and sneezing from the dust. The boy followed his father through the entrance, a portal of crystal and wormfire-wrought steel, braided and spliced together in floral ornaments worthy of a nobleman’s palace. The lobby was as big as the Great Auditorium at Llambed and lavishly decorated. Bran felt dizzy from all the excitement — and the black smoke he’d inhaled.

  “See that dining hall, son?” Dylan said and pointed to another crystal and steel entrance. “Get yourself cleaned up and come down here for supper. I have to deal with a few formalities and make sure all our bags have arrived. The bellboy will take you to our room.”

  The “room” was an apartment, almost as big as their slate-roofed house in Caer Wyddno, with a palatial bathroom, blue-tiled, with a huge enamelled bath. The water was kept hot constantly by a couple elementals trapped in the fire-stone piping.

  Soaking himself in the luxurious bath, he wondered why Dylan had never taken him to a place like this before. Brigstow did not lie beyond impassable mountains and oceans, it was easily reachable by dragon or mistfire omnibus. Why had they never moved to a city? Life here seemed much more convenient than in Gwaelod — and much more interesting.

  Half an hour later they were sitting by a large oak table, waiting for the main course. Dylan wore a knee-length black frock coat embroidered with golden thread, with silk-faced lapels and a grey waistcoat. His face, furrowed by age and experience like a bark of an old fir tree, was smooth-shaven and freshly powdered to conceal the scar on the left cheek and his eyes, glinting the same green as his son, shone brightly. Bran had never seen his father look so dapper before.

  A human-shaped, turbaned and bearded creature of smoke and fire whooshed out of thin air by their table, with a carafe of rose wine and a bread basket.

  “Who… or what… was that?” whispered Bran when the creature had disappeared in a puff of scentless smoke.

  “That’s a Djinni. They come from the deserts of Durrani,” explained Dylan. “A few of them served as porters and interpreters in the Dracalish army and when we moved out, they chose to come with us rather than remain and be branded traitors.”

  “I don’t know these names. We weren’t taught anything about this history.”

  “I’m not surprised. These were Dracaland’s wars, not Prydain, and not something to boast about. The Queen’s armies tried to conquer the Durrani some three years after you were born, but they were decimated. They say only one dragon survived the retreat from Gandhara.”

  “I thought the Dracalish soldiers were invincible.”

  “Mm, so did they.”

  “Were you taking part in this war?”

  “No.” Dylan shook his head. “I was never in that part of the world. Durrani is inland, between Varyaga and Bharata.” The tip of Dylan’s finger lit up and he traced a simple map in the air. The drawing hovered for a moment before Dylan dispersed it with a wave. “Maybe one day. We will return to Durrani, eventually, it’s too precious to leave it alone. The Dragon Throne always hungers for more riches.”

  He keeps saying we, thought Bran. He didn’t like it. Although both sides of the Dyke were formally united under one crown, most of the freemen of Gwynedd prided themselves in their independence from the White Dragon Throne in Lundenburgh.

  The Djinni appeared again, this time with platters of fancily prepared meats and salads. Dylan chose the dishes, as the names on the menu, all in Latin, meant nothing to Bran.

  “This is duck, I believe,” explained Dylan.

  “How… how is this duck?”

  The bits his father pointed to on the platter resembled no food he had ever seen.

  “It’s foamed and pressed through a cold steel tube.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a restaurant for spoiled city folk who are bored with normal food. But that’s still tasty.”

  “And this?”

  Bran pointed to a small golden cube.

  “Try it.”

  The boy gingerly put the cube into his mouth. At first it tasted of seared beef, but then it exploded in his mouth with a rainbow of tastes and aromas, which he barely recognised. Bran opened his eyes wide. Dylan laughed.

  “The cook here is also a wizard. I’m sure there are many other surprises like this. But now, tell me, what have you managed to learn about Qin?” Dylan asked, putting a spoonful of foamed duck onto his plate.

  “Not a lot,” Bran admitted. “I read of the silk trade, of their wars with the Horse Khans and Toshara, and their dragons… I studied this Boym’s Travelogue you gave me. But it looks so old! Are you sure it’s up to date?”

  Dylan chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not. But we don’t have much else. You’ll find the Qin are a notoriously elusive race.”

  Two centuries had passed since the Venedian named Boym had travelled the length of the old Silk Route, across the great plains of southern Varyaga, the steppes of the Horse Lords and the deserts of Toshara before reaching Ta Du, the capital of the mighty Qin. In the West, the Wizardry Wars had been at their most terrible. Millions perished in battle, poverty and famine but Qin was populous, rich, peaceful and technologically advanced beyond imagining. Boym had spent a great part of the book describing the marvels of the Emperor’s palace, as big as a Western city, clockwork humans that raced down the corridors with messages, walls that moved aside on their own as the guest approached, mechanical servants pouring tea
and war machines that marched on legs of metal.

  “I learned about the Qin dragons, long, at the Academy. They say you don’t feel dragon fear around them but rather a dragon awe.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Not long after Boym’s travels the Qin sealed themselves off behind a giant shield, like a country-sized tarian, impenetrable to outsiders. Haijin, they called it, the Sea Ban.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “You’ve read the books. Back then the Qin was an island of wonder in the sea of despair. There was nothing the outside world could offer them except refugees and disease.”

  Bran pondered the news briefly.

  “You said we’re sailing to Qin…”

  Dylan smiled.

  “Ten years ago we’ve managed to penetrate their shield by force and establish a factory. There is now decent trade flourishing between Dracaland and Qin.”

  “Then what are we going to do when we get there?”

  “You, boy, will be mostly sightseeing and learning.” Dylan pointed his fork at Bran’s pouting face. “I have my mission, and that is an actual state secret, so I’m not telling you anything else. You’ll read about it when the state archives open in fifty years.

  “Be Sires caring for appraisal of our dessert course?” interrupted the Djinni, hovering over the table with a silver bowl. “We having offering of sherbet of hibiscus and sandalwood, or offering of pistachio halva, garnished with saffron.”

  “I’ll have the halva,” Dylan said, “the boy will have sherbet. You’ll love it,” he added, smiling at his son.

  Bran only nodded, too busy trying to tell apart the changing flavours in his mouth.

  The airships passing overhead whirred their propellers monotonously. The mistfire carriages — Bran had only seen one of the contraptions before, driven by the richest merchant in Caer Gwyddno — clinked and clanked about the broad cobbled avenues with a whistle like a boiling kettle. The omnibuses, crammed full of people, hurried between their destinations with the great roar of their elemental-powered engines, ringing of bells, screeching of geared wheels upon grooved iron tracks. The horses whinnied, the wyverns bellowed, the paperboys and greengrocers tried their best to shout over the constant din.