The streets reeked of sulphur, soot, smoke and the acrid stench of wyvern droppings flowing down the open gutters. The tafarns and restaurants spread the smell of burnt meat and spilt ale, the bakeries overpowered Bran’s nostrils with the sweet, mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread and moist aroma of yeast. The river, split into several canals running through the city centre, stank of silt, seaweed and something else Bran could not easily identify — an oily chemical stench. The water in the river ran brown, with rainbow stains of grease.
The people of Brigstow liked to build high. Tall towers rose on every corner, delicate spires of steel or stocky turrets of white stone. The topmost levels of the merchant residences and aristocrat mansions appeared to float in the air, supported by a thin latticework of miststeel. The rooftops peaked in a series of narrow conical turrets, almost piercing the clouds. Bran wondered how the inhabitants could enjoy climbing so high up every day, until he saw the lifts — stone platforms rising and falling noiselessly on pillars of compressed Ninth Wind. At night, the city streets were as bright as day, illuminated with blazing evertorches and glistening sparklespheres.
This place never sleeps.
Hosts of people he had never imagined could exist in one place filled out vast market squares and broad thoroughfares. The men all wore dark frocks and tall top hats, the ladies donned flounced skirts, capes and bonnets. This was a far cry from the simple country garments he was used to back in Gwynedd, or the practical uniforms of the Academy. There were more different kinds of clothes, shoes and hats to buy at the market stalls and in shops lining the main streets of the city than he had ever thought necessary. Bran’s clothes all came from the same tailor in Caer Wyddno, and he only had two pairs of shoes, one for flying, one for walking.
In time, Bran began noticing other, more subtle, things. There were very few dragons. He had become used to their presence at the Academy, their smells, their sounds, the constant buzz of Farlink feeds passing through the air that his sensitive mind would inadvertently pick up on. Here only the town guards travelled regularly on dragonback, mounting purple hawk drakes, a small swift and agile race fit for chasing ruffians along the narrow alleyways. Sometimes a nobleman or army officer would soar past on an expensive thoroughbred. Ordinarily, however, even Emrys was bound to make a sensation when it landed in the middle of the market square, startling the much smaller, two-legged wyverns of the common townsfolk.
“A dragon is an expensive creature to keep in a city,” explained Dylan.
They were sitting on a bench in the Empress’s Square, watching the well-to-do citizens of Brigstow walking their pets. This was the only quiet part of town, although even here the honking, whistling, clacking, roaring and shouting carried over from the surrounding streets, drowning the singing of birds and wind rustling in the oaks and limes. On one side of the square the buildings were strangely ruined, abandoned, staring at the garden with black empty windows.
“You need stables, pastures… Land is too precious,” Dylan continued. “You can get anywhere by omnibus or automated carriage, really, which don’t need feed and freedom to roam.”
“And what about mages? I haven’t seen any since we arrived.”
“You won’t see them just wandering the streets, they’re always busy.” Dylan smiled. “The Brigstow wizards don’t like to cause a fuss. They’re just holed up in the Tower of Grand Magic and get everything they need delivered there… Brunel’s the only one who regularly comes down to the city, to look after his ships and trains.”
“I’m glad I didn’t go for wizardry, then.”
Dylan laughed loudly, startling a passing lindworm, which let out a puff of sulphuric steam. The creature’s owner gave him a scornful look.
“It certainly is not as glorious a job as they present it in the Academy, but think of the advances we’ve made thanks to the wizards and thaumaturgists. Imagine what this place would look like without airships, mistfire, automatons…”
Bran nodded, without conviction. In the countryside where he had grown up there was little use for these novel inventions. Spark oven and Faerie laundry was all the modern magic his mother used on a regular basis. He realised how remote his father’s life had become to that of his family. They were almost strangers.
“Yes, imagine if the Sun Priests got their way,” Dylan added to himself, gazing vacantly at Brigstow’s spiralling towers, “this place would look like Rome…”
“Have you ever been to Rome?”
The ancient Imperium was no friend to the Dracaland and travel between the two empires was rare and restricted except to the open ports of Vasconian coast.
“Only once, on a spying mission,” Dylan replied without much enthusiasm. “All the palaces, temples and circuses of the top tier are still there and they’re a magnificent sight, no doubt, but the squalor, the filth, the poverty… I have been the lower levels and I would never want to see it again.”
He shook his head.
“Lower levels?”
“The entire city is built in seven tiers, like a giant cake. You know how obsessed the Old Faithers are about the number seven. The richer and more powerful you are, the higher you live. The Imperator’s court and the Mithraeum Maximum are on the seventh tier, but the first floor is a slum bathed in perpetual darkness. Six million people in one place. Can you imagine?”
Bran couldn’t. Until they came to Brigstow he didn’t even know what a few hundred thousand people gathered in one place would look like. The world was far bigger and scarier than he had ever envisioned.
“Is it true they still have gladiator fights?”
“Oh, yes.” Dylan nodded. “The circus for the games is perhaps the greatest building in the world, and sits right in the middle of the second tier, beneath the Imperator’s palace. But they no longer fight to the death. The Romans are not barbarians, even though they are so backward. They still have the old gravity plumbing, and only the richest can afford spark ducts.”
And we’re still using a well for water and Faerie fire for heating, Bran thought.
A drop of water fell on Dylan’s nose and he looked sharply to the clouds.
“Oh, look, I do believe it’s going to rain. Finally! Let’s go to the old Trow before the skies open.”
By the morning a message had come from the harbour; their ship was ready to depart. Bran and Dylan packed their belongings and sent them via pneumatic courier to the harbour. Dylan insisted they took a leisurely stroll along the streets of Brigstow towards the seaport, one last time.
They walked down the canyons of tall yellow brick warehouses; sloping bridges, down which the porters rolled barrels of oil and wine, joined the two sides of the street. Iron cranes squeaked, lifting heavy crates to the top floor windows. At length they arrived at the river and moved along the bank, past the sleek yachts and copper-clad barges, until Dylan turned into an alley between another row of warehouses to their left and a great wall of black iron and steel to their right.
“When do we get to the ship?” Bran asked, by now completely lost. “I thought the quays would be somewhere around here.”
Dylan smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. They reached a flight of metal steps leading to the top of the wall of steel, some fifty feet up. He silently gestured Bran to climb it.
The roof of the strange edifice was completely flat, covered with wooden planks and surrounded by silksteel railing. Brass coils, glass pipes and a row of four, tall black funnels running through the middle and six tall wooden masts protruded from the rooftop, with a white mansion-like building between the third and fourth. Dockers and seamen busied themselves around the structures, hauling goods and making some hasty repairs. The whole construction filled out a wide canal joining the main docks of the Brigstow harbour with the Afon.
“You’re standing on the deck of MFS Ladon,” Dylan announced proudly, “the largest ship ever built!”
“This can’t be…”
“See for yourself!”
Dylan guide
d him around the deck. One of the structures on the bow hid a giant capstan, with an anchor chain the links of which were the size of an adult man. The quarterdeck boats attached to the sides of the ship were as large as the canal barges. The staircases leading to the lower decks were as deep and wide as those in the towers of Llambed.
“Can it even move? Where are the paddle wheels?” Bran asked, full of doubt, and Dylan smiled.
“Fifteen knots against a gale-force wind, son! It’s another feat of Master Brunel. Come, I will show you the engines.”
The engine room was built like a basilica, vast, tall, vaulted, running through the entire length of the colossal ship. The engine itself was three storeys tall, surrounded by a maintenance gallery on every level. Four giant cylinders of crystal and copper lined the floor in a row, joined by a network of pipes, valves and flanges. In the massive boiler, forming the core of the engine, hundreds of the purest Jorvik elementals rested dormant, waiting for the command from the ship’s captain. A double row of piston rods, tall as tree trunks, lay in the back of the engine room around a crankshaft.
“This turns the screw which propels the ship,” Dylan said, patting the massive crankshaft, “the largest piece of wrought faer iron in the world. We are now twenty feet under the waterline. Impressive, isn’t she?”
Bran nodded, staring agape at the tangle of metal around him. The buzz of magic needed to keep the elementals in peace, the smell of grease and oil made his head hurt. He wanted to ask about something else, but was finding it difficult to speak.
“You’re pale,” Dylan noted. “Let’s get you some fresh air. Come, I have something else to show you.”
Bran followed his father outside up the winding metal staircase and onto the raised part of the upper deck, a large platform of reinforced wood with a broad ramp leading down into the bowels of the ship.
“This is the landing deck. And ho, they’re bringing in the dragons!” cried Dylan, pointing to the sky, his eyes laughing.
Bran looked at him in surprise. Once on board a ship his father became a different man — tall, strong, bright-eyed and somehow younger and more handsome than he had ever seemed at home. Unwittingly, Bran smiled.
A squadron of Silvers and Azures landed around them. The soldiers climbed down from their beasts, unbuckling the saddlebags. Bran ran up to them. The heat of the dragon breaths made the air around the beasts shimmer.
“What unit are you?” Bran asked one of the soldiers, not recognising the winged anchor insignia on their navy blue uniforms.
The man was lanky, slim and silver-haired. When he turned to answer, his cat-like eyes glistened bright amber in the sun.
“You’re Faer Folk!”
“And you’re a rude little boy,” the soldier said with a grin. “Why so surprised? Haven’t you seen a Tylwyth before?”
“I didn’t know you served in the army.”
“Why not?” The soldier shrugged. “Even Faer Folk need money these days. You can’t spend all your life hunting and singing. Not when there’s no more game in the forests.”
“I’ve seen your people… Dancing in Brycheiniog.”
The Tylwyth nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s where my mother comes from. They are the last to keep to the old ways.”
There was among the dragons one very different from the others, a sleek, smooth-scaled bronze beast, with large, wise eyes and long, slim neck.
“Who’s flying that?” Bran asked, admiring the beautiful creature.
“You are, son.”
His father approached. The soldiers stood to attention.
“At ease, men. Soldiers, this is my son, Bran. Bran, this is the Second Dragoon Regiment of the Royal Marines. We’ll be travelling together.”
The soldiers saluted the boy, but Bran’s attention was elsewhere.
“What did you say?”
“It’s your new dragon, Bran. A bronze thoroughbred — fast, elegant and presentable as befits my son. It’s the latest fashion among young riders these days, I hear.”
The joyous mood perished in an instant. Bran narrowed his eyes and leaned his head forwards.
“This is not my dragon. Where’s Emrys?”
“That old thing? I left it at the hotel. But look at this one, son! Isn’t it a beauty?”
“I don’t care, father. I’m going to get Emrys.”
He pushed through the soldiers, passing his father by. Dylan reached out to him.
“Son, wait.” There was pleading breaking through his commanding voice that made Bran stop and turn. Dylan nodded at him to step aside, away from the unloading soldiers.
“I know this is not easy for you, but it’s better to do it now, before we leave.”
Bran relaxed his fists and unclenched his teeth.
“I’m sorry, father. It’s a beautiful mount, and I’m sure it was expensive, but I can’t leave without Emrys.”
“But you’re too old! It’s as if you’d insisted on bringing a pony! It’s a danger for you — and for the others in the open sea. It’s bound to go feral soon.”
“It will stay calm as long as I’m with it.”
“You can’t promise that and I can’t take that risk. If you want to sail with us, you must leave the dragon behind.”
“Very well. I’m going back home. Maybe I can still make it to the inauguration, just like you wanted.”
“It’s you who wanted to come with me in the first place!” he heard as he stormed towards the metal stair.
“What happened? I’ve seen the boy leave the ship in a great huff.”
Dylan was pretending to study the maps, too distraught to focus, when Reeve Gwenlian found him on the bridge.
“I’ve decided my son is not mature enough for this journey,” he said, turning to her.
It’d been months since he had last seen her soft features, surrounded by a storm of jet-black hair. He almost forgot about the quarrel.
“You’re letting him go back home?”
Dylan’s fingers rattled on the table.
“Tell me, Gwen — at what age does a young dragon rider obtain his second mount?”
“I got mine when I was thirteen.”
“And the third?”
“Ooh… seventeen I think. What is this about?”
“Bran’s had his beast since he was ten. It’s a Marsh Wyrm!”
“So?”
“He refuses to leave it on shore.”
“Is that it?” She almost laughed. “I’m sorry, Dylan — I mean, Ardian ab Ifor — ”
“It’s alright, we’re alone here.”
“Dylan — I know you’re used to tough negotiations, but the lad’s your son. It was to be your first trip together. Let him be.”
“You sound like the boy’s mother,” he scoffed, “but you’re a rider yourself, you should know better. By Owain’s Sword, how can I make a man of my son if I let him keep his childhood toys?”
“Looks like you’ve been doing a great job so far. You know what will make him even more manly? A whole another year without seeing his father.”
He took a deep breath. This whole affair was taking too much of his time and nerves. The ship was about to take off and he hadn’t even talked to its captain yet.
“How do you know so much about me and Bran? I don’t remember telling you about my family.”
“I have brothers — and I know you,” she replied, touching his face gently. Her face lit up in one of her famous smiles.
From dragonback, Bran could appreciate the full size of the MFS Ladon. It was aptly named after the legendary Broodfather of the volcanic dragons, Ladon of the Hesperides. Other vessels, even the great ocean-going warships, seemed like mere toys compared to this black floating monster. The four enormous funnels of the ship were already spewing white steam as the elementals inside the engine cauldron awoke in preparation for the voyage.
Feeling the warm Ninth Wind on his face calmed him down. He still wanted to sail — even more now that he had finally seen the
ship — and the thought of coming back to school filled him with dread. But there was nothing Bran could think of that would convince Dylan to take Emrys. His reasons made sense, but Bran wished Dylan acted more like a father than a soldier. And for as long as Bran remembered, in Dylan’s mind the navy had always taken precedence over the family.
If I start flying now, I should be at Abertawe before nightfall — and back home for tomorrow’s lunch… Mother will be surprised.
He saw a silver shape launching from the Ladon’s deck. Father? No, the dragon was smaller and nimbler than Afreolus; but it was heading unmistakably towards him and as the beast got closer he saw an astonishingly beautiful and strong faced black-haired woman riding it.
“You must be Bran,” she cried over the sound of her dragon’s beating wings, “I’m your father’s Reeve, Gwenlian. Ardian ab Ifor asked me to take you back to the ship.”
“I’m not leaving my dragon!” he cried back.
“It’s alright. You can keep it. Come, the ship is about to steam off.”
As he landed, Bran could feel the entire deck humming and trembling with the tremendous power of the engine. Emrys snorted uneasily; this was unlike any surface it had landed on before.
“I will take you to your quarters,” the Reeve said and smiled warmly at Bran, removing her goggles. Her eyes were dark as night. He felt his cheeks redden.
“What did you call my father? Ard…”
“Ardian — that’s his rank in the Royal Marines, commander of the regiment. You may have noticed our titles are different from the other units. I’m a Reeve — equivalent of a Sergeant.”
Commander of the regiment?
This meant all the riders on the ship were under his command. Bran knew Dylan must have been a high-ranking officer, but he had never suspected just quite how high.
I know nothing about him, really, he realised.
“Can I talk to him now?”
“He’ll be busy at the bridge, with the ship’s captain and all the steersmen. We’re sailing any minute now and there are still some preparations to take care of.”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 10
