A Storm in the Desert: Dragonlinked Chronicles Voume 3

by Adolfo Garza Jr.

  “Do you have anyone special? A boy or a girl?”

  Cal stared at Bertram. He didn’t seem to understand what some of the questions had to do with anything. He sneered. “I had ta spend every minute schemin’ ta get food in mah belly, weren’t no time ta look for someone ‘special.’”

  Fillion thought he understood what Bertram was doing. Mixing personal questions with real ones kept Cal off-balance, and it kept him answering.

  “This town where they hired you, where is it?”

  “From here?” Cal shrugged. “I ain’t no tracker. We made mostly west for here after I got hired, though, so, east?”

  “Was the journey exciting?”

  Cal shrugged again. “They din’ push hard, but t’weren’t no pleasure trip neither. Jus’ got here today. First stop, she said. We were gonna visit a few places an’—” His eyes widened a bit.

  “I see.” Bertram nodded. “Thank you, Cal.” He looked at the watchman. “Gag him and take him back. Bring the big one next.”

  When Cal had been led away, Fillion turned to Bertram. “Why did you choose him to be first?”

  “He was the youngest and the least kempt of them. He’s either less professional, and thus more likely to reveal information, or extremely clever. He was answering truthfully, for the most part, so the former is more likely.”

  Fillion nodded. It made sense. There was one thing that didn’t though. “About those soap brands, just because they were made in Stronghold doesn’t mean they were bought there, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. They could have been bought anywhere in the east, and, in fact, I’m sure Cal isn’t from Stronghold. The other two, however, are.”

  “Why couldn’t the toiletries have been bought here, well, say, in Pellucid?”

  “This far west? I think not. Once more rail lines like Lord Eldin’s link them, goods from one coast will be more readily available on the other. But as it is now, it takes a great deal of time to transport anything from that far away. More expensive, too. A merchant wouldn’t order goods from the other side of the continent if the same could be had from nearby. No, west coast brands are all you’ll likely find on this end of Muirgen.”

  The man had a point, Fillion had to admit. It was just so odd to have Stronghold come up again.

  It took longer, but eventually, the big man revealed his name to be Nold. He had much less to say than Cal, however.

  Bertram smiled. “Come now, Nold. Who do you work for?”

  “I’m not sayin’ nothing.” The big man looked away.

  Bertram stood and faced Nold with less than two feet between them.

  Nold, who had a good four inches on the interrogator, gazed down at him with a look of curiosity.

  Bertram removed the pry-bar from somewhere in his coat and smacked it in his palm, much the same way Nold had earlier.

  Fillion stared at him. When had he picked up the tool?

  Nold, for his part, only had eyes for the tool. His brows were drawn together, as if he might suddenly be worried. The ropes binding his arms at his sides made little noises. Was he trying them for looseness?

  “I’m sure you know what this is, right?” Bertram held the bar up.

  “A s–spike-puller. What of it?”

  Ah, Fillion thought. So that’s what they’re called.

  Bertram smiled. “Yes. And can you see this?” He held it up for the big man and pointed to something on its side. “Hmm? It’s a manufacturer’s stamp. Someone tried to chisel the name off, but if you take the remnants of the name from all the tools, it’s clear that this says Stronghold Tool Company.”

  Nold frowned and stared ahead.

  “Ah, yes. You can see the point I’m trying to make.” Bertram started walking slowly around Nold, smacking the spike-puller into his hand from time to time. “Every little thing about you three points to the east coast, and to Stronghold in particular.”

  Nold kept his gaze forward, attempting, Fillion supposed, to seem calm and untroubled. The wrinkle between his brows and the slight frown implied differently.

  “These tools are from Stronghold.” Smack. “You came from the east.” Smack. “Receipts and tickets in your bags are from Stronghold.” Smack. “Even your shaving soap is from Stronghold.”

  Bertram stopped pacing behind Nold and stood, waiting.

  When there wasn’t another smack of tool into hand, Nold glanced sideways as if he were thinking of looking behind.

  Fillion didn’t know why, but he was now certain who these people worked for. “How long have you worked for National Transportation?”

  Nold’s eyes widened before he blinked and stared forward again. “National what?” His left shoulder rose a touch and he said, “I don’t work for them.”

  He lies.

  Fillion glanced at Coatl. The dragon watched them from where he lay a few dozen feet away. “Coatl says you lie.”

  “Does he now?” Bertram glanced at Coatl a moment, then walked in front of Nold. “Have you heard of Tiberius? Do you know him?”

  Surprisingly, the name sounded familiar to Fillion, for some reason.

  Nold, however, acted as if he did not know it. “Who?”

  He recognizes the name.

  Fillion glanced at Coatl and smiled. “He knows the name.” This was going to make the questioning so much easier.

  Nold’s brows nearly touched now and his jaw muscles were twitching.

  Bertram glanced at Fillion and nodded. Turning back to Nold, he said, “Did Tiberius order you to do the wrecking?”

  “I told you, I’ve never heard . . . No.”

  That may be true. It is hard to say. When he thinks of the name, he does not imagine a face.

  “He might be telling the truth. Nold’s not in charge of this little group. I don’t think he’s ever met Tiberius. Perhaps crazy woman is the only one who has?”

  Bertram stared at Nold. “That’s possible.” Then, to the guard, he said, “Gag him, take him back, and bring the woman.”

  As the guard followed Nold around the corner, Fillion asked Bertram, “Who’s Tiberius?”

  “He owns National Transportation.” The man frowned. “Well, not outright. The ownership is a little complicated. But it’s his company.”

  Fillion grunted. The name was familiar, he just wasn’t sure why. Maybe Gregor had mentioned it at some time. National Transportation was one of his father’s competitors, after all.

  When the gag was removed, crazy woman spit on the ground, nearly hitting Bertram’s shoe. Her glares weren’t reserved for Fillion alone anymore. “Piss on all of you.”

  Looking up from the spit and his shoe, Bertram said, “You’re a charming one, aren’t you?” He looked her over, noting her face, her hair, and her clothing. Nothing seemed to escape his scrutiny.

  Fillion glanced at the same things, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Had Bertram learned anything?

  “How much do you enjoy leading this merry little band of wreckers?” the man asked. “One of them is hardly more than a boy, while the other is a giant of a man, though quite loyal to you. Even so, we were able to learn some things from them.”

  A sly grin split her face. “The kid knows nothing and Nold won’t talk.”

  “Ah, my dear, but I don’t need them to talk. Actions, many times, speak louder than words.” He leaned forward, gaze locked with hers. “For instance, when I say Tiberius . . .”

  Fillion caught a subtle change in her expression.

  “There,” Bertram said, pointing at her. “Right there. The grin stayed on your lips, but your eyes. There was recognition, and surprise.”

  Fillion had seen that, too. Her eyes had gone flat, then widened a touch.

  She imagines a face when she thinks of the name. It is blurred to me, fuzzy, but it is there.

  “She knows him,” Fillion said. “And she’s met him, too. She knows what he looks like.”

  All trace of humor gone, crazy woman looked from him to Bertram. “I don’t know what you’
re talking about.”

  “Will you tell me your name?”

  Her lips pressed together.

  “Come now. Or would you prefer I continue to call you ‘crazy woman,’ as my young friend here does?”

  She shot a glare at him, then returned her gaze to Bertram. She looked to be trying to make up her mind. After a moment, her expression turned fierce. “Iris.”

  Fillion stared at her, eyes wide. Like the flower? That was such a . . . delicate-sounding name.

  She glanced at him and glared. “Close your mouth, shit-sprout.”

  “Iris,” Bertram said, “we know you’re from Stronghold. We know you work for National—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  She lies.

  Fillion didn’t need Coatl’s help to know that. Everything they’d discovered so far led to only one conclusion.

  Bertram stared at her. “The odds I’m right are better than the odds Midnight Kiss won that race.”

  Her eyes grew large. “How do you know—” Clamping her lips shut, she stared straight ahead.

  Bertram pulled the wager ticket from his coat pocket and looked it over. “Most people don’t place bets in a city they do not plan on returning to. And really, Iris, twenty marks on Midnight Kiss at seventy-five to one? Those are pretty long odds.”

  “With twenty marks,” Fillion said, “a person could probably live three weeks? Four? A month?” He looked from Iris to Bertram. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  The man nodded. “Indeed. Times are still hard many places. Twenty marks goes a long way. And yet, Iris, you toss twenty marks at a horse like it means nothing.”

  Bertram looked back at the ticket. “Or, perhaps it means everything? Is this supposed to be your way out, then? If Midnight Kiss won the race, when you take this back, the payout will be one thousand, five hundred and twenty marks.”

  Fillion whistled. He couldn’t even imagine that much money.

  “A person could travel anywhere with that, maybe even start a new life.” Bertram held the ticket up between forefinger and index finger.

  The muscles in her jaw twitched over and over.

  He tucked the ticket back in his coat and sat back. “My boss is a bit of a bastard.”

  Iris glanced at him, brows drawn together.

  “More than a bit, truth be told.”

  Fillion frowned. “I can vouch for that.”

  Bertram’s gaze flicked to him for a moment, and a faint smile briefly lifted the corners of his mouth before he continued. “He expects his employees to work their asses off, but only pays average wages. Less than average, in some cases. I’d guess Tiberius is the same.”

  Her gaze lowered.

  “The manufacturer’s name was chiseled off all your tools. Your bosses must expect that some of the wrecking crews, if not all of them, will be caught. They want nothing physical that can lead anywhere near them. But as far as the crews themselves, they probably don’t care what happens to them. I bet you’ve been paid in cash for these types of escapades, too, so there will be no evidence of payment to you in the company’s accounting books. If anything goes to court, there will be no solid proof—it will be the word of the company against the word of a few less-than-reputable scoundrels.”

  Iris stared at the ground.

  “You’re done, my dear. If you even exist on their payroll, you’ll be fired the minute word reaches National Transportation that you were caught. They’ll say they were shocked to learn of your doings and were forced to let you go for such heinous actions. Or, something along those lines, anyway. Meanwhile, you’ll rot in gaol for who knows how long. However, if you help me, I could help you.”

  She didn’t lift her gaze. “What do you want to know?”

  It wasn’t until much later, as Fillion lay awake listening to Gregor’s soft breathing, that he realized why the name Tiberius was familiar. He was the one who signed for the chests on that shipping receipt from the safe deposit box! Fillion’s excitement and surprise was such that he almost shook Gregor awake to give him the news, but he refrained. It had been a busy day for the healer and tomorrow was another combat training day for them all. He should really get to sleep himself. Thoughts about his realization kept him awake for a bit longer, however.

  Tiberius owned National Transportation, yet he received the chests personally. Whatever was in them was important enough that he didn’t leave that task to another. But what could have been in them? What was so valuable that he’d have someone killed over it?

  What in Yrdra’s deepest hells was National Transportation digging up in the desert?

  Chapter 16

  Sulday, Primory 24, 1875.

  Noon

  Fillion took a swallow of the hot cider and glanced at Aeron. He was complaining, again, about his shrine lessons.

  “It’s not as if I have extra time to learn all this, too.” He poked at his lunch with a fork.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Willem looked a little frustrated. “Complain all you want, but you will learn the proper rites. It’s a small price to pay to help ensure your safety.”

  “Besides,” Sharrah added, “Guildmaster Millinith wants you to as well.”

  “We’re almost done, anyway,” Polandra said. “You’ve been surprisingly good at learning it all.”

  Renata nodded. “Yeah, we’re going to be there with you, so you only need to know enough to not make any big mistakes. We’ve given you everything already. It’s just a matter of memorization and practice.”

  “I suppose.” Aeron’s expression brightened. “Hey, after lunch, anyone want to go see what progress they’ve made on the living quarters at the Guildhall?”

  “That’s a great idea,” Fillion said. “I’m looking forward to moving in there.”

  “Can I catch a ride with you, Aeron?” Sharrah said. “I’d like to see the rooms, too.”

  During the last of lunch, they worked out who was riding with whom. It seemed everyone wanted to see the progress on the rooms they all would soon be living in. Even the light snow couldn’t put a damper on the short trip.

  All the dragons, at least those large enough to be ridden, stood about the courtyard, riders on their backs. Fluffy flakes fell slowly around them. Now and then a few swirled about, caught in unseen air currents caused by one thing or another—dragons exhaling, people talking, enormous wings and bodies moving.

  Xochi snapped her mouth at a few and caught them. The action, reminding him of a curious dog or cat, made Fillion smile. Zolin must have said something, because Jessip glanced at his big bond-mate and chuckled.

  “I’ll open the gateway there,” Fillion said from Coatl’s saddle.

  “I’ll do the one back.” Willem glanced at him. “To share out the load, so to speak.”

  “Sounds good.” Fillion looked up and wove the enchantment. The portal appeared moments later, a misty orb floating in the gray sky. By tradition, the pair who’d created the portal led the way through.

  Let’s go, big guy.

  Coatl rumbled in acknowledgment, lowered slightly, then leapt upward, enormous wings pounding the air.

  Gregor’s chuckle vibrated against Fillion’s back. The healer loved flying on Coatl. Chuckles and laughs and even wild whoops of joy sometimes came from him as they were taking off. His love of flying was but one more thing that Fillion shared with him.

  The same fat flakes twirled and fell lazily at the Guildhall. Coatl circled down to one of the ledges open to the sky. Depending on the size of the ledge, up to four suites of underground rooms would open on it from inside. This one currently had but one suite of rooms attached, though the plans showed that eventually there would be three.

  The dragonlinked suites took up most of the top ‘floor’ of the Guildhall, because they needed places of one sort or another to allow dragons to take off and land. The inner rooms, however, those not near the sides, needed a different kind of dragon access. Instead of ledges, they’d have large openings that put him in m
ind of the sinkholes he’d heard about but never seen. From the sky, they’d look like enormous mouths opening on courtyards about the size of the one at the dragon stables. Four suites would surround the yards. Drainage grates would keep the courtyards clear of water during rainstorms and would carry off snow melt, as well. Fillion had heard tell of debris traps in those drains that would require periodic cleaning. More chores for them, no doubt. It would be worth the effort, though. These rooms were very nice.

  Coatl landed and they hopped off, waiting for the rest. When the last dragon was through the portal, Fillion closed it. One by one the other dragons set down beside them on the ledge.

  Rubbing his hands together, Aeron headed inside. “Let’s see how many more rooms are complete.”

  To their disappointment, it seemed the focus of living quarters enchanting had been on the non-dragonlinked suites on the floors below.

  “It sort of makes sense,” Sharrah said. “After all, there are a lot of support staff that will need rooms, too. I imagine staff will always outnumber dragonlinked. At least dragonlinked that live here at the Guildhall. Once their training is complete, like in other crafts, most dragonlinked will likely head off for work elsewhere.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Renata said. “Dragonlinked quarters aren’t as high priority right now as staff quarters, though a few are still being enchanted.”

  Cheddar nodded. “I spotted a couple more dragon suites being worked on as I flew in. I wish they’d work on more of the ledge suites, though. I want one of those.”

  Sharrah seemed troubled. “You’re not worried about falling off?”

  Fillion thought he remembered seeing railings on the plans for those suites.

  Cheddar laughed. “How would I fall off? Besides, I think there will be a protective fence of some kind along the edge.”

  “I was hoping more of our rooms would have been completed,” Willem said, sounding a little deflated. “I wanted to see if there would be any variation in them.”