The trolley arrived on creaking wheels, the serving girls, with frightened eyes cast at Kestimar, set the dishes on the table, then scurried away.
Tella and Kestimar fell into their usual morning dance – he grumbling about everything, she trying to tempt his appetite with choice pieces of fruit or fish. Ruell had heard it all before, and always admired her restraint. His mother might be testy with everyone else when they displeased her, yet with Kestimar she displayed infinite patience. Ruell tried to emulate her, but it was hard to do when Kestimar put up such an effective wall against the world. He had always been tough to please, but now he was impossible and only Tella bothered to try.
The door opened to admit Mikah, as splendid as usual in his uniform. Ruell automatically sat up a little straighter. Mikah was only twenty-eight, very young to be the guard captain, and there had been some muttering about his rapid promotion, but to twenty-year-old Ruell he was a hero.
“Good morning, Majesty,” Mikah said, bowing low.
Garrett smothered a laugh. For some reason that Ruell had never understood, it amused Garrett greatly whenever anyone addressed Tella that way. She liked to call herself a queen, and even though it was just a conceit, not a real title at all, it was only polite for subordinates to address her with due deference. Ruell glared at him.
“Show some respect, you worm!” Kestimar growled. “Gods, if I had the use of my legs, I’d teach you respect!”
Garrett subsided, but the grin wasn’t entirely extinguished.
“Good morning, Captain Mikah,” Tella said, which set Garrett off again. Tella ignored him. “Sit down, do. What news?”
Mikah shot a quick glance at Ruell. “A dragon was sighted last night, Majesty. It flew quite close before veering away.”
Ruell leaned forward in his seat. “Was it blue? I’m sure it was blue!”
“Stupid boy!” Kestimar muttered. “Why should it be blue?”
“I dreamt of a blue dragon last night, that’s why,” Ruell said. “Maybe it was a prophetic dream. Was it blue, Mikah?”
“It was dark,” Kestimar growled. “No one can tell the colour of a dragon at night.”
“Actually, Commander, it was not long before dawn so the moon was up at the time,” Mikah said apologetically. “The watch guard didn’t note the colour, though. I’ll ask, if you like, Ruell.”
“Don’t encourage the child,” Kestimar said. “This obsession with dragons isn’t healthy.”
“Well, he’s had it all his life,” Tella said with a graceful lift of one shoulder. “He was conceived in a dragon cave, after all, so maybe there’s a touch of dragon in him.”
Kestimar grew so red-faced that Ruell thought he might explode. “You’re too soft on him, Tella. He’s twenty years old – he should be a hardened swordsman by now, not skulking alone in that tower with his books, his head filled with dragons.”
“He’s not cut out for sword work, or any heavy duties,” Tella said. “He’s always been delicate.”
“Delicate!” Kestimar spat. “You just coddled him.”
“He was always small for his age. I’ve had four, I ought to know what’s normal for a child by now. Just because he’s had a bit of a growth spurt lately doesn’t mean he’s up to wielding a sword.”
“And you’re such an expert on swordsmanship, I suppose. He’d do fine if he set his mind to it. Take Mikah – you never saw a less promising specimen when he first came here, almost as short as Garrett, and couldn’t lift a sword without falling over his own feet. Now look at him. Well, he’s still short, that can’t be helped, but he’s worked and trained and then trained some more until he became… reasonably competent, shall we say. He’ll never begood, unfortunately. It does take a certain amount of innate ability.” Mikah accepted the insult with his usual benign smile. “But Ruell – I’d make something of him, if you’d let me have the training of him. He just needs a few muscles on him.”
Tella shook her head, the dark curls bouncing. “No! Just leave it, Kestimar.”
Ruell kept his head down, concentrating on his plate. They’d had the same discussion many times over the years, always with the same outcome, and he had no fears that this time would be different. Even Kestimar, a man who didn’t usually accept a refusal, recognised that tone of finality in Tella’s voice. Still, it was unsettling.Normal. He wasn’t normal. He’d seen enough children growing up alongside him to know that much. Always the small, skinny one. Never able to run as well as the others, or climb or dance or… or other things that boys began to do when they reached a certain age. And women… after that one time behind the milking barn, he’d never tried again. No, he wasn’t normal.
“Maybe you have some other role in mind for your son, Majesty,” Mikah said smoothly, reaching for the jug of apple juice.
“What do you mean?”
“Even you can’t live for ever, Majesty. It would create greater stability for the business if you were to name your heir once and for all.”
“We’ve talked about this before, Mikah,” she said, frowning. “The time isn’t right—”
“The word from the Bay is that a couple of orders have slipped through our fingers because of uncertainty about the future,” Mikah said. “A ship is a big project, very time-consuming to build.”
“We build thebest ships – the lightest and fastest on the coast,” Tella said. “We have ship owners all the way from Drakk’alona coming here to buy from us. The order book is full. So we lost one or two – what does that matter? You worry about defence, Mikah, and let me worry about business.”
“As you wish, Majesty,” he said evenly. “May I go to the Bay on the next run? We could do with a few supplies for the armoury.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. “I might even come with you and talk to the shoemaker again. Ruell, would you like to come? Maybe the bookseller will have found another dragon book for you.”
The familiar burst of excitement exploded in Ruell’s chest. A new book! Even though most of the time the bookseller would look sad and shake his head when he saw Ruell arrive, sometimes – oh, those few glorious times! – there would be a wide smile and the joy of a new book set aside for him, a whole volume of new information about dragons.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Kestimar said, rolling his eyes. “Now look at him, grinning like an imbecile. Girl! Where is she? Someone get me out of here!”
Ruell laughed, too happy even to care about Kestimar’s bile.
2: Sand Eagle Bay (Garrett)
Garrett always enjoyed sailing with Tella. She may not have been a real queen, but she did things in such style, it would be easy to fall for the illusion. She wore a full-skirted silk gown, the neck and hems trimmed with embroidery and tiny iridescent shells, the voluminous sleeves lined with a different colour material. Over the gown she’d draped a cloak so fine the first drop of rain would soak it through. Her dark hair was always left loose to curl around her shoulders, and today her head was wound about with ribbons and garlands of small flowers like a crown. As the ship skimmed the waves, she stood at the prow, cloak and hair flying. She looked magnificent.
At the port’s harbour a crowd had already gathered, for the ship was famous, and when it flew the queen’s flag at the top of the mast, the town knew she was aboard and came to the quay to ogle her. An impromptu band made up of four or five of the wharf workers struck up a suitably stirring melody, if a little out of tune. Three men from the kylerand ran down the main street to greet such an important arrival. She was certainly important to them, for they were her own people and their jobs depended on her approval.
She stepped ashore with regal smiles, Mikah and his guard escort saluting her smartly. Ruell followed, then several of the island’s kitchen workers shopping for supplies with wheeled baskets, and three or four guards out of uniform, taking some time off. At the rear ambled Garrett, hands in pockets.
He let the others stride purposefully away ahead of him, set on their various destinations. The shoemaker. The b
ookseller. The armourer. The tavern. He was in no particular hurry, so he followed them slowly down the pier and along the landward wharves, busier than he’d ever seen them. Cranes hoisted, men heaved, netted crates and barrels swayed, overseers yelled.
At the far end of the quay, Tella climbed into a pull-along and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
At once Garrett stopped dawdling and turned swiftly into a narrow alley between towering warehouses, stepping aside here and there to avoid carts and mule dung. Another turn and another alley, this one opening out into a small dusty square, where shade trees sheltered lines of mules and a few benches for the old men and women to sit and gossip over their pipes. At the far side was Garrett’s destination, a long, low building, its wood grey with age. Over the porch stood a giant wooden bird, painted a garish yellow, and, just to be sure there was no mistake about the building’s purpose, a carved tankard of foaming beer.
The sign always made Garrett smile. The locals called the place theGolden Chicken, but officially its name was taken from that of the town. Sand Eagle Bay had not much sand and no eagles to boast of, and if there had ever been such a bird as a sand eagle, no one had seen one, except, perhaps, the wooden one perched above the tavern drinking ale. For most of its history, the town had huddled cautiously in solid stone buildings around the harbour, or in compounds behind high walls, as defence against the raiders who came with fire and sword, and carried off anyone they found into slavery. Now that the threat of raiders was gone, the town sprawled right to the edge of the ocean but the residents still built in stone, just in case.
The tavern, however, remained resolutely wooden. But then it had never had anything to fear from the raiders, being their mainland headquarters. Now it had found a new purpose in being the centre of information in the town, the place Garrett came to at the start of every visit to Sand Eagle Bay.
He pushed open the door, a bell clanging above his head. Inside, the big room was dark and cool, heavy with the smell of cheap oil lamps, stale stew and pipe smoke. A couple of the corners housed groups playing some kind of game with flats and small coins. A woman pushed a broom about in a desultory fashion. Behind the counter, a man scrabbled on the floor, only his back visible.
“Hi, Zamannah. How are you?”
A head emerged above the counter. “Garrett? Another quarter moon gone already? Goodness, how time runs by.”
Zamannah was much the same age as Garrett, but he looked younger. He had the clear, pale skin of the hill tribes of Thar-briana, so delicate he looked like a porcelain doll, his face free of the wrinkles and scars that graced Garrett’s weatherworn features. He was the nearest thing to a friend that Garrett had ever had.
“Here,” Zamannah said, sliding a tankard down the counter. “Get that inside you, friend. Driamora, if the floor is not swept by now, it never will be. Time to get to the kitchen and see about the soup.”
Wordlessly, the woman leaned the broom against a table and vanished through a distant door.
“Another new one?” Garrett said, taking a long draught of ale. “What was wrong with the last one?”
“She was bedding the customers,” he said. “Which is a fine and long-standing tradition in tavern workers, I acknowledge, if it takes place in the evening after the kitchen work is done, and I get my share of the profit, but she would be gone all afternoon. Pfft, so difficult to find a decent woman these days.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Garrett said with a smile.
“Come on, you need not play the innocent with me,” Zamannah said. “You have never had any trouble getting women.”
Garrett shrugged. “Women who offer and women I’d want to bed are two different things. I’m too old to play games with every woman who gives me a smile and a wink.”
Zamannah snorted with derision. “Too old, friend? Fifty is no age, and you are as fit as a man half your age, so do not play the old man with me.”
“Oh, everything is in full working order,” Garrett said indignantly. “I’ve no objection tothose games. It’s the other kind, where you bed them once or twice and they start hinting about marriage and babies, and getting uppity if you so much as look at another woman. Or they won’t let you near them again without presents. I like a woman who’s pleased to see me, gives me a nice cuddle and then waves me off in the morning with a smile. Uncomplicated, you know?”
“I know.” Zamannah sighed. “If you find one like that, and she has a sister, send her to me.”
“I will, and I trust you’d do the same for me. But this isn’t getting the sails mended, as they say. Tell me all the news, Zamannah. Is it true that Amontis has lost a couple of orders lately?”
“Not officially, but I hear rumours. Hakkirin has two ships already, and is wavering over the third, belatedly conscience-stricken dealing with former raiders. He is an old man, so he needs to square his misdeeds with his gods. As for Norre – he is just playing around. It is his wife who holds the purse strings, and she doesnot trust your queen, not one bit. You know how some women are with one who is more beautiful? And now that Lethryan is tooling up to build ships in the same style, you will have a rival for your customers.”
“Will his ships be cheaper? Better crafted? Faster afloat? More durable?”
“Probably not, but he is well known here, he has contacts in Drakk’alona and he has three lusty sons following him into the business. People like stability, friend. The Island Queen has done a great deal for the Bay, no one denies that, but it is also remembered what she was just a few short years ago. Amontis may be terribly respectable these days, but no one has forgotten the time when your people terrorised the coast. There is always the fear that she will turn back to those ways. Or her successor might, whoever he might be.”
“It won’t be Kestimar, if that’s what people are afraid of. He’s a shell of his former self, and there’s little enough fire in his belly these days.”
“Hmm. That is not what I hear, but you know him best. But who else could take over? Not that popinjay running things here, and as for the boy – he is weak, a dreamer. Now ifyou were to—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just no.”
“Very well.” Zamannah sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Then there is Mikah.”
“Mikah!” Garrett said, slamming his tankard down so forcefully that ale slopped over the rim. “He’s twenty-eight years old, and barely knows which end of a sword to hold, even now.”
“He is guard captain. He must be good at something.”
Garrett laughed. “Indeed. He’s been warming Tella’s bed all winter.”
“Ack! I thoughtyou—”
“Not for a while now, no. She’s easily bored, and likes variety.”
“But at least you are closer to her age,” Zamannah said in shocked tones. “He is soyoung and she… why, she must be more than twice his age.”
“She’s over sixty,” Garrett said. “Still in fine shape, though.”
“And that is unsettling, too. There is magic afoot somewhere, to keep her looking much as she did years ago. She has not aged a day since… well, since you came back here, friend. Whereas Kestimar has aged enough for two people, from much the same date.”
Garrett sipped his ale in silence.
“Well, you may keep your secrets, but others besides me have noticed something amiss and connected it to you, so have a care. As for Mikah, this is disappointing news, for that is the worst reason for a promotion.”
“What is more, he’s already dropping hints about the succession,” Garrett said.
Zamannah raised an eyebrow. “You think he has ambitions there himself? Hmmm. But then he is generally well liked, friend. Here, at least.”
“He’s well liked on the island, too, but no one thinks his promotion came because of his ability with sword or bow, or his leadership skills.”
“Will there be another outbreak of… disagreements? Things have been quiet since Kestimar’s day.”
G
arrett shrugged.
“Let us hope it will not,” Zamannah said. “Enough blood has been spilled over the years, and another civil war could ruin Amontis, ship building, brewing and all. And then what will your queen do, eh, friend?”
*****
The grandiosely-named Amontis Mansion thrust its six stories towards the sky, glittering with marble facings and a multitude of windows. Scaffolding around the imposing portico supported several masons, all chiselling away industriously at a frieze of carved ships in full sail over the entrance. Inside, more marble in intricate multicoloured patterns on the floor echoed to Garrett’s booted feet. Women in softly draped gowns curtsied as he passed by.
He took the stairs two at a time, up and up and up again, passing an elderly man in the rich velvets of a merchant being hoisted aloft in the lifting chair. On the top floor, two men rose smoothly from behind a polished desk to greet him and escort him to the office. He shook his head in disbelief. As if he didn’t know the way! He came here every quarter moon bearing instructions from Kestimar.
Outside the door, one of his guides stepped in front of him to knock briskly on the door. Silence. Then a voice from inside. His escort threw open both doors and bowed as he passed through.
There was only one man inside, silhouetted against one of the windows. He was a little older than Garrett, but the years had been kinder to him. Still handsome, he had a full head of hair only just turning grey in a manner that made him look regal rather than old. And he dressed so well, in the velvets and satins and fine lawn shirts of a nobleman. Maybe he was, at that, or had been in a previous life, although he never spoke of it. It was something of a tradition on the Windblown Isles not to enquire too deeply into a man’s past. Every one of them had something to hide, and the right to leave it in the past was a principle Garrett would defend to his last breath.
“Ah, Garrett! Do come in!” An elegantly manicured hand waved him towards a chair. “Please, sit down.” As he gestured, a waft of perfume fluttered.
The Dragon Caller Page 2
