by Jon Hollins
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Wood
Excerpt from The Fifth Ward: First Watch copyright © 2017 by Dale Lucas
Excerpt from Age of Assassins copyright © 2017 by RJ Barker
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover illustration by Crystal Sully
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Map copyright © Tim Paul
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hollins, Jon, author.
Title: False idols / Jon Hollins.
Description: First edition. | New York : Orbit Books, 2017. | Series: The dragon lords
Identifiers: LCCN 2017014746| ISBN 9780316308281 (softcover) | ISBN
9781478917823 (audio book downloadable) | ISBN 9780316308274 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Dragons—Fiction. | Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | GSAFD: Adventure fiction. | Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.O48487 F35 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014746
ISBNs: 978-0-316-30828-1 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-30827-4 (ebook)
E3-20170721-JV-PC
For Tami, Charlie, and Emma.
All the treasure I could wish to have.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Part 1: Dragons Rising 1: Big Thaumatobiologist on Campus
2: Shedding His Skin
3: Happily Never After
4: The Open Road
5: Master of His Own Domain
6: Round Two
7: Money Talks
8: Yes, Minister
9: Home Sweet Home
10: Alcoholics Go to Meetings
11: Substandard Subterfuge
12: A Tamathian Roast
13: Sacrilege for Fun and Profit
14: The Loss of Cyrill’s Innocence
15: Run, Lettera, Run
16: Some Like It Hot
17: The Hand in the Puppet
18: The Fine Art of Politicking at Sword Point
19: Oh Snap
20: That Which We Have Come to Fear the Most
21: Heavy Lies the Crown
Part 2: Dragons Dominant 22: Beauty and Grace Carven in Flesh
23: Pièce de Résistance
24: Life Is Preachy
25: The Burdened Beast
26: Mistakes Were Made
27: Monstrous Truths
28: Monstrous Consequences
29: In the Land of the Drunk …
30: … The Utterly Obliterated Man Is King
31: With Friends Like These
32: Temporary Accommodations
33: Asking Awkward Questions
34: As Simple as Stealing Beers from a Drunkard
35: Inaction Plan
36: To Forgive Is Profane
37: Punch Drunk
38: What’s Small, Red, Furry, and Smells of Dried Blood?
39: The Champion and the Thief
40: Peace Talks
41: Breakfast of Champions
42: Bar Brawl
43: How to Make Friends and Influence Kobolds
44: Run, Kobolds, Run!
45: Balls
46: Unprepared
47: And a New Day Will Begin
48: WTF?
49: Sour Grapes
50: Falling Down
51: Defeat of the Total Variety
Part 3: Dragons Descending 52: By Way of an Explanation
53: The Chapter of Revelations
54: Deus Ex Machina
55: The Two-Backed Beast
56: The Four-Backed Beast
57: The More You Know …
58: In the Afterglow
59: Changing Plans Like Diapers
60: Make War, Not Love
61: Lette and Will Sitting in a Tree
62: Wolves in Cows’ Clothing
63: Buckling Under the Pressure of Thinking Up Funny Chapter Names
64: Live from the Vinland Bowl
65: Ready, Aim, Fire
66: Dangerous Subversives
67: Flora and Fauna
68: Insults and Injuries
69: Hilarity Ensues
70: Oh My God
71: Lette There Be Blood
72: Goddess Among Us
73: About That Victory …
74: Cutting the Puppet Strings
75: Even Heroes Fall
76: Hail to the King, Baby
Coda: What in the Hallows Was That? 77: Soul Survivor
78: Time for a New Plan
Extras
A Preview of The Fifth Ward: First Watch
A Preview of Age of Assassins
By Jon Hollins
Orbit Newsletter
“Come not between the dragon and his wrath.”
—King Lear, William Shakespeare
PART 1:
DRAGONS RISING
1
Big Thaumatobiologist on Campus
Quirkelle Bal Tehrin dreamt of fire. It kindled in her sleep, licked at the feet of her desires and fears, then rose—wings spreading—to the sky, tearing through her subconscious. It was a roiling ocean of flame, obliterating everything in its wake. She would come awake in the cot she kept in her garret above the Tamathian University, sheets soaked with sweat, her palm prints scorched into the sheets.
She had yet to work out if the racing of her heart was a symptom of terror or pleasure.
And yet, despite this confusion, there were some things Quirk was certain of in life. That she knew more about dragons than anyone else alive. That such knowledge made her position at the Tamathian University more secure than a princess’s chastity belt. And that the Tamarian Emperor’s palace was not quite as impressive as he thought it was.
She sat now at his dinner table, two seats away from the man himself, flanked by his daughter and the Empress.
The Emperor was a small man, in his late fifties, balding, and with his remaining hair cropped to short gray stubble. He was wreathed entirely in gold. Great swirls of fabric encircled his arms, his torso. A great gold neckpiece—that probably weighed almost as much as the birdlike Empress—wreathe
d his neck. His deeply lined face, emerging from its depths, appeared somewhat inadequate in comparison. Religious iconography dangled from him. A medallion inscribed with the scepter of Lawl, king of the gods, bobbled over the neckpiece. The open palm of Klink, god of commerce, was etched into his broad earrings. The wheat sheaves of Toil, god of fertility and the field, was upon his rings.
He had invited her here, as was now his weekly custom, to dine with his family, several highly esteemed courtiers, and a smattering of visiting dignitaries. At first she had served more as a conversation piece than as a source of conversation. Still, over time she had managed to become something much more integral to the gatherings.
At that precise moment, his eminence was attacking a small roast partridge and coming off the worst of the two combatants. More than once he had needed to signal for a bodyguard to throw an elbow into his sternum so he could hawk up whatever bone had lodged in his throat. On the plus side, he had not yet called for the beheading of the chef. He knew now that Quirk did not like that.
“So,” the Emperor said around a mouthful of gristle, pointing a partridge thigh at her like a miniature rapier. “What is it that you make of this business with the elven king?”
Quirk felt thirty pairs of eyeballs come to rest on her. Nobles, lords, ladies, the Emperor’s cousin, two of his bastard children, three ambassadors, and a visiting dignitary from Verra. They all watched her and they waited.
The truth was, of course, that her limited knowledge of the world made her woefully inadequate to answer the question. She had, for most of her life, lived in seclusion, first as the personal weapon of a murderous demigod, and then as a hermitlike academic lost in the warrenlike tunnels of the Tamathian University. The one time she had ventured out into the world she had witnessed the death of seven dragons and just over ten thousand of the inhabitants of Kondorra. It was not a period in her life she would necessarily describe as successful.
And yet, they all waited. They all wanted to know what the world’s leading thaumatobiologist and expert on dragons would say.
She wondered if any of them had actually read her papers. Had attended her lectures. She could not imagine the Chancellor of the Exchequer really getting to grips with the inner workings of Varanus draconis’s digestive tract. He was having enough trouble getting anything other than alcohol into his own.
On such things, she thought, the fate of nations fall.
The specific matter the king was referencing was the death of a white hart at the hands of several of his huntsmen. The hart had wandered from the forests of the Vale—which the Elven Court claimed as their own—and into the path of the several huntsmen looking for boar in the Emperor’s abutting forest. Not being the sort of men to question providence when it stood in the way of a full purse, the huntsmen promptly shot the hart, skinned it, and sold the hide for a profit that would make even a city merchant blush. Which was all well and good until the elven king delivered a message stating that the hart was his sovereign property, that the huntsmen were thieves, and that unless they were handed over to him for execution, the consequences would be dire.
Well … that was if she paraphrased the specifics of the elven dialect. More directly the message had read: “So-called Emperor of the so-called empire of Tamar: give me the round-ears who stole my hart, or I shall come and fuck you. His highest eminence, master of the bowstring, slayer of the round-ears, commander of the Vale forces, fine-aspected Todger IV.”
“Well,” Quirk said, as delicately as it was possible to, “given the tone, and content of the letter, I do not honestly believe that King”—she hesitated—“Todger,” she managed as gracefully as she could, “should be entertained in this manner. And furthermore, I do not believe that he can necessarily follow up on his threat to, erm”—she hesitated over this one—“to violate you.”
“So screw him,” said one of the nobles, and brayed with laughter. Several other followed suit. There was much stamping of feet, and pounding of golden goblets on the red velvet tablecloth.
Quirk winced, and not just because she was being reminded of the red velvet tablecloth. Sometime she really did need to speak to the Emperor about that particular detail. She raised a delicate finger to indicate that she was not quite done.
“However,” she said, but no one was listening anymore.
The Emperor coughed loudly. All noise stopped. All attention returned to the richest, most powerful man in the room. He glared around at them, then looked back to Quirk. “You were saying?” he said.
Small he might be, but it was rumored that the Emperor had personally throttled two assassins after they had killed the rest of his personal guard.
“However,” Quirk said again, “there doesn’t seem to be much point in purposelessly angering King … Todger. And while he cannot … violate anyone here, his forces can certainly make things difficult for your border patrols, and nobody wants to actually go to war with the elves.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said one lord, who then seemed to realize people could hear him.
“Truly, Lord El Sharred?” said the Emperor. He had a harsh, nasal voice. “You would like to take your cavalry into thick forest, and have arrows rained down upon you, while you chased men who disappeared like ghosts among the branches?”
Lord El Sharred appeared to vacillate momentarily between whether he should capitulate to his lord’s greater wisdom, or if he should attempt to preserve face in front of his peers. He chose wrong.
“We should burn the place down around their ears,” he said defiantly.
There was more pounding of goblets. The Emperor rolled his eyes. Quirk smiled at him. A question about fire, she could answer.
“Have you ever tried to burn living wood, Lord El Sharred?” she asked. “To be honest, I doubt you’ve even tried to burn dry wood. You have people to do that for you, after all.” She smiled sweetly and watched as the insult passed over the man’s head. “Living wood does not burn like the fire in your hearth at home. It is slow, and smoky, and reluctant. If you were able to get one tree to burn before the elves turned you and your men into novelty pincushions, I would count you very good at your job.”
Now finally the Emperor laughed. And when he laughed, everyone laughed. Even Quirk. Lord El Sharred turned very red, and nodded, and managed a quick “I daresay I am” before retreating to his goblet.
“As ever,” said the Emperor once the general mirth had died down, “you have proven yourself of greater wisdom and experience than many of the men who sit here, Professor Bal Tehrin. I ask again, and pray that you can answer without interruption, what would you advise?”
“Merely to send him ten of our own harts, slain, and ready for roasting so that he may feast at our expense. Lives will be spared, and honor will be satisfied.”
The table held its collective breath as the Emperor considered this. Finally he clicked his fingers. Instantly a servant was at his side, eyes angled obsequiously low.
“Tell the huntsmen to kill ten harts and prepare them for delivery to King Todger along with a message expressing my deepest regrets at the unfortunate situation.”
The servant nodded and backed away. The Emperor picked up the last of his partridges, looked at it distastefully, and cast it over his shoulder. “Let’s just get to the gods-hexed dessert, shall we?”
This time no one disagreed.
After the meal there was of course music, and dancing, and the overwhelming desire to get away.
Quirk knew well that it was an honor to be invited to the Emperor’s palace so frequently. She was aware that many looked upon her with envy, if not outright jealousy. She knew that she ate here better than she could ever hope to eat at the university, and that her opinions could have significant sway in the way the country was run. But she also knew that what she truly desired was a quiet night with her scrolls, and her notes, and a full pot of ink.
Unfortunately, though, the visiting Verran dignitary had managed to trap her in a corner. What was worse, he s
eemed willing to keep her there—by force if necessary—until she managed to vomit up an opinion on his proposed trade agreement.
“But, don’t you see,” he pressed, “that a two-point-six percent reduction in the import surcharge on Verran cotton could significantly change the landscape of the entire textile export industry here?”
“No,” said Quirk, who was by now well past the point of pretending polite confusion.
“Oh,” said the dignitary with a genial grin, “then I better explain again.”
Quirk wondered if the Emperor’s favor would be enough to acquit her of murder. Then she reminded herself she was a pacifist.
A pacifist partly responsible for the death of seven dragons and approximately ten thousand inhabitants of Kondorra …
Fortunately, just as the Verran was sucking in a lungful of air that would put a foundry bellows to shame, a disturbance at the stairs distracted him. He turned around, and virtually squealed with pleasure. “It’s here!” he told her, a grin spreading across his face like a wine stain across a tablecloth, and he skittered away.
“Your eminence!” the dignitary called to the Emperor, in breach of all kinds of decorum. “Your eminence! It’s arrived!”
The Emperor squinted at the Verran. Quirk didn’t think much for the chances of his trade accord.
Four servants were shuffling down the stairs, staggering under the weight of some vast burden shrouded by a purple sheet. They just about made it down to the ballroom floor, stumbled right three paces, then set their burden down with a crash.
“Careful, you dolts!” hissed the Verran.
The Emperor rolled his eyes.
The Verran struck a pose of significant pomposity beside the shrouded bundle. It was almost as tall as he was. Asymmetrical protrusions thrust out, lumpen beneath the folds of fabric.
“May I present to you,” he said in grandiose tones, “a token of Verra’s esteem.” He bowed deeply.
He meant a bribe, of course. I give you this, and in return can you make it cheaper for me to import my cotton? And let’s neither of us talk about the large number of cotton plantations that I have back in Verra, and instead pretend this is for the good of all.
