DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  It was growing dark again, and the surroundings were becoming sinister. Most of the “houses” near the river were mere wooden shacks, with leaning walls and sagging roofs. Humans and various kinds of Morugei lazed about their front doors, half-clad in ragged garments. Small children fought and screamed in the dirty streets. A young woman with glazed eyes and filthy matted hair was sitting on a street corner in a sort of stupor, an emaciated infant lying limp in her arms. She stared blankly ahead of her, showing no reaction to passersby or even to her own child. Flies crawled upon its face. Beggars held out leathery palms in mute supplication, but Ailia had nothing to give. A couple of shabby-looking men eyed her speculatively as she passed. Perhaps, she reflected, she should have made her glaumerie self male instead of female. But it was too late to change now: too many eyes were upon her. She gripped the wooden stave and quickened her pace, but to her relief the men made no effort to follow her and she had no need to defend herself. She had no training in the use of either the stave or the dagger that she still carried with her, and it would not do to make a conspicuous display of sorcery in the city. Even if Mandrake were not here, his spies and cohorts might well be everywhere, awaiting his return.

  She halted in a grimy little square, where a bronze statue of a robed man stood on a tall plinth. The sides of the plinth were scrawled with obscenities, and some wag had climbed up and placed a cracked clay pipe between the bearded bronze lips. There was an inn nearby, with smoky torches burning outside its door. As she watched, two men were forcibly ejected from the door, cursing and raving. She halted at the sight, and began to wonder if perhaps it had been safer in the jungle. Even as she thought this another group of men sauntered down the steps of the inn.

  “What’s this! What’s this!” bellowed one of them, running up and seizing Ailia by the arm before she could flee. With his other arm he knocked the stave from her hand.

  “I saw her first, Rad,” complained another man.

  “Shouldn’t be out after dark, my lass,” the first continued, paying no attention. “Dangerous men about at this hour. Like me,” he leered into her face, his breath foul. Ailia looked about her desperately, but the passersby showed no interest in her plight. A few even turned their faces away and quickened their pace as they walked past.

  “And what’s this bit of vermin?” One of her persecutor’s companions snatched up the amphisbaena by his fore-neck. Twidjik writhed in his grip and bawled at both ends like a pair of ill-played trumpets. It was no use, Ailia thought in resignation: she would have to use sorcery, and give herself away yet again. But even as she drew upon her power another figure came bounding out of the inn door.

  “Just you let her alone, Rad!” shouted the new arrival, a small wiry woman in a red dress. She wore a red and gold head scarf under which grizzled black hair streamed, and hoops of gold swung from her earlobes. Standing in the street, hands on hips, she glared at the man who held Ailia’s arm.

  Rad shrugged. “Why? She’s just an ugly little street wench.”

  “That’s still too good for the likes of you, Radmon Targ.”

  “D’you want your tongue cut out, woman!” snarled Rad, releasing Ailia and advancing on the small woman.

  “You just try it, Rat-face Rad,” she retorted, holding her ground. “I’ll put a hex on you, I will: a real witch’s curse that’ll turn your food to mud in your mouth, and your drink to bog water, and fill every bed you lie in with bugs. And that’ll be the least of it.” She took a step toward him. “Do you want to know when you’re going to die, Rad?” she asked softly.

  To Ailia’s astonishment and vast relief Rad and his followers backed sullenly off, seemingly cowed by these colorful threats. Twidjik’s captor set the wailing amphisbaena down, and he scuttled behind Ailia’s skirts again.

  “Pond scum,” observed the woman with contempt, watching them go. “Don’t you mind them, lass. You and your little pet just go on your way now.”

  Ailia looked into the dark flashing eyes and felt she saw a kindred spirit there. “We’ve nowhere to go,” she ventured. “We don’t know these parts very well.”

  “New in town, are you?” The woman cocked her scarfed head, earrings swaying, and gave her a thoughtful look. “Ah, you country folk will keep coming here, but you’ll find things are no better in the city—worse, I’d say. Well, never mind: you can bide the night at my inn, dear.”

  “I’ve no money.” Ailia had parted with her necklace, but was not about to give up her mother’s star sapphire ring. “Might I do some work for you in place of payment—wash dishes for instance—”

  “No need for that. I’ve a room or two free. You’re welcome to stay in one. Come along! It’s getting dark, and you’ll not find any other place to stay hereabouts that’s safe.”

  Ailia stared at her, much moved by the simple generosity of the offer. “Thank you so much. But—couldn’t I help somehow? Cook, or clean?”

  “Eh now, there must be something else you can do,” the woman suggested in an encouraging manner. “Sing a bit, perhaps?”

  “Well—I can tell stories,” Ailia offered after a moment’s thought. “Tales no one here has likely ever heard.”

  “Ah, that’d be grand,” the woman said. “That’ll keep ’em all entertained: they’re that fed up with the flute player, I was hard put to stop ’em throwing food at him. Come you in and make yourself at home. The name is Mag, by the bye—just plain Mag, I’ve no other.”

  “My name is—Lia.” If Mag noticed the brief hesitation she gave no sign of it. “And this is Twidjik. Are you really a witch?” Ailia asked.

  Mag shrugged. “Folk say I am, and I don’t contradict ‘em. If it makes ’em scared of me, well, hereabouts that’s a good thing. They do say my grandma was a witch, and I’ve an old book of hers that’s supposed to be full of spells and charms, though they mostly look like ordinary poultices and such-like to me. And I do get pictures in my head sometimes, like dreams in the daytime. But I can’t go putting curses on nobody. I once told a man who used to come here that he was going to drop dead if he didn’t watch himself. A heavy drinker he was, and not young: anybody might have told him the same thing. But it so happened that he died the very same night—he was so drunk he fell in the fish pond and drowned—and a rumor got started that I’d foreseen it, or even made it happen. Load of nonsense! But that’s how I got my reputation, and it’s a great help to me when louts like Rad come by trying to throw their weight around.”

  Pictures in her head! thought Ailia. Here, in the malodorous murk of this strange and terrible city, was a Nemerei. It was like finding a precious jewel in a trash heap. She felt a sudden kinship with this shabby plain-spoken woman. “Can the authorities do nothing about that man Rad?” she asked sympathetically as she and Twidjik followed Mag to the inn door.

  The woman snorted derisively. “What authorities? You mean the Overseer?”

  “Overseer?”

  “You’ve not heard of the Overseer? Him as won the Great Revolt twenty years ago, and cast down the theocrats? That’s his statue, there in the square. An image of him has been placed in every quarter of the city, so that the people can pay him homage.”

  Ailia realized her ignorance was probably too great even for some backwoods peasant. “I’ve heard some of the story, but not all,” she said cautiously.

  “Well, in the old days there was some in this city as claimed they had dragon blood, you see, and whether ’twas true or no they demanded special treatment and privileges, saying they was children of the dragon-gods. And they worshipped a Dragon King, who they said lived here once and would again some day, and they started up a priesthood for him. And they lorded it over the rest of us, and took the best of everything, and left us poor. Then one fellow—Brannion Duron—he said enough of this, from now on all folk are to be equal, and share and share alike. He raised a secret army, he and his friends, and they rose against the oppressors, as he called ’em. And everyone that claimed dragon blood was killed, and the priests w
ere all driven out and the Dragon King’s temple ransacked. And Duron said there was no Dragon King, nor never was—nor no gods nor spirits of any sort rulin’ over us: ’twas all a lot o’ nonsense. And he made himself Overseer, and said from now on we was to live in peace and plenty. Though I can’t say as I’ve seen much of either, and neither has anyone else here.”

  “May I meet with him? Your Overseer?” Ailia asked, hope rising in her. It seemed Mandrake was not the city’s ruler after all. Perhaps this Overseer could help her escape this world.

  “I’m afraid not, dear. He sees no one.”

  “But isn’t he your leader? Don’t you go to him when you need help? Perhaps he could do something about Rad and his crew.”

  “That lot? They works for him! Collectors, they’re called: they comes around to collect goods and money as their price for ‘protecting’ us—though what we’re being protected from they never say. Seems to me we could all use some protection from them. Most of what we have ends up in their pockets.” She said this last sentence in a hushed voice, as though afraid she might be overheard. “So Rad comes to my inn whenever he wants a drink, and I must give it him even though I can’t abide the man. He’s killed people as got in his way.”

  “Then you risked a great deal to help me just now,” said Ailia. “I hope you won’t suffer for it, Mag.”

  The woman only shrugged again. “It’s high time someone stood up to him,” she remarked. “I should have done it long before.”

  Ailia and the amphisbaena followed her inside. The main room was noisy and noisome, full of large unkempt patrons who hunched over tankards of the local brew or snuffed at handfuls of what looked like crushed flower petals, the cloying sweet aroma blending sickeningly with the smoky air. A troll bulked beside the door, his small eyes under their massive ridged brows watching the people in the room. “This is Gorg,” Mag said, nodding to him. She clapped the huge creature on the shoulder as she passed and he grunted back at her. “I hired him to keep the peace in here, and I pay him in food. He’s worth every crumb, too. He’s not a bad sort, for a troll: just wants to sleep and eat and live, same as anyone else.”

  When they reached the front of the room Mag waved her to a vacant table. Ailia perched upon it, cleared her throat nervously, and then began to tell her stories, tailoring them for her audience: amusing animal fables and folktales full of magic and adventure. She told them the tale of the “Magic Ring,” and “The Horse of Brass,” and “The King and the Shepherdess.” They gradually fell silent and listened to her, some even laughing in the right places.

  When she had finished the third tale Mag reappeared and led Ailia into the small kitchen for her promised meal: roasted eggs of some creature or other and two slabs of rather greasy fried bread. “That’s the best we can do,” Mag apologized. But Ailia fell to hungrily, passing half the food to Twidjik, who hid under her chair for safety.

  A young girl was helping Mag with the serving. Ailia watched her as she set dishes down and took orders from the rowdy patrons. “What a beautiful girl,” she remarked. It was no idle compliment, but a statement of fact: the girl was unquestionably lovely, with the slender grace and huge, dark eyes of a gazelle. She also had a gazellelike shyness: her great long-lashed eyes were nearly always turned down, as if fearfully aware of their own devastating effect.

  Mag smiled. “That’s my daughter, Mai. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: she should be out of the home by now, and making her own way.”

  “Her own way? But she can’t be more than fifteen.”

  “She’s fourteen, this year. Do youngsters stay home longer in the country, then?”

  “Where I live they do,” replied Ailia truthfully.

  “Here in the city they’re treated as adults. Throw her into the street, everyone said. Let her sink or swim, that’s the way it’s done. But my Mai’s timid. And she’s not ready to be with a man yet. I won’t force her into anything until she’s ready.” She sighed. “It’s been hard. We’ve had to make it on our own, Mai and me.”

  “Is her father dead?”

  “Him? Not for all my wishing.” Mag scowled as she kneaded dough. “I lived with him for years, the scoundrel, and not a finger did he lift in honest labor: I did all the work, made clay pots and wove hangings to sell for food. Then he up and brought home another woman: his new lady-love, already with child. We’ll all live happily together, he says, be one big loving family. It’ll work out fine, you’ll see . . . except that My Lady and her baby boy always got the best of everything, and Mai and I had to work all the harder to feed their mouths.”

  “Does this sort of thing happen often?” asked Ailia, astounded.

  “In the city it does. It’s a man’s world here, and it has been for a good long while. The Overseer don’t approve of marriage—says people didn’t ought to belong to each other, no more than wild beasts do. So the men do pretty much as they please, take a woman and then move on, and we women must either put up with their ways or leave. The last straw for me was when one of his no-good friends began to get designs on Mai—with his encouragement, of course. Trying to get her alone, making advances, that sort of thing. She was frightened, poor love, and that finally opened my eyes. I snatched her out of there at once, and we set up this place on our own. We’ve been here a couple of years now. I should have left sooner, fool that I am. But so help me, I loved him—the good-for-nothing lout!” She gave the dough a hearty thwack with her floury hands. Seeing that she had broached a sensitive subject, Ailia said no more and discreetly returned her attention to her meal.

  Presently she became aware that Mag was no longer working the dough or performing any other tasks, but standing quietly and watching her as she ate. “You’re an odd one,” the woman remarked suddenly. “Don’t look like much, if you don’t mind my saying so—and you don’t put on any airs. Yet somehow I feel as if I should be giving you finer provender, and plates of gold to eat it on.”

  Ailia, who was sopping up the last of the egg yolk with a crust, stopped and laughed uneasily. “Whatever can you mean?”

  Mag’s eyes were dreamy, unfocussed. “There’s another woman within you: a beautiful lady like a princess in a story, gowned in white. She shines through you, like a moon through a cloud . . . Eh now! What am I saying? I must be wandering in my wits.” Mag shook her head, the gold hoops in her ears glinting in the torchlight. “Don’t you mind me, love, I get odd spells at times. Now, tell me where you’re from, and why you’re all on your own.”

  It was awkward, as Ailia did not like lying and in any case she did not know enough about this world to pretend that she lived here. But it transpired that Mag knew very little about it either: she had never left the city in her entire life. So Ailia spun a tale about growing up in a small rural settlement and being orphaned young, so that she had to learn to live on her own. She passed hastily over this part of the narrative, focusing more on the trip to the city, to which she could append any number of details from her actual journey through the jungle. “Mag, can you tell me any more about this Dragon King?” she asked when she had finished. A suspicion had grown in her mind from the first mention of him.

  “Not much. He hasn’t been seen by anyone for hundreds of years. I know only what my mother told me—what her mother told her before. He lived inside the big hill just outside the city, the one what’s always got steam and mist around it. It’s he who brings the rain, they used to say, and sends the thunder and lightning when he’s angry. And he can be any shape he wants, bird or beast—or man. My mother said her great-grandma told her that his name is Morlyn, but no one else seems to remember that.”

  So Ailia had guessed correctly: these people had once worshiped Mandrake as a god. And well they might. He seemed not to age, and commanded the weather at will; they were not to know that the rain would still fall without him. To their eyes he must seem immortal—and invulnerable. He had evidently ruled over this city in days long gone, letting its inhabitants revere him; then for some reason he had aban
doned the place, leaving them all to fend for themselves. Perhaps he had simply grown bored with his role, or perhaps the Loänan had driven him out. Whatever the reason, if he returned he would no doubt mean to stay, and order things again as he willed.

  Mag continued: “But the Dragon King, he’s not really a man but a dragon—one of the Celestial Ones, the greatest of them all. There’s an image of him in the old temple—the dragon with a crown. It was all golden once, that statue, with jewels for eyes, but the Collectors took all the valuable stuff from the temple when they closed it down. They said he couldn’t be a real god, or he’d have stopped them doing it. But some of the folk still continues his cult in secret, all the same. The Overseer tried to ban his worship, but he could never quite stamp it out and now he mostly turns a blind eye. We’re not supposed to talk about him, leastways not in public. Me, I’m just afeared of the Dragon King. Not many may believe in him nowadays, but I’m thinking maybe he just went away for a while, and he’ll come back one day—and he won’t be too pleased with what he finds here when he does.”

  Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, and Mag started. “There now, what am I saying? I’ll be giving us both bad luck with such talk.” She rose abruptly. “All through? Then I’ll show you to your room.”

  Ailia followed her hostess up the creaking wooden staircase, Twidjik trailing behind them. Glancing out a window, she saw that the inn had been built around a square courtyard, with a hot spring at its center. Several people were bathing in the steaming pool.

  “This one’s yours, dear,” said Mag, opening a door. “Right next to mine, so if anyone gives you trouble you just bang on the wall.”

  Ailia entered the narrow little room, which held a bed and a clothes chest and nothing much else. She looked out the window, which gave a view of the city. High over the sharp volcanic hills beyond the roofs a bright light was shining through the night like a star. But the light was a pale ghostly green, and as she stood there watching, it moved, progressing swiftly across the sky until it passed out of sight behind the mists that enveloped the highest hill. It moved too slowly to be a meteor, and left no shining tail behind.