A Most Refined Dragon

by Paul Chernoch

  “If that gel is effective at purging odors,” said Thedarra as she inhaled deeply, “we should get some today. So you two can figure out what’s gotten into the liosh. Is that enough? Don’t you need a way to purify it?”

  “Can we get glass tubing?” said Melissa.

  Jessnee turned to K'Pinkelek. “Have you that skill?”

  “I can blow the tubes,” said K'Pinkelek.

  “And copper tubing?” said Melissa.

  “My partner, Makri has most of the supplies we need: sand, soda, oxides and salts for the glass, plus copper and timbers. Silosh runs the distillery. There we can get pure water, and alcohol as a solvent for the mobile phase of the chromatography. The plasterer lives next door to Silosh.”

  “What are you building?” said Olsurrodot. “Can it be accomplished in such a short time?”

  “A fractioning tower.” Jessnee grinned at Melissa. “I knew a woman whose father worked in the oil business. We are making a liosh refinery. White Talon, K'Pinkelek and I will head to Makri’s to get started, but we have more work to delegate.”

  “We need samples of tainted liosh,” said Thedarra.

  Soorararas bowed. “In a trial, it is not enough to show liosh is tainted. We must draw it from the same source White Talon drank from the day of the incident. I flew with her that day. If I leave now, I can be back before midnight, in time to test your apparatus.” He turned to leave.

  “No,” said Thedarra’s father, Vedarran. “The court must verify your source. Seek out Metookonsen. Fly with the Claw he appoints. When you reach Agotaras Springs, draw the liosh in the presence of a Hand, who will sign an affidavit, which must be stamped by the village elder and delivered by you at trial. Bring one container to Metookonsen, and the other to us at Makri’s Materials.”

  “Perform the first tests in the presence of a court official,” said Thedarra. “They must have a chance to examine the apparatus, understand how it functions, and assess the merits of your ideas.”

  “You may go, Soorararas,” said Melissa. “Thank you for standing by me.”

  He bowed, turned, and leapt from the hill into the air.

  “We have the science covered,” said Melissa. “Now explain the court procedure. First, why is an Octojurata better than a Hexajurata?”

  Vedarran approached a stone bench. “May I sit? My years sit more heavily upon me than yours do on you. My years also tell me Metookonsen was doing you no favor. A Hexajurata has six jurors, while an Octojurata has eight. Conspicuously missing from the smaller tribunal is a representative for the Claws. This is not just a criminal matter, but a political one as well. The treaties between Hands and Claws must be followed, and the presiding juror…”

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” said Melissa, “but don’t you mean judge?”

  “There is one judge, the eternal judge of all who live,” said Olsurrodot. “We are only jurors.”

  “If I may continue,” said Vedarran. With his cane he inscribed a circle in the dust. “We walk through time. The more time we have, the larger the circle we can circumscribe. In a second, in a beat of our heart, we can cut a circle large enough to hold a single soul. The Juror of the Seconds sits in the first chair, the chair of self-judgment. You are that first juror, White Talon. Judge yourself truly and all the others can do is ratify your testimony and accept your decision.”

  Vedarran traced a larger circle. “The Juror of the Minutes advocates for the interests of the family, Shorassa’s family. This Juror is the victim’s advocate.”

  “The Juror of the Hours renders the village’s judgment. I just saw Skandik walking with Metookonsen. He’s likely to fill that seat.

  “The Juror of the Days speaks for the larger community. With Ecraveo’s safe return, I expect he’ll be seated. He and his uncle are close. Don’t expect him to reach a different conclusion than Metookonsen.

  “The Juror of the Weeks. Here we have our first good turn. The Merchant’s seat concerns commercial and contract law, and Jessnee’s friend Makri’s spot in the rotation falls this week. Shorassa was beloved among the city’s artisans, because her friendship with you brought many an olissair to town in search of decoration for their caves. The merchants want nothing to wreck this.

  “Then there is the Juror of the Months. In a Hexajurata, this is the chief juror, whose opinion can overrule all the others. This juror defends the interests of the state, the whole of the Hand nation.” He scratched a six circle, concentric with the rest.

  “Metookonsen?” said Melissa. “Now I see why he preferred the smaller jurat. So what two jurors are added to fill out the eight?”

  “The Juror of the Years must be a Claw, and interpret the ancient treaties,” said Olsurrodot. “It would have been me, but I agreed to assist your defense.”

  The dragon whose eyes I healed could have been the one judging me? Will I ever get a break? “That leaves one more.”

  Vedarran drew the final circle. “What that leaves is an empty chair. The Juror of the Migrata, of the seventh year. Our civilization is judged each migrat, by flying, running, creeping and swimming beasts, and disease, blight, and famine. The eighth juror is symbolic, standing for the hand of providence, pardon me, the claw of providence. Before reading the verdict, the other seven are obliged to kneel before the empty chair, put aside personal interests, and consider how justice may serve all.”

  To Melissa, the old man’s scribble resembled a bullseye. “Back to the seventh then. Which Claw will be chosen?”

  “It won’t be a White,” said Olsurrodot. “A Green would be most agreeable, a Red least, and a Brown… They can be inscrutable. If I may, I should like to make my appeal to the one who alone delivers true justice.” They exited the cave. He raised his claws to the sky and stared at the sun. “You who gave us good gifts long ago, give us your name, give us your justice, and appoint your chosen one to sit in judgment tomorrow. Near or far, call your servant to us.” He lowered his head. “I have summoned justice, and now my cave calls. I have much reading to do. Who will interview witnesses in the morning?”

  “I will,” said Thedarra. “I can beat up all the women in my town, and half the men. They won’t hide anything.”

  “Good. I will prepare interesting questions for you to pose to them.” Olsurrodot spread his wings and departed.

  As Melissa prepared to head to the shop with Jessnee and K'Pinkelek, she remembered her last question. “What is an Embraniss?”

  “It is sacred, it is vital to the trial, and you’d better be a master of whatever medium you choose,” said Thedarra. “It is your representation of what happened, and your concern for the people affected. An Embraniss may be a painting, a sculpture, even a garden, though we haven’t time for that. Whether you intend to show innocent sympathy, or guilty remorse, you must acknowledge the loss Shorassa and her friends and family suffered. Your work will be judged by a judicartist, a specialist in interpreting passion and truth. Zocrita is the best there has ever been. I will try to pry the truth from the other witnesses; she will get the truth out of you. What is your preference?”

  Melissa thought about the work ahead, building the fractioning tower. She couldn’t afford to run about on another errand. Considering the materials they’d have at hand at Makri’s shop, and her mixed success at using claws instead of hands, she meditated.

  “Well?” said Thedarra.

  “Glass.”

  Yes, a big, lumbering olissair who could snap a tree in two and set a forest ablaze would fashion a delicate scene in glass. So much better than a bull in a china shop!

  * * *

  What is taking so long? Melissa poked her head in the window of Makri’s shop. The place was not olissair-sized, and she hated being away from the action.

  Thwap! A broom on the nose made her retreat.

  “Shoo! You’ll not break a second set of slides today!” The squat, broad-shouldered broom wielder was afflicted with a bushy, black mustache. He wore a rigrash-skin smock, typical fireproof attire for
blacksmiths. Makri meant business and Melissa didn’t protest.

  Inside were benches, a kiln, bins of ore and coal, and tool-stuffed shelves. Jessnee poured a powdered mix of silica sand, soda, metal oxide and salt atop a tray of molten tin. Once it melted, he grabbed a hose and sprayed it with cooled gas.

  “However did you separate out the nitrogen?” asked Melissa.

  “Forced air through Scorching Shellbok membrane. Very rare,” said Makri. “Jessnee’s the only man smart enough to find a use for it, and Shoroko the only one fool enough to charge a molting Shellbok for its skin. That’s when they’re their orneriest. Only Reds can shoot more flame.”

  Jessnee removed a perfectly formed, window-sized sheet of glass and set it on a table to cool. “It looked like a tortoise half the size of a Lissai, armored to the teeth. How could it set liosh on fire? I’ve tried burning the stuff, and it takes lots of oxygen to get the hot and steady stream I saw that thing spew out. I guessed it had a membrane that can separate oxygen from nitrogen so it could enrich the fuel mixture. I was right. Shoroko isn’t crazy. Crazy would be slicing the membrane off a lissair. Glass will be ready in a few. I’ll prepare the remaining ingredients for the chromatography plates. Mak, where’d you put the silica gel? It’s not on the shelf.”

  “Sold yesterday. There’s more in the storeroom.” He opened the closet door and returned with a sack.

  “Claws can’t get enough of this stuff,” said Jessnee.

  “Not Claws. Men.” Makri handed the sack to Jessnee.

  “Men? What’d they need it for? Who even knows what it’s good for but us?” He loosened the drawstring and measured out a cupful.

  “Strange looking fellows. Straight black hair, no beard, looked like they were squinting. Awful accent. Couldn’t pronounce their R’s. Bet they came across recently.”

  “What else did they buy?” asked Jessnee.

  “Glass, copper…” Makri put one hand on his elbow and the other on his chin. “Say, most of the things we’re working with today.”

  “How many men?” asked Melissa.

  “Two, but they were met by a third with a beard and long mustache when they left. What should I do if they come back?”

  “Get their names,” said Jessnee. “Meantime, I need to figure how to regulate the temperature when we dry the plates. My thermometer doesn’t go past water boiling. Plus, with the fractioning tower, temperature control will be even more critical.”

  Melissa returned to her work area in a fenced-off spot behind the shop to ponder this new mystery. All they’d let her do was heat things, melt things, and break things. And haul timbers. K'Pinkelek contentedly melted copper with his flame, poured it into a receptacle, and forced it through an extrusion nozzle to form tubing. He quenched it in a tub of water and bent it around a wooden form to make even coils.

  She stared at her glass. Bowls of powdered minerals for tinting were lined up in a nice, even row. She had glassblowing tools. She was the blowtorch. But she was a scientist, not an artist. She grabbed a fistful of sand and poured her frustration into fire. As the glass cooled, so did her temper, when her reason observed something peculiar: her claws were changing color. When cool, they appeared a semi-clear white. But when they got hot, they went to yellow, then orange, then red, then brown, and finally to pitch black.

  “Makri?”

  The shopkeeper came to the back window. “Need something?”

  Melissa rattled off a list of materials. Some he had on hand, some he did not. Minutes later he returned with a box of rocks, ingots, and metal plates. She set about melting and boiling in turn: water, sodium, tin, lead, zinc, aluminum, silver, gold and iron. Into each she dipped her claws. For each critical point she mixed pigments to match the changing color of her claws and made a table on a sheet of paper. When done, she walked to the window. “Jessnee, I’ve got that thermometer for you.” She held up her paw.

  “Hmmm.” Jessnee took her paw in his hand to examine it. Her claws were coated in the metals with which she had been experimenting. “Gold nail polish made from real gold. You might be starting a fashion trend, White Talon. The color change bit is neat. Maybe I can read your palms like a mood ring.”

  She pulled it back. “My moods are my business.”

  “This will be great for adjusting the kiln when we dry the plates after we coat them with the silica gel mixture. What was it, forty minutes at 140 C?”

  “It’s a miracle you finished your dissertation! It’s thirty at 110 C.”

  “You’re right. To read you, I don’t need to stare at your claws at all.”

  Soon it was into the oven with the glass plates. They used the outside kiln so Melissa could regulate temperature. The afternoon wore on, and soon they had several dozen thin plates ready for their experiment.

  “Let’s prepare the control batch,” said Jessnee. “Do you have the good liosh?”

  Makri rolled a barrel into the back yard, hefted it onto a table and inserted a tap.

  “We don’t know the best solvent for the mobile phase,” said Melissa. “Try several concentrations of alcohol, and one with distilled water. Do remember to mark them this time.”

  Jessnee whipped out his finger, hastily replaced the middle with his index and pointed it at her. He huffed a breath to clear the sweaty matte of hair from his eyes, but finding no words, turned his head and waved his hand behind his back dismissively. He mixed together liosh, water and alcohol in different proportions, took each sample up into an eye dropper and dripped them onto slides.

  In her eagerness to examine the work, Melissa leaned in too close and drooled.

  “Hey, clumsy!” said Jessnee. “No spitting on my work! Now I’ll have make another set.”

  Ten minutes later, the water mixture had hardly separated at all. The concentrated alcohol dot spread, but unevenly. The best results came from–

  “Dragon spit!” said Melissa. In her glee, her wagging tail swept Makri from his feet and nearly upended the table. “Vindicated again!”

  “Dumb luck,” groused Jessnee. “Now I have to make a proper set, with the saliva measured out.” He walked over to her with a beaker to collect a sample. “Slobber on me and I let them convict you.”

  “What, I thought you liked it when girls salivate all over you.”

  Makri and K'Pinkelek both cleared their throats, and Makri said, “Now is not the time for a lover’s quarrel.”

  “WE ARE NOT LOVERS!” the two protested in unison.

  “And we are not making enough progress building this tower,” said K'Pinkelek. It was taking shape on the back of a wagon. The wooden frame was up, and the glass receptacle that would hold the unrefined liosh was secured over the small coal oven being used as the heating burner. “The glass tubing is ready to be attached to the burner, and the copper tubing is ready for the condensation unit. But I don’t see how we can simultaneously regulate the water flow to so many sections. In my tests, it took up to a half a minute for my claws to adjust to a temperature change. We would need ten lissairn to operate this contraption, and they’d crowd each other.”

  Makri disappeared into his shop and returned with a small, wooden chest. “More precious than gold.” He opened it to reveal hundreds of nail clippings. “Almost as hard as diamond. I make drill bits from them.”

  K'Pinkelek stood erect and growled. “How did you obtain these?”

  “Norma’s Nails,” said Makri. “Best olissair pedicurist in Four Rivers. Hlissak Poonrapi of Seakeep refuses to go anywhere else. Norma’s such a mean bargainer. Says some of the clippings are the hlissak’s, so they’re worth more! So I says to her she should separate the fancy nails from the ordinary and I’ll buy the cheap ones. When she laughed in my face, I thought of a new use for those nails involving her face. Grrrr. She makes more from me than from her regular clients. I’m in the wrong business.”

  They drilled holes in the copper tubes and plugged them with nail clippings, then painted the side of the apparatus to indicate the correct color f
or each temperature level, with higher temperatures near the bottom, where the liosh entered fresh from the burner, and lower temperatures at the top of the cooling tower.

  “If memory serves,” said Melissa, “and liosh is closest to sweet crude, then this bottom tap should deliver lubricating oil at 300-370 C, around the melting point of the lead I tested. The heating oil comes next, at 250-300 C, just above the melting point of tin. After that comes kerosene, at 200-250 C, just above sodium’s boiling point. Then several grades of gasoline above 40C, and finally, at the top, petroleum gas at just above body temperature.”

  “My body temperature?” said Jessnee. “Or the icy stuff that flows through your veins?” He saw her staring at a tub of water and watched her tail elevate. “We’ve got the rest covered. Get started on your Embraniss. Do a good job and tomorrow you’ll make quite a splash.”

  Makri slammed the door. “I returned the extra alcohol to Silosh. Asked about the foreigners. They bought from him, too. They held a strange book which they relied upon to find words in our language.”

  “What was strange about the book?” asked Melissa.

  “The pages were so even, so white,” said Makri. “The binding lacked stitching; the pages must’ve been glued in. And the cover – smooth and easily bent – pictured a lissair in flight. Silosh couldn’t see brush strokes; the image was so clear he expected it to move any second. Who prints with such perfection? Nalder in Skyport is the finest printer on Kibota, but this is far beyond his art.”

  Melissa and Jessnee locked eyes but said nothing. Perfect binding, four color process, and a photo from Kibota. Someone has discovered how to move between worlds.

  “That’s something I’d like to know,” said Jessnee. “Later.” He looked at Melissa. “Embraniss. Do it.”

  “I can’t concentrate,” said Melissa. “This science stuff puts me in an analytical frame of mind.”

  “I’ll escort you to Market Isle,” said K'Pinkelek. “Gather your materials.”

  * * *