by Devin Hanson
There are three things every city, town and hamlet have within close proximity of their gates: warehouses, inns and taverns. Andrew followed the mogul to one of the latter, and they found a corner quiet enough to talk without having to shout.
"What do I call you then?" the mogul asked, after getting the attention of a waiter and holding up two fingers.
"My name is Andrew Condign." Too late, he remembered that he was trying to disappear. Giving his full name to the mogul probably wasn't the best way to do that, but lying was an awful way to start a new relationship, temporary or otherwise.
"Andrew. I am called Marich Shen. You may call me Shen, or Wagonmaster." He smiled slightly. "I do like mogul, though. Has a nice ring to it. My apologies about earlier, it's easy to drive off annoyances by pretending insult. It was good to hear someone speak with proper courtesy, though. Have you been south to the real land?"
The real land, as the Maar called it, was the sand-blasted steppes, scoured down to the bare rock. They saw the rock as the true land, and the fertile pastures and forests to the north as an obscene covering. Andrew matched the wagonmaster's smile with one of his own, a bit sheepish. "Once, when I was young. We traded for spices with casks of spirit."
Shen nodded. "Your pronunciation is horrible, and you speak like a woman. A man should say da nramah. To say do na is abasement, improper for one man to another."
Was he being chastised? Andrew decided not, just the brusque Maar way of talking. "Thank you. I was taught only pieces of your language." He found himself automatically picking up Shen's semi-formal tone, avoiding contractions and speaking with the stilted pacing common to the south.
The serving girl brought out a platter with sliced bread and a bowl of pulled fowl meat drizzled with some red sauce Andrew hadn't seen before. Shen thanked the girl in his own language, and Andrew realized the dish was from the south. There were no utensils brought beyond a broad fork with the meat, so Andrew watched Shen for queues on how to go about eating. The wagonmaster scooped meat from the bowl directly onto a slice of bread, and proceeded to eat with relish.
Shrugging to himself, Andrew followed suit. The first mouthful was delicious, spicy, and the meat cooked just right. The spice lingered after he swallowed, and gradually started to heat up until his mouth was burning and his eyes were watering.
"Ah, it is good to have proper food up in this barbaric wasteland," Shen said. "I can hardly taste the swill you people eat. I have to bring my own spices, but it is worth it."
Andrew desperately looked around for the serving girl, and found her already by his side with a big tankard for him. "Take some from the bottom," she suggested in a stage whisper, "less of that pepper below the top." She tisked at Shen and left the table.
A few giant swallows and the burn subsided to merely painful. Andrew ventured another bite, this time, taking care to avoid any of the red sauce. He met Shen's eye and found the man with a wide smile on his face.
"You did not spit it out. I like you, I think."
"It is-" Andrew swallowed again, his voice hoarse, "It is delicious. Very flavorful." He coughed.
Andrew ate sparingly of the meal. He found the serving girl's prediction to be wholly accurate. There was less of the pepper below the top, but the dish wasn't entirely devoid of it. He eventually gave up on the meat, and did what he could to satisfy his hunger with just the bread.
"So," Shen said as they reached the end of the meal, "You wish to work passage with me. Do you know where I'm going?"
Andrew shrugged. "I can guess. Not much is shipped out of Ardhal that requires such large crates."
"Enlighten me."
Andrew hesitated, unsure what angle Shen was following, then outlined his reasoning from before.
Shen nodded once at the end. "You are correct. And you have shown yourself to be knowledgeable of the local trade routes, imports and exports. I believe your story about your parents being merchants." He tapped his chin with one finger thoughtfully. "But that does not explain why you are here. And so clothed."
Andrew hung his head. "I know I'm not much to look at. I tore my shirt and jacket up while fighting the fire for bandages."
"Surely you do not have just one shirt, Andrew. And why so eager to leave? Your city still burns in places. Are you running from the law?"
Not yet, Andrew thought. "No. My parents… We had an apartment…"
"Ah, lad. You have nowhere to go."
Andrew nodded. The reality of the situation still hadn't really sunk in. He knew his parents were dead in a sort of abstract way, the same way he knew he had been up fighting dragons in the sky two nights before. It seemed like it had happened years ago, to somebody else and his mind refused to dwell on any details. "It's true, but it is also true that you need another driver and you've little time to find one."
"I could hire from the guild," Shen pointed out mildly. "It would be no trouble finding a seasoned teamster before first light."
"I would work for journeyman wages," Andrew bargained, "At this short notice, you'd be paying extra, both to the guild and whoever you hired."
Shen chuckled. "Ah, you do know your merchanting. There be no doubt of that. But methinks you are not yet a Journeyman, not with the guild, at any rate."
"Apprentice wages, and you buy me a new shirt and cloak before we leave." It was a good deal for Shen, Andrew knew. A journey to Andronath at the last minute would run Shen upwards of two hundred silver nobles. An apprentice would make twenty nobles for the trip, and sleep beneath the wagons besides. The cost of a shirt and cloak would come out to five or six nobles, give or take. Andrew knew that he might not have an official teamster licence with the guild, but the only thing he was lacking to achieve that was another four months of age until he was sixteen.
"Done. But you get your shirt in the morning. Shen might be old, but I'll not clothe you and have you disappear in the night. Not that old. Not yet."
Andrew frowned, "I would never-"
"Save it, lad." Shen held up a hand, "I do not think you would, but I have not got where I am by blindly trusting everyone."
Andrew knew he was right. "Sorry. It is a fair demand."
"One more thing, and this is for my own curiosity. Why is Ardhal on fire? None of the locals will tell me."
Andrew stared blankly at him. He didn't know? "The airships crashed," he said numbly and proceeded to give a description of King Delran's plans to claim the skies from the dragons. As he spoke, he edited the story to tell it from a commoner's point of view, carefully leaving out any details that might imply he had been aboard the Caerwin on her doomed flight.
"Empty night," Shen said when Andrew had finished. "What a terrible idea." He made a cutting gesture with one hand. "The night belongs to the dragons. Always has, always will. There be no changing that."
Andrew disagreed, but he kept his peace. Men were not meant to cower underground or under shelter at night. The battle against the dragon had been lost, but it was only a battle, not the whole war.
"Well." Shen stood up and stretched. "Best come along. We have an early start tomorrow, and we've still to find you some clothes before you turn in."
"Am I not to wait until morning?"
"You will. But use your head, Condign, there be no shops open before the dawn. If we are to acquire your new clothing, we must do it now."
The trip to the outfitter's was the fastest purchase of clothing that Andrew had ever experienced. Shen traveled in a straight line from the entrance to the counter and, without breaking stride, collected a shirt and a cloak which he deposited on the counter. "I will pay you four nobles for this."
The woman behind the counter looked at him askance. It was a fair price, though normally there would be haggling before they settled on it, and there was an even chance the final cost would be plus or minus a few copper commons, depending on how willing Shen was to drag out the haggling process. After a short deliberation and a long glance at Andrew's state of undress, she asked, "You want a bag?"
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br /> Without responding, Shen dropped the coins on the counter, scooped up the articles and stomped back outside. From entrance to exit, it had taken less than forty seconds. Andrew followed on his heels, surprised and more than a little delighted at Shen's method of shopping. The last time his mother had taken him shopping, they had purchased two shirts and the excursion had taken the entire afternoon.
"Here," Shen said, depositing the clothing in Andrew's arms, "I changed my mind. No reason you should be cold for the night. The teamsters are bunking above the stables. Rise with them and give them assistance with the bourn. They will teach you what you need to know."
"Thank you, sir." Andrew felt an unexpected surge of emotion, and closed his eyes tight for a second so they didn't spill over. "You won't regret it."
"See that I do not. I will see you in the morning." Shen stomped away, leaving Andrew standing outside the shop. Andrew tried the shirt on, and wasn't surprised in the least when it fit perfectly. The cloak was thick and warm, hanging down to the back of his knees with a big hood. The passage north to Andronath would take three weeks, the weather permitting, and the further north they went, the colder it would get. Andrew wrapped the cloak around himself. The cloak's color was a muted green and suited Andrew just fine.
The clouds overhead finally broke, and a light rain started. Andrew threw the hood of his new cloak up and headed for the barn. Tomorrow would be a long day.
The airship drifted lazily on warm air currents, curiously afloat without any balloons to hold it up. The stiff breeze from the stern drove them swiftly through the sky without the need of the ship's propellers. Andrew stood guard at the ship's rail near his assigned cannon, eyeglass twisting idly in his fingers and he scanned the tops of the clouds.
Without any transition, the sky went to dark night, the only illumination coming from the myriad stars. Cinnamon drifted on the wind, and he opened his mouth to sound the alarm, but no sound issued forth.
"What you on about then?" Timothy asked.
Andrew turned to his crewmate and saw the dragon drifting along a ship's length off the bow. He gesticulated wildly, screaming until his throat flared with pain, but no sound came out.
Timothy scratched at his neck. "There's naught but sun and clouds, old chap." The skin under Timothy's nails peeled away, revealing blackened flesh beneath, cracked through with harsh red raw meat.
Right there! Andrew wanted to shout. Dragon! Right behind you! He worked his mouth, not even able to make a click with his teeth. He seized Timothy's shoulders and tried to turn him around by force, and staggered back as the meat of Timothy's shoulder came away in his hands like a slow-cooked roast. He gagged at the smell of burnt meat.
"Well, look what you've done now. How am I going to arm the cannon without me muscle?"
The cannon! Andrew turned to the machine by his side and started working the screw. It was back-breaking work by himself, and no matter how many times he spun the wheel, the thread refused to pull out. Timothy stood over his shoulder, ignoring the dragon, and offered critiques to Andrew's form.
"You really should have a partner to do that. You'll throw your back out! Besides. Who's going to fire the cannon? You've forgotten to load shot. You were never trained to fire."
The dragon roared, and Andrew gave up on the cannon and started running toward the parachute lockers amidships. The faster he tried to run, the slower he went and everything else sped up. The dragon flapped alongside the ship, wings beating a dozen times a second. The rest of the crew went about their tasks at breakneck speed, their voices raised to a piping twitter whenever they spoke.
Finally, Andrew reached the locker and hauled it open. Timothy was folded up inside, charred to the bone. A face not much more than blackened bone turned up and smiled at him. "End of the road, lad."
The airship disappeared, and Andrew was falling, the dragon keeping pace beside him, the buffets of the great beast's wings slapping him around as he fell through the endless clouds. He left the cloud layer at last, and found himself only a few hundred yards from the tops of the roofs in Ardhal. He opened his mouth to scream as the ground spun up to meet him.
Andrew sat up with a jerk and thumped his head on the bottom of the wagon. Beside him, one of the other teamsters stirred.
"Empty night, Andrew. Pipe down and let the rest of us sleep, e'en if you can't."
Andrew muttered an apology and rubbed the smarting abrasion on his forehead. He slid out from beneath the wagon, wrapping his cloak about himself. The waystation was silent except for one of the aurochs chewing its cud and a quiet moan as the wind found a loose chink in the walls.
Walking carefully to avoid disturbing anyone else, Andrew made his way to the small door and let himself out into the night. The cold bit into his lungs and chased off the last of the shakes from his nightmare. Frost crunched under his boots as he slid along the wall, careful to stay under the eaves of the shelter.
The two moons were out, making the landscape almost as clear as day to Andrew's eyes, used to the blackness of the shelter. He lifted the hood of his cloak up over his head, not so much because it was cold, though it was, but because the soft folds of his cloak broke up his shape and would hide him from any hunting dragons overhead.
He slipped from the cover of the eaves and made a short dash to the relative safety of an old oak a dozen paces away. With a grunt of effort, he hauled himself up onto a low limb. His rib had healed during the voyage north, though it still had a bump if he searched for it with his fingers.
The waystation was a massive barn, a hundred paces wide, enough room for two or three caravans the size of Shen's, four if they really packed in tight. The straight lines of the walls were obscured with carefully planted bracken, the roof built haphazardly, with odd peaks and valleys and shingled with clay tiles, the top surface pressed with gravel and sand to imitate the local stone outcroppings. A casual observer from above would see only a patch of stone surrounded by scrub and the occasional tree. It was effectively invisible to a dragon.
Centuries of trial and error had taught builders how to hide the signs of human habitation from dragons and it was a refined art. The waystation was as safe from dragons as a cave a hundred feet below the surface, so long as it remained unseen.
Andrew sat on the branch and watched the moons slide across the sky. Not a single night had gone by that he wasn't yanked from sleep by his nightmares. The other teamsters had grown distant during the journey, muttering amongst themselves about how dreaming of dragons was bad luck. Andrew couldn't tell the others about the disastrous campaign against the dragon, so his nightmares had no context the others could relate to.
Despite his nightly terrors, Andrew found the midnight quiet to be soothing. Perched up in a tree or sitting in the lee of a shelter, Andrew felt more at peace than he had at any other time in his life. He was as careful as any of the others, but he had been within an arm's breadth of one of the great beasts and had lived to tell the tale, something he was willing to bet very few others had experienced. Beyond the imminent threat of instant death, dragons did not scare him. If only his subconscious felt the same way.
He might be the only person from Ardhal who felt this way, but he knew, given another chance, he would take to the skies again. They needed a new battle plan, a new method of attack, there must be a way to do it.
The eastern horizon was turning just the faintest shade of pink when Andrew swung down off his branch and headed back to the waystation. He waved to the man on watch and slipped back inside. After the frigid night air, the warm humidity inside the shelter was as good as a full-body massage.
The watchman came in on his heels. "Sun is coming. Up and at ‘em!"
Andrew felt the first stirrings of excitement, a feeling he had been without for a long time. This was the last waystation. By the time the sun set, they would be in Andronath.
Chapter 4
Andronath
Andronath was unlike any city Andrew had ever seen. Ardhal and the other ci
ties Andrew had visited had been designed to minimize visibility from the sky. Trees grew close together down every road, roofs were designed to look like rocky outcroppings, building fronts were muted grey or built from stone. Everything was built to organic curves and as much structure was underground as possible. Ardhal was almost fifty percent subterranean, with most buildings having as many stories beneath the ground as they did above.
To Andrew's surprise, Andronath was almost the complete opposite. Cut stone towers rose with brightly colored roofing tiles, topped with pennants that blew in the wind, trees were for decoration rather than concealment. The city itself was built on a low, isolated mountain, with the buildings rising in tiered rings, made with straight walls, whitewashed plaster almost blinding in the sun. The city could be seen for miles in every direction.
Shen rode up beside Andrew's wagon on his horse, and reined in to keep pace. "Well, lad. What do you think of the city?"
How was it still there? How had they hidden from the dragons? He couldn't understand it, could hardly believe what his eyes were showing him. "How?" was all Andrew was able to say.
"The how of it," Shen shrugged, "is not too far off from what your king attempted. It was not entirely without precedent, using cannons to fight off dragons. The main difference is the king's plan was to kill one. In Andronath, they merely drive them off if they come sniffing around. Their cannons are mounted all over the city in towers. When a dragon comes, a dozen cannon fire volleys at it no matter where it flies. It doesn't take long for the dragon to give up."
Shen squinted into the sun. "I was a lad when they first came up with the plan. Dragons attacked every night for a week. Then they seemed to give it up. These days they get a dragon flying by less than once a month and it doesn't take much to discourage it."
"They never kill the dragons?"
"With cannon?" Shen chuckled. "No. Knock it about, sure. Poke some holes in the wings, absolutely. Kill one? No, lad. You would need a sight more power than a mere cannon to do the deed."
