by E. E. Knight
“Anyway, no mates for me. I’m oathed into the Firemaids and meant every word of the Third Oath. Nowadays there are Second-Oathers who speak the words as though they mean to say, Sundering myself from mated life for the protection of all (until a likely dragon starts a-courting, that is).
Wistala chuckled. She’d been oathed into the Firemaids as well, but political troubles and DharSii had come along before she’d spent enough years among them for the most solemn Third Oath vows.
Wallander was still a dumpy little collection of hovels on the riverbank. All it had to recommend it was a lake of slack water in the Falnges River and a wide beach for landing trade-craft. The only difference Wistala could mark was that the wall had fallen into even greater disrepair, and there were slave-pens everywhere, inside and outside the walls.
Wistala watched the wretches in the pens. Poor things. The dwarfs would chuck them into one of the barges, and from there they’d be taken to a tunnel portal. How many would never see the sun again, sicken, and die after a few years of hard work underground?
She’d never given much thought to thralls before, but the ones she’d known were the descendants of warriors who’d fought the dragons and were warm and clothed and fed decently. If the occasional gravely injured or sick thrall had been given quick death to ease their passing before being devoured, she shrugged it off as part of the long, unfortunate history between hominids and dragonkind. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a dragon of any age caught by men or elves or dwarfs would be pierced with spears and end up with its bones adorning some thane’s trophy room or great hall. Gentlebeings like Rainfall were the rare exception in a hard world.
Remembering Rainfall’s kindness, his hatred of cruelty and injustice shamed her. What was her excuse for coarsening over the years? Rainfall had been cast away and forgotten by the Hypatian Order, its chivalry he’d preserved and kept until his dying breath.
“They aren’t part of the Empire yet, are they?” Wistala asked, pointing with her tail tip to the pens.
“They’re still outside the walls. The dwarfs are probably negotiating the sale,” Yefkoa said.
“There’s a problem with taking a long time bargaining. You may be shocked to find out your wares suddenly aren’t worth so much.”
The men and dwarfs of Wallander barely looked at the pair of winged females idling beside the river. When they’d washed the dust of travel—an amazing amount of spiderweb and bug-grit would get caught in one’s scales during flight and the ability of insects to reach every claw’s-breadth of the world continually impressed Wistala—from their bodies, they sunned themselves and cocked their heads to get a better view of the headhunter dwarfs and their captives.
Old animosities burned like embers deep in Wistala’s hearts. Slavers had come for her family, once, killing her mother and sister. She tussled with herself. The first job was to pass through and into the Dragon Empire.
Yefkoa introduced her to the Protector of Wallander.
He was a young silver dragon with black tips on his scales, with wings so fresh they were practically still wet. Wistala could see the faint scars of the emergence of his wings, where scale had not quite overgrown the crocodile-smile wounds running along his back.
“I am Yefkoa, and we are of the Firemaids. We are on our way back to the Lavadome and seek permission to reenter the Empire.” Yefkoa had chosen her words better than Wistala could have hoped.
In one of the wood-beamed lodges behind, Wistala heard shouts. Human and dwarfish voices were trying to win one another over in a debate of noise rather than ideas, as Rainfall might have put it.
“I am OuThroth, page to NoSohoth, exchequer of Wallander and knight-esquire of the Empire.” Wistala thought he’d collected an interesting assortment of titles for such a young dragon. “You are welcome, Firemaids. Enjoy the poor hospitality of Wallander before continuing your journey. There are some nice fish running in the river, if that’s to your taste.”
“Is this your own Protectorate, or do you serve as steward for another?” Yefkoa asked, carefully keeping her head below the young dragon’s and setting and resettling her wings, as a flirtatious young dragonelle might.
“I speak for NoSohoth. My father used to run the uphold trade in oliban.” Wistala remembered the strong-smelling resin burned in the Lavadome to subdue dragon odor. Male dragons became fierce and argumentative when crowded among the smells of too many of their sex. “Wallander is one of the smaller provinces NoSohoth oversees and they sent me here to gain experience.”
The Empire had changed, Wistala thought. Stewards now, for Protectors who had amassed more lands than they could manage. No surprise that NoSohoth would have a collection of provinces; he always was a rapacious dragon.
“Have you gained any, young dragon?” Wistala asked.
He blinked, perhaps unused to questioning from Firemaids. “I’ve learned how to survive with no polite society. If you’ve been out in Ironrider lands, you’ve been long without wine. Would you like some of mine?”
“Please,” Yefkoa said. They followed him from the gate. The contest of voices faded.
“What was that ruckus with the thrall-gatherers?” Wistala asked.
“The dwarfs are exhibiting their usual arrogance in pricing their captives. It’s more than the Hypatians are willing to pay, yet I’m still expected to fill a tally of thralls or NiVom and NoSohoth will have me supervising diggers, with one day in the sun out of thirty. I’ve never been able to figure out where all this pride comes from in dwarfs. Unless being dirty and uncouth is something to be proud of.”
“What will you do?” Wistala asked.
“If I must, I’ll make the difference out of my own funds, limited as they are. Thralls must be found.”
OuThroth’s hall was a work-in-progress. A good stone foundation had been laid—Wistala saw a dwarf working figures on a piece of paper next to a small fire with an infusion kettle atop it—but the roof timbers were still half-done, gaps covered by a mix of canvas and cordage.
A vast amount of lumber was piled near the riverbank, but it was poorly situated. The bottom trunks were wet and rotting and she could see mosses and mushrooms the size of chest-scale growing out of wet cracks in the bark. If OuThroth wasn’t careful, half of his purchase wouldn’t be fit for bedding-chips, let alone roofing. A shame, since they were fine big boles. Some venerable stands of timber had been cut, only for this heedless youth to leave it to rot along a riverbank where it had been dumped by a barge.
Waste. Her old guardian Rainfall would have been outraged to see such ancient trees cut but then left to rot.
Inside, OuThroth’s hall was sparse but comfortable. His bed-platform was set up in the coziest corner, if the winds to-day were the prevailing. A mass of copper tubing ran beneath it, giving a hiss now and then.
“It’s the latest thing, a bed-warmer. Steam flows through it and returns to a sort of big chamber as water, where it is turned to steam again. There’s all sorts of dwarfish inventions like valves and cooling chambers involved, I don’t know the half of it, but it will be a fine perch for my hall. The dwarf has arranged a summer-bed as well, a clever thing like a great thick fishnet.”
“Aren’t you afraid, with all that space beneath where you sleep?” Wistala asked. “Assassins could get in under there and be next to your breast without waking you.”
“Oh, the hominids are beaten and they know it. I have a few Hypatian lancers and whip-hands here to keep order among the thralls. They make sure no one is hiding weapons or secretly making shields in the smithy. As for the Ironriders—well, you’ve just come from there. Did they give you any trouble?”
“We could hardly have found trouble had we looked for it,” Yefkoa said.
“Yes, I used to bring in a dozen or more gold coins a month in purchasing commissions,” OuThroth said. “Now it’s a few pieces of silver here and there. That’s why the hall is taking so long to complete—the thrall trade’s drying up or moving to other provinces. Most of
them are coming from the north in the hill country of the upper Inland Ocean these days. If only I’d been posted there! Wallander buys wild horses and feedstock rounded up from the plains by the Hypatians, but that’s nothing compared to thrall-trade. There’s talk of war with the southern princedoms. I’m hoping that since now I’ve become experienced I can win a position there. The massacre threw the whole Empire into a tumult and there are titles up for the swallowing like summer bats.”
“The massacre?” Wistala asked. She felt a little sorry for OuThroth; he seemed starved for other dragons to talk to. Callow, yes, and perhaps a little lazy. If this was an example of the generations being raised by the Dragon Empire, it was no wonder war and revolution were in the offing.
“Oh, you wouldn’t have heard if you’ve been in the wild. A vast number of assassins from the Sunstruck Sea infiltrated the Queen’s feast, posing as thralls. They used terrible poisons, first in the wine to addle their heads, then on their blades. Seventeen dragons dead, including the male Twin, and the Sun King and Queen only just escaped. Infamy!”
“Who else was lost?” Yefkoa said. “Any Firemaids?”
“Mostly Lower World dragons. Ayafeeia was the only Firemaid I’d heard was killed. I’m thankful NoSohoth declined his invitation to attend, as he was engaged in important negotiations with the northern provinces in Hypatia, or I might have lost a most important ally and any chance of soon gaining another title.”
Shallow, callow youth! was all Wistala could think. Even in the great war with the Red Queen and her Ironrider allies, they’d never lost so many dragons in any one battle. Rainfall would be sure to retreat into short, polite phrases so as not to give his mind away.
“May you get what your work here deserves,” Wistala said.
They fed and restored themselves from the fast flight over the barren steppes and camped under some vast riverbank willows. When Yefkoa was slumbering soundly, Wistala left her and slipped through the gate to the outer pens.
She walked up to the trio of dwarfs watching over their stock. They sat in a ring, smoking and exchanging quiet words over a beer-cask with Hypatian letters on it.
“Come to view the merchandise again?” one of the dwarfs asked. “No sickness. Plenty of kids, even one mother-to-be. We’re not counting the not-yet-born, of course. Bonus for you.”
“Yes, I would like a closer look,” Wistala said. She reared up, and came down with all of her weight on the dwarfs, trapping them in her sii. She stomped furiously.
When the dwarfs were reduced to muddy stains, she turned on the occupants in the pens. The dark-haired Ironriders shrank away from her.
Some were chained together. It was the work of only a few moments to break the links. They set up a wailing.
“All of you! Run!” Wistala managed.
They didn’t understand her, so she flapped at them, just missing with her wingtips, until the whole mass was running for the low hills of the southern steppelands. They left only one behind, an old fellow who looked like he’d died from exposure. She extracted his tongue before burning him.
Once she was sure of their departure, she loosed her flame into the pen and on the dead dwarfs.
When she told Yefkoa what had happened the next morning, she expected complaints. Yefkoa stood silent for a moment, then said, “Good. Only fair way to take thralls is battle; this burning villages and hauling them in from the bushes bothers me. It means trouble, though, and things were going well with OuThroth.”
“Like you, I was almost enslaved when I was young. It was dwarfs then, too. I can’t right the wrong done to my family, but I can save another.”
While they ate, OuThroth hurried over.
“I must ask you about one matter. There were some dwarfs camped outside the walls yesterday. We were in negotiations about the purchase of thralls. The negotiations were taking overlong, as being dwarfs, they pressed their advantage to the limit and asked for a price above the very clouds. My watchmen heard signs of fighting last night, and this morning both dwarfs and thralls seem to be gone.”
“They are, after a fashion,” Wistala said. “Believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted those thralls. I’ve been among the Ironriders for some time, seeking old bones.”
“Disgusting custom,” Yefkoa said. “Some Ironriders dare to wear dragon-scale, or have the skulls of those killed in fighting as clan totems.”
“That’s not an answer,” OuThroth said. He was capable of pressing a point when a potential profit was involved.
“Your thrall-gatherers were trying to cheat you,” Wistala said. “Fully a third of the thralls they were trying to sell you were diseased. It’s not an easy illness to spot—they go pale and listless and bloodshot about the eyes, and while not immediately fatal, it does leave the victims vulnerable to other, more quick-killing diseases.”
“What did you do with the bodies?”
“We ate them. We were famished.”
“You ate diseased flesh?”
“Only after a good roasting,” Yefkoa said.
“Don’t worry—it does not spread to dragons,” Wistala said.
“I understand there is already a great loss of thralls underground,” Wistala said. “Had a more experienced person spotted the disease, they would have been traced back to you. Or worse, the signs might have been missed altogether and a vast die-off of thralls could happen underground.”
Getting rid of the thralls was an audacious move, but Wistala had her reasons. The way she saw it, OuThroth had two options. He could report to NoSohoth that a pair of dragonelles that he admitted devoured a couple of slave pens full of thralls, or he could feign ignorance of the entire matter.
No matter what he did with the first option, it would reek of mismanagement of his Protectorate. Letting a pair of unknown dragonelles eat stock . . .
No, he would tell the Hypatians to shut up if they valued their slave-trading concession, pass along the disease story, and if worse came to worst claim that killing the dwarfs was rough borderland justice for their attempt to cheat the Dragon Empire.
“It would set the works back years,” Yefkoa said, breaking in on Wistala’s thoughts.
OuThroth bowed. “You’ve done me a great service, Yefkoa and errr . . .”
“My oath-sister, Tala,” Yefkoa supplied.
“That is a handsome headdress you wear, Tala. It is elegantly shaped. Elven-make?”
“A family heirloom. All I know with certainty is that it is old.”
“Tala is from one of the noblest families in the land—but she dislikes when I name names,” Yefkoa said, and Wistala grew afraid that Yefkoa would play the game too sharply and arouse the youngster’s suspicions.
“If you have any younger relatives, I’d welcome their society here—if they have a yen to travel.” OuThroth said, bowing. “I’m still unmated,” he added, unnecessarily.
“A dragon under the tutelage of NoSohoth is on his way up,” Yefkoa said, simpering.
They bowed out their farewells, thanked him for his hospitality, and took off across the river, heading for Dairuss, the Protectorate of AuRon’s mate.
“He’s still a bit wet about the wings for a border post, I think,” Wistala said.
“Titles are bought and sold these days,” Yefkoa said. “Nowadays your title doesn’t matter so much as the sheer number of them behind your name. It takes much of a sunrise to list NoSohoth’s. He’s always willing to sell a few. You see the quality of dragon it gets us.”
Chapter 5
Even from an altitude, the tower stood out. Its position when viewed from the east, framed against the sea, presented an unmistakable landmark. And if that wasn’t enough, a light burned atop it. The Copper judged it an ordinary fire reflected and magnified with polished metal, set as a beacon for night-travelers, or perhaps a warning for ships about the dangerous break in the coast.
The last time he’d been here he’d been half out of his mind with regret and recrimination. AuRon had known something of the dragons here
—he’d had communications with them in his time on the Isle of Ice, and they’d used the landmark to take their bearings. All he remembered was the vague loom of the tower and the cold, misty coast.
On the flight he’d toyed with the dragonhelm Scabia had given him. If it did in fact amplify mindspeech, it didn’t work very well on him and Wistala. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of an affinity between them. Or she wasn’t wearing it. All he received was vague impressions, like a remembered dream, and most of those were of DharSii or Scabia speaking. He’d had enough of both to last a lifetime.
The lands he’d flown over looked cold and unfriendly. Hostile, too. The barbarian villages had piles of lumber and were putting old fences back into repair and constructing new ones around unprotected clusters of buildings. His passage overhead seemed to cause some consternation, the barbarians shuffling their livestock and children about like disturbed ants.
The only philosophy that makes sense is to treat all as your friends, or none. I think all’s more pleasant, don’t you, lads? Tyr Fehazathant used to say when visiting the wingless drakes in the Drakwatch. The Copper had done well treating all as friends—though perhaps he’d have lasted longer on the throne and kept his mate besides if he’d adopted the latter mind-set.
He circled above the tower three times before starting his descent. Closing the wing today would be extra painful.
The mistress of the tower was an old crone who walked with the aid of a cane. She was supervising the unloading of a dwarf-driven, mule-drawn wagon. The mules didn’t care for his presence and brayed an alarm as he landed. She still had bright eyes and a kind of beauty about her, the way a wind-bent tree clinging to a cliff’s edge over the sea was picturesque in its twisted tenacity.
