by Alex Bledsoe
“Forgive me, Father Tempcott,” he said with his head bowed. “I was weaker than even I knew I could be.”
Tempcott hobbled to the edge of the stage and glared at him, but there was calculation in it; clearly he knew Frederick was his meal ticket. “You have disappointed me, as well as Lumina and Solarian. You were given a simple task and you failed to see it through.”
Frederick nodded. “I know that, Father Tempcott.”
“You are the brightest hope for our future, and you seem determined to bury your light under drink and women.”
“I’m truly sorry, Father Tempcott. Discipline is unfamiliar to me.”
Tempcott knew just how far to push it. Instead of pounding on the boy some more, he moved to the podium and said, “Now that we’ve gotten all our interruptions out of the way, let’s get on with what’s important.”
Frederick hunkered down into his seat, grateful to no longer be the center of attention. He looked hungover, possibly still a little drunk, but his contrition seemed genuine. Evidently he really did care what Tempcott thought of him, which seemed odd given his reputation. The Prince Frederick I’d heard about loved only drink, women and games of chance, in that order.
Tempcott stood silently for a moment, eyes closed, composing himself and restoring the sense of sanctity. When he spoke again, he was in full high priest mode.
“Behold!” he cried, startling us as his voice echoed among the stalactites. “The day of the flame is approaching, and only a few will survive it to walk among the ashes.” He looked up at the ceiling as if seeing his vision in the air before him. “Soot will drape the hills, and the river will run black with ash. Nothing green will remain, and the sky will be as dark as the hearts of wicked men.”
Then he scowled at us poor wretches. “But you, my friends, may be saved, if you can prove yourselves worthy to Lumina and Solarian. You have completed merely the first challenge to join their service; more and greater challenges lie ahead. Only I can show you the way, for only I am left from those who once prepared the path for their great return. Long ago we were legion, and our truth was feared and honored. Now we are merely tales told to frighten children. But you will be the first of the new flames to set fire to the land.”
He placed his hands on the big box Marantz had carried down. “Just as a flame requires fuel, a believer requires divine revelation. This precious relic is our sign, the fuel to our fire of belief, the proof that Lumina and Solarian once lived, and will live again.” He unsnapped the lid, reached inside and said again, “Behold!”
It took all his strength to lift the object from the box and raise it over his head. It was nearly three feet long, jagged and blackened with age. Only when the bottom dropped open, revealing even rows of sharp teeth, did it resolve into something I recognized.
A skull.
Not a human skull, clearly. It resembled a crocodile, an animal I’d once seen far too closely when I was a younger man. They lived in the swamps and rivers of the coastal nations, and the big ones could easily take down a horse. They were ambush predators, waiting with just their eyes and noses above the surface of the water until something big enough came to the bank to drink. I had been big enough; luckily I was also faster, though it had been a near thing.
I knew what Tempcott and the others thought the skull was, though. And if I hadn’t, the chanting of, “Praise the flame!” would’ve tipped me off.
A dragon skull. The ultimate icon for these backwoods religious fanatics and their new converts.
Tempcott carefully placed it on the table in front of the box, where all could bask in its glory. It settled with a solid thunk. Then he turned to the cage beside the box.
“This holiest of relics proves our great Lumina once burned through the skies. She was no figment, no myth, no child’s bedtime tale. But for those who seek her fire now, we ask a sign of her presence among us. And she answers! Behold!” He opened the top of the cage and reached inside.
Apparently the cage wasn’t empty. He lifted out a heavyset black lizard about two feet long. Unlike the lithe reptiles of Muscodia, this one had a short, fat tail and a wide head. Its skin was beaded, not smoothly scaled, and a blue, snake-like tongue flitted in and out of its mouth. It lay limp and heavy in Tempcott’s hands.
People gasped and whispered around me. Clearly neither these scions of privilege nor the backwoods believers had ever seen anything like this, but I had, in the deserts of Minong. They had immensely strong jaws and, once clamped on, were almost impossible to pry off. Unlike other lizards, their bite was poisonous, and their venom burned like fire or acid according to an archer I knew who’d lost three toes to one.
“Behold the spawn of Lumina and Solarian,” Tempcott said as he held the big lizard in his bony hands. Its claws moved slowly, and it turned its flat, square head seeking the source of its annoyance. “Our lack of belief has weakened it, so that the sacred flame is now a mere burning liquid. But if our faith is strong, even that holds no terror for us. See how it will not strike me? It knows I am the greatest of its followers. Who among you will dare the challenge?”
The big lizard suddenly twisted its head and tried to bite Tempcott. We all jumped; Tempcott didn’t. The lizard let out a deep, ragged hiss of disappointment.
“It can’t harm me,” Tempcott said. “Rather, it senses your fear. Who will show courage instead?”
No one made any move to join Tempcott onstage. They all thought it genuinely might be some sort of baby dragon. Tempcott held the creature aloft again, looking deliberately at Frederick. The prince gazed steadfastly at the floor. Tempcott placed a kiss atop the creature’s knobby head and returned it reverently to its cage.
“Until you can face the spawn of Lumina and Solarian, you can never embrace the true flame,” he said. For once, there was no disapproval in his words; they sounded sad and tired. But it didn’t last. “And to embrace the purest of flames, you must learn to summon the basest.”
He clapped his hands, and the drummers began again, this time a faster, more primal rhythm. The red-robed women left their position along the back wall, walked down the central aisle and lined up in front of the stage. When they were neatly in a row, they pushed back the hoods. Their faces were now hidden behind lizard-like masks.
Once we’d had the chance to appreciate this, they dropped their robes to the floor. Except for the barest of loincloths they were naked, and the room’s energy level took a sudden spike. Then they began to dance.
They were an eclectic bunch, these women. It was hard to judge age without seeing their faces, but the oldest had gray hair, while the youngest was probably barely old enough to count as a woman. Some had elaborate tattoos; others bore scars and even brandings. There were blondes, brunettes and two redheads. They danced in place with individual, untutored styles, some simply weaving while others did elaborate hand routines. The intent was blatantly sensual, and I have to admit it had its desired effect on me. But what did this have to do with dragons?
The girls undulated up the central aisle. They made no eye contact with any of the men, even though we watched them very attentively. Tempcott totally ignored them, hobbling to the side of the platform where one of Marantz’s goons helped him down the steps. I tried to see where he went without being obvious, but too many swaying breasts got in my way.
The women moved down the individual aisles directly in front of us, unashamedly displaying themselves. Most had worked up a sweat, and the room filled with sexual tension. No one made any move toward the women, though. This was some sort of test for the believers, just as the poisonous lizard had been. The young man beside me dug his fingers into his knees so hard he’d have bruises tomorrow, and the man beyond him repeatedly mumbled some sort of prayer.
One of the dancers, a supple thing with a body that could make a dying man kick a hole in a straw-paneled door, dislodged her mask during one especially emphatic combination of hand gestures. It was the girl I’d noticed earlier in the waiting room. She quickly rep
laced the mask and resumed her dance, but now I was doubly intrigued. She continued looking around as she danced, adding a somehow endearing distractedness to her moves. But try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what she was looking for.
Then I realized she was actually doing something else as well: keeping the other women, especially the younger girls, away from Prince Frederick. She did not blatantly dance for him, the way a particular blonde was doing for me, but any time another girl seemed inclined to do so, she moved to block her. It was subtle, and certainly the prince was enthralled by all the women.
Finally, though, a discreet approach didn’t work. Too many girls wanted to sashay up to Frederick, so she staked out her position in front of him. She presented herself to him with raw but untrained moves that were somehow more erotic than many of the experienced dancers. Frederick smiled, as well he might; she was a natural, smooth skinned and lacking any apparent inhibitions. She jiggled in all the right ways, in all the right places.
I looked around for Marantz. He stood at the side of the cave, nestled in the shadows between two stalagmites; there was no sign of Tempcott. He hadn’t gone out the door we’d used, so there was another exit somewhere. Two of Marantz’s men flanked the gangster, trying to remain professional despite the flesh on display. Marantz could’ve cared less about this religious tripe, although he had affixed a red scarf to his head. He also showed no interest in the women, except for the occasional annoyed glance their way. If he disliked this so much, why put up with it? The answer had to somehow connect with Prince Frederick.
Marantz whispered something to one of his men, who nodded before going out the main door and up the stairs. One of the women tried to dance for Marantz, but his glare sent her flitting for another potential audience. He crossed his arms impatiently and watched Prince Frederick like a mother hen.
The drummers changed their tempo, evidently a signal to the dancers, and the women moved away from us, back down to the front. The drumming stopped, the woman silently donned their robes and returned down the aisle, out the door and up the stone stairs.
Marantz unrolled a small parchment and read stiffly from it. “ ‘Tonight, you must stoke the flame of Solarian within yourself. Tomorrow you will offer it to Lumina. If your flame is strong, you will be rewarded by her presence among us.’ ” He sighed and almost rolled his eyes. “Praise the flame.”
“Praise the flame,” we responded.
“You have quarters waiting for you upstairs,” he said in his normal voice. “Breakfast will be one hour before sunrise.” We sat expectantly until he added an exasperated, “Praise the flame.”
“Praise the flame,” we replied again, and stood up. Several men adjusted their visible, ah, interest in the girls. Luckily I was better at controlling myself. We filed out toward the stairs. I walked right past Marantz, almost within arm’s reach, but he gave no sign I was out of place. Either I’d fooled him or he was waiting to see what I’d do.
As we entered the antechamber the young man beside me said breathlessly, “Wow.”
“Impressive ceremony,” I agreed with what I hoped was appropriate awe.
“I feel like I really can bring back Lumina,” he said. He was in his late teens, unmistakably sheltered and overwhelmed by all the bare flesh.
“Me, too,” I agreed.
He leaned close and said with a soft giggle, “I don’t know if I can hold off until tomorrow, though.”
“Sure you can,” I encouraged. I began to understand what was going on, and what this “flame” they were stoking—or rather, stroking—might be. I would definitely skip that ceremony. “Think about how good it’ll feel then.”
“I know,” he agreed, and giggled again.
As we started up the stairs, I stepped aside into the shadows and let everyone pass me. No one looked my way; they were exhausted from the march and thoroughly distracted by the effect of the dancing girls. I was tired, too, but really didn’t want to spend the night with a bunch of horny religious fanatics.
When the cellar door banged shut above me, I went back to the entrance and peered into the cavern. Marantz and his men had not passed me, yet the cave was empty. The braziers still burned, providing plenty of light. I slipped along the wall, hiding in the shadows provided by the uneven rock until I reached the stage.
The big skull had been left on the table beside its box. I listened for any sign of interruption, but heard only the steady drip of water somewhere above me. I climbed onto the stage and examined the precious artifact.
I saw no indication of trauma; the animal this belonged to had not been killed by a blow to the head. I looked for a sign that the skull had been created artificially, glued together from disparate parts, but found none. It had the organic appearance of something meant to look this way.
The idea that this might be a real dragon skull sank its sharp little claws into my imagination. The horn sockets on top were solidly attached like a steer’s, and the broken ends of the horns revealed lifelike striations. The teeth curved backward and were all the same size, like a snake’s. The upper teeth fit neatly into the gaps between the lower ones. That meant the animal hunted by biting and hanging on, not ripping or tearing. I suppose if it was also flame-charring its dinner while it held it, there would be no need for a fight.
I checked the joint where the jaw fitted to the skull. It moved smoothly, the knobs clearly meant for these sockets. And it was old. The grime and stain would not accumulate on new bone.
There were no signs of workmanship or modification. Fake “monsters” were common in carnivals, but either this was the best I’d ever seen or it was genuine. Yet being a real skull didn’t make it a real dragon skull. Did it . . . ?
Oh, come on, I scolded myself. Act like you’ve been to school before. Sure, the obvious conclusion that the skull came from a real animal didn’t automatically mean it actually belonged to a mythical fire-breathing lizard. There were lots of places in the world where strange creatures still lived. It might have been some relative of the crocodile that, divorced from habitat and flesh, struck someone as a perfect prop to prove dragons once really lived.
I lifted it carefully; it was lighter than I expected, like the bones of a bird. Since dragons supposedly flew, that made sense.
I recalled the scribe’s strange question about “something flying overhead” before Hank’s barn went up in flames. Could he mean . . . ? No, no, LaCrosse, I heard the voice of my cranky old tutor say, dragons are superstition. This skull fooled these people simply because none of them knew any better. I wondered if Tempcott knew it was a fake, or if he was so far gone it no longer mattered?
I returned it to its original spot, and peered into the cage. The black lizard regarded me with its dull, opaque eyes, its thick blue tongue testing the air.
Behind the stage, I spotted faint light from a small, narrow opening. I found a short tunnel, its entrance mostly hidden by a rock column; the light came from the other end. That had to be where Marantz and Tempcott went.
Once I got through the opening, the tunnel widened enough for three men to walk side by side. My foot hit something that softly clattered, and I knelt to examine it. It was the bottom half of a clay jug, the kind used to transport the cheaper kinds of ale and rum. It was dusty, and a cave spider scurried from it. These containers were easily made, and just as easily broken. More pieces, from jugs of various sizes, littered the floor.
That cleared up one mystery. The Lizard’s Kiss had been built over this bedrock with its natural caves so it could front for some of Marantz’s smuggling operations. Contraband could be brought in, taken out or stored here until needed. I wondered if Gary and Angelina knew about this and just never thought to mention it to me. In their world, it would be nothing unusual.
I reached the end of the tunnel and was about to peer beyond it when a sword poked me in the back and a voice hissed what could have been my personal litany: “Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
chapter
FIFTEEN
I
raised my hands immediately. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, I’m really sorry,” I said, and let my voice get high and shaky. “I was just looking for a way upstairs that wasn’t so crowded and got turned around. Please don’t hurt me.” I practically whimpered when I added, “Praise the flame?”
“Right,” the voice whispered, deliberately obscuring its identity. “Now start backing up. Slowly.”
“Please, I can explain; it’s not what it looks like,” I whined.
“You’re making me cry,” the voice croaked drily. “Move.”
I did as ordered. When we emerged back into the ceremonial chamber, the sword jabbed me again. “Stop. Turn around. Put your back against the wall. And keep your hands where I can see them, or you’ll find your guts warming your feet.”
“My guts warming my feet?” I repeated in my normal voice as I turned. “That’s good; can I borrow it?” Then I faced my attacker.
Prince Frederick’s distracted dancing girl stood there in her red cloak, my Shadow Slasher III in her right hand. She held it with ease, the tip touching my navel. “You again,” I said.
She raised the point to the center of my chest. I tensed; this model Shadow Slasher had a safety catch that you had to press with your thumb; otherwise when the blade was turned upright, spring-loaded spikes shot out of the hilt and made a thorough mess of your sword hand. It was a handy thing if you’d been disarmed by the bad guys, less so when a girl you wanted to question might set it off. “What do you mean, ‘again’?” she said.
“I saw you looking around before, and then keeping the other girls away from the prince.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I nodded toward the gap in her cloak. “I never forget a pair of boobs. Especially when they’re attached to a lizard.”
“They’re all attached to lizards here. So who are you?”
“Just here for the show.” I bowed my head solemnly. “Praise the flame.”
