by Robin Hobb
In the next moment, Thymara and Tats were blasted with wind as the rest of the dragons launched into flight. The beating of their wings battered her ears and blew her hair across her face. The rank smell of dragon musk assailed her and then, just as abruptly, they were standing in the silent square, looking up as the dragons grew smaller above them. She blinked dust from her eyes.
Malta spoke into the silence. ‘Tintaglia’s gone, and Reyn with her. ’ The baby she held hiccupped and she patted him absently. ‘I never imagined how hard it would be to watch them both leave us. ’ She folded the child closer to her.
Thymara heard her unvoiced thought. How many of them would return and when?
‘Oh, Fente, be careful,’ Tats murmured, his eyes fixed on his diminishing green dragon. He turned to Malta. ‘I don’t even know how far Chalced is from here, or how long it will take them to get there. ’
Malta shook her head. ‘No one knows how long it takes a dragon to fly anywhere. They have clear weather, at least for starting the journey. The dragons will have to take time to hunt each day, and they will sleep at night when it’s dark. But they will travel straight this time rather than following the river. So, I have no idea at all. ’ She gave a sigh. ‘Tarman left this morning with a full load of passengers, Tillamon amongst them. ’
‘Why didn’t you go?’ Tats asked her curiously.
She looked startled. ‘This is my home now,’ she said. ‘Kelsingra is the city of Elderlings. I may go back to visit Trehaug or Bingtown, some day. Or perhaps my family will come here. But Ephron will grow up here, amongst his own kind. He will never go veiled. Kelsingra is where we belong. This is our home now. ’
‘Mine, too,’ Tats admitted, and Thymara nodded.
Spring sunlight glittered on the dragons in the distance. Alum drifted over to join them. It was a small, disconsolate group that stood in the plaza and watched the dragons wing away into the distance. Carson cleared his throat. ‘Well. There’s work to do. From what Thymara has told us, there’s a danger from that well if we can’t find a way to cap it in times of high Silver. And the dock isn’t going to build itself. Nor those boats get cleaned up. ’ He looked up at the sky. ‘No sense standing around wasting daylight. The sooner we start, the sooner we’re finished. And work keeps the mind busy. ’
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‘There’s always work where Carson is involved,’ Tats muttered, and Thymara smiled her agreement.
Day the 21st of the Plough Moon
Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders
From the Masters of the Bird Keepers’ Guild, Trehaug
To the Masters of the Bird Keepers’ Guild, Bingtown
To our fellows, greetings.
As was suggested by Master Kerig Sweetwater, we have proceeded with great circumspection and attention to detail in the matter of Kim, formerly Keeper of the Birds, Cassarick, and the grave allegations that have been made against him.
Close scrutiny of the birds coming and going from his coops, an accounting of revenues collected, and the judicious interception and inspection of messages passing through his hands have revealed too many irregularities to be ignored. At best, they indicate a complete disregard for Guild standards, and at worst, treachery to the Guild and treason to the Independent Alliance of Traders. The full extent of his wrongdoing has not yet been established.
For now, he has been stripped of all authority, his birds confiscated, his apprentices reassigned for retraining in correct procedures and his journeymen rebuked for not reporting irregularities that they must have witnessed. Some may eventually be dismissed from the Guild or required to spend additional years as journeymen.
There are indications that the corruption was not confined to Cassarick. As the connections become clear, other bird keepers may face charges of broken contracts or dismissal from the Guild. A painful time is before us, but at least we have flown through the worst of this storm and may soon emerge into better weather.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dragon Decisions
Thymara felt strangely shy as she took them out of the pouch where she had stored them. ‘They don’t really fit me. My claws stick out too far. ’ By daylight, the gauntlets were green. No trace of Silver clung to them. ‘They’re very supple, and I think perhaps they were made especially for her. Amarinda. ’
‘Where did they get the dragon hide?’ Harrikin wondered aloud.
Thymara shook her head wordlessly. Tats hazarded a guess. ‘It would have been a special gift from a dying dragon, maybe. Or maybe from a dragon who had the duty of devouring a dead dragon. ’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the answer will be found in one of the memory-stones one day. ’ A darker thought came to Thymara. ‘Or it might have been taken from a fallen enemy. A dragon who came and tried to raid the well and was defeated. ’
‘Did you look for it in Amarinda’s pillars?’ Carson asked her.
She found she was blushing. ‘No. I didn’t find anything about working Silver in her pillars. ’
Those who had stayed behind were gathered around the Silver well, former slaves as well as keepers. The slaves still kept their own company, but were beginning to take an interest in the keepers’ daily tasks. Carson had been trying to convey to them that if they wanted to share the keepers’ food, then they had to share the work as well. Thymara was not completely certain that they understood that. But all of them had begun to look less haggard and cowed. When asked to help, they did, but so far none of them had volunteered. They had debated keeping the Silver and the gauntlets secret from them, but in the end they had decided to not worry about it. To whom could they tell the secrets of Kelsingra? ‘If we knew what the secrets really were,’ Carson had added dourly.
In the absence of the dragons, Carson had declared that they had to devise an effective cap for the Silver reservoir. He and Harrikin had hunted the hills for downed trees and had the good fortune to find the trunk of a substantial oak. All had laboured to cut and shape the slabs of timber that they had fashioned into a well cover. It was rough, little more than a rectangle of wood that fit over the well mouth. As it was, it might keep anyone from falling into the well, but it would do little more than that. It was Carson’s hope that Thymara might be able to shape it into a securely fitting cap.
A bucket of Silver, drawn from the well, waited on the paving stones before her. ‘I suppose I just put on the gauntlets, dip my hands into the Silver and then …’ She looked all around at the others. ‘Has anyone ever found a memory of anyone working Silver? Seen them at work?’
‘I’ve seen people wearing Silver gloves, still gleaming. But I didn’t really see what they were doing. They were crouched down by a statue, looking at the base of it and talking as I walked by. In the memory,’ Alum added, as if to explain.
Thymara slowly began to draw on a gauntlet.
‘What if it leaks?’ Tats demanded wildly. ‘What if it soaks through? What if there’s something about this that we don’t understand, something that hurts her or kills her?’
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She spoke patiently. ‘I tested them earlier. In water. Not a drop got in. ’
‘But that’s not water in that bucket!’
‘I know. ’ She had both gauntlets on now. She flexed her hands and felt the pull of the supple leather against them. For only a moment, she considered that she was wearing someone else’s skin on her hands. A dragon’s, certainly, but had not he or she thought and spoken just as clearly as a human? How would she feel about someone else wearing her skin as gloves? She stared at her green-gloved hands for a moment and then shook her head. ‘I’m going to try it,’ she said, as if any of them had doubted it.
The Silver in the wooden bucket swirled sluggishly. No one had jostled it. It had not ceased its restless motion since Carson had slowly lowered the bucket into the stuff, poked it with a long stick to make it tip, and then gingerly hauled it up
again. He had held it by a length of dry rope to allow every droplet of Silver to drip back into the well before setting it beside the well mouth on the paving stones. They had all gathered around it, to watch the slow undulation of the liquid within.
‘Is it possible it’s actually alive?’ Tats had asked.
No one had tried to answer. And no one had touched the bucket since, but still the stuff moved, coiling within itself, silver, white, grey, a fine thread of black, moving like liquid snakes tangled with one another.
Slowly, being very careful not to splash, Thymara pushed her right hand into the bucket of Silver. She went no more than fingertip deep and then drew her hands out. For a moment, the Silver clung smoothly. Then it began to pull away from the glove in droplets. She held her hand over the bucket and there was silence as they watched the Silver droplets fall.
‘Do you feel anything?’ Tats asked tensely.
‘Just heaviness. Like a wet glove. ’
She moved her fingers, flexing them slowly, and the droplets ceased falling and spread evenly over the gauntlet. Thymara caught her breath as they began to spread upward, toward the cuff, but they stopped at the wrist, forming a perfectly straight line there.
‘Umh. ’ Carson had squatted down beside her to stare at her hand over the bucket. ‘Wonder how they made it do that? Stop instead of spreading all the way up to your arm. ’
‘Enough experiment for one day?’ Tats suggested.
Thymara shook her head slowly. ‘Stand back. I’m going to move over and touch the wood. ’
As she slowly straightened and then took the two steps toward the completed well cover, the gathered observers moved in a circle around her. She turned her hand slowly as she went, palm up, then back up, then palm up, keeping the Silver evenly spread.
‘Is that something you remember to do?’ Carson asked her, and she replied tightly, ‘I don’t know. It just feels like the way to do it. To keep it from dripping off. ’
She squatted by the well cap and set her laden glove on it. ‘What do I do?’ she wondered aloud. Then, before anyone could reply, she drew her hand along the wood, stroking the rough plank with the grain. ‘I’m pressing on it, trying to make it smooth,’ she said.
All were silent, watching. As she trailed her fingers on the board, the Silver drained from the glove onto the wood until her hand was gloved only in green dragon leather. The Silver was smooth on the wood in the wake of her hand, but only for a moment. Then it began to gather itself up into tiny balls on top of the plank.
‘I knew it couldn’t be that easy,’ Tats muttered.
Thymara scowled at it. She ran her glove over it again, and again the Silver coated the wood obediently. She stopped and watched it gather itself up into tiny balls like droplets of dew. ‘Why does it do that?’
‘No one told it not to,’ Alum observed.
Thymara gave him a sharp look. She ran her fingertips across the Silver and wood again. ‘Be flat, be smooth. ’
The Silver scattered before her touch, ran in erratic circles behind it. For a moment, it smoothed itself into an even sheen over the wood, and then bubbled up again. Harrikin crouched down beside her. ‘May I try?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘With the other glove?’
‘You remember something?’ Carson asked him, almost sharply.
‘Maybe it’s like the dragons. Maybe you don’t tell it what to do. Maybe it needs to be persuaded. ’
Thymara held out her free hand, and he carefully drew the glove from it and slid it onto his hand. It fitted badly on his larger hand and the fingertips were empty and flopping. Thymara lifted her hand away and his took its place. He glanced at the others self-consciously, then visibly focused himself. ‘Be smooth and lovely. Bring your beauty to the wood. Shine and gleam. Be as strong and smooth as the face of a placid lake, be strong as polished metal. ’
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Unevenly, his fingers trailed along the wood, and unevenly did the Silver obey him. Narrow streaks of gleaming Silver-polished wood followed his touch. Where he had not touched it, the Silver darted about, formed itself into balls and danced nervously, uncertainly on the surface of the rough plank.
‘Try it again,’ Carson suggested, his voice barely a whisper.
Alum looked up at him and then back at the wood. ‘Look how narrow the stripes are. It would take forever to …’
‘Don’t say it!’ Carson interrupted him hoarsely. ‘Don’t suggest anything we don’t want it to do. ’ He stared at the beaded dancing Silver as if it were game he were stalking.
‘Add your beauty to the wood; give it your gleaming strength. ’ Harrikin had gone a bit pink on his cheeks but he spoke on. ‘Like a shimmering, gleaming pond of shimmering, gleaming, beautiful, still water. Please be like that. Let me see how you can make your beauty part of the lovely, pretty, smooth wood. ’ He looked up suddenly at the others, his eyes desperate. A thin line of polished wood was following his awkward touch.
‘You are like the moon’s shimmering path on a still pond,’ Thymara suggested. Harrikin nodded tersely.
‘Let your beauty on the wood be like the moon’s shimmering path on a still pond. ’ He spoke to the Silver, and another narrow streak of gleam joined the first.
‘The glorious strength of molten iron running in a steaming stream,’ Carson muttered.
Harrikin nodded and spoke again to the Silver. ‘Add to this wood your glorious strength, like the smooth running of molten iron in a steaming stream. ’
‘I’ve got one!’ Alum said softly. ‘The beauty of a woman’s hair, unbound and falling down her bare back before her lover’s eyes. ’
‘Lucky for you that Leftrin’s not here,’ Carson muttered. Alum flushed pink under his pale-green scaling.
Thread by thread, compliment after compliment, the Silver was persuaded to merge with the wood. When the final dancing drop was stilled, Harrikin rocked back on his heels. He heaved a sigh. He drew the glove off slowly and offered it back to Thymara. She took it carefully. He stood, flexing his back and shaking his head. ‘Alum was right. Look how long it took to persuade one gloveful of Silver to bond with the wood. There it is, a stripe that’s barely a finger wide. It’s going to take days to finish that well cap!’
‘Seems likely,’ Carson replied thoughtfully.
‘And it seems likely that if we do it, it may last a hundred years,’ Tats added.
Thymara was gazing around at the city. ‘How did they do it? How did they raise it all?’
‘Very slowly,’ Carson replied. ‘And not with magic alone. ’ He seemed to be thinking something through and then he added, ‘I don’t think they used it because magic made it easier or quicker. I think they used it to do things that otherwise couldn’t be done. Then the effort would be worth it. ’ He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Obviously, we’ve a lot left to learn. ’
Malta looked up from perusing the empty beds of soil. Through the glass panels overhead, she could see the sun venturing toward the horizon. Another day gone, and no word from the dragons or any of the keepers. How many times a day did she stop whatever she was doing and scan the skies? The rooftop hothouse offered her a view in every direction, but the skies remained stubbornly empty of dragons.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alum said as he shut the glass door behind him. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not really,’ Malta said. ‘As long as we speak softly. Phron is sleeping. ’ She nodded toward him. She had spread an Elderling robe out on one of the hothouse benches and put him down there. He looked a different child. He was still not the chubby pink infant she had dreamed of cradling, but she suspected that, for an Elderling’s child, he was very healthy. Tintaglia’s influence was more obvious on him than it was on her or Reyn. His scaling was a decided blue, as were his eyes. His body shape was more lithe than rounded. She did not care. His eyes were bright; he slept deeply, ate eagerly, and stared at her with wide trusting eyes while he nursed. Eve
ry day he grew, and every day she wished his father were there to see it.
The tall youth advanced hesitantly and then perched on the edge of a bed. ‘I thought we didn’t have any seeds to plant?’ Alum studied the soil Malta had loosened in one of the long, narrow beds. She realized that, with Skelly gone with Tarman, he was probably as lost as she was.
‘We don’t,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s something we used to do in our gardens back in Bingtown in springtime. We loosened the soil in the beds and renewed it before the seeds were planted or the young plants set out. ’
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Alum tilted his head at her. ‘But you were a Trader’s daughter. Surely you had servants for that sort of work?’
‘We did,’ she admitted easily. ‘But my grandmother spent time in her own hothouses when I was very small. And by the time I was older, we no longer had servants, and we were growing not flowers but vegetables for the table. I admit I did as little of the dirty work as I could; I had a horror of ruining my hands then and I could not understand the pleasure my grandmother took in nurturing growing things. Now, I think, I understand her better. And so I ready seedbeds even when we don’t have seeds yet. ’
Alum idly stirred the soil with a long-fingered, silvery-green hand. ‘I thought all Trader-born were wealthy. ’
‘Some are. Others, less so. But wealth doesn’t mean idleness. Look at Leftrin. Or Skelly. ’ She suspected she knew why he had sought her out. She’d lead him right to it, then.
‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed. ‘She works, and she works hard. For years now, she’s been working toward a dream. Taking over the family liveship when Leftrin … when he’s finished with it. ’
‘When he dies,’ Malta said easily. ‘When he goes, he’ll die on the deck of his ship, Alum. And everything he was and all he knew of the river and the ways of Tarman will go back into the liveship. It’s how it’s done. And it’s important that there is someone there who is ready and willing to take over the captaining of the ship. ’
‘I know,’ he replied quietly. ‘We’ve talked about it. ’ He fell silent.
Malta waited. It was coming.
