“But you can’t commit someone without an order from a qualified alienist!”
“As I like to plan ahead, I’ve sent for one.” Uncle Horace told them.
They did not realize they were being observed at the time, nor that the watcher was accidentally endangering the very masonry of the tower by squeezing it in sympathy with and for Malady. Treasure and jewels were terribly important. Surely everybody knew that?
When the bills began arriving, the uncles convened a private conclave, to which Malady was not invited, being told it would be boring for her.
“The girl is getting ideas above her station,” Finance Minister Uncle Murdo said. “Just because she’s the Regent—goodness only knows why—doesn’t make her Empress.”
“It does rather work in our favor, though,” said another uncle. “I admit I wondered what that Gypsy and her giant daughter had in mind when they appointed her. No love lost between our Malady and her old schoolmate, from what I’ve heard.”
“Never mind them,” Murdo replied. “If we don’t curb the girl, she’ll bankrupt the kingdom before we can persuade her to run it properly—that or the giant returns.”
Uncle Malachy shrugged. “All of this sudden power seems to have driven her out of her mind. I agree with Horace. We should have an expert examine her and relegate her to a nice comfy sanitarium—there’s a revolutionary clinic at Bluing Glacier, where they deep freeze the patients until they come to their senses.”
“Does it work?”
“Who knows? They haven’t thawed anyone out to learn if they’ve become sensible yet.”
“Sounds ideal. Who shall we get? Alienists don’t grow on trees, even these days.”
“How about if we marry her off to some rich prince? Remember those contests kings used to have in the olden days when they’d offer the princess’s hand as a prize to the winner? We could hold a contest to solve the dragon issue.”
“What interest has a dragon in the princess’s, I mean, the queen regent’s hand? Oh! Oh, dear. You don’t mean that really, Eustus? She’s family!”
“The gown she’s ordered for the ball welcoming the King of Ablemarle features golden thread, ten thousand pearls embroidered onto it with a design encrusted with colored precious gemstones. I can’t think why she wants it. I understand it weighs 150 pounds, counting the bustle and train.”
“I trust we cancelled the order!”
“Modified it. They can do wonderful things with colored glass these days. She won’t know the difference. I’ve seen to it that her orders must go through me first. That should take care of that.”
“If only it were so simple to take care of the dragon situation.”
They’d convened in the same room where they met as a council. It was in the process of being decorated for the state ball. The great echoing room served various functions, with furnishings, tapestries, floor coverings and draperies changed to suit the occasion. Although the castle had many rooms, only some were large enough for state or public functions. The rest were too small, too drafty, or too decrepit and in need of renovation for receptions or government business.
That upstart, Verity Brown, would have been astonished at the swags of gilt-trimmed (if somewhat moth-eaten) velvet scalloping the walls and the brilliant sparkle of the crystal chandeliers. The most expensive decorative item, though, was the greenery. Huge flowering trees and bushes grown in a local glass house had been purchased at bargain prices since the dragon that had supplied the nursery with year-round warmth for the plants was now idle and brooding, like the rest of them. With the hypnotic spell of the dragon kibble eroded by time, none of the people truly thought of Verity as a queen any more than they thought of Malady Hyde as a royal of any description. But the thing was, the people did seem to like the idea of having a queen or maybe even a king—one person, anyway, on whom they could pin both the blame and their hopes.
As the day was chilly and the castle drafty, the council members had foregone their formal stations at the council table in favor of comfortable armchairs around the hearth. The chairs faced the fire, their high backs blocking the draft from the windows, so no one noticed the watchful slitted eyes staring in at them. Their discourse, amplified by drink, masked the subtle sound of slithering scales on stone as the watcher shifted position to peer into another window.
Chapter 11: The Lair is Where the Hoard Is
Devent followed Smelt into his lair. It smelled of musty, very old dragon, and earth and very faintly, of blood.
From the way Smelt talked about his hoard, Devent expected to see piles of glittering stones, but all that was to be seen was a single heap of metal with a jewel embedded in something here and there.
“Erm. Nice,” he muttered, only half to Smelt, who he didn’t suppose was listening.
“It’s not!” Smelt said gruffly. “This is not my treasure. This looks to me like what’s left of the old armory. The humans must have looted my hoard after I flew into battle for them. Ah well, war is expensive. Maybe when I wake up, I can weld this together into something useful. Sorry there’s not enough for two beds, lad.”
“No problem,” Devent said quickly. He had no wish, after spending his life underground in a mine, to leave the sun and sky, the fresh air and the mountains and streams, for another subterranean enclosure. “I am not at all sleepy. I need to explore more. Sleep well. Er—when do you expect to be up again?”
“When the ice breaks on the river.”
“I’ll come and look for you then.”
Smelt yawned. “Do that. Stay out of trouble. If possible.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He continued through the cavern toward the light he could see at the far end and emerged among some tumbled stone that once had formed a tower. The mossy stones beneath his claws were still flat and even smooth in some places, though the moss, weeds, and roots had pushed them up in others. But most amazing was what lay beyond them. This castle was perched, not on a mountain where the other side led down another slope and to more foothills—no, it ended in a flat faced cliff and below, the roaring he had heard but not understood what he was hearing as they approached proved to be a vast steely wetness with dirty white undulations slapping the rocks beneath.
Watching the water, smelling its salty old-fishiness strong enough to rinse from his nostrils the scent of cinders that commonly obscured other smells, he heard the rumbling roar of the sea in motion and felt the wind trying to tear him from the cliff.
Malady’s Ally
Malady began dreaming of treasure, following not a trail, but a tail, through the labyrinthine lower corridors of the castle to where she knew, somehow, she would find a glittering hoard.
Always when she awoke and tried to find the entrance to the place she’d dreamed, however, nothing about her surroundings looked familiar. Yet she knew it was here, in this castle, which her nightly searches took her. She flung open the door to her somewhat moth-ridden chambers and called her maid.
“Bring me the oldest map of this castle in existence.”
The girl scuttled away. Or rather, waddled, Malady thought. She was at least a stone overweight, which suited Malady fine since it emphasized her own beauty even more. She had to dress herself while she waited, but she put on the oldest clothing she could find, the things she wore after school while at Our Lady of Perpetual Locomotion, when she wasn’t in uniform. Since the sisters often assigned the girls to cleaning tasks after school, it consisted of a beige underdress with a skirt the color of grass stains with brown spots. Malady’s blonde curls and peachy coloring made it look good, nevertheless, but it was certainly not her best. Which was fine. She had no intention of encountering anyone of importance while she searched anyway.
The stupid girl took forever to return—hours!
“How long did it take you to find an old map, anyway?”
“I’m sorry, milady, but the maps were very interesting, plus there were some fascinating papers about the construction of the castle and its u
ses in the early days.”
Malady slapped her, leaving a red spot on her cheek. “Idiot! I sent you to fetch, not research.”
She actually regretted the slap immediately. The uncles had warned her that her temper would not serve her well in diplomatic circles, but although she expected to apologize as tears ran down the girl’s cheek, the tears were not forthcoming. Instead the impertinent drudge’s mouth hardened, her chin jutted out, and her eyes blazed as she threw the rolled map at Malady, whirled, and stomped out of the chamber, declaring, “Next time find it yourself. I quit.”
“No, wait! I…” It was too late though. The overly-sensitive twit was storming her way down the hall and the stairs to the grand entryway. Several minutes later the huge iron and timber grand entrance door slammed so hard the suits of armor on each side clattered and clanged. Bother! If the fool had to take her time doing that research, the least she could have done was given Malady the benefit of it. One never knew what might be helpful when chasing a dream.
“Oh, who needs her anyway!” Malady cried, and it was her turn to stomp her foot.
“Exactly, my dear princess,” something said in her head, but not in her ears. “You have no need of her when you have me.”
She looked around and saw nothing and no one, unless she counted the peeping tom dragon that liked to wind itself around various parts of the castle and observe nobility going about its business.
She was about to say something scathing when the slit-eyed dragon gave a sinuous slink that pulled its tail up even with its face. She recognized that tail. It was the one she had followed in her dreams.
“So you’re the one who’s been spying on me, invading my very thoughts! I should call the royal guard and have them pry you from your perch!”
“Oh, don’t be that way, pretty, pretty princess,” the dragon fairly cooed at her. “Say not that I have been spying, only admiring your beauty and fire. You are quite the spicy d—damsel.”
Malady’s eyes narrowed. “You were going to say ‘dish’ weren’t you? You just want to get me alone so you can eat me.”
“Hssst! Of course not. Dragons haven’t eaten people for centuries and centuries. You know that, brilliant beauty that you are. I am simply cultivating your acquaintance as a fellow fan of the shiny, the sparkly, the glittering and bejeweled things in life. I know where all of the kingdom’s most magnificent treasures are—many, most of them, would show off well against your tender alabaster flesh…”
“If you know where it is and want me to have it, bring it here!” she said. The description of her skin sounded just a bit too much like a menu item for her comfort.
With a scrape of scales on stone, the dragon disappeared. She’d thought as much. The stupid creature couldn’t back up its lie and had thought it could trick her. If anyone was going to be tricked around here, it wasn’t going to be Malady Hyde.
Regretfully, wistfully, she went about her duties that day—at least the ones that interested her, concerning the upcoming parties and balls. The uncles all wanted to be in charge of the boring political stuff anyway, so she let them do what they wanted to. She began to believe, by midday, that the visit with the dragon that morning had been another dream, like the ones in which she followed the tail down the corridors. She took a ride in the royal carriage to go talk to some downtrodden poor people and looked back at the castle but didn’t see any dragon wrapped around any part of it, staring in windows. Most of the dragons at the castle were on the roof. They liked the crenelated parts. Yes, she surely had been imagining the flattering beast that thought her a princess.
That night she went to bed with a bitter feeling of being let down, somehow, by the position Verity had bequeathed her. She got to go gallivanting about the countryside while Malady was stuck dealing with a lot of cheapskate, if related, nobles in a drafty cold castle steeped in a miasma of dragon poo.
Hot Times at the Sailor’s Spa and Brothel
Verity imagined that by the time her party returned to the Sailor’s Spa and Brothel, most of the crew would be down at the dock, readying the Belle’s Shell to sail again.
“Will you be needing a ride, Mistress Warlock?” Mr. Bowen asked Clodagh. “Perhaps up the coast or back to Queenston?”
“In a boat?” Clodagh asked, and though her features didn’t change shape or position, her expression shifted to one of horror. “On the water? Oh no, that’s not for the likes of me.”
“We’d try not to let you drown,” he promised her.
“I wouldn’t drown, but I might dissolve and so far from shore, I’d never be able to re-sculpt myself in time,” the mud-girl explained.
The little party had made a small campfire just below the timberline on the far side of the pass between Horn Haven and Horn Heart. Fiona was the only one who shivered. Bowen was used to the freezing spray. Verity’s Frost Giant heritage protected her and although Clodagh looked a bit ice-rimed around the edges, she didn’t appear uncomfortable.
“She’ll be comfy enough with us,” Fiona said, hugging a blanket closer around her and patting Clodagh on the shoulder. “She’s an earthy sort of girl after all, aren’t you, love?”
Clodagh giggled uncertainly, as if trying the noise out. “Fiona, you are making a joke. Wizard Warlock made jokes sometimes.”
Verity stared into the fire, thinking it would not take long before the ship was loaded. The crew would be laughing and joking with each other until time to depart, while their erstwhile sweethearts among Erotica’s staff would play their parts, standing tearfully on the dockside, wrapped in new shawls, sporting new combs and wearing the iconic lockets from Erotica’s small gift shop—the broken token locket. Half of a heart pendant remained with the woman as evidence of her true but temporary devotion, while the other half would be worn by her seagoing ‘beloved.’
Erotica had told her that sometimes as ships pulled away from the dock, her ladies were wont to skim folded paper ‘doves’ toward the ship. None came back to them though because, after a few longing last looks, the crews had to jump to the bosun’s whistle, raising anchors, hauling on yards, and the intricate and labor-intensive business of putting out to sea again.
“Love notes?” Verity had asked her aunt.
“Of a sort,” that lady had replied and opened one, smoothing it on her knee.
“For another good time, ask for your Sadie, room 423,” the note read. Verity blushed as she read Sadie’s catalog of her specialties.
Verity was unsure whether to stick with the Belle or continue her quest further inland. She’d know more once she’d spoken to her mermaid aunt, so hoped she might arrive before the Belle was ready to depart. It should prove an informative chat.
As they continued their journey the next day and were drawing close to Horn Haven, they heard a cannon roar.
“That’s not good,” Mr. Bowen said.
Grudge
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me! I didn’t mean it!” Grudge cowered as her parents and brothers pummeled her with fists and clubs. Her whiskers were soaked with blood and tears and she couldn’t see out of one eye.
“How could you? You’re a disgrace to your race!”
“But it just popped out! I never saw one like that! I don’t think she even heard me.”
“Surely you could have thought of something better to say—or just kept your mouth shut.”
Her youngest brother mocked, “‘That’s darling. Hand it over?’ Grudge, if you hadn’t added the last part you know we’d have to kill you for the honor of our race.”
He sounded horrified. In his own way, Sneer was—well, not fond, exactly, but he growled at her less often than the others.
“And then you let her walk across the river instead of taking it from her!” her mother cried. “I could have forgiven anything if you hadn’t done that.”
“But it was too small for me, and it did look cute on her,” Grudge said.
Her father turned purple, and not a shade that went well with the usual gray-
green of his skin.
“The worst thing is that you denied that family an authentic bridge experience,” her sister Supercilia said with a sob in her grunt, which managed to be shrill and nasal despite being, well, a grunt. She was very impressed by appearances, was ’Cilia. She punctuated her opinion with another kick to Grudge’s back and a stomp on the hand shielding her head.
“I won’t do it again,” Grudge whimpered.
“You said that last time.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you’ve not been told before,” Sneer said, gloating.
“I’ll remember,” she said. “The bruises will remind me.”
“It’s no good, girl,” her father said. “Out with you. Go find your own bridge.”
“Where?”
“Find it, I said. If you make a success of your enterprise, we might consider letting you visit again on holidays.”
“Like Ringwormmass,” her mother said. “Prove you can live up to your calling and you can come back and celebrate, can’t she, Snark?”
“Over my dead body,” her father said, pulling her up by the hair and booting her in the butt so she flopped into the stream. “Don’t come back.”
“That means he’ll think about it, Grudge,” her mother called as the current carried her downriver. There was nothing that way but the iron mine, so Grudge dragged herself out over the bank, shook herself like a dog, and began dripping back upstream and to the south, toward the mountains.
Nobody ever said being a troll was easy.
Durance the Vile
Malady woke from an unusually restful sleep, yawned, stretched and blinked. Sunlight blazed off something sitting in the three-foot deep windowsill of her chamber. The dragon’s face no longer filled the window, fortunately. She was sure she wouldn’t have slept a wink with the beast watching.
The Redundant Dragons Page 12
