The Dragon Round (36 page)

“And where are they?”

The corporal has no response.

“Open the gates, then,” Sivarts says. “I have company business with Chelson. Sivarts, captain of
Blue Belong
.”

A guard in a lamplit guard box checks some papers. He shakes his head. The corporal says, “I'll have to send for confirmation.”

“Has this city gone mad?” Sivarts says.

“Just doing our duty,” the corporal says. A glance sends a private walking toward Chelson's house.

The crowd stares at the captain. Their faces are flashes of beard and bitter flesh in the lamplight. Their eyes are holes. Tiny shuffles and slow shifts press them closer to the captain, who puts an arm in front of the cabin boy and reaches for his sword.

Rowan says, “Why are you here?”

A woman in a worn tunic carefully repaired and soft leather pants that have been severely brushed says, “I will not pay for their war.” People shake their heads. “None of us will. Whatever Ayden did.”

“If they did anything,” a painter says.

“What did they do?” Rowan says. “Did they attack us?” He asked Sivarts for permission to go home, but the captain refused. Now he really wants to go. His father, as a sergeant in the army, would know what's happening.

One of Chelson's footmen approaches. “I'll take them,” he says to the corporal.

The corporal opens the gate just wide enough to admit Sivarts and Rowan. Still, the woman in the tunic tries to slip in. The corporal gives her the back of his hand and sends her sprawling. Fish that had been hidden under her tunic spill onto the cobbles. The guards laugh, which makes the crowd grumble. This quiets the guards, and the sound of steel sliding from the guard's scabbards quiets the crowd in turn. The painter helps the woman up.

Sivarts can't imagine Chelson sleeping. His
face is a shell, his eyes glassy and unblinking, black as a doll's, his body, like his will, unbending. He seems particularly stiff when he meets them in a room off his courtyard. It's lit by a brazier so tepid it sucks light from the air rather than casts it. The servants look as wan. Only the footman who fetched them has a spring in his step.

“This is Rowan,” Sivarts says, “the
Hopper
's boy and its only survivor.”

At the name of the ship Chelson's eyes clench. Sivarts figures he knows something of the story already. He proceeds as if it's new, though.

“Three days ago,” he says, “he showed up at our agent's in Yness with a woman and a remarkable tale.”

“Where is the woman?”

“The Castle,” Sivarts says. “She's injured and uncooperative.”

“Who have you told this story to, boy?”

Rowan says, “The captain and the agent.”

“And the woman, who has she?”

“No one,” the boy says. “I brought her straight to the agent's.”

“She's barely told us anything,” Sivarts says. “She had no contact with anyone except Rowan, and he never left her side.”

“Summarize.”

“Four days before Rowan came to us and not long after the
Hopper
made the turn east, the galley was attacked and badly damaged by a small dragon—a dragon that was being ridden. It carried off the captain.”

“Where did the woman come from?”

Why would Chelson be more interested in a stranger's history
, Sivarts thinks,
than his captain's fate?
“The
Hopper
followed the dragon and found an island in the ocean. Possibly Gladsend.”

“It doesn't exist.”

“Or maybe not. The woman, Vel, was living there. She had a sword. She defended her land.”

“Admirable. Why was she there?”

“She wouldn't say. Right after the galley landed, the rowers, led by one called Bearclaw, attacked the crew.”

“While chained?”

Rowan says, “Before he was taken Tuse made sure they would be freed so they wouldn't burn alive.”

Chelson scowls. “Go on.”

“The battle took to the woods,” Sivarts says. “The woman took the crew's side, apparently. She saved Rowan from Bearclaw, their last man standing, after he killed ours, a harpooner named Igen. She was badly injured, so he sailed her to Yness in the galley's dinghy.”

“What about the dragon and its rider?”

“No sign was found of them. The cabin where the woman lived, though, had a second bed. It could have been his. She said it was a man's. Said his name was Jon.”

“And Tuse?”

“No sign of him either. The woman said she didn't know anything about him or a dragon, ridden or not.”

“Is all this true, boy?”

“Yes.”

“A boy sailed to Yness in a dinghy from an island in the ocean, and he kept a woman alive?”

“We had the wind,” Rowan says, “and supplies from the island. The woman kept herself alive. She knows medicine.”

“Probably how she stayed alive on the island,” Sivarts says. “She was horribly burned at some point.”

“Was the rider Aydeni?” Chelson asks.

“I couldn't tell,” Rowan says. “He was flying very fast. He had a beard. But his skin looked as dark as ours.”

“But could he have been?”

“Possibly.”

Sivarts says, “The woman is Hanoshi. In fact, she's wearing an old Shield captain's blouse.”

Chelson has half a thought then pushes it aside. “Probably some ragpicker's prize,” he says. “What matters is, you must be sure.”

“How?”

Chelson brushes a fleck from Rowan's shoulder. “What will you be, boy, when you grow up?”

“A captain.”

“No,” Chelson says. “You will be what I say you will be. Isn't that right, Captain?”

Sivarts says, “Yes.”

Rowan looks at Sivarts.
No matter what you wear, you're never not a cabin boy
, he thinks.

“So was the rider Aydeni?”

Rowan's father always reminds him, “It's not your lie if they make you tell it.” So he says, “Yes.”

“Good,” Chelson says. “At Council this morning, you will repeat that. In the meantime, Sivarts, you stay with the woman.”

“She needs a surgeon more than me.”

Rowan brightens at this.
Boys and their attachments
, Chelson thinks. Nonetheless, if it will grease his compliance, Chelson says, “Of course. The Shield takes care of its own. I'll have our best surgeon attend to her, not one of those bloodletters or useless herbwives.”

Rowan relaxes. Sivarts departs. Chelson gestures to his footman. “Have they arrived?”

The footman shakes his head.

Chelson's expression suggests he doesn't know if this is a good sign or a bad one. “Tell my house guard to assemble. They'll escort us to Council. And see that the palanquin is readied. I will give you a note for the surgeon before we leave.” The footman bows and leaves. “Have you ever ridden in a palanquin, boy?”

Rowan says, “No.”

“You won't today either,” Chelson says. “Always provide a diversion. By the time people realize you're not where they think, they may have run out of fish and rocks to throw at you.”

5

Derc slides into an improvised pantry. Shelves wall it off from the rest of the kitchen that fills much of the tower's basement. He feels his way around, listening, but no sounds come from the darkness.

“Give me the candles,” he says. They're passed down and he paces the kitchen's perimeter. Their quarry isn't here, and the sculleries must sleep in the nearby dorm. They'll be arriving soon, though, probably in less than an hour, to light the fireplaces and ovens. The
kitchen serves all the companies in the tower, and the slightest fault in service is considered a great slight.

Derc goes back to the grate and slips in a pool of something on the floor.

Holestar calls down, “What's the problem?”

Derc checks the ground. Olive oil. He looks around. A jar of peppers is smashed on the floor, and jars don't leap from shelves by themselves.

“He's been through here,” Derc says.

“That clinches it,” Skite says. “He's Aydeni. If he'd been working for a company, he'd have had a key to the door.”

“Let us in the back door,” Holestar says. “We can't fit through the grate like you, Little Man.”

Derc grits his teeth.

Holestar watches the candleglow fade as
Derc heads upstairs.

While they wait they put the grate back into place. No sense in letting anyone else know there's a secret way into the tower. They might need it themselves some day.

Several minutes pass. Skite works the door latch absently. Holestar hisses. “Let's go in and see what's happened to him,” Holestar says.

The men reopen the grate and squeeze into the basement, nearly shattering several more jars, and replace the grate behind them as best they can in the dark. They feel their way to the stairwell whose stone steps end in a door ajar. Candleglow seeps past it.

Holestar peers through. The candles are scattered on the flagstone floor. One remains lit. Holestar doesn't hear anything, so he and Skite draw their weapons and enter the arched service hallway beyond.

It circles the tower beneath the council chamber. Doors lead to cloakrooms, janitorial closets, night closets, and a small armory. At each end a door leads to the tower's entry hall and in the middle is a spiral servants' stair leading to the top of the tower.

Holestar sees Derc's weapon on the flagstones. It sits in a smear of
blood and points toward a closed door. Skite listens at the door. He hears a steady sound, like someone tapping his foot unconsciously, and he smells excrement. He checks the door. It's unlocked. They relight the candles and stand them on the floor. Holestar counts to three and flings open the door.

Derc sits on a circle of wood atop a brick-lined cesspit, his throat slashed, blood dripping between his legs through a hole into the pool of waste below.

Skite says, “Was he lying in wait for us?”

“Maybe he saw us approaching,” Holestar says. He closes Derc's dumbfounded eyes and says, “We'll come back for you.” He closes the door.

They hear two whistles from around the dark curve of the hallway. A hinge creaks. Holestar whispers into Skite's ear, “Take the candles. I'll circle around through the entry hall and come down the other side of the hallway. In a minute move up slowly. He'll think I'm still here, and I'll catch him from behind.” Skite nods and picks up the candles. He holds two in one hand, one in the other, and spreads them far apart to make it look like two people are advancing.

Holestar takes Derc's weapon and passes into the entry hall. He sees the vaulted space in his mind. The creamy granite walls that give off a rose aura in the right light. The huge brass doors, twenty feet high. The two black-iron spiral staircases, one for the public, one for owners, that lead all the way to the top of the tower. The broad sweep of marble stairs leading to the half floor where Council is held. And on the far side the other door to the service hallway.

Through tall windows, skinny as arrow slits, Holestar sees pinpricks of light, the torches and lanterns of cowards and sympathizers, defeatists and capital saboteurs.
They might as well be fireflies trying to raze a barn
, he thinks.

Holestar enters the hallway. He creeps forward. By his count Skite will be moving too. He can't see the candlelight yet. He flexes his fingers around his hatchet and the dirk. His palms are dry as stone.

Chelson wants the barrowman questioned before he's killed so he can know why his daughter was taken. Holestar thought it would be a waste of time, but the chase has him looking forward to it. He wants to chew off the man's fingertips for killing Derc.

Candleglow seeps around the corner. Holestar tenses. The door to the servants' stair is ahead. It's ajar. The candles advance. He edges toward the door. Skite gives a slight bob of his head to indicate he sees Holestar, but doesn't move to alert their quarry behind the door. When the light touches his feet, Holestar rips open the door.

There's no one there, just a dark wood panel in a frame where a painting might once have been set.

Two whistles echo down the stone steps. They bolt upstairs. Skite shakes the candles out so they can't be targeted in the dark.

There's nothing more intimate than a blind fight, sensing your partner's movements, reaching out deftly, wanting the fatal touch.

Their quarry scurries away.

“Headed for the first chambers,” Holestar says. Skite grunts, too winded for speech.

At the top of the stairs, they fold over, gasping, waving their dirks before them to stave off any attack. They hear a clanking in the darkness. More stairs. The original council chamber is ringed with broad windows, the walls far thinner up here than they have to be at the bottom. They can see the first brush of dawn on the horizon, but that does little for the vaulted room.

Skite says, “We've got him trapped up here. Let's get some more men and make sure he doesn't get away.”

“No,” Holestar says. “We've come this far. And it's nearly six. This place will be swarming with people soon, and Chelson doesn't want outside interference.”

Skite exhales long, inhales slowly, and stands up, ready. Holestar claps him on the back.

“There's a door onto the widow's walk to our right,” Holestar
says. They inch along the wall. Skite bumps into the door, which is barred. “He couldn't have gone this way.”

Holestar, nodding in the dark, says, “He's on top of the dome. Follow me.”

“I can't,” Skite says. “I have to get my bearings. Let's light a candle. He probably knows where we are. If he's waiting nearby we'll see him.”

“I don't like it,” Holestar says, but he lets Skite light his candle.

They're behind the banc. Sailcloth covers it and the pews and desks arrayed before it. Dust covers the rest. There are faint footprints and drag marks on the thick red runner that circles the room. They end at skinny decorative iron stairs that run up around the back of the dome. A catwalk then leads to a ladder rising to a trapdoor in the center of the dome.