The Order of the Scales (25 page)

Something Meteroa had said to him once: ‘Don’t fall in love, Jehal. Have a queen for the allies she gives you. If she’s barren so much the better. Take as many mistresses as you can get and make as many bastards as you can, then pick the best of them to follow you.’

He’d laughed. ‘And how are you finding that works for you, uncle?’ It was a long time ago, before Calzarin’s madness and all that followed, and for some reason he’d thought Meteroa was virtually celibate. He’d been very wrong about that. Which just went to show . . .

Oh just goes to show what, exactly? Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You made this mess. It didn’t work out the way you thought and now you have to lie in it. Start being a king.

And after the stain of Zafir was wiped away, then what? There would be another council, another choice of speaker. Hyrkallan, most likely.
Certainly not me. Even I wouldn’t vote for me after all this.
So back home then, to a city probably reduced to ash. To the memories of a family that used to think they were so fucking clever
. At least I can still make heirs, even it’s blinding screaming burning agony. Thank you, Shezira, for that last little twist.

Everything was rushed. He’d turned Hyrkallan into a king and Queen Jaslyn into a wife. On the hard flight south he’d landed by Evenspire, or what was left of it. Blackened fields and gutted stone towers. He’d been surprised to see how much of the city had been lost. Nearly all of it.
I don’t remember doing that. If anything I thought we tried not to burn it down.
He’d taken his dragons and flown a hundred miles further on and stopped for the night in the desert near the Silver River. People had memories and bad attitudes when it came to being burned out of their homes.

Another day to the City of Dragons, another and now he was about to fly to war. Even without Jeiros fretting about his potions, Jehal wouldn’t have waited. Hyrkallan had had the Scales in the Adamantine Eyrie up all night, painting the bellies of their dragons white again. The palace servants and half the city had been roused and set to tearing and stitching bedsheets, making a thousand long white streamers for their dragons to fly around their necks.

‘Won’t that get in the way?’ Jehal had scoffed, thinking of flying on the back of Wraithwing with one of these flapping in his face.

‘Tie them to his tail if you prefer, or his claws. See how long they last there in a fight. Then think about what will happen after they’re torn or burned away.’ Hyrkallan grinned and showed his teeth. ‘Come to think of it, Viper, why not? Yes, mark your dragon apart from the rest of them. I’ll get you a special red streamer all of your own if you prefer. In the height of battle, perhaps you’d prefer it if everyone was quite certain which dragon was yours.’

He’d chosen to be white, like all the rest. Thought about going with red and then flying a different dragon entirely, like Zafir must have done at Evenspire, but that wasn’t what a speaker should do. A speaker didn’t hide.

And now, finally, they were ready to go, and every eye was turned to look at him.
For the first and last time most likely. Bit of a joke, really. Here I am, Speaker of the Realms, symbol of our unity. Meteroa must be looking down on this and laughing himself back to life again. And Vishmir will be weeping and asking how we came to this. Well, I don’t need to ask that. I know exactly how we came to this. I did most of it, after all. And now I’m going to finish it.

Except he didn’t even get that little pleasure. They were almost ready to fly when the shout rang through the makeshift eyries around the Mirror Lakes. Valmeyan’s dragons had crossed the Fury. The King of the Crags was coming.

Jehal raised a hand, held it there for a moment, then let it drop and screamed at Wraithwing to fly.

We are the lowest of the low and the highest of the high. We have abandoned our fellow men and they in turn have abandoned us.

We don’t even look like them.

Our lives are short and filled with pain.

We end our days as living statues.

We are loveless and unloved, except by the charges we care for.

And what charges they are. I would have nothing else.

Even the best plans failed in the end. Kemir had learned that a long time ago. There was always something unexpected to put a talon in. You had to react and adapt, that’s what Sollos used to say, but then Sollos was always the one with the plans. Kemir, he’d never bothered. React and adapt was his way. So it didn’t bother him much that he had no idea what he was going to do when he got to Furymouth. He wondered how he might get Kataros to come with him so he could sell her to the Taiytakei, but his heart wasn’t in it. No point thinking about it, really. Not until they were getting to Plag’s Bay and she was thinking of leaving. React and adapt.

The Order of the Finger. Couldn’t have planned for that. Couldn’t have planned for drifting down the upper reaches of the vast Gliding Dragon Gorge, watching the massive cliffs on the southern side slowly recede into the distance. Couldn’t have planned for lazing in the sun, feeling warm for the first time since he’d crossed the sea riding on Snow’s back. Couldn’t have planned for watching the north side of the valley fragment and fall apart into a grand spectacle of canyons and chasms and cliffs and columns in layered shades of orange and red. Couldn’t have planned for what any of that would feel like. Like shedding his skin. Maybe like dying and being reborn, remembering everything, able to start again.

Couldn’t have planned for Snow, lurking at the edges of his dreams, always watching, never far away, never quite letting him go. Couldn’t have planned for the little boat that signalled for help and then turned out to be filled with men and knives hidden beneath an old sail. Or for the other little boats that surged out of those canyons, out of the place that the dragon-riders called the Maze. The barge fell without a fight, most of the sailors too dazed and surprised to even reach for a weapon. Couldn’t do much about it even if he’d wanted. Had his knife and his bow and he’d been in enough scraps, but a fat lot of use that was with a broken arm. They were outsiders too, so he wasn’t afraid of them. Just sat back and let it happen.

He was the only one. The rest of the boat filled with wailing and begging. Everyone had heard of the Order of the Finger. Vicious pirates. Got their name from what they did if they found you wearing a ring.

They came through and shouted and waved their knives and helped themselves to whatever took their fancy. Kemir sat quietly. This sort of banditry was best over with quickly. They’d take your money and anything that looked worth something and then they’d be on their way, quick as they could. Wouldn’t want to risk being caught out in the open if a dragon-rider happened to pass overhead. Kemir had travelled the realms for long enough to know how this went. He had a purse with a little money in it to let them take. The stuff that mattered, the gold and the dust from the eyrie, that was much better hidden. The bow . . . Well, losing the bow and his knife would be more than a shame but there wasn’t much he could do about it. They’d take them or they wouldn’t. As they reached him, he kept sitting quiet and still and offered up his purse. It got snatched out of his hand, but the man didn’t move on.

Instead he bared his teeth and hissed, ‘Dragon-knight.’

Kemir blinked. He even looked to either side before he realised the man was staring at
him
. ‘What?’

‘Dragon-knight,’ said the man a second time.

‘Where?’ Everyone was looking at him. The river pirates with an angry hunger, everyone else with a strange mix of fear and loathing. Seemed like they all hated dragon-riders, even more than they hated being robbed by pirates. ‘Me? I’m not some arsehole dra—’

A kick in the face cut him off. He managed to half parry it, half roll with it and so keep his teeth, but he wound up flat on the floor and then the pirates were on him, punching and kicking and holding him down.

‘Shall we kill him?’ bellowed a voice. ‘‘What do you say, lads? Shall we gut him here?’ They had his hands behind his back now, tying them. His arm screamed, half healed and raw. He felt someone at his feet and lashed out. Connected with something, which was satisfying.

‘I’m not—’ A boot stood on the side of his face, crushing him into the deck, almost breaking his neck.

‘Now now,’ said the voice that belonged to the boot. ‘Let’s not be doing these folk a disservice. We’ll take him away and have some sport away from these good people. But what say you, ladies and gentlemen of the river? When we’ve stripped him bare, shall we let our dragon-rider go or shall we slit his throat? Speak up now!’

‘Kill him,’ shouted a voice from the front of the boat.

He tried to move again, but they had him good. There was a man sitting on his legs, holding them down, and another tying his feet. His hands were already tied; there was a third man on his back, and someone standing on his head.

‘So, ladies and gentlemen of the river. Bloodthirsty lot, eh? Very well, a throat-slitting it shall be. Now tell me and then we shall be gone: does our dragon-rider friend travel alone?’

No, no, no!
Kemir renewed his struggles. Futile, but he had to at least try, didn’t he.

‘I see not,’ said the man standing on his head. ‘Is it her?’

Kemir couldn’t see where the man was pointing, but he heard Kataros whimper. Then she screamed. There was a slap, a thud. Kemir tried one last time, twisting with all his strength. Maybe the men on his back were distracted, but this time he managed to throw them off and wriggle free. His hands and feet were still tied, but he brought his knees to his chest and kicked with all his might, knocking one of them clean off the boat and into the river. He rolled onto his front to try and get back to his feet. A boot sent him sprawling, and then something slammed into his head and flattened him. For a moment he couldn’t see, couldn’t quite remember where he was.

The armour. He was still wearing bits of the armour. The stupid dragon-scale armour . . .

‘Fetch a good price, a dragon-rider,’ snarled a new voice, and then another boot met his face and all the light went out of the world.

*

Kemir was staring up at the sky. The air was warm. He was in a boat, rocking from side to side. People were laughing. He could hear the river, water, oars. He couldn’t move, though. Couldn’t even move his eyes. Just had to stare at the sky, so bright and blue . . .

He was moving. Couldn’t see, but he was moving. Snow. Snow was carrying him. He was on her back. Just couldn’t see . . .

Screaming . . .

Cold . . .

He opened his eyes again. Lucid this time. He was somewhere in the dark. Very dark. Night, perhaps, except too dark even for that. Underground? He blinked. He could do that now. Couldn’t move much else but he could move his eyes. He was lying down and he was in a cave. He could see the outline of an exit straight in front of him, a lighter dark against the blackness.

He’d been stripped. The air in the cave was warm but cooling. They hadn’t cut him, at least. His face and his back throbbed from the kicks he’d taken. His arm pulsed like the heartbeat of the world, a steady rhythm of agony. He tried not to think about that. Moved his head and scanned the cave instead. He was alone, for now. Outside he could hear voices. Laughter.

There was a smell too. A sweet smell. Dust.

He heard a whimper, then a rising shrill pleading. Kataros. He tried to move, but the river men knew their business. He was tied to a pole, hands, knees, ankles and neck. He couldn’t even stand up.

The whimpers turned to screams, and then after a while back to whimpers, the laughter rising and falling with them. Eventually they stopped. The smell of dust grew stronger.

He must have fallen asleep. When he woke again, there were men coming into the cave reeking of drink and dust. They had Kataros with them. She was naked, half bound. Their hands were all over her but she barely seemed to notice. She had the languid slithering walk of someone lost deep in the dust and most of the pirates were little better. A couple of them came over to Kemir.

‘Had your whore and had your dust, dragon-man,’ slurred one of them. They kicked him for a bit but quickly lost interest. Before long, they were all snoring.

Snoring was good. He started working on the ropes around his wrists.

He was still working on them when the light outside the cave began to change. The river men knew their business indeed. Hours of effort and he’d achieved nothing. Nothing at all.

The river pirates rose late in the afternoon, as the dust torpor slowly wore off them. Mostly they ignored Kemir. There wasn’t much point in trying to talk to them. They thought he was a dragon-rider and that was that. So he stayed quiet, played dead and watched. Kataros was his only hope now, before the pirates decided to kill him.

They seemed to forget about her too. As the evening came and the pirates went back outside, they were left alone. She hadn’t moved all day. Dust could do that. Although there was always the chance she was dead. From where he lay, Kemir couldn’t tell.