Wardragon (19 page)

‘Well, that may be, but there is no excuse now.’

Lodis ordered the fastest dragon made ready, and insisted that their physician travel with them in case Daretor’s wounds needed more attention. Within the hour, they were off, and this time Daretor flew in relative comfort. On the way, he regaled Lodis with the adventures that had taken him and Zimak to their paraworld the first time and how they had subsequently become involved in the search for the dragonsight.

As on several earlier occasions, Daretor was awed by the skill with which dragons flew through the narrow canyons that zigzagged through the Fortress Massif. Often the canyons were little wider than the wingspan of the dragons, and many of the turns were abrupt and treacherous. Still, the dragons flew steadily and without mishap, navigating the tortuous routes with the ease of long experience. Perhaps, like bats, they had some sense of space and distance long lost to humans.

They arrived at the Tower in the middle of the night, and although Lodis wanted to awaken Osric immediately, Daretor begged him not to.

‘I myself need some sleep. Awakening Osric now will simply cause two sleepy friends to start yawning at each other. Better we meet in the bright light of morning. Late morning, preferably.’

Daretor was shown to a room where the physician checked his bandages once more before leaving him rugged up in bed. No sooner was the man gone than Daretor felt himself drifting off to sleep. As he did so, he wondered where Jelindel was and if she was all right. Yet again, he cursed the ill fortune that had sent him here instead of to Argentia. At least there he was nearer his beloved, even if she had been banished to some other paraworld. Nor was he happy that Zimak might find a way to reach her, and perhaps even be the one to rescue her. That final thought made him wonder how Jelindel would greet Zimak if he did get through the paraworld portal and reach her side. Would she be overjoyed just to be rescued? Would she wonder why he, Daretor, had not come for her? Might she even be happier that he had not?

The next morning the door was flung open and Osric stomped in, smiling and scowling at the same time. ‘I will have that boy’s head, and yours too!’ he cried. ‘Imagine not waking me the moment you arrived!’

‘Good morning to you, too, Osric,’ said Daretor as he sat up. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

‘Nice to see me? Nice? Merely nice?’

‘Well, it’s wonderful, but I can’t tell you that or you might get a swollen head.’

Daretor climbed out of bed and the two men embraced. Osric pounded Daretor’s back but stopped when the latter winced in pain.

‘How about breakfast?’ Daretor said as Osric led him out of the room. ‘I’m famished.’

‘That I can manage,’ said Osric as they reached a balcony that overlooked the dizzying five-thousand-foot drop to the crater basin. The view was stunning, not least because Daretor could see various other levels, balconies, and courtyards of the magnificent Tower, all in a haphazard descending order, like overlapping glimpses into other people’s lives. The unrelenting sun gave the scene the polish of perfection.

Daretor felt much better as he began the hearty breakfast that Osric had arranged. He told Osric everything that had happened.

Osric was as perplexed as Daretor by the role of the Farvenu and their apparent allegiance to the Preceptor.

‘It might be the mailshirt that they align themselves with,’ said Osric. ‘It seems to have a life of its own, and perhaps even a spirit.’

Daretor stopped with a fork halfway to his mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but it would make sense. With their respect for cold science, they would undoubtedly know of the mailshirt’s true nature. To them it might even be a god.’

Osric nodded. ‘So, what of our other enemies? You say Fa’red and the Preceptor have had a falling out? That is good news.’

‘Fa’red might actually be feigning the falling out. He may well still be in alliance with the Preceptor.’

‘That would position him better for a takeover.’

‘My feeling as well. Now, about the audience with the Sacred One?’

‘As soon as you’ve eaten. I have already informed him of your arrival, as that confounded Lodis should have done last night.’

‘Don’t be hard on the fellow. He showed initiative, yet followed the rules.’

‘Hmmm. If you say so.’ He watched Daretor finish the food on his plate and push it back. ‘I’ve ordered S’cressling to be harnessed for flight. As soon as you complete the audience we’ll be off.’

‘We?’

‘Of course. You think I’m letting you wander off alone? You might get into trouble without me.’

‘Or more trouble with you.’

‘Highly likely, but I’ll risk it.’

Daretor laughed, feeling contentment for the first time in days. He would also make much better time flying on a dragon than by horse. And dragonflight would certainly be less arduous in his current state. Suddenly anxious to be on his way, he pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘We should make haste.’

Osric led him up the stairs through several levels to what was called a flying room – a cabin inside a deep shaft, which was raised and lowered by thick ropes attached to a windlass. He stepped inside with Osric who yanked a tassel which rang a bell somewhere far away. The cabin lurched, then started to ascend.

Daretor frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we be going
down
?’

‘We can if you wish, but the Sacred One is
up.
’

‘Up?’

‘Up.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since you freed him from bondage, along with all the other dragons.’

‘Makes sense,’ Daretor said.

The flying room rose several hundred feet, and Daretor started to get a squeamish feeling in his stomach at the mere thought of the great void beneath him. Quite possibly there was a thousand feet of nothingness just inches beneath the thin planks of wood on which he stood. He swallowed and uneasily shifted his weight from foot to foot. Osric refrained from jibing his friend.

They were delivered to a wide deck open to the sky. At the far end was what looked like a huge pigeon coop. It featured enormous round entrances, outside each of which was a stone perch. On one of these, sunning himself and idly flapping his majestic wings, was the Sacred One. When he saw Daretor he launched himself ponderously into the air, circled the wide space, then landed on the deck in front of them.

The dragon was vastly different from the first time Daretor had seen him. At that time he had been blind in one eye, emaciated, and grey, as if all the colours of life had been leached out of him. Now he was filled out, vibrant and full of life, and he had two eyes. One was the dragonsight, that strange, semi-living gemstone that Daretor had helped recover from the Archmage Fa’red. The dragonsight connected its possessor to all the other dragons, and through them to the dragonriders as well. The dragonsight also conferred a kind of clairvoyance upon the Sacred One, so that the future – or a future – could be seen. The Sacred One possessed the truthsense, which was one of the reasons Daretor had been sent on this mission instead of Zimak. Zimak rarely told the truth, even when there was no profit in not doing so.

‘Well met, Daretor,’ said the Sacred One in a grave but booming voice.

‘Well met, Sacred One.’

‘You seek a Telling?’

‘I do.’

‘I will send for you tonight,’ said the Sacred One. ‘I must prepare myself.’

Without any further exchange of trivialities, the dragon turned and entered the base of the dragon roost, and was lost to sight.

‘That’s odd,’ said Osric. ‘The Sacred One usually sees people straight away – that is, when he sees them at all.’

Daretor drew a deep breath. ‘No matter. Perhaps he sees more to this Telling than we do.’

Osric clapped a hand around Daretor’s shoulder. ‘Besides, it gives us a day to catch up.’

They returned to the flying room and descended to Osric’s private chambers. Here they spent the day deep in conversation. Once night had fallen a summons came, bidding Daretor return alone to the dragon roost.

A pageboy escorted Daretor to the deck. Daretor strode briskly toward the huge round entrance of the dragon roost.

Zimak flattened himself against the stonework. A few feet to his left two men had emerged onto a balcony from a lighted room but they were not looking his way. This was a bad night for scaling towers because of the moonlight, but in a curious way it was the best possible night as well. All three moons were approaching conjunction in the sky, which meant that all three were together and full, casting shadows with blurred triple edges and generally lighting up the place almost as brightly as overcast daylight. At the coast there would be very high tides on this night, and everywhere the dogs and wolves were howling themselves hoarse. This was a night that intruders scaling walls were as highly illuminated as ever happened, but there was a distinct bonus. Nearly every religion had a special ritual or festival associated with the triple lunar conjunctions, and were far too busy with prayers, beating gongs or making sacrifices to bother keeping an eye open for intruders. Even those who were not at all religious took the opportunity to have a few drinks with friends while they watched the sky, rather than watching the walls for climbing figures. It was this fact that had precipitated Zimak’s decision to scale the tower this night. Although, if anyone looked away from the sky, they could hardly fail to see his dark bulk inching up the wall like a leech.

Terrifyingly, Zimak could see dozens of people looking up at the sky, yet none were looking in his direction. From within the tower he could even hear people talking about how pretty the triple conjunction was. Zimak could not resist a glance at the sky, where the white disk of Blanchemoon was separated from the bluish face of Reculemoon by the tiny spot of light that was Specmoon. They were in a straight line, and their edges seemed to be almost touching. Some god with three eyes staring at me, thought Zimak, then he looked away with a shiver.

The gods were said to be watching the affairs of mortals particularly closely during triple conjunctions. Watching with approval or disapproval, Zimak wondered. As long as no god called out ‘Hey, look at the thief scaling that tower!’ he was probably all right.

He cursed again at how he had drawn the short straw regarding this mission. Another wall, another tower, another balcony, another two men, another city, another country, he thought with exasperation. How do I escape from this stupid line of work? Maybe I could get myself enchanted and go live in that nice, comfortable lake with my beloved and raise, er, tadpoles or something. I bet that any moment now a woman’s voice will summon those churls back inside the room.

A woman’s voice called to the men to come back inside. Zimak cast a silent sneer at the triple-eyed god in the sky in the hope that it really was a deity looking down, then continued scaling the side of the tower.

He had left the eager Davit at the base of the tower, telling him to practise on low garden walls before trying to climb a real tower. He and Davit were fast becoming friends. The boy had shown him a place to hide in the cellar of his grandmother’s house, and had regularly brought him food and drink. Then, tonight, Davit had led him by lanes and alleyways to the south side of the north-east tower.

Fortunately, the mortared joints between the stone blocks were deep enough for his toes and fingers to find purchase. As Zimak inched his way up the wall his thoughts strayed back to Ethella. She had steered him true. He would definitely return and see what he could do to break the curse that held her. He had never met a nicer woman in all his life. He only hoped that her interest in him was personal, that she liked the
him
within, and not just Daretor’s body. He hoped too that she was not just lonely, and desperate for company after living in the lake for so long by herself. The thought also came to him that Daretor’s body was somewhat overweight and lacking in allure. This suggested that she liked the real Zimak. The thought cheered him considerably.

At last he reached his objective, a mullioned window which he had spotted from the hill on one of the few occasions he had dared to go out in daylight. It would not be artfully secured. After all, what fool would make a suicidal climb up the side of the tower to reach it? What fool indeed? wondered Zimak.

He silently wedged an eye bolt into a crevice between two stone blocks, then hooked his leather harness to it. He then got out his improvised tool kit and set to work. Some initial probing showed that there was a simple bolt securing the shutters from inside. Simple but sturdy, that was the problem. He would have to saw through the shaft of the bolt and pick a simple lock. There was also some wire that needed further investigation.

At that very moment, Daretor walked into the dragon roost in the Tower Inviolate. Even further away, on another paraworld entirely, Fa’red was concluding his own mission.

As Zimak sawed, Daretor took a deep breath, pausing before entering the chamber of the Sacred One. It was at that point that something catastrophic happened. There was a blinding flash of light, or so Daretor thought. His skin crawled with an irritation so painful that he uttered an oath. He shook his head to clear it and then dry-retched. He felt as if someone had rammed a sack of thick, dirty wool into his skull. His vision swam, bringing him blurry half-formed images of things that made no sense at all.

At that same moment, Zimak swayed, sick to his stomach, and felt a nagging pain in his chest. Like Daretor, he could not see clearly. His hand groped out for the cold tower stone to steady himself and felt nothing but air.

Their vision cleared.

Both men reeled.

Daretor found himself hanging in midair from the side of a great stone tower with a thin saw blade in his hand and a long, long drop into uninviting shadows below him. He was in the act of cutting through a window bolt.

‘Just what has the little wretch got me into now?’ muttered Daretor.

Zimak became acutely aware that he was on solid flagstones at the entrance to an ornate but stupendously big chamber. Inside, he could see tier after tier of dragons perched on roosts, all peering down at him, and looking as if they expected him to do or say something.