Romany swore and swiveled, watching the blow-torch blaze across the darkened sky, a glittering flask dangling beneath it, splashing beneath the shadow sailing bat-winged through the sky and occasional multicolored droplets sparkling with their own luminosity.
The wizards would keep until she could return with help, perhaps, but they would need their magic. She needed to see where it went so she could help them get it back once they escaped.
Her own traveling magic helped her follow the trail as if she wore Seven League boots, though nevertheless she arrived at the dragon’s crater a few days after the last of the magic spells splattered into the river to be carried back toward Argonia, and the dragon dived into the caldera.
She began climbing. She knew it was foolish to enter the dragon’s crater alone, but then, it was just as foolish to enter it with no companion but someone who was occasionally a fox, so enter she did.
Wormroost Station
The last leg of the journey was long and broken by only one stop. Two of the women from the troll bridge remained, but otherwise, there was a complete turnover of passengers at the first stop beyond Hide-in Valley. Two rough looking men and three women boarded. The interesting thing was that they all seemed to know each other and chatted together as if they were at someone’s kitchen table instead of aboard a train.
“How was the crossing?” one of the new women, pregnant, with auburn hair, inquired of the other passengers as she boarded.
“We could have been killed except for her,” Mrs. Hubbard said, jerking a thumb in Verity’s general direction. “What I’d like to know is: of all of the magical species to survive to present day, why did it have to be trolls?”
“Because they give the railroad a kickback,” said a fellow with red hair curling around a soft tweed cap and a matching beard, which he seemed to have tried to bring under control by trimming it at two inches long. He took a swig from a silvery flask.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Mutual back-scratching,” he said. “The railroad does nothing about them holding up passengers at the bridge as long as they pay tribute to the railroad from what they steal and leave the freight alone.”
“That’s dishonest!” Verity said. “If people pay for their tickets once, they should be able to get where they’re going without paying a second time or risking drowning.”
He shrugged. “It’s how business often works, especially when a company is opening new territory.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” she said. Sadly, his assessment seemed to be true, as she felt no pangs.
“My work involves a lot of travel,” he said vaguely.
“I’m travelling with my aunt back to her place,” she told him.
“And where would that be?” asked the man, offering her the flask, after carefully wiping off the top. She declined, but graciously, as she’d been taught to do if someone offered her one too many glasses of wine at a party.
The train stopped at Little Darlingham and three ladies left.
The red-haired man fell into a chat with a soldier about weapons and faraway places and the two men passed the silver flask back and forth until it emptied at which point the soldier pulled out his own flask and they continued.
Verity listened, but refrained from comment. As long as they spoke about the model names and numbers of black powder muskets, she felt nothing, but some of the rest of their conversation hurt, though their loud voices kept her from interrupting to declare the falsehood of their more outrageous claims.
She focused on the soldier and his curious apparel and tried to tune out the conversation. The man was taller than she was, with a white mane and beard, and he didn’t wear a proper uniform, just a pleated plaid blanket wrapped around his waist with the end thrown over his shoulder, tucked under the bandoliers strapped across his chest, and long handled underwear showing above his furry boot tops and at the cuffs of his heavy cable knit sweater. He had a gray woolen cloak with very smart silver buttons draped over the back of the bench.
When she could get a word in between serial and model numbers the men were bantering back and forth, she asked, loudly, “Is that your uniform? I haven’t seen that sort before.”
“2nd Battalion Royal Brazorian Fusiliers, lassie,” he replied.
“Brazorian?”
“Currently on leave,” he answered, shortly this time.
“Around here?” she asked, looking out at the barren country flashing by.
“Aye,” he said.
Verity tried again. He was a very interesting looking fellow. “I wondered what your sort of soldier—I know there are different types—does, exactly?”
“I am a fusilier. We are the escorts for artillery, mostly. But that’s not what I’m doing now, of course.”
“Oh, no. I can see that. No artillery anywhere here,” she said with open hands to indicate the total lack of artillery in their immediate vicinity. “So what would bring you here?”
“If I tell ye any more, I’ll have to kill ye,” he said. She was relieved to feel a sharp twinge. The man was joking, at least for the time being.
“Hmmm, well, I wasn’t trying to get you to tell any secrets, you know. I just wondered why people became soldiers. I’ve heard that war, while glorious, is often highly unpleasant and uncomfortable. I don’t quite understand what glory is or why anyone would want it enough to go through such experiences.”
“I suppose it’s the sacking, looting, pillaging, and making the acquaintance of foreign young women. That and the thrilling adventure of it all. Not to mention this handsome uniform and the stirring music to—er—stir one.” A spasm of pain shot through her head.
“Stop that,” she said. “It’s a serious question. There seems to be more to it than just killing people and being killed, and I wondered what it was.”
“She has you there,” the other man said with a hoot.
The soldier shifted and seemed to try to find an answer in the darkened landscape flashing past the windows. “I suppose at first it’s to prove you can, that you’re fit to run for miles, sleep in a freezing ditch with the rain for a coverlet, climb mountains, ford floods, and of course, fight a bloody battle at the end of it so you can go back to sleeping in a ditch again. And then there’s the discipline to obey orders that make nae sense at all and the friendships you make among your brothers in arms before you watch them die. It takes a certain kind of person to do it. Not everyone can.”
“Not everyone wants to,” the red-haired man said. “Some of us seek our own fortunes to fulfill our destinies. And you don’t have to join anything or necessarily camp out with a lot of other fellows or take orders or any of that.”
“That sounds more interesting,” Verity said. “How do you do that?”
“Well, of course, it is not the life for everyone, just as being a soldier doesn’t suit us all. Ideally, one begins by being chosen.”
“Chosen? By whom? I don’t suppose it’s the government because then you’d be a soldier, wouldn’t you?”
“It could be. But the usual thing is that there’s a prophecy somewhere, either written down or foretold in some other way that you are the Chosen One and then, well, you know.”
“I can see where that would be helpful,” she said. “Can you tell me about some of the adventures you’ve been on?” They still had quite a lot of track to cover before they reached the junction of the northbound and eastbound lines, at Wormroost Station.
“Er—not as such, no,” he said. “Except the part about being Chosen. I’ve done that already.”
“I think that might have happened to me, too,” she confided, thinking of her daring rescue of Toby. “But how did you know for sure?”
“There can be physical signs. Sometimes it’s an intriguing scar that marks the chosen child from a very young age. One reason it took me so long to be sure of my destiny was my lack of distinguishing characteristics—at least until this showed up. Then I knew.” Lifting his curling forelock, he display
ed a discoloration like a large freckle that had been hidden by his hair.
“A birthmark?”
“Except it didn’t show up till me 13th birthday.”
“Curious,” Verity said. “How did you realize that was the adventuring kind of mark?”
“If you look closely, you’ll see that it’s kind of dragon-shaped.”
“Oh, umm,” she said, since she failed to see that at all. One of the lessons her mother and governess had both drilled into her, which they said bore repeating since she was incapable of cushioning the truth, was if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Not that she could do that either, but she could express skepticism gently, before they got to the actual lying part.
“Harrumph,” the soldier said. “Call that a distinguishin’ mark?” He pulled up his jumper and offered a wide variety of puckers and stitched pleats in his lower rib cage and abdomen. “These are proper distinguishin’ marks and I’ve more elsewhere, though not where it’s fittin’ to show a young lady of your class, lassie. There’s a tale behind each and every one of a near miss with death. ’Course, the thing about being in the army is when you get into trouble, you’ve an army with you whereas you solitary blokes are on your own.”
“That’s kind of the point, surely?” Verity asked. “Although, it’s possible to be a solitary adventurer I suppose and not always be solitary while you’re doing it—the adventure, I mean. Back at the troll bridge, I crossed on my own, but there were a lot of other people there.”
“Oh, I don’t think crossing a river counts as an entire adventure,” the self-appointed adventurer said. “Part of an adventure, certainly, but not the whole thing. There’s supposed to be much worse danger to greet you in the river or on the other side. Was there?”
“Well, the water was very cold and I slipped once and almost went under, but the only thing on the other side was the tree to tie the loose end of the rope to—that and the train.”
“Doesn’t qualify yet,” he said. “But of course, young ladies aren’t expected to have them.”
“I don’t see why not. And where I come from, having a dragon on your head is more of a logo than a divine sign. You employ dragons. You don’t fight them.”
“Yes, well…” he said.
“How old do young men have to be to enlist or accept a commission?” she asked the soldier.
“Sixteen at least, or that’s the age I said I was when I enlisted,” he replied. “Though I was in truth only fourteen and lied about it.”
“What sort of adventures are young ladies expected to have?” she asked. They hadn’t covered that at any of her schools. Most definitely not at Our Lady of Perpetual Locomotion. She wished she could tell them about breaking Toby out of the dungeon, but felt sure although no one had said so that particular incident should remain classified. And besides, she’d been taught that boasting was rude, at least where teachers could hear it.
Just then the conductor ushered Ephemera into the car.
“Oh my, that stove is a nice feature,” She said, as if she hadn’t seen it before, standing in front of it and blocking the heat from everyone else as she held her hands out to warm them. The train was much farther north now and snow fell thickly enough to obscure the view from the frost-encrusted windows. Ephemera turned around so the heat could reach her backside. “Oh yes, much better.”
She shifted position and apparently mental gears engaged as she addressed the soldier. “Are you Sergeant Foote, by any chance?”
“Yes, ma’am. And yourself would be the Archivist?”
“I am. I hope you brought me some good material, young man.”
“That I did. We Brazorians may not be as scientific as you folk in Argonia, but we’ve better memories.” He started singing in a voice that was a surprisingly melodious tenor, “Oh, the sacking o’ the town o’ Croon, we sacked her up and we sacked her doon…”
“Er, maybe later,” Ephemera said quickly. “Have you heard this one? Listen and tell me if you have anything similar on your side of the border.” She sang what sounded like a list of names to Verity, “Rowan’s comin’, Hood is comin’, Raspberry and Goode’re comin’, Perchingbird and Ashburn’s comin’…”
“The callin’ o the clans. Aye, we have the like.”
“Wonderful! How about laments? Lullabies? So many songs soldiers sing are so loud.”
“Oh, aye,” he said, “Campfire songs can be mournful. But a proper battle song needs to be loud to be heard above the cannons, gunfire, and artillery. Not that there’s usually a lot of singing going on during the actual battle, but the idea is to sing as if you were there. Now marching songs must be heard by all your comrades so you all keep on beat.”
By way of example, he started a song and by the time they had finished a rousing 99 choruses of a drinking song, the train pulled into Wormroost Station. Ephemera, the soldier, and Verity all unloaded their luggage and stepped off the train and onto a snow-covered platform. No station house, just a platform.
As she was wrestling her bag and Ephemera’s, the soldier got off the train and walked forward to the engine. She dragged the bags to the platform and saw him in conversation with a man at the front of the train, beside the car with the elevated roof that was the engine. The side of the car was open to the air and the soldier absently stretched out his arm and stroked a furled wing. A grumble and an appreciative but inhuman moan answered his gesture.
The ground was covered with snow and a red-haired young woman waited in a horse-drawn sleigh off to the side. She waved at them.
The soldier trudged back to them, grinning, “Had to pay my respects to the beasties,” he said. “Grand creatures, dragons, smooth travel and verra convenient in snow country. Avalanches are nae bother for ’em.”
“Isabelle, dear, allow me to introduce your cousin Verity and Sergeant Foote of the Brazorian Fusiliers. What’s for dinner?”
Chapter 17
Wormroost Castle
Though a bit drippy inside at times, Wormroost Castle was usually surprisingly cozy, and light in places thanks to windows of sheer ice. After dinner, Isabelle showed Sergeant Foote to his quarters and to the library where he was to record his songs. Meanwhile Verity and Ephemera washed up.
A half dozen cats sat around watching them, as if they were doing something peculiar. This ended when Ephemera scraped scraps onto dishes and the cats converged on them. One of the cats studied Verity closely. It resembled the stray she’d found under the boardwalk, but far from being shy, graciously strode up to her and bent its head, soliciting strokes.
“You’re very quiet,” Ephemera said.
“I’ve been wondering if I’ve been chosen to do anything.”
“Now that you mention it,” Ephemera said. “You haven’t been chosen to come here only to mind a dotty old woman. I have quite another task in mind for you. One suited to your particular talents.”
She took her into a chamber filled with shells large and small tightly packed onto shelves or piled into jars, bottles, bowls, pots, pans, vases, and one very sad umbrella stand that seemed to be made from the foot of a large animal. (“It’s all right, dear,” Ephemera told her. “He died of old age and would have enjoyed some part of himself being put to use.”)
“As you see, we have here countless stories and songs, histories and fantasies, in no particular order. I’ve been trying for years to arrange the collection into some sort of linked history of our realm, but I have no idea what is truth and what is not. Which is where your sort of gift will come in very handy.”
“You know about my curse?”
“Of course, dear. I gave it to you. Why do you think I told you I am your witchy fairy godmother? I know you have not found my little present very handy thus far, but don’t be cross with me. It really is a very important power and I hope that you will join in our work and be the one to separate fact from fiction.”
The shelves of shells were daunting, but it wasn’t as if there were a lot of other activities
to pursue. One could skate or ski only just so long before needing to come in from the cold.
So she agreed, and rather to her surprise, enjoyed listening to the stories and songs the shells contained. If they had all been truthful, she thought she would not have minded doing it for the rest of her life.
She felt as if she were hearing the voice of her country.
Unfortunately, her country’s voice seemed as often as not to be full of dragon doo. She could work for only an hour or two, depending on the veracity of the shells, before finding herself in need of a lie-down or a cup of tea or cocoa to banish the compound headache her research inflicted on her.
Some of the songs, which were otherwise truthful, were nevertheless quite puzzling, like the one that seemed to have been written by a dragon. Dragons didn’t even talk. Except, maybe, for Taz?
If some had talked however, or sung, the ones at the Battle of Blazing Bog might have sung one particularly sad sing:
The Dragon’s Reward (anonymous)
Though we were many fewer then
From meddling in affairs of men
Starved and weakened, we were penned
And herded to our feeding
Wingless dragons, tailless too
Dragons who no longer flew
Of hale and hearty far too few
Were able for the breeding
And now I toil day and night
Where once I soared in joyful flight
For joining in a human fight
So take from me this heeding
The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad Page 15