by Maria Grace
Mr. Wynn opened the door at the end of the vestibule and ushered them through it.
Merciful heavens! The wide, tall corridor, lit by cloudy glass windows that reflected off many mirrors, and candles throughout, bustled with men, women, and dragons—from tiny fairy dragons to large snake-type creatures to medieval dragons—drakes, they were called?—easily as large as a man. And none of them acted as though it were anything unusual.
The smell, though! Was that the dragon? It had a vaguely barnyard feel to it, but nothing like horses or cows or sheep—something rather musky and a bit acrid, entirely unique. Unlike anything she had ever known, but not necessarily unpleasant.
The crowd made way for them, a few—human and dragon—gawking as they walked past toward a wide staircase, far wider than any she had ever seen in a building this size. Portraits of somber-faced men, women and dragons lined the white plastered walls over the chair rails and up the marble stairs. Tiny placards she could not read while walking in such haste bore what were probably names and ranks and dates. They left the stairs at the second floor and turned right on a polished wood floor, scuffed a mite in the center with something that resembled claw marks. Again, white walls—was that to make the best use of light?—lined the corridor, punctuated by many closed, carved doors, with transom lights above.
The first door—again far wider than would normally be expected—bore a brass plate: Regional Undersecretary of Dorsetshire and Somersetshire. Mr. Peter Wynn. It would have been nice if it told her more than she already knew, but that would have been asking a great deal.
He pushed the door open, herded them inside, and directed them to a pair of stern wooden chairs in front of an imposing, marble-topped desk. A cloudy glass window lit the room from the far side with no curtains to soften the white walls. The smells of paper, old books, and that same peculiar, musky-acrid odor hung in the air. A weathered burgundy-brown carpet took up much of the floor space, but it looked ragged, as though roughed by claws. Bookcases and cabinets lined the walls adjacent to the window. Loose papers and journals occupied nearly every flat surface. Between the bookcase and corner, on the same wall as the door, an opening, without a door and too short for Anne to enter without stooping, led off into darkness.
He sat behind the desk, also cluttered with what appeared to be various works in progress, and pointed at Mrs. Smith. “Who are you, and what is your role in all this?”
“I am Mrs. Smith, a friend of Miss Elliot. She has just come into her hearing.”
He pulled open a drawer, not looking at them. “And you are the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall?”
“I am.”
“Why is your father not presenting you?”
“He had other pressing social engagements and could not spare the time.” Engagements like presenting himself at the Pump Rooms to be seen, attending concerts and suppers and card parties which required him to sleep very late the next morning.
“So, you, Mrs. Smith, a member without status or dragon connections, have brought her in his stead? With his acknowledgement and permission, I assume?” He pulled out a thick folio and laid it on his desk.
“He is not aware, no.” Anne wrung her hands. “That is on my insistence. I have been impatient to be presented.”
“I see.” He drummed his fingers on the folio, the thick leather muffling the sound. “I have many more questions for you, but they may not be asked of one not a member of the Order, so I suppose we should address that issue immediately. Have you studied the Pendragon Treaty and Accords?”
“I have.”
“Well, at least something has gone right,” he muttered under his breath and rang a bell that had been hidden beneath a pile of papers.
A moment later a dragon—was it a drake?—about the size of Shelby came running in through the open doorway in the back corner of the room. Black and red striped, with a ridge running down its spine and very long talons, its bright jet eyes sparkled with intelligence. Around its neck it wore a livery badge on a blue ribbon. Perhaps it was the source of the carpet’s demise.
“Jasper, take Mrs. Smith to the parlor and fetch her a cup of tea. We may be at this for some time.”
Jasper nodded. “Pray come with me.” Her voice was smooth and silky, rather more like a lady’s maid than a dragon’s. “I will keep you company until your friend is able to join you again.”
“Will you be all right?” Mrs. Smith stood.
“I do not think I have much choice. Go and enjoy your tea.” Anne forced a smile and a moment later she was alone with Mr. Wynn. “What will happen if I do not pass your test?”
“You will remain our guest here until such time as you do.”
“A prisoner?”
“A guest. If you are deemed intractable, then you will be assigned to a custodial care home in Scotland. You might then consider yourself a prisoner.”
“I see.”
“Has none of this been explained to you?”
She shook her head vigorously.
“Then you should understand that all hearers of Dragons must come under the auspices of the Order, either as willing members, preferably as members who contribute to the good of dragon society, or under the protective custody of the Order, ensuring that no harm comes to dragon society through them. Those are the only options.” No one would accuse him of being direct.
“As I much prefer the first alternative, let us seek that path.” Boldness, Mrs. Smith said boldness was appreciated.
“Very good. Then let us begin.” He tapped his desk and squared his shoulders.
He peppered her with questions, demands to recite certain passages from memory, and several scenarios in which she was to analyze the application of the treaty. With no way to see the sun, no clock visible in the room, all sense of time dissolved into his endless interrogation.
“It seems, that is to say I think that the actions of the wild wyrm, by hunting on the estate without permission of the estate dragon constitute a trespass, but not one meriting capital punishment. Two warnings by the estate dragon are required before the wyrm can be legally eaten.” Anne forced herself to hold her weary shoulders up and look toward Mr. Wynn, but over his shoulder, not in his eyes. Had she really just said such a thing and expected to be taken seriously? Surely this must be the antechamber of Bedlam.
He huffed and frowned and chewed his lips, then stood and paced three times around the room.
Merciful heavens, now what?
“Well, Miss Elliot, while your understandings are imperfect and in need of refinement, they are sufficient to admit you into the Order. Congratulations.”
All strength drained from her joints, and she fell back into the hard, wooden chair. “I am accepted, then?”
“Yes. However—”
She hated that word.
“That is not the end to the matter. Your case is complicated.” He returned to his chair and pulled a stack of papers out of the folio and scanned them.
“I trust you will explain what that means.”
“I suppose you have not met your estate dragon?”
“No, I have not, nor—since I expect you will also ask—have I had any actual training in any aspect of what it means to be a Dragon Keeper.” Anne clenched her hands hard, just in case they might be shaking outwardly as much as she did within. Boldness was entirely overrated.
“That makes this exceedingly complicated.” He frowned. “Kellynch is far from a model dragon estate. Quite the opposite. The dragon, Kellynch, has not been seen at a Conclave or regional meeting in decades. There are unconfirmed rumors he is not just eschewing the meetings, but that he may be hibernating altogether.”
“Dragons hibernate?” Is that what Father meant when he called the matters “dormant?”
“Some species do, particularly if they are unhappy with their Keepers …”
Anne winced. “And you suspect that all might not be well at Kellynch Hall?”
“We do not suspect; we are certain and have been
for some time. There has simply not been sufficient agreement on the situation for the Order to intervene. But now you are here, a relatively simple solution presents itself.”
“And what might that be?” Why did the image of a virgin offered in sacrifice to an angry dragon keep flashing through her mind?
“The eldest dragon-hearing son usually inherits the estate—”
“Wait, not the eldest son?”
“Not if he does not hear dragons. Generally, though, inheritances go on without our intervention. We only interfere when necessary.”
“My father has no sons.”
“That has been part of the problem. His heir presumptive, while a member of the Order—let us say he has not been raised to be a Keeper.”
“I still do not understand.”
“I am afraid with the estate dragon unhappy enough to hibernate—which I assume is the case—the Elliot family has failed as Dragon Keepers and is in danger of being removed from the land altogether.”
Anne clutched the arms of the chair. “You cannot do that.”
“The land belongs to the dragon, not to your family. Yes, we can.”
“Lose the land? It would be the death of my father.” What would become of them?
“That is not our problem. Managing the dragon is. Happily, for you and your family, there is something you can do in all this.”
“Me? What can I do?”
“Become an active junior Keeper. Bring the estate under proper regulation and meet Kellynch’s needs when he awakens. Fulfill your family’s duty to the dragon, and the estate will remain in the Elliot name.” Mr. Wynn leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged as though it were all simple and obvious.
“How am I to do that? I am a woman.”
“That matters not to dragons. As the eldest dragon-hearing child, the Keepership is your role to inherit, Miss Elliot. You will be Keeper to Kellynch.”
“How? The estate is entailed away—”
“The simplest solution and the one I strongly—” the word took an ominous edge, “recommend is for you to marry Mr. Elliot. Then you will remain at Kellynch to do your duty to the dragon and the Order, and the legal order of inheritance can be followed without issue.”
“I am to be forced to marry a man I have never even met? Forced marriages are illegal.”
“Technically, that is correct. Consider it then the most favorable alternative for all those connected to the matter.”
“How precisely am I to contrive such an outcome?” Did she even want to? Her stomach churned.
“The Order will encourage him. Marriage is a business arrangement. We will help him to see it is to his advantage. You can certainly see how it would be to yours. All you have to do is show him what a social asset you can be to him, and I am sure it will be easily accomplished. You are not the romantical sort, are you?”
“No, I do not think so.”
“Then what is there to object to? The dragon will be happy, the laws of men satisfied, and the needs of the Order will be met. What woman does not want to be well-settled, and in a home like Kellynch Hall? Truly, it is the best possible outcome.”
What woman, indeed? But at what cost? She had refused Wentworth, whom she loved, because of Lady Russell’s insistence; Charles Musgrove, whom she did not, by her own best judgment. But to save her family, she now had to marry a man of whom she knew nothing?
Was this what it meant to be part of the Blue Order?
Intermezzo 2
July 1809
Wentworth cradled Laconia in the crook of his arm as he strode down Lyme’s cobbled main street among the carts and peddlers and foot traffic. Damned uncomfortable stuff to walk upon. Smooth decking was much better.
The sun was mostly hid by the buildings, leaving the chill salt air, tasting of an incoming storm, to gust through the streets and alleys, accosting the pedestrians as it would. Wentworth pulled Laconia in a bit closer, to keep the wyrmling warm against his waistcoat, under his deep blue wool tailcoat. A few passers-by with coats wrapped tight over their chests glanced at him with raised eyebrows.
“Just a man with a cat, leave us be.” Laconia murmured and the would-be gawkers turned aside down a narrow alley that they probably did not really need to traverse.
Wentworth chuckled under his breath. How persuasive Laconia had become. Was it odd to be proud of his little Friend for that? He stroked Laconia’s silky fur and scratched beneath his chin, the edge of his forefinger rasping gently along the edge of one prominent fang. It had become a joke among his crew as to whether or not he would grow into his fangs.
Though only a few months old now, Laconia had grown considerably since his hatching. Still too small for Wentworth to feel safe letting him walk on the streets, he was the size of a small cat, his tail long enough to wrap most of the way around Wentworth’s waist.
Even so, the tatzelwurm had what Wentworth’s mother would have called an old soul. Far more mature than some of Wentworth’s young sailors and even a midshipman or two, Laconia was serious and focused, two traits rarely or perhaps never before ascribed to a tatzelwurm.
That was made this whole venture so unlikely to succeed. Who paid attention to ideas from a dragon whose type was believed by most to be nearly as addlepated as fairy dragons? But he had promised Laconia to try, and he was a man who kept his promises, so to the Blue Order office they would go.
“Is that the place?” Laconia pointed with his thumbed paw toward a townhouse with a distinct blue door.
“Could you tell by the door or by the squad of cockatrice perched on the roof?” Wentworth paused—four, no, six of the poised, stately creatures, as still and watchful as gargoyles peered down upon all who passed.
“When one has nearly been prey, one is always aware of the local predators.” A little shudder ran down Laconia’s spine.
“Well, I assure you, you needn’t worry about the Blue Order guard. They are far more concerned about the local men causing problems than about minor dragons. If you look closely you can see they all wear black sashes across their chests. They are in mourning, along with the entire office, for the Captain of their Guard, Commodore Easterly’s Friend.”
Laconia pushed back hard into Wentworth’s arm, purring. Sensitive little creature.
Dramatically smaller than the great central headquarters in London, this local office was nearly indistinguishable from the mundane terraced homes on either side. The offices, housed in a four story, first rate town house—hid in plain sight, rather like the dragons themselves.
He strode to the blue doors, under the watchful eyes of the cockatrice guard, and rapped the brass doorknocker—a drake’s head holding a large ring. Holding his breath, he waited. He had sent a note ahead to Easterly. Hopefully they would be granted an audience, not be laughed at and turned away at the front door.
A blue-liveried footman, everything somber, serious and formidable, opened the door. “You have business here?”
“Captain Wentworth. I have an appointment with Commodore Easterly.” Wentworth lifted his hand to show his signet ring, heavy and clumsy on the small finger of his right hand. He never wore it when he sailed, too much in the way. But on land, it was a necessary convention.
The footman grunted and ushered them into a stark white vestibule with polished limestone tiles, sealed off from the rest of the building by a white paneled door bearing an imposing iron lock. A transom window over the door glazed with foggy glass provided the only source of light. Once the front door was closed and locked, the footman selected a large, dragon-headed key from his fob, opened the far door, and beckoned them to follow.
The door opened into an active space. The main hall continued toward the back of the house, just to the left of the grand staircase—except that it was not so grand, rather more ordinary really. A wider than average corridor opened to the left, near the foot of the stairs. Several well-dressed men, a lady, two small drakes wearing livery badges and black bands around their front right leg
s, and several smaller dragons, whose types he could not quite identify, stopped their activities and turned to glance at them as they entered.
Laconia huddled back into Wentworth’s shoulder. This was his first time to meet a large compliment of dragons—well, land dragons in any case—at once. Poor creature was understandably nervous.
“Follow me. I will show you to the Commodore’s office.” The footman guided them down the left-hand corridor, tiled with the same limestone as the vestibule, and dimly lit by sunlight pouring out from transom windows over each of the closed doors in the hall. Mirrors mounted near the ceiling and stark white paint on the walls helped multiply the light, but even so, the effect was a mite cave-like.
The third door on the left bore an engraved brass placard: Commodore R. Easterly, Regional Liaison to His Majesty’s Navy. The footman rapped on the plain oak door three times and opened it.
“Wentworth! Yes, come in. I have been expecting you—both of you.” Easterly, tall and broad chested, with a shock of prematurely white hair, sauntered toward them, wearing his blue naval uniform, a black band around his right arm. Weary lines creased the side of his eyes. The loss of his Friend had been difficult.
The office was cramped, like one on a ship. Several narrow offices must have been carved out of a larger front room when the Order took this house for its quarters. Dim sunlight filtered through the frosted glass of a single tall window. Charts and maps, scattered across the white walls, some properly framed, others merely tacked to the walls, fought for space with a large hickory bookcase, shelves bowing under the weight of books and navigation equipment. In the center of it all stood an oak desk so large it barely left room for Easterly to sidle around it. Several plain wooden chairs flanked it. Behind and to the right of Easterly’s chair stood a dragon perch draped in black crepe.
“Thank you for seeing us. I know it is not a good time. May I present my Friend, Laconia.” Wentworth strode in, extending his arm with Laconia on it slightly.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Easterly extended his hand to Laconia, fingers curled toward himself.