Sonata Form

by Carole Cummings

  “D’you smell anything?” Ellis asked Olwyn.

  Olwyn frowned, pursed her lips, wrinkled her nose. She inhaled, long and deep, then scowled up at Ellis.

  “Flowers. Sheep dip. Dirt. Grass.”

  “Not petrol.” Ellis nodded, concerned now.

  Even this far away, his nose should’ve been twitching with the sharp scent of dragon. This one clearly hadn’t had its fire fed in a while. And it was sick.

  Lead had been the verdict after the ruckus at Old Forge. Cennydd had been lacing legs of lamb with massive doses of lead coated with magic, and feeding it to the mam dragon first, ingratiating himself, before she let him feed it to her calf.

  “Poison,” Milo had spat, clutching the report from Eira in a fisted hand. “He’d been poisoning dragons. And for months.”

  Stomach pain. Confusion. Difficulty concentrating.

  “Chaotic mood shifts,” Milo had growled. “It apparently sometimes makes the one who’s been poisoned quite mad and violent. It also sometimes makes them more biddable.” He’d thrown the report at the desk, and when it didn’t result in a satisfying crash, he’d swept the books and inkpot after it, not even pausing when the movement apparently pulled at his wound and made him grimace. “It’s a gamble, Eira says, but Llundaintref told her it’s possible to spell the metal with a bit of Natur magic so it feeds off the energy of the dragon itself.”

  Ellis had frowned, confused. “But I thought magic didn’t really work on dragons.”

  “It doesn’t. Mostly. But these spells work on the metal, so it rather evens the odds.”

  Cennydd had been working with the Purity Party. The sorcerer with him, according to Milo, had a foreign accent. Dragons were disappearing in Central Màstira. Horned redcrests flew the migration path that took them right over it.

  They were clan animals, dragons. And an animal that sickened could lose the sharper edges of its instincts. Could lose its clan. Could lose its way home.

  “Right.” Ellis shoved out a breath and set a hand to Olwyn’s shoulder. “Come with me. I’ve suddenly got a lot of work that needs doing, and I don’t trust you not to get yourself eaten.”

  Olwyn huffed but allowed Ellis to steer her away and back down the ridge. “Will ye send fer yer dragonkin, then?”

  If only I could, Ellis thought, but merely patted at Olwyn’s back and kept walking.

  Chapter 19—Polyphony

  : music with two or more sounds happening simultaneously

  The good thing about not having the time to so much as think was not having the time to so much as think. And while there was a lot to think about—like Wellech and Milo and Dreams and war and Wellech and Milo—there were only so many things upon which Ellis could have an impact.

  This, he decided as he peered up at the banner, was one of those things.

  Wellech Unedig, Kymbrygh Unedig, Preidyn Unedig

  United Wellech, United Kymbrygh, United Preidyn

  It wasn’t terribly original as slogans went. Most countries dragged into the troubles of the world had adopted some variation on the theme. But it was simple, it was succinct, it placed Wellech as the keystone to success, and most importantly, it was in the native Kymrae.

  “Mae cenedl heb ei llais yn genedl heb ei henaid,” Wynny had pointed out when they’d discussed it all months ago in Lilibet’s dining room, an adage so old it was said to have emerged, already woven into the soil, as the isle of Kymbrygh rose from the ocean. A nation without its voice is a nation without its soul. And considering that every child in Kymbrygh learned Kymrae before they learned Preidish, or at least alongside it, using the language in what Ellis had worked his arse off to make Wellech’s new motto seemed to bolster the sentiment behind it.

  “Here, you look like you could do with one.” Tomos, a toddler clinging to his shin and an infant in a sling across his chest, nudged at Ellis’s elbow with a jar of what looked like some of that fizzy lemon stuff Ellis hadn’t had a moment to try yet. “’S like champagne for tweenies.”

  Ellis frowned as he took the jar. “Where are their mams today?” He waved at the children, the elder of them now trying to climb Tomos’s leg with one hand and making grabby gestures for Tomos’s drink with his other.

  “Oh, they’re about. Cristyn is helping her mam and brother get the boat ready for the second race, and Lynnie’s off to find this one”—he lifted the toddler, laughing now, by the seat of his trousers—“something he’ll eat without grizzling.” He raised the boy up until he could grin and rub noses with him. “I’m convinced no such thing exists.” The little boy was screaming laughter now, high-pitched and thoroughly entertained with his little feet off the ground and his bum in the air.

  Ellis grinned and took a sip of the lemon fizz.

  Tomos had wanted to be a tad but had no interest in being a cariad. Considering there was a plentiful pool of women who felt the same, he’d had no problem arranging conjugal contracts and negotiating shared parental responsibilities. It so happened, though, that Tomos was one of the most pleasant, lovely people Ellis knew, and he’d chosen conjugal partners who seemed equally so. Thus, it wasn’t often one saw Tomos and his creadurs out without said creadurs’ mams.

  Folant could’ve taken a lesson, Ellis mused, though he kept that to himself. Obviously. There were very few cautionary tales about carefully selecting one’s contract partner as effective as the one of Lilibet Morgan and Folant Rees.

  Thin-lipped, Ellis shook it off and raised the jar for another sip—the stuff was quite good—but paused when he caught sight of Andras and Zophia on the edge of the crowd. Clearly arguing. Clearly anxious. Clearly relieved when they spotted Ellis and started pushing their way toward him.

  Ellis narrowed his eyes, pushed the jar back at a barely paying attention Tomos, and said, “You might want to go find Lynnie. Now. Quick.”

  Because Zophia’s expression of urgent dread might as well have been a flashing bright sign that said Trouble Brewing.

  Ellis didn’t wait for an answer, only started weaving his way through the knot of people waiting on the banks of the Chwaer for the boats to line up for the coracle class race, the first of the day. And maybe it was stupid of Ellis to be reacting the way he was, on instant alert and knowing something was in the process of going wrong. Lilibet had Dreamed as he’d asked, had done it three times to be sure, and had come up with nothing that would justify Ellis cancelling the Hawkweed Sprint altogether—the whole damned Riverfest, to be honest—as he’d toyed with doing.

  But his covert “put propaganda to good use” campaign had been going so well, better than he expected. A change was rolling over Wellech, propped up no doubt by the clear threat from outside, but also by the subtle push from the inside. Wynny had family in Tirryderch and had become an enthusiastic source of news about how its magical citizens were keeping the wolves from Tirryderch’s, and thus Kymbrygh’s, doors. Dyfan was using the quotas and the abolition of Folant’s policies to deploy what magical talent he had in his ranks, thereby improving Wellech’s mining output while also making the mines safer.

  Changes that once would have gathered angry protest before, likely out of nothing more than habit fueled by ignorance. With Ellis’s constant beating of his The Enemy is Coming! drums, there’d been nary a lifted eyebrow.

  Wellech, for now at least, no longer seemed to think in terms of “magical citizens -vs- good citizens” and instead had begun to rally as a whole against anyone who wasn’t them.

  Which was why, Ellis decided, it was throwing him to see Andras and Zophia so clearly at odds. Andras was probably Ellis’s greatest success thus far. A boy who’d grown to manhood in Folant’s Wellech and—by virtue of being not only drawn into the new Pennaeth’s “inner circle” but also being assigned the responsibility of mentoring a refugee Dewin and making her a reliable Warden—was now ardently embracing Ellis’s.

  “Rhywun Ellis!”

  Andras was pushing through a clump of tweens who seemed to have acquired jugs of something
Ellis suspected they were too young to be drinking. At the sounding of Ellis’s name, they all looked up, confirmed it absolutely was their Pennaeth and First Warden carving a path in their direction, and promptly scattered.

  It gave Andras and Zophia a clear lane, at least, and they pulled up in front of Ellis, both of them wide-eyed and breathless.

  “Syr!” Andras gulped a breath. It gave Zophia time to jabber something in Ostlich, which was a bit inconvenient since Ellis had only had a year of Verdish in school and though the languages were similar, they weren’t similar enough. To Ellis’s surprise, Andras seemed to understand her because he snapped, “I know, Zoph, just belt up for moment, would you!” He shook his head, and told Ellis, “She forgets her Preidish when she gets excited.”

  Ellis gave Zophia a level look. “I expect my Wardens to keep their heads, regardless of circumstance, and I expect clear communication. Is that understood?”

  The tone of it straightened Zophia’s spine. She nodded, said, “Yes, syr, sorry, syr,” in heavily accented Preidish, but it was calmer than thirty seconds ago. She was tall and pale and thin with a shock of black hair and vivid blue eyes that made it necessary for Ellis to deliberately keep thoughts of Milo from blooming. That became a bit easier when Zophia went on, “We have patrol the estuary, yes?” Broken and thickly inflected, but Ellis understood it this time, so he nodded. Zophia twitched her chin toward Andras. “There was man. He wear Warden coat. Badge. But he’s not watch people, yes? He’s watch water.”

  Ellis frowned. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Not people. Water. You say watch people, yes? Watch for trouble.” Her Preidish was breaking in places. “But he’s watch water. So I watch him. And I see.” She pulled up her sleeve and turned up her wrist. “Saw. I saw.” She set her teeth, getting agitated again, and apparently frustrated that she had yet to make her point understood.

  “There’s a particular sort of mark,” Andras put in, broad hand subtly set to Zophia’s shoulder. “She’s seen it. A tattoo that some of the Elite Constabularies wear.”

  Something in Ellis’s chest went into freefall as Zophia nodded, emphatic and relieved, and pointed at her wrist. “Is here.”

  Ellis had never seen one but he knew of their existence. From what he’d read, Western Unified troops were using the marks as a way to identify captured enemy soldiers. It had only made the news services because those enemy soldiers were apparently cutting them from their skin when capture was imminent, and the idea of it was so sick-making reporters couldn’t seem to stop mentioning it.

  “That…” Ellis lost what wind he still had in his lungs. Lieutenant Colonel Crilly, Wellech’s Home Guard commander, had assured Ellis that the vague threat Dilys and her compatriots had managed to extract from the captured spies had been baseless. That it had been merely a last-ditch effort to confuse. Lilibet had seen nothing in her Dreams. Ellis had tripled the patrols for the whole of the festival, and quadrupled them for today’s races. Every Warden in the northeast quadrant of Wellech was watching everything. “What did we miss?”

  Zophia either didn’t understand the question or ignored it. “I saw.” She kept pointing, blue eyes intent on Ellis, willing him to understand. “Not same—not the same. But close. And I feel—felt magic.”

  “All right.” Ellis was already walking, compelling both Andras and Zophia to walk with him. “So you think someone from Taraverde’s Elite Constabulary, someone with magic, is at the estuary watching for something in the water. Wait.” He stopped short and took hold of Zophia’s sleeve. “Water. You said he was watching the water. D’you mean the river?”

  His heart sank when Zophia shook her head. “The sea.”

  Shite.

  “Our frigates are still patrolling just past the buoys.” Andras apparently knew exactly what Ellis was thinking. “I saw them this morning.”

  And yet it seemed that not only was someone waiting for something to get past them, but that someone had already managed it himself.

  “C’mon, move.” Urgency clipped Ellis’s tone sharp as he tugged Zophia into a fast walk. Andras hurried to follow.

  Cursing under his breath, Ellis steered them back the way he’d come, peering ahead and spotting Tomos looking back at him. Tomos must’ve twigged that something was up, because his children were nowhere to be seen, and his badge was now in plain sight on his waistcoat.

  “And did you report all this to Tilli?” Ellis jerked his chin at Tomos in a curt follow me.

  “Fin,” Zophia said, “I mean no,” followed by a string of rough, jagged chatter that Ellis recognized as Ostlich but was streaming by like a whirlwind jig, and the only word he understood of it was Tilli’s name.

  Andras rolled his eyes at Zophia and shook his head at Ellis. “She couldn’t find Tilli, so she came to me. I was trying to tell her she shouldn’t have left her post”—he shot a glare at Zophia; Zophia merely glared back—“but by the time I got the whole story out of her, we’d spotted you.”

  Well, that explained the arguing earlier.

  “Right, then.” Ellis stopped walking and waved Tomos in closer. “Go find Wylt and see if he can raise Tilli on the wireless. I want everyone looking for a man with—” He paused and turned to Zophia.

  “Brown hair.” It was prompt, and clear this time. She waved at Ellis. “Color like Syr. Warden coat and badge. Tall as…” She peered between Ellis, Andras, and Tomos before she said, “Taller than me, shorter than Tomos.” Since Tomos was the shortest of the three men present, it surprisingly served to narrow it down fairly well. “Wide, though.” Zophia put her hands out to each side of Andras’s shoulders. “Bigger.”

  Grand. So they were looking for someone who sounded like he could probably be a prizefighter.

  Ellis turned back to Tomos. “Relay all that to Tilli. I want every Warden up that way looking for this man. After that, I want whatever troops the Home Guard has in the area at the estuary and reconnoitering with Tilli if they haven’t already been keeping in touch.”

  Which they better have been, but Crilly was a friend of Folant’s and seemed to have issues with sharing authority with Folant’s son. And Ellis was getting bloody tired of having to placate someone who was supposed to be on his own side into cooperating when an order came from anyone other than Alton. Ellis was going to have to talk to Alton about that, and soon.

  “Also, I need someone to get hold of one of those frigates and tell them what we know. Don’t wait for Lieutenant Colonel Jackass to do it, we haven’t the time for his bosh. But do make sure it’s someone who knows how to call the alert without anyone else who might be listening figuring out we’re on to them.”

  Because whatever was going on here, it was looking to be something big. And Ellis would be damned if a single Wellech citizen came to harm on his watch.

  THEY COULDN’T raise Tilli. Which became even more worrisome when Ellis understood that the man Zophia had spotted had Tilli’s rifle strapped to his back. That came out in the stilted conversation that ensued as Ellis urged Calannog faster, faster, damn you, and Andras and Zophia tried to keep up on their own colder-bred horses.

  He’d ordered a delay of the races before they’d started their mad dash to the estuary. And just in time, too—the emcee had been calling for the pistol to start the coracles on their way when Ellis had accosted him.

  Maybe it was the delay that served as some sort of signal. Maybe it was the abrupt rise in chatter on the radio waves. Maybe it was that more than the one man Zophia had spotted had managed to infiltrate Wellech, and the First Warden suddenly taking off in the direction of the estuary told them they’d been found out.

  Whatever it was, it did the job—Ellis was just barely within sight of the estuary, rounding the curve of the meander that would be the final leg of the Sprint, when the clamor went up.

  Once the River Chwaer narrowed back down from the oxbow and wove its way through the interlocking spurs, it was all cliffs from there until it reached the Ch
waer Bach Estuary and flowed out to sea. The rockface was steep and sheer, for the most part, but this channel had been river-carved in stages, leaving the cut bank side terraced in places in a sizeable step formation. It afforded room for a crowd to muster on the wide rocky treads for a good, if slightly precarious, overhead view of the boats that sped their hopeful way past.

  It was why more spectators gathered here than at the estuary itself where the finish line was. The concave shape of the cut bank made the steps into an overhang from which one could see everything on the river below.

  The hordes that had amassed here, waiting to spot the first coracle as it sprinted downriver, were screaming, and not in the way they should be doing. A swell of anxious shouts, amplified by the curved wall of toothed rock, rolled up and out just as Calannog skidded to a halt and Ellis jumped from his back. Heart a hard knot in his throat, Ellis pushed through the mash of confused people on the bank, telling them, “Back up! Out of the way!” until he could peer down on the panicked spectators who were all at once turning and trying to climb the steps and each other. Screams whelped out as a shout of “Bomb!” echoed up from somewhere. And then everyone started pushing.

  Not thirty seconds later they were bottlenecked. The only way up to the bank from the steps was a natural channel in the rock, a long gentle slope that at its narrowest point was wide enough for two or three on a good day. Now, with the press from behind, five or six were trying to squeeze through at a time, and almost no one was getting past.