Dragon Avenger

by E. E. Knight

  “Wait, this is about land?” Wistala said.

  ‘“I’ve no doubt of it. With the land—soon to be prosperous again now that the troll is gone—goes responsibility for the road and bridge. He should like to make all who cross pay a toll.”

  “How does he stand to get the land?”

  “He won’t have any difficulty getting me declared an invalid, with the judge in his pocket. It would devolve to Lada, save that she is not of age to run an estate. Lada’s child would naturally inherit—I’m pierced from my own quiver, insisting Eyen to confirm his parentage with the priests and courts. And she’s only too happy to name Hammar as the father. He would become master of Mossbell.”

  Wistala’s head hurt from trying to follow the convoluted circumstances. “I’m not sure I follow the law, but in all your talk of courts and powers—I thought it was to ensure justice and fairness. This strikes me as quite the opposite.”

  Rainfall admired the glass one more time before discarding it.

  “The law and fairness often dance together, but they are not married,” he said. “Lately I’ve grown too fond of engineering, for one can trust calculation and breaking strengths. No thane may change the weight of a stone, no matter how much he wishes. But! I am still master of Mossbell. Perhaps I shall sell it to the dwarves and move south.”

  He sniffed the air. “But I’m keeping you from your dinner.”

  She wasn’t hungry; perhaps Rainfall’s upset and sour mood had transferred itself to her by something like mind-speech.

  Mossbell’s problems were like a tar pit, the more she struggled to help her host, the worse his plight became!

  She went out to the stable barn and found Stog licking at the remains of his evening grain. Jalu-Coke’s kittens, all ears and tails, were chasing each other about on clumsy paws. This was the sort of law she understood: the mice ate Stog’s grain, and the cats ate the mice.

  “Does the master need me?” Stog asked her.

  “Oh, no,” Wistala said. “I wanted to think. The house was closing in on me. You’re looking well.”

  “Good grain and clean water,” Stog said. “I am lucky. It is a blessing to know how lucky one is.”

  “What happened that night we parted? Did the men find you?”

  “Not the way you think,” Stog said, shifting on his hooves. Wistala nipped his bristly tail—the donkey in him showed most at the mane and tail.

  “Tell me. I need a diversion. Treks and tracks, I shan’t be mad.”

  “Silly, really. I took my chance to get back to the Dragonblade.”

  Wistala was so astonished, she couldn’t speak.

  “What?” she finally said.

  “You hate me now,” Stog said. “But I’ve been wanting to tell you since our return. I’m grateful to you, unlike these fool kittens, I know what you’ve done for me. Let’s have honesty between us.”

  “Was he such a fine master as all that?”

  “Not as kind as our good elf. But that didn’t signify. It wasn’t the treatment; it was the excitement of the hunts. I, a pack mule at column-back, used to have flowers thrown on me as we passed through towns, mouth stuffed with carrots and sugar beets. Cheering. You must know that a dragon can wreck whole lands.”

  Wistala tried to keep her tail still. “I’ve heard of dragons being blamed for storms and earthquakes.”

  “You may well glare, but that doesn’t signify. Hominids fear your kind.”

  “Conceded. So you thought you’d make a try for his hall?”

  “Yes, I know the look of the mountains; it’s not far south of here. But I stopped in a field to avail myself of some corn . . . and the next thing I knew I had a rope around my neck and another bad master. Then you appeared again. In the Dragonblade’s mule train, I learned not to fear the dragon-smell, but I’ve never liked it until you.”

  “So the Dragonblade lives not far south in the mountains? He must be close to the Wheel of Fire dwarves, then?”

  Stog’s ears went up and forward. “Close? Of course. He lives in their city.”

  For the second time since entering the barn, Wistala was startled into astonishment. But of course he would live with dwarves, as they helped him kill dragons.

  “The Wheel of Fire?” Wistala asked.

  “The dwarves build fastnesses like no others, and he must be guarded sky and tunnel. It must signify to you that the Dragonblade’s line has made enemies, very powerful enemies, of your kind.”

  He’s made an enemy of me, small, stumpy, and misfortunate. But she’d promised Father nests of hatchlings.

  She was making herself miserable and hungry for metals, so much so that the tools hung by the hearth looked tempting. Rainfall had written a letter to the metalsmith’s guild in the coastal town of Sack Harbor asking for a quantity of brass and copper meant for the melting pot but so far only an answer had arrived naming a price. Wait, that Jessup fellow said something about spare shingles. . . .

  “Stog, thank you for an honest tale,” she said.

  As the night deepened, she wandered the grounds, prowling, really, for the vegetable garden’s fall planting was coming up, and if she was sharp, she might get a raiding rabbit if wind and shadow favored her.

  Were she Father, she’d take Stog’s knowledge, every memory, every path, and learn about the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the Dragonblade. There were headless, clawless corpses of her own blood with only her left to mourn. What had those men shouted?

  “The Avenger”?

  But she was alone and small. Even Father in full fury hadn’t been a match for the dwarves, and she had nothing like his experience in battle.

  Then there was her promise.

  Even the worst cave has a best spot, Mother would say. She’d found a good spot here at Mossbell. But if the thane claimed Mossbell, there’d be no more clean, quiet cellars and hearth-roasted goats or Widow Lessup’s mutton stew and gravies. Hammar would certainly turn her out—or worse—and if Rainfall sold his estate, would he be able to find a new home with a growing dragon in tow? They’d make a sight on the road: an invalid elf riding muleback, a pregnant girl hardly out of childhood, and a stumpy-legged drakka. Of course, Mother would tell her to improvise.

  Curse Hypatia and its laws and courts and judges, robbing a kindly elf of his all. Hammar shaped the law into an ax to cut down a better citizen than he.

  Couldn’t the law be used to strike back at Hammar? No. Rainfall understood it better than she; he’d called it hopeless and would sell.

  Of course. She hurried back to Mossbell, dragon-dashing when she saw the door and flushing a rabbit.

  The household had gone to bed, and she had to draw back his bed curtains and wake him. The room smelled like the hot stones in their grate that warmed the metal plate that supported his bedding.

  “Rainfall, I’ve got it,” she said when he left off blinking and rubbing his eyes.

  She was disappointed to see the number of leaves left on his pillow as he drew himself up with his new bedrail. “Let’s have a light and hear it, then. For—”

  “Never mind.” She spat into the iron plate that caught the wax from his bedcandle. He lit his candle from the flame. “Some great lord would probably give you employ just to do that,” he mused.

  “I’ve had an idea about the estate.”

  “Let’s hear it, then.”

  If she had the right muscles for it, she would be smiling. She tried pulling her griff as high as she could, and felt the corners of her mouth go up. “Sell Mossbell to me! I’d let you live here until the end of your days, without asking for anything. My way of repaying the debt I owe you for saving me.”

  Rainfall’s face fell. “Ah. An excellent idea, but it wouldn’t work, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t be legal. There are actually two objections. You must be a Hypatian Citizen to own Hypatian land. The estate also controls the bridge and road, and only a titled Hypatian may own that.”

  “So to own the es
tate entire, I must be a Hypatian citizen and titled. No other objection?”

  “No. I’d once hoped Lada would marry well, but she’s been dishonored beyond any man with a title taking her.”

  “Why can’t I become a Hypatian citizen, and titled, then?”

  At that Rainfall’s hand gripped the bedrail so hard, his knuckles went bloodless. “By the Guide Divine, you’re right! Why not? Rah-ya, Tala. Rah-ya! I know just how to do it. Rah-yah! What a joke! To my library, I’m sure there’s a precedent of use.”

  Chapter 17

  ainfall sat in his reception hall with the tablets on his lap. “It’s a sacrifice, but one I’m prepared to make for our sake. Look on the words with me one last time, Wistala.”

  The words may have been illustrious, but the reception hall wasn’t much. According to Rainfall, there’d once been a grand set of chairs and trophies in the form of helms, scabbards, and weapons belonging to his grandfather—all long since sold. Only his azure battle sash remained, draped behind the very ordinary chair that sat against the wall opposite the arched door, bereft of the gilding that had once adorned it.

  But good light came in through the narrow windows. Yari-Tab protested as she was removed from the sunny ledge in preparation.

  “Perhaps you should step into the attendant room, Wistala, until the dwarves have gone. I don’t want to startle our guests.”

  Wistala hooked her sii claw in a wall knothole and pulled open the paneled door with a squeak. She closed it again, and found she could see much of the room admirably through the knothole.

  “You may show them in now, Yeo Lessup,” Rainfall said.

  The lanky boy, in a new suit of clothes and his first pair of attending slippers, raised his eyebrows in surprise at the use of his household title. He gave a little bow as he turned.

  “Forstrel,” Rainfall said. “When at court, always finish your bow and then go about your business.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No need for apologies. Please go about it properly, Yeo Lessup.”

  This time the youth bowed and came fully upright before leaving.

  Within moments, two dwarves entered the room. They wore riding apparel with long scarves woven into diamond patterns. Their faces were masked behind stiffened leather, with gauze covering their beards. They removed their hats and bowed. The foremost was a little taller and heavier than the one behind, and had golden coins set into his belt.

  “Ah, couriers of Chartered Company,” Rainfall said from the humble chair. “I trust the funds sent were adequate for your appearance?”

  “Yes, sir,” the foremost answered in easy Parl.

  “Well here’s a Hypatian Silver for each of you anyway for being so prompt. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  The masks turned toward each other.

  “The signs of the Diadem are not enough?” the foremost said. “We’ll show you our seals, if you like.”

  “No need. It’s simply that I wish to be social.”

  “Elgee and my nephew Embee, sir, and honored.”

  “May I address you as such?” Rainfall asked.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Elgee and Embee, this package and the accompanying letter must arrive at the Imperial Library at Thallia intact. Have you been there?”

  “I know Thallia well, sir,” Elgee said.

  “It is inherently of no great value, but impossible to replace. There should be no danger beyond the usual minor difficulties that go with travel. I would prefer that you go by land rather than water, for the winter winds are coming, and I should hate to lose it to shipwreck.”

  “Some thanedoms welcome dwarves better than—,” the smaller one behind said.

  Elgee stamped. “No need for that, lad. Sir, you have the word of couriers of the Diadem that it will arrive.”

  “Give it to Heloise. If she no longer lives, give it to whoever holds the Hypatian Archive Table-Head. I expect some tokens in return, and would wish you to convey them back here with the same care.”

  “Barring delays in Thallia, you should see our masks again before the moon comes about again. Will you write your price and terms?”

  The younger dwarf drew a small case from his cloak. Wistala thought it looked like it held paper. The dwarf worked the box, and a fresh length appeared at the top. He offered a quill and ink to his elder, who wrote upon it. He knelt and presented it to Rainfall.

  Rainfall read it. “Prices have gone up since I last used your services.”

  “The roads have become treacherous,” Elgee countered.

  “This covers all expenses?”

  “It does. And the bonding: our coin belts shall be yours if aught is lost.”

  “Ah, you no longer negotiate each separately. It is acceptable, then. Shall I sign and seal?”

  “A signature is all that is necessary from a Knight of the Hypatian Directory, sir,” Elgee said with a short bow.

  Rainfall signed the paper revealed at the top of the box. “Ah, how courtly the tongues of the Diadem remain. You should give lessons to your cousins of the Wheel of Fire.”

  “They’d rather burn their beards than listen to—,” the younger said with a hiccupping cough that Wistala guessed to be dwarf laughter.

  “Keep your tongue behind mask,” Elgee said. “Forgive my nephew, he’s but—”

  Rainfall held up his hand. “No, a jest is not out of place after business is concluded. Will you stay and bed this night?”

  “Diadem couriers lose not an hour, once commissioned,” Elgee said. “It is written on our cloak-latch. We ride at once. Thank you for your business—and the hot sup. There remains only the portion to be paid.”

  “Beneath my chair there is a chest. Would you be so good as to retrieve it?”

  The dwarves turned toward each other again; then the younger stepped forward and lifted the small iron box. He passed it to Rainfall, who opened it.

  When the accounting was settled, both dwarves bowed low, with more grace than Wistala would have credited them, and Rainfall bowed in return. After his head came back up, the dwarves raised theirs.

  “A good journey,” Rainfall said.

  “If we are not back by the Winter Solstice, write the Chartered Company and claim your bond. Thank you again.”

  With that they left, escorted by Yeo Lessup.

  “Wistala, come back. I think there’s one more bit of business, and I want you for this.”

  She nosed open the passageway. “Gracious dwarves.”

  Rainfall locked his chest with a tiny key, which he returned to a small bag he kept about his neck. “You can’t always trust appearances with dwarves. They mask more than their faces. But the Chartered Company will keep its bargain. Now all there is to do is hope there’s still friendship, or at least honor, at the Imperial Library.”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Sit and be amused, dragon-daughter. Yeo Lessup, send in your uncle.”

  This time the youth bowed properly. Jessup came in, apologizing for the muddiness of his boots and carrying an oilskin-wrapped object the size of one of Mossbell’s larger windows.

  “How goes the inn, Jessup?” Rainfall said as he set down his burden in front of him.

  “Well enough, sir, but I’ll beg you to help me with my figures again. I thought running an inn meant tapping kegs and keeping the bedding aired, but I never dreamt of all the counting!” Jessup was looking at Wistala again in that funny way of his.

  Rainfall said: “I admire a full-grown man who is so attentive to lessons. Is it done?”

  “Just about,” Jessup said. “You were right about the paints at Sack Harbor. Such colors! Who knew there were so many.”

  “Then let us see.”

  He untied a string around the oilskins and removed them.

  Wistala blinked and looked at the wooden panel again. There were eyebolts in the top and fretwork to let the air pass through. Was it some kind of miniature door? Wait, it had a design on it, a pai
nted figure. She recognized a long figure, depicted in profile, mostly upright, green and black-clawed.

  “It’s you, Wistala,” Rainfall said as the meaning dawned on her.

  “I’m calling the inn The Green Dragon,” Jessup said. “And a good inn needs a good sign that travelers remember.”

  “If you’ve got no objection,” Rainfall said. “He does this as a form of compliment.”

  Wistala understood, but understanding didn’t bring a surcease of confusion. “But the troll, my plan, your brother died . . .”

  “All the land round Mossbell and the twin hills honors his bravery and is happier for it,” Jessup said. “I can’t blame you for the troll’s doing.”

  “So, do we have your agreement?” Rainfall asked.

  “Why do you need it? The man may name his inn as he wishes.”

  “I’d be happier to have you touch the sign,” Jessup said.

  Wistala didn’t answer, but stepped up to the sign. She extended her sharpest sii claw and dug a chunk of wood out at the eye. “You made the eyeblack round, like a hominid’s eye or a tailvent. Dragons have eyes like a cat.”

  “Another story,” Jessup said. “The dragon herself marked the south-side eye, to look in the direction of the fight with the troll. A good story to tell over honey-mead.”

  “When do you open?”

  Jessup swiped his nose with a sii—fingertip, Wistala corrected herself. “All is in place. I’ve been brewing all summer since I bought out Old Golpramp’s entire supply of clover-honey. You have advised me on wine. My wife is ready to do the baking, and my son the butchery. There is still much sewing needing to be done, but I can make do. I was going to hang the sign tomorrow.”

  “Delay another week or two. My old friend Ragwrist leads his troupe south even now, and this is his year to go the north roads. He should stop any day. The presence of his circus would make for a grand door-opening.”

  “As my landlord wishes,” Jessup said.

  Lada kept to her room. The only time Wistala saw her speak to her grandfather was when a messenger arrived. Forstrel took the letter to his master despite the outcry from Lada.

  So great was the fracas that Wistala couldn’t help but attend her host. She found two of the Lessup girls listening outside his library door, whispering to each other.