Dragonspeaker Chronicles Box Set

by Patty Jansen

  “This is not about you, Dora,” Wim said. “We know what you think. Nellie asked what to do with the book.”

  “Especially because her father thought she couldn’t read it,” said Maartje, eyes wide.

  “But I can read it,” Nellie said.

  Dora spread her hands. “Then why is this a question? You should read it, because that’s what books are for, right? You should read it, and decide if it’s worth the fuss.”

  “Probably not,” Nellie said.

  “Fine. Then we’ll have a bonfire here tomorrow. With a bit of luck, the Regent’s wine will have arrived by then—”

  “It has,” Nellie said, remembering the barge from the Guentherite order she had seen moored at the quay.

  Dora smiled. “Good. Then we can celebrate with a bit of pretasting with our friend here.” She clapped her hand on Wim’s back. The Regent employed him to certify that none of the food that went upstairs contained any poison or other ingredients that would have ill consequences for the noble guests. “We’ll celebrate, have a party.”

  She pushed herself up from the table, having solved everyone’s problems in one clear swoop. Dora was like that, as decisive and outspoken as Nellie was timid.

  Sometimes, Nellie envied Dora.

  “But now, I need you to start on the pastry dough. I need the ducks cut up and gutted for the soup. I need you to slice the leek, and I need you to bring in some firewood and core the apples.”

  While they sat at the table eating and drinking tea, a boy had brought two dozen ducks with their feet tied together and feathers still attached. They needed to be plucked and cleaned and hung out overnight.

  There were carrots to be scraped and cut into cubes, puddings to be made, a whole crate of apples to be turned into applesauce, bread to be baked—the list was endless.

  Chapter 3

  NELLIE STARTED making applesauce.

  Around mid-morning, a cart came to the back door, delivering barrels of wine, sausages, cheeses, dried fruit and pickles from the ship of the Guentherite order that she had seen in the harbour.

  A bit after midday, the kitchen workers “helped” Wim sample the wine, sausages and dried nuts to make sure they weren’t poisoned—they weren’t. The order’s farms were on church property. Monks grew this food, although Nellie hated to think how much the palace would have spent on it, because they would have had to pay market prices for this.

  The sausages were wonderful and made her pleasantly full. She was not used to drinking wine either. For most of the afternoon, while she helped to pluck, chop, peel and stir, she felt wonderfully warm and comfortable. She was grateful that in the chaos following the death of the royal family, she had been able to keep a job at the palace.

  Her father’s musings about the church or about life in general were unimportant.

  Nellie worked hard all day, and even managed to forget about the book.

  But eventually the work was done. The workers drank tea at the big table in the kitchen, surrounded by dough set to rise on the end closest to the fire, beans covered in water in a pan, carrots and cabbages cut up and ready to cook, chickens marinating in bowls, raisins soaking in brandy, pots of applesauce, jars of cherries and much more. It smelled heavenly.

  Only when she came back to her little room was she reminded of the book.

  She was tired. Her hands ached. She wanted to go to sleep.

  But she knew that Dora and the others would ask her about it tomorrow and the prospect of seeing the book burn was attractive, so she shut the door, lit the oil lamp on the little table and took the box from the shelf.

  At that moment, the kitten came out and she remembered that she had intended to bring some milk, so she went back to the kitchen to scoop some creamy liquid from the big vat with the wet cloth over the top. Now that people had left, mice and other vermin skittered around in the dark spaces under the benches and in the pantry.

  In her room, she put the bowl on the floor, almost tripping over the kitten circling her legs. The contents were gone quickly.

  She opened the box.

  There were indeed other things inside besides the book. Her father’s old pipe, and a leather pouch with the monocle he used when reading. The old-fashioned pen made of a wood handle and a goose feather that looked a bit worse for wear. There was also a tobacco box which contained nibs for the pen, a tamper for the pipe and an elaborate metal key.

  Most of those things—except the key—brought back memories of her father, like the scent of tobacco that clung to the pipe.

  Nellie took out the book and sat on the bed. But she was about to open it when the kitten mewled and looked up at her, licking the last milk from its mouth. It tried to climb up on the bed, but once its claws had found purchase on the bedspread, it didn’t have the strength to keep climbing. It just hung on the bedspread, mewling.

  Nellie lifted the poor little thing on top of the bed. The kitten curled up against her legs.

  She opened the book. On the thick and smooth title page, her father had written, To those who are willing to see the truth in beautiful capital letters such as he had learned to use in his work with the church. He had embellished the first letters of each word with finely drawn figures: a row of monks, a shepherd facing the light through a window in the sky, a woman bowing to a shepherd.

  Underneath, he had written his name, Cornelius Augustus Dreessen.

  Just this page was an artwork.

  For all that he enjoyed writing so much, it pained her that he had never seen the value in teaching her to read and write. Sadly, it was still true that far more girls than boys never learned. Those who could write could do tasks that people respected. They were the teachers, the shepherds, the councillors and the people who worked in libraries and offices. Those who could read could make sure that shop owners didn’t cheat on them. Those who could do neither were doomed to keep doing dull and monotonous jobs like working in the kitchens. Women. That picture of the woman bowing to the shepherd said it all, as far as her father was concerned.

  She turned the page.

  Here was the declaration that the solicitor referred to, a loosely inserted card in the book:

  After my death, my books and scholarly possessions are to go to my brother, little use as he will have for them. I hope that in his old age, he wisens up and learns to appreciate knowledge by people wiser than him, but I know that this is a long shot.

  By all means, none of the women in my family are to inherit my books and other items of knowledge, because they will appreciate them even less than my brother. If you must, pass my books onto a female member of my family only after they have reached the age of fifty and have perhaps acquired the maturity to understand the gravity of the issues I have investigated, but only if you are left with no other option.

  Nellie heard Dora’s voice echo in her head. A dick.

  It was probably equally telling that the solicitor had left that note addressed to him in the book.

  Why should she even bother reading this?

  Her father’s musings and dissertations started with the words, There are many who claim to have seen the light, who fail the most basic understanding of the teachings of the Holy Triune.

  It went on to explain many things Nellie had heard before about the moral ambiguity within the church and royal family.

  In her father’s words:

  How could the royal family support a church that decreed magic was evil while harbouring citizens with magic at the same time? Saardam was built as a safe haven against magic from the east and it was the task of the church to safeguard it. Old king Nicholaos had understood that, while similarly trying to engage a necromancer to resurrect his daughter after she died.

  There is no logic or morality to any of these people. The royal family has been destroyed—twice now—because they kept dallying with magic. The church is the only proper guardian of the city.

  Nellie suspected that her father would have loved to assume the revered mantle of shepherd,
but his parents had been practical people and had sent him to learn accounting. Besides, the Church of the Triune had been quite a new development in his youth and many of the older folk—which would have included her grandparents—were quite hesitant to accept it. They had all grown up with the Belaman Church, that institution of beautiful rich buildings, golden statues and ages of tradition.

  They had viewed this new church, which preached simplicity and values—and sermons—that people could understand, as an upstart.

  By the time the Church of the Triune became more accepted, her father had been married, and married men couldn’t become shepherds. Another reason why he might have treated his wife and only daughter with so much disdain.

  Nellie leafed through the book. It was all the same stuff she had heard so often when she was young. Every single word on those hateful pages brought up memories of her miserable youth spent justifying herself to her father and seeing in his face just how inadequate he thought she was. A whole book full of it.

  Nellie had thought she’d have finished with this nonsense after he died, after she’d helped her mother pack up his clothes and donate them to the poor house.

  Her eyes pricked. She didn’t want to read any of this anymore.

  She stopped reading the pages and flicked through them instead, determined to at least look at every one before getting out of bed, walking to the kitchen and tossing this wretched thing into the fire.

  And then some text caught her eye.

  They are hiding the dragon in the dungeons of the church.

  What?

  Nellie stopped midway through turning another page. There it was. She had not misread.

  The Church is undertaking activities in our name that it shouldn’t get involved with. As a trusted assistant of the Church, I have always been aware of the purchases made by the leadership in the name of the community. I see how much the Church spends on new buildings, on supporting their deacons, on food they give to the poor. But there have been some much less fortunate purchases. I can no longer fail to speak out about a development that has always concerned me. In the the early days, when I was a much younger man, the Shepherd Romulus, in his old age, ordered a book to be purchased from Burovia. It was a very rare book, and word had gotten out of its availability through the death of a recluse noble who was said to have one of the few surviving copies. The Belaman Church, our great rival who once considered us under their protection, has large libraries of religious study texts, and I strongly supported the building up of such library. However, the work in question, the rare and deeply secret Arts Of The Arcane, can scarcely be called a purchase in the public interest, since many of its secrets are so evil that they can never be revealed to common students and thus cease to have relevance to such. Moreover, by their secret nature, these arts are vile purporters of magic such as we hope to banish from this land.

  When I raised objections to the purchase of this very costly book, the shepherd told me that in order to understand one’s enemies, one must study them. The shepherd knew well enough how to spot the use of common or artisan magic. But while common magic is not condoned, it is also, generally speaking, pretty harmless when practiced by innocent individuals. There may be some mischief when someone eavesdrops on conversations through the magic of wood or on the wind, but this type of common magic is passive. It should not be encouraged, but little harm can be done with it.

  It was the Shepherd’s conviction that in order to detect the much more evil art of ghost-whispering or the dark arts of the conjuring of fire constructs, or—heaven forbid—necromancy, we needed to know the signs that could lead us to such, because the practitioners of these arts are well aware of the vile nature of their practices and don’t ply them in open daylight.

  That was the reason I was given for the purchase of the book. I saw the sense in it and accepted it. Knowledge is good, even if it can occasionally be knowledge of something truly vile.

  The book was purchased and arrived in a great wooden case. It sat in the crypt of the church for a long time before the shepherd took it into the room with restricted books. Naught was spoken of it, and I almost forgot about it.

  But when Shepherd Wilfridus was ordained as Shepherd Romulus’ replacement, the Church went through a period of renewed interest in the dark arts, and continued purchases of these unspeakable materials. I asked the shepherd if it was necessary to continue this activity, and was told that by locking up all evil magic materials in the church, the use of magic could be stopped.

  In the wake of the terrible tragedy that befell the royal family—a tragedy wholly of their own making because they allowed the princess to stay in the palace even though she displayed classic signs of possessing evil magic—the church successfully argued that all magicians should leave the city.

  As a result, the spies from the Belaman Church left the city, as well as the eastern traders, who we all knew had magic, but who were smart enough to hide it.

  Nellie remembered those dramatic days all too well. Of course, in hindsight a lot of people said that the royal family should have done something sooner about the burgeoning magical talent of the young princess, but no one, not even the shepherd, would have thought that a six-year-old girl could kill her entire family as well as a good number of the court attendants.

  Nellie had not been in the room—if she had, she would not be alive—but she remembered the panic. How no one knew what was going on. How guards were running everywhere. How they were told to hide downstairs in the servants quarters.

  And how, after two long days, the guards laid out rows of bodies in the ballroom and Shepherd Wilfridus had made that speech to the citizens that the city would be forever cleansed of magic.

  After the terrible events, it was a comfortable opinion to cling to. It almost seemed to make sense.

  She read on.

  In the aftermath of the deaths, when those afflicted with magic were fleeing the city in the wake of the anger that had broken out amongst the people, the shepherd hastened the purchase of dark magical materials, at great cost.

  The church managed to take possession of a fabled item, the existence of which had only previously been rumoured: an eastern dragon box complete with its occupant. Those unfamiliar with the eastern dragons can bless themselves. They are powerful magical creatures who answer only to the magician owner of the box. They are bigger than a full-grown bull; they have wings of gold with which they can fly wherever they please, and they do the owner’s bidding at the snap of a finger.

  The church conducted a study into this creature, which they found to be exceptionally strong and autonomous, unlike the fire demons which can only appear at the command of their masters. The people from the Church discovered this to their detriment. In the time they experimented with the dragon, it burned down the wooden furnishings of the crypt room twice, and almost killed two deacons. When freed from the box, the dragon unleashes a fury such as can only be conjured through evil magic. It cannot be extinguished, and cannot be commanded. Nor does closing the box cease its activities. And, once released, the dragon does not easily return to captivity. It is a wonder that no one was killed through the foolish exploits of the Church in relation to this creature.

  Despite having seen the danger, the shepherd keeps this dreadful thing in the crypts. In the past years, I’ve asked many times why, and have never received a reply. I’ve told him to dispose of it, but I’m told that one doesn’t easily dispose of a dragon. I’ve asked for it to be sent back to the eastern lands where it belongs, but I’m told it can only be returned to its owner. I’ve asked who this owner is but no one seems to want to say anything about it.

  But I have a theory.

  King Nicholas’ son King Roald was an idiot. Everyone knew it and no one dared say the word, so I will say it out loud: he was an idiot.

  He seemed to neither know nor care that the two children under his roof were were not his. The young boy Bruno was obviously not his, because he had the face of his eastern trad
er father, but the crown princess wasn’t his daughter either.

  Both were children of powerful magicians who wanted to increase their influence in Saardam. The eastern trader Li Fai did this through giving his little son a dragon box, hoping that the dragon would escape and do the father’s bidding. It is this box that is now in possession of the church.

  Now the young prince is dead and the creature in the box is getting angry. Every time someone goes down in the crypts, there is a chance that it will break free and wreak havoc over the city. But more than that: I fear that someone in the church, someone with good intentions but misguided ideas, might unwittingly unleash its power. On top of that, I know that certain members of the church do not have good intentions. They seek to use these evil arts against those they perceive as their enemies, even if those people may be defenceless against this type of magic, because these people will stop at nothing to gain power. Those who read this will know who these people are. They must be stopped. They must be stopped before the question of the Regency of Saardam becomes an issue and before Regent Bernard demands to be crowned king, because the church as it stands will never consent, and because once the Regent demands to be crowned king, all our lives will be in danger.

  Nellie stared at the final words, tearing herself loose from the fear on the pages to the soft purring of the kitten on her bed.

  In all the years that she had known her father, Nellie had never heard him speak words like these. Whenever someone predicted ill conditions, he would shrug it off. Doomsayers, as he called them, would see that life was good and fair if only they saw the light in the Triune and His teachings.

  Back in the days before he died and was already quite frail, her father had seemed unusually taciturn—not unexpected for a man who knows he’s near the end of his life. But there had been one occasion that he had even refused to see Shepherd Wilfridus, who had made a special effort of coming to the house.