Dragon Road

by Joseph Brassey

  “You do know,” the big man said, “that those are fighting words in most professions, right?”

  A call came through the tubes, Clutch’s voice echoing around the vessel. “Alright, kids, Hark’s back aboard, so it’s time to cast off. Iseult is departing.”

  “Yes, well,” Aimee finished with a dismissive wave of her hand, grinning at the big man as they headed to the bridge. “If they pick it, it’s hardly my fault.”

  Leaving port never got old. Aimee stood on the bridge as the docking clamps disengaged, and watched as the whirling sky filled the whole of the forward viewport. The metadrive growled, and Elysium swept into the heavens. The world tilted, and the dark, pre-dawn skies spread out before them. There, in the midst of the vast pincer-sweep of Ishtier’s port, was the light-speckled vastness of the behemoth called Iseult. Aimee rested her hand upon the rail, taking in its sheer scale with another breath of awe.

  The crew was gathered about her, sans Vant, who would be down in the engine room tending his beloved metadrive with the obsessive care of a mother hen. Mugs of coffee or tea steamed in the dim running lights of consoles and sensors.

  “We’ve been instructed to land on pad twelve,” Harkon said, standing just behind Aimee. “It’s adjacent to Rachim’s villa. I want us well battened down by the time they’re ready to make the jump.”

  And then, Aimee reflected, they would be in the immensity of the deep sky. Upon the true vastness of the Dragon Road, where Flotilla Visramin was but one of many trade caravans plying the multi-year routes between the known lands.

  Since childhood, the deep sky had held a grim fascination for Aimee; a place truly away from the eyes, the control, of most nations. The place from whence came monster stories, legends, and ghost tales like those her uncle had told beside the de Laurent hearth.

  “She looks less paranoid this morning,” Elias remarked behind her. Turning, Aimee glimpsed the angular, hungry silhouette of the black knight keeping to the back of the bridge. Hesitating to join the rest of them. He stared past her through the viewport, eyes intent. One hand gripped the ancient sword at his hip like a lifeline. He caught her gaze, and must have taken her staring as a mute request for clarification. “Her lamps are all lit,” he said awkwardly.

  They came in over the top of the hull. Iseult spread out beneath them. Topaz lights shimmered in the dark, danced about the silhouettes of columns and elaborate, beautiful villas, more city than ship. As Aimee watched, they slowed. Clutch turned the wheel, and Elysium arced gracefully towards a modest, dome-shaped complex that was hard to see against the pre-dawn sky. A quick series of communiques were exchanged by spell, then Elysium paused in mid-air and slowly lowered in front of their destination. Walls of black stone and intermittent white pillars rose about them. Then came the gentle thump of landing gear, and the winding down of the metadrive to a minimal hum.

  Clutch sagged back from the wheel, then looked over her shoulder at Harkon. “What now, chief?”

  “Get properly dressed,” the mage replied. “We’ll be meeting our host soon.”

  Aimee stretched, uncoiling from where she’d placed herself, and draining the last of her mug before she shot Harkon a questioning look. “What degree of formal are we talking?”

  The old man gave a shrug of his shoulders as he turned and exited the bridge. “Comfortable. Functional. Cognizant.”

  Aimee rolled her eyes. “So helpful.”

  The first thing that struck Aimee about the villa was its elegant and effective use of space. Despite the domes and occasional towers that sprouted from Iseult’s top level, Rachim’s home was recessed into the surface of the ship. The stairs from the landing pad led down and inward into spacious, art-decorated rooms lit by glow-globes that still flickered in the dim pre-dawn. A cursory glance around, however, told Aimee that during the day, the entire complex would be well lit by sunlight streaming through numerous skylights.

  Their host met them in a large sitting room that seamlessly integrated the sensibilities of about nine different cultures and architectural periods. Somehow, it all blended together well, though Aimee could still hear her mother’s voice inside her head, balking at the mixture of late period Imperial molding with pre-Imperial detailing. Rachim walked over the moment Harkon stepped through the door. He looked like a man that hadn’t slept for days.

  “You look like hell,” Harkon said.

  “I feel like it,” Rachim growled. His eyes swept the crew of Elysium as they entered. Aimee met the assessing gaze, unflinching. She tried not to yawn. “I just got word that the Officers’ Council has scheduled a first debate in less than an hour. I suspect to keep both myself and Lord Viltas from being awake for it. Thank the Great Currents for well-bribed political aides. You can bring two of your people with you. The rest can see about getting themselves settled in here.”

  Aimee felt her stomach turn, and her face twisted into a disgusted frown. “Back home the senate at least waits a few days before trying to hijack the political process,” she deadpanned.

  “Underhanded as it is,” Rachim answered her, “I can’t exactly blame them either. We’re headed for the Dragon Road and the deep sky, Miss Laurent. Without a captain, Iseult’s choices fall to the Officers’ Council. Pity the fate of a ship whose every important decision must be settled by committee.”

  “Still,” Aimee protested.

  “Still,” Rachim agreed. “She’s perceptive, Hark.”

  Aimee detected just enough sarcasm in the man’s tone that she wasn’t sure whether she should take it as a compliment.

  “Quite,” Harkon responded, amused. Then he asked, “How long do we have?”

  “Little and less,” Rachim replied. “Like I said, pick the two you’ll be bringing with you, then we can… Young man, don’t touch that.”

  Aimee spun on her heel. Rachim’s words and gaze were directed to the rear of the group and, following them, she found herself staring at a surprised Elias. He was frozen, mid-motion, right next to an old bronze statue of a rearing manticore, and his right index finger was poised just short of its nose. Silence. Elias looked like a child caught with his hand inside a jar of cookies. After a moment, he cleared his throat and awkwardly straightened. “Sorry,” he said. “I just… I don’t really have an excuse.”

  Aimee felt a compulsive laugh rise. He looked absurd. Her teacher glanced in her direction, and she swallowed it instead, red-faced. Gods. What was that all about?

  “My apprentice Aimee will accompany me,” Harkon said. Aimee nodded.

  “And my bodyguard,” the mage continued. “Elias.”

  The entire crew stopped and stared, Aimee included. Elias looked as surprised as anyone else. “Sir?” he asked.

  At Rachim’s questioning glance, Harkon continued, “He is an exceptionally gifted swordsman who misses little, and he has a face made for court. That my apprentice is brilliant and capable hardly needs explaining.”

  Aimee looked from left to right. Clutch seemed ambivalent. Vlana’s face wore a look of cold disapproval. Vant gave a slow, thoughtful nod… But it was Bjorn whose face she couldn’t decipher. It was simultaneously accepting and cool. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes unreadable. He gave a slow nod.

  Rachim interrupted further consideration with his own answer. “Good,” he said. “It’s time that you met our allies.”

  What opulence Aimee was accustomed to was usually understated. In her family’s estate back in Havensreach, both her parents favored the reserved aesthetic ideal of the city’s patrician class: white molding and broad windows to light their expansive home with natural light.

  The Officers’ Council of Iseult met in a tall, pillared room decorated with works of fine art from a thousand isles, some of which Aimee had never heard of before. As they strode beneath the high vaulted ceiling with its arched supports, the audible click of Aimee’s boot-heel upon the stonework floors made her feel as if every whisper might carry from one end of the room to the other. The center of the large chamber was
dominated by a circular table of pale blue stone, surrounded by a number of fine wood chairs set with teak and orichalcum. Here and there, those opal-ringed, samite-robed figures moved to and fro, back and forth between the small clusters of Iseult’s well-dressed officer class.

  Harkon took the room in his stride, as he did so many things, and Rachim was all but immune to its charms. But a quick glance to her left, and Aimee realized that Elias was staring in quiet admiration at the paintings. “Beyond priceless,” she heard him murmur.

  “Your bodyguard is astute,” said a voice from before them, and Aimee turned to find that Rachim had brought them face to face with a pair of men dressed in similar officers livery. The speaker was the elder of the two, a homely man with graying hair and a thick neck, bronze skin, and thoughtful brown eyes. The man beside him was young enough to be his son, and they had a similar look.

  “Harkon Bright,” Rachim said, “this is Lord Shipman Viltas, whose responsibilities include – among other things – relations between enlisted crew and the ruling class. Beside him is his son Vallus. Viltas was a close confidante of Lord Captain Amut before his death. We will need him.”

  Harkon inclined his head. “Lord Shipman, allow me to introduce my apprentice – Aimee de Laurent of Havensreach, and my bodyguard, Elias Leblanc.”

  Viltas offered his hand to each of the three in turn. “As brilliant as she is lovely,” he said to Aimee. She shook his hand harder than he’d expected, by the surprised look on his face. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it. It wouldn’t be the last. She still didn’t care for it. “Please,” she said, her sweetest charm-school smile upon her face. “I’m at least twice that smart.”

  Viltas paused only a second, then laughed appreciatively. “Fair enough, Miss Laurent.” He gave less attention to Elias. “Strapping,” he said. “But young. New to the work?”

  “Learned early,” Elias deadpanned.

  “Have they been updated on the players?” Vallus asked.

  Rachim shook his head. “Do it, and do it quickly.”

  “There are three candidates for the throne,” Vallus said. Despite having his father’s look, there was something different about him, a softer mien his father lacked. An earnestness, as well. “First – and with greatest seniority – is Yaresh, Lord of the Muster. A war hero. He commands many peacekeepers and oversees the organization of countless enlisted.”

  “A kind term for ‘disenfranchises,’” Viltas affirmed. “And ‘enslaves.’”

  “A captain who sees the most needy as the greatest threat is unworthy of his chair,” Rachim said.

  “Agreed,” Aimee added, remembering certain political movements back in her home of Havensreach.

  “Second,” Vallus continued, “is Pentus of Aranoch. A foreigner, but well-moneyed. He was a noble in the Violet Imperium before intrigues drove him out. He purchased a title in Iseult’s midlevels, and rules them fairly, but often by fiat. Now he seeks the captain’s throne.”

  “A politician,” Harkon mused.

  “Aye,” Rachim agreed. “But a captain must be more.”

  “That he must,” Harkon said. “And the third?”

  “Diara,” Vallus said. “Countess of Astronomers. She is wise, and her heart is good, but she lacks popular support, and her inscrutable card-player’s face makes her seem cold. Iseult is hurting, and wounded people want a mother, not a frigid theorist.”

  Aimee frowned. “So she must be all things to them,” she said, “or they will have her be none at all?”

  The men of Iseult looked uncomfortable. Harkon smiled. “Perceptive as always.”

  One of the samite-robed figures with the opal ring abruptly stepped up to the table a short distance away, addressing the room. “Council, attend. Officers, to your places.”

  “Damn,” Rachim muttered. “Quicker than I thought.”

  “Those–” Viltas murmured beside Aimee “–are the functionaries, bureaucrat-priests devoted to serving the Officers’ Council. He will announce each of the candidates in turn.”

  A large number of officers had gathered about the table, each standing behind their chair. Turning, Aimee saw a gilded, empty seat at the far end.

  The bureaucrat-priest’s raw, tired voice announced each in turn – and within a handful of seconds, Aimee was looking sideways at Elias in time to find him glancing back her way. The candidates were precisely the three individuals the two of them had conversed about on the day of Amut’s funeral.

  Yaresh was the older man with a bronzed face latticed in scars. This time, however, the lord of the muster had laid aside some of his medals and exchanged the white uniform he’d previously worn for an understated one of black and red. His expression was stern, now, his dark eyes suspicious. The applause for him was nonetheless loud. He was a war hero, then, even if his wars had ended long ago. Aimee kept her face carefully neutral.

  Pentus came second. The pale-haired duke had a glad-handing, theatrical look about him, and wore his well-tailored doublet and breeches with the same ease as the attention of his audience. He stood next to Yaresh, taller by a head, doing his best to seem self-effacing and humble. The lord of the muster frowned with plain dislike.

  “Two for two,” Aimee murmured.

  Diara came next. Aimee hadn’t stared too long at the Countess of Astronomers before, but she took her measure fully now: her skin was jewel-toned, like Vant and Vlana’s. Her dark hair had a few streaks of white running through it, and the ochre dress of before had been replaced with a gown the color of the star-speckled night sky. Her eyes were distant and marbled brown. Her stare was opaque, and her posture conveyed a commanding indifference.

  “Three for three,” Elias confirmed. The look in his green eyes was uneasy.

  “This council is now in session,” the bureaucrat-priest said. “We yet grieve for Amut, Lord Captain, Lion of Heaven, but the work continues. Though his bridge crew yet flies us forward, Iseult’s throne sits empty. Three candidates for captaincy stand before you.” He then gestured directly across the space to Harkon Bright. “And the storied Magister Harkon Bright has agreed to moderate the process, that each man here feel free to speak his mind and advocate with clear conscience.”

  Harkon straightened. His speech was short, and Aimee spent it observing the reactions of the other officers, measuring how they responded to an outsider given such status. Her gaze swept across a riotous blend of multicolored faces wearing equally diverse expressions. Some regarded her teacher with fear as he spoke, others with admiration. None ignored him.

  When he was done, all three candidates applauded with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Aimee’s gaze swept the room again, and found it halted on a tall figure dressed in the red armor of the Captain’s Guard she’d seen at Amut’s funeral, standing at attention behind the candidates and priest. A red helm with a crest of feathers obscured both their face and gender, and the cloak draped about the armored shoulders was a rich, dark blue edged in gold. The other officers occasionally glanced at the warrior. Always with respect and a curiosity that never seemed quite satisfied.

  “The person with the red armor,” Aimee murmured. “Their cloak is different from the rest of the guard that I saw at the funeral. Someone important?”

  “That would be the commander of the Captain’s Red Guard,” Vallus murmured from Aimee’s left.

  “Neutral, is he?” Aimee asked.

  “She,” Vallus corrected, “and… I don’t know.” The young noble’s face acquired a look at once tired and exasperated. “Her name is Belit. She has held her post for three years, and the council respects her.” His mouth tightened into a troubled line. “But I don’t know what she thinks. We haven’t spoken since before the captain passed.”

  “Pity, too,” Rachim whispered behind Aimee. “She was deep in Amut’s counsel, knew him damn well. She’d be a good ally to have right now, but she’s withdrawn from politics, not that she was much of a player before.”

  “Not just from politics,” Vallus mutt
ered.

  Aimee made note of that, and tucked it away in the back of her mind. All three candidates were to make the case for their worth. They were to proceed in order of seniority, putting Yaresh first. Aimee braced herself for long speeches.

  She wasn’t wrong. By the time the meeting was adjourned, she was exhausted.

  It didn’t make much sense to her that a council meeting should be more tiring than flying through a warzone, but Aimee dropped her coat on one of Rachim’s couches with the lead weight of an old schoolbag nonetheless. She hadn’t felt like this since the exhaustive theory lectures of her senior year at the Academy of Mystic Sciences. She let out a small yawn, laced her fingers together, and stretched back muscles tightened from spending so much time standing still and observant.

  “So you see the situation that we’re in,” Rachim said to Harkon as Aimee’s teacher slid into a chair near a balcony window. It was well into morning now. The sunlight cut across the vast clouds, and a flock of featherless birds native to Ishtier wheeled about beyond Rachim’s villa. They weren’t far from the port yet, then.

  “You’re faced with the task of replacing a popular ruler,” Harkon mused, “and no extant choice measures up. It’s not enviable.”

  “A soldier, a politician, and a wise woman,” Aimee reflected out loud.

  “That sounds like the start of a bad joke,” Bjorn said, entering the room. Clutch followed behind. She had the big man’s flask in her hand and looked more relaxed than usual.

  “Vant and Vlana are doing a bit of exploring,” the pilot explained. “They took a glimpse at the villas on the upper levels and declared in unison that there was nothing interesting up here.”

  Harkon let out a sharp, barking laugh. “True skyfarers to the core.”

  “Watch that sort of talk,” Rachim added. “Most everyone on this ship considers themselves true-born to the infinite sky. The officer aristocracy doesn’t take kindly to having it implied that they’re not.”