Dragonfire

by Charles Jackson

  “But… but, the chain-car, the spinning wheels, the ploughs and all the other machines help people… help them to work better…” she pointed out, again recalling the conversation her father. “If these mechanical things aren’t Bad Majik, why would they say that…?”

  “I’ll let you think on that a while and tell me yerself,” the old man suggested instead, nodding toward the safety gate to the chain-car as its roof appeared over the parapet for the first time and it shuddered to a loud, clattering halt. “You can give me the answer another time: it’s time to put your visard on and take the ride down…”

  Of course, she peeked. The chain-ride was the highlight of the entire journey for Charleroi, mostly because it was the only time during the last two days she’d been allowed into the open to actually look around her kingdom, even if that was only for a moment. The journey from Cadle had been comfortable but boring, travelling as she was within a specially-fitted royal carriage flanked by a company of elite cavalry for protection. The honour guard was mostly for show as Huon was currently at peace, after all, but it paid to be careful nevertheless and King Phaesus wasn’t about to risk the life of his only child in any way.

  Being accustomed to having the run of the castle at home and being naturally curious in any case, Charli hated being locked away inside that wagon and Griselda’s protestations notwithstanding, the only thing that had truly stopped her from throwing open the carriage’s bolted shutters was the fact that her father had expressly forbid it in no uncertain terms. Huon was changing, as were the rest of the Osterland Kingdoms to varying extents, but the one constant that applied to kings and emperors alike was that no one dared test The Brotherhood on The Keepsake Law.

  They’d arrived at the fortress the night before, approaching via the inland route from Cadle, and it was dusk by the time the entourage completed its journey up the long, winding trail that approached the summit of Round Hill from the south. With a few hours’ rest and a good nights’ sleep, the intention had been to end their journey the next morning at the Burnii Longhouse: a huge structure that it was said predated even Cadle, and had once been the seat of Huon’s government prior to the completion of that great fortress above Peaceful Lake.

  Travelling with her matron and mentor – both charged with providing their own style of protection against any threat the Princess might face – Charleroi has been completely honest in her statement regarding Griselda’s fear of taking the chain car. Faced with the two-hour downward journey back along the southern trail, she’d argued, pleaded and cajoled in her attempts to have Charleroi accompany her in the carriage but it had been all in vain. Out in the world for the first time, the first in line for the Throne of Huon had remained resolute in her desire to experience this new mechanical wonder that had been in operation now for just a few short weeks.

  The chain-car itself was a rather basic contraption, little more – as Charleroi had so perfectly described – than an iron cage on a wooden frame. Barely large enough for more than five or six people at a time, the ride was loud and bumpy and sometimes terrifying in bad weather, with most of the passenger area open to the elements save for a half-hearted attempt at providing at least some kind of thin, wooden roof that might be hard-pressed to keep out even the lightest rain. There were hand-rails built into the inner sides of the cage, and the entire thing was canted forward just enough to remain basically vertical as the bogies attached to its base trundled slowly down a pair of thick, steel rails set into a wooden framework that was fixed into the sides of the very cliff itself.

  On the opposite side of the castle, the single, southern access track wound its way down Round Hill to the farmland below, curving around and finally ending up at sea level not far from the main coastal road running between Burnii and Demon’s Port, forty kilometres east. It was an arduous and time-consuming journey of at least three kilometres down that undulating hillside and the construction of the chain car had been a direct attempt to speed up the journey down to the city for anyone important enough to deserve such consideration.

  The final run from Cadle to Burnii was similarly spent locked away in the comfortable but oh-so-claustrophobic confines of her royal carriage, with a grumpy Matron Griselda her only companion the entire time – as usual – although that last leg of the journey was at least a far shorter one of just a half-hour or so.

  Charleroi had been allowed the freedom to roam the halls of the Burnii Longhouse upon arrival. Her father, who’d arrived midway through the preceding afternoon with his own cavalry escort, had ensured all the ground floor windows had been boarded up in an attempt to walk a middle road between upholding the law and allowing his only child to wander about without restriction. The nature of the coming meetings meant there were plenty of guards posted at every exit anyway, inside and out, leaving no likelihood of any accidents or misunderstandings with regard to her whereabouts.

  The Longhouse was a truly gigantic building that covered hundreds of square metres, built on the western bank of the Mu River as it opened out into a shallow bay. It towered over the docks and warehouses that lay to its west: three storeys of sprawling magnificence constructed around the single, central meeting hall that gave the entire structure its name. Charleroi’s private chambers were on the third floor overlooking the bay, and the one concession to her confinement that her father had permitted was the wide, covered balcony that allowed her to at least look out across great expanses of Deepwater – the wild, stormy strait that separated Huon from the rest of the Osterlands.

  It was well into afternoon as the princess walked that balcony, sea birds filling the skies and wheeling this way and that as she stood at the wooden railing and stared out longingly at the choppy surf below. A full moon was already visible, a blotted disc of pale white at the centre of a narrow strip of clear blue that lay between the northern horizon and the customary blanket of grey/white clouds that covered the rest of the sky above.

  To her left, the town spread out beyond the docks, a hive of activity that was faintly audible in the calls of market hawkers and the clatter of wagons as the chaotic symphony reached her softly at the balcony railing. Down in the bay itself, the ships of Huon’s war fleets could be seen at anchor, their oars raised at rest and their crews nowhere to be seen save for one or two men on watch.

  “We’re fortunate there’s a breeze coming off Deepwater this afternoon,” Matron Griselda observed with a pinched expression, going about the business of fluffing the princess’ pillows and sliding a long-handled bed warmer beneath the sheets for later, the flat, lidded pan leaving a faint trail of grey smoke in its wake from the hot coals she’d just shovelled inside.

  “Much nicer than this morning, Matron, yes,” Charleroi agreed with a frown of her own, happy there was no longer any hint of the vague but nevertheless potent stench of the town that she’d experienced earlier. Human waste, random garbage and the rotting remains of fish left over from the preceding day’s catches had all added their own individual and varied bouquets to the general malaise of smells that had wafted across the balcony and into her chambers, and the wind change after midday had been welcome indeed, bringing with it the cool freshness of the open sea.

  For all that, there was still part of Charleroi that longed to be able to venture out on her own: to experience what it was truly like to walk among her people and see the sights for herself… experience those smells in person, good and bad. Considering the town itself was reported to be completely free from Keepsakes, she’d argued during the morning that perhaps she might at least be allowed out to ride through the streets, taking in the sights for herself. Matron had refused, of course, and had threatened to tell the king when Charli had persisted, leaving the princess in a huff that had lasted at least an hour.

  Griselda had never married, instead pledging her servitude to her royal charge, but she had sisters and she knew exactly what men were like. Brutes, most of them, and now that the princess had well and truly come of age it was her duty more than any other’s
to protect the innocent young woman from the unsavoury advances of footpads, servants and conniving young noblemen alike. There might not be Keepsakes within the city, but there were plenty of other dangers a beautiful young woman would do well to avoid.

  “I still don’t understand the harm of walking inside the walls…” Charleroi observed evenly, no longer angry but persisting nevertheless as she drew a deep breath of air in through her nose and savoured the refreshing tang of saltwater that came with it.

  “You’ll understand better when you’re older, Your Highness,” the old woman answered almost by rote, not even thinking about it. “The commonfolk are often exactly that – common – and there’s plenty of sights inside these walls a young woman’d be better off not seein’.”

  “I’d have an escort with me, Griselda… how dangerous could it be?”

  “It’s not often I’d admit to bein’ in agreement with the Matron, but I do in this case…” Randwick observed drily from her chamber door, bothering to knock only after they’d both turned in surprise toward the sound of his voice.

  “Yes, brutes…” Griselda growled softly in affirmation, fixing him with a severe gaze. “It’s customary for a man to knock before entering a young woman’s chambers, Master Randwick,” she added, instinctively placing herself between the newcomer and any potential view of the princess, regardless of the fact that the girl was fully clothed and that the man in question was undoubtedly the most trustworthy in the entire kingdom, with the exception of His Royal Majesty himself.

  “It’s also customary to keep a young woman’s chamber door closed if one requires privacy, Mistress Griselda,” he countered with a wry half-smile, executing a bow in her honour that was just formal enough to avoid any accusation of humour at her expense. “I come at the king’s bidding in any case,” he added with a flourishing sweep of his hand to round out the bow. “He’s requested your presence, Princess, as an observer to his afternoon audiences…” he paused for a moment as a soft set of melodic chimes rang out in the hallway behind to signal the turn of the hour, and he leaned back to throw a glance at a free-standing tower clock pushed against a nearby wall, its long, polished pendulum swinging slowly back and forth. “…Although I’ll warrant we’ve a little time to kill yet…”

  “You’ll no doubt make yourself at home, then…” Griselda grumped for the sake of it, not having any particular gripe against Randwick per se but having decided a long time ago that as mentor of the princess’ womanly development, a Matron should by definition stand opposed in principle to the man tasked with instruction in the more manly arts that were an unfortunate necessity of being next in line to the throne, regardless of gender.

  “You’re welcome to stand by, Mother…” he offered with another grin, using a term that was technically respectful but was nevertheless somewhat insulting coming from a man who was clearly her senior in years. “We’ve no conversation between us you cannot hear…”

  “And spend a handful listening to the pair of you argue at length over the right tension for a bow or the most advantageous number of tiers for a war galley?” Griselda asked disdainfully, having sampled their conversations before. “I’ll respectfully decline, good sir,” she conceded with a hand raised in tacit surrender. “I’ve staff to attend to in any case, so I’ll bid you both farewell for the afternoon. In bed before the ninth hour if you please, Master Randwick…” she warned as an afterthought.

  “I’ll assume it’s the princess you’re meaning, Mistress…?” He asked with one eyebrow arched, as much innocence in his tone as he could manage without laughing as she pushed past him in a huff, Charleroi seemingly none the wiser regarding the potential hidden meaning he’d included in that reply.

  “Brutes…!” Griselda declared once more in exasperation as the door closed behind her, and Randwick turned back toward the princess with a self-satisfied grin over an annoyance well done.

  “Why d’you think I’d not be safe in the city, Randwick?” Charleroi asked pointedly, not about to let him get away without explaining his earlier comments. “What could possibly hurt me while surrounded by a troop of cavalrymen?”

  Apart from the cavalrymen themselves… he asked silently, knowing as much about a man’s darker side as Griselda and probably more. “You’ve forgotten that your uncle was assassinated just six months ago? Another time for that discussion, perhaps…” he declared, not waiting for a reply as he crossed the room in a few strides and stepped out onto the open balcony, also electing to stand at the railing a few feet to her left. “An impressive view, I admit…” he added, then changed the subject entirely. “Have you thought about our earlier discussion… about the machines…?”

  “I have…”

  “And you have an answer for me?”

  “I – I think so…” She replied, less confident now, standing before a man whose opinion she respected more than any other save for her own father’s. “I think The Brotherhood’s dislike of these new machines isn’t because they make life easier for the peasants, but because…” she paused for a moment, thinking hard on how to word the next part “…because The Book of the Shard says that all power to give and take life – to reward or to punish – remains with The Shard Gods… that The Dragon Shard is the only true way, and that all others are false.” That part, she was basically reciting by rote from the religious classes that were compulsory for all children not yet come of age.

  “And why is that important…?”

  “Because…” she continued, thinking on the fly “…because… every Endweek, peasants, commoners, nobles and royal families alike must go to the temples for The Service: where they present their tithe for the week and receive The Blessing in return… and the prelate presides over baptisms for any newborns.”

  “It’s the one constant in all our lives…” Randwick observed with a wry smile. “I’ve travelled far in my younger days, and I can tell you that the Endweek Service is the one thing that’s kept sacred throughout all the known kingdoms. Few dare to defy The Brotherhood on this… we all ‘know’ what happens otherwise…” he added pointedly, raising one eyebrow.

  Everyone knew the stories, handed down through the generations. Somewhere – usually far away in another part of the Osterlands – some small hamlet or village had begun to fall by the wayside: to turn away from their spirituality and the True Path. Endweek attendances began to drop… tithes became smaller and smaller… and eventually – the story always told – no one came to the services at all.

  The Shard Gods tolerated this for a time, hoping that the people might see the error of their ways and come back to the fold, and all was well for those who did. For the others, however there was invariably disaster. The actual ‘punishments’ varied dramatically – bushfire, disease, or (in some extreme cases) a Night Dragon falling from the sky to destroy an entire farm in thunder and flame – but the result was always the same: death and destruction for the infidel. Neither subtle nor apologetic in its delivery, the message was simple: defy The Shard or turn away from the True Path and sooner or later there’d be consequences of a most extreme and terminal nature.

  “Do you believe the stories?” Charleroi asked in return, trying to sound mature and logical but nevertheless not quite able to shake the fear of retribution that was drummed weekly into every man, woman and child by the Endweek Service.

  “There’ve not been many such stories lately I’ve heard of,” Randwick conceded with a frown, his expression darkening momentarily, “but I did see the aftermath of one such incident many years ago.” He shook his head faintly, almost shuddering even now as he recalled the experience. “I’ll not frighten you with details of what I saw, but I will say that the poor devils who’d lived at that farm all suffered terrible deaths.” He raised another eyebrow then. “What caused those deaths is another thing entirely. If it were an animal, then it was one of the like I’ve never seen before, and whether it had anything to do with The Shard or those farmers not turning up at Endweek? Well… who can
say…? Either way, it serves the purpose of The Brotherhood to speak of it as vengeance, and it’s safer for everyone else to accept that explanation and maintain their piety: in a sense, everyone ‘wins’…”

  “But if these things aren’t sent from The Shard, what are they?” She asked pointedly, thinking back over the story her father had recounted of his search for a Night Dragon and remembering that Randwick had been with Phaesus at the time. A far darker thought the followed, unnerving her a little. “If it isn’t the work of the gods, then who or what did do it…?”

  “Your father’s personally ordered a number of investigations to determine exactly that,” Randwick ventured cautiously, having often privately wondered exactly the same thing, “and he’s had word that similar such ‘independent’ queries have also been made in other kingdoms. My own experience with such an incident was while leading one of those investigations and as has always been the case, no clear evidence of human involvement was ever proven…” He paused, then added with even greater caution: “…And I should think twice – nay, three times – before speaking of these matters with anyone else: there are many ways to ‘anger’ The Shard Gods, and missing Endweek is but one of them. The greatest enemy of piety is doubt, and as easy as it is to forget in these modern times, a cardinal may raise an Inquisition anytime he so desires…. The Brotherhood will never tolerate doubt.”

  “Then for them, every new machine – every invention like the spinning wheel or the chain-car – must seem filled with doubt,” she mused softly, her conviction firming as she thought deeply on what they’d discussed. “If machines make life easier for the commoners – and in turn for the nobles too – then perhaps they fear the people will see no need to pray to The Shard for benevolence. How many times have pious farmers been faced with drought and pestilence, only to be told that it was the ‘Will of the Gods’; that it was ‘Part of the Plan’?”