by Tim Stead
“You have ambitions to be a scholar?” Narak asked.
“Ambition is too hopeful a word,” Enali said. “I dream of it, much as a poor man dreams of money.”
Her face was flushed. To be made to confess such things in front of strangers must be difficult but, in a way, it was, perhaps, easier than among friends who would remember and use the truth against you. Being a god and knowing Pascha and Sithmaree, Hestia and Sheyani he sometimes forgot how difficult it was to be a woman of intelligence in the kingdoms. It wasn’t a quality that many men valued, which, knowing the degree to which Pascha and the rest had shaped the world, Narak thought sad and wasteful.
“Your father disapproves,” Narak guessed.
“He says it will be my husband’s choice.”
The dragon sighed. “I have two more questions and you have a criminal to catch,” he said.
“Ask then,” Enali almost snapped at the dragon.
The dragon looked at Narak, then back at the girl. “Why are you with Narak?” he asked.
“To catch the man who tried to kill the king,” she replied.
“That is not true,” Kelcotel said.
“Then I have no answer for you,” she replied, flushing again.
Narak was surprised once more. He had thought she would answer. After all, what could be so bad that you could not say it before two strangers that meant nothing to you? Unless, of course, they did.
“Say it,” he said.
Enali looked at him. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Narak thought that for once she looked no older than her sixteen years.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Narak assured her. “Say it.”
She looked at the floor and her voice, when she spoke, was little more than a whisper. “I seek Narak’s favour,” she said.
“Because it will solve your problem,” Narak said. “Your father could not force you to wed against your will and you could pursue whatever studies you wished.”
Enali looked broken. She clearly believed that with her intentions discovered her chance of achieving her goal was undone. But Narak didn’t see why it should be so. He liked the girl. She was clever. She was well educated. But most of all she reminded him of Perlaine, who he had loved. Perhaps that was clouding his judgement, but Narak did not think so.
“I am sorry,” Enali said.
“Why? A Benetheon god’s favour ensures a long life, freedom from illness, and resources that you could not hope for in a mortal life. Many people desire this. But it also implies a degree of duty and obedience.”
“A daughter or wife knows little else,” Enali said, a spark of defiance burning away a fraction of her despair. Narak liked that, too. It was almost impossible for anyone so young to weather the presence of two such ancient creatures without being cowed, but Enali managed it somehow. She was not afraid, and Narak did not think it was because she didn’t understand what he and Kelcotel were.
“One more question,” the dragon said.
“Must we?” Narak asked.
“I said three and I cannot make a liar of myself,” Kelcotel said, rather smugly, Narak thought.
“Ask,” Enali said.
“Do you want to fly?”
She stared at the great feathered beast for a moment as though stunned by the simplicity of the question. “Of course,” she said. “Who would not?”
“Then let us fly,” Kelcotel said. To Narak’s mind it was almost as though the dragon had apologised for stripping the girl’s ambition naked. And yet the answer had been an affirmation. There were many in this world who were content to walk, to get about the place one step at a time, but Enali was not one of them.
Kelcotel extended his wing and Narak walked up the gentle slope. Seeing that Enali hesitated he beckoned her and she came, wide-eyed again, up onto the dragon’s back.
“Sit here,” he said. “I will sit behind you and you will not fall.”
Kelcotel’s back was feathered, but a line of spines rose through the soft cushion spaced about eighteen inches apart – just enough so that one could sit between them and hold the spine in front while leaning against the one behind.
Narak waited until Enali had settled, then wrapped his right arm about her waist while he gripped the dragon with his legs and the spike before him with his left.
“Fly, Kelcotel,” he said.
The dragon loped out of the sheltered part of the pavilion in four exaggerated strides and raised his wings. The feathers made a difference. Narak had ridden Bane, Torgaris and Kirrith, but Kelcotel was smoother, the beat of his wings somehow softer, and they rose steadily into the kingfisher sky, the city diminishing below them.
“Which direction?” Kelcotel roared back at him.
“I do not know,” he replied. “But maybe an hour and a half on horseback. Look west.” He reasoned that Narian would be riding towards Alwain’s advance if his sympathies tended that way. He trusted to the dragon’s eyes. His own were blessed with dragon blood, but compared with a creature like Kelcotel he was blind. Dragons had been made to survey the earth from a thousand feet above it.
“I see a man on horseback,” the dragon said. “Twelve, perhaps fifteen miles away.”
“Does he ride hard?” Narak shouted into the wind.
“More than is wise. His horse is lathered. It may fail soon.”
Narak laughed, the exhilaration of flying was one new thing he had not yet tired of. He loved the feeling of the rushing wind and the dwindled world beneath his feet. Back at Col Boran he had taken to jumping from the cliffs above Pascha’s palace to experience something similar, but dragon riding was better. Here there was control and purpose to the sensation.
“Well, then,” he yelled. “Let us at least save the horse!”
The dragon dipped a wing and came round to the west, pulling his wings closer to the body, and the plunge earthwards began. There was no doubting Kelcotel’s skill in the air. He fell from the sky with elegance and precision, covering the miles between them and their prey at ten times the speed of a galloping horse. At these speeds it was difficult to breathe, and he leaned forwards into the lee of Enali’s back. He could see that she had raised an arm across her lower face to the same end.
Minutes passed like this, and after a while Narak could see the road over Enali’s shoulder and the figure that rode upon it. At first it was a speck, a moving speck, and within seconds it seemed that it resolved into a horse and rider.
Kelcotel stretched his wings again and they bounced up into the air. Turned sharply and dropped to the road a mere sixty feet in front of the mounted man. The horse panicked, and Narian was caught unawares. He fell from the saddle and the horse bolted back towards Golt.
Narak jumped down from the dragon and walked slowly to where Narian was struggling to recover both his feet and his wind. He drew his twin blades.
“You tried to kill the king.”
He could see Narian taking in the situation. The tavern-keeper looked at Narak, at the dragon with the girl on his back, at the road that stretched away to the west. His horse was long gone and, even if was not, there was nowhere to run and no way he could outpace Narak’s justice.
To his credit he didn’t try to run. Narian straightened his clothes, dusted them off and faced Narak.
“It was the money,” he said. “Hard to resist. Is there any way I can get out of this?”
Narak shook his head. “The king nearly died. He’ll want your head.”
“He’ll want more than that, I expect,” Narian said.
“It won’t be an easy death,” Narak agreed.
“If I tell you how it was done, who put the poison on the arrows?”
“I’ll see to it that your wife keeps the Visitor.”
Narian nodded. “That’s fair. I know your word is good, and Mila had nothing to do with the poisoning. She doesn’t know.” It was the truth.
“The name?”
“Tarn Reldon. He’s a junior armourer – lives beyond his means and g
ambles badly. I let him off a gambling debt.”
“Nobody else was involved?”
“Nobody.” Narian pulled a face. “It doubles the risk and halves the money,” he said.
Enali had climbed down from Kelcotel’s back. She stood a pace behind Narak. “This is barbaric,” she said.
“Actually, I thought it was quite civilised,” Narak replied.
“You’re going to take him back to Golt to be tortured. That’s barbaric. You’ve got what you wanted. If he has to die why not kill him now?”
“The girl has a point,” Kelcotel said.
Narak sighed. He offered one of his blades to Enali, but she recoiled from it as though it were a living snake. “No? What about you, Kelcotel? Care to bloody those claws again?”
“You’ve killed before,” Enali said. “I never have.”
“Kelcotel’s probably killed more. You think because I’ve killed it’s easy for me? The easier it gets to sweep a life aside the harder it is to feel justified in doing so. I no longer have the excuse of self-defence. Nobody can hurt me.”
“Ask him,” she said. “Ask Narian.”
The tavern keeper was still standing where his horse had thrown him, but he was looking a little bemused.
“You want to know if I’d rather die now or later?”
“Quick now or slow later.”
“I’d rather go free,” Narian said.
“You tried to kill the king.”
“Well, then, if it’s all the same to you I’d rather die later,” the tavern keeper said.
“But they’ll torture you,” Enali protested.
“It’s likely,” Narian admitted. “But you never know. By the time we get back someone might have succeeded in killing Degoran. Then I’d be a hero.”
“You’d still be dead,” Narak said. “In your case optimism is misplaced.”
“Be quiet.”
Narak looked around. Kelcotel had raised his head high into the air and was looking back in the direction of Golt. He waited a moment to allow the dragon to see or hear whatever he was trying to see or hear.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I need to be higher.” With that he thrashed his feathered wings and rose up, leaving Narak and Enali with their prisoner in the midst of a small dust storm. Kelcotel beat strongly and gained height quickly, circling above them. The sun was in the west now, and sinking. Narak marvelled once more at the creature’s colours. The dragon looked like a painter’s palette set ablaze by the yellowing light.
He did not stay aloft for long, but swooped back down in a series of rapid glides and banked turns. He landed with some force on the exact spot he’d taken off.
“Soldiers,” he said. “Men on horse and foot approaching the city.”
“Alwain’s?”
“I saw no banners, but that would be my assumption.”
“How long until they reach the gates?”
“Three hours, perhaps four.”
“So many people want to die,” Narak muttered. He took a step towards Narian and with a backhand sweep of his right blade decapitated the tavern keeper. Enali shrieked.
“You killed him!” Her dress and face were spotted with blood, but none clung to Narak’s white blades.
“You noticed?” he said. He took off his jacket and wrapped the head in it. “We have to get back,” he said to the dragon. “I haven’t time to bury the body. Will you burn it?”
“As you wish.”
Enali was still standing there, stunned by Narian’s sudden demise.
“He was dead already,” Narak told her. “Now we must fly.”
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and stumbled up the dragon’s wing to take her seat between the spines once more. Narak followed. Kelcotel took a deep breath. Narak felt the body between his legs swell with it, and then a sheet of flame engulfed the remains of Narian. When it ceased there was nothing left, just a blackened patch on the road. Even the bones had been incinerated.
“Why did you take the head?” Enali asked.
“Degoran will want something bloody,” Narak said. “Being poisoned will do that to a man.”
Kelcotel stretched his wings and they were wrenched from the ground once more. Narak looked eagerly to the west and at once he detected the dark mass of approaching soldiers along the coast road. He could not see their banners – his eyes were no match for the dragon’s – but he could see their numbers. What he saw was a full regiment, close to two thousand men, marching on the royal city. This would not be Alwain. There were too few men. But it was a force that would have to be dealt with.
Narak closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the rush of the wind, clean and cool, as though it might be enough to cleanse him of a river of blood.
26 A Dance
No agent was as effective as Francis Gayne, but he employed them anyway. He could not be everywhere or do everything, so they were useful. Mostly they were men who listened in taverns, gossiped on street corners, but on rare occasions they followed people and reported on their activities. All of them reported to him personally. One of them had been set to follow the woman.
Francis was surprised to learn that Callista Dalini was staying in a city tavern. He would have expected her to avail herself of Torgaris’s hospitality, seeing that she was a god mage and he a dragon.
“The Eagle’s Bow, you say? You’re sure she wasn’t just stopping for lunch?”
“Sure as potter’s hands,” the agent said. “Landlord told me. Twenty coppers a night, three days in advance, not including food.”
“You weren’t obvious?”
The agent smiled a sly smile. “I bet him he’d overcharged her, seeing as she was so richly dressed, so he proved me wrong. I bought him a drink and called him an honest man.”
“Good enough,” Francis said. He flipped the man a coin. The Eagle’s Bow was about as expensive as a tavern got in Afael. Visiting merchants and gentry from up country stayed there. It was probably not doing so well with the Duke’s army marching south. The rich were quite put off by uncertainty and most of the aristocracy were afraid of the city after Falini’s murder.
Mordo had warned him about speaking to her, but Francis was curious. If he was cautious there would be no danger. Many people were manifesting minor talents and Mordo had assured him months ago that nobody, not even the god mage Pascha herself, could detect his talent without the device that Mordo had used. He merely had to avoid mentioning his advisor and he would be unsuspected.
He decided that he would treat himself to dinner at the Bow and see if he could strike up a conversation with her. It was a risk, of course. Since the price had not included food, she might well eat somewhere else, but Francis trusted his luck.
The tavern was in the city ward, the other side of the river from Dock, but close to the converted duke’s palace that served as the council’s quarters.
It was a comfortable enough walk. He crossed first bridge and turned north-west. This part of the city had been built for the wealthy. The streets were wide and paved, the buildings well maintained. All of the city should be like this, he thought. Everyone should have the chance to live in a decent and safe neighbourhood.
He had never been to the Eagle’s Bow. It was the sort of place that a journeyman blacksmith would not be welcome. Now that he was a leading figure on the city council that should have changed, but Francis knew that his face would still not fit. The rich looked down on a man who made his living with his hands. They always would.
It was an impressive stone building, and larger than he had expected. The sign was a piece of art, showing the Eagle God Jidian drawing back the string of his fearsome weapon, an expression of determined nobility on his handsome face. Francis had never seen Jidian, but he suspected the portrait was a kind one. Nobody looked like that.
Inside he was immediately aware that his plan had been a foolish one. This was not like any tavern he had been in. The usual open floor had been replaced by a
maze of booths and low walls so that every patron or group could drink or dine in the illusion of absolute privacy. It would take him ten minutes of stumbling around the place to even see into every booth. The idea that he would casually speak with the Dalini woman simply would not work.
For all that, he wasn’t going to turn tail and leave. He walked across the room by a winding central passageway and came to the bar. The man behind it was better dressed that Francis, but he persevered.
“What food do you have?” he asked.
The barkeep looked at him as though he had crawled out from under a rock and pushed a sheet of paper across the spotless bar.
“This is a menu,” he said. “You read it and choose what you want. Then you tell me and the cook will prepare it for you. The price for all meals is seven coppers.”
“Fine,” Francis said. He read the paper. There were seven different dishes described on it, most of which made no sense to him. The third on the list was an Afaeli sausage cooked in some kind of sauce with vegetables, most of which he recognised.
“That one,” he said, pointing. “The sausage.”
“And something to drink while you wait?”
“Ale?”
“What variety?”
Francis noticed for the first time that there were seven barrels behind the bar. They were all different. This was a game he wasn’t prepared to play.
“What would you recommend?” he asked.
The barkeep showed a flicker of a smile for the first time.
“The Porter would go well,” he said.
“Then that’s what I shall have,” Francis said.
The barkeep pointed at the booths. “We’ll bring it to you,” he said.
Francis nodded and retreated to an empty table. It was odd and strangely uncomfortable to be so isolated in a tavern. Anywhere else he could have sat back, ale in hand, and listened to other patrons gossiping, arguing, or simply discussing their business. Here there were only incomprehensible whispers and a view of a painting on the wall opposite.
It was a painting of a king, Francis realised – one of the Casraes line, judging by the nose. He was mounted on a horse, sword drawn, facing a black clad mob of warriors – Seth Yarra cleansers, Francis guessed – all of whom wore ugly, snarling expressions. It was a piece of work of a kind with the tavern sign. Most of the fighting in Afael City had been done on foot, for a start. The city’s streets were notoriously twisted on the east side and quite unsuited to cavalry charges.