Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  She wondered why the dragon Kelcotel had agreed to come to Whitefields. She hadn’t expected him to agree to it. She’d asked a favour – a massive one – and he’d simply said yes. He’d barely hesitated. It was not as though dragons were given to granting favours. Perhaps it had something to do with bearing the wolf’s head ring, but she doubted that. The dragons, all of them, perhaps, seemed to feel a sort of kinship toward her.

  Her thoughts turned again to her uncle. He was an evil man, but had no power over her now. She could crush him as easily as she might swat a fly, but she wanted a show. She wanted people to see how evil he was, to know the truth. But was that because she wanted them to know how badly she’d been treated, to have sympathy for her?

  She closed her eyes. A while ago it had all seemed so obvious. It was about justice. Her father had been murdered, her mother too. Her uncle and cousin had to pay for that. Now that clear view was clouded by doubts. She did not doubt that justice must be served, but the way she was choosing to do it was showy. It would be shocking and humiliating for them, and there was no way they could escape. Perhaps it all went back to that moment when, hidden behind a curtain, she had heard them plotting her own death. She wanted them to feel that same dread.

  It made her uneasy. She had always thought that she was a kind person, but perhaps that had died with the weak girl she had once been. And why had she waited so long?

  She was still awake when the barkeep tapped gently on her door.

  “My Lady, it is dusk. My Lady?”

  “I’m awake,” she called.

  His steps retreated down the corridor outside. Callista lit a couple of candles and looked at herself in the room’s cheap mirror. It gave back a misshapen reflection, but good enough to tidy her hair and smooth her clothes. She unbolted the door and made her way back to the tavern’s public room.

  She was surprised how busy it was. Most tables were occupied, but one of the best, close to the fire, had been left vacant and was already set for a single diner. She looked at the barkeep and he nodded so she sat there.

  Evidently some message had been passed, because a minute later a man emerged from the kitchens. He was a fat man, but he had clearly made an effort. His hair was combed and he was wearing a new, clean jacket. He approached her and bowed.

  “My Lady, I am Fedor Mankin, the owner of the White Bull. I want to thank you for the honour you do me by choosing my tavern.”

  She was a little taken aback. Did he know who she was, or even what she was?

  “I had to stay somewhere,” she replied. “There are only two taverns.”

  Mankin seemed less than delighted with her answer, but he still forced a smile. People were watching. In fact, everybody in the bar was watching. Perhaps that explained the packed room.

  “It is still an honour to have the dragon’s harbinger stay with us, My Lady.”

  That was all he knew? Time to play the game, she supposed.

  “This tavern does serve the best food,” she said. “I look forward to sampling it.”

  That made Mankin happier. He pointed at the seat opposite her. “May I sit a moment?”

  “For a moment,” she said. Mankin sat, leaned forwards. He smelled faintly of flour and roasted meat. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. He lowered his voice.

  “Frankly, My Lady, I am at a loss. The constable has told me that I must feed a dragon. I have no idea what it might enjoy. Will you advise me?”

  “I will. In detail. But first I need to eat. I am hungry and thirsty. Bring me a glass of your best wine and whatever you are serving tonight.”

  That seemed to please the man. He nodded and smiled. “Of course, My Lady, and my thanks for your kindness.” He stood and returned to the kitchens. The barkeep hurried over with a bottle and a glass and placed them at her elbow. She examined the bottle. It was Telan, but a poor vintage from an unspectacular vineyard. Nevertheless, it was better than she’d expected. She poured a glass.

  Looking around the tavern she saw a dozen people quickly avert their eyes, but there was an old woman in the corner, a stick dressed in black, who continued to stare. There was something about her, something in the eyes…

  A plate of hot food was placed before her, a pie and a medley of vegetables. It was simple fare, but looked appetising. She thanked the barkeep and began to carve away at it, filling her mouth with flavours. Mankin, if this was his work, was no slouch. The cabbage was touched with caraway, the carrots glazed with honey, and the pie contained duck and cherry. The simplicity was deceptive.

  Callista ate ravenously. She had not realised how hungry she had become, but she had missed her midday and could feel the hole that abstention had left. It seemed only minutes before she cleared her plate and sat back with her glass in her hand. The old woman in the corner was still watching her, but now Callista could detect the ghost of a smile on the wizened face. She was nursing a small ale. Callista had not seen her drink from it, so either she was here to watch or she was poor and couldn’t afford more than one cup and wished to keep warm by the tavern’s fire. She guessed the latter, but there was still something about the face.

  Ummai.

  The name came to her unbidden. The old woman’s name was Ummai and she had been Callista’s personal maid for a decade before her uncle had dismissed her. That had been three years ago, and Ummai had lost weight and was now dressed like a peasant, but it was her.

  Callista half stood, then sat down again. She didn’t want anyone to know who she was, not yet. If she spoke to Ummai they would guess. She looked at her empty plate. No, this was wrong.

  She stood up, picked up her glass and bottle and walked the length of the bar. She sat down opposite the old woman.

  “Ummai, it’s been a while. Life hasn’t been kind, has it?”

  “I thought it was you, Little Calli,” Ummai said. “You came back, then.”

  “To put things right,” Callista said. “Are you hungry?”

  The old woman smiled. “That’s just like you, always thinking of others, but I’m all right.”

  “You’re nothing but skin and bone,” Callista said. She raised a hand and the barkeep hurried over. “A plate of food and another glass.”

  The barkeep hesitated, then nodded and hurried away.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Ummai said. “This place is expensive.”

  “I have plenty of money, Ummai. It’s no trouble, and after tomorrow things will be better. You’ll see.”

  Ummai smiled at her again. “You’ll do what you can, Little Calli, but you should go before he finds you. The gods alone know what he’ll do to you.”

  Callista looked inside the old woman. She’d aged badly in just three years. There was a cloud on her mind and her body ached, her eyes and ears were still good, but it hurt when she walked.

  A plate was set down on the table and Callista pushed it in front of her old servant. “Eat,” she said. She poured wine into the new glass as soon as it was set down and pushed that next to the plate. “Drink,” she said.

  “I can’t pay for this,” Ummai said, looking worried.

  Enough was enough. Callista reached out and covered the old woman’s hand with her own. It was a simple thing for a god mage to clear the clouds away, to banish the pain. Ummai’s eyes cleared.

  “Oh!”

  “Now you understand,” Callista said.

  The old woman gripped her hand. “It was you,” she said. “You’re bringing the dragon here.”

  “Yes. Things will be better now. Eat your food. Come to the dragon court tomorrow. You’ll see.” She drained her glass and stood up. At the bar she put a single gold coin on the counter. “Anything she wants,” she said to the barkeep. “She gets anything she wants.”

  The man nodded. “Of course, My Lady.” The man’s automatic deference had changed to something else. Now there was an edge of sincerity to it that hadn’t been there before.

  Before retiring she made her way through to the kitchens and spent an hour discussin
g the preferences of dragons with Mankin, who took notes.

  Back in her room Callista lit the candles again and looked at her distorted reflection in the mirror. At least bits of me are still kind, she thought. Perhaps that’s what I am. Perhaps that’s what we all are, like a pocket full of coins, some gold, some silver, some copper. Perhaps that’s what we need to be.

  *

  The next morning was cold. This far north the mornings were often cold, but at least the sun was shining. Callista washed herself in freezing water and dressed in everything she had. In the bar the fire was already lit. She sat beside it, toasting her hands on its warmth. It would have been a simple thing for her to warm her own room, to heat the water she’d washed in, but Callista was beginning to appreciate life as it came. It was the only way she could know what other people felt.

  The barkeep was gone, and Mankin himself served her breakfast – tumbled eggs, slices of fried sausage and a few rashers of Berashi bacon on a large plate with a mug of steaming black tea. She smelled honey. She smiled at the owner.

  “They didn’t lie about the food,” she said. Mankin’s smile was wide.

  The town constable was waiting at the door.

  “Everything is as you asked,” he said. “The baron will be there. The chairs are set out. When will the dragon arrive?”

  “Lord Kelcotel keeps his own schedule, Constable,” Callista replied. “But I expect him about an hour after sunrise.”

  “Soon, then,” the constable said.

  She followed him along the street and they turned left, quickly passing the few houses of that street and walking out into a meadow, the grass still beaded with dew. It was not exactly as she had pictured it. There were seats, a couple of dozen, and a crowd that far exceeded their capacity was already gathered. Callista flicked a scarf around her neck so that it covered her nose and mouth. Her uncle, the man that had wanted her dead, was sitting in the most comfortable chair talking excitedly to her cousin. Whatever was good or bad she didn’t want them to know she was there just yet. She wanted it to be a surprise, a fall from joy to despair.

  An excited buzz from the crowd made her look up. High in the dawn sky above them a huge silhouette was wheeling against the blue. The long neck and tail, the broad, scalloped wings left no doubt. It was Kelcotel.

  The dragon took his time coming down, circling the town three times as he descended, growing ever larger and more impressive in the eyes of the people. His control was almost perfect. Only at the last moment did the wings beat, just as he swooped across the field. Two powerful strokes and he stalled mere inches above the grass and dropped, folding his wings with an almost bird-like rouse.

  Kelcotel was beautiful, there was no denying it. He was the only feathered dragon and looked for all the world like some vast exotic parrot from the Green Isles. It was an illusion easily shattered by the long, toothed jaw, the reptilian eyes the size of a man’s head. He looked at her.

  “Everything is ready?” he asked.

  The rumble of his voice drew another gasp from the crowd. None of them would ever have heard a dragon speak. Callista bowed.

  “It is, Lord Kelcotel.”

  “Food?”

  How like a dragon, she thought. Food first. She pointed to Mankin and beckoned him. He emerged from the crowd with a cart which he’d draped with a blanket. To Callista’s horror she saw her uncle leave his seat and begin to walk their way. The man was intent on milking what he believed to be an honour, on raising his status with the people of Whitefields. Callista stepped back, putting the bulk of the dragon between herself and the approaching baron.

  Mankin and his cart arrived first. The dragon examined him.

  “Ah, food,” he said. “What have you brought me?”

  Mankin flicked back the blanket to reveal an array of large pies that steamed gently in the cool morning air.

  “I’m good at pies, Lord Dragon,” Mankin said. “So that’s what I brought for you.”

  The delicacy of dragons never ceased to amaze Callista. Kelcotel raised one massive foot and picked a single pie from the cart without breaking the crust. He tossed it whole into his immense mouth. There was a single crunch.

  “Good,” the dragon said. “Interesting.”

  “Venison and strawberry with a dash of pepper,” Mankin said.

  Two more pies followed. There were about twenty on the cart, all larger than a man could eat alone, but the dragon was eating them as though they were olives in a bowl. For Kelcotel this was a snack.

  By now the baron had arrived. He placed himself in front of the dragon.

  “Lord Kelcotel, I am the Baron Dalini. This is my town. I welcome you and thank you for the honour of your visit.”

  Kelcotel ate another two pies.

  “You are the baron?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will have the manners to wait until I have finished eating.”

  Her uncle had no choice but to do as Kelcotel wished and the dragon took his time, praising Mankin’s pies fulsomely and savouring each one. When he finished the last one, he thanked Mankin again and the tavern owner wheeled his cart away beaming. Kelcotel turned back to the baron. The man was clearly less than happy at being forced to wait.

  “Sylvan Dalini,” the dragon said. “You are not the baron, of course. That title resides with your niece Callista.”

  “The girl is dead.”

  “Even you do not believe that,” Kelcotel said. “And now you stand accused of murder and of plotting to murder. What do you say to that?”

  This was her moment. Callista had waited for this day for so long. She studied her uncle’s face as he stood open mouthed before the dragon. There was no escape now.

  “What a ridiculous accusation,” he said. “Who accuses me?”

  Callista took the scarf from her face and stepped forwards.

  “I do, uncle,” she said.

  Again, it seemed that the surprise was complete. He stared at her as though she was a ghost.

  “You must answer the charge,” Kelcotel said.

  Her uncle recovered himself quickly enough. “You have not made a charge,” he said. “There is nothing to answer.”

  “I charge you with the murder of my father,” Callista said.

  “I have never killed anyone,” her uncle said. “I did not kill my brother.”

  “True,” the dragon said.

  “But still a lie,” Callista said. “You arranged for it to happen, you paid somebody.”

  “I paid nobody.”

  “True,” the dragon said again.

  “But it was your intent behind his death.”

  “You are reaching, Callista,” her uncle said. “I have already proven my innocence.”

  “Answer the question,” she insisted. “All you have shown is that you didn’t wield the knife.”

  “I will not answer.”

  “Then your guilt will be assumed,” the dragon said. “And sentence will be passed.”

  There was a long pause. The baron did not look away, but stared into Callista’s eyes as if willing her to back down, to walk away. Once she would have quailed at that stare. It foretold punishment and pain. But now she was a god-mage. She was afraid of nothing but lies.

  “Speak,” she said. “Deny it.”

  “You have what you want,” he said eventually. “You will take back the house and the land. We will lose everything. Is that not vengeance enough?” He turned and made as though to walk back to his seat, but Callista wasn’t finished. She touched the grass with her power and it rose up and seized her uncle’s feet, bound him in place.

  “The house means nothing to me,” she said as he struggled to tear his feet free. “The title and land mean nothing. You are responsible for the death of my father, for plotting to kill me. Deny it before Lord Kelcotel.”

  “I deny it!” he cried. Whether it was the grass wrestling his feet of the dragon’s hot breath she would never know. But at last he had spoken.

 
“A lie,” Kelcotel said. “But which part? You should try to limit yourself to one question at a time, Eran.”

  The dragon’s use of the honorific wasn’t lost on her uncle. She could see all hope and cleverness drain from him. His goose was cooked no matter what he did, but perhaps he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that the woman before him, the god-mage, was the same mousy, frightened girl that he’d planned to butcher. He glared at her and did not speak.

  “Does it matter what part is true?” she asked the dragon. “Both attract the same punishment, do they not?”

  “They do, but your purpose here was to learn the truth.”

  She’d said that when she’d asked Kelcotel for his help, and she’d meant it. She wanted to know, and more importantly she’d wanted the whole of Whitefields to know what they’d done. Now that she was here and facing him it seemed that all she really wanted was revenge, to crush this man and his son, to blast them into oblivion to pay back the pain and fear she’d known hiding behind that curtain when she’d overheard them.

  The constable was standing a few paces behind the baron. He’d been standing there since the start, rooted to the spot with shock and amazement at what he was witnessing. Callista pointed at him.

  “You. Bring me the baron’s son, and the wife. Do it now.”

  The constable hesitated, but like everyone else here he had no choice. Callista could have used magic to bring them both out from the crowd, but she wanted them to feel the indignity. She wanted them to be led out by a man who would, a mere few hours ago, have acceded to their every wish.

  He watched the constable go over to the best seats. Nobody on the field had failed to hear their words. They all knew the matter, so Callista was surprised when her cousin rose from his seat with a smile and strolled over to where his father waited, his step almost jaunty.

  “Cousin Callista, we’ve missed you,” he said. He was a good-looking young man. She’d never noticed it before, but he had a twinkle in his eye and a mop of fair hair. Callista was not deceived.