Dragon Rule

by E. E. Knight

  But some of the changes were for the better. Imperial Rock, long the towering resort of the ruling family and highly placed dragons, was now ringed by two layers of garden. Where once there had been training fields for the Drakwatch and Firemaids, now there was a mixture of fungi and low-light ferns that could survive on the ample light, but no direct sun, that came in through the oval top of the Lavadome where crystal met air in the great volcano crater that surrounded their hidden home.

  Tended by blighter gardeners and watered by numerous small pools fed by a newly built extension to the watering and sanitary flows, the greens and whites and pinks and ochres of the gardens soothed the eye in contrast to brighter reds and oranges of the lava, or the deep blacks and blues and grays of the rocky topography. Off in the distance, near the wind tunnel that sucked air from the Lavadome, a fleck of white showed another garden, the tiny memorial he’d built to his first mate, the sickly but good-hearted Halaflora. They’d launched their public joke of a mating flight from that spot.

  Sweet, gentle Halaflora. He liked to think she’d approve of the changes he’d made to the Lavadome. She loved growing things. He often wondered about the eggs she claimed to be growing inside her when she died.

  He’d never mate again, even if the more vigorous Nilrasha died. The mate of a Tyr was half a widow in any case, for there was little chance of seeing her husband.

  The Copper encouraged the remaining dragons of the Lavadome to bring their hatchlings into the garden. Rats and bats lived among the fungi, and the hatchlings had good fun exercising their senses, bodies, and wits hunting them.

  Hatchlings were the key.

  When the Copper had come to the Lavadome, the “dismals” (as he liked to style them) among the Ankelenes were supposing that dragons were finished in the world. They’d linger on, ever fewer and fewer, scrawny, darksick dragons fighting over scarcer and scarcer resources in the Lavadome. Tyr FeHazathant had begun to turn matters around, selectively supporting certain Upholds, sometimes in secret, sometimes openly.

  The grand old Tyr had doted on hatchlings, bringing them to the gardens at the top of the Imperial Rock for viewing. He’d spent a good deal of his precious time as Tyr looking in on the hatchlings of the Drakwatch, and demanding reports from his mate Tighlia about the progression of the newest Firemaids.

  Having lived more in the world above ground, the Copper now understood his interest.

  It was a numbers game, like the one he’d played as a wingless drake, with the piles of smooth, marked river stones the Drakwatch used to have to discover, steal, battle over, and carry back to their “home cave.” Each hatchling represented a hope for the future of dragonkind. They could never match the breeding power of the hominids, but dragons had their size and wings and wit and fire, that, judiciously used, could win friends and strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.

  Dragons were also long-lived, and the wise among them could take advantage of their experience. Hominids, especially humans and blighters, tended to make the same mistakes, and be subject to the same weaknesses, generation after generation after generation.

  The Copper swooped low over the gardens atop the Imperial Rock. They’d grown in magnificence, thanks to Rayg’s new formula of fertilizer and some choice statues courtesy of grateful Hypatia.

  Grateful Hypatia knew when it was in their best interest to give up a piece of art.

  He alighted, executing a better-than-usual landing thanks to the improved artificial wing joint that had long since calloused properly, to the usual rush of thralls bringing the landing trough and a platter of delectable organ meats. The Copper had developed a bit of a sweet tooth as he aged, and found honey-mead most invigorating after a long flight.

  He reminded himself to give Rayg the scrolls and tomes his valuable friend had requested and the Hypatian librarians had been convinced to provide. Strictly of a temporary basis of a few decades, of course.

  “Welcome back, my Tyr,” old NoSohoth said, executing one of his grave, slow bows. A cross between a major domo of the Imperial Line and a chief-of-staff to the Tyr, NoSohoth was as much a fixture of the Imperial Rock as the gravity-fed watering system—and equally smooth and malleable. He survived by bending to the prevailing winds, helping whoever sat in the Tyr’s chair to the best of his ability.

  NoSohoth was old, but his scale was in impressive condition for an ancient dragon. He’d heard once that NoSohoth had been a mature dragon when Tyr FeHazathant breathed his first fire. Even now it was difficult to distinguish him from a dragon in his prime. Bright silver scale with black at the tips, here and there turned to a sort of bluish white, gave him an appearance unlike any the Copper had ever seen; indeed, he was hard to classify as belonging to Skotl, Wyrr, or Ankelene—which is probably how he managed to survive the civil wars of his youth. Of course, his diet probably included gold coin thrice daily with a few gems for added minerals. Only slightly clouded eyes gave him away, his vision was going and he sometimes squinted to see objects at a distance. Also, he moved evenly and carefully, perhaps to hide stiffness in his joints.

  “News?” the Copper asked.

  “Pillithea’s eggs have hatched, over in Wyrr hill,” NoSohoth said, knowing his Tyr’s interest in the next generation. “She was old-fashioned about it and the males fought, but I managed to save the loser. He’s in the Drakwatch caves with Mulnessa, widow to CuSupfer.”

  CuSupfer was a member of the Aerial Host killed in the fight with the Rocs over Ghioz.

  “Good. She should name him after CuSupfer. I won’t have any losers in hatching fights not given a proper, honorable name.”

  Humans may make the same mistakes generation after generation, but he’d be descaled if he repeated the errors of his parents.

  “I believe she has done exactly that,” NoSohoth said, with a tone that suggested that if she hadn’t, she would shortly at a gently placed hint from a dragon at the Tyr’s ear as wealthy as NoSohoth.

  “See that both Pillithea and Mulnessa have plenty of Imperial thralls to attend them, under the usual conditions that once the hatchlings breathe their first fire the thralls will be their property to keep or sell as they choose, with the usual messages of gratitude from myself and Nilrasha.”

  “Done and done. My Tyr does enjoy checking up on me.”

  “You look as though there’s bad news behind the good,” the Copper said.

  “I’m afraid so, my Tyr. There’s problems with the oliban trade. Perhaps it’s not so critical, now with the Lavadome less crowded, but so many of the trees have been harvested now, the ones left are small and at great height.”

  Oliban was a sort of sap from rare trees that looked like citrine quartz when properly dried. Burned in the plentiful braziers used for light and warmth deep in the dragon caves, it produced a pleasing, soothing aroma that relaxed dragons. It was traditionally burned whenever dragons met in groups to keep tempers from flaring.

  “We must see about replanting it elsewhere, in suitable soil,” the Copper said. It never ceased to amaze, the matters that came under his nose. One day the proper burning of a dead egg, the next horticulture. He’d made a study of oliban, just as he had kern and other products necessary to draconic health and comfort. “The Ankelenes can do a survey of places where it might grow. There’s less need for kern now, perhaps in Anaea.”

  His old uphold had rich volcanic soil. Or did oliban need sea air to thrive? Something about salt, he’d have to ask the Ankelenes.

  “Yes, my Tyr.”

  “We should have attended to this before,” the Copper muttered.

  “Hard to think about a few loose tail-scale when there are swords about your throat,” NoSohoth said.

  “What else do you have for me. Briefly, please, for I am tired.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait until you’ve rested from your flight and enjoyed a few meals. There’s some rather good blind bonefish in the larder.”

  “I’ll spend a few hours in the Audience Chamber. I can try to keep
myself awake. I don’t want my dragons to think themselves unattended. I’ll be on the shelf in one hour; see there’s some coin to pass around.”

  “Just some poor Hypatian amalgams. Next to worthless.”

  “Well, there’ll be some gold from the sack at Swayport shortly.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” NoSohoth said. “I rather think the Imperial Treasury spends more on the Empire than it gets in return. If it weren’t for NiVom squeezing what he can out of the Ghioz, we’d be destitute.”

  “We? You mean me, you old hoardbug,” the Copper said.

  “My Tyr, have I ever denied you grateful coin?”

  “No. I’ll think about finances later. I’m for a splash, then you can admit the petitioners into the audience hall.”

  He shook off the thralls busy polishing his claws and oiling his artificial wing joint and descended to his baths. The heat and steam would work faster than any thrall.

  The fleshy human female thrall in attendance gave the air a juicy aroma that made him relish his bath. She spread frothy bubbling fats on his scale and scrubbed them off again with a bristle brush. One of his predecessors, SiDrakkon, had made a fetish of the place, filling it so the musky feminine reek made one’s head swim, but that was entirely too much of a good thing. One had to come out of the bath sooner or later.

  Feeling delightfully clean, he hissed for his monitor-bats.

  Aged Ging and her son Fang came in, trailed by a tired-looking Gang. Ghoul had disappeared some years ago in the Star Cave, but then he’d always been the slowest of the three.

  “A sup, a sup, my Tyr?” they chorused, like eager, whining puppies.

  They whined for blood, of course, and he relented and let them open a vein in his sii where he could keep an eye on how much they slurped down. They were the descendants of bats that had been dining on his blood for generations, and they’d grown into monstrous versions of the original clan; they were the size of largish dogs these days, and toothy young Fang displayed a pebbly skin that might be mistaken for his brother’s dragon-hide. Fang had cunning eyes and sharp ears, and a nose for sniffing secrets, and a devious mind. The Copper trusted only Fang’s weakness and lust for dragon-blood.

  The Copper resolved not to feed Fang’s offspring dragon-blood. These bats had grown quite freakish enough, thank you.

  He’d learned to question them after a feeding rather than before. So eager for blood were they, they’d tell him anything if they thought it would please him into letting them nick open his skin. The Copper would rather hear what he needed to hear than what the bats thought he wanted to hear.

  “Any news?” he asked, as the bats burped out their satisfaction with the bloody suckle.

  “NiVom and Imfamnia are breeding blighters,” Ging, the best-spoken of them said. She had a network of other bats who, the Copper suspected, suckled off her own substantial frame. “They mean to lauch a war ’gainst Old Uldam, use blighters against other blighters, it seems.”

  “Any news passing in the Lavadome?” The Copper liked to think of his conversations with the bats as catching up on news he wouldn’t otherwise hear, rather than spying. Spying on the dragons one purported to lead struck him as distasteful.

  “The Ankelenes talked a lot against the attack on those pirates.”

  “Old Ibidio called it bleeding dragons for the humans,” Fang said. “Wasting good blood on humans, now. What have they ever done for us but cause trouble? Useless-like.”

  “He means ‘dragons doing the bleeding humans wouldn’t do,’ ” Ging clarified. “Those were her exact words.”

  The Copper would have to live with Ibidio’s second-guessing and disparagement. She had laid the eggs of FeHazathant’s second-generation descendants and was of the oldest and most distinguished part of the Imperial Line. “Well, Ibidio’s always talking against me to the Ankelenes. As long as it’s just talk, I don’t mind. Is she planning anything?”

  “Naw,” Fang said, and the others also shook their heads, hominid style. “That LaDibar, he’s the one you have to watch out for. Shifty-like.”

  “Still visiting the thrall pens and the demen quarter, I hope?”

  “Aye, Tyr, nothing brewing there but soup bones. As long as the feed’s good, they’re happy.”

  “Aye, jes’ like us’n,” old Gang said, licking remaining fangs clean of the last bits of blood.

  The Copper met with his court the next day, making it clear to them that it was a strictly informal gathering. He ordered a plain meal rather than an imperial feast. They had platters brought into the Audience Chamber, now filled with dozens of newly captured battle banners of Ghioz and collections of skulls and stained hides from the Ironriders.

  NoFhyriticus the Gray, a mainstay for sensible advice, was much missed in his new role as Protector of Hypatia. He was an even-tempered dragon, both slow to anger and slow to trust. He was doing well among the humans of the Directory, but the Copper found himself absentmindedly waiting for him to speak at times, so used to NoFhyriticus’s counsel was he.

  Of course he had HeBellereth, as the Aerial Host was much in need of rest and refitting after the expedition against the pirates of Swayport.

  LaDibar was still a fixture. The Copper had tried making him an upholder, but he pleaded illness that prevented him from making “a proper exertion in duty, as a Protector should.” He had a vast storehouse of knowledge in that brain of his, however, so he was still useful to the court.

  LaDibar still displayed the revolting habit of exploring his ears, nostrils, and gum line with his tailtip when deep in thought.

  CoTathanagar had been reluctantly brought into his inner circle. While the Copper found him distasteful, pig-headed, and ambitious, he knew the ins and outs of Sreeksrack’s thrall trade, knew Ankelene politics, knew the hominids, knew which Skotl was forbidden to mate with a Wyrr, yet seemed to get along well with all the clans. Besides, the Copper found it useful to have someone around who, no matter what the job, could supply a name to handle it. And for the most part, those CoTathanagar put forward performed decently enough in their various responsibilities.

  And then there were the Twins. SiHazathant the Red and Regalia. But the Imperial Line and the rest of the Lavadome usually just called them the Twins. Others didn’t seem to mind their familiarity, but they gave the Copper the shivers. Brother and sister, looking much alike, always at each other’s side, eating and sleeping together. Of course, they’d shared the same egg so by looking at it one way they were the same dragon, but still—an eerie, otherworldly air hung about them.

  They were well-liked by the Ankelenes, too. Always experimenting on their thralls in matters of feeding and breeding and exercise. He’d told them to quit giving thralls dragon-blood; a victory toast among allies or a bribe to bats was one thing, but intentionally breeding a hybrid of something as dangerous as a human—he forbade it.

  But they were sensible dragons, fond of feasting, and popular, especially with Ibidio’s little faction. She thought them a blend of AgGriffopse and FeHazathant.

  Finally, there was Naf. When the Copper first introduced Naf to speak to his court, it had caused some consternation—a thrall addressing dragons as equals!—but they indulged their Tyr, who could be forgiven a blind spot and a soft heart now and then.

  He wanted to discuss the matter of the oliban shortage.

  “Drive the gatherers harder,” CoTathanagar advised. “A stout whip hand will get it flowing again.”

  “Za! From what, twigs and bare stone?” LaDibar asked. “It’s whipping and greed that got us into this situation to begin with.”

  “There’ll be fighting here, if we’re not careful in rationing it,” HeBellereth said, stating the obvious.

  “Steaming it rather than burning it makes it last longer. But steaming only works in a small cavern,” LaDibar said. “Or if you stand right over the vat.”

  “It must grow naturally somewhere else.”

  “The Princedoms of the Sunstruck Sea are said to have it,�
� LaDibar said, examining the contents of a nostril on tailtip. “There are unexplored islands farther south as well, but the weather is so wild at the equinoxes, colonies or a regular trade would be difficult to maintain.”

  “More difficult than us being at each other’s throats light and dark?” NoSohoth asked. Friends of his managed the oliban trade and the Copper suspected—no, make that knew—he profited from the Imperial concession.

  “We have news of the recent battles at Swayport,” HeBellereth said. “Remember that dragon who attacked you over the pirate ship? Four of the Aerial Host tracked him to his refuge. He’s outside now, in chains. The new flier, your brother’s son, was one of the party that captured him.”

  What did they expect him to do, order him executed for serving humans in a war?

  “Bring him to me.”

  The black dragon seemed to fill the Audience Chamber. “You’re not about to start a fight in here, are you?” the Copper asked.

  “No. Whatever they told you, I came with your dragons and their riders willingly. I wished to meet you without fighting.”

  “We shall see about that,” the Coppper said. “Get those chains off him.”

  Thralls brought pry bars and cutters. A few snips and clatters later, he was free. As free as he could be, surrounded by strange dragons and beneath the waiting talons of the Griffaran Guard.

  “What is your name?” the Copper asked.

  “Shadowcatch.”

  “Shadowcatch, my Tyr,” NoSohoth prompted.

  “My Tyr,” the prisoner finished.

  “Why were you seeking us?” the Copper asked.

  “After our fight in Swayport I asked some questions of some sea-elves I know—don’t tell me to reveal their location, I’ll keep the secrets of one who’s been kind to me or I’ll bleed out.”

  “Sea-elves? I thought Wrimere killed them all,” LaDibar said.