Dragon Thief

by Marc Secchia

  Precisely an hour later, according to the graduated hourglass on the infirmary wall, which was turned once a day at noon and poured black volcanic sand from one bulb to the other with a gentle hiss that Tazithiel claimed kept her Dragoness awake at night, Kal stole back into the infirmary through an alternative secret entrance. Tazithiel and Riika awaited him near the stores, looking in the wrong direction. The thief snickered softly. Amateurs.

  The image of an Indigo Dragoness whirled, followed by her Human manifestation. Kinetic power seized Kal and dragged him toward the two white-clad women, but for the first time, he resisted with his own magic. Kal slipped through her grasp.

  A second later, he was picking a startled Shapeshifter off the floor.

  “What did you just do?” she demanded.

  “Dropped a beautiful woman on her exquisite behind,” said Kal, partly occupied with dusting off said derriere with more than due care, and partly wondering what on the Islands he had just managed to pull off. Dodging her Kinetic power by slipping through another … realm? What power was this?

  He looked them over. Riika and Tazithiel wore full-length, matching white Mejian inkaliar dresses, belted at the waist, with cork platform sandals and white water-lilies in their hair.

  His girls, outshining the very stars.

  “Come. You look perfect.” More than perfect, but he did not trust himself to say more. “Let’s hustle.”

  “Hustle?” Tazithiel slipped her arm into his. “When’s Riika’s entry interview?”

  “A slot has unexpectedly opened up with Master X’atior, head of the Academy, who has final word on all admissions. We have twenty minutes.”

  The Shapeshifter did not hide her sarcasm. “Remarkable.”

  “Twenty minutes?” yelped Riika. “I’m not ready!”

  “Kal, do you plan to walk through the heart of the Academy in broad daylight?”

  “Watch and learn.” Kal bowed, and had his hairstyle rearranged by Tazithiel’s roar of frustration. He straightened up. “Good. Now they definitely know we’re coming. Let’s move.”

  Leading the group via yet another secret tunnel, Kal exited at the third level of storage in a wine cellar which he had already taken the liberty of sampling. From there they took a spiral staircase up into the Masters’ and Journeymen’s kitchens, which served the teaching staff, and tiptoed along a gantry above a cavern filled with terrace lake-sized oil vats and thence to the foundries and smithies that produced the Academy’s Dragon armour and weaponry. By the time Kal had been cheerfully greeted by name for the eighth time or patted on the shoulder, Tazithiel wore a windroc’s scowl. Popularity. How could he help it? They borrowed a messenger-monkey staircase to shortcut the students’ main dining hall, which was watched by soldiers, and trotted thirty-two stories upward to the next major level of the Academy buildings.

  “Place is a warren,” said Kal. “Usefully, they keep comprehensive schematics in the Master Architect’s office.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Tazithiel’s tone suggested fireballs simmering in her gullet.

  At the end of a further interminable staircase frequented by the albino messenger monkeys which conveyed messages or carried out small errands around the sprawling Academy, Kal halted his charges and slipped two concealed blowpipes out of his left sleeve. “The main administration building lies just ahead–patience, Indigo-eyes. Answers come to those who wait.”

  “Indigo-eyes? Is that my new nickname?”

  “Riika, I trust the use of this weapon is familiar to you?”

  Riika accepted a blowpipe from Kal with a gleeful hug. “A Pygmy blowpipe? Kal, you’re the best dad ever!”

  He smirked at Tazi over Riika’s shoulder. “Watch and–”

  “Lose a limb to an irate Dragoness?”

  “Ah … step lively now,” said Kal, triggering a lever that opened a section of wall behind a tapestry.

  Popping his head out, the irrepressible saboteur took aim with his weapon. Pfft! Pfft!

  With that, he walked right up to the pair of hulking Jeradian guards stationed at an inner entryway to the towering red sandstone building. Both men stood half a foot taller than him, and bore war-hammers that looked useful for demolishing buildings. Kal danced a vulgar jig beneath their noses. “I believe we may proceed.”

  The Dragoness stared at the glassy-eyed pair.

  He said, “Do hurry, o clawed sweetness. We’ve less than a minute. Don’t want to be late.”

  “How did you …”

  Tazithiel scurried after Kal and Riika, shaking her head in bemusement. By the third set of guards, she had worked it out. Poisoned thorns. “It’s a unique type of thorn which grows only in the Crescent Islands,” Kal explained. “The innate poison will paralyse a giant Jeradian warrior, as noted, for approximately one minute, following which they resume normal function as if nothing happened. They don’t remember anything bar what seems to be an insect-bite.”

  Riika exclaimed, “What I could not have done with this as an assassin! Never thought of it.”

  “Which makes me the wise mentor and you the naïve youth,” Kal suggested, earning himself a look that suggested retribution would crush his miserable life like an Island dropped from the sky. “Right, this way to Master X’atior’s office.”

  Four soldiers guarded the massive jalkwood doors at the entryway to the Master’s office complex, which housed a dozen administrative scribes and no less than seven full-time assistants led by the formidable Mistress Harrion, a Sylakian warrior built in the solid-as-a-Dragoness mode, and as officious as a cartload of sharpened quills. Shapeshifter, Kal noted. And less than pleased to spy Riika in her office, once the guards’ attention had been diverted.

  “You’ve the nerve to return?” she greeted the half-Pygmy girl.

  Riika bobbed her head and said sweetly, “I brought my parent and my sponsor as requested, Mistress Harrion. My sponsor is Tazithiel the Indigo Dragoness, Princess of Immadia, and this is Kal, my legal guardian.”

  What about Kallion the Magnificent, King of Criminals? But Kal, watching the Mistress closely, was less than impressed with what he observed. Why the poorly-concealed aversion to a Pygmy girl, unless it had to do with his status in the school? Riika had only mentioned that the woman had rejected her application, not why.

  “You’re too young for this school, child. And how did you get him up here, past the guards?”

  Riika’s fingers twitched as though she wished to apply red-hot daggers to Mistress Harrion’s eyeballs. “I am of age. We have an appointment with the Master.”

  “So I see. You’re one minute late.” Kal almost laughed in her face. Was that her best? “The Master is expecting you.”

  Making no effort to hide her contempt, the Mistress indicated the way.

  Master X’atior was a very large Fra’aniorian man who gave the appearance of becoming jolly with a flagon of wine just a little too often, but Kal noted the stillness of his hands, the stark emptiness of his wide desk and the depth of his gaze. Aye, magic. A Brown Dragon Shapeshifter shimmered briefly beneath his notice, as though woken by Kal’s scrutiny, and when he perceived the other occupant of the office, who thought herself hidden by magic, he nodded despite a spurt of adrenaline-laced fear. This was right. Right for Riika, at least.

  After introductions, the Master bade them take seats in the semicircle of carved hardwood chairs facing his desk, which was fifteen feet wide and so highly polished, Kal saw a nick on the Master’s chin reflected there. Riika sat in the middle seat, her legs unable to quite touch the floor. Massive crysglass windows behind X’atior framed a panoramic view of the caldera, resplendent in the full late-morning suns-shine. The two-mile sheer cliffs opposite gleamed with lodes of minerals threading the rock and exposed blood-red crystal formations, several of which stood on display around his tastefully decorated office. Master X’atior clearly had as much an eye for luxury as he had for his guests, whom he scrutinised with shrewd, draconic care.

  The Master spread the s
croll of application before him. Ominously.

  “An unusual document,” he said. “Ignoring the fact that applications should be closed for this year, I see we have a most uncommon candidate before us, intriguingly, sponsored by the Queen’s own daughter. And the father is my fellow-Islander, one Kallion of Fra’anior, of whom scant record is to be found in our very extensive archives. A man under death-warrant, who nonetheless breezed past my security as though it did not exist.”

  Kal drawled, “Your so-called security, sadly, is pervious to a blindfolded toddler wandering about aimlessly wailing for his mother.”

  X’atior’s knuckles whitened against the edge of his desk. He did not appear capable of any answer that would not involve seeing how far he could hurl someone’s head across the caldera.

  “I could offer my services as a security consultant.”

  “More an insecurity consultant,” noted the Master, making Kal laugh in startled concert. “Or a security insult-ant. I will consider your proposal, o Kallion of mysterious past, for I sense your enmity would be detrimental to our Academy, but your skills put to right use might benefit us all. Curiously, I appear to have approved the assignment of a family roost to you in a most favourable location. I also approved a rash of lavish interior decoration works, with the highest priority. Apparently, I am exceedingly generous.”

  Tazithiel’s left eye twitched, but Kal sensed her Dragoness’ underlying laughter.

  He said, “Thank you, Master X’atior. We do not wish to take up valuable space in the infirmary. Your understanding of our situation is greatly appreciated.”

  “But this interview is not about you, Kal,” the Master riposted. Ooh, a worthy opponent. Delight very nearly made Kal wriggle on his seat like a schoolboy being taken to task for playing truant. “Riika. I have read your application with interest. Why did you have to come here in person to deliver it?”

  “Because the woman out there refused me,” Riika said. “I thought this school provided people like me with a chance, and a chance is all I ask.”

  “Mistress Harrion refused your application? On what grounds?”

  “She made it clear that my application was unwelcome. I am not too young, Master. I’m fourteen, although I look ten. I’ve skills and qualities–”

  X’atior’s eyes had a curious blend of hardness and sympathy about them. “What did she say, exactly? My motto is honesty, Riika.”

  “She said, ‘Get the hells out of my office, you little brown turd.’ ”

  “Riika!” Kal gasped. Just outside the door, something crashed to the floor. Crysglass.

  “Sorry, Dad, I–Aranya!”

  The door slammed so hard behind the Amethyst Shapeshifter that a painting fell off the wall, cracking the frame. It sounded as if a muffled war had just broken out in the next room. A very one-sided war.

  Leaning across his desk, Master X’atior said, “I am sorry you had to endure that, Riika. But I can disclose this–the last time a person of your heritage sat opposite a Master in this office, she did this school enormous and lasting honour. Now, let’s leave my ancestor to chastise that bigot. Always did loathe the woman. Tell me about Riika. What will this scrap of scrolleaf not tell me about this potential student?”

  The girl stared into his benevolent yet astute eyes, and said, “I am the kind of person, Master, who will sail alone into enemy territory to secure intelligence regarding Talon and the Green Dragon Elder, Endurion. Intelligence which your Academy administration also refused to accept.”

  Kal clenched his right fist, the only outward sign of the Dragon-fiery pride burning within him. Riika! He dared a glance over that curly mop at Tazithiel, who allowed the corner of her mouth to quirk upward in response.

  Grand-shell-mother, X’atior called in telepathic Dragonish, we have a situation. Attend.

  I burned a few things out here, said Aranya.

  Never was Dragon fire better employed. Returning to Island Standard, X’atior said to Riika, “Just a moment while my ancestor finishes putting out a few fires. Tazithiel and I are relatives, see? I’m the seventh generation descendant of a woman who looks young enough to be my daughter. Keeping the Academy’s leadership tradition alive, I am also a Brown Dragon Shapeshifter and you, young lady, should’ve come to us Dragons with this information.”

  “You Dragons seem to have problems with selective amounts of ear wax,” said Riika.

  Kal sucked in his breath, but Tazi added, “At least, my mother has been making herself utterly unapproachable. She’s a nuisance.”

  “She’s passionate about her family,” X’atior blazed.

  “That I am,” said Aranya, re-entering the office. Her formal slippers smoked upon X’atior’s extremely expensive, tan pile carpet. “And I’m fiercely protective of my shell-daughter.”

  Kal fielded her comment with a cool, “You don’t say.”

  The Indigo Dragoness was less cool. “You can just grit your fangs and put up, mother, because I am not letting that man go! If you envisage any kind of relationship with me–honestly! Can we please just interview Riika? And stop complicating her life with stupid family shenanigans?”

  Riika jutted out her chin in a way that Kal knew meant trouble. She stormed, “Well, I’m fierce and protective too! And I have to tolerate you adults and your insane games! While my dad’s off chasing the woman he loves by burgling an Academy stuffed full of supposedly friendly Dragons, noble defenders of the free Islands and all that windroc tripe, I’m having to stalk Dragon Riders with the power of Ernulla-kul-Exarkin!”

  Aranya was in front of Riika in a flash, gripping the chair’s armrests so hard, the wood groaned in protest. “Say that again?”

  In terse sentences, the Pygmy girl retold her story for the third time. Kal found the process fascinating, for the Human mind usually modified, misremembered and interpreted details, but Riika’s recall was word-for-word what it had been before.

  Aranya and X’atior shared grave glances. “I assure you, we will act on this information,” said the Queen. “Riika, I thank you for your service to the Dragonkind and to every soul present in this Academy. You do us honour.”

  Kal nodded slowly. Despite his antipathy, he found Aranya had awesome presence and true majesty when she chose to exhibit it. When had she become so bitter? So … desperate?

  Riika bowed. “Thank you, o Queen.”

  The Master narrowed his eyes. “So, back to our interview. Finally. Anything else I should know about you, Riika? A guild affiliation which may thwart entry to the Academy, perhaps?”

  “What guild?” Aranya demanded.

  “The Guild of Assassins,” said Riika, in a small voice.

  “What the hells–”

  “Grandmother!” X’atior silenced the Queen. “This is my interview and my student. I’ll thank you to let me do my job.”

  Riika’s jaw worked. “I’m a retired member of the Guild of Assassins. I have the brand to prove it.”

  There was a silence of speechless revulsion. Although Master X’atior and Queen Aranya schooled their expressions with identical skill, the girl had to feel like a snake in clothing.

  Kal reached out to squeeze her shoulder gently. “She does not practise any more, but the Guild’s long shadow stretches over the Islands of her life.”

  “No, no,” said Riika. “I have not killed anyone since … oh no.” Tremors shook her body, lending her appearance an aspect which combined the fragility of a fresh bud with whetted steel. “Since five days ago. But I won’t kill any students, I promise, Master. Dad has been very hard on me. Laid down the law. I’m really trying to reform myself. I promise.”

  Aranya’s snort conveyed what she thought of Kal’s relationship with the law.

  “Master, what you need to know is that even if you give me a chance, I’m unlikely to survive my time here at the Academy. The Guild ensures compliance with a long-acting poison. There’s no antidote.”

  “Yi’tx’txi’taxnayt’x?” asked Aranya.

 
“Aye.”

  “Oh, Riika!” The Queen stooped low, her long hair flowing over them both like a multi-hued waterfall. “You speak of death so … so … let me touch you. Please.”

  “Don’t you touch our Riika!” snapped Tazithiel.

  “You’d withhold healing?”

  “I’d withhold your interference in our family! We’ve enough troubles already, thanks to you!”

  Aranya raised a perfect eyebrow at Tazi. “You know my terms, shell-daughter.”

  “Terms?” Kal inquired.

  Bitterly, Tazithiel said, “In exchange for annulling the death-warrant on your life, Kal, I have to agree to let her train me.”

  “She’s bargaining with my life?”

  Her face set like stone, the Immadian Queen said, “I’m used to getting what I want, Kal. You could try a grain of honesty. Tell me, what species of two-legged snake has ensnared my daughter with his oh-so-charming ways?”

  Before he could react, Tazi sprang out of her seat, fists clenched, her Dragoness suddenly looming malevolent in the aether, although none of the others appeared to notice. “You’re the most hateful mother ever! How did you manage to raise a single hatchling?”

  “We accept your terms,” said Kal, desperate to broker peace. That much fire? Tazi was on the edge … “Not for the sake of my life, but for hers.”

  Aranya’s hand-gesture brushed him off.

  “Enough!” With a scream, Tazithiel sprang at her mother’s throat.

  Aranya and Tazithiel tumbled over the desk and through a low stone planter just beyond it. Boom! The seventy-foot Indigo Dragoness materialised with a concussion of displaced air, followed a fraction of a second later by the gigantic Amethyst Dragoness. Keraaaack! The crysglass panels shattered as Aranya’s torso, hindquarters and tail blasted through the windows onto the wide balcony beyond, spraying shards of glass hundreds of feet across the caldera. The two Dragonesses ripped into each other with the ferocity of feral beasts, snapping and snarling in a fury Kal could only imagine existed between mortal enemies–or mother and daughter. X’atior threw himself aside as Tazi’s tail lashed his desk into a polished pile of kindling. A scything paw swatted Kal against the office wall behind him. Wheezing, he clutched his chest.