by Marc Secchia
“Loss begot knowing.”
Rhyme threw her a perfectly exasperated look. “You’re a few weeks old, hairball. You’ve no right to sound wiser than any scholar. Come along and meet my brothers. Here’s a picture of my mother Sonjé. Looks slightly like me.”
Whisper grinned as she eyed the row of pictures hung on the wall. “As in, like your twin? She’s pretty. And these – are they the royal scamps?”
“Aye. So, between me and Source, my mother lost three babies, all stillborn, all girls. Then she had four boys.” Hence Rhyme’s deep-seated desire for a girlfriend, or even a sister, Whisper concluded, with a melancholy curling sensation deep down by her tail. “Source is eleven. Symax, ten. Emory turned eight three weeks ago, and River is just six. Of all of us, River misses her most. Xan said babies have a maternal bond in the womb that is magically testable. He also said my mother would not have suffered. That was the first time I hit him. The only time.”
“Decent damage?”
“Broke his nose,” Rhyme said ruefully.
“It’s quite an elegant nose now, mostly poked into the business of kingly governance. He wears glasses.”
“Glasses? Jumping jindragons, he didn’t look clever enough before?”
“Don’t even think about it,” Whisper said. “You’ll never look scholarly. You’ll have to settle for being a distinctly handsome Princess instead. I’m sorry if this comes as bad news.”
“You’ve a tongue like a buzzing dracowasp, you do!”
“I’m trying to be a good friend.”
“Try lying!”
“You’re uglier and smellier than a moulting canodraconid.” Rhyme stiffened, shaking with unvoiced laughter. “Furthermore, you stand absolutely no chance with you-know-who unless you try the chainmail –”
“Different lies, Whisper. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
Rhyme wiped her eyes as she led the way into the royal bedchamber. Whisper discovered a suspicious leakiness of her own.
The King lay abed in a mighty hexagonal six-poster bed furnished with beautiful, pale blue linens depicting scenes from Arborite life – the stitching was so fine, Whisper almost imagined a mechanical process must be at work, but the artistry … the needlework must be a magic-enhanced skill. What a gift. She sighed unconsciously. Axes featured everywhere, naturally. Gauze screens hung from railings above, ostensibly to keep healing odours in and detrimental odours out. A nurse and a Mage-Healer were in constant attendance, thirty-three hours per day. Two Royal Recorders sat upon straight-backed chairs beside the wide, ornate wooden doors. Their job was to record every single aspect of King Rhuzime’s treatment, Rhyme told Whisper. The room was kept bright and the windows stood ajar, each one guarded by a dour-faced axman without and a metal screen within. A painting of a much younger King and Queen seated alongside each other adorned the wall immediately to Whisper’s left paw, and the furnishings, while simple, were exquisite. Fit for royalty.
The great hangings had been drawn to reveal the pale, composed monarch lying between his spider-silk sheets, looking as peaceful as if he had just fallen asleep. There was no sign of foul play, nor should there be, Whisper thought privately. This was a deep matter. His soft blue-blonde hair lay perfectly coiffed across his rounded, broad forehead. His eyes were closed. Long, almost-white lashes rested against his slightly puffy skin. He wore the royal azure, a simple shirt buttoned from mid-chest to waist.
Whisper sniffed the air and then tasted it with her tongue. Dry notes of pepper mixed with tangy narthafruit and a nutty scent her memories identified as jingi oil, often used as a base for medicines. The air was free of any pervasive malodour of sickness.
“Feel free to poke your nose into anything you like,” said Rhyme. “Just, be respectful.”
Whisper grimaced, knowing she deserved the reproof.
Addressing the Recorders, the Princess said, “Please answer any and all of the Whisper’s questions, holding nothing back. I brought her to the King to employ her special investigative Whisper-powers in my father’s service.”
Watching and listening to the room’s inhabitants as the Princess delivered these words with more than a hint of a threat, Whisper detected nothing untoward. Perhaps the traitor was not present. Nonetheless, she extended all of her senses and began to prowl about the King’s chamber, investigating every nook and cranny she could find, under the bed, up on top of the bedposts, even the sheets and his shirt. Nothing. She questioned each of the staff present, including the soldiers guarding the windows, and even sniffed their hands and clothing, to the evident discomfort of most of them. If mental-monster Xan wanted a complete picture, he would have one delivered to the best of a Whisper’s capabilities. She examined the Recordings, committing those to memory, even the contents of the King’s meals. Xan had not been willing to rule out an unexpected allergy. She grilled the Mage-Healer for an hour, covering the courses of treatment used and considered, and complimented the man afterward.
He pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead. “You know much, Whisper.”
“Much more now than before, Mage-Healer Gasharn,” she returned, with a polite bow.
The changed rhythm of Rhyme’s breathing alerted her. She lay asleep beside her father’s pillow. Yessimy had arrived. Now, if anyone was a prime suspect, she had to be – wittingly or unwittingly – as the provider of the foods that kept the King alive. Aye, there was the manipulation of the King’s limbs and the taking care of his physical needs, which proceeded apparently unhindered. Xan found that a great mystery. Most poisons had an obvious physical effect on the body, he noted, and Whisper’s scent-memories agreed. She poked her nose into the King’s bedpan for an especially long sniff. Nothing but a fine, healthy stench that set her coughing!
Yessimy held the King’s right hand and chatted quietly to him for a long while. Just gossip of the Palace, nothing more. Who was doing what in the kitchens. A cook who had fallen in love with a carpenter. Jamzo had mistaken her forefinger for vegetables that morning and tried her best to chop it off. Afterward, Whisper took note of the signet ring on that hand, worn on the forefinger in Arborite style. The central gemstone was a very rare blue shinzorlite dodecahedron set in an iron gusset, decorated with a delicate lettering of violet semforiole which spelled ‘Kingdom of Arbor’ in an ancient runic script. Under the Recorder’s watchful eye, she hopped up onto the bed to check the ring. She licked it. Nothing, save the musky tang of Yessimy’s sweat. The woman did sweat a lot, like most of these Humans, Whisper thought. Whispers’ physiques were far more efficient with their use of water.
Hmm. Next stop, Yessimy’s kitchens. It was often those closest to the victim, with the best access, who made the most effective traitors.
On an impulse, she leaned over to kiss the King’s cheek. She whispered, “You don’t know me, o King, but I’m the Whisper who’s going to find out who or what is at the bottom of all this. You can trust me. I’ve nothing to gain and everything to lose in the Kingdom of Arbor – so if you can hear me, you’re in good paws.”
He gave absolutely no sign he had heard, but Whisper had to wonder.
Just a Whisper-sense.
* * * *
I am committed!
Perhaps ‘fanatical’ might be a better word to describe her latest insight. That night, Whisper explored every last stone of the Palace at Whisper-speed. She found plenty of secrets, but nothing useful. She interviewed every night guard and maid on duty, and during the following day, did the same for every single person who worked in the Palace, right down to the junior pages and cleaners. People began to grow wary of her popping up at unexpected junctures with her questions.
If there was a traitor, he was cunning.
With the battle at the bridge having ground to a standstill – exactly as Drex had predicted – and Warlock Sanfuri making no sign of attack from the opposite direction, that day was a terribly long one for Rhyme. Whisper had never imagined how much the leader was required to project assurance and conviction,
and how exhausting that might prove, but her Princess had the right sap, and plenty of it. That afternoon, she took a fifteen-mile jog to the front line to convey messages and intelligence to Captain Drex, and to question his soldiers. He and his Mages and Warlocks hammered patiently at the enemy’s shielding, but thus far, given the presence of Dragons and the powerful Warlocks on the other side, they had found no viable solution. If all the enemy sought was to hunker down, the Arborites would need overwhelming force to break through those magical defences.
To her annoyance, the stoppage was too far around the canyon’s curve for her to spy on the Azar forces, but she could certainly hear the low, dull booming of their siege engines taking on the newly constructed defensive battlement on the bridge’s far side. Good. Hope those Gold-Red dracoslugs enjoyed being blasted to a pulp.
When she arrived, Drex asked, “How’s thar’n crossbow?”
“Brilliant,” Whisper replied. “Yadron’s making adjustments today. Otherwise, I’d have a little shot at those Warlocks myself.”
“Yar be careful, lil’un. Thar’n learned a thing or three since yar last blasted through ’ere. Better body shields. Whisper-detection. Least, thar Mage says so.”
“Oh. I was considering a little exploration.”
Drex grinned at her. “I like yar livin’-like.”
“Mostly, I fancy that state of being myself,” she agreed. “You keep alive, too. Alright? We’ve got a wife to find for you after all this smoke blows over.”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow, a wife – oh, the Warlock, do you mean? How do you know?”
“My bones ache.”
“I shall inform the Princess of your aches, old man. Meantime, any actually useful messages for Her Blueness?”
“Aye. She hates being called names. Right. Yar listen good, lil’un. I’ve a few requests and a briefing for Warleader Ammox. Yar brief my Unit Leads. Then yar show us some o’ yar best dust, right-like?”
She waved a paw. “Fifteen miles. It’s nothing.”
“Try bein’ my size, lil’un. Thar’s a decent run for a lumbering Dragon. Now, shut yar yappin’ muzzle an’ let me order my thoughts.”
* * * *
Rearmed, Whisper sneaked about the Palace all of that evening, invisible to everyone but a passing Mage – her appearance from nothingness cost him ten years of his life, he claimed – and found a round, fat, useless hole in the Brass Mirror. Aye, that was an old joke. Rhyme had not even known what she meant. Heaps of information, some of which ought to be acted upon at a better time, but not so much as a drakkid-dropping of a clue to go on.
What a brilliant saboteur and spy this Whisper was!
I am presumptuous!
Aye. All part of the package. Still, a sour taste lodged in the back of her throat. She must do better for Arbor’s sake.
When she came within a whisker of nodding off and falling into the monstrous cauldron of terhissa flower soup in the sweltering kitchens, however, Whisper realised that being too tired to think made her useless to Kings, Princesses and cities alike. She skulked out of the kitchens, filching a few nuts along the way, meandered off to find her pillow and made a fond reacquaintance with creature comforts.
Pun intended.
Before dawn the following morning, twenty-five Ice-Orange and Gold-Red Dragons supported by innumerable draconids and dracoworms simultaneously undermined and overran Warleader Ammox’s outer perimeter at the city’s rear, and in an hour of bloody fighting, forced the Arborite forces into a full retreat. This strategic withdrawal was accomplished in stages, as the highly disciplined, dogged troops dragged those huge axe-catapults with them and made their shots count. By the time Whisper arrived at the battlefront, numerous axmen were streaming back to take up new positions at prepared locations she knew were carefully mapped out. Rhyme joined those troops, despatching a few reluctant soldiers to the city to receive medical attention, while Whisper picked her opportunity to sneak off.
She smelled beard of Warlock. Toasted.
Unfortunately, Sanfuri seemed to be somewhere near the back of his army, preparing a variety of witty surprises for the Arborite forces. Mechanical spiders the size of small Dragons. Charming. Dragons carrying firebombs in addition to their usual fireballs. Amusing. Dragonets armed to explode on contact. Hilarious! Her whiskers buzzed with fury.
Biting back her disappointment, Whisper stalked his Warlocks, Mages and Dragons instead. The Master Armourer’s improvements had included a better ratcheting system for faster loading of her crossbow, and a higher tension on the wires that increased her range by thirty feet. Increased range also promised better accuracy over longer distances. Gemmini, none the worse for her brief flirtation with self-inflicted paralysis, had spent her days creating two new designs for the flechettes, an orange Mage-tangler that delivered a burst of very fine, caustic wires, and a white dart which delivered a powerful electric shock, which she fondly nicknamed the ‘frazzler’. Gemmini had a taste for the macabre in exactly the right way.
Whisper patted her rearmed bandoliers ardently. “Nice work, girl.”
Willing her fur to change, Whisper crept down the trail and found a position upon the small outcropping just past the last bridge into Arbour. First to go down was an Earth Element Enchanter, spiked in the neck with a vial of Dragon acid. Nasty. Most of the Gold-Red Dragons remained stubbornly out of her range, patrolling, picking off straggling Arborite soldiers or refugees, or menacing the city. Three, however, advanced toward Rhyme’s holding line together with a pair of Mages, a clutch of Warlocks and a column of regular troops. The Princess already had her catapults wound up, but was smart enough to hold off because the Mages were working with the Dragons, holding up a shield over their advance.
Whisper wriggled down through the bushes. Those Mages had forgotten one small detail – their shield brushed an uneven trail at its base.
Unfortunate.
However, her shots would have to be made from a mere ten feet off the trail. That could be … exciting. Whisper willed her heartbeat to steady as she selected her darts and laid them out, ready. Tension the crossbow. Wait, wait … whirr! She jumped as a speculative axe shot whanged off the shield and decapitated the bushes three inches above her departing, alarm-flattened ears.
Whisper rolled, bounced and found herself right beneath a Dragon’s nose. Her terrible, jerk-of-a-paw reflex shot ricocheted off a boulder and drove an orange dart straight up his left nostril. AAAAHHH … the Dragon roared, and then clutched his nose in a comical gesture. OO-AAGRR-AACHOO!
With a dull thud, greasy black smoke exploded out of his nostrils and mouth simultaneously. The Dragon rocked back on his haunches, hiccoughed violently and then, bulging of eye as if the inner pressure had simply become too much, belched a fine gout of fire all over the first Mage in their group. Magic plucked at Whisper’s fur as she dived aside a second time. Retreat! Scooping up her fallen darts, Whisper flung a handful into the face of a pursuing Dragon. The beast did not flinch, but his lunge faltered as a whirling axe struck true. Four feet of curved blade lodged in the thickset base of the Dragon’s neck.
Perfect timing. That catapult engineer deserved a medal.
Change direction! Leap! Suddenly, as if she had clicked into a subtly different mode of consciousness, Whisper found herself beginning to ride the swirling tides of battle. She saw-heard-sensed the mighty axes whirring in from Arborite emplacements. She tasted-knew the intake of a Dragon’s breath prior to the slight creaking of his throat scales as his fire-crop expanded with a swelling outflow of incandescent Dragon fire. The thunder of the troops’ exultation rolled over her as one of the Dragons fell. She dived back under cover, heat exploding around her body as the Dragon fired the wrong bushes with an unhappy roar.
“Back! Behind the shield!” cried the remaining Mage. His companion Warlock, a thickset red-skinned woman with a decent beard – if Whisper saw that right – was preparing a jar of dracowasps. So this was the reason for the jokes about
the redbeards of Mage Shivura’s people!
Sanfuri’s Irregulars gathered close to the Mage. They were armed with swords, pikes and axes, and heavily armoured – variants on chainmail and plate armour, many with magical enhancements, she noted peripherally. That was how Men could stand against Dragons. The Gold-Red Dragon with the bundle of caustic wires steadily cauterising the inside of his nostril charged Rhyme’s position in a feral fury, sweeping flames before him to expire tens of feet before they would do any good. Whisper shut that out, and bellied rapidly down through the trailside bushes to line up her next shot – the one she had first intended. A ricochet shot beneath the shield. Not the yellow dart. She switched out rapidly. Electrical. Aye.
Her eyes scanned the trail. Every detail, every stone and angle and tramped area of moss. Calculating. Talon to the trigger. She sank lower, sighting the shot.
Click.
The dart pinged off an upturned stone, flitted beneath the Mage’s shield and took her victim in the right knee. Dzzz! Whisper blew him a kiss. “Nice dance moves, Mage.”
He collapsed in a heap of robes. Smoke curled delicately out of his mouth as the man expired.
The bearded Warlock raised her jar, muttering beneath her breath. Whisper slammed a yellow dart into the woman’s throat. Ugh. Carnage. She much preferred the Mage’s less messy end. He still lay twitching and crackling on the ground. She licked her dry lips, rapidly reloading. From the corner of her eye, she saw the third Gold-Red Dragon, a juvenile female of twenty-five feet, orienting on the bushes where she hid. The Dragon opened her lips as if to speak, and an axe kicked a fountain of blood and bone out of her neck. Another slammed into her lower belly. A third punched the bulge of the right shoulder’s flight muscle, opening a bone-deep cut, before slewing away and burying itself in the loose scree not four feet from Whisper’s shoulder.
Those axes were lethal.
Whisper ran away from the Arborite lines, leaving the dying Dragoness in the throes of her agony.
Chapter 20: Whisper Where?