Dragonworld

by Byron Preiss

  She looked coy. “How long would you be gone? Years and years?”

  “Not near! We’ll whip those Sim and be back before the week’s up, with more treasure and jewels than you can imagine!”

  It had been a week since Jondalrun had summoned the Elders of the neighboring towns. As was the custom, the village whose Elders had sent out the call for the council would play host to those who had responded, and so, on an exceptionally crisp and clear spring evening, Tamberly Town turned out to greet twenty Elders of Fandora.

  The tension of the past week seemed diminished by the festivity of the occasion. A banquet fit for royalty had been arranged in the town square, and the entire village had taken part in the preparations for the event. Banners hung from the windows of the higher buildings. Children watched excitedly as Couriers strung lanterns across the streets. Sandalmakers found themselves with twice the usual waxings, as townspeople paid handsomely to have their shoes repaired for the reception. Dancers—young men and women in costume and makeup—entertained the visitors with pantomimes of legends and dances.

  The visiting Elders were impressed with the results. Lagow of Jelrich Town dined happily on the first piece of striped sole he had eaten in years. As he picked through the tender white bones, he learned from another Elder that the fish had been a gift from Cape Bage to Tamberly Town. Lagow was pleased. Tamark of Cape Bage was a generous and experienced Elder, and the gesture was befitting his status. When Lagow spied the fisherman sitting under a bright red banner, he hurried over to thank Tamark for sending the dish.

  Minutes later, he was surprised at the change that had come over Tamark since their last meeting. The fisherman’s words were short and moody, filled with cynical observations on the gaiety of the event. At first, Lagow thought it might be the effects of the wine, but then, at the mention of Jondalrun’s name, Tamark’s wit resurfaced.

  “It seems to me that death should not be synonymous with justice. Is there any reason, Lagow, for us to throw our young men into battle with sorcerers? If Jondalrun feels the Sim are to blame for our tragedies, why does he not send a messenger to Simbala, as is our custom with the Southland?”

  Lagow nodded. “I sympathize with you, Tamark, but Simbala is not the Southland. No Fandoran has ever set foot in Simbala, and it would take a mission of justice to force any to their shores. It is obvious to many the Sim are to blame. Jondalrun feels that a messenger will lose for us the element of surprise.”

  “Surprise? When we do not even know the truth about them?” Tamark raised his cup of ale and traced the foam on its brim with his finger. “Surprise itself is valueless. A tiny skyfish can surprise a telharna, but the telharna will eat him just the same. Surprise without knowledge is like this”—the fisherman lifted a cloud of foam on his fingertip and blew it at Lagow—”wet air.”

  The youngest Elder, Tenniel of Borgen Town, was negotiating his second turkey leg when he felt a heavy hand clap down on his left shoulder. He looked up and saw with surprise the face of Jondalrun. He quickly wiped his greasy hand and extended it to the Elder. “A pleasure to meet you, sir!” he said. “Are you not the very man who fought off a Simbalese windship in an attempt to save your son?”

  Jondalrun stared at him, then snorted. “So,” he said gruffly, “that is how legends are born.” He appraised the confused Tenniel. “You are very young to be wearing the sash of an Elder.”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” Tenniel said, a little defensively.

  Jondalrun shook his massive gray head. “Amazing. I should like to visit your village sometime. No doubt the smithies are manned by babes, and farmers plow in swaddling clothes.” Before Tenniel could protest, he continued, “As to your question, let me tell you the story as it really was.” He then explained briefly what had happened, his voice trembling with emotion toward the end.

  Tenniel felt sorry for him. He was also astounded by the fact that the black-hearted Amsel still lived in his tree house. “Why have the villagers not gone out with torches and staves and brought him to justice?” he asked. “I think we should go right now and—”

  “These things will be done by the laws of Fandora!” Jondalrun said sharply. Then, feeling a pang of dishonesty, he added, “I attempted to do that very thing earlier, but I was maddened with grief at the time. We are not conscienceless lawbreakers, as are the Sim. We will do things properly!”

  “As you say,” Tenniel acquiesced, but privately he wished that he could come face to face with this Amsel.

  * * *

  Amsel decided to leave the Spindeline Wood that evening. He would spend some time at a large dry cave which he had furnished as a way station for long field trips. It had occurred to him that the story of Johan’s death would grow in the telling, and that eventually there might be action taken against him. He had much to think about now, and he preferred a quiet, austere place in which to do it.

  It was still almost impossible for him to believe that Johan was dead. He remembered the first time that he had met the lad—near the edge of the wood, on the banks of the small stream which ran by his house. Johan had been playing with a turtle, spinning it about on its back.

  “Do you intend, to eat that old snap-jaw?” Amsel had asked Johan, surprised and frightened by the appearance of the hermit, had shaken his head. “Then you’d best know,” Amsel had continued amiably, “that he will die from the sun if you leave him on his back for long. To kill for food is a forgivable thing, but to kill for fun is not.”

  Rather to the inventor’s surprise, Johan had said, “That makes sense,” and rolled the turtle back into the water. It had been the beginning of a friendship. Amsel had found Johan to be a bright lad, eager to learn and given to laughter. As he came to know him better, he found himself becoming more and more cautious with his words to the lad, for Johan was one of those very rare folk who consider and sometimes even take advice from others. It was all very well to offer advice, secure in the assumption that it would be ignored, but when Amsel realized that his words meant something to Johan, he knew he had to be careful.

  He had obviously not been careful enough. His guilt was enormous, for he had aroused Johan’s interest in things beyond the day-to-day farmer’s existence, without assuming any responsibility for possible results. Perhaps he had been wrong to enlarge the boy’s horizons—he did not know. He had always been puzzled and confused by people, had never known what to say to them. Now the young child who had trusted him was dead.

  He packed a small bag and set off for the cave, crossing Green meadow Mesa and climbing high into the Toldenar Hills. Eventually he had to stop to catch his breath and rest for a moment. Playing mountain goat among these crags and crevices was not as easy as it had once been. He would not mind growing older, he thought ruefully, if he could believe that he was also growing at least slightly wiser.

  He was about to continue when he heard a breath of whispered voices nearby, and then the settling of some dislodged gravel. He felt coldness spread suddenly over him. He debated for a moment the best course—whether to confront whoever it might be or to run and trust to his knowledge of the hills to save himself. The decision was made for him. There was a sudden scrabble of footsteps from around a rock corner, and Amsel leaped to his feet, heart pounding, to face his attackers.

  Three small children stood together beside the rock, staring at him. He recognized them—they had been friends of Johan’s; he had met them once. Johan had dared them to visit the crazy hermit with him, and they had come, trembling with fear at first. They had soon gotten over that; Amsel had served them sweetmeats and cider and showed them his inventions, and they had vowed to come and visit him again. They never did, and he had been somewhat relieved. His experiments and research would have stopped completely if he played host all day.

  He nodded to them, not remembering their names. “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “We were playing touchstone on yonder hill,” the largest one, a stout brown-haired lad, said. “We saw you.” He spoke fea
rfully, eyes wide, and Amsel thought with a flash of sorrow: No amount of sweetmeats and cider will make him like me now.

  “Go ahead, ask him,” said one of the others, a strident little girl. “You said you would.”

  The stout boy looked away from the inventor and shook his head.

  “What did you want to ask me?” Amsel inquired gently. “Was it about Johan?”

  The child still would not meet his eyes.

  “I did not mean for the accident to happen.”

  “But it did,” the girl said. “It did, and now Johan’s dead. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Amsel said simply. “I honestly don’t know.” He paused. “I think I should . . . talk to some people.”

  “What people?” the girl asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. But I have the feeling that a big reason why this happened was because some people—myself, Johan, Jondalrun—didn’t talk to each other enough.”

  “Are you going to the Council?” the last child asked suddenly. He was a thin lad, with one arm slightly deformed. It hung uselessly at his side.

  “What Council?” Amsel asked. Surely the town had had its meeting of Elders by now.

  “At the Stairs,” the girl said. “Everybody’s going. It’s a big Council, biggest ever.”

  Amsel blinked in astonishment. A High Council had been called! He could recall one other, born of the need to do something about the Wayyen River flood victims, years ago. According to his scrolls of the history of Fandora, there had been only five High Councils in the country’s history.

  It could not concern him alone. What could it possibly be? Of course, there was the possibility that it had nothing at all to do with him. Amsel doubted that; he clearly remembered Jondalrun’s threats and accusations, and his final vow to make the Simbalese pay for what he believed they had done. Amsel had a sudden awful suspicion that he understood the reason for the meeting.

  “When is it being held?” he heard himself asking. His voice sounded far away, and from a distance came the answer of the girl: “In three days, at sunrise. Are you going?”

  Amsel blinked, and tossed his head, as though to clear it. “Why,” he said, “I hardly think I would be welcome.” Then he felt a breeze sweep across the hills. “It’s getting cool now, children. You’d best get back to the village.”

  The three children turned and ran away over the lichen covered rocks toward Tamberly Town. Amsel watched them go. Then he looked toward the hills where the Stairs of Summer waited. “No, I won’t be at all welcome,” he murmured. “But I think that I must go.”

  * * *

  It was dark, far too dark for it to be morning, but a blanket of clouds over the sun announced a coming storm. The Wayman sat with his back to the door of Graywood Tavern. It was early, far too early for him to be drinking, but through his one good eye he watched the rosé wine dwindle to the bottom of his glass.

  It was too dark to be morning, it was too early to drink, and he was too intelligent to be a Wayman, but all three were true. Through the window of the tavern he watched the Fandorans file by in clusters of four and five. It was time for the High Council, and the people of Tamberly Town were making their way to the event. Many took blankets and leather-tops to protect themselves from the rain. They would doubtless camp out on the winding steps of Hightop Pass to await the decision of the Elders.

  The Wayman smiled. The Fandorans were good people, with a sense of justice. He was a Southlander and a victim of a less noble code of ethics. He had fled to Fandora after his trading business and left eye had been ruined by a notorious band of thieves. Unable to pay his debts, he had traveled north until he had found employment as a Wayman in Fandora. It was a suitable profession for an outsider. His job was to track down runaway young men and women who had tired of the rugged life of Fandora or petty thieves who infrequently victimized the farmers and merchants of the Fandoran towns. Although the Wayman was one of the few foreigners to reside in the country, he was well-liked and respected. His experience in the Southland was invaluable in his new work, and his tall frame and broad shoulders made the solicitation of clients easier than he had expected. He kept to himself, saved his waxings, and explored the countryside in his spare time.

  There were some thirty villages in Fandora, stretching over approximately fifty miles of northern and eastern coastline and about fifty square miles within those natural borders. The Wayman had visited over half of the towns and found many similarities within them. Yet with the exception of the High Council, all were relatively autonomous, with government rarely rising above a local level. Private farms and dwellings subscribed to the laws of the closest village. Elders generally negotiated problems between adjoining areas. It was a simple system, noted the Wayman, compared to the complex government of the Southland, and until now it had seemed to serve this country without any serious problems.

  The Wayman rose and turned toward the door of the tavern. Across the main square he saw a group of young men and women dressed in black with white knit caps. They were the Dancers. He was watching them perform when a sharp pain shot through his eye.

  It had been a difficult month for the Wayman. He had been hired to find the son of a rich merchant from far Delkeran Town, but had lost the lad twice in as many weeks. He was sure the boy was in Tamberly Town, but the cool spring weather had affected his eye, and many hours had been lost to a wet cloth and a dark room. The oratory of Jondalrun had thrown Tamberly Town into an uproar, and the past few days had been filled with rumors of war against Simbala. Every accident and injury of the past few months was being blamed on the Sim. Two children had been murdered. A windship had crashed. He had never seen the Fandorans so worried or so angry. He knew of the Simbalese, and he knew that these people were no match for either the Sim windships or their military strategy, but he also remembered that Fandora had offered him a home. If they elected to go to war, he would do what he could to help. In his heart, however, he hoped that cooler heads would prevail.

  * * *

  Amsel was on his way to the Stairs of Summer. His route was much more direct than the road taken by others, but it was also more hazardous. He leaped from rock lip to granite spire, across chasms easily seven hundred feet deep. He moved swiftly along ledges scarcely six inches wide. Though he was not as fast or as surefooted as he had been when younger, the inventor still made good time. A rainstorm was coming, and he did not want to be caught in it. He was also anxious to reach the site before the Elders, so as to position himself where he could hear them but not be seen. He worried, for it had been three days since he had learned about the meeting from the child, and much seemed to have transpired in Tamberly Town during this time. He had kept his distance from the townspeople, and from afar he had found it difficult to discover the issues at hand. He leaped from an outcropping and landed on the thin edge of a rock chimney which split the cliff face parallel to the Stairs. He descended this, back against one side and feet on the other, and arrived at last at a natural alcove in which a balcony of stone overlooked part of the amphitheater. Amsel settled himself there, his small notebook and quill pen in hand, and waited.

  * * *

  Many of the townsfolk had followed the Elders to the Stairs of Summer, for a council was a rare thing, and the subject they discussed concerned the people deeply. None but the Elders, however, were allowed to climb the Stairs to the natural amphitheater where the voting would be done. Jondalrun was the last of them to ascend. Before he did so, he turned to the men and women who had assembled outside.

  “Take care you do not set foot on the Stairs,” he charged them. “Remain here. You will know the results of our caucus soon enough.”

  “What harm would be done if we listen?” asked a tall man. “We would not interrupt the Council.”

  “You cannot listen,” Jondalrun said with finality. “We must proceed according to the law.” With that he turned and began slowly mounting the Stairs to join the other Elders.

  They
were not aristocratic, these Elders of Fandora. Some still grasped the sickles and mattocks they had used to climb the rocks. Most were dressed in the simple garments of farmers. Yet their expressions were those of men who knew that their vote would affect the lives of their countrymen.

  In accordance with the rules of the High Council, the Elders had previously selected from their ranks a Mandator, who would function as chairman for the meeting. Pennel had been elected. He stood on a small stone pedestal in the center of the amphitheater and stared out at the assembly, illuminated by torches. He saw tense faces, bitter faces. Pennel knew who must, by custom, speak first, and so he called the name of the Elder who had initiated the meeting.

  “I call Jondalrun, Elder of Tamberly Town.”

  The father of Johan faced the council. He spoke with compassion and anger. His love of Fandora was as much a part of him as the voice that stirred even the hearts of Elders from distant towns who knew little about the Simbalese.

  “There have been murders,” Jondalrun said. “We live in a state of siege, afraid for our children’s lives and our own. We search the skies for the insidious windships, and we are frightened to brave the streets at night! We struggled hard to build this land and we have endured much to remain here and work, too much to be threatened by those who are jealous of our prosperity. This is either the start of an all-out attack by madmen or the casual bloodthirstiness of sorcerers! I call for justice! I call for war!”

  Jondalrun returned to his seat. For several moments none of the Elders spoke. None dared challenge the principle of bringing justice to those responsible for Johan’s death. Yet there were questions, doubts that could not remain unvoiced.

  Pennel called upon an Elder of Gordain Town, who told of how the Simbalese windship had crashed into the town and started several fires. Then another Elder ascended the pedestal. It was Lagow, the wheelwright. Tamark’s words at dinner and his own objections forced him to make his dissension known. “Why would the Simbalese wish to attack us in the first place?” he asked the crowd. “If they live such lives of pampered ease, why would they want our land?” Lagow spoke with honesty and compassion. He did not wish to add to Jondalrun’s burden, but he had even less desire to send his country to war.