The Dragon Round

by Stephen S. Power

  The maid shivers again. “I can’t hear anything either,” she says. “The wind is too loud.” She takes a pull on the bottle and wraps her arms around her chest. “Do you really stand here all night long? By yourself?”

  “Yes,” he says. “When war comes, I may be the first to know. This is probably where I’ll fight too.” He pulls on her arms to unwrap her. “We shouldn’t waste our last doomed hours.”

  She twists aside. She wanted to see something wondrous, not think about war. She lifts the bottle then changes her mind. “Can we go inside? Maybe I should go.”

  Bern says, “Wait. Did you hear that?”

  “Now you’re just trying to make me stay.”

  “No,” Bern says. “Look, here it comes again.” He gets behind her to guide her gaze. A shadow rushes at them.

  “I hear it now,” she says, “the whooshing.” She laughs and presses against him. “You said it was bigger.”

  The shadow closes. The stars atop the bay are blotted out. Then maid and guard are whooshing upward, claws digging beneath their collarbones. She screams and Bern blows his horn, but they’re too far above the city already for anyone to hear.

  2

  * * *

  On a small bench beside his front door, Livion sits in his stocking feet while his partner, Tristaban, dresses down their servant girl for leaving a spot of mud on the toe of his dragonskin boots. He can’t see it, but he trusts it’s there. Nonetheless, he wishes he could save the girl. He knows what it’s like to be dressed down in front of another, that’s the life of a sailor, and it only got worse as a mate. He didn’t grow up in a world of glossy boots and girls who shined them, though, so he leaves the issue to Tristaban and considers the hall tiles.

  When did it stop feeling strange to spend his days on unmoving stone?

  Tristaban looks like she’s conducting musicians, the way she’s moving her finger around. It’s not like the boots aren’t going to get filthy once he gets to the Harbor. He’d rather wear sandals, which are less conspicuous and comfortable. And boots, like the Aydeni who favor them, have gone out of fashion. But “Trist insists.” If he wants to solidify his new position in the Shield, he has to remind people constantly how he became a Hero of Hanosh and why her father let them be partnered.

  She wasn’t so conscientious when they were seeing each other behind her father’s back: meeting in artisan taverns where no one would recognize them, finding quiet places alone beyond the walls, even taking a room for a week in Hanoshi Town and playing at living together as if they were common laborers or farmers come to sell their crop. She was coy, adventurous, and lively. Now she is . . . pretty. When she smiles. Thanks to her father, Chelson, he lives far more comfortably than he would have in the stern cabin he pictured for himself as a boy. He does love her. And he can’t shake from his memory the looks she used to give him right under her father’s nose, even as she orders their girl to wipe his boots again and dismisses her.

  Tristaban takes a deep breath and settles back into herself. She brushes the shoulders of his white silk shirt, the latest trend among shipowners. She says, “I hate to trouble you with household affairs. Say hello to my father at Council.” She pecks his forehead. Her neck smells like vanilla. It’s his favorite scent. And if her neck smells like strawberries tomorrow, that will be his favorite scent.

  She goes around the corner toward her chamber. A moment later the girl appears. She silently pushes his boots on. She reminds him of a doll, her cheeks as hard as ceramic, her eyes as cold. She can’t be more than twelve.

  Livion stands up and turns each boot in the dawnlight coming through the small window beside the door. “Good,” he says. “Here, between you and me.” He holds up a penny then sets it on the bench.

  “I cannot,” she says and hurries away. Did she rebuff his guilt? Or, how stupid is he, a perceived advance? Livion shakes his head. He pockets the penny—today’s penny is tomorrow’s coin, his father-in-law says—and steps outside.

  His small whitewashed stucco home is on a skinny lane, Brimurray, just above the servants’ district, and halfway up the Hill. It’s a respectable height for one of his position, and the sundeck abutting its blue tile roof adds a rare distinction. Nonetheless, Trist has her eye on a house a few lanes higher, one big enough for children. Or live-in servants.

  Brimurray leads to a larger, guarded boulevard that connects to one of the switchbacking streets between the weathered Harbor and the blinding white mansions of the Crest at the top of the Hill. The streets are already streaming with barrows and carts bringing goods from the early galleys to the Upper City beyond the Crest, and with people flowing down to offices and jobs in the Harbor. Most are dressed in drab cotton and leather, and he remains surprised when someone darts out of his way. Trist says they dart out of respect—he’s a Hero of Hanosh—but he can’t believe he’s recognized even when people do point him out to their children.

  At a switchback he stops at a grill cart to buy an okono, a pancake rolled around pork, cabbage, and a brown sauce. The vendor is Aydeni, a rarity in the city nowadays, and he wouldn’t say it out loud, but Livion prefers that city’s version of okono to the Hanoshi, which has crab instead of pork. He hates crab. The vendor keeps his secret with a rough finger pressed to his nose, and for that Livion puts an extra penny in his tray.

  Livion would make small talk if a voice in his head didn’t tell him the man was probably a spy. He should avoid the vendor altogether. But his okono is so good.

  Instead, he looks at the galleys docked at Hanosh’s three piers. He doesn’t see any of Solet’s ships, which were due this morning, nor has Tuse’s arrived with its cargo of sulfur from the Dawn Lands. It’s several days late. This isn’t unusual, but he will have to excuse it to Chelson. He calls tardiness a theft of hours. The additional time away from Mulcent and Sumpt should assuage him somewhat.

  A towering man blocks his view, his arms like tree trunks, his eyes cold steel, his shock of hair a fiery red. It’s not his size that alarms Livion. It’s his presence. The trade rider is a day early and obviously looking for him.

  “Omer,” Livion says, pulling the paper wrapper over his okono. “Let’s go down to my office.”

  Omer grunts, and Livion lets himself be pulled along by the large man’s wake.

  Decades earlier the Shield built a block of warehouses near the docks, whose stone-walled lower floors, towers, and central courtyard saw it dubbed the Castle. Livion is officed atop the warehouse beside the main gate so he can keep an eye on the movement of goods from one window and the movement of galleys from his other. He precedes Omer into his office, overturning memos, charts, and manifests. Trade riders traffic information. Although Omer’s under contract to the Shield for a few more years, there’s no reason to reveal something Omer might sell later. Or on the side today. The gibbets that others earn by selling commercial secrets don’t deter the Omers of the world.

  Omer smirks at Livion’s precautions. Even he could fit through one of those windows at night. He nods to a harpoon mounted on the wall with a brass plate of appreciation from the City Council. “That the one?”

  “One of them,” Livion says, sitting behind his desk. “Solet got the kill shot. Why the rush to see me?”

  “Ever hear of Wheaton?” Omer says. “No? Nothing little town a ways off the coastal road to Yness. Doesn’t even grow wheat. Last night I found a drunk outside its tavern. He wanted to earn some pennies to get back in and offered me the story of three ships, two dragons, and one dramatic escape.”

  Livion gestures toward his couch. “Have a seat.”

  Omer glances at it and remains standing. “He was a rower on your Pyg. His bench was a poor vantage point, so some of the details he got secondhand. I’ll spare you the belching, confusion, and minor inconsistencies, and summarize.”

  Livion leans forward, trying not to look concerned, and opens his hand to indicate Pro
ceed.

  “Several days ago your wolf pack attacked an immense green dragon. The Pyg was seriously damaged when her deck was bathed in acid and her powder barrel exploded. The Pyg disengaged, then a second, smaller dragon came out of nowhere and fired their stern deck. They lost all their officers except their oarmaster, who got them, barely, to shore.”

  “The oarmaster released the rowers?”

  “Yes,” Omer says. “The galley was half-sunk. As you might expect, several took this opportunity to shorten their contracts and scamped into the woods. The drunk struggled up a high, steep slope in the dark. At the top he could see that another one of your galleys, he didn’t know the name, had landed nearby. Then a line of fire erupted in the woods, and the little dragon—”

  “What color?”

  “Dark gray,” Omer says, a bit annoyed. “The gray flew at one of the men. He seemed to invite this. He’d put out a lantern with a beautiful light as if to attract the dragon. It was brighter than the flames already engulfing the Pyg. A harpoon cannon fired, and the dragon went down. Men ran from the woods, swarmed it, and apparently netted it. It was tough to see details from that height.”

  “Solet captured a dragon?” Livion says.

  “Momentarily,” Omer says. “The dragon blasted everyone standing around it, and they scattered. Then the green reappeared, badly injured. It swam—”

  “Swam?”

  “Did I stutter?” Omer says. “It crawled onto the beach, which sent the first man flying to the woods. It attacked the little dragon, which somehow got the better of it. Or maybe the green just died from its earlier injuries. The gray bit its head off then ate its guts. At this point, our drunk left before the gray could look for more prey.”

  And that explains why Solet hasn’t arrived. The third ship must have been lost at sea, but what happened to the second? Did the dragon destroy it after the drunk left? A predatory dragon is bad enough. One that sinks ships and kills larger dragons is an unprecedented threat. One that kills shipowners exceeds catastrophe. On top of that, the Shield has two galleys about to head to Yness. Other companies have their own. He has to tell his superiors. They have to tell the Council.

  He wishes he had more evidence. His superiors aren’t likely to accept hearsay from a trade rider. “Where’s the drunk now?” Livion says. “I’d like to question him myself and find out exactly where all this took place.”

  “That will be difficult,” Omer says. “I only stopped there because I recognized him as Chalfin, the man who robbed and raped my sister. I figured I’d get his story before I gave him a more fitting punishment than a bench. I rode for Hanosh immediately afterward.”

  And away from any law in Wheaton. “That was unfortunate. Nevertheless, I’ll see that your monthly has a perk for your efforts.”

  “I could be dead by the end of the month,” Omer says, “the roads the way they are these days, Aydeni bandits everywhere.”

  Livion groans inside. He writes a chit and says, “Give this to Gran. She’ll advance the perk.”

  Omer takes it, considers the number the way he did the couch, and returns it. Livion adds the monthly to it and says, “For your discretion.” Omer, grudgingly satisfied, leaves.

  There’s one thing Livion can check. He takes up his pipe and blows a little tune.

  A young man appears in the door. Livion says, “Felic, get me the bench roster for the Pyg.” A moment later he reappears with several sheets of paper. He hands them over, head bowed, and leaves.

  Livion’s glad Felic’s head is bowed less than it used to be. Like scores of plague children, a black crust covers half his face like a mask, and he lost many family members, in his case, his two sisters. Livion often wonders how many wouldn’t have caught the flox had Solet not persuaded him to render the dragon, so he’s found homes and places for as many of the plague children as he can, including Felic. Many think he’s an even greater hero for this than for what got him the boots: saving the medicine and, by staving off the plague, saving Hanosh from declaring war on Ayden at the time.

  Livion scans the list. There: Chalfin. They’d bought only the first six months of his sentence, the usual probationary period for a small or weak man who might not make it on the benches. Another write-off.

  Would this be enough? Maybe he jumped ship while the galleys were on shore getting water and wanted a story to sell for drinks. He couldn’t let his superiors go to Council, though, without knowing about the rumor.

  Livion heads to the Round Dragon, the coffeehouse where the real business of the Shield is done. It’s off a small square that’s become called, naturally, the Round Square. There, itinerant traders hawk their wares, the financially embarrassed hawk their household goods, and indigents hawk oddments they’ve scavenged. The latter always present a container into which potential shoppers can throw pennies as down payments on future purchases. Charity is illegal, but commerce is law.

  As Livion pushes through the square, one of the indigents calls to him, “Captain! My captain!” He wears black leather pants beneath a ratty black shift tied at the waist with a flaxen cord, old sandals repaired with similar cord, and a poorly tended black beard. Before him on a folded square of sailcloth are several huge blue shells, possibly from crabs. Livion’s never seen anything like them. They could have value as decorative goods or maybe platters, but he doesn’t have time to ask where they came from.

  The man calls after him, “Can you help an old sailor, Captain?” Livion keeps going. There aren’t enough berths in the world to help every old sailor.

  3

  * * *

  Almond, owner of the Round, ushers Livion through a wide, low-ceilinged hall choked with smoke, chatter, and petty traders, past a curtain and down a corridor to a private room. His father-in-law, Chelson, stands amid several other Shield owners. All have hard eyes, harder cheeks, and the barest hint of lip. There are no seats. Sitting prolongs meetings.

  “You’ve anticipated our call,” Chelson says. “Almond.” Chelson jabs at the urn on the sideboard. The owner pours Livion a bowl of pit roast, serves it on a matching dish, and leaves with the elevated dignity of one who’s been forced to perform a service below his presumed station.

  Chelson says, “We’ve had news from Herse regarding our wolf pack.”

  “I’ve had news myself,” Livion says, “from one of our trade riders.”

  Chelson opens his hand. Livion relates what Omer told him. All but Chelson exchange glances when he mentions the second dragon.

  Chelson says, “The general says the wolf pack was destroyed by Aydeni ships.”

  Livion knows what a party line sounds like. The conversation was over before he arrived. Nevertheless, he says, “Our rider’s source was on the Pyg. I confirmed it.”

  “Your rider’s source,” Chelson says, “was a wretch. Now dead.”

  “He was very specific regarding dragons.”

  “He saw fire. He heard explosions,” Chelson says. “The damage to the wrecks bears that out.”

  “They’ve been found?”

  “Yes,” Chelson says. “A dragon’s corpse was not, however. Only evidence of how our officers were treated by the Aydeni. Burned alive, the general said.”

  “That would mean war,” Livion says. “A disaster for trade. For us. And,” he adds, “the city.”

  “Trade knows no disaster,” Chelson says. “Only opportunities.”

  This brings to mind another of Chelson’s axioms: “When one wave falls, another must rise.”

  “The general will report at Council today,” Chelson says. “We can’t have any wild talk about dragons. As for the city, if there’s a war, we would rebuild it.”

  Livion tallies the construction interests the Shield has assembled the past few years, the raw materials and weapons it’s stockpiled, the forests and quarries it’s acquired, all in anticipation of a war with Ayden. The marku
ps will be enormous. As will the destruction.

  “You look conflicted,” Chelson says. “I’m surprised. You’ve taken the long view before. It’s why you’re sitting here.” Chelson puts his hand on Livion’s arm. “I’m sure we can continue to count on you.”

  Could the rider have been wrong? Livion thinks. If he contradicts the Shield at Council, his career would be over. He would lose Trist. And, if he’s wrong, he might leave Hanosh unprepared for an Aydeni attack.

  Chelson notices Livion’s bowl. “You’ve barely touched your coffee. It is bitter today. Here.” He takes a tiny silver box from his pocket. The spoonful of sugar inside probably cost three of Livion’s monthlies. Chelson rubs a pinch into his bowl. “This will make it more palatable.”

  Livion says, “An Aydeni attack would explain why Tuse’s ship hasn’t arrived either. It passed through the same area. It might have also been sunk.”

  Chelson grunts and the owners respond in kind.

  As Livion sips his coffee, trying not to scald his tongue, something occurs to him. “What if the other survivors spread the dragon story?”

  “The general assures us there are no other survivors.”

  Herse is playing a friendly game of hip ball against two brothers in a wide Upper City alley. People cheer them from doorways at either end of the alley, and the windows above. They admire the general’s ability to lose without seeming to.

  His adjutant, Rego, argued that he didn’t have time before Council, but Herse can’t help himself. Who knows whom he’ll inspire? Who knows whom he’ll discover? Hip ball gave him his start. It took him from alleys lower than this one to the captaincy of a company team and several League championships. There, in fact, painted on the wall is a faded advert in which a much younger Herse touts Sea Circle olive oil with the slogan WINNERS STAND ALONE. He won’t fade himself, though, and pick-up games keep him popular. Besides, by playing he’ll distract people from seeing Rego and several soldiers enter a nearby lodging house. They have to deal with a situation.