The Dragon Round

by Stephen S. Power

  Who is he, a junior, to overrule them, regardless of what he may or may not know?

  Ject opens his mouth to continue, but Eles recognizes Herse.

  After checking that the rumor about the shipment of cinnamon was true and the cargo was awaiting liberation, Omer heads for Livion’s office. In the Round Square, he looks at the poor sods selling their junk and thinks, Am I any better? Every day I unroll my own blanket and lay out the latest rumors. Sure I have a contract with the Shield, but that won’t last. Maybe this cinnamon is my chance. He consciously avoids touching the pouch with his monthly and perk. I have my stake. I could cover the harbor fees and buy the spice myself. Why shouldn’t I get a taste for once? I could sell it to the Shield myself and ­double, triple, my money. When I put it like that, he thinks, I have to.

  To lift some other boats with his rising wave, Omer tosses pennies into several containers. Their merchants thank him with whispers. One battered and broken old drunk, having seen such gestures before, offers him for a penny more a shark’s tooth engraved and inked with what could be a hook. He says, “With this you’ll always have a fish in your net and a boy in your partner’s belly. I’d bet a penny on it.” Omer declines, the drunk himself proof of its uselessness, and looks around. Where is the man with the huge blue shells? He would have liked one. What pearls must have come out of them!

  Omer takes a shortcut to the docks, worried that someone may beat him to the deal. He darts through alleys, dodging teamsters and drunks, fishwives and brats, relieved to come around a corner and see the docks at the end of the way. Then a man blocks out the light. Two more rush up behind him. The man in front digs his middle finger into the corner of his half-red eye.

  “Members of the Council,” Herse says, “I’m late because Ayden has again reached inside our walls.”

  “Not unlike yourself,” Ject says. “Your trespasses—”

  “Take your seat, General,” Eles says. Ject complies, stiffly.

  “Members of the Council,” Herse says again. “Bandits supplied by Ayden have robbed and murdered our traders on the road, and their privateers have savaged our shipping. They’ve put our border towns to the torch for not sharing the spoils of our markets with them. Company agents in Ayden have been detained and valuable secrets about company operations have been revealed. And a quarter hour ago my men arrested an Aydeni for entrapping one of our own soldiers.”

  “Is this your news, General?” Eles says. “Another Aydeni detained?”

  “No, but it shows the pattern of escalation that leads to my news. And I bring terrible news.” He raises his voice. “We haven’t struck back because proof was tenuous and the costs of responding far outweighed the losses suffered. But they’ve struck at our wallets now. And our hearts.”

  He pauses for effect—and to cue Rego to enter. The wispy man stops on the threshold so the guard can’t close the door, and Herse says, “The Shield’s wolf pack was attacked and destroyed by Ayden. They murdered two owners from the Shield, Mulcent and Sumpt, as well as Solet, a Hero of Hanosh.”

  His words carry into the waiting area. Livion hears gasps, jabbering, and then footsteps as many leave to spread the word. Eles is about to tell the guard to stop them when the chairs and tables scraping in the chamber make him hold up his hand to keep the company representatives in place. They squirm and pout, worried someone else is already taking advantage of the news. Rego walks to the seat beside Livion, and the guard closes the door.

  “This accusation,” Eles says, “should have been conveyed in private.”

  “It isn’t an accusation,” Herse says.

  “Your proof?” Ject says.

  “One of my patrols was told about two galleys wrecked on a beach near the Ynessi border. They investigated. At first they thought it was a dragon attack. However,” Herse pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket, “I received word not two hours ago that my men captured one of the attackers. He was Aydeni, badly injured, and hiding in the woods, abandoned as lost. He was questioned, and he revealed their orders: destroy Hanoshi shipping.”

  “Where is this man?” Eles said.

  “The man didn’t survive the questioning,” Herse says. “His wounds were considerable. We were lucky to find him alive.”

  Ject says, “As much as I appreciate the general’s yeoman investigative work, we must give careful consideration to any response.”

  “I share the general’s concerns,” Herse says. “Our evidence, however alarming, is scanty. I would be happy to seek further proof, as well as indications of future Aydeni attacks, but I thought it better to address the Council now, with facts that are likely accurate when we might do something about them rather than later, when the facts may be more solid, but obsolete.”

  Eles can’t decide if he’s looking at feed or feces. He says, “Let’s hear from our sea general.”

  Prieve stands. He is the third of the city’s three generals, commanding the sea guard and the piers in the Harbor, that is, anything touching water.

  As old as Eles but more robust, Prieve maintains a pre-League bearing. Livion’s even heard him use the old courtesy words, such as “please.” He knows everyone who has ever docked in the Harbor by name, and he’s been tested. He’s arbitrated countless disputes because no one disputes his fairness. Since the rowers’ guild was broken, he has even tried to improve the prisoners’ lot. This has made him few friends among the shipowners and low people, who see a hard bench as a criminal’s due, but every sailor and petty trader respects him, and he can collaborate with Herse and Ject, whom the Council keeps otherwise at odds.

  Prieve says, “My patrols have made no reports about privateers or wrecks between here and Yness.”

  Herse says, “How many ships traveling that route have not arrived as scheduled?”

  “Five,” Prieve says. “Solet’s three. The Shield’s Hopper, four days late. And City United’s Harbourcoat, two days overdue.”

  Eles recognizes a representative from City United standing near the wall. “We give our captains three days’ leeway,” the woman says.

  “That’s why you’re a minor company,” someone says.

  “You’re just petty,” she says.

  Eles’s glare peels smiles off a dozen faces. “Noted. Can the councilors from the Shield explain the absence of the Hopper?”

  “Our junior will address this question,” Chelson says. He nods to Livion.

  Before he can stand, Ject says, “Is the general insinuating that Ayden sank these other boats as well? Two days is hardly a delay. Nor is four. Ships serve at the mercy of the sea and storm and trade. They aren’t public carts traveling upcity.”

  “We have to be on our guard,” Herse says. “The general for the Guard hasn’t seen what I’ve seen in the field. I mean to stop any threat long before he has to buckle his boots.”

  Eles says, “The Council recognizes the junior from the Shield.”

  Livion stands. As he does, Rego whispers to him through his hand, “Two heroes lost already. A third would galvanize any city.”

  I’m no hero, Livion thinks. But could I be one?

  Omer has no idea who owns the men surrounding him, but that’s irrelevant. He lowers his shoulder and charges. If he can get out of the alley, he’ll have some room to fight. Red Eye gets lower than him, though, which enables the two men behind the rider to knock Omer over Red Eye. Omer knees Red Eye in his good eye, crawls free, and he gives Crooked Nose a heel to the mouth. He stands, but they get his ankles and, as he takes a step to run, they jerk him flat as a rug. His tooth cracks when his jaw hits a cobblestone.

  Omer tries to climb the stones. He can’t get a grip. A blade dives into his back. A boot plows into his ear. The Harbor becomes foggy. His limbs get heavy. Red Eye says, “Flip him. Let him watch.” He’s rolled over, Red Eye draws his hatchet, and the hacking begins.

  5

  *
* *

  Livion concludes his statement to the Council by addressing Chelson directly: “I had no chance to tell you earlier. I came straight here after hearing the news. Out of respect for Mulcent’s and Sumpt’s estates, I wouldn’t have said anything to the Council before they were informed unless it was necessary.”

  “The company appreciates their contributions and regrets their loss,” Chelson says.

  Ject says, “Solet was hunting dragons in the area, which does make the junior’s story more likely than the general’s.”

  “What I find likely,” Herse says, “is someone taking a chance to relive old glories.”

  “You would,” Ject says.

  Livion’s feet swim in his boots, but he can’t back down. “My trade rider’s information has always been reliable.”

  “I would like to test that assertion,” Eles says. “Is this Omer still in the city?”

  “I know this rider,” Ject says, “and if he is, he’ll be at the Tripple in the Harbor. I’ll have him collected.”

  Ject motions to Ravis, first guard of his personal retinue, whose bronze helmets and muscle cuirasses distinguish them from regular guards’ plain leather caps and composite cuirasses. The man tasks two other guards to join him, and they leave to find the trade rider.

  “What is certain at least,” Eles says, turning to Chelson, “is that something did happen to your wolf pack. Always thought that was a foolish idea. Of course, if this was an act of war instead of misadventure, your insurers may reimburse you.” Chelson’s face doesn’t move an inch.

  “And the prison,” Ject says, “may forgive the loss of its assets. I’ll also have the families and associates of the Shield’s rowers contacted to see if any have returned home. The Shield might do the same with its sailors. Another survivor would provide valuable testimony.”

  Chelson waves his hand abstractly. Livion says, “I’ll have that done.”

  “Until the Shield’s informant is produced,” Eles says, “I move to postpone this portion of Council and, after a quarter-hour break, proceed with the public pleading.” Blue Island seconds. Eles raises his ivory gavel, carved in the shape of an hourglass. “I would have moved that we keep this situation quiet lest the Shield suffer financially from uncertainty and baseless speculation, but, once opened, that door can’t be closed, can it?” He sounds his gavel. The chamber empties as if on fire.

  If Livion’s created financial problems for the Shield, and that’s likely, Eles will be the first to offer solutions. There’s a reason his company is called Hanosh Consolidated.

  At dusk Livion stands at his office window, wishing Solet or Tuse would row in and settle matters.

  The Council was not pleased that Omer couldn’t be found, especially after the first hour of pleading was taken up by complaints regarding the war with Ayden, and the second, as rumors spread, by those regarding the war with Ayden and their dragons.

  Eles’s fury had hardly matched that of Chelson. After Council, Livion followed him and Herse to the Shield’s offices in the Blue Tower. They were trailed by various clerks and assistants, the mood funereal, the only sound the paradiddle of their footfalls on the iron stairs. One girl, Kathi, he thinks, gave him a look he thought was encouraging until she ducked her eyes and revealed it as pitying. She knew this march was his drumming out.

  Felic knocks on his doorframe. “Do you need me?”

  “Still no word of Omer?” Livion says.

  “No,” Felic says. “I went to the Tripple myself. He had a drink, he met a man, and he left, but he never took a room. He hasn’t returned, nor has he been seen at his other haunts. We’ve promised perks to a few dozen people to let us know if they see him.”

  “Good,” Livion says.

  “Should I send to the Round for some dinner?” Felic says.

  “No,” Livion says. Felic slips away.

  Livion sees Prieve below. Considering how he’s been treated today, he wishes Hanosh retained some of its pre-League sensibilities. Even the little things might help, however much breath they waste. He runs to his door and calls down the corridor, “Felic.”

  The young man returns, wearing a light cloak and short-billed cap. “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” Livion says.

  Felic gives a little bow, touches the bad side of his face, and leaves.

  In the Shield’s offices, Chelson led the party into the small hall and shut the door on the underlings so slowly Livion thought he was savoring the latch’s click. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he said, “or whom you’re playing for, but the stakes are too high for you to sit at this table anymore. Here’s what you’re going to do.” Herse stood behind him as Chelson jabbed his finger at Livion’s chest to make each point. “You will see if this dragon nonsense is true. You will employ every resource at our disposal. And you will fail. In a few days you’ll say that Ayden must have been behind the attack. You’ll admit that delaying our response put the city at risk. You’ll request an extended leave. The company will oblige.” As an afterthought Chelson said, “And you will return those boots.”

  “What if I find out Omer was right?” Livion said.

  “You won’t,” Herse said, putting a hand on Livion’s shoulder. “Ayden attacked us. The city will believe us. Why can’t you? Do you trust a trade rider more than us? A rat, I bet, who wanted a full purse for his information and promptly vanished?”

  Livion can still feel Herse’s hand beside his neck as clocks around the Harbor chime nineteen: three quick sets of five and a four. At his office window, Livion watches men and women head home or to the Round, shaking off the day, while on the piers a boy traipses from crane to crane, lighting the lantern by each as it loads and unloads. No movement comes from the gibbets on the bay.

  Someone coughs behind him and he jumps. His servant girl is standing there. The letter in her hand bears a seal of the bright yellow wax Tristaban currently favors.

  “She’s spoken with her father?” Livion says. The girl nods. Livion points to his desk, she lays it on a clear space, and he unfolds it. He reads the note without surprise and looks at the couch in his office.

  His father-in-law gave him the couch when he was made a junior and installed in this office. “It looks comfortable,” Chelson had said, “but it’s not. You don’t want a guest to be easy. That gives you an edge.”

  “What if I want a guest to be comfortable?” Livion had asked.

  “Take him to the Round.” His father-in-law had patted the still-empty desk and said, “Don’t you get too comfortable either.”

  Livion says to the girl, “Let me write a reply.”

  “One isn’t required,” she says.

  Livion flicks his quill across some papers. “Then tell Trist ‘Good night.’ ”

  The girl leaves. Livion returns to the window.

  After Livion left the Shield’s offices, practically sliding down the stairs, Ject met him in the tower’s entry hall with his personal guard.

  “You did well to speak up,” Ject said, “however wild your story. Two dragons! And Chalfin. I remember him. Nasty business. You’re going to the Castle?” Livion nodded. “Good. I’ll go with you. We can compare notes.”

  A clanking on the stairs lifted their eyes to Herse coming down.

  “What notes do you have to compare?” Herse says. “For one so concerned about jurisdiction, the battlefield is as far from yours as Ayden.”

  “That it was a battlefield remains in doubt,” Ject said, “but the battle, thanks to your stunt, is in our streets.”

  “If you’re looking for advice on combat—”

  “I’m looking for peace.”

  “So am I,” Herse said, “but I’m willing to fight for it.” Herse pushed past them and left the tower.

  “I’ll find Omer,” Ject said. “And we will prove him wrong.”

  Ject
didn’t say anything else on the way downhill, tapping the pocket with his paper instead, until they found the street blocked by a group of tanners. They were arguing loudly about the best way to give Ayden its due. They reeked of urine. One said to Livion, “Hey, hero, if you don’t want to fight, why don’t you leave?”

  “Ravis,” Ject said, pointing at him. Ravis pinned the tanner’s arms and marched him to the general. Ject said, “You’re Strig.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Of course you are,” Ject said. “I can’t forget a face, and how could anyone forget yours, however much you’ve damaged it? What was it, ten years ago, you thought you could outrun me? No, eleven. How’s your sister?”

  Strig continued to say nothing.

  “I hear of her from time to time,” Ject said. “Nice girl. Hard worker. It’d be a shame if she was brought in because of something you did.”

  This got the man’s attention.

  Ject opened his hand. Ravis released Strig. “When you see her, let her know I’m thinking of her,” Ject said.

  “I’ll be thinking of you,” Strig said. “You’re as bad as the hero here. Waves fall, though, when others rise.” His friends dragged him away before he could say more.

  The people looking on might have approved Ject’s actions, except they were too afraid to be seen looking on.

  Past the boulevard leading to Brimurray, Livion noticed his okono vendor’s cart was gone, despite it being lunchtime. Near its place a cart full of apples had gotten one wheel wedged in the gutter. The driver asked several people passing by for help, but none had the time.

  Ject ordered his men to pull the cart free. They made short work of it. Then they perked themselves with several bags of fruit. Ject chose his own apple, fat and pink, crispy and sweet. “This is what I’m fighting for,” he said. “The simple give-and-take of public service. Why disrupt a perfect system?”

  Night has the horizon in its clutches. Livion would get a room at the Round if he could bear the eyes and unspoken questions. Instead he bars the door, sits on the couch, and flops his head back.