The Dragon Round

by Stephen S. Power

  It circles the tower beneath the council chamber. Doors lead to cloakrooms, janitorial closets, night closets, and a small armory. At each end a door leads to the tower’s entry hall and in the middle is a spiral servants’ stair leading to the top of the tower.

  Holestar sees Derc’s weapon on the flagstones. It sits in a smear of blood and points toward a closed door. Skite listens at the door. He hears a steady sound, like someone tapping his foot unconsciously, and he smells excrement. He checks the door. It’s unlocked. They relight the candles and stand them on the floor. Holestar counts to three and flings open the door.

  Derc sits on a circle of wood atop a brick-lined cesspit, his throat slashed, blood dripping between his legs through a hole into the pool of waste below.

  Skite says, “Was he lying in wait for us?”

  “Maybe he saw us approaching,” Holestar says. He closes Derc’s dumbfounded eyes and says, “We’ll come back for you.” He closes the door.

  They hear two whistles from around the dark curve of the hallway. A hinge creaks. Holestar whispers into Skite’s ear, “Take the candles. I’ll circle around through the entry hall and come down the other side of the hallway. In a minute move up slowly. He’ll think I’m still here, and I’ll catch him from behind.” Skite nods and picks up the candles. He holds two in one hand, one in the other, and spreads them far apart to make it look like two people are advancing.

  Holestar takes Derc’s weapon and passes into the entry hall. He sees the vaulted space in his mind. The creamy granite walls that give off a rose aura in the right light. The huge brass doors, twenty feet high. The two black-iron spiral staircases, one for the public, one for owners, that lead all the way to the top of the tower. The broad sweep of marble stairs leading to the half floor where Council is held. And on the far side the other door to the service hallway.

  Through tall windows, skinny as arrow slits, Holestar sees pinpricks of light, the torches and lanterns of cowards and sympathizers, defeatists and capital saboteurs. They might as well be fireflies trying to raze a barn, he thinks.

  Holestar enters the hallway. He creeps forward. By his count Skite will be moving too. He can’t see the candlelight yet. He flexes his fingers around his hatchet and the dirk. His palms are dry as stone.

  Chelson wants the barrowman questioned before he’s killed so he can know why his daughter was taken. Holestar thought it would be a waste of time, but the chase has him looking forward to it. He wants to chew off the man’s fingertips for killing Derc.

  Candleglow seeps around the corner. Holestar tenses. The door to the servants’ stair is ahead. It’s ajar. The candles advance. He edges toward the door. Skite gives a slight bob of his head to indicate he sees Holestar, but doesn’t move to alert their quarry behind the door. When the light touches his feet, Holestar rips open the door.

  There’s no one there, just a dark wood panel in a frame where a painting might once have been set.

  Two whistles echo down the stone steps. They bolt upstairs. Skite shakes the candles out so they can’t be targeted in the dark.

  There’s nothing more intimate than a blind fight, sensing your partner’s movements, reaching out deftly, wanting the fatal touch.

  Their quarry scurries away.

  “Headed for the first chambers,” Holestar says. Skite grunts, too winded for speech.

  At the top of the stairs, they fold over, gasping, waving their dirks before them to stave off any attack. They hear a clanking in the darkness. More stairs. The original council chamber is ringed with broad windows, the walls far thinner up here than they have to be at the bottom. They can see the first brush of dawn on the horizon, but that does little for the vaulted room.

  Skite says, “We’ve got him trapped up here. Let’s get some more men and make sure he doesn’t get away.”

  “No,” Holestar says. “We’ve come this far. And it’s nearly six. This place will be swarming with people soon, and Chelson doesn’t want outside interference.”

  Skite exhales long, inhales slowly, and stands up, ready. Holestar claps him on the back.

  “There’s a door onto the widow’s walk to our right,” Holestar says. They inch along the wall. Skite bumps into the door, which is barred. “He couldn’t have gone this way.”

  Holestar, nodding in the dark, says, “He’s on top of the dome. Follow me.”

  “I can’t,” Skite says. “I have to get my bearings. Let’s light a candle. He probably knows where we are. If he’s waiting nearby we’ll see him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Holestar says, but he lets Skite light his candle.

  They’re behind the banc. Sailcloth covers it and the pews and desks arrayed before it. Dust covers the rest. There are faint footprints and drag marks on the thick red runner that circles the room. They end at skinny decorative iron stairs that run up around the back of the dome. A catwalk then leads to a ladder rising to a trapdoor in the center of the dome.

  “Of all the places in the city to hide, why this one?” Skite says. “Why not get lost in the Rookery?”

  “Who would look here?”

  “He’d have to be strong to get the girl up here, if he has,” Skite says. “I hope we’re after the right guy.”

  “He’s the right guy now,” Holestar says. He peers at the trapdoor. He could swear it was open just enough for someone to look through.

  “How do you want to go through?”

  “He’ll take off any head as soon as it pokes through,” Holestar says. He points across the room. Behind the banc stand several short flagpoles for displaying the councilors’ company colors during sessions. “That’s what we need. I’ll go first. You push open the trapdoor with a pole and stir it around. That’ll distract him enough for me to get through and take a swipe.”

  “I’ll mop up. As usual.”

  Skite admires Holestar’s courage. Holestar admires Skite’s optimism.

  The iron stair was not made for such large men. It creaks and pulls at the arches in the dome. They get into position on the ladder, Skite holding the candle against the pole. Holestar checks the trapdoor. It doesn’t give. Something heavy blocks it. Then it slides aside with heavy footsteps and the door loosens.

  Skite gives Holestar the wide eye. Holestar gives the signal. Skite pushes the trapdoor and rams the pole through. Holestar and his hatchet follow. Three whistles, a snap of wood, a snap of bone, and the top of the pole falls through the door, followed by Holestar’s hand with the hatchet. They thunk onto the catwalk. Holestar hisses and tries to slide down the ladder. Skite, frozen, blocks him. Holestar looks up and ducks his head.

  Not far enough. Skite hears three whistles again and sees what looks like a great gray shark head dive through the trapdoor to clamp Holestar’s head, twisting it as he screams, then wrenches it off.

  Holestar’s other hand releases the ladder. His body drops on Skite, who holds it above him like a shield as he drops to the catwalk. The head lashes out and grabs Holestar’s body. It smashes him against the sides of the trapdoor repeatedly until enough bones are shattered for him to fold in half and squeeze through. Between smashes, Skite dives backward. He drops the candle through the grate. He watches the flame get very small before puffing out.

  The trapdoor, this high up, lets a touch of dawn glitter on the falling plaster. Like snow, Skite thinks. He hears an awful screech. At first he thinks the creature made it, then he realizes it’s a female voice, terror, agony, and confusion compressed into a single withering note. The light vanishes as the creature pushes through the trapdoor again. The screech is damped.

  Skite puts one knee forward. He has to move. He slides his hand along the iron. He moves his knee. The creature snaps at him, and its snout knocks him half off. He hangs in the darkness, swinging his legs, trying to find the catwalk with his foot.

  The creature watches him.

  Skite’s foot c
atches the catwalk. He pulls himself back up. He crawls halfway to the stairs. Somehow he can see in the dark. He’s almost there.

  The creature hammers its head against the ladder. The shock cascades through the iron to the catwalk, dislodging Skite’s hand. The creature’s breath sounds like a chuckle. It hammers the ladder and bounces Skite off again. He dangles, twisting, by one hand. He reaches for the catwalk. His fingertips graze the iron. It’s always rougher than it looks, he thinks. The creature hammers one more time. The iron buzzes, his fingers leap off it as if stung, and he falls.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Tower

  1

  * * *

  The city gates open at six hours. Farmers from the garden villages with wagons full of produce, caravans from other cities, and traders on foot and horseback start to line up before sunrise, hoping to get a jump on the competition. They’re usually met by carts selling okono and coffee, and a squad of Hanoshi Town guards who keep the peace and a portion of everyone’s wares.

  Workers normally appear just before the gates open, but today they’ve already formed a column of their own, five shoulders wide, longer than usual and so unruly that several platoons from the camp march along either side with tower shields to contain them. Many want to attack Ayden, and they cheer as soldiers drag away those who say they don’t. When some of the silent are also taken away, the rest become more vocal supporters as a matter of disguise.

  The traders bet on who will be pulled out of line next while others laugh that they might as well be betting on raindrops wandering down a window. When one decides this might not be the best day to trade in the city and turns out of the line, the soldiers descend on him, yank him from his horse as a possible spy, and arrest him. Before the town guards can confiscate his bags and mount, the soldiers take that as well. From that point on the traders express their hope for a speedy victory.

  A quarter hour before six Rego emerges from an interior tower with a Sergeant Pashing and two soldiers, who carry a blue chest between them. In the gate plaza they link up with the other ten men in Pashing’s squad. Like the two bearers, they wear brass helms, plain cuirasses, bracers and greaves, and their tower shields create a wall around a horse-drawn cart. Two turn their shields like a double door, and the chest is put in the bed of the cart. Rego checks the lock again and tries not to touch the pocket where he put the key.

  Then he confers with the gate sergeant, who’s inspecting his own squads. The sergeant says his men have noted who should be let in and who should not. Rego doesn’t want any trouble he doesn’t expect.

  Birming runs up. The sergeant is in uniform now, that of a supply master, but it’s as rumpled as his ashen face. He looks more exhausted than Rego. Pashing is disgusted, but Rego sees no point in chewing him out.

  “Are you sick?” Rego says.

  “No, I’m ready.”

  Rego has heard rumors about Birming’s problems with his partner, but you don’t ask after another’s house. Birming’s not the type to speak about his family anyway. Nor is Rego.

  Birming climbs onto the wagon and takes the reins, Rego sits beside him, and Pashing’s squad escorts the wagon to the Blue Tower.

  From some windows they receive cheers. From others, the splatter from upturned pots of excrement. Rego nods to them all. He understands why Herse has craved his influence since they were boys. Nobody hates a nobody.

  Rego hears a crowd in the tower plaza, the largest in the city, when they’re still several blocks away. It sounds like the sea crashing against a cliff. Throughout his sleepless night, Gate had received reports of people gathering there in defiance of the law, but apparently with the blessing of the guard. They can’t quail now, Rego thinks. This is where it begins. Herse once confided in him that a war wouldn’t start with Ayden, it would start with Hanosh, and this wagon is the van. They have to show themselves.

  As they come around the corner into the din, Rego sees that people have flooded the south half of the plaza in front of the tower and more are surging in from surrounding lanes. Too few demand the war. Laborers, fishermen and seamen, foremen, traders and shopkeeps, barkeeps and night folk, the vomit of prisons and workhouses, artists and other wastrels, a motley of the undyed, the white, the black, and even a few silk. Whole factories and offices must be empty. Rego reads the simple declaration in their numbers: You can’t fire us all or fit us in your dungeons.

  Many, unable to wait for Council to begin, are throwing dead fish at the tower’s massive doors while the four guards flanking them maintain their stiff posture. There are nearly as many children as adults in the crowd, and they’ve taken to the chanting with a passion and a pitch all their own, especially those armed with sacks of minnows. A majority has strips of bleached cotton tied around their heads like whitecapped waves. Women are tearing off the hems of their skirts to make more.

  This is not good. These should be their people. He has to hand it to Ject. His rumor was an effective counter, and his guards are letting it simmer. A couple dozen arrayed in pairs around the plaza are doing less than the tower guards and with worse posture. Their commanding sergeant, Husting, meets the wagon as it enters. Pashing says to him, “Break up this demonstration. It’s illegal.”

  Husting says, “Why, as a restraint of trade? Ask the owners of those grill carts and coffee carts. They’ve never done so much business this early. It’s a flash market, not a demonstration.”

  A pig-tailed little girl in a darling blue-check dress made of feed sacks sees them and yells, “Pa, there they are! Let’s get them.” Part of the crowd breaks toward the wagon.

  A man with six fingers and a stub says, “If there’s a war, it won’t come out of our pockets!” The others shout in agreement. Another holds up his bony son and says, “You want him to starve?” The boy cries in terror, which infuriates the crowd more.

  Rego has never fought in a battle or wanted to. His blade is slow, and he’d be washed away on a battlefield like crops in a flood. But he would follow Herse anywhere, just as he did when they were growing up, Rego younger and smaller, Herse including him in all his escapades and making sure Rego ate. Herse always said he would shine in his own way sometime. This is his moment.

  Rego and Birming take the chest from the bed and put it between them on the seat. It lands with a distinctive jingle and clink. He stands and with a flourish takes the key from his pocket. The crowd’s anger shifts momentarily to curiosity. Rego unlocks the chest with a happy snap. He pockets the key and turns to the crowd, one hand on the chest lid. He flips it open. The chest is stuffed with the small raw cloth bags he spent the night filling while Herse was out rallying the troops.

  He opens one and tips silver into his hand. “If there’s a war, those good Hanoshi who volunteer will receive an immediate bonus of four whole coins.”

  That’s the monthly for many. A discord resonates throughout the crowd. One man calls out, “I’ll do it for three!”

  The six-fingered man says, “You fool! They’d pay you with your own money.”

  “No,” says the father, “they’d pay you with my money.” He lowers the boy and confronts the bargainer.

  Arguments break out across the plaza. Scores of people surge at the wagon when they hear the army is giving away coin.

  “You can’t perform army business in the city,” Husting says.

  “Except for recruitment,” Rego says.

  The crowd bores in. The soldiers’ shield wall expands to collect Husting and Pashing, then condenses again and stiffens. A fish flies past Rego’s head. Rego sees the man who threw it knocked down. The arguments are turning physical. Rego says, “Unless there is order, there will be no bonuses.” This only confuses people, who surge against the shields. Rego feels like he’s on an island.

  Pashing says, “Either the guard moves these people back or we do.”

  “You move back. Get this wagon out of the plaza. And t
he city,” Husting says.

  A roar erupts from a street east of the plaza and a large band of workers, armed with hammers, awls, and fury, appears. A moment later the gate horn blows three times. Their sympathizers outside will soon arrive and with those already here clamp down like a crab claw on the antiwar faction.

  Chelson and Rowan approach the plaza from the east on Hill Street, surrounded by Chelson’s house guards. They hear the singing before they see the band of workers emerge from alleys and lanes behind them. The house guards half draw their weapons at their approach, but when the band sees their badges they cheer.

  A tanner shakes a poker like a mad conductor. “Up with the Shield!” he shouts. “Down with Ayden! It’s time they pay.” Some are wearing bits of kit from previous service. Wannabes wear scraps of salvaged uniforms. All carry tools yearning to be weapons.

  They part to reveal Herse in full uniform, his sash perfectly ordered for once. He says, “What do you think of my own guard?”

  Chelson thinks, These people should be the making of my army, not his. And at least two of the men are the Shield’s. He wonders what work is not getting done.

  He says, “We have to speak.”

  “Of course.” Herse leaps onto a nearby barrel so he can be seen, holds up his arms, and says to the crowd, “I’ll meet you at the tower in a few minutes. And in a few weeks we’ll meet in Ayden!”

  The crowd thrusts their weapons in the air and continues on. Herse jumps down and the guards create a wall around him and their master.

  “A dragon did attack the Hopper,” Chelson says. “This powder boy is the only survivor.”

  Herse grimaces.

  “He can turn it to our advantage, though,” Chelson says. “The dragon was ridden—”

  “Ridden?” Herse says. “Mounted-on-its-back ridden?” He holds his hands as if gripping reins. “And flying?”

  “Yes,” Rowan says.