Dragon Book, The

by Gardner Dozois

  The crowd paused at that. Bony fingers scratched bald pates contemplatively. Someone broke wind, slightly less contemplatively. Another man cleared his throat, straightened up, and spoke.

  “Maybe,” he said softly, “we should burn them both, just to be safe.”

  “Not unwise,” the chaplain mused. “If it is God’s will that the taint be cleansed from our fair community …”

  “Fair?” Armecia looked incredulous. “How did you get in charge here, anyway?”

  “The station of the chaplain is not for mere women to question,” he replied snootily, turning up a long nose. “Nor is it proper for half-breeds to show such neglect to the strongest voice of mercy.”

  “That’s right!” Goodie Andor pointed at her angrily. “She’s a half-breed! Half-heathen! That proves she’s a witch!”

  Armecia was forced to accept the verbal blow—there was simply no denying it. Her skin and hair, just dusky enough, wouldn’t have been enough to draw attention to her. Her eyes, however, one clear and blue, the other pitch-black, clearly marked her as the fruit of a union that should never have been.

  She accepted the accusation but did not flinch. She had felt more than accusations, after all, in the stones that her mother’s peopled had hurled at her and the filth that they had smeared over her father’s grave. Compared to that, she thought grimly, accusations were nothing.

  Immolations, on the other hand …

  She eyed the altar boy standing beside her yet untorched pyre, noting with more than a little worry that the slack of his jaw was echoed in the slack of his hand.

  That in itself wouldn’t be too distressing if not for the burning torch he clenched.

  “What are you waiting for, Father?” the woman demanded. “Lower the torch! Burn her!”

  “The torch! The torch! The torch!” the crowd chanted, relenting only when the chaplain raised a hand.

  “God preaches mercy for all civilized men.” He gestured toward Armecia. “And she, clearly, is at least half-civilized. Thusly, she deserves at least half a doubt as to her guilt.”

  “Well, that just makes perfect sense,” she muttered.

  “Well, where’s her champion, then?” Goodie Andor demanded. “Where’s this Sir Leonard she speaks of?”

  “A fair question.” The chaplain looked curiously to her. “Where is this Sir Leonard of Savhael that you claim will clear your name?”

  Armecia winced.

  She had hoped that, upon hearing such an impassioned speech, Sir Leonard would have come galloping up to cut her bonds, pull her up onto his horse, and ride off.

  After her first few statements, she would have settled for an equally fervent defense of her that would undoubtedly end in her release and a humble apology from all assembled.

  By the end of it, she was desperate even to hear him break wind.

  Sir Leonard, however, was not a man with a horse. Sir Leonard was not good with words. Sir Leonard was not particularly good with his sword.

  What Sir Leonard was, was a man caked with stubble and clad in dirty mail armor, quietly pulling strips of jerked beef from a sack and munching on them as he stood toward the front of the crowd, watching the outrage unfold through red-streaked eyes.

  “He”—she gestured with her chin—“is Sir Leonard of Savhael.”

  “Where?” The chaplain scrutinized the crowd. “You’ll have to point him out.”

  She pursed her lips, choosing to believe that he was only being ironically stupid.

  “In the first row.” She tightened her hands into fists behind her. “Will my champion kindly rise and prove his lady fair’s innocence?”

  The man in the front said nothing. She clenched her teeth.

  “Will Sir Leonard not answer the demand for justice?”

  His jaw moved up and down in a decidedly bovine manner as he chewed. She snarled angrily.

  “Lenny, for God’s sake!”

  To say that his eyes suddenly snapped wide open would be to overestimate his speed by a good three breaths.

  Instead, like portcullises, portcullises thirty years old without the benefit of oil, his lids rose with a very slow comprehension that she might have found tedious if not for her imminent immolation. His neck moved with all the speed of a very sleepy tree as he glanced from side to side, then to her. Both eyebrows raised, he put a finger to his chest and mouthed a question.

  Armecia pondered if it wouldn’t be less painful just to be burned alive.

  “Yes, you, Sir Leonard,” she said, “if you would kindly rise to the challenge of seeing that I’m not consumed in flames …”

  “Right, right,” he mumbled, shuffling up the stairs to the platform. “I just stepped out for a bite to eat. My mind must have wandered a bit farther than my feet.”

  “You stepped out for a bite to eat”—the chaplain cocked his head curiously—“during the trial of your lady?”

  “Well”—he shrugged—“it’s not like she was going anywhere.”

  “And I am not his lady,” Armecia hastily added, “I’m his chronicler. I write down his exploits and adventures.”

  “So we’ve noticed.”

  The chaplain beckoned the altar boy to his side, who tossed his torch aside with alarming callousness to produce a leather-bound book from beneath his white robes. The chaplain, giving his aide a cuff upside the head and a command to relight, took the tome and beheld it to the audience.

  “This is what you write in?” With a lack of care for the papyrus that made Armecia cringe, he flipped through the pages and frowned. “It’s all written in the heathen tongue.”

  “It’s written in Hashuni,” Armecia corrected over the infuriated roar of the crowd. Quickly, she cleared her throat, attempting to appear as humble as a woman tied to a stake could be. “The better that it may be translated to the heathen, so that they might know fear at the sight of Sir Leonard, you see.”

  She held her breath at that, as all assembled shifted their gazes so that they themselves might take in the sight of Sir Leonard.

  The alleged knight, for he certainly did not look like anything from heraldry, poetry, or even heathenry, stood tall and lank. Barely upright, let alone like a gallant out of story, Sir Leonard hung.

  His chain mail hung from his body, his stubble-caked jaw hung loosely from his head, his greasy brown hair hung over his bloodshot eyes, his dirty brown cloak hung from his humped back.

  Hung as he was, though, Sir Leonard was still a knight. Or rather, he was a very tall man who wore armor and carried a sword, which was at least half of what a knight was.

  Armecia attempted to retreat further within that thought, finding comfort in her own perception of him.

  He looks … she fought to find a word that wouldn’t cause her to break out into tears of hopelessness, reposed. Yeah, that’s it. He’s calm, collected, years of steady experience and wariness held behind those eyes … those bloodshot eyes … and he stinks of smoke.

  Oh God, why did I think this would work?

  “He don’t look so impressive,” one of the assembled snorted.

  He said, she reminded herself, that he doesn’t look so impressive. That means they’re at least a little impressed by him. If that’s the case, I can at least paint him to look like someone who should command some respect. That is, of course, assuming they don’t notice the—

  “He’s got a hunchback!” Someone pointed to the large lump beneath Sir Leonard’s cloak. “Ain’t never heard of a knight that had a hunchback!”

  “True,” the chaplain said, scratching his chins. “The lord pities abominations but does not draft them into his armies.” He narrowed his eyes. “Besides, if that is a hunchback, why isn’t he … hunched?”

  “Because it isn’t a hunchback,” Sir Leonard replied.

  Good, good. Armecia noted the approving nods of the crowd, however meager. They don’t have to know what it is. They don’t need to know. You can do this, Lenny. Just don’t—

  Lenny did.

  Re
aching behind to rummage through his cloak, he slid a long, flexible pipe from his back and slid the mouthpiece between his lips. Armecia felt her hopes die along with her breath as he inhaled deeply, the hookah bubbling under his cloak.

  And, in the acrid smoke rings that reeked vaguely of a skunk trying to be inoffensive that emerged from his lips, the quaintness of Sir Leonard of Savhael was made all too apparent to the townspeople.

  The crowd recoiled in collective horror, as though the smoke were some hideous beast of myth sent from the man’s mouth to strangle the life out of them. The chaplain, only slightly more restrained, let his eyes go wider than a holy man ought to while shielding the altar boy behind him.

  Sir Leonard licked his lips, then glanced over the crowd, blinking.

  “What?” He coughed a little. “Oh, wait. Those weren’t very good. I can do better.” He stuck the pipe back in his mouth, muttering through it. “If I time it just right, I can puff up a cloud that looks like a naked nun. One moment …”

  “Thank you, Lenny.” Armecia sighed, surveyed the crowd momentarily, then clicked her tongue with an air of finality. “Right, then.” She glanced at the altar boy. “You had the torch, right? Let’s get on with this.”

  “Wait …” The act of blinking proved to be something long and ponderous for Sir Leonard as he took in the scene. “What’s going on?”

  “Sir Leonard”—the chaplain’s voice drifted somewhere between restrained outrage and unrestrained revulsion—“as loath as I am to advise you, it does not bode well for your chronicler’s trial if you insist on so brazenly bringing the Devil’s herb into our midst.”

  Lenny blinked.

  “What trial?”

  “Do we really have to belabor this?” Armecia pressed.

  “She’s right!” Goodie Andor spoke up, shaking a meaty finger. “The knight is clearly a disgrace to whatever church and lord he serves. The book is clearly the witch’s book of spells! The evidence is through. Now comes the time for burning!”

  “Burn her!” the crowd agreed uproariously. “Burn her and her demon book!”

  “ENOUGH!”

  And at that, the crowd was silenced. Perhaps it was Sir Leonard’s bellow, carried on wisps of latent smoke that poured from his maw. Perhaps it was the fact that his eyes had become so red as to burn through the locks of his hair.

  Much more likely, Armecia thought, it was because his sword was out and flashing against the sun.

  “Lenny,” she urged quietly, “no killing.”

  “I am of the Unanointed,” the knight bellowed, unheeding of her. “Without lord, without land, and not without sin.” As if the noose holding the hanging knight was suddenly drawn taut, he rose to an impressive height, tall and muscular. “If you should feel bold, madame, perhaps I can throw us both upon my sword and we’ll see who reaches heaven first.”

  “Lenny”—her voice was harsh this time—“no killing.”

  “And if you are eager for a burning”—his grin was broad, yellow, and profoundly horrific—“we can see who burns.”

  “LENNY!”

  At that, Sir Leonard was silenced. He slackened, becoming the hanged knight once more, eyes soft and blade limp. He surveyed the scene with a sudden curiosity, as though he had just arrived at that moment.

  “Wait a tick.” He blinked. “What, exactly, is she charged with?”

  “Witchcraft,” the chaplain replied, speaking in a tone of voice he might have reserved for feral dogs. “Before burning her, however, we are bound by lord and law to hear testimony for her.”

  “You’re going to burn her?”

  “We were planning to.” The chaplain shrugged.

  “Not much else to do round here,” the altar boy added with a slow nod.

  “Your lady invoked you as her champion and chief witness.”

  “My … lady?” Sir Leonard’s eyes lit up as he laughed with a casualness that made her shiver. “Oh, she’s not my lady.”

  “She … is not?” the chaplain arched a brow.

  “Of course not. She’s my mistress.”

  Quietly, Armecia found herself longing for a time when he had merely forced them to recoil with weed.

  “What manner of knight consorts with adulterous half-breed harlots?” Goodie Andor howled, echoed by the crowd.

  “What? No, it’s not like that at all.” Sir Leonard shook his head. “She just commands me relentlessly and gives me stuff to smoke, see?”

  “You are a knight … and she orders you about?”

  Armecia tensed as the chaplain stroked his chins, his thoughts visible between his fingers. Clearly he knew that the matriarchal hierarchy was as well established in Hashuni life as was the Crusade against them. It occurred as a fleeting thought, however; she had already resigned herself to the inevitable outcome.

  “I was a knight, yes,” Sir Leonard nodded. “I really only stopped knighting about when I met Armecia.” He scratched his stubble. “When was it? Aught three? Aught thirty?” He furrowed his brow. “One moment … you can’t have an aught with double digits … wait, can you? Anyway, she mostly just makes me carry stuff”—he laughed with an unnerving suddenness—“oh wait, there was this one time when she had me put—”

  “Just burn me already!” Armecia screamed.

  “She’s resigned to her fate!” Goodie Andor yelled. “It’s clear that, whatever this knight might have done, she’s put a spell over him to make him do her bidding! Burn the witch!”

  “Well, it can hardly work that way.” Sir Leonard frowned. “I mean, you can’t just scream ‘witch,’ then burn someone.” He glanced to the altar boy. “Can you do that here?”

  “She cleared my gran’daughter’s face of the pox!” the woman shrieked.

  “And?”

  “And that ain’t natural!”

  “But it’s still rather a pleasant surprise, isn’t it?”

  The crowd’s silence seemed to suggest so. Goodie Andor, looking flustered at their lack of response, compensated with a feral snarl.

  “She’s a half-breed! Her lineage is steeped in the blood of heathens and witches!”

  “That doesn’t seem like a good reason to burn someone,” Sir Leonard replied. “Or at least, not a good reason to completely burn someone. I mean, you could burn half of her, I suppose, but that doesn’t seem—”

  “Why are we still discussing this?” the woman demanded. “This knight, who smokes the demon weed brazenly under the eyes of heaven and who proclaims a half-heathen witch to be his mistress, has done naught but mock us and our way of life for as long as we’ve pretended to indulge him!”

  “That hardly seems like an appropriate accusation,” the knight replied, “I mean, I certainly haven’t leveled any sort of slander against your name, good sir.”

  There was a brief moment of tense silence, during which Armecia could swear she could smell the smoke crackling out of the woman’s ears.

  “I’m … a lady,” she growled.

  “We can debate semantics later.” Before she could respond, Sir Leonard waved a hand at the crowd. “Regardless of whatever we may think or feel about half people and the breeding thereof, we’re stuck at something of an impasse.” He offered a congenial smile that was at odds with the weapon in his hand. “I mean, I am the one with the sword.”

  Armecia, her fury spent, her fear bubbled away, could only roll her eyes. After accusations of heresy, heathenry, witchery, adultery, and the indulgence of an illicit substance, threats of violence seemed less like an assurance of a burning and more like an obstacle to one.

  The crowd, apparently, agreed.

  “This is takin’ forever!” one of the men cried out. “Are we going to see someone burn or not?”

  The chaplain, in no hurry to decide, merely scratched at his chins.

  “Perhaps we may yet,” he muttered. With a sweep of his robes, he turned to face the crowd. “Sir Leonard of Savhael … makes an important point.” He raised his hands for peace, two meaty shields against the abuse
hurled toward the platform. “Within all half-breeds, no matter what heathen or savage their bloodline might reflect, is bestowed the mercy of God.”

  “And the taint of the Devil!” someone cried out, followed by murmurs of approval.

  “Be that as it may,” he continued, “the grievous charges laid cannot be ignored.” He turned a leery eye toward Sir Leonard. “Nor can the grievous sins so brazenly displayed be redeemed …”

  His eye took on a wicked glint, Armecia thought, far more wicked than a holy man ought to be capable of.

  “Without equally grievous atonement.”

  And, for the first time since the spectacle had begun, Armecia felt fear. The torch, the accusations, the threats all ceased to have any effect upon her as the townspeople shifted in one filthy, flatulent harmony. The same wicked glint spread across each of their faces, the same cruel smile split each of their mouths in yellow-toothed glee, the same hoarse whisper hissed from their teeth.

  “Zeigfreid …”

  Lenny, apparently, did not see the same thing she saw, for he merely cocked his head to the side in pleasant curiosity.

  “So we’ve reached an accord?”

  “Of sorts,” the chaplain replied. “Rather, we’ve reached an ultimatum. If you agree to slay Zeigfreid, we’ll be happy to grant you the opportunity. And, truly, if you are able to give him righteous slaughter, we shall be convinced of your service to the lord.”

  “All we have to do is kill someone?” Leonard laughed. “That doesn’t sound hard at all. I’ve killed thousands of people before, you know.” He paused, glancing at Armecia. “I mean, roughly that, right?”

  “Zeigfreid is no mere heathen,” the chaplain proclaimed dramatically. “No, he is the filth vomited from the bride of the Devil’s womb! He is the source of all smoke and the sower of the seeds of foulness!” His piggy eyes narrowed to thin, black slits. “He is … DRAGON.”

  “Oh …” Leonard coughed. “A dragon.” At the chaplain’s shocked expression, he held up his hands. “It’s not that I’m not intimidated, of course. I just thought after all that dramatic stuff about wombs and foulness, you’d say something a bit more …”