Dragon Coast

by Greg Van Eekhout

  “And if it’s a lady?”

  “Also ‘my lord.’”

  “Moth, how do you know all this stuff?”

  “Books, my lord. There are books about this stuff. Right in your very own library. Along with family genealogies, royal histories, etiquette manuals … I’ve been staying up late with a flashlight under the covers.”

  “Do you know which fork I’m supposed to use?”

  “That’s in Beernan’s Etiquette of Court Dining. It’s a little musty, but I don’t think those things change much.” Moth paused, waiting until Daniel turned away from the scenery. “This stuff is important, D. I’ll be shunted off to wait in some antechamber with the other domestics. I won’t be there to help you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll bet my bones against any of theirs.”

  “I’m not worried about you in a fight. I mean a wizardly fight, not a proper fight with fists and biting. But that sort of thing at dinner would scupper our operation. And so would acting like you don’t belong at court. Minding your p’s and q’s is important.”

  Daniel gave Moth’s barrel-sized leg an affectionate pat. “I know. You’re right. You are the rock upon which I am building this scam. So, I call the Master of the Fire Eternal ‘sir,’ except, actually, in this case, she’s a ma’am, rhymes-with-‘damn.’ But I still call her ‘my lord.’ See? I’m paying attention.”

  The highway turned inland, winding through magisterial redwoods with tunnels built right through the trunks. Moth led lessons for another three hours, until Daniel’s head was stuffed full of curtsies and forms of address and gravy spoons. When they arrived in San Francisco, Daniel had time only to catch a glimpse of mansion-infested hills before being transferred to an elephant-driven coach that took him and Moth the rest of the way to the palace.

  By now, Cassandra and her team ought to be less than a day’s journey from here, and he shouldn’t worry that he hadn’t received any message from her yet. He didn’t expect to for another two days.

  He worried anyway.

  Moth tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re here.”

  Heavy chains clanked as guards in red livery drove elephants around a pair of massive windlasses to draw back the palace gates. The elephants trumpeted, straining. Even riding in back of a plush coach over the drawbridge, Daniel couldn’t shake the feeling he was being let into an overbuilt prison.

  At least it was a nice prison, set in botanical gardens with acres of tropical ferns, a stand of redwoods, cacti and other weird, spiky things. Rising above even the tallest of the trees soared a spire of glass, paned in emerald, sapphire, and ruby: the Jewel Palace.

  Moth looked out with his nose pressed to the window as they drew up before a welcoming committee. On the flagstone courtyard, ceremonial guards and dignitaries stood in formation, while musicians blared a fanfare on long trumpets. It looked like a lot of inconvenience, and it drove home the idea that Paul had been a very important man in this kingdom.

  Daniel was relieved that neither Cynara nor Allaster Doring were in view.

  Porters unloaded Paul’s trunks, packed by Gorov with clothes and household items that apparently Paul couldn’t travel without. This was supposed to be only a few-night’s stay, but he’d brought enough for a months-long grand tour.

  Getting Daniel out of the coach required a crew of six footmen plus the coach driver to open the door and bring over stairs for the one-foot drop to a spotless red carpet.

  “Do you get out first, or am I supposed to?” Daniel whispered.

  “Did you sleep through finishing school?” Moth clambered out and took his place at the end of the line of footmen, respectful of the occasion in a black formal coat. Daniel stepped down onto the carpet. What Paul would make of all this pomp. Was he openly disdainful of it? Resigned to it? Or maybe he enjoyed it and considered it his due.

  Daniel decided to play it as though he were weary of everything. He was, after all, supposed to be convalescing.

  Some guy—Daniel had no idea who he was, Minister of Groveling or something—greeted Daniel with a lot of curlicue words and escorted him and Moth into the palace. Daniel’s eyes instinctively probed the entry hall for things to steal and places to conceal himself: ceiling vents, broom closets. But from what he could see, the palace was a glass box. The gleaming floors, the high walls, the stratospheric ceiling were all facets of bright emerald. This was not so much a building as it was the interior of the world’s most colossal gemstone. It was kind of beautiful. And unnerving. It made Daniel feel like a flaw.

  The Minister of Groveling took them deeper into the palace. Through a doorway, Daniel caught a glimpse into a vast chamber. At the far wall, a hundred yards away, a gargantuan reptilian skull curved over the back of an empty throne. He kept moving, but the scents of osteomancy stayed with him. He smelled flight in high, thin air, and rich undersea powers, and more than anything else, magma and pressure and gases rushing from shattered earth. He hoped the scents had been left lurking in the room as a deliberate display of power and weren’t just what the Hierarch left effortlessly in her wake. In any case, if the throne room was so rich in osteomantic tells when empty, he could only imagine what it might smell like when she sat upon her throne.

  They finally arrived at Daniel’s suite of rooms. The dominant theme of the main sitting room was the color red, with red-glassed windows and walls covered in red silk and furniture of red mahogany and redwood upholstered in red. The Hierarch had put him up in a slab of rare prime rib.

  Moth chased off their escort and shut the doors with a sigh of relief. He took a stroll around the room, presumably checking the paintings on the walls and the statues on plinths for any dangers. The place smelled clean to Daniel.

  Daniel turned his attention to the exotic cut orchids, the quality liquor and wine and cheese on a sideboard. A sealed envelope of creamy, thick paper stock sat on a writing desk.

  “Dude, can you just imagine?” Moth enthused. “Back in the day I’d be cramming everything in this room in a pillowcase.”

  “I take it this stuff is valuable?”

  Moth jabbed his finger toward a painting of red boxes the size of a garage door. “That’s a Rothko. It’s worth millions.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What’s that thing when the little inky bugs go into your eyes and make brain knowledge? Reading.”

  “Art books are mostly pictures, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t insult me when I’m busy insulting you. Your thiefcraft is flabby. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for the score. You’ve got to be sharp enough to devise a plan to get it, and smooth enough to execute it. My job is to be the muscle, but you’re supposed to be the criminal mastermind. I can’t do everything myself.”

  “I’ve been working. I’ve already discovered that the Hierarch’s treasury is in the palace, which means the crown jewels are also likely in the palace.”

  “Which means the axis mundi bone is probably somewhere in the palace. Okay, that is a nice bit of work. When did that happen?”

  Daniel showed him the piece of paper he’d found in the envelope.

  “It’s a schedule,” Daniel said. “Cocktails at six. Dinner at seven. Brandy and cigars at nine. Guided tour of the treasury at ten.”

  “Cheater.”

  A discreet knock on the door, and Moth went to answer. A servant stood in the hall bearing a small wooden chest.

  “My apologies, sir. The porters missed this one.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Sir. His lordship’s handkerchiefs.”

  “Let’s see them.”

  The servant grew pale as Moth used his size and growl to threaten him.

  Daniel silently formulated a joke: How many guys did it take to deliver Paul’s hankies? Two. One to bring them, and Moth to make him pee his pants.

  The joke still needed some work.

  With a shaky hand, the servant opened the chest.

  “Yes, those indeed are his lordship’s” was Moth’
s haughty verdict. “I’ll take them.”

  As soon as the chest was in Moth’s hands, the servant punched Moth in the jaw, hard enough that Daniel heard the crack of facial bones. Moth stumbled and fell back. Before he could recover and counter, the servant flicked his hand, and three flechettes penetrated Moth’s chest. Daniel smelled basilisk venom. Moth sagged to one knee, tried to rise back up but collapsed. Coal-black blotches formed on his face, and he stared lifelessly at the ceiling, foam spilling from his slightly parted lips and mingling with blood from his mouth.

  The man leaped nimbly over Moth’s body and turned his full attention to Daniel.

  “What do you want?” Daniel said, though the answer was obvious. He stepped back and away.

  The assassin was a professional. He’d been hired to kill, not to chat. Three flechettes identical to those he’d subdued Moth with were tucked between his fingers.

  Daniel kept backing away, and the assassin watched him warily. Paul was no easy target. Surely the assassin knew that, as did whoever sent him.

  “Who hired you? Did you try to poison me at San Simeon?” Daniel backed into an armchair. The assassin allowed himself a hint of a smile, satisfied that he’d cornered his prey, but that’s what Daniel wanted. He’d drawn the assassin away from Moth, and now he could strike with kraken lightning or vomit fire without catching Moth accidentally.

  He drew upon the Colombian dragon in his bones. Essences of dragon scales hardened his chest. The assassin flung the flechettes. They struck Daniel over his heart, only to fall on the carpet like dead birds.

  The assassin jerked his arms, and knives popped from the cuffs of his jacket and into his hands.

  Daniel let him have kraken electricity, enough to stun even Moth unconscious. He pushed out the sizzling forks of energy, but the assassin only faltered, then shook it off. His knives whizzed past Daniel’s head, and Daniel smelled seps. The blades thunked into the Rothko painting, and the canvas disintegrated like dry paper in a fire.

  Daniel had had enough. He wanted the assassin alive, but not at the expense of his own life. He unleashed another bolt of kraken, this time enough to kill a monoceros. The assassin went down, smoke rising from his back. The air smelled of basilisk, seps, kraken, and smoldering fabric.

  Moth groaned.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  “I’m fine.” His voice was weak, his breathing labored. But a new scent joined the others: the green, fungal aromas of hydra, which told Daniel that Moth was healing. Daniel swallowed with relief.

  “You better not have killed that guy,” Moth croaked. “Because I’m going to hit him so hard his grandchildren will need occupational therapy.”

  “You just sit and rest a spell, Moth.”

  Daniel turned the assassin over. He was still breathing.

  “Golly, you’re a tough one,” Daniel said. “You can take a hit, and you can certainly give it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my friend smacked that hard.”

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Moth protested, spitting blood on the carpet.

  “But I don’t smell enough osteomancy to make you such a strong fellow. And I didn’t smell your basilisk and seps blades until it was too late. Concealing aromas like that is high-level magic.”

  “I’m not telling you who hired me,” the assassin rasped. It sounded as if Daniel had cooked his throat.

  “I think you are going to tell me.”

  Daniel exhaled. Blue flame flared from his lungs. In an instant, the assassin’s singed eyebrows turned to flaking carbon.

  “Tell him what he wants to know,” Moth said, “or else I’m going to fetch graham crackers and chocolate. That makes you the marshmallow, in case you’re not following.”

  The assassin glared at Daniel with contempt, but his expression was mixed with fear, and horror, and a profound sadness. Daniel recognized the combination.

  “I don’t want to die.”

  Moth huffed, impatient. “S’mores, is what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” He said it again and again, breaking into sobs, and despite the fact that the assassin had meant to murder him, Daniel felt pity. He’d never been good at interrogation. Instilling fear just made him feel vaguely sick.

  “This is the second attempt on my life in as many days. And before that someone tried to murder my daughter. Tell me who hired you, and I won’t kill you. I won’t even hurt you worse.”

  The man worked his lips but couldn’t form words. His tears dried to salt on his face. His skin paled, turned gray and began to splinter. Daniel smelled gorgon. He moved away from him and told Moth to get back. The man’s fingers curled. He drew his knees in and bent himself into a fetal position, his skin crackling, his limbs growing rigid, his hair crusting over as he turned to stone. Gray dust and flakes sifted off his body with the sound of wind over sand. A powder like dry cement sifted from his servant’s costume.

  Moth gaped. “What the hell?”

  “An assassin with an expiration date. This took expensive magic. What’s Gorov’s salary?”

  “Not enough to buy gorgon. Which means whoever wants you dead is high up. But I guess that’s nothing new for you.”

  “They don’t want me dead. They want the guy I’m pretending to be dead.”

  “Okay, that is new.”

  “Sounds strange, but I have bigger priorities than not getting assassinated. I’m not sure what I should be doing about this.”

  “I have some ideas.”

  Moth’s ideas turned out to be simple and practical. First, he poured each of them a glass of expensive brandy. Then he went to the phone and dialed zero.

  “Send up a maid to Lord Paul’s chambers,” he ordered, looking at the assassin’s remains. “There’s a spill to clean up.”

  * * *

  All through cocktails Daniel felt as if he were walking the edge of a sandstone cliff. It wasn’t enough to step carefully when accepting the good wishes of the realm’s lords and ladies, government figures, business titans, and osteomancers. He felt he could get everything right, convince everyone he was Paul, and still falter, because Paul walked a more perilous road than Daniel had imagined.

  At least he didn’t have to pretend to know people’s names. They were announced upon each guest’s entrance, and then a flurry of gossip would fill him in on the basics of their biographies, scandals included.

  “The Countess Helena, High Osteomancer of Sausalito, and Count Lourdes,” honked a crier at the door, and anyone with ears would soon learn of the count’s infidelities and the countess’s misguided attempt to grow wings, which would explain the voluminous sleeves of her gown.

  Paul’s own announcement had been followed by at least ten minutes of delicious mutterings, and Daniel overheard seven different reasons for Paul’s long absence, including time spent living on the bottom of the sea, as well as in a volcano, as well as a yearlong cleansing that involved fasting and enemas. Nobody mentioned anything about Catalina Island and dragons.

  There were murmurs about the afternoon’s assassination attempt and the poisoned food at San Simeon. He heard the name Doring dropped more than once.

  He also learned that people were careful around him. Those who approached to give their respects did so with stiff caution. This suited Daniel fine.

  When Allaster Doring was announced, he entered the room as though he were penetrating it. Snagging a champagne glass from a waiter, he strode toward Daniel, and the party-goers cleared a space around them. They watched with salacious interest, as if they were expecting a bare-knuckle brawl to break out.

  The murmurers and titterers fell silent. The string quartet decided to play everything pianissimo before their bows stopped entirely. Ice cubes clinked inside glasses.

  Allaster came to a stop before Daniel.

  “For crying out loud,” he roared. “We’re not going to fight in the middle of cocktail hour. Go back to your prattling.” He made shooing motions with his hand, and the murmuring started up a
gain, and the music resumed, and the clusters of conversation re-formed.

  Allaster brushed an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve and sipped champagne. “Bread and circuses are a fine idea, but damned if I’m going to be the circus.”

  “Better than being the bread,” Daniel said.

  “Good point.” Allaster flashed a winning smile and raised his glass to Daniel. “Just so you know, that assassin wasn’t mine.”

  “That’s lovely to hear, Allaster. Why should I believe you?”

  “Have you ever known me to be subtle? About anything?”

  Daniel took a drink.

  “The whole point of killing you would be to prove I’m the stronger osteomancer. Paying someone else to do it, behind closed doors, out of view…? That would prove nothing.”

  “So if it wasn’t you, who, then? Your sister, maybe.”

  Allaster’s face became thoughtful. “We did have one governess who punished Cynara for melting a rather expensive statue in her cauldron. I think it was a Rodin? I don’t know, I was only six.”

  “And the governess?”

  There was some commotion at the door, and Allaster’s smile became resplendent. “Here’s your chance to ask her yourself.”

  The crier announced Cynara’s name, and Allaster’s sister entered in a black gown that flowed over her like liquid, carrying with her a cloud of potent magical scents. As she approached, Daniel found himself unable to stop staring at her exposed shoulders. He had to force himself to look up from them and acknowledge her eyes. Unfortunately, they were beguiling as well. Her clavicles were beguiling. Even her nostrils were beguiling.