“—give an immensely important military discovery to our enemies?”
“I am certain you have good reason.”
“I do, Mr. Sloan.”
Sir Henry rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, brought the tips of his fingers together, and placed his two forefingers on his narrow chin. He gazed in silence into the empty grate for long moments while Mr. Sloan sat quietly, waiting.
“The demons attacked a stone guard tower not twenty miles from where we are sitting, Mr. Sloan. When you and I inspected the site, we saw how the magical constructs that strengthened the stones had been completely erased. That attack on Freyan soil was both a test and a taunt. The attack on our Rosian enemies in Westfirth was the same. As Eiddwen said, events have been set in motion. These fiends are letting both nations know that they are coming and there is not a damn thing we can do to stop them.”
Sir Henry was once again silent. Leaving his chair, he went to the window. Darkness had fallen. The lamplighter had been and gone. A gentle mist wreathed the shining lamps in ghostly halos.
“I foresee a time, Mr. Sloan, when Rosia and Freya will be unwilling allies in a war against this demonic foe, whoever or whatever it is. I want my ally to be as strong as myself. That is why I sent the pewter tankard to the countess. She will understand.”
Sir Henry started to say something else when he was interrupted by the sounds of a great commotion upstairs: feet pounding, muffled voices, an agonized scream, and then silence. Then raised voices and more pounding footfalls.
Sir Henry paled. He and Mr. Sloan looked at each other. Sir Henry put his hand on the back of the chair for support and stood staring at the closed door.
There was a knock. Sir Henry tried to speak and failed.
“Enter,” said Mr. Sloan.
The footman opened the door and announced the royal physician. He came into the room, smiling expansively.
“A son, my lord. Congratulations.”
Sir Henry’s grip on the chair tightened. “My wife?”
“Your son was born without complications. Lady Anne is young and healthy. I venture to say she will bear your lordship many more children. When I left her, she was already sitting up and asking for a cup of tea.”
“Praise God,” said Mr. Sloan.
Sir Henry muttered something and turned his back. He blinked his eyes, wiped his nose, and offered a heartfelt silent prayer. Regaining his composure, he then expressed his thanks to the royal physician and insisted that he partake of a glass of port.
The royal physician, knowing the quality of Sir Henry’s port, was only too happy to accept. The gentlemen were toasting Sir Henry and Lady Anne when the nursemaid entered the room, carrying a large bundle.
She curtsied and said, “Lady Anne sends her regards, my lord, and asks if you would like to meet your son.”
The nursemaid lifted a fold of the blanket to reveal the young lord, who was notable for being extremely red, wrinkled, and bald. He was screaming lustily, his small fists flailing, his eyes squinched tight shut.
Sir Henry regarded the child with pride and dismay. “He’s quite ugly, isn’t he, Mr. Sloan?”
Mr. Sloan gave a discreet cough. “I was about to say he resembles you, my lord.”
2
The rift that split dragonkind dates back to the fall of the Sunlit Empire. The dragon noble families do not speak of what caused the schism, though historians say it had to do with their friendliness to humans. The wild dragons took their reasons and their anger with them, disappearing into the uncharted places of the world.
—Count Suldrigail, historian of the dragon clan Blumont
The Cadre of the Lost was living up to their name. Their houseboat, the Cloud Hopper, had been ambushed by a Freyan frigate lying in wait for them near a deserted island. The ambush had been orchestrated by Sir Henry Wallace, Freyan diplomat, spy, and assassin. Concealed behind the island’s only mountain, the frigate had opened fire before anyone on board the houseboat knew it was there. The Cloud Hopper had gone down in flames, crash-landing on one of the multitude of deserted islands in the Chain of Pearls.
The island was far from the shipping lanes, which meant there was no hope of rescue. Stephano had not even bothered to light signal fires, knowing it would be useless. No one would see the light or the smoke. If they were going to escape, they would have to do it on their own.
This day, the thirty-second day of their maroonment, as Rodrigo termed it, he and Dag took their seats at what was jocularly known as the dining table—a wooden plank from a cargo box balanced on two tree stumps. The sun had set behind the mountain, spreading darkness over the campsite.
The members of the Cadre were eating their main meal late to take advantage of the cool evening breeze that provided some relief from the stifling summer heat. Their chairs were logs, cut and planed smooth or at least as smooth as Dag had been able to make them. Rodrigo still complained about splinters in his posterior, but these days he complained about everything.
Miri carried dishes to the table. Since the crockery had all broken in the crash, they were eating out of tin cups and off tin plates. She plunked these down on the plank. The pewter tankard, given to Rodrigo by Sir Henry, was accorded a place of honor in the center.
“The tankard is inscribed with the magical constructs Alcazar developed to use on steel,” Rodrigo explained to his comrades. “According to Alcazar, bullets bounce off the metal. You can pack the tankard with gunpowder, blow it up, and perhaps cause a dent or two.”
Stephano asked Dag to test the tankard, and Dag obliged, firing his blunderbuss at point-blank range. The blast sent the tankard clanging and bounding over the ground. When Stephano retrieved it, he found to his amazement that there was not a scratch on it.
“Wallace risked his life to kidnap Alcazar and this tankard,” Stephano said. “Why would he give it to Rosia—his most hated foe? He must know that we will figure out how to produce the metal.”
“Especially since I was the one who developed the theory behind it,” Rodrigo said. “As for why he gave it to me, that has to do with the Bottom Dwellers.”
“The demons? What have they got to do with magically enhanced steel?” Stephano asked.
“I am not certain,” Rodrigo answered. “All I know is that prior to the Bottom Dwellers’ attack on Westfirth, Sir Henry was going to kill me. After the demons blew up the Royal Lion, he wasn’t. He gave me the tankard and said I was to give it to your mother.”
Thus the pewter tankard had earned its honored place on the table. Today, Gythe added a few decorative sprigs of goldenrod.
“Stephano told me not to wait for him,” said Dag, lowering himself gingerly onto the log that served as a chair. Dag was a large man and somewhat ungainly, and he had to balance himself carefully on the log or else end up on the ground. “He and Gythe are still trying to befriend the dragons.”
“Useless,” Miri said curtly. “I’ve told Stephano as much. These are wild dragons. They are not like the noble dragons he knew on Rosia. These dragons left their homes centuries ago because they didn’t trust humans. They’re not likely to change their minds. He needs to give up this foolish dream that he’s going to start his own Dragon Brigade.”
She slammed an iron pot down onto the table. “Eat up. Fish stew.”
Rodrigo peered at the contents—bits of cut-up fish and wild vegetables—and blanched. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Miri demanded.
“I can’t eat fish stew,” said Rodrigo plaintively. “Not again.”
“We had squirrel stew last night,” said Miri.
“That’s worse,” Rodrigo muttered.
“Are you saying my cooking is bad?” Miri put her hands on her hips.
“I’m saying the fish stew is bad. The squirrel stew is beyond bad. The bread, however, is almost edible. I will make do with that.”
Rodrigo reached for a hunk of bread that Miri had made from ground millet and wild yeast. She rapped him on the knuckl
es with her spoon, causing him to drop it with a pained yelp.
“Get up from my table, sir. This instant. If you don’t like my cooking, you don’t have to eat it!”
“But Miri, you must understand,” Rodrigo protested, snatching back his bruised knuckles. “I have a refined palate—”
“You’re going to have a refined skull unless you do as I say!” Miri cried, grabbing a knife.
“Go ahead. Kill me now,” said Rodrigo glumly. “Put me out of my misery.”
Miri blindly flung the knife at Rodrigo, missed, and nearly hit Dag. She was going for Rodrigo with her fists when Dag caught hold of her around the waist and dragged her back. With her red hair standing up like the fur on an angry cat, Miri kicked Rodrigo in the shin, then gathered up her skirts and ran back to the Cloud Hopper. She disappeared belowdecks.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Dag said angrily to Rodrigo, who was examining his leg worriedly to see if she’d caused a bruise. “Miri spends all day fixing meals: gathering vegetables, fishing, setting snares, and picking fruit, and all you do is complain!”
“I said the bread was edible,” Rodrigo muttered, and reached for the loaf.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Dag yelled, and moving to stop him, overturned the plank table, sending plates, bread, stew pot, and stew onto the grass.
Doctor Ellington, the large orange-striped tabby, strolled over and sniffed at the pot. He sneezed twice and walked off. Rodrigo gazed down at the mess.
“See there. Even the cat won’t eat it.”
Dag glared murderously at Rodrigo. He was saved by the arrival of Stephano and Gythe, emerging from the woods. They had been with the wild dragons, and judging by their appearance, today had not been a good day. Stephano walked with his head down, his shoulders slumped. Gythe held her harp close to her chest, finding comfort in the instrument where there was comfort nowhere else.
Stephano took one look at the overturned table, the scattered dishes, and Dag standing with clenched fists ready to pound Rodrigo and sighed. “What happened now?”
“Fish stew happened,” said Rodrigo. He rose to his feet. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Take a long one,” Dag advised, scowling. “Off the edge of the island.”
Miri leaned out a window of the Cloud Hopper to shake her fist and shout something in the Trundler language.
Stephano shook his head. “I don’t know what she said, but it didn’t sound good. Gythe, go see to your sister. Rigo, get back here and clean up this mess. Dag, give me a hand with the table.”
Gythe hurried to the houseboat, Dag helped Stephano lift the plank and replace it on the tree stumps, and Rodrigo picked up plates, cups, and cutlery. The fish stew was not salvageable.
The three sat down; Dag was grim, Rodrigo maddeningly nonchalant, and Stephano discouraged.
Rodrigo picked up the loaf and brushed off the dirt. “Bread?”
“I’m not hungry,” said Stephano. He looked around, suddenly alarmed. “Where’s the pewter tankard? We can’t lose that.”
Rodrigo located the tankard in the grass and replaced it on the table, flowers and all.
“Any progress with the wild dragons, sir?” Dag asked.
“None,” said Stephano, running his hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Gythe plays her harp and I tell them stories, but the three dragons just sit there and stare at us.”
“I was hoping someday I’d have the chance to ride a dragon, sir,” Dag said.
“Doesn’t look as if any of us will have the chance,” said Stephano gloomily. “Every day the dragons come to the field around noon. The same three. I swear they’re listening and that they understand what I’m saying. Why would they sit there if they didn’t? Wild dragons lived around humans for centuries. They learned our language, the same as their civilized cousins. Even if it was long ago, the elders would remember it. These three don’t give any sign that they understand—not the blink of an eye or the flick of a tail. And yet they come back, day after day.”
Stephano rested his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his hands. “Sometimes I think we’re never going to get off this goddamned island.”
“Relying on wild dragons was always a bit of a long shot, sir,” said Dag.
“I wasn’t relying on them. I thought it would be…” Stephano shook his head and fell silent.
“Like old times,” said Rodrigo. “Your own Dragon Brigade.”
“I suppose I did,” said Stephano. “What a stupid notion that was! How are the repairs to the Hopper coming?”
Fire had destroyed the galley and all their food stores. A piece of shrapnel had punctured one of the lift tanks, allowing the precious gas that kept the ship afloat to leak out. Cannonballs had punched a few holes in the hull and torn up the balloon and sails.
“I shored up that support knee and replaced most of the decking in the galley,” said Dag. “The main deck and galley are finished. I’ve cut the rest of the planks and should have those in place soon. The hull is structurally sound. We can nail canvas over the holes to keep the weather out until we reach port. Miri’s been patching the sails and the balloon. With one remaining large lift tank and a full reserve tank, Miri’s confident that we will have enough lift to sail the boat off the island and back home.”
“That’s good news,” said Stephano, brightening. “Rigo, what about the magic?”
Rodrigo answered with a snort.
“That is not very helpful,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo was Stephano’s childhood friend, a loyal companion, dearer than any brother. Brilliant, witty, talented, a favorite of the ladies, fond of fine clothes and fine wine and fine silk sheets shared with a lovely companion, Rodrigo was convinced he was stranded in hell. And he seemed determined to make life hell for everyone else.
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Stephano,” Rodrigo answered. “Gythe and I can repair the Trundler magic. The problem is the damage done by the green fire that hit the boat when the Bottom Dwellers attacked us at the abbey. Wherever the green fire hit, the magical constructs Gythe and I laid over that area are unstable. They weaken and break. Which means they can’t be repaired.”
“Why is this happening?” Stephano asked.
“I have no idea,” said Rodrigo with a shrug. “I don’t understand contramagic. And that is what is at work here.”
“I don’t think you should talk about … that foul magic,” Dag said, glowering. “It’s evil.”
“Contramagic is not evil,” said Rodrigo. “As I’ve told you before, contramagic is neither good nor evil. It is simply the opposite of magic. Just as air is neither good nor evil, or fire or dirt, for that matter.”
“The church has proclaimed such magic evil,” said Dag, his face growing darker.
“That’s because the church is a bloody ignoramus—”
“Stop it, both of you!” Stephano ordered sharply.
They all sat in silence for a moment, not a comfortable silence as between friends, but an angry, disheartened silence.
Dag was bare chested in the heat, except for the suspenders holding up his trousers. He wore a kerchief around his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping in his eyes as he worked.
Stephano was in shirtsleeves and trousers. He kept his blond hair cut short.
Rodrigo would have as soon run naked through the woods as appear without a shirt. He would occasionally take off his lavender coat, if the day were especially hot, and even then he insisted on retaining his weskit. He had been reduced to doing his own laundry after Miri and Gythe had both flatly refused. His linen was as clean as beating his clothes on rocks in the lake could make them.
He broke the silence. “I can’t think about magic when I’m starving.”
“You are not starving,” said Stephano shortly.
“Fish stew, night after bloody night when the island is teeming with deer—”
“We’ve been over this,” said Stephano. “Dragons live on deer meat and it takes a lot of deer to
feed a clan of dragons. If the dragons think we’re competing with them for their food supply, they’ll eat us.”
Dag sighed loudly and glumly ate bread. Rodrigo tossed his share to the cat. Stephano regarded his friends with concern. As their commander he was responsible for keeping up their spirits, even on days when his own spirits were dragging on the ground behind him. Stephano was worried especially about open warfare breaking out between Dag and Rodrigo.
Stephano had first encountered Dag when they were on opposite sides during the battle known as the Siege of the Royal Sail. Dag was an expert shot, coolheaded and courageous in a fight. He was accustomed to living in rough conditions, making the best of a bad time.
Dag had tolerated Rodrigo, but never liked him. A man of strict religious upbringing, Dag considered Rodrigo a wastrel and a libertine. Rodrigo professed to like Dag, and then treated him in a patronizing manner that was worse than outright enmity.
The three men once again fell silent. A slight breeze stirred the leaves. The songs and calls of birds were cheering sounds in the evening.
“Look at it this way, Rigo,” said Stephano, trying to raise his friend’s spirits. “With all the weight you’ve lost, you’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe.”
Rodrigo managed a wan smile. “I can add the cost to the expenses and give the bill to your mother. We were doing a job for her, after all, when we were shot down.”
“A job we failed. Wallace escaped with the journeyman we were supposed to save. Alcazar is undoubtedly producing this magically enhanced steel for our enemies.”
Stephano gave the pewter tankard a flick with his thumb and forefinger.
“The countess can hardly blame you for the fact that we were attacked by the Bottom Dwellers,” said Rodrigo.
“No, but she will blame me for being stupid enough to fall for Sir Henry’s ruse and actually helping him to safely escape Westfirth.”
“Not to mention shooting the confidential agent of His Eminence, the grand bishop,” said Rodrigo slyly.
“That was an accident,” Stephano protested. “I only winged Monsieur Dubois.”
Storm Riders Page 2