“Hand it over!” I said.
“What?” said Jasper.
“Maybe she wants something to rid her of that dragonka fever,” said Deklyn. “She does look a little scaly today.”
“Give him back!” I said.
“This runt?” said Jasper. “He’ll never win any tournaments. Best you can hope for to get money out of him is if you sell his hide to a wallet-maker.”
“I don’t want money from him,” I said.
“But isn’t that what these dragonka are all for?” asked Jasper. “You know there was a time when real dragons ruled the sky. Only a chosen few could ride them. But—for the sake of profit—the powers that be turned them into these ridiculous little toys. What a waste.”
“Big deal,” I said.
“Oh, did they teach you to behave like that in your fancy school?” said Deklyn.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“A lot,” he said.
“I’m sure you do. I bet you work for the Boot,” I said.
“What?” said Deklyn. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you sell fake potions and nobody arrests you,” I said. “Everybody knows the Boot has spies, even here.”
“I have lived in Jozseftown all my life,” he answered. “The neighborhood protects me, and I protect it. We have nothing to do with the Boot. Nothing. Never.”
“Fine,” I acquiesced.
“Give the princess back her toy,” said Deklyn, whom I was beginning to really dislike. Who did they think they were? But Abel seemed unwilling to relinquish the dragonka. He looked back and forth between me, Deklyn, and the small beast. He finally walked over to me and held it out.
“Take good care of it,” he said.
The dragonka flew from Abel’s hands into mine. It was still shivering, but calmed in my embrace. I turned from them and stalked away, anger burning in my cheeks.
BUT THAT WAS ONLY the beginning of my troubles. That night, when I was quietly playing with the pup in my room, I heard a pounding at the front door. I tiptoed down the stairs and listened to my mother shuffle from her room. She opened the door a crack, but it was quickly thrust open by a huge, black-uniformed arm. The Boot.
“Citizen,” the officer began in a stern voice. “We have come to check each pet for dragonka fever. Please present any beast in your household to us at once.”
“But we have no dragonka here,” my mother said. I could hear fear in her voice. But it was not a lie, for she still knew nothing of my pup.
“That is not what our sources tell us,” said the Boot.
“Look at us,” she said. “We are poor. How could we keep a dragonka?”
Please, I silently begged Mother, do not fail me here.
The Boot faltered. He knew she was right. Probably he issued the same command at every doorstep in hopes of catching out some poor soul.
“Very well,” he said. “If you see any suspicious activity in the neighborhood, or any unclaimed dragonka pups, please let us know. Archibald the Precious is very concerned.” I let out a sigh.
“Is that all?” Mother asked.
“If you have no beast, then I am afraid I will have to ask for any gold you have in the house,” he responded formally.
“Gold?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. We are to confiscate all gold. In the name of the Palace.”
“But I have no gold!”
“We can see that is not true,” the officer said.
“You can’t mean … this? It’s my wedding ring!” she cried. The silence that was followed by the soft shutting of the door confirmed what I knew: she had given them her ring. I felt a wince of guilt: I was responsible for that somehow.
IT WAS TIME TO START MAKING SENSE OF THIS. The next morning I again tucked the beast into its burlap sack and made my way through the crowd toward the Dragonka Exchange. The dragonka perked up as we neared the market. It could sense other dragonka behind the gates, and became alert. Traders from the Exchange came and went through the building’s darkened door, which was arched and heavy like that of a castle. Reliable accounts had it that the gate led to another farther on that opened up upon a courtyard. There, the Exchange’s private stock of dragonka were kept, the flying ones exercising their wings and the earthbound dragonka frolicking beneath. Their stock of dragonka, used for breeding and research, was rumored to be unparalleled. It was the source of limitless wealth, the breeds of the dragonka collection unmatched in variety and rarity.
I ARRIVED AT THE HEAVY DOORS and banged the knocker, which was fashioned to look like the nose ring of a horned dragon. A guard peered out at me from a small portal.
“Yes?” he demanded sternly, as though I was a beggar.
I did not know what to say, but before I could even speak, he slammed the window shut, after shouting “no visitors!” I knocked again. This time, when the latch flew open, I took the dragonka from its sack and held it out for the man to see.
“Well then,” he said. “Here for a sitting? That is another story.”
Dragonka owners were each entitled to a sitting with the Exchange mystics, who rated them on characteristics of coloring, poise, and charm, thus determining their price on the open market.
I walked in the now open door, gazing around. The entranceway was adorned with friezes of dragonka, which lined the walls like hieroglyphs, telling the story of their domestication from great ancient Dravonian dragons; of how the Dragonka Exchange modified them over the centuries until they were the pet dragonka we know today. Traders brushed past me, hurrying to and fro. “You just wait here,” the guard said. Before long he returned with an escort, a snippy little man dressed in a sharp suit with an identification badge hanging from his neck, who would take me to the mystics. As we passed the doors to the courtyard I could hear the Exchange’s dragonka as they played and exercised. My dragonka heard it, too, and craned its head in their direction.
“The mystics are quite occupied today,” he said. “So don’t be surprised if they dismiss you. This way.” He was obviously busy and wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible. He led me down a long flight of stairs, then sat me down on a velvet sofa opposite two iron doors. The doors to the sitting room creaked open and a voice boomed from inside. “Enter!”
I picked the beast up and passed into the darkened room, which smelled of incense. The door closed behind me; I faced a jury of three identical mystics sitting behind a huge wood table.
“Don’t be afraid,” said one. They were aged men, long gray beards hung over their black tunics. “Put the creature on the table in front of us, then have a seat.” I had a list of questions I wanted to ask—but fell immediately speechless. I did as I was told. The dragonka promptly went into a pout, curling himself up into a ball. No sooner did that happen than the center mystic reached out and grabbed him. I felt my heart protest at the rough way he was being handled. This was a surprising feeling. Where did that pang come from? But the creature submitted, allowing the mystic to unfurl it and hold it stiff as a board in front of him, like a stuffed fish.
“A problematic one, this beast?” the mystic asked me.
“Yes sir,” I responded. They passed it from one to another. Not one betrayed a hint of approval or dismay. They put it back on the table, then leaned in to confer. This lasted several minutes, until they broke and fixed their gaze on me.
“Perhaps we should keep Luma for the evening,” one mystic finally said. “Just to get a more thorough appraisal.”
“Luma?” I said.
“Yes,” laughed the mystic. “This is your dragonka, isn’t it? He does belong to you?”
“No,” I admitted. “It, he, is not mine. That is why I am here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the mystic. “Owning something is about paper and words, things with no power. Luma belongs to you, and that is different. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” I answered. Luma, it sounded nice to my ear, and seemed to harmonize with the dragonka’s ethereal and dark demea
nor. How they knew this, I could not tell. That is why they were mystics, after all. The dragonka, upon hearing his name, jumped up and scampered about the table, from one end to the other. The mystic produced a bag filled with pellet-sized reddish fruit, pinched some with his fingers, and held it out to Luma, who devoured the food voraciously.
“He’s eating,” I said.
“Pomegranate seeds. You can never go wrong with pomegranate seeds.”
Luma spun himself in dizzy circles then came to an abrupt stop, falling over.
“Moody little thing,” commented the oldest mystic. Then suddenly the door to the room was thrown open.
“What is the meaning of this interruption!” demanded one mystic.
The guard at the door looked stricken.
“It’s the Boot,” he finally said.
“Tell them to go away!” the mystic bellowed.
“I cannot. They are stopping all dragonka trade,” the guard stammered.
“What? The Boot have no authority here,” shouted another mystic.
“I am afraid it is even worse,” said the guard. “By Archibald the Precious’s order they are removing the dragonka. They are closing us down. We have to get you away. Quickly, through the catacombs.”
Forgetting about me, the three mystics rose and rushed from the room, moving stealthily and nimbly for men so aged. The dragonka—Luma—immediately jumped to my chest and clung to me. From outside the door, I could hear the sounds of shouting, dogs barking, and the braying of dragonka. I snuck up the steps and peeked around the corner. There I saw Boot agents who, with their black uniforms and red wolfhounds, were streaming into the courtyard, carrying metal cages and nets. They were returning with dragonka, which were crying in high, wretched sounds that sent shivers to my core. I watched as dragonka traders were marched out of the building, their hands bound. Boot guards beat old men with their batons in order to get them to move faster. When one dragonka tried to escape, a noose was cast around its neck, and it was pinned to the ground and held there until it was unconscious on the floor.
I tucked Luma into his sack and hid it under my coat.
I walked down the corridor. Boot agents flew past me, in search of the Exchange’s hidden vaults and chambers. I walked through the mayhem unnoticed. Near the entrance, I saw that the door to the courtyard had been flung open: the private stock of the Dragonka Exchange exposed. I could not resist peering inside.
There I beheld a sight as dazzling as a firework display’s grand finale. Dragonka of the most unique breeding and coloration were swirling about in the air in prismlike beauty, while the earthbound ones were jumping up on their hind legs, in an effort to evade the hounds of the Boot. The dragonka were enthralling, like deep-sea fish. One had a tiger’s coloration and markings, others were tiny and delicate as butterflies, and hovered curiously in front of my face for a few moments before moving on. Muses of kiš-dragonka (dragonka in miniature, no bigger than lightning-bugs) swarmed through it all, stressed by the upheaval. A panicked dragonka scampered past me and charged the front door, where Boot agents were waiting with huge nets.
“Let none escape!” yelled a Boot commander. Guards seemed to be everywhere now, throwing furniture from the upper stories of the courtyard, making large piles of sales receipts and deeds to pedigree, and setting them ablaze. Then suddenly a huge red wolfhound was upon me, barking in my face, its teeth yellow and dripping with spittle. This was the first time I had been close to a red Boot hound, its fur raised on its back, blood-lust in its black eyes. It could have bitten off my arm as easily as one would pull husk from an ear of corn. I recoiled. The hound, sensing something concealed, sprung at me. There was nothing I could do but pretend I had lost my mind and play along. Without thinking, I was five years old again, playing dragonka, flapping my arms, pretending to breathe fire.
“I’m just a poor dragonka,” I said, running in circles. “What will become of me?”
The officer who clutched the dog’s leash looked bamboozled, his net held in mid-air. Fear, he expected. Idiocy, no. Then something else caught his attention. “Get it!” yelled the Boot officer. The dog crouched as the officer threw something in my direction. A spiked net came flying at me like a bird of prey. I ducked and over my head it went. The massive dog followed, leaping over me, its claws grazing my scalp. I turned and saw that the net had ensnared a snarling dragonka with boarlike tusks, now cowering under the dog’s barking. I took the opportunity and dashed quickly from the Dragonka Exchange, with nobody taking further notice of me.
Being peculiar has its advantages.
ONCE OUTSIDE, I could see cages of dragonka being loaded onto carts, drawn by draft horses decorated with the black and red colors of Archibald’s regime. But in the rush and confusion, not all the dragonka could be caught. The fiercer ones evaded the nets and dogs and were escaping into the maze of Jozseftown’s streets. The Boot made no move to capture them, instead concentrating their efforts on closing the Dragonka Exchange. I took cover behind a pastry seller’s cart across the Square and watched.
Before I had time to take in what was happening, a strange carriage chugged into the Square. It was long as a riverboat, but puffed up and squash shaped, and looked to be made entirely of bronze. The vehicle was accompanied by a squadron of armored horses and Boot officers who ran alongside. The parade came to a stop in front of the routed Dragonka Exchange. A uniformed driver rushed from his place in the bronze carriage and opened the back passenger door. A man—no, it was a child!—stepped gingerly from inside. It was Archibald the Precious himself.
Archibald the Precious looked about as though he was in a savage foreign land, at once interested but a bit shocked by its level of filth. Boot officers cleared the way as he strutted over to the cart carrying the confiscated dragonka. He walked the length of the cart, gazing at them greedily.
“That one,” he said, pointing to a gorgeous stark white albino Sibernian dragonka. “Oh, and that one too,” he said, indicating a huge purple dragonka with a fish fin that ran down its back. “And that one! And that one over there! Splendid. Prepare them all. I want them all!” Archibald exclaimed. The officer nodded, made a motion to the driver of the cart, and it was off. Archibald licked his lips and surveyed the square. His gaze stopped near me. He dispatched another officer to appropriate a choice honey and poppy roll from the cart I was standing behind, then hastily retreated to his vehicle, which again puffed steam into the air, churning on its own locomotion as it drove away.
ARCHIBALD, THE MONARCH’S SON, had become a source of both speculation and fear amongst common Pavains. After the Monarch’s rapid decline in health, and recent death, the boy had assumed power with a rapidity and ferocity that amazed most observers. Nobody knew exactly what his age was, but he did not look much older than me. Rumors about the man-child had abounded for as long as I could remember. It was said that he only had the appearance of a wizened child, but was actually quite aged. Other stories told of darkened carriages with exiled enemies of the Monarch being ushered into the palace gates late at night; of crypts being opened and ransacked for their scrolls of the dead, of bizarre experiments of reanimation and alchemy taking place in the basement dungeons of the Palace, all under the supervision of Archibald and his Ministry of Unlikely Occurrences.
What was known for sure was that Archibald’s enemies were disappearing from the streets, and those who openly opposed him found themselves imprisoned in cages hung from the trees that lined the road to the Palace, kept like wild animals where boys could throw pebbles at them. Under Archibald the Precious’s influence, the Imperial Seat was taking a tighter grip on the citizens of Pava; newspapers that were previously critical of the government were shut down, their editors sent into exile in Sibernia. Tourists were thoroughly checked at the border and those without proper documentation were turned away. Even people in the markets felt less free to speak to one another when it came to the rise of Archibald the Precious. Only hushed tones were used, and only with those who could
be fully trusted. It was known that Archibald had already engaged the use of spies amongst Pava commoners, and those overheard speaking ill of him would disappear in the middle of the night, never to reappear, or if they did, they were profoundly altered, as though a spell had been cast over them. For all this, Archibald was becoming widely feared.
AFTER HAMMERING A BOARD over the entrance of the building, a Boot commander addressed the crowd that had gathered. “The Dragonka Exchange has been deemed the source of all dragonka fever. The Dragonka Exchange is henceforth closed and quarantined. Any citizen found to be trading in dragonka will be subjected to arrest and reeducation. Your shops will be closed, your homes razed, your families impoverished. Dragonka—as you know them—have been deemed a national health hazard. All breeding and showing of dragonka is henceforth forbidden under direction of Archibald! All stray beasts shall be turned in to Boot Headquarters for processing, and all pets shall be officially registered with us. Nobody shall pass the gates of these walls from this day forth. We appoint this spot to erect an information board, where you will be updated on our future policies regarding the dragonka.” With that, his underlings raised a bulletin board on wooden posts, hammering through the cobblestone.
From across the Square, I could just make out the figure of Deklyn, watching the completion of the raid. For just a moment, our gazes met, then he looked away defiantly, before turning and fleeing the scene. Luma had instinctively gone limp, as dragonka sometimes do under extreme stress. I quietly made my way home, the noise of the Dragonka Exchange’s pillaging falling silent at my back.
Chapter 6
From that time on, things became a little darker in Jozseftown, as if a thunderstorm was hovering just above, bursting with rain. The neighborhood was quieter, only sometimes a Boot cart would come rumbling down the street, filled with net-carrying officers, chasing a stray dragonka. I watched these chases from my window, like taking in a cheap shadow puppet show. Passersby would stop what they were doing and make bets on who would prevail; sometimes shopkeepers would hide the dragonka amidst their goods. But, of course, there were instances when the Boot would get lucky, and emerge from an abandoned building with a sorrowful looking dragonka caught in their net, flopping about like a fish out of water. The beasts were thrust into the back of a Boot cart and never seen again.
Petra K and the Blackhearts Page 4