“Someone’s a little anxious,” he comments to the baron.
“You are not?”
“Well, yeah, actually I am. But I thought it was just the dragon working on me.”
Köthen reaches a hand back to stroke the hilt of the sword brushing his neck. “I feel like a dog before a thunderstorm.”
“What say we go sit with the Pit Bull . . . better view from up there.”
They scale the outside of the van, using the big steel latches as handholds. Köthen’s sword clinks against the insulated metal skin.
“Yo, Brenda!” N’Doch calls out. “Don’t shoot, it’s only me.” As his head clears the top, he finds his nose mere inches from the barrel end of Brenda’s new hunting rifle, courtesy of the dragon brooch. He frees up a palm and eases the muzzle aside. “Nice gun, huh?”
Charlie giggles. “Yo, Dockman.”
Brenda gives him a sour nod, then offers him a hand to hoist him over the edge. Köthen follows easily on his own. He finds an open spot, unslings and draws his sword, then settles with it across his lap. From a pouch on the sheath, he pulls out oil and a whetstone. N’Doch squints out into the deepening dusk. Torches flare around all sides of the square. Robed men and women are pressing back the mewling crowd, to open up a wide path from the main street and clear the center around the flaming gilt bowl, over the design of the red dragon. A phalanx of them, in red and gold, forms beside the dragon’s upraised claw.
“The reception committee,” N’Doch observes cheerfully.
Moments later, Sedou climbs up. “Almost as crowded up here as it is down there.” He hangs his legs over the outside edge and invites N’Doch to join him. They watch the doings in the square for a while, as the priestess’ entourage enters from the main drag and begins a slow ritual circuit around the outside. Then Sedou says, “I’ve told Stoksie and the others not to be concerned should I suddenly disappear on them.”
N’Doch takes a breath. “Disappearing’s the easy part. Didja tell ’em what else might happen?”
But Sedou isn’t interested in sibling banter. His eyes have a deep-well darkness in them. “I may need a new song, my brother. I may need it soon.”
There’s that ant nest stirring in his gut again. “Yeah? What sort of song?”
“Not a Sedou song. Not a people song at all.”
“Hunh?” N’Doch’s shoulders hunch over the keyboard he imagines in his lap. “You want, like, some kind of animal?”
“No.” Sedou gets real still for a moment and N’Doch just knows the dragon is struggling to hold her man-shape. Whatever thoughts she’s thinking, they’re not about being human. “Imagine it, my brother. I need . . . a song of release. Of waves breaking and rivers flowing. Of glaciers melting into the sea. Of the sky giving up its moisture as rain.”
“You need a water song,” said N’Doch quietly, and suddenly all the ants in his gut are a chill tickling the base of his spine. “I get it. You need your song. The others have all been my songs.”
“Yes.” The dragon/man’s smile outshines the torches. “And they have served me well in the world of men. But now I must be what I truly am, to the utmost of my powers. And you must help me.”
N’Doch coughs. The chill has made it all the way to his throat. “Not sure I’m up to it, bro.”
Then Sedou does the thing N’Doch’s wanted all along, ever since the song that conjured his brother as a grown man. The thing he can’t ask for, because he needs it more than he knows how to say. Sedou leans over, wraps him in the curl of his big arm, and holds him, easy and firm, as if nothing could ever go wrong again.
You’re up to it.
Release, damn it, thinks N’Doch, and while trying to grasp what he means, he does. His hands, his gut, his brain, and finally, his heart, all unclench, as he releases himself to the dragon, no longer understanding his reasons for resistance. He feels the dragon enter him, almost as a man enters a woman. But it’s his maleness that she enters, and her own female nature that he takes inside himself, like light, like a revelation, like a song. He shudders with it in his brother’s grasp, stunned by the wealth of songs within him, waiting to be born.
Then he becomes aware of himself again, a grown man cradled like a child in another grown man’s arms. He imagines Köthen behind him, watching this darkly, misapprehending. He sits up, reaching for autonomy, for a shred of distance. But he is not the same man he was just moments ago. He will never be that other man again. He has a dragon inside of him.
He grasps his brother’s shoulder and shakes it lightly, inarticulate with gratitude. “Just let me know. That song’ll be there for you.”
Down in the market square, the last of the late light seems to have settled over the dragon in the paving stones. The man-sized flame in the golden bowl makes the image dance as if it was alive. The procession of soldiers and priests and sedan chairs completes its outer circuit under the glow of the torches. The leading squad of infantry does a left face right in front of the Tinker wagons, turning in toward the center and the block of waiting clergy. The marchers split neatly around them and re-form in an honor guard behind. The sedan chairs follow and are set down side by side on the dragon’s breast. All motion swirls to a halt. Only the dust stirs, and the leaping, crackling torch flames. Köthen sets down his cleaning rag and slides over to watch, sword in hand.
The guy in the first chair steps out onto the pavement. Swathed in red and gold, he is as big as N’Doch has guessed, tall and bronze-skinned. His perfect musculature is revealed to all by an open robe, a glittery open vest and a magnificently naked chest.
“That dude’s seen some hard time in the gym,” mutters N’Doch.
Köthen sits up a little straighter. “Fighting man.”
“Nah. Pumper’s muscle, that’s all. Look at those show-off duds. Bet he spends most of his day looking in the mirror.”
“Trust me on this,” says the baron.
The muscle man accepts the many bows of the reception committee, then strides to the second chair, draws back the gold curtain and extends his hand. The High Priestess takes it and steps out of the shadow into the orange-and-lavender flicker of torchlight.
Köthen leans forward.
N’Doch says to Sedou in a stage whisper. “So. Whaddya think of the baron’s new girlfriend?”
A sharp crack explodes the silence, then another. A double echo clatters around the walls of the square. N’Doch sees shattered stone puff up right at the priestess’ feet.
“Shit! Sniper!” He ducks.
Köthen leaps to his feet, sword at ready, and glares around for the source of the sound.
Another crack.
N’Doch drags Köthen down hard as the others flatten around them and roll off the roof into cover. Köthen struggles to shake him off, but N’Doch hangs tight and yells at him.
“That’s gunfire, Dolph! Tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
Köthen stops struggling. “Where?”
“Got me. We’re sitting ducks here, but so far they ain’t shooting at us.”
A fourth and fifth shot. N’Doch hears the slugs track above their heads just before the sound ricochet drowns out the direction of fire. Down in the square, everyone’s screaming and diving for cover. The big guy in the fancy clothes has already proved Köthen’s estimation of him. He’s snatched the priestess girl around the waist and dragged her into the thickest part of the crowd. Soon N’Doch sees the golden shimmer of his robe rising like a sail, a billow of distraction, grabbed by one too many eager hands as it floats free. Immediately, there’s fighting over it, despite the hail of bullets that follows. Doesn’t matter. The big guy’s no longer inside it. He and the woman have vanished.
Now the firing is coming from more than one place. What began as panic in the square is devolving into riot and mayhem. At least one priest lies facedown on the paving stones, his blood mixing with the red of the tiled dragon. N’Doch feels the van jerk into motion.
“Dockman!” Charlie pops her head up beside h
im. “Gichu down nah! Gittin’ ouda heah, pronto!”
Köthen’s still staring down into the square.
N’Doch grabs his arm. “She’s okay! Gotta be. Your fast-thinking fighting man snatched her outa there. Come on!”
Across the square, the trade booths caught unpacked by the procession’s early arrival are under attack from sneak thieves and looters. Some of the gunfire’s coming from there, as townie security moves in hard, but not all. N’Doch hustles Köthen off the roof of the van, then hangs over the front to peer into the driver’s seat. Luther’s down with the lead mule, calming him, urging him. The girl’s inside, pale and wide-eyed, with the reins in her hands. N’Doch somersaults into the seat beside her.
“Shit’s hittin’ the fan again, girl! What is it with the two of us?”
He gets the barest ghost of a smile out of her. He doesn’t understand. She looks like something terrible is about to happen. He thinks it already has. The van stutters forward as Brenda slides onto the back of the second mule to growl into its ears. In Luther’s cobbled-up side mirror, N’Doch sees Charlie vault onto the lead mule of the team behind them, Beneatha’s flatbed, now heavy with stacked cargo tied down under the stained canvas top. When that wagon starts to roll, the two Oolyoot wagons turn out of formation to follow.
“Guns.” The girl bites her lips. “Where is Baron Köthen?”
“He’s fine. Look in your mirror.”
Köthen’s alongside the van, his sword sheathed across his back again. He’s taken up one of the Tinker quarter-staves to fend off looters. Several of the Oolyoot Crew are doing the same. N’Doch counts heads. Shit, Only eight.
“Where’s Stoksie and Ysabel?”
“I don’t know. Weren’t they . . .?”
“Damn!”
And then the alarm shrills through him, unmistakable as middle C.
The girl stiffens, snatching at the seat with both hands. “Oh, God, oh God! Oh, Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us now in our hour of need!” The reins snake loose in her lap until she gets a grip on herself and snatches them up again. “He’s coming, N’Doch! Oh, dear God, he’s coming!”
“I know, I know.” He looks around for Sedou. Already the song is rising in his throat.
She’s been bored and hot all day, and her premonition has faded.
Only its unusual size has promised to make Phoenix Town interesting. Until two things occur: she sees the man with the sword, and someone starts shooting at her. Her premonition has returned.
I shouldn’t have come! I should never have insisted! The God warned me! I should have known better!
Ducking away under Luco’s strong arm, Paia forces down her panic in order to concentrate on moving with him as he skillfully dodges and weaves, and not think about the outrage of being shot at. The God has told her that he outlawed the few firearms that were left after the Wars. But now she sees them everywhere in this shoving, panicked, ravening mob. Either the God lied, or the God is not as omniscient as he would like her to think.
And where is he when I really need him!
It’s hard, with the crack of gunfire and all the shouting and screaming, to concentrate on her summons. When the first shot spattered marble dust into her eyes, she called out to the God instinctively. Then Luco’s defensive maneuver distracted her. Quick, reliable Luco. How could she have ever thought this ex-soldier had gone soft?
He has her tight about the waist, as if he fears losing her to the heave of the mob. She has the odd impression there are strangers racing beside them, in step with their every turn, as if clearing them a path. Where are her chaperones? Where are Luco’s strong young men? Suddenly, the wall of a building looms up in front of them.
“This way, my priestess!” Luco ducks sideways along the stones, then into an alley that opens up as if it was exactly where he expected it to be. It is narrow, and choked with terrified villagers fleeing the chaos in the square. Luco jostles through them, hugging the left-hand wall, until one of the many closed doors that they pass is miraculously open. Luco hauls her inside, into darkness. The others she thought to be their companions are swept by with the mob. Luco kicks the door shut. Sunk in total blackness, she hears him lock it.
Paia can tell she’s in a very small room. Her throat and lungs constrict. “What if they find us in here? We’ll be trapped! Wouldn’t we be safer if we kept moving?”
“We will. First you need a chance to catch your breath.”
A soft flare eases her panic as Luco lights an oil lamp set on a little table in the middle of a low, square room. Shamed by the priest’s calm, Paia tries to still the heaving of her chest. She is not only breathless, she is terrified. But she doesn’t want Luco to have to slap sense into her, as he has a few times in the past. She wants to appear strong and capable, for once. She has survived assassination attempts before. Of course, then she’d had the familiar security of the Citadel to comfort her.
The room she’s in now tells Paia almost nothing about its usual occupants. Could they really own nothing but the few dishes and chairs, and the two iron cots lined up along one wall? She watches Luco as he moves briskly about the tiny space. She envies his confidence in such a dire circumstance.
He opens a few cupboards, finds cups and a stoneware jug. He fills the cups with water from the jug, and hands one to her. “Drink up, my priestess. I’m not sure when we’ll have another chance.”
Water? How convenient. She eyes him over the rim of the cup. Does she sense the God’s presence somewhere about? She thinks not, and yet, there’s just the faintest echo. “Luco, tell me the truth now. This isn’t another one of your schemes with the God . . .?”
He laughs, but with an edge to it. “No, my priestess. I assure you it is not.”
“Well, we should thank these villagers whose home we’ve invaded.”
“Easy enough.” He opens another cupboard, searches through the scant piles of clothing there, pulls out his choices and tosses them on the table. “You can leave them your expensive and conspicuous clothing. Put those on.”
She gapes at him. Is this the man for whom every Temple garment is a treasure? “Really? Just leave it here? What will my poor chambermaid say?”
Luco’s mouth quirks. “She’ll survive. If I’m to extract you safely from this tinderbox of a town, you’ll have to go incognito.”
He’s found garments for himself as well. Without even turning his back, he strips out of his golden Temple vest and belted white pants, and slips into darker, looser pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He folds the ceremonial glitter precisely and puts it away in the cupboard. “Come, now. We should hurry.”
Paia does turn her back. Having many times considered trying to seduce her head priest, now she is shy in front of him. The shirt and pants he has given her are patched here and there, and soft with age, but clean and comfortable. And they conceal her body as completely as her beloved sweats. Paia rather likes them. She steals a look to see if he’s watching her change, but only catches him glancing at his empty wrist, a nervous gesture that she recognizes. Her father had it. It’s the habit of a man once used to wearing a watch. She has never noticed it in Luco before.
“Ready, my priestess?”
She nods. He gathers up her Temple finery from the floor where she’s let it drop, and folds it, regarding her with bemused patience. He stows it away in the cupboard with his own. But instead of the main door, he opens the one narrow closet in the room and holds out his hand. Puzzled, Paia takes it. Luco leans back to blow out the lamp. The void surrounds them once more, but his voice is soft at her ear.
“We must be silent, my priestess. We move between walls and through spaces thought not to exist. We mustn’t call attention to our passage.”
Finally Paia understands that this room isn’t just a happy accident. “How did you know about all this?”
“Has the God not charged me with your safe return, on pain of my life? I’m a careful man, my priestess. I like to plan for any eventuality. Hush, now. Not a s
ound until I say so.”
He leads her through a long and complex darkness. Sometimes the walls are close on either side, sometimes an outstretched hand finds only one. Almost always, the ceiling is right above her head. There are twists and turns too numerous to count, and only occasionally a bit of dim light strays through from the rooms on the other side of the walls. When it does, she hears screams and gunfire. She wonders if the God has heard her summons, or if he’s punishing her by ignoring her. She can’t shake the sensation that he’s nearby somewhere. But even if he is, she can’t imagine him manifesting inside these tiny passages.
At last she hears the creak of another door. Luco leads her into another small, dim room, only this one has a curtained window. He goes to it immediately and peers out between the drapes. The screams and shouting are louder here, close to the street, but Paia is sure she hears the rattle of wagon wheels. She joins him at the window, but he does not move aside to let her see out.
“Are those our wagons? Have they come for us?”
“Not our wagons. But they’ll do.” He turns away from the window and looks down on her, an oddly contemplative expression abstracting his gaze. He surprises her by smoothing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. A very paternalistic gesture for Son Luco. “Now listen carefully. We are in very grave danger. You must do exactly as I tell you. No questions, no tantrums. You must trust me absolutely. No matter how it may seem, you are safe in my hands.”
“Oh, Luco, you needn’t frighten me to make me behave. I’m there already. I’ll do as you say.”
He pats her cheek. “Good girl.” He glances through the curtains once more, then grasps her hand firmly and opens the door.
Erde guided the dragon in from his hiding place in the woods just as the shadow of vast wings swept over the square, blotting out the last whisper of dusk. She felt N’Doch’s strength beside her, steadying her as if she were a spooked carriage horse. She wanted to tell him about Fire, how she knew and what she saw, but there wasn’t time. Fire’s passage roiled the hot air, making the torches leap and flare. His shriek shattered the din of the fistfights and shouting and sent even the looters scurrying for their lives. As the great shadow passed, the priests of the Temple looked up from aiding their wounded fellows and fell down on the paving stones in terror and awe.
The Book of Fire Page 44