City of Dragons: Volume Three of the Rain Wilds Chronicles

by Hobb, Robin

  “You don’t need my permission,” Reyn commented.

  “No, and I never did. I just need to find my courage. That’s all.”

  Malta followed her gaze. There was a small square of deck outside the cabin and then the tillerman’s area. The man was working the long sweep in a series of steady arcs, holding only when the captain called a course correction to him. There was a strange beauty in the man’s strength and sureness as he either guided or pushed the ship along. Somehow he became aware of their scrutiny and glanced back at the cabin. His face was pebbled so that his brow overhung his eyes; a string of growths that reminded Malta of a fish’s barbels lined his jaw. “I think I’ll go out,” Tillamon declared abruptly. She lifted her veil and discarded it with the hat that had secured it, then peeled off the long lacy gloves that had covered her hands and arms. Without another word, she set the garments on the bench beside Malta and opened the small aft door to step out on the deck. Chill wind gusted in; it didn’t deter her. She went immediately to lean on the railing, turning her face up to the sun that was peeping through a break in the overcast sky.

  Reyn moved aside his sister’s hat, veil, and gloves and sat down beside Malta. She leaned her head on his shoulder and for a moment was happy. Sunlight made a bright square on the floor of the cabin. The only sounds were that of the ship, of the creaking oars as they moved in rhythm, and occasionally the captain’s shout back to the tillerman. She yawned, suddenly sleepy.

  “What is it that I don’t see about my sister?” Reyn asked her plaintively. He lifted up the hat and the attached veil. “Is this so terrible? When I came to Bingtown to court you, I was as heavily veiled. It was tradition.”

  “Tradition born out of discomfort,” Malta observed. “Rain Wilders were thought grotesque. They still are. I have lived among you and become one of you. But I know what Tillamon knows. If she were to go to Bingtown and walk unveiled, people would stare. Some, even some born in Bingtown, would say unkind things, mock her, or turn aside in horror. People want the treasures of the Rain Wilds but don’t want to see the price it exacts from those who provide them.”

  “Did you think I was grotesque? When you first met me and I went veiled?”

  She laughed softly. “I was a silly little girl then, full of odd tales of the Rain Wilds. I was sure that my cruel mother had sold me off to some frightful creature. Then I discovered the frightful creature was incredibly wealthy, burdened with hundreds of little presents for me, and full of compliments that I could not wait to hear. So then you became mysterious. Unknowable. And dangerously desirable.”

  She smiled and gave a little shiver as a thrill ran up her back.

  “What was that?” Reyn demanded. He set aside his sister’s hat and took her hand.

  Malta laughed aloud, mildly embarrassed. “I was thinking of the first time you kissed me. My mother had left the room and the only servants there were yours, all veiled and suitably busying themselves with tasks. You leaned in close to me and I thought you would tell me a secret. But then you kissed me. I felt your lips through the lace of the veil. And the tip of your tongue, I thought. It was . . .” She paused and was surprised to realize she was blushing.

  “Very erotic,” Reyn finished quietly for her. A slow smile spread over his face, and his eyes gleamed with remembered pleasure. “I had only thought to steal a kiss while your mother was not looking. I had not realized that the barrier to our touch would only enhance the moment.”

  “You were a wicked boy. You had no right to kiss me.” Malta tried to sound affronted but failed. She shared his smile, with a touch of sadness for the foolish girl she had been.

  He held up his sister’s veil before his face. She could scarcely see his features through the multiple layers of dark lace. “And now I do. Should we try that again?”

  “Reyn!” she rebuked him, but he did not pause. He draped the veiling over his face and leaned in to kiss her.

  “It’s Tillamon’s best veil!” she objected. But then the lace brushed her face and she closed her eyes as he kissed her, a very chaste kiss that nonetheless swept her back into memories of their first passion.

  When he drew back from her, he wondered in a husky voice, “Why does the forbidden always add that edge of sweetness?”

  “It’s true. But I don’t know why.” She leaned her head on his chest and asked mischievously, “Does it mean that now that you have a right to me, I am less sweet?”

  He laughed. “No.”

  For a time they were silent together and content. The boat rocked as the rowers battled the current. Malta gazed out the small window. Behind them, the river stretched gleaming, its gray turned to silver in the lingering sunlight. Tillamon leaned on the railing, lost in thought. The wind stirred her hair. From behind she could have been any young woman, lost in her dreams. But what did she dream of? What did the future offer her? What would it offer Malta’s child, if she or he were similarly changed?

  “You sigh. Again. Are you uncomfortable?” Reyn set a gentle hand on her belly. She put both her hands over his. This was the time, much as she dreaded it.

  “We have some hard questions to discuss, my love. Things I did not and do not want to talk about. But we must.” She took a deep breath and then quickly, like tearing a bandage from a wound, told him of the midwife’s demands that they make decisions.

  He recoiled from her, his face full of horror. Anger swiftly replaced the horror. “How can she speak of such things to you? How dare she?”

  “Reyn!” The anger in his eyes was both reassuring and frightening. “She has to ask these questions. With my other pregnancies, well, they did not last long, did they? I think she knew they would come to nothing. But now we have felt the child move, and with each passing day we are closer to a birth. And these are the decisions that all parents in the Rain Wilds or Bingtown must face. Harsh as they seem, they are decisions that have been faced by generations of Rain Wild folk. So.” Malta took a steady breath. “What should I tell her?”

  Reyn was breathing as hard as if he faced a fight. “Tell her? Tell her that I care nothing for custom or decorum! Tell her that I will be by your bedside for every moment, and that the instant our child is born, he will be safe in my arms. Should Sa take his life from us, then I will mourn. But if anyone else threatens him, in any way, I will kill them. That is what you can tell her. No. That is what I will tell the meddling old hag!”

  He stood up abruptly and paced a quick turn around the small cabin before coming to a standstill, staring bleakly out the window at the passing trees. “Did you doubt that I would protect our child?” he asked her quietly. There was hurt in his eyes when he turned to her. “Or is this . . .” He hesitated. “Is this not what you want? If our child is born changed, do you wish to, to set him aside? To . . .” His words tapered away to silence.

  Malta was shocked. The silence grew longer, and the hurt on Reyn’s face grew deeper. “I did not think I had a choice,” she said at last. Tears filled her eyes but did not spill. “It is done, even in Bingtown. Seldom does anyone speak of it. When I was little, I would see a pregnant woman, and then she would be apart from us for a time, and sometimes she came back with a child and sometimes not. I don’t even remember when I first understood that some babies were not kept. It was just something all girls knew, growing up. When women do talk about it, most say it is for the best, that it happens quickly, before the mother can come to know the child and love it. But—” She set both hands to her belly and felt the child turn restlessly inside her, as if he knew they were deciding his fate. “But I already know this child. I already love him. Or her. I do not think I will care if he has a scaled brow when he is born, or if his nails are black. Or hers.” She tried for a smile and failed as the tears suddenly spilled down her face. “Reyn, I have been so frightened. One night, I dreamed that when the pains came, I ran off into the forest alone to have our baby, to keep her safe. And when I woke, I wondered if I might not do just that. And I had to wonder what you would think o
f me if I did, if I brought back a changed child and refused to give it up. Or what your mother would think.”

  She sniffed, and Reyn was at her side. She found a handkerchief and wiped at her wet eyes. “I saw some of the dragon keepers. They were just children. And almost every one of them was marked so heavily that I knew they must have been born changed. Their parents kept them. They grew, they lived. Perhaps they could not marry or have children of their own, but I looked at them and thought, ‘Their lives are not useless. Their parents were right to keep them, no matter what their neighbors may have said.’ But now I look at how unhappy Tillamon is. I see how she is stared at, and I know that sometimes ignorant people say things aloud to her. She stays at home almost always now, not even venturing down to the markets. She seldom visits her friends. She was not born changed. And she has never done anything to deserve a punishment. But punished she is.”

  A silence fell. Both of them looked out at Reyn’s sister. The clouds were closing over the sun, and the day abruptly went from sunny to dim, but Tillamon pulled her cloak more closely around her and turned her face to the wind as if drinking it in.

  “Perhaps our child will be born untouched. Or perhaps, as we are Elderling now, so the child will be, with changes that are . . .”

  “Beautiful,” Malta filled in when he hesitated. “Beautiful and exotic, as we are. By our good fortune, we are changed in a way that makes people smile when they see us. Or used to. Now, as often, I see something else in their faces. Resentment. I hear rumors that they say we give ourselves airs, pretend to be better than our fellows, simply because a dragon chose to gift us with good looks. It isn’t the Trader way, Reyn, for any person to be set above another. Oh, Traders will always think themselves better than the Tattooed or the Three Ships folk in Bingtown, far better than any brutish Chalcedean or barbarian Six Duchies man. But there were many who were angered that the Satrap chose to call us ‘king’ and ‘queen.’ They were angry then, saying that we made decisions for the Traders that we had no right to make, even if the Council later ratified those decisions. There are some who are offended by us, Reyn. And others who would use us. You know that.”

  “I do.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close again. “I suppose I have not thought about how it would affect our child. If he is born changed and we insist on keeping him, it may cause ill feeling for the Khuprus family. And he may find few playmates. But I cannot imagine letting anyone take him from us. Or drowning him ourselves.”

  At those words, Malta choked back a sob.

  Reyn leaned his head over hers. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. Whatever comes, we will face it together. I will not give up this child to tradition. If Sa grants that he draws breath on his own, then breathe he shall, and no one shall stop that breath save Sa alone. This I promise you.”

  Malta swallowed back her tears. “And this I promise you, as well,” she told him. And closed her eyes in a silent prayer that she would be able to keep that promise.

  Day the 20th of the Change Moon

  Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

  From Detozi, Keeper of the Birds, Trehaug

  To Reyall, Acting Keeper of the Birds, Bingtown

  Red quarantine capsule

  I am sending this bird as a solo, to minimize the risk. The cold rainy weather has been harsher than usual, and birds here are sickening at an alarming rate. Please enact quarantine measures immediately for all birds arriving at your cotes, as we have already done so here. I have selected an apparently healthy bird to carry this message. Some of the sickened birds appear to be afflicted with an unusual form of red lice. Please watch for them on any of your birds and isolate immediately.

  Will this foul weather never end?

  Erek is in an agony of frustration that this is happening while he is here in Trehaug and trapped here for our wedding preparations. I am completely in sympathy with him. Please do all you can to keep his cotes and birds in good condition until he returns. For that is our thought now, that we will settle in Bingtown, though I have many misgivings as to how I will be accepted there. Erek sees none of my flaws nor how heavily touched I am by the Rain Wilds. Such a man!

  Chapter Seven

  DRAGON DREAMS

  Flight was effortless. Sintara’s scarlet wings caught the rising heat from the wide grain fields below her and lifted her. She lofted through the skies. Below her, fat white sheep cropped the grass in a green pasture. As her shadow passed over the grass, they scattered in fright. Foolish creatures. She wanted nothing of their sticky wool in her mouth. Few of the dragons enjoyed eating them except when hunting did not appeal to them. Privately, she suspected that was why the humans kept so many of them. Cattle were far more appetizing to dragons. But to a true hunter such as herself, diving on a penned beast offered little satisfaction. She would far rather hunt for her meal, seek out some large, horned creature that offered a bit of a challenge and perhaps even a battle before she won its meat.

  But not today. She had fed heavily yesterday and slept long, an afternoon and a night, after her gorging. Now it was thirst she sought to slake, and not a thirst for blood or for thin river water. She banked her wings and drifted back over Kelsingra. The Silver Plaza was empty at last of other dragons. She would alight there and not have to wait a turn for the Elderlings to . . . to do what? Something she wanted. Something she wanted very badly that eluded her memory. Something that was secret. She stirred restlessly.

  She was not Sintara. Deep in her sleep, she hid from her growling hunger and chilled flesh in a memory of another time and place. Some scarlet ancestor of hers had flown over Kelsingra in that abundant time, on that sunny day. She had known not only the freedom of flight but also the pleasure of the friendship of Elderlings in a time when they had lived in symbiosis with the dragons. It had been a good time for both races. She did not know with certainty what had ended it. In her dreams, she both escaped an unsatisfactory present and explored the past for hints as to what she might do to restore the future to what it should have been.

  A sudden gust of wind-driven rain spattered against her face and scattered her dream memories. Sintara opened her eyes to night and storm. The shelter Thymara had built for her was a flimsy thing, a lean-to of logs thatched with branches. Her bed was a thick layer of pine boughs that kept her from the ground, but not by much. She had grown since Thymara had built it, and now she was cramped when she curled herself within its confines. The girl should have built it larger, with thicker walls, perhaps covered in mud, and thatched it more tightly. Sintara had told her so. And her keeper had responded irritably, asking her how long she wished to go without food while Thymara spent her time building her a shelter. The thought of the girl’s answer renewed her annoyance with her. She did nothing well. The dragon must shiver in a poorly built shelter even as her hunger clawed at her guts. She had no satisfaction anywhere in her life. Only hunger, discomfort, and frustrating dreams.

  Sintara slithered from the low-roofed shelter on her belly. It was raining. It seemed always to be raining. The clouds covered the moon and the stars, but she widened her eyes and saw without effort. Here in the open forest of scattered trees and brush, the keepers had built a village of shelters for the dragons. As if they were humans who always had to cluster close to one another! None of the sheds was sturdy or intended to be permanent. Hers was no worse than any of the others and better than most. It still stirred vague ancestral memories of stables and kennels. They were shelters for animals, not housing fit for the Lords of the Three Realms.

  True, the keepers had little better for themselves. They had moved into the remnants of the shepherds’ and farmers’ homes that had been built on this side of the river in ancient times. Some were little more than standing walls, but they had made them somewhat habitable. She’d heard their talk and thoughts. They believed that they would be far more comfortable if only they could get across the river to where grand Kelsingra had withstood the depredations of time and weather. They could hav
e gone, one at a time, ferried across by foolish Heeby who seemed to think herself more carthorse than dragon. But they would have had to abandon the dragons to do so.

  And they had not.

  She resented the tiny trickle of gratitude she felt for that. Gratitude as an emotion was both unfamiliar and uncomfortable, something inappropriate for a dragon to feel, especially toward a human. Gratitude implied a debt: But how could a dragon be indebted to a human? As well be indebted to a pigeon. Or to a piece of meat.

  Sintara sheathed her eyes against the falling rain and shook the thought from her mind with the raindrops that she shivered from her wings. It was time. The wind had died down, it was dark, and everyone else slept. She moved quietly over the carpet of wet leaves and forest debris as she left the shelters behind and ventured down the hillside toward an open meadow that faced the river.

  She halted when she reached the meadow, staring about her with eyes that opened the night to her vision. No one and nothing stirred. Game of any useful size had fled this area weeks ago, when they had first arrived here. Creatures that had looked at dragons in wonder when they first arrived had quickly learned that fear was the proper response. She had the meadow to herself. Far below, the river flowed swiftly, rich from all the rain, and even here, the sound of it filled the night. It was wide and dark and cold and deep, and strong enough to pull a dragon under and hold her there until she drowned. She had ancient memories of actually landing in this river, when the shock of the cold water on her sun-warmed body had been almost welcoming. Memories of letting the water cushion her impact, of letting her body sink down, her wings clasped tight, until she felt sand and gravel beneath her claws, and then, nostrils shut tight against the water, fighting the current to wade up and out of the shallows and onto the riverbank with water streaming from every glistening scale.