Bazil Broketail (18 page)

And of course Macumber even had stories about Dragon Home, that fabled land of wyverns and wild beasts. Bazil had enjoyed those stories more than anything else:
The Story of the Bald Bear, The Song of the Lonely Tiger, The Wolf Tales
.

He remembered them well.

Baz wondered how old Macumber was now. Was he still fit enough to tramp in his beloved hills? Was he telling those tales to another young dragon, hatched to replace Bazil of Quosh?

Had Macumber heard about the disaster in Borgan and their flight to Marneri? Did he know that his pupil had been disgraced?

It was impossible to know. With heavy heart Bazil watched a squad of guards tramp out the postern gate and head off to the eastern gates. The cold wind whipped around the tower’s mass and sent dead leaves skittering past the entrance to the Dragons Walk. Bazil saw the guards’ heavy cloaks and wished he had one of his own.

Then he scoffed at himself. He’d spent too many years harnessed to the human life! This was not cold. In Dragon Home, now that was cold. He thought of the ancient song.

There was a land of ice and snow

With skies pale blue and the midnight sun

And a legend of old in every dragon run.

But of course Bazil was an Argonath dragon; he had no wings nor the fiery breath of the ancients. He had been born and bred in the mild climate of Quosh. He had never glimpsed the frozen wastes of Dragon Home.

Standing there he noticed that his scales were itching, especially along his spine. It felt as if he hadn’t had a good dust in months. He rasped them with his heavy thumbclaws and decided to walk. An itch like this could be a sign of sluggish blood. The gods of dragondom alone knew how long he’d been lying there polluted with poison, so it would be no surprise if his blood had grown sluggish.

Below the ramp to the tower’s entrance lay a kidney-shaped space that had once been the bailey for the original Tower of Guard on this site. That tower had withstood several assaults by enemy armies in its day before it had been replaced by the current tower.

Now the bailey was used for the thrice-weekly flower and herb market, which attracted people from all over the region. Along the wall were stacked the folded market stalls.

Baz passed the postern gate. The guards gave him a careful inspection. They were unusually alert this night. The horrible murder on Fundament Day and now the news of a plot to assassinate the king had put everyone on edge.

Great events were stirring in Marneri and tongues were wagging as they hadn’t for many a year. Among other things it was now common knowledge that the Grey Lady of Cunfshon was back in the city. Everyone knew that when she came to visit, trouble was close behind. Her visit in 2114 was still legendary. Then had the citizens roused themselves to meet the challenge of the Teetol in the great crisis. Then had they put forth their strength and broken the host of the enemy at the ruins of ancient Dugguth. Then had they buried more than four thousand dead, a tenth of the population of Marneri.

Yes, they remembered Lessis very well.

Now she was back, an omen of war and uncertainty.

And thus the guards would have challenged Bazil, except that one of them noticed his tail with its odd bend at the tip. Bazil’s tail was already famous in the Guard and Dragon Corps, so the sight of it terminated one set of speculations among the guards and began another.

“It’s the Broketail,” said one.

“Funny-looking thing ain’t it?”

“Now how the hell d’yer think that happened?”

“The grey witch is in the city, what else?”

He left the gate behind. More stalls were stacked along the inner wall here, all empty now, awaiting their owners on the morrow, when the market would be open with furze and heather from the Blue Hills and coriander and dzook from the tropic isles.

At the north end he paused to rub his back against a stone abutment and wish that Relkin were back at his post.

That thought brought up an image of Relkin on the point of death in some cold cot up there in the tower. Bazil prayed that his boy would be well, that he would recover completely from the evil wreaked upon him.

Things were bad when his boy could be bewitched in his own stall like this. And the dragon poisoned! It was just like the bad old tales.

He heaved a sigh. This was a moment of great importance in his life. If Relkin died here, or was left a witless invalid, then Bazil knew not what he would do. To join the legion with a new dragonboy was not to his taste.

But a footloose dragon would be urged to migrate to Dragon Home, and that would mean adjusting to a very different kind of life.

Ach! He cursed under his breath; by the shades of the ancient drakes, they appeared to be accursed. Victims of a persistent ill fortune. Perhaps the Baron of Borgan had paid for them to be cursed by some adept of the powers. The baron was vindictive enough, Baz was sure. Or possibly they had somehow, unwittingly, offended some local sprite or demon during their flight northwards. The lands of the Argonath were troubled by many such manifestations of the old powers.

Ach! All in all it was a troubling business and this dragon was heartily tired of it.

With an effort Baz tried to look on the brighter side of things. The quiet of the night had finally fallen over the Dragon House. All that screaming and fury and bellowing had been hard on the nerves. Dragons are jumpy beasts, highly strung for creatures so large.

Bazil felt a deep sense of regret for poor Smilgax. From what he’d learned, it seemed the hard green from Treat had never had a chance. He’d been raised under the fell hand of evil men in the service of the enemy.

Now he was suspect, a possible rogue. There would be a Dragons’ Court and Smilgax’s fate would be determined, but at best it would be service on a farm somewhere. They would not trust him with dragon blade and shield again.

A sound turned his head. A closed and shuttered carriage clattered across the stones and rolled up to the postern gate.

The guards exchanged a few words with the occupants, who Bazil could not see, and then the coach passed on and headed across Tower Square.

Bazil strode back to the gate. Glancing through it, he saw the coach disappear down Tower Street.

The guards gazed at him uneasily.

“It’s the Broketail one again,” murmured one of them.

“Good night to you, Sir Dragon,” called another.

Bazil nodded to them and strode on.

The fresh air had made him rather peckish all of a sudden. A vision of potato pie and butter biscuits floated up into his mind’s eye. A couple of pies with a crock or two of ale would serve just about right.

He neared the entrance to the Dragons Walk once more. A pair of figures came towards him, walking swiftly. The grey robes were blank and nondescript, and they had their cowls up against the cold.

They drew abreast of him, and suddenly one reached out to touch him on the forearm. He jerked back, nervous at the touch.

“Bazil of Quosh has no need to fear me,” said a soft, gentle voice.

Bazil saw her pull back her cowl. A woman of slender features and pale grey hair was revealed. Her eyes were peculiarly piercing.

“You have me at the disadvantage, lady. I do not know you.”

She smiled. “But I know you, Mighty Bazil. I am Les-sis of Valmes. You do not remember of course, but we talked at length only two hours ago.”

Bazil felt a green flush rising up his neck.

“My apologies, madam. I was not in my right mind.”

“Of course not. Yet you seem hale and hearty enough already. You are a strong one, Bazil of Quosh—you have a stout spirit.”

Bazil was touched.

“Well, lady, I believe I owe you great thanks over another matter. My boy informed me that you saved him from a life of crime quite recently.”

Lessis grinned. She’d heard that dragons were proprietary beasts but had not spent much time in their company before. Now she could see that the tales were true.

“I doubt if I was that successful, but for the moment we have perhaps strengthened his resolve to obey the laws of Marneri.”

Baz nodded as if sadly convinced against his better judgment. “He is a wild one, I admit it.”

“But that is not your fault,” she said.

“I should have restrained him, he’s so impractical sometimes you see, but I was so caught up in my own troubles that I let him out of my sight. And look what happens? Thieving, magicians, poisonings!”

Lessis marveled at all this. Dragons were most peculiar beasts, so she’d been warned and so she was learning.

Baz stared up at the tower with soulful eyes. Where had he gone wrong with that boy? When he looked down again Lessis had enjoined the other woman to pull back her cowl too.

She was very much like the Grey Lady, except that her eyes lacked the instant power that Lessis’s carried. She bowed and bobbed her head.

“I am Viuris of Ufshan, Sir Dragon.”

“I am honored to meet you, Viuris of Ufshan.”

Then before Bazil could ask them anything concerning the fate of poor Smilgax, there was a sudden disturbance in the main gate of the tower. A figure was running down the steps, shouting at the top of her voice.

“Ah, Lagdalen,” said Lessis with slight resignation.

Lagdalen arrived breathless—her first efforts were choked off by her need to suck in air.

“Sir Dragon… Lady…”

But finally she managed it.

“In your rooms, my lady, the enemy. He has slain Helena of Roth I believe, but not Relkin. He would have slain me but I heard him approach.”

Lessis looked up sharply.

“Arouse the guards, Viuris.” She whirled on Bazil.

“How long have you been here, Bazil of Quosh?”

“All the while Lagdalen has been in the tower.”

“Did you see anyone leave the tower.”

“No, but a carriage left through the gate but a minute ago.”

Lessis was transformed. “Quickly, after it. Which way did it go?”

“Straight across the square and down Tower Street.”

And to Bazil’s astonishment the figure of Lessis bolted through the gate, calling on the guards to follow her, and ran pell-mell across the square.

Lagdalen and Viuris followed with the guards. Bazil shook his head and set off behind them.

A charging dragon has the speed of a racehorse over the first one hundred yards, and Bazil soon left the others behind as he picked up speed and headed down the steep hill of Tower Street.

Fortunately, at this hour scarcely anybody was abroad in the streets of Marneri, for anyone in his path would have been flattened. On this slope and this surface Bazil could not have stopped.

He was rapidly catching up on the object of the pursuit, however. At Foluran Hill he caught sight of the carriage and saw it swing into a side street.

Bazil desperately tried to slow down, his big claws skittering on the cobblestones, but it was useless. He hurtled on, crossing Broad Street and speeding past the side street. He saw the carriage, but was helpless in the grip of his momentum.

Now the hill was at its steepest, right down to Dock-side. Bazil fought to stay on his feet, but he was getting less and less traction on the cold stones. Disaster soon overtook him. His hind legs went out from under him and he slid ignominiously down the hill, across Halfslope Street, to the astonished gaze of a late-night drunkard reeling back from the dockside taverns. He went on sliding down towards Dockside, fetching up at last on the corner with Wright’s Street, crashing into a great pile of empty beer kegs set out behind the city’s chief cooperage awaiting collection in the morning.

Bazil flew through the kegs and over a ledge into the cooper’s delivery yard. Fortunately, the kegs had slowed his pace somewhat, and he fetched up with a bone-jarring, but not bone-breaking, thud against a stone wall. The building shuddered from top to toe and a slate fell off the roof and crashed down into the street. Bazil could hear things falling off shelves inside and smashing on the floor. It was things like this that gave dragons a bad name in human cities, he recalled. Several windows opened and heads peered forth. Someone yelled something about the barrels, which had been scattered like billiard balls down the street. Other voices took up the cry. It looked as if he’d succeeded in waking this whole quarter.

Bazil shook his head. It was ringing from the final crunch. He distinctly heard bells. But he could not wait for his head to clear. He had to follow that carriage. Thus he emerged from the yard just in time to see it going past on Ship Street, then across Wright Street on a heading for the harbor.

Bazil glanced back up the hill on Tower Street. His belly was sore. He was bleeding from a number of scratches. By the roar of the old gods, he’d slid a long way. His body was going to hurt on the morrow.

But Lessis and the guards were catching up; he could see them running across Broad Street in his wake. He gestured towards Ship Street and lurched down to the corner and stuck his head around.

Less than thirty yards down the street, the gates of the Blackbird Inn were closing. Nothing else was visible, the street was empty.

Bazil went on down Ship Street and paused outside the Blackbird. This was not an inn that catered to dragonfolk at all. There was no wyvern’s entrance, nor did there seem to be room for a dragons’ drinking den.

The gates were firmly shut, but he heard footsteps inside the court. A horse whinnied, maybe smelling dragon. Unless they were habituated to dragons, most horses reacted with instinctive terror to the smell of them. Bazil looked back up the street. Lessis and Lagdalen rounded the corner, still running strongly. Bazil was surprised at how quickly the woman Lessis ran. She seemed so faded and quiet, yet here she was coursing like an athlete.

In a moment they were by his side. Following them came two guardsmen, sweating profusely under armor plate and helm, then Viuris, gasping for breath.

Lessis seemed the least affected by the running. After just a couple of deep breaths, she took stock of the situation and made her decision.

“We must enter the inn. Bazil of Quosh, will you wait here and watch these gates? Let no one leave.”