Dragon and Phoenix (31 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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Raven returned the compliment.
Years of humiliation at Breslin’s hands came to a boiling point. “Why, you …” Maurynna snarled, her hands itching to wrap themselves around his throat. “I suppose you think getting a good deal on a few barrels of lamp oil makes up for running the
Fortune’s Child
on a sandbar, don’t you? I
told
you that bar had shifted, but you knew better, didn’t you?”
“You did
what,
Breslin?” Raven called from behind her. “I hadn’t heard about that one.”
That shattered Breslin’s aloof pose. “You shut up!” he yelled back, beefy fists raised. “Stay out of this!”
Raven laughed.
From the corner of her eye Maurynna saw Linden come up beside her; ready, no doubt, to protect her should Breslin throw a punch. Annoyed, Maurynna pushed him back, hardly noticing the shocked gasps around her. “Oh, no, you don’t. You stay out of this, too.” For the first time she had the strength to defend herself against her biggest, brawniest—and most detested—cousin. She’d give the bully the drubbing of his life. Her own fists came up—
Only to drop at a familiar bellow. “Children! Stop that!”
Silence fell over the crowd. Maurynna dared a glance over her shoulder. She caught sight of Kesselandt bearing down on them. Otter and Raven were laughing like madmen, blast them, as they explained to the bewildered Dragonlords and Taren what was going on.
Uncle Kesselandt sputtered like a teakettle about to boil over. Ordinarily the sight of him, face dark red with anger, would have terrified her. Now it just felt like home.
But he ruined it when he stopped, clapped a hand to his mouth, and then quavered, “Dragonlord, I—I’m sorry. I should not have spoken to you—”
Please,
she wanted to beg,
don’t make me feel like a stranger, as if I don’t belong here as well.
But she saw in Kesselandt’s eyes and the eyes of the aunts and uncles and cousins behind him that it would never be the same again.
“Uncle,” was all she said. “I’m still me. Truly I am.” It was no good. They looked, she imagined, like sparrows who’d returned to their little nest only to find one of their eggs had hatched an eaglet. “I’m still Rynna,” she faltered, defeated by their frightened eyes.
“Pity,” Breslin drawled.
Kesselandt turned on him in indignation.
She fumed. Trust Breslin to remain the same: a large pain in the ass. She glowered at him.
He winked. Before she could say anything—her astonishment nearly choked her—the superior look was back in place. Breslin turned on his heel and walked away amid incredulous murmurs.
But he had served his purpose. Kesselandt was too furious at him to remember to bow and scrape before her—for the moment at least. Her uncle went after Breslin, still sputtering in anger.
 
Once the family had gotten over the shock of their runaway returning with fellow Dragonlords in tow, Maurynna’s kinfolk had rallied well—even if a few still looked somewhat poleaxed, Linden thought.
After a hasty consultation with Kesselandt and the senior aunts, uncles, and elder cousins in port, Maurynna came back to where the rest of the troupe (save Raven, who’d left with her) waited in Kesselandt’s office in the main warehouse.
Linden made room for her on the edge of the desk. She sat down beside him. There were signs of strain around her eyes.
“Where’s Raven?” Otter asked.
Maurynna said, “For his sins, Breslin was set the task of overseeing the unloading of the horses. Raven went to … supervise him.” Her face was the very image of innocence.
Otter snorted. “Needle him, you mean. Not that Breslin doesn’t deserve it a hundred times over.”
“Just so. Anyhow, messengers have been sent off and a Mousehole is being made ready for us,” Maurynna reported. “We can move in tomorrow. Tonight we’ll stay elsewhere.”
“A
what?”
Lleld asked. She shook her head as if uncertain she’d heard correctly.
Linden wasn’t certain he had, either. A mousehole? They were to guest in a …
mousehole?
No; there must be something wrong with his ears. He looked over to Otter. The bard just shrugged his shoulders and nodded, grinning.
“A Mousehole,” Maurynna repeated. “It’s what the guesthouses in a House’s compound are called. I’ve no idea why; they just are.”
“Mousehole,” Jekkanadar echoed softly. His brow furrowed and he looked thoughtful.
“How odd,” Lleld said. “I’ve never stayed in a mousehole before.” She looked as bemused as Linden had ever seen her.
Points to you, love,
he told Maurynna.
For once it’s Lleld who’s baffled.
“And I’ll warn you now,” Maurynna said, hiding a smile. “They’re planning
a welcoming feast tonight. Luckily, on such short notice it will be rather small—for an Erdon affair. That will be in the Great House.”
“And that is?” prompted Lleld.
Maurynna answered, “The biggest dwelling in a House’s compound. There’s almost always one large house—often an estate on its own—where the Head lives.”
The conversation shifted as Lleld demanded more about the way the great merchant families of Thalnia lived. “What are the compounds? It sounds very military.”
“Not at all,” Maurynna said. “Or at least, not any more. They started during the Interregnum, the Years of Chaos, as houses and warehouses were built behind palisades where the the biggest and most powerful merchant families—the Houses—and their hired mercenaries lived and guarded the merchandise from attacks. It was a grim time.
“Since then, the compounds have grown beyond their original walls. Each House owns land in its home city. Most is bought, some ceded by royal grant. On that land are the Great House and the Mouseholes, and a number of smaller but very fancy homes for the senior members and their immediate families, plus some more modest dwellings for the married juniors. The homes are usually close by each other, and the whole area is known as that family’s compound even if there are no longer walls setting it off from the rest of the city. Everything is owned by the House in common.
“As I said, it’s the senior members of a family—those who make the decisions—or juniors with families, that live within its compound. If we’re not given houseroom by a senior, we unmarried juniors must find lodging where we can, often sharing a couple of rooms with two or three others. I was lucky. Since I was the only female among the younger cousins, I had a garret room to myself in my Aunt Maleid’s house.” Maurynna paused. “It was very small, stifling in the summer and freezing in the winter, but it was mine.”
And then I got my own ship … .
She didn’t say it aloud but the unspoken words hung in the air. Her expression grew dour.
Linden drew breath to speak, then let it out in a sigh. What could he say? She’d lost the wild freedom of the sea and was barred from the sky. He had no words to console her. Guilt pricked him. Perhaps she’d come to this pass because of him. Had First Change come upon her too soon because he’d needed her in dragon form? Was that why Kyrissaean tormented her so—being forced to awaken before the dragonsoul was ready?
His mood was so dark that when Jekkanadar chuckled, Linden bit back angry words just in time.
For it was plain that Jekkanadar was not laughing at him or Maurynna. “Mousehole,” he said in delight. “Who would have thought? But it makes sense, of course, don’t you think?” he appealed to them.
Linden exchanged puzzled glances with Maurynna before looking around to find the others as much in the dark as he.
Now Jekkanadar laughed aloud. “I’m sorry; of course you wouldn’t know. It’s just a guess, but … There’s an archaic word in Assantikkan, so old I’d nearly forgotten it.
A’mhausool.
Even when I was young it was hardly used anymore.
“A hundred years before the Wars of the Witch Kings, when justice was dealt out by the priests and priestesses of the goddess Kirakki, at each temple there was a sacred area designated as a kind of sanctuary—the
a’mhausool.
All disputes were brought before the priests, anything from an argument over the ownership of a pig to a border war between two nobles.
“Anyway, built upon the
a’mhausool
were lodgings that any plaintiff might use no matter what their rank. Pigherder or duke, all were equal before Kirakki. One could stay in a nearby inn, of course, but there one risked a knife between the ribs. Only at the
a’mhausool
were you truly safe.
“That is, until the high priest Hannakulan used his power as Kirakki’s judge on earth for personal gain. It led to the destruction of the temples and set the stage for the Wars. It was,” Jekkanadar said, “a very dark time.”
Taren said thoughtfully, “The Zharmatians have a goddess K’rahi; she has something to do with their Seers. Another instance of ideas and words traveling between Jehanglan and Assantik, think you?”
“Truly?” Jekkanadar said, his eyes lighting with interest. “We’ll have to discuss this further another time. But let me guess, Maurynna,” he continued. “Any guest staying in a Mousehole is sacred, yes?”
Maurynna nodded. “Even if he were your House’s worst enemy, if the Head gives him guestright in the Mousehole, you may not harm him.” She tilted her head. “I’d always wondered why a guesthouse would be called that. But that does make sense; there are a lot of words from Assantikkan mixed in with Thalnian.” Her smile grew. “But what a silly thing for that poor word to change into.”
“Indeed,” Jekkanadar replied. “Introduced in dignity the gods only know how long ago, only to be mangled in that peculiarly Thalnian way with words.”
Maurynna thumbed her nose at him.
“Mangled along with a cartload or ten from every other language I’ve ever heard,” Linden teased, tugging a lock of Maurynna’s hair, pleased that her grey mood had passed—at least for now.
 
For a festive gathering conceived and launched on the spur of the moment, the Erdons did themselves proud, Linden thought.
The Great House was one of the richest dwellings he’d ever been in; it would have done credit to a duke of the realm. Even this, the smaller of the two
feasting rooms, easily could have held twice as many people as could come on such short notice.
Standing by a table laden with food and drink, Linden waited as an awestruck young servant filled his goblet with wine. Under the eagle eye—and no doubt the ready scoldings—of the watching house steward, the boy offered it up to him in the proper fashion, left hand beneath the base, right thumb and forefinger touching the stem just enough to steady it.
Linden took it from him. “My thanks, lad,” he said.
The boy beamed; then, sensing the steward’s iron gaze, replied, “You’re welcome, Your Grace. May I offer you anything else?” He gestured at the many platters filled with savory tidbits and sweetmeats.
Even for an impromptu banquet such as this, the Erdons had many resources and, Linden reflected, one hell of a cooking staff. He considered the choices, then cast a glance over his shoulder.
Just as he thought: another bunch of Maurynna’s relatives had cornered her and were talking all at once. Angling for preferred trading status with the Keep, no doubt. He saw Maurynna’s lips thin into a grim line.
Idiots. Couldn’t they read the signs that a squall was brewing?
He
could, and he’d only known Maurynna for a few months. A long-ago comment of Rani’s about a fellow officer came back to him: “He’s not only stupid enough to stand behind a kicking mule—he’s fool enough to paint a target on his rump as well.”
Now Maurynna’s eyes narrowed. The squall was imminent. And still they persisted, the greedy idiots.
Time for a rescue.
Hold them off for a little longer, Maurynna-love,
he mindspoke her.
They’ll stop as soon as I get there.
A heartfelt
Thank you!
rang in his mind.
Linden turned back to the servant. “Pick for me, will you, lad? Enough for two and bring it to me.”
“With pleasure, Your Grace!”
Linden sauntered a way through the group importuning Maurynna. The conversation flagged as the petitioners realized who passed among them. He slipped in beside his soultwin and slid an arm around her waist, smiling blandly at his new—and importunate—kin. The assorted relatives glanced at each other and hemmed and hawed. Hoping they’d take the hint and disperse, Linden said nothing, merely sipped his wine.
His eyebrows went up at the first taste. This was a different wine than he’d had earlier and was one of the best he’d tasted in all his six centuries.
Hm—perhaps there were some discussions of trade he’d welcome.
Maurynna mindspoke him, her words vibrating with mixed annoyance and gratitude.
Thank you for saving me from them. But I’m furious that they’ll harangue me and wouldn’t dream of doing it to you.
That’s because they’ve always known of me as a Dragonlord. You’re too familiar for them to be in awe of once the first suprise is over.

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