Dragonlinks (36 page)

Faced with numbers that he had trouble counting up to, let alone remembering, Zimak stopped to bargain for a skin of wine. Presently they continued on their way again.

‘I could have bedded a real queen in Passendof,' Zimak said after taking a swig of the red stream from the wineskin.

‘And gotten yourself eaten,' muttered Jelindel.

‘She might have married me and made me King.'

‘That's not the way that things are done in royalty. I risked my life to save you from her.'

‘And I risked
my
life for you in the Valley of Clouds!'

‘Risked your life for me? Why of all the –'

‘Please shut up, both of you,' rumbled Daretor. ‘We should search this place quickly and move on, not fight.'

‘Again,' added Zimak.

‘I'm tired and hot,' complained Jelindel. ‘Does anyone else want to wear the mailshirt?'

Zimak reluctantly took over their enchanted burden and they split up. Libraries were not considered of great import in Altimak, so while Daretor and Zimak went around the port looking for a glow from the mailshirt, Jelindel hired herself as a relief scribe in the marketplace. She charged low rates and did excellent work, so that after two days she was not short of customers.

‘While passing through the Garrical Mountains on the way to the Skelt coast we saw the devastation wreaked by the flying dragon,' a salt merchant's apprentice dictated proudly. This was his first really long trip away from home.

‘Don't you mean the Hamarian crater lake?' Jelindel prompted.

‘No, no, I speak of melted rocks and a burned village,' the apprentice said earnestly.

Jelindel looked up at once.

‘Did you see this dragon yourself?'

‘Alas no, learned sir, and it seems that I was a full month too late for the show. Just as well, perchance. There were but few survivors to tell the tale.'

‘And what tale was that?'

‘Why, that a dragon appeared out of the sky and spat fire upon the village.'

‘Why did it do that?'

‘Who knows the minds of dragons?'

‘Can you tell me where it is that you saw this devastated village?'

‘Yes,' he said cannily. ‘If you can write my letter for free.'

The location turned out to be twenty miles west of the Dominer Pass, in the Garrical Mountains. The youth spoke of long, deep grooves in the rock, as if a hot knife had been dragged through the surface of a tub of mutton fat.

There had been none of the usual signs of fighting, such as arrowheads in the timbers. Some of the bodies had been burned to char on open ground.

Although it seemed relevant to nothing in particular, Jelindel decided that it was worth checking. The customs office had lists of trade routes, and these had towns and distances included.

Twenty miles west of the Dominer Pass was a village named Lers-Dharek. A penstroke was slashed across the name, and in the margin was scrawled ‘Razed by outlaws. Abandoned'.

The clerks at the office had heard only that it had been attacked and burned by outlaws, and on the surface that seemed quite a reasonable explanation.

A check of the city register revealed the names of twelve people with Lers-Dharek as their previous place of residence. Most had passed through the port and taken ships for elsewhere on the coast. All had arrived a month ago.

Only one man was still living there, a tailor named Korok who now had a stall in the marketplace. By that evening Jelindel found him and hired his services to sew a windcollar into her jacket while she waited. After a time she steered the conversation to the dragon that had burned his village.

‘It comes one night when Reculemoon setting,' Korok said without looking up from his work. ‘Not a dragon like
in crests and tapestries of rich nobles. Beautiful thing, full of facets, lights and intricate patterns. So beautiful, Korok cannot look away, even as – even as it spits blue flames.'

‘Blue flames? From its mouth?'

‘No mouth, and blue flames can only be seen when smoke drifts across them. Not flames, maybe … spears of blue. They are long, thin bars that come from its belly. Not a single house, tavern or stable is standing. Those who run are burned down. Korok watches them running. Just a flash of blue, all about their bodies, then gone! Just a puddle of melted gravel on roadway.'

Jelindel noted that he sat crouched and mumbled his words, and was close-lipped. It was as if he feared that something terrible would notice him if he stood up straight or spoke out loud.

‘Yet I heard that a dozen survived that night,' she prompted.

‘Ha ha, more, maybe thirty surviving, young man. Most are fleeing inland to the Baltorian frontier, others come this way to flee by ship, Korok comes with them. They were from farms nearby, farmers have money to buy passage on ships. Not Korok. Very poor. Korok's silver argents melted into stones of house. Farmhands are strong, hardy, they fight frontier outlaws and walk through deep snow. Not Korok. Korok must live in a town if Korok is to live. Korok is poor and feeble, see?'

He pushed back his sleeve to reveal a scrawny arm, then returned to his sewing. Jelindel noted that he did exquisite stitchwork, even though he had no more than waxed thread and jackhare leather to work with.

‘Your craftwork is impressive,' she said as she watched. ‘Your talents were wasted in such a remote village.'

‘Ha ha, sold jackhare gloves and riding caps with vermilion stitching of village coat of arms to rich travellers. Captive market, yes? Did fine repairs for fine garments, but all gone now.'

‘So you were the only survivor from the village itself.'

‘Gah … not quite. Korok is returning, ah, late dusk from farm where Hic'Tofdy boys hunt for jackhares. Fine boys selling fine pelts to Korok. Korok hiding behind rockslide, watched. Terrible, terrible. Those who ran flared alight like hay dropped on coals. Others die in their houses.'

Jelindel reached across to a tray and selected a pair of gloves. They were very finely made, and a snug yet flex -ible fit when she tried them on.

‘Pah, they are lady's gloves. I make you nice gauntlets for riding, very manly.'

‘No, I have small hands and besides, these are nice for reading beside a campfire.'

‘Reading? You can reading? Ha ha, clever boy. Nine silver argents.'

‘Would you include the work on the collar in that price?'

‘Oh, well … dear, dear, dear … maybe eleven the lot. Very little capital for new materials, still using skins from Hic'Tofdy boys. Not many left.'

Jelindel picked up a patch of leather about the size of her hand. ‘If you would embroider a likeness of the dragon on this piece, then twelve argents. You said it was very beautiful, and I want to have a beautiful but deadly image for when I am awarded arms one day.'

‘Hie! He reads, he fights, and he is wealthy! You are count in disguise, yes?'

Jelindel winced at the nearness of his joke.

‘No, I'm not a count. So, will it be twelve?'

‘Twelve, the lot … is fair. Down in warm seaside port are not many liking Korok's gloves. Colder in mountains. All want splash collars for fishermen. Ugly things.'

Jelindel practised turning the pages of an almanac with the gloves as Korok finished the collar. A tax collector's wife stopped to ask Jelindel if the gloves were comfortable, then bought a pair herself. She and her husband had travelled through the remains of Korok's village a fortnight earlier, and she confirmed that the very rocks had melted deeply.

‘Someone must have offended the dragon mightily,' Jelindel said when she was gone.

‘Never see dragon before that night,' said Korok.

‘Had there been strangers in your village around this time?'

‘There were always strangers in village. Village exist to tend travellers. Travellers strangers. Very logical.'

‘Was there any stranger that you remember in particular?'

Korok paused to scratch his thin hair.

‘Warrior, has name Mentrian Hil'Tranl. He buys gauntlets from Korok. Very rich. Five lancers riding with him. Tall, and black, curled hair. Fine clothes, fine weapons. Wants Korok's gauntlets, good taste you see. Hands not like warrior, more like priest or mage, very soft.'

‘Did he wear a plain ring on one of his lesser fingers?'

‘No ring, but … very strange. Hic'Tofdy boy sees fight in tavern, tells me. Warrior gets cut on cheek from Daba Rouse. Very good with knife, Daba Rouse. Good friend of Korok.'

‘But what did the boy see that was strange?'

‘Ha ha! Green blood. Hic'Tofdy thinks big fight to start, but no. They leave. Ride into night. Hic'Tofdy stays at Korok house, tells all, takes Korok money for pelts,
then
Korok goes to Hic'Tofdy farm with him but carries no money. Many, many bandits, but want silver, not pelts. Korok not silly.'

Jelindel said nothing. She knew that she was too excited, that she would be over-eager and blurt out something that she might regret.

Korok finished the collar and went on to embroider the dragon. The shape of the dragon slowly emerged under his fingers. At last he held it up, complete. The shape was that of some exotic pendant, rather than a dragon, and it meant nothing to Jelindel. ‘Did you notice which way the … the warrior and his men travelled?'

‘No, no. Might be here! Might be that some churl cut him again then dragon with blue fire comes here too. Maybe Korok learn sailmaking and leave on ship. Hard for Korok to stay alive, easy for Korok to die.'

Jelindel paid the twelve silver coins, then left to find the others.

The night was warm in the port city, but Jelindel wore her new gloves all the way back to the hostelry. The gloves made her hands look a little larger and less feminine, and her old gloves had recently fallen apart. Daretor and Zimak were sitting on a bench under the awning of an open-air tavern across the square and they called her over.

‘These were the price of a great discovery,' she said as she held up her gloved hands for them to see.

‘Hear
our
discovery first,' said Daretor excitedly. ‘The mailshirt glowed orange for a moment.'

They had been sitting in their room in the hostelry, cleaning and sharpening their blades and preparing for the journey to the next town with the mailshirt between them. Before their eyes it suddenly glowed like a pile of dull coals in a grate, then faded almost as rapidly. That meant that another link was within a half-mile of the hostelry.

‘You say it flared up within a heartbeat, then died down almost as fast?' Jelindel confirmed.

Both of them nodded.

‘Like a casket opening and closing?'

‘A box – yes, yes!' exclaimed Zimak. ‘Or like the door of a tavern opening to spill light into a dark street, then closing again.'

Jelindel rubbed her gloved hands together, frowning.

‘Then we have two lessons to take from this. The first is that this linkrider has a casket that somehow quenches the link's emanations. The second is that if he keeps the link in such a casket, he cannot be wearing it.'

‘Another lesson is that he is very close by,' Zimak added. ‘In this very port.'

‘And a further lesson is that he knows
we
are here,' Daretor concluded. ‘Our mailshirt flared, so his link must have flared as well. He must have had the casket's lid up just long enough to notice the glow.'

‘What luck!' Zimak chirped, holding up his tankard for a toast.

‘Not so lucky,' warned Jelindel. ‘My discovery may be connected to yours, and if that is so we are all in danger. This entire port could be burned to a lake of molten rock.'

Jelindel told them what she had learned from Korok, and they both confirmed that they too had heard the story
of a village up in the mountains being annihilated a month ago.

Like Thull, Mentrian Hil'Tranl had bled green blood.

‘The destruction of the village may not have been revenge,' Daretor suggested. ‘He may have been trying to move about unnoticed, and was willing to sacrifice the village to keep his secret.'

‘But he still has that dragon-demon at his call,' Jelindel pointed out.

‘Nice gloves,' said Zimak.

Jelindel showed them the embroidery of the dragon, which resembled something between a wedge and a teardrop.

‘No legs or wings, nothing that resembles eyes either,' said Zimak. ‘It could be a huge magical amulet, the size of a ship –'

‘That's it!' exclaimed Jelindel. ‘A ship!'

‘In the mountains? Flying?'

‘There are obscure scholarly theories about the dragon that caused the crater in Hamaria being a huge, powerful flying ship. The crater filled with water, and is now known as Skyfall Lake. We passed through it on that barge, remember?'

Jelindel looked to the sky, which was colouring with evening. ‘Where is the mailshirt now?'

‘In the pack between my feet,' said Daretor.

‘Then we must keep a watch for any glow at all times. Daretor, I'll take it to the hostelry while you keep watch here. Every time it glows, I'll put a lamp on the windowsill for a moment. Zimak, can you get about the port and ask after Mentrian Hil'Tranl? A tall, finely dressed man –'

‘– with black, curly hair and an escort of five men. It may take a day or so, but I can find him if he's here.'

Jelindel realised as she left them that they were suddenly accepting her authority again. While the days were mundane and routine she was a mere girl to them. Once they were close to the next dragonlink, they suddenly needed her.

The mailshirt did not brighten again, and Daretor joined Jelindel in the hostelry after the tavern closed. He put on the mailshirt and a coat over it, leaving some of the sleeve links visible. Zimak returned much later, and he had news.

‘Hil'Tranl is here,' he announced as soon as he arrived. ‘He and his men have been taking short voyages over to Kaplus Island, staying at one of the inns there for a few days, then returning here. One of the ferrymen knows them well. Ah, and look at these, I got them for sixteen argents!'