Of Bone and Thunder (38 page)

Breeze opened her eyes, no longer pretending. “He helped us,” she said, pointing at Rathim. “He initiated a process that allowed me to use some of his strength as we came in to land. That's why the harmony had four parts.”

“So, another RAT,” Vorly said, looking Rathim up and down.
Fucking great.
Vorly leaned forward for a better look at the thaum. “How come
your
eyes aren't bleeding?”

“It's complicated,” Rathim said. He stood up straighter. Whatever that meant, it was clearly something he was proud of.

“It always is with you RATs,” Vorly said. He turned his attention to Ketts. “Whatever you really are, you're no RAT, at least not like these two.”

Ketts nodded his head. “I like you, Flock Commander. No buggering the sheep in the long grass with you.”

Vorly snorted. “I'm taking my nap. If you haven't been eaten by a rag by the time I wake up we'll talk more.”

Ketts's smile never wavered. “Pleasant dreams then, Flock Commander.”

IT WAS HARD TO
imagine any sane person choosing to be near a flock of rags. It was even harder to comprehend why one would stand among military-grade rags preparing to launch from within the confines of a quarry roost in the dark of night. Jawn Rathim tried, but his imagination was no match for the surreal spectacle before him. The quarry floor was the LOKAM's Valley of Fire and Damnation brought to life.

The noise, the heat, and the sheer overwhelming violence of the launch operation assaulted Jawn in waves. Nothing had prepared him to be this close to such massive and intense force. After witnessing the mass deaths at Gremthyn, he truly thought he had seen it all, but this was something wholly different again.

Jawn pressed his back against a granite boulder, ignoring the pain as the sharp rock dug into his flesh.
This is insane.
Men and women ran about between behemoths, risking decapitation, crushing, burning, and disemboweling, with little apparent care. Jawn ducked as a huge, twelve-foot-long tail ridged with bony plates swung over his head. Claws fully as long as he was tall dug into the stony ground, flinging chunks of rock easily twenty pounds through the air. Wings taller than the largest sails of the Royal Navy's warships pumped and flexed, kicking up blinding whirlwinds of dust and debris. Any one of these things could have ended Jawn in a heartbeat, and the beast that did it wouldn't even feel a thing.

“There you are!” Rickets said, ambling casually through the chaos toward Jawn. “I was getting worried one of the rags gobbled you up. Can't imagine what ingesting one of you lot would do to the poor creature's humors.” The crowny's smile suggested he found the madness around them to his liking.

“I have no intention of finding out,” Jawn said when Rickets reached him. Every day in the Lux was one more lesson in fear that Jawn had to overcome. He'd survived his flight into the country, an unanticipated victory in and of itself. The horror of Gremthyn was mercifully receding into memories that he could, with extreme effort, push to the side. And less than a twelfth of a candle ago he'd conducted his first thaumic process in the country to aid another thaum in the landing of a rag. It felt amazing to finally use his powers over here. For the first time since he'd arrived, he was in control. The pride that welled up inside him lasted for the time it took to face the next challenge the Lux threw his way—this roost floor before launch.

“Not to worry, my lad, these rags are well fed and well trained. You'd have to crawl into their maw and tickle their throat to get one to eat you,” Rickets said, his irritating smile growing bigger.

“You have far more faith in their training than I do,” Jawn said, suddenly wondering if his distrust of rags was at all like the distrust some people felt for thaums.

“You're looking at the forest and not seeing the trees,” Rickets said, waving a hand to encompass the quarry floor of the roost. “First time in a flock roost is shocking, no doubt about it. The key is focus. It looks like a painting of the Valley of Fire and Damnation, but look closer and there's a poetry of movement. Patterns, if you will.”

Patterns. The RAT curriculum was all about patterns. How to find them, how to make them, how to know when to avoid them. But those years of learning had been in a nurturing, safe environment. Even his training in the army, while far more coarse, had exposed him to violence in a controlled fashion.

“I can't see one,” Jawn said. The Lux was nothing like he'd read about and nothing he'd expected it to be. His experience with fear had been fixed on not making mistakes, on using his mind to focus the energies of the thaumic process. Here, in the Lux, he was face-to-face with fears wholly beyond his control.

“Start with colors,” Flock Commander Vorly Astol said, striding into view. Like Rickets, he seemed utterly unconcerned with the prospect of death by one of the massive beasts.

“Colors?” Jawn asked.

“He's right,” Rickets said. Astol stared at Rickets without blinking.

“Modelar wants to see you,” Astol said.

“Ah, then I shan't keep him waiting,” Rickets said, bowing slightly to Astol before turning and giving Jawn a wink. “Patterns, my boy, patterns. Listen and learn.” With that he was off, swallowed up by the chaos.

“Interesting fellow,” Astol said, watching Rickets disappear.

“He excels at being interesting,” Jawn said, suddenly wishing Rickets were still there. “Overly so at times.”

“I don't like interesting,” Astol said, turning to train his bloody eyes on Jawn.

The process the other thaum must have used awed Jawn. You didn't get bloody eyes unless you went deep and hard into the aether. Too deep, too hard, and you didn't come back.

“Ah,” Jawn said, not sure what else to say.

“I find interesting people to be more trouble than they're worth,” Astol said, taking a step so that he stood just inches from Jawn. “And here you are, part of a so-called survey team with
him
.”

Cold shivers crawled up Jawn's back. “Do you know Rickets? I mean Crown Representative Ketts?”

Astol shook his head. “No, but I damn sure know what he isn't. And that makes me wonder just who in High Druid's fire you really are.” Astol wobbled, then righted himself. “Come with me,” he said, setting off across the quarry floor.

Despite the master witch's orders, Jawn doubted the man had rested at all. He had managed to wash up and change his flying uniform to one relatively free of soot and blood, but his voice was still hoarse and his eyes bloody from the aftereffects of the other thaum's process.

Jawn hurried after him. Flock Commander Astol marched through the assembled rags as if he were strolling among horses in a stable. The remarkable thing was, the rags clearly recognized him as he walked past. Each rag lowered its head and allowed the man to pat it, which really was more like a few solid thumps on the skull between the eyes with a closed fist. The rags seemed to like it.

“That's amazing,” Jawn said, doing his best to keep Astol between
him and the rag's jaws. “How do you know one won't decide to kill you?”

Astol stopped between a pair of rags and looked at Jawn. “I don't, not really. But then, that's like asking how do you know
I
won't kill you?”

Jawn started to smile but stopped when he saw Astol wasn't. “We're on the same side.” He felt the focus of the rag behind him and did his best to ignore it.

“And what side is that?”

“I realize this survey is odd, but we're not looking to cause any trouble, I assure you,” Jawn said, realizing that was a promise he had no power to keep. “The crystals are powerful, but they are controllable. We just want to make sure that everything is functioning properly.”

“You mean ‘everyone,' don't you?” Astol asked.

Hot, sulfurous breath wafted over Jawn. He froze where he was. The muzzle of a rag was directly behind him. The collar of Jawn's tunic fluttered with every breath.
High Druid, did Astol walk me out here to be eaten?

“The crystals are hunks of glass without a thaum, so yes, they want us to make sure everyone is fine,” Jawn said, wondering if he would have time to jump if the rag lunged.

“That seems sensible,” Astol said. He flicked his right hand at the rag behind Jawn and the rag withdrew its head. “By the way, I never thanked you for helping us land.”

“All I did was amplify a process channeling power to your thaum,” Jawn said. “She conducted the harmony.”

“So you didn't help that much then after all,” Astol said, setting off again across the quarry floor and forcing Jawn to catch up.

“You mentioned something about colors,” Jawn said, hoping he might turn the conversation into something slightly more cordial.

“Your Rickets fellow was right. The pattern is in the colors. See these flockmen?” Astol said, pointing to a group of three mules shoveling coal and charred hunks of meat onto a bonfire in front of one of the rags. The rag strained its neck trying to reach the fire, but it was a good yard out of its reach. “The sashes around their waists are red. They're feeders.”

“Feeders,” Jawn repeated, wanting to understand.

“The blue ones are wing and scale. They repair any surface damage and if they can't, or if it's more serious, they report it to the dragonsmith.”

“It's all quite amazing,” Jawn said, choosing a word that barely expressed his mix of terror and awe.

The flock commander looked at him, his bloody eyes unwavering in their stare.

“I've known this litter since they were pups,” he said. “That's over three years now. They could have killed me or anyone here a hundred times over, but they haven't. Can you say the same about your lot?”

Jawn paused before answering. A glib response would not serve him here. “Truthfully, no. Thaumics is not without risk. That's why I'm here. I believe in it; I believe that the study and practice of thaumics aids far more than it hurts.”

FC Astol seemed to think about that. When he spoke again, his tone had lost some of its edge.

“So what do I do with you?”

Jawn hadn't expected that, but he was past the point of being a leaf blown on the wind. Between Rickets, the fiery slaughter of innocents at Gremthyn, and now this cloak-and-shadow mission, he'd let himself be pulled deeper into things he didn't understand.

“You don't do anything,” Jawn said, standing up straight and meeting the man's stare. “As my subordinate said, we're here to conduct research on the use and effectiveness of the crystals. Continue as if we weren't here.”

Astol stood stock still, holding Jawn's stare. Finally, he grinned and leaned forward, clamping a hand down on Jawn's shoulder and drawing him close until their noses almost touched.

“I don't begrudge a young man his swagger,” Astol said, his grip firm and unyielding. “You're a RAT fresh from the Kingdom on his first adventure. I remember that feeling—not all that thaumic shit, mind you, but needing to prove myself. My RAT says you ain't half-bad, and I've come to trust her judgment, so that's in your favor. I'm going to cut you and that viper you're with some slack.”

Jawn held his ground, a mix of pride and fear rooting him to the spot.

“Fuck up, just once, however,” Astol continued, “and put any of my
rags and crews in danger, and the last thing you will ever see will be the bowels of a rag. Are we crystal fucking clear?”

“We are,” Jawn said. He recalled his once-heroic if silly dream when he first entered the Royal Academy of becoming a legendary thaum and going out in a blaze of glory. That dream was now irrevocably shattered. He'd never considered that his wish could very well be fulfilled passing through the fiery ass of a dragon.

LEGION FLOCK COMMANDER
Walf Modelar walked up the granite steps carved out of the starboard side of the quarry. He took them slowly, one at a time, enjoying the scrape of his boots on the roughhewn stone. The quarry was silent—well, as silent as one could ever be. All eyes were on him, and he wouldn't lie—he loved it.

A rag dragged a claw along the ground, sending a shower of sparks into the air. He paused in his ascent a good thirty feet above the roost floor. Centaurea was still a bit squirrely after losing his crew. Modelar didn't blame the creature—the whole thing had been a fucking mess.

He continued climbing, feeling the stares of every flockman, driver, thaum, and mule on him. He wished Mirina could see him now. This was when he was in his element, not at one of those insufferable balls she made him attend. Good for his career or not, the things smelled like an abattoir soaked in perfume. He didn't see the point in wasting an evening talking with half-witted officers and smug crownies when he could be here, in a roost where he belonged.

Modelar reached the small balcony the mule stonemasons had set in place fifty feet above the floor. He examined it while he bent over and took a flick to catch his breath. He pretended to admire the railing they'd fashioned from iron bar and chain. Solid, just like the mules who built it.

He straightened up and looked at the quarry wall behind him. Carved in the stone were a set of mule runes. He'd never bothered to learn their language—no good reason to—but he'd memorized these particular runes by heart. They spelled out the name of Modelar's Eyrie. The short buggers knew who put honey in their mead.

Confident his lungs were up to the task, he turned and strode to the edge of the balcony, gripping the chain railing in both hands. He looked down and admired his kingdom. Five three-year-old rags stood ready in their pens, surrounded by their attending flockmen, dragonsmiths, and crew. A twinge of unease crept into his heart as he surveyed the sixth pen. Cytisus was out there, and he wanted that rag back. After almost losing Centaurea he was bloody well not going to lose another.