Ship of Destiny (44 page)

His words shocked her. It was not just that he was insufferably rude to her; he truly had lost all awe of her. This pathetic little two-legs, creature of a few breaths, was willing to die this very instant, because—she turned her head and regarded him closely. Ah! Because he believed she had allowed his mate to die. Malta.

“Malta is not dead,” she exclaimed in disgust. “You waste your emotion and grandiose words on something you have imagined. Set aside such foolishness, Reyn Khuprus. The task you must perform is vastly more important than one human’s mating. I honor you with an undertaking that may well save the whole of my race.”

THE DRAGON LIED. HIS CONTEMPT KNEW NO BOUNDS. HE HIMSELF
had been up and down the river in the
Kendry,
and found not a trace of his beloved. Malta was dead, and this dragon would lie to bend him to her will. He gazed past her disdainfully. Let her strike him where he stood. He would not give her another word. He lifted his chin, set his jaw and waited to die.

Even so, what he saw now widened his eyes. As he stared past Tintaglia, he glimpsed furtive shadows stalking through the ruins toward her. They moved, they paused, they moved, and each time they got closer to the dragon. Their leather armor and tails of hair marked them as Chalcedeans. They had rallied, despite the shattered ships in the harbor, despite their many dead, and now, swords and pikes in hand, battle-axes at the ready, they were converging on the dragon. A grim smile twisted Reyn’s lips. This turn of events suited him well. Let his enemies battle one another. When they were finished, he would take on any survivors. He watched them come and said nothing, but wished them well.

But Grag Tenira sprang forward, crying, “Dragon, ’ware your back! To me, Bingtown, to me!” And then the fool charged the Chalcedeans, leading no more than a bloodied handful of his householders in an attack to defend the dragon.

Swift as a striking serpent, the dragon turned to confront her attackers. She bellowed her fury and beat her great wings, heedless that she sent several of her defenders rolling. She sprang toward the Chalcedeans, her jaws gaping wide. She breathed on them. No more than that could Reyn see, and yet the results were horrifying. The hardened warriors recoiled from her, shrieking like children. In an instant, every face ran blood. A moment later, clothing and leather armor fell in tatters from their red-streaming bodies. Some tried to run, but got no more than a few steps before they stumbled. Some of the bodies fell in pieces as they collapsed. Those farthest away from the dragon managed a staggering retreat before they collapsed screaming on the ground. Even the screams did not last long. The silence that followed their fading gurgles was deafening. Grag and his men halted where they stood, fearing to approach the bloody bodies.

Reyn felt his guts heave. The Chalcedeans were enemies, lower than dogs and deserving of no mercy. But to see any creature die as those men had died was wrenching. Even now, the bodies continued to degrade, losing shape as they deliquesced. A head rolled free of its spine, settling on its side as flesh flowed from the collapsing skull. Tintaglia swiveled her great head back to stare at him. Her eyes spun; was she amused at his horror? An instant ago, he had told her that he no longer valued his life. That had not changed, but he also knew that any other death was preferable to the one he had just witnessed. He braced himself, determined to die silently.

Where Grag Tenira found his courage, Reyn could not say. He strode boldly between the Rain Wilder and the dragon. He lifted his sword high, and Tintaglia bridled in affront. Then the Bingtown Trader bowed low and set the blade at her feet.

“I will serve you,” he offered Tintaglia. “Only free our harbor of these vermin, and I will set myself to any task you propose.” He glanced about; his look plainly invited others to join him. Some few crept closer, but most kept their distance. Selden alone advanced confidently to stand beside Grag. The shining eyes the boy turned up to the dragon made Reyn feel ill. Selden was so young, and so deceived by the creature. He wondered if that was how his mother and brother had seen him when he was advocating so strongly on the dragon’s behalf. He winced at the memory. He had turned this creature loose on the world, and his price for that folly had been Malta.

Tintaglia’s eyes flashed as she considered Grag. “Do you think I am a servant to be bought with wages? Dragons have not been gone that long from this world, surely? The will of a dragon takes precedent over any feeble goals of humans. You will cease this conflict, and turn your attention to my wishes.”

Selden spoke before Grag could reply. “Having seen the marvel of your wrath, mighty one, how could we wish to do otherwise? It is those others, the invaders, who dispute your will. See how they sought to attack you, before they even knew your bidding. Smite them and drive them from our shores, wide-winged queen of the skies. Free our minds from considering them, that we may turn willingly to your loftier goals.”

Reyn stared at the lad. Where did he find such language? And did he think a dragon could be so easily maneuvered? With amazement, he watched Tintaglia’s great head dip down until her nostrils were on a level with Selden’s belt. She gave the boy a tiny nudge that sent him staggering.

“Honey-tongue, do you think you can deceive me? Do you think pretty words will convince me to labor like a beast for your ends?” There was both affection and sarcasm in her voice.

Selden’s boyish voice rang out clear and true. “No, mistress of the wind, I do not hope to deceive you. Nor do I try to bargain with you. I beg this boon of you, mighty one, that we might more fully concentrate on your task for us.” He took a breath. “We are but small creatures, of short lives. We must grovel before you, for that is how we are made. And our small minds are made likewise, filled with our own brief concerns. Help us, gleaming queen, to put our fears to rest. Drive the invaders from our shore, that we may heed you with uncluttered minds.”

Tintaglia threw back her head and roared her delight. “I see you are mine. I suppose it had to be, as young as you were, and so close to my wings’ first unfurling. May the memories of a hundred Elderling minstrels be yours, small one, that you may serve me well. And now I go, not to do your bidding, but to demonstrate my might.”

She reared, taller than a building, and pivoted on her hind legs like a war stallion. Reyn saw her mighty haunches bunch, and threw himself to the ground. An instant later, a blast of air and driven dust lashed him. He remained down as the beating of her silver-blue wings lifted her skyward. He rose and gaped at the suddenly tiny figure overhead. His ears felt stuffed with cotton. As he stared, Grag suddenly gripped his arm. “What were you thinking, to defy her like that?” the Trader demanded. He lifted his gaze in awe. “She’s magnificent. And she’s our only chance.” He grinned at Selden. “You were right, lad. Dragons change everything.”

“So I believed once, also,” Reyn said sourly. “Push aside her glamour. She is as deceptive as she is magnificent, and her heart has room only for her own interests. If we bow to her will, she will enslave us as surely as the Chalcedeans would.”

“You are wrong.” Small and slight as Selden was, he seemed to tower with satisfaction. “The dragons did not enslave the Elderlings, and they will not enslave us. There are many ways for different folk to live alongside each other, Reyn Khuprus.”

Reyn looked down on the boy and shook his head. “Where do you get such ideas, boy? And such words as could charm a dragon into letting us live?”

“I dream them,” the boy said ingenuously. “When I dream that I fly with her, I know how she speaks to herself. Queen of the sky, rider of the morning, magnificent one. I speak to her as she speaks to herself. It is the only way to converse with a dragon.” He crossed his thin arms on his narrow chest. “It is my courtship of her. Is it so different from how you spoke to my sister?”

The sudden reminder of Malta and how he had used to flatter and cajole her was like a knife in his heart. He started to turn aside from the boy who smiled so unbearably. But Selden reached out and gripped his arm. “Tintaglia does not lie,” he said in a low voice. His eyes met Reyn’s and commanded his loyalty. “She considers us too trivial to deceive. Trust me in this. If she says Malta is alive, then she lives. My sister will return to us. But to get this, you must let me guide you, as I let my dreams guide me.”

Screams rose from the vicinity of the harbor. All around them, men scrabbled for vantage points. Reyn had no desire to do so. Chalcedeans or not, they were his own kind that the dragon was slaying. He heard the crack of massive timbers giving way. Another ship dismasted, no doubt.

“Too late for those bastards to flee now!” a nearby warrior exulted savagely.

Close by, others took up his spirit. “Look at her soar. Truly, she is queen of the skies!”

“She will cleanse our shores of those foul Chalcedeans!”

“Ah! She has smashed the hull with one swipe of her tail!”

Beside him, Grag suddenly lifted his sword. His weariness seemed to have left him. “To me, Bingtown! Let us see that any who reach the beach alive do not long remain so.” He set off at a jogging run, and the men who had earlier cowered in the ruins hastened after him, until Reyn and Selden alone remained standing in the ruined plaza.

Selden sighed. “You should go quickly, to gather folk from all of Bingtown’s groups. It is best that when we treat with the dragon, we speak with one voice.”

“I imagine you are right,” Reyn replied distractedly. He was remembering the strange dreams of his own youth. He had dreamed the buried city, alive with light and music and folk, and the dragon had spoken to him. Such dreams came, sometimes, to those who spent too much time down there. But surely, such dreams were the province of the Rain Wild Traders only.

Wistfully, Reyn reached down to rub a thumb across the boy’s dust-smeared cheek. Then he stared, wordless, at the fan of silver scaling he had revealed on Selden’s cheekbone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
BINGTOWN NEGOTIATIONS

THE ROOF ON THE TRADERS
’
CONCOURSE WAS GONE. THE
Chalcedeans had finished what the New Traders had begun. Ronica picked her way past the sooty remains of the roof that had collapsed on the Concourse floor. It had continued to burn after it fell, streaking the stone walls with soot and smoke. Tapestries and banners that had once decorated the hall hung in charred fragments. Above, a few beams remained, burned to black points. The afternoon sky threatened rain as it looked grayly down on the gathering inside the roofless building, yet the Bingtown Traders had stubbornly insisted on meeting in a structure that could no longer shelter them. That, Ronica thought, spoke volumes about the legendary tenacity of the Traders.

The fallen timbers had been pushed to one side. Folk stepped over and through the rest of the rubble. Cinders crunched underfoot and the smell of damp ash rose as the crowd milled. The fire that had taken the roof had claimed most of the tables and benches as well. Some scorched chairs remained, but Ronica did not trust any of them enough to sit on them.

And there was a strange equality to standing shoulder to shoulder with the others gathered here. Bingtown Traders, New Traders, tattooed slaves and brawny fisherfolk, tradesmen and servants all stood with their friends and kin.

They filled the hall. Outside, the overflow sat on the steps and clustered in groups on the grounds. Despite their differing origins, there was an odd sameness to the folk. All faces bore the shock and grief of the Chalcedean invasion and the havoc it had wrought. Battle and fire had treated them equally, from wealthy Bingtown Trader to humble kitchen slave. Their clothes were stained with soot or blood and sometimes both. Most looked unkempt. Children huddled near parents or neighbors. Weapons were carried openly. The talk was muttered and low, and most had to do with the dragon.

“She breathed on them, and they just melted away like candles in a flame.”

“Smashed the whole hull with one blow of her tail.”

“Not even Chalcedeans deserve to die like that.”

“Don’t they? They deserve to die however we can manage it.”

“The dragon is a blessing from Sa, sent to save us. We should prepare thanksgiving offerings.”

Many folk stood silent, eyes fixed on the raised stone dais that had survived to elevate the chosen leaders from each group.

Serilla was there, representing Jamaillia, with Roed Caern glowering beside her. The sight of him on the dais made Ronica clench her teeth but she forced herself not to stare at him. She had hoped that Serilla had broken off with Roed following his ill-advised attack upon the New Traders. How could she be so foolish? The Companion stood, eyes cast down as if in deep thought. She was dressed far more elegantly than anyone else on the dais, in a long, soft white robe, decorated with crossing ropes of cloth-of-gold. Ashes and soot had marred the hem of it. Despite the garment’s long sleeves and the thick woolen cloak she wore, the Companion stood with her arms crossed as if chilled.

Sparse Kelter was also on the dais, and the blood on his rough fisherman’s smock was not fish blood today. A heavy-boned woman with tattoos sprawling across her cheek and onto her neck flanked him. Dujia, leader of the Tattooed, wore ragged trousers and a patched tunic. Her bare feet were dirty. A rough bandage around her upper arm showed that she had been in the thick of the fighting.

Traders Devouchet, Conry and Drur represented the Bingtown Council. Ronica did not know if they were the only surviving Council heads, or the only ones bold enough to dare displeasing Caern and his cohorts. They stood well away from Serilla and Roed. At least that separation had been established.

Mingsley was there for the New Traders. His richly embroidered vest showed several days of hard wear. He stood at the opposite side of the dais from the slave woman and avoided her gaze. Ronica had heard that Dujia had not led an easy life as his slave, and that he had good reason to fear her.

Sitting on the edge of the dais, feet dangling, oddly calm, was Ronica’s own grandson, Selden. His eyes wandered over the crowd below him with an air of preoccupation. Only Mingsley had dared question his right to be there. Selden had met his gaze squarely.

“I will speak for us all when the dragon comes,” he had assured the man. “And, if needed, I will speak for the dragon to you. I must be here so she can see me above the crowd.”

“What makes you think she will come here?” Mingsley had demanded.

Selden had smiled an other-worldly smile. “Oh, she will come. Never fear,” he had replied. He blinked his eyes slowly. “She sleeps now. Her belly is full.” When her grandson smiled, the silvery scaling across his cheeks rippled and shone. Mingsley had stared, and then stepped back from the boy. Ronica feared that she could already detect a blue shimmer to Selden’s lips beneath the chapping. How could he have changed so much, so swiftly? As baffling, perhaps, was the inordinate pleasure he took in the changes.

Jani Khuprus, representing the Rain Wilds, stood protectively behind Selden. Ronica was glad she was there, but wondered at her intent. Would she claim the last heir to the Vestrit family and carry him off to Trehaug? Yet, if she did not, what place would there be for him in Bingtown?

Keffria stood so close to the dais that she could have reached out and touched her boy. But she didn’t. Ronica’s daughter had been silent since Reyn had brought Selden to them. She had looked at the silvery path of scales across the tops of her son’s cheeks, but she had not touched them. Selden had joyously told her that Malta was alive, for the dragon said so. When Keffria had said nothing in response to his news, he had seized her arm, as if to waken her from sleep. “Mother. Put your grief aside. Tintaglia can bring Malta back to us. I know she can.”

“I will wait for that,” Keffria had said faintly. No more than that. Now she looked up at her son as if he were a ghost, as if a tracery of scales had removed him from her world.

Just beyond Keffria stood Reyn Khuprus. He, like Jani, went unveiled now. From time to time, Ronica saw folk turn their heads and stare at the Rain Wilders, but both were too preoccupied to be offended. Reyn was in deep conversation with Grag Tenira. There seemed to be a difference of opinion, one that was civil but intense. She hoped it would not cause discord between them tonight. Bingtown needed every semblance of unity it could muster.

Ronica’s eyes traveled across the assembled folk in all their variety. She smiled grimly to herself. Selden was still her grandson; despite his scales, he was still a Vestrit. Perhaps the changes on Selden’s face would be no more of a stigma than the tattoos that others would wear unashamedly in the new Bingtown. One of the ships that the dragon had dismasted had been filled with Bingtown captives. Many had already been forcibly tattooed, their faces marked with the sigils of their captors so that each raider would receive his profit when they were sold in Chalced. The Chalcedeans had abandoned the dismasted ship and attempted to escape in galleys, but Ronica did not think any had been successful. Bingtown folk had poled out on a makeshift raft to the listing vessel to rescue their kin, while the dragon pursued Chalcedean prey. Many who had never expected to wear a slave tattoo now did, including some New Traders. She suspected they might shift their politics in response.

Anxiety shifted the gathered folk endlessly. When the dragon had returned from hunting Chalcedeans, she had ordered their leaders to assemble, saying that she would treat with them soon. The sun had been high then. Now night threatened and still she had not returned. Ronica returned her gaze to the dais. It would be interesting to see who would try to call this gathering to order, and whom the crowd would follow.

Ronica was expecting Serilla to use her claim of the Satrap’s authority, but Trader Devouchet stepped to the front of the dais. He lifted his arms high and the crowd hushed.

“We have gathered here in the Bingtown Traders’ Concourse. Since Trader Dwicker has been murdered, I step up to the position of leader of the Bingtown Traders’ Council. I claim the right to speak first.” He looked over the assembled folk expecting some dissent, but for now, all was silent.

Devouchet proceeded to state the obvious. “We are gathered here, all the folk of Bingtown, to discuss what we will do about the dragon that has descended upon us.”

That, Ronica thought to herself, was inspired. Devouchet mentioned nothing of the differences that had set the town to battling in the first place. He focused all of them, as a single entity, on the problem of the dragon. Devouchet spoke on.

“She has driven the Chalcedean fleet from our harbor and hunted down several roving bands of raiders. For now, she has disappeared from our skies, but she said she would soon return. Before she does, we must decide how to deal with her. She has freed our harbor. What are we prepared to offer her in exchange?”

He paused for breath. That was his mistake, for a hundred voices filled in, with a hundred different answers.

“Nothing. We owe her nothing!” one man bellowed angrily, while another made heard his comment, “Trader Tenira’s son has already struck our deal. Grag told her that if she drove the Chalcedeans away, we would help her with a task she named. That seems fair enough. Does a Bingtown Trader go back on his word, even to a dragon?”

“We should prepare offerings for it. The dragon has liberated us. We should offer thanksgiving to Sa for sending us this champion!”

“I’m not a Trader! Neither is my brother, and we won’t be bound by another man’s word!”

“Kill it. All the legends of dragons warn of their treachery and cruelty. We should be readying our defenses, not standing about talking.”

“Quiet!” Mingsley roared, stepping forward to stand at Devouchet’s shoulder. He was a stout man, but the power of his voice still surprised Ronica. As he looked about over the crowd, the whites showed all around his eyes. The man, Ronica realized, was deeply frightened. “We have no time for squabbling. We must move swiftly to an accord. When the dragon returns, we must meet her as a united folk. Resistance would be a mistake. You saw what she did to those ships and men. We must placate her, if we hope to avoid the same fate.”

“Perhaps some here deserve the same fate as the Chalcedeans,” Roed Caern observed callously. He pushed forward to stand threateningly close to the stout merchant. Mingsley stepped back from him as Roed turned to the crowd. “I heard it spoken clearly, earlier. A Trader has already struck an accord with the dragon. The dragon is ours! She belongs to the Bingtown Traders. We should honor our bargain, Bingtown Traders, without recourse to any of the foreigners who have sought to claim our town as their own. With the dragon on our side, Bingtown can not only drive the dirty Chalcedeans back to their own land, we can force out the New Traders and their thieving slaves with them. We have all heard the news. The Satrap is dead. We cannot rely on Jamaillia to aid us. Bingtown Traders, look around you. We stand in our ruined hall in a ravaged town. How have we come to this pass? By tolerating the greedy New Traders in our midst, folk who came here in violation of our charter, to plunder our land and beggar us!” A sneer of hatred curled his lip as he stared at Mingsley. With narrowed eyes, he suggested, “How can we pay our dragon? With meat. Let the dragon rid us of
all
outsiders.”

What happened next shocked everyone. Even as the mutter of outrage at his words became a roar, Companion Serilla stepped forward resolutely. As Roed turned, surprised, she set her small hand to the center of his chest. Baring her teeth in sudden effort, she shoved him backward off the dais. The fall was a short one; it would have been an easy jump if he had been prepared, but he was not. He went over with a yell, arms flailing. Ronica heard the sharp crack of his head against the floor, and then his howl of pain. Men closed in around him. There was a brief flurry of struggle.

“Stand clear of him!” Serilla shouted, and for one confusing instant, Ronica thought she defended the man. “Disperse, or share his fate!” Like trickling water vanishing in sand, those few who had attempted to help Roed fell back and merged suddenly into the crowd. Roed alone remained, held immobile by his captors, one arm twisted up behind him. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but managed to spit a curse at Serilla. Traders, both Old and New, were the ones who held him. At a nod from Serilla, they wrestled him away from the gathering. Ronica wondered, as she watched him taken away, what they would do with him.

Companion Serilla suddenly flung her head up and looked out over the crowd. For the first time, Ronica saw the woman’s face alight as if a true spirit resided in her. She did not even look after the man she had overthrown. She stood, whole and temporarily in command.

“We cannot tolerate Roed Caern, or those who think like him,” she declared loudly. “He seeks to sow discord when what we need is unity. He speaks against the authority of the Satrapy, as if it perished with Satrap Cosgo. You know it has not! Heed me, folk of Bingtown. Whether or not the Satrap is alive does not matter at this time. What does matter is that he left me in authority, to take on the weight of his rule if he should perish. I shall not fail him, nor his subjects. Whatever else you may be, one and all, you are subjects of the Satrap, and the Satrapy rules you. In that, at least, you can be equal and united.” She paused and let her gaze travel over the others who shared the dais with her. “None of you are needed here. I am capable of speaking for all of you. Moreover, whatever treaty I work out with the dragon will bind all of you equally. Is not that best? To let someone with no personal ties to Bingtown speak for all of you, impersonally?”