The Order of the Scales (39 page)

‘Not as much as they’re going to mind when you make him start talking again.’

‘Then we’d better take him somewhere else.’ Jeiros winced. ‘Not back to the Pinnacles though. Too far.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Actually, this could work out to our advantage. Here.’ He took a gold chain from around his neck and gave it to Vioros. ‘While our escort are busy, get some people to find some barrels and fill them with water from the river. When we come back, we’re going to make a discovery.’

‘We are?’ Vioros looked blank.

‘Yes. We’re going to find dozens of barrels of potion. The secret cache we’ve kept here since the wars started, in case it was ever needed. The one you came here looking for. One of several in fact. Fortunate for us that this one survived the attack.’

‘What?’

Jeiros lowered his voice, mindful of the riders cutting down the body. ‘Barrels of water, Vioros. We’re going to lie about some barrels of water, and I want these riders to hear. The barrels must not be sealed, mind. I will need to inspect them myself. Do you understand?’

Vioros shook his head. ‘Not really. Why would we lie about potions?’

‘To buy ourselves some time. Let the riders and their kings and queens think all is well. It will give us the day or two to do what we need to do.’ There was quite a bit more that Jeiros might have said, but he kept it to himself. A burden shared was sometimes a burden halved, but when it meant trusting someone with a secret, sometimes a burden was just a burden to be lived with. Vioros really didn’t want to hear the rest.
Just another few days, old friend, and then you can fly to Furymouth and take that ship, if that’s still what you want.

Jehal hobbled slowly to Wraithwing’s side. He needed a staff now, even to walk. Everything hurt, from his hand wrapped in bandages all the way up his arm, down his back to his foot. The whole of one side.

The Night Watchman and his men stood guard over the Adamantine Palace. Jeiros had vanished off to some trivial little town to hunt for potions. Hyrkallan and Sirion were chasing down survivors. It was almost as though they’d all forgotten about him.

I’m only the speaker after all.
If they’d forgotten about him then they’d also forgotten that he was still a king, that he had hundreds of riders who followed his every wish and a good few dragons as well. He toyed with the idea of making some minor adjustments to the balance of power by having as many of the northern riders murdered in their sleep as he could manage, but in the end he left them to their dreams. One Night of the Knives had been quite enough, and besides, even if he had enough men to kill them all, he certainly didn’t have enough to fly their dragons.
And then what? Where do I take them? There’s nothing here. Narghon’s dead; Zafir’s probably razed Furymouth to the ground; the Adamantine Eyries haven’t got a drop of potion between them; and I could hardly take them back to the north after I’ve just murdered their riders, could I?
The idea made him laugh. Steal the dragons of Outwatch from Jaslyn’s knights and then take them back to their own eyrie to be fed? No, that was hardly a recipe for a happy outcome.

Still, he might have tried it anyway if it hadn’t been for Lystra and how immensely in pain he was. The pain was mostly from the old wound, Shezira’s revenge on him. The scar was still intact, but underneath it felt like all the muscles of his thigh that used to be attached to his groin had ripped away. Probably they had. The leg was useless now. Even with his staff he could barely walk. He’d chewed on Dreamleaf until the walls started talking, but the pain never went away.

And then there was Lystra, his queen, his love, the one who’d brought the world tumbling down simply by being. She wouldn’t like it very much if he had her sister poisoned, and so Jaslyn got to live. Jehal turned his mind to other matters of revenge instead. There were, after all, plenty to choose from. He thought he might start with Furymouth.

Wraithwing was ready to fly. The dragon felt angry, restless. Something. Hungry maybe. Jehal could feel a quivering urgency in the way he moved. He took hold of the rope ladder and started to climb onto Wraithwing’s back, one step at a time. Hopping up with his good leg, hauling himself with his hands, letting the other leg hang limp and useless. They could have used a crane and a harness, but that would have been too much. He would mount on his own. On the day he couldn’t do that any more, he might as well take the Dragon’s Fall. Except if he couldn’t climb on, he wouldn’t even be able to do that.

By the time he was in his saddle, he was sweating and gasping for breath as though he’d run all the way from the bottom of the Tower of Air to the top. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the throbbing in his leg away. The midday sun burned down on his back. Hyrkallan and Sirion were somewhere up in the sky, far away. Jehal waved his hand. Wraithwing began to run. Around him half a dozen dragons took to the air. Instead of joining the hunt, though, they turned south. If anyone saw him go, what were they going to do? Besides, most of his riders had already gone. Quietly, inconspicuously. A hundred dragons leaving all at once, people would notice. A hundred leaving in dribs and drabs through the day? At a time like this? Invisible.

As soon as they were in the air, arms wrapped themselves around him. Lystra rode behind him. She had his son with her. An idiot risk, perhaps, if he was flying to war, but he’d been without her for far too long. Besides, you never quite knew what would happen when your back was turned. Jaslyn would have stood watch over her little sister, he was sure of that, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to fly without her, not after everything that had held them apart. And once he’d told her where he was going, he would have had to have had riders hold her down to keep her from flying with him.

He skirted the edges of his realm, circumspect in his approach. They passed the night in the wild hills near where the Worldspine kissed the Endless Sea. Hardly anyone lived out here. Those who did had scant regard for dragons or their riders but enough shrewdness to know when to run. He lay wrapped in furs, staring up at the stars with Lystra by his side and their son snuffling between them.
Like a common man with his wife and his son might do. No pageants for us tonight, no massive tents that take an hour and a dozen men to erect so I might sleep without a breeze on my face. I like the breeze.
This was where everything had started. In these wooded hills. Not far from here was the little valley where Aliphera’s shattered body had finally been found. He looked up. There were no clouds up there tonight. Through the haze of Dreamleaf, time seemed to stop. Here, the world was almost perfect.

Almost. Pity about the pain that simply wouldn’t go away.

Lystra started to snore. The baby coughed and wriggled. He wondered if he should tell her. Maybe if she knew everything he’d done, the world might suddenly start to turn better.

Don’t be such a sentimental idiot. Words won’t mend your leg. They won’t put Aliphera’s bones back together. They won’t put Shezira’s head back on her neck nor Meteroa’s either. They won’t make anything different at all except she’ll know how much of a bastard you really are, and then there’s a good chance she just might not like you any more. Which would be a bad thing. So keep your mouth shut. Let her think that none of this is your fault and make sure you get rid of anyone who says otherwise. How does that sound? No, don’t even bother to answer that, because we both know how it sounds.

It sounded like his uncle. Who was dead, he reminded himself. Callous and mean and eminently practical. Hadn’t worked out too well for him in the end.

Things worked out for him for a good long time, and you’re smarter than he was. Stick with what you know, Jehal. Don’t suddenly try to be something you’re not.

But that was the problem. That’s exactly what he was doing. Trying to be the same man he’d been a year ago, when all this had started, and he wasn’t liking it. It wasn’t fun any more.

Ah. So now you’re the nice Jehal we’ve all been missing for, well, since the moment you were born, really. Some other Jehal, who doesn’t make a habit of getting rid of anyone in his way. A Jehal who thinks about something beyond sitting on the throne he thinks his father should have had. Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?

He had a lot of enemies now, it was true. He doubted they’d simply let him walk away.

And let’s not forget the inordinate time and the elaborate plans to lure every woman who crosses your path into bed. It would be a lot quicker and easier to just punch them in the face and rape them. Probably a lot more honest too. Might there be the odd grudge there?

No. Not fair. Like who?

Who exactly are you at war with? And, if you could possibly manage to be frank for a moment, you really don’t care about what you’ve done to any of them.

He turned and looked at Lystra.
I care about this one.

Because she’s so immeasurably stupid and naive she believes that somewhere there’s something nice in you. There isn’t. If getting it up didn’t hurt so much right now, if you could actually walk even a little bit, you’d be off after some young virginal dragon-rider just to prove you still had it in you. She’d probably even let you go if you asked nicely, that’s how much dumb faith she has in you. Entirely undeserved and entirely misguided.

He reached a hand to stroke Lystra’s hair. She sighed and shifted but didn’t wake up. They’d barely had a chance to talk about what had happened in the Pinnacles, but the bruises on her face told their own story. Another reason to go after Zafir.

While the world burns. Yes. Go on, Jehal, pursue your little grudge. Much more important for you two to prove once and for all who’s the better bastard. As if it’s going to make any difference when the alchemists run out of potion.

Still
hadn’t asked Jeiros why he didn’t simply make more.

He snorted and snuggled up close to his wife. The baby stirred and then whimpered. When it came to the dragons, there really wasn’t much he could do.

Lystra was looking at him, her eyes open now. ‘Why are you awake?’ she whispered. ‘Is it the baby? I heard him make a noise. He’s probably hungry again.’

Is he?
Jehal had no idea how you were supposed to tell. Babies happened to other people, preferably a long way away from him. He watched as Lystra opened her shirt and then winced as the baby started to suckle.
Ancestors! How small they are.
He tried to grin. ‘If you put it like that then I’m hungry too.’

Lystra ignored him. ‘What are we going to call him? He’s more than a month old. He deserves a name.’

‘Hyram.’ Jehal laughed. ‘I don’t know. Antros? But there are already too many of them in your family.’

‘Tyan. After his grandfather.’

‘Who went mad.’
And we won’t be calling him Meteroa either
. ‘I’d like to call him Calzarin. After my little brother.’
Who went mad too.

‘Calzarin. It’s a nice name.’

‘Yes.’ He rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars. Nice name. Nice face.
Nice arse too, or at least Meteroa obviously thought so. Not so nice on the inside though. We did that to him, Meteroa and I. We ruined him, each in our own way. Tore him up from the inside out. Meteroa with lust and me with loathing. Now look at us all. Are you watching, little brother? Because I don’t feel guilty at all. You deserved everything I did to you, and if you were alive now I’d probably smash your head with a rock. And yes I might be a cripple, and yes I might not be the speaker for very much longer, and yes the realms might be about to burn to ash around me, but I’m alive, little brother. Alive and at least very briefly happy, which is more than you ever were. So if you’re feeling smug, you can go choke on it.

There were times, he thought, when you had to be realistic about things. Sometimes being alive had to be enough of a victory.
And however it ends, I so nearly came away with everything. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same, any of you, dear ancestors. We have the same venom for blood. Hyram called the Veid Palace a nest of snakes. How right. How pathetically right.

They put the dead sell-sword on the back of a dragon and flew him to a quiet place by the river, well outside the town. Jeiros mixed his own blood with a pinch of Abyssal Powders and tipped the congealing mess into the corpse’s mouth. Then he took a deep breath and tried to ignore the smell. The body was already starting to turn in the heat and it had been a long time since he’d talked to a dead man.

‘Hello, corpse,’ he whispered as the head twitched, as the eyes rolled beneath gummy lids and its mouth opened with a quiet moan. He started with the spear. Then the rogue dragons in the Worldspine. Back beyond that to the white, to the attack on the Redoubt, the white dragon’s first awakening, the attack on Queen Shezira’s wedding party that had started it all. He listened patiently to it all. When he was done he had the body burned. The trouble with waking the dead, as he’d learned to his cost, often came with putting them back to sleep again. Dragons sorted that out easily enough.

A Scales. The sell-sword had been with a Scales, of all people. A should-have-been-alchemist who’d done something stupid and been demoted to a Scales. Kataros. Name didn’t mean anything.

An almost-alchemist who’d seen the spear turn two dragons to stone. Who would know the spear for what it was. Who very probably had a sizeable chip on her shoulder. Marvellous.

‘You know what annoys me?’ he grumbled to Vioros when he was done. ‘Someone started this. Someone tried to steal the white, and that’s when she escaped. And I have no idea who did it.’

‘
That
annoys you?’ Vioros looked at him as though he was mad.

‘I’d at least like someone to blame.’

‘Valmeyan.’

He shrugged. ‘Probably. Now he’s dead, I suppose we’ll never know.’