Dragonseed (8 page)

Lizard was asleep, his limbs draped over the horse’s neck like it was a tree branch. The swaying motion didn’t disturb him. In sleep, his coloration had taken on a drab, dark shade of green—a shade she remembered well. It had been the color of the earth-dragon that had slit her throat during the battle of Chakthalla’s castle. Though that had happened only a few months before, it felt like some impossibly distant past. So much had unfolded in her life in the intervening weeks, she felt as if her adventures could fill a book, perhaps an entire trilogy of books, one that any biologian worth his salt would salivate over.

It was difficult to accept that this tiny dragon-child would one day grow up to be a fierce warrior. All the earth-dragons she’d ever known had led violent lives as soldier and guards. Was this the result of their biology or their upbringing? Earth-dragon children were treated with abuse and neglect their whole lives until they became big enough and strong enough to be the abusers. Yet, Lizard responded to her affection. Could raising an earth-dragon with compassion, teaching it reason instead of rage, result in a new kind of dragon? Or only a weaker one, fated to never fit in with his peers? Would her act of kindness leave Lizard as much an outcast as she was?

Anza dismounted on the steps of Burke’s Tavern. She walked onto the broad porch, stood next to a chess board atop a large barrel. A sculpted monkey sat on the far side of the board, a grinning beast crafted from tin and copper, with large glass eyes. Though immobile, its hand was held in such a way that it looked ready to reach out and grab a chess piece, had there been any on the board. Vance and Shay got off their horses, stretching their backs.

“I need brandy,” said Shay.

“What’s brandy?” asked Vance.

Shay looked puzzled by the question. “It’s a liqueur. You drink it. It warms you.”

“Like moonshine?” asked Vance.

“I think brandy is only going to be found in the dens of sky-dragons,” said Jandra, getting off her horse to join the others on the porch. Lizard remained sound asleep, breathing peacefully. “I’m not sure human palettes are refined enough to distinguish between the various liqueurs.”

As she said the words “human palettes” she realized she was still thinking like the daughter of a dragon. The others didn’t react to her words—were they avoiding her gaze because they recognized how alien she was? A voice within her thought, “
Not alien. Superior.”

A chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t her own voice in her head—it was the voice of Jasmine Robertson. Before Jazz had died, she’d “gifted” Jandra with a thousand years' worth of her memories. Jazz had told Jandra she’d done this as a time saving device to help Jandra understand why Jazz had aided in the fall of mankind and the rise of dragons. Jazz was dead now, but her memories lived on inside Jandra. This is why Hex had stolen the genie. He’d been worried that Jazz was still alive inside Jandra, since what was a person but the sum of their memories? Jandra knew she was still in control of her own personality, but these stray recollections worried her. Ironically, Hex had robbed her of the very tool she needed to fix her brain—she was certain she could have commanded the genie to erase the alien thoughts.

“I can’t think of the last time I was this tired,” said Vance, addressing Anza. “Can we get some sleep before we find the person your father wants you to see? What’s his name? Thorny?”

Anza nodded, though since Vance had asked three different questions, Jandra wasn’t certain which one she was answering.

Shay looked even more exhausted than Vance, but he said, “Before we go to sleep can I see the library? The thought of it will keep me awake all night if I don’t see it.”

Anza motioned with her head for the others to follow. She pressed a board beside the door to the tavern. The panel of wood looked like any of the countless shingles that covered the place, but there was a click from inside the wall. Anza pushed the door open and slipped into the dark room beyond.

The others followed into the large room that was the heart of Burke’s tavern. There was a huge stone fireplace, with a faint orange flame still flickering over a mound of red coals. The room was warm, and the air was rich with the sweet aroma of ale. Jandra held her breath when she realized they weren’t alone. An old man sat beside the fireplace in a wooden rocking chair, his head tilted back, softly snoring. His open mouth sported the most snaggled collection of teeth Jandra had ever seen—it was as if the old man had lost every other tooth in his mouth. His face was framed by an ill-groomed salt-and-pepper beard. The old man’s hair jutted out from his head in all directions, composed of a hundred shades of gray, in every hue from charcoal black to cotton white.

Anza walked up to the sleeping man. She carefully reached out and touched his shoulder.

His head slowly lifted as his eyes opened.

“Anza?” he whispered. He rubbed his eyes. Jandra noted that his fingers were horribly knotted and twisted by arthritis. He lowered his hands and stared at Anza with bloodshot eyes. His breath was absolutely rotten, a stench that carried all the way to Jandra, nearly fifteen feet away, as he said, “It
is
you.”

The old man rocked forward, looking at Jandra, Vance, and Shay. “Where’s Burke?” he asked. Anza held out the folded letter. He grasped the paper awkwardly in his bony fingers.

“You must be Thorny,” said Shay.

“That’s what my friends call me,” the old man acknowledged. His speech was slightly slurred. “Thor Nightingale is my birth name.” He sounded quite proud of this fact. He looked around the empty tavern as he unfolded the letter, slowly, awkwardly, wincing as he moved his fingers in delicate motions for which they were ill formed. “I guess I fell asleep again.” He grinned sheepishly. “Drank a few too many celebrating a birthday.”

“Whose birthday?” asked Shay.

“It’s always someone’s birthday,” said Thorny. He rose, swaying, his unbuttoned, threadbare coat hanging loosely on his frame.

Anza went to the fireplace to stir the ashes. The light brightened as the flames leapt back to life. A large clock beside the fireplace ticked rhythmically as she worked. Suddenly, the ticking was overpowered by the sound of gears within the wooden framework of the clock. A door opened near the floor and a brass frog hopped out. It released a series of croaks, a loud, metallic sound somewhere between a washboard’s rasp and a bell’s chime. The frog hopped in a circle back into the clock. The gears sounded again as the door closed.

“That was odd,” said Vance.

“You get used to it,” said Thorny, looking down at the unfolded letter. “Just another of Burke’s gizmos, like the chess monkey. Burke’s always tinkering on something.” He squinted as his eyes flickered over the letter. “Looks like he’s got more than tinkering in mind. I gather he’s taken control of the foundries?”

“Yes,” said Jandra. “But there’ve been unanticipated ramifications. The defeated dragon armies are taking revenge on human villages in the area, killing everyone.”

Thorny shook his head. “That’s not unanticipated, girl. Burke knew. He’s spent the last twenty years plotting to overthrow the dragons, but he was like a chess player thinking ten moves ahead. He could imagine a hundred gambits that would produce quick and satisfying victories against the dragons. But any victory he imagined was followed by chaos and slaughter throughout the kingdom. He could have launched a war at any time, a war he thought he could win, but he didn’t because he didn’t want the blood of innocents on his hands. He would have lived out the rest of his life here in peace if Ragnar hadn’t forced him to battle.”

Anza frowned as Thorny spoke. She glared at him and made a few rapid hand signals. Thorny looked embarrassed.

“You’re right,” he said. “Ragnar couldn’t have forced Burke to do something that wasn’t already in his heart. I was here when Ragnar confronted Burke. Burke could have killed the prophet where he stood. We both know that. But, no matter what Burke’s gut feelings were toward dragons, I think his head was in charge of his emotions. Ragnar is nothing but emotions—he’s like Burke’s hidden anger given human form. Ragnar needed Burke, but maybe Burke needed Ragnar as well.”

Jandra was surprised by Thorny’s analysis. On the surface, he looked like nothing more than an old farmer, and a drunken one at that. But his words hinted at a level of education and thoughtfulness she didn’t often encounter in her fellow humans.

Anza gave a few more hand signals. Thorny nodded. “You’re right,” he said, heading for the bar. “Let’s get packing. We might not have much time.” He led them through a door behind the bar into a kitchen, then through a second door that opened onto a set of stairs heading down. The stairs descended at least thirty feet, until they reached a third door that opened onto darkness. Anza bounded ahead, moving confidently in the gloom. There was a series of clicks and suddenly a score of lanterns leapt to life, illuminating a large cellar with a high ceiling. The walls were made of red brick and the floor was crafted from huge flagstones. The rafters were full of gears and rods and wires, including a grid of long metal shafts that looked as if they were holding up the floor of the bar above. Jandra couldn’t even begin to guess at their purpose. Chains draped around the room in all directions, like the web of some unseen iron spider.

Tall shelves lined the room, full of wooden boxes holding an impressive collection of springs, levers, rods, pins, screws, and cogs. Other shelves held hundreds of thick books bound in leather. A large iron stove sat on the far side of the room with a bin of coal beside it. A bellows affixed to the side was powered by a clockwork mechanism. The room stank of rust, must, and dust.

Thorny said, “Anza was only a baby when Burke arrived. He needed an assistant to build all this. I showed up a few months after he did. I was a former slave with no place to call home. I’d been trained to read and write, so Burke hired me to assist him in making this workshop. It’s sort of a combination of foundry, library, and apothecary all rolled into one.”

“You were a slave?” Shay asked.

“Long ago,” said Thorny. “I used to serve as a living quill to the biologian Bazanel before he changed his position on slavery and freed me. Still, my ruined hands bear testimony to my service to him. I was made to write until every bone in my hands ached, and would face whippings if I failed to keep pace with Bazanel’s nearly endless speeches and lectures. I take it, judging from your garb, that you were once a slave at the College of Spires?”

“I served Chapelion himself.”

“Ah. You must have escaped. Chapelion would never willingly free a slave.”

Shay nodded. “Chapelion’s convinced that slavery is of benefit to mankind. He believes that people wouldn’t long survive in the world in direct competition with dragons—only by serving dragons can humans endure. I know the argument well. I was the living quill that recorded every word of his five volume history of human bondage,
Slavery as an Evolutionary Strategy
.”

“Isn’t it risky to trust his words defending human slavery to be recorded accurately by a slave?” asked Jandra.

“Chapelion doesn’t see it this way. Dogs are carnivores, with the instinct to hunt, yet they’re trained by men to protect sheep and cattle. They’re even trusted as companions for human children, though a wolf would regard the same child as a meal. Chapelion trusted me with his words the way men trust dogs with their families.”

“You’re lucky you escaped before you were used up,” Thorny said. “These days, I can’t even button my own clothes.”

During this discussion, Anza had her arms crossed. She looked impatient. Thorny, apparently sensing this, said, “I should get a wagon from the barn to load Burke’s inventory. Since we’re abandoning the place, the rest of you can look around and see if there’s anything you want to take. If you don’t grab it, the dragons will. I’ll wake some of the other men to help; it looks like you all could use some rest.”

He and Anza moved toward twin wooden doors on the southern wall. She pulled them open to reveal a long tunnel leading up. Unlike the steep stairs, the tunnel had a gentle slope. Anza grabbed a lantern and stayed at Thorny’s side as they walked toward the far end of the brick lined tunnel. Vance trailed after them. Shay remained in the workshop, taking books from the shelves and reverently looking at their title pages. Jandra decided to stay behind as well. She’d witnessed Burke’s handiwork at Dragon Forge, and was intrigued by the unfamiliar tools that lay around the room.

Fresh air swirled into the room as Anza and the others reached the end of the tunnel and opened the broad doors. Jandra looked up the long shaft, seeing starlight.

Shay let out a gasp. Jandra looked at him. He was in front of the bookshelf.

“By the bones!” said Shay. “He has all seven!”

“All seven what?”

“The Potter biographies! The College of Spires only had five of the volumes… four now, since I stole one.”

“What’s so special about these books?” She picked up one of the fat tomes and flipped it open.

“Potter was a member of a race of wizards who lived in the last days of the Human Age,” said Shay.

Jandra frowned as she flipped through the pages. “Are you certain this isn’t fiction?” she asked.

“The books are presented as fiction,” said Shay. “However, there are other artifacts that reveal their reality. I wouldn’t expect you to know about photographs, but—”

“I know what a photograph is,” she said. In truth, the goddess knew what a photograph was, and Jandra was only borrowing the memory.

“Photographs recorded the physical world, and a handful of photographs of this famous wizard still survive. Some show him in flight on his…” His voice trailed off. He turned toward Jandra, studying her face carefully. She knew what he was about to ask.

“Is it true you know magic? That you and your master Vendevorex command supernatural forces? Are you one of the secret race?” His voice was quiet as he asked this, his tone almost reverential.

Jandra twisted a strand of hair around her finger as she contemplated her answer. When she still had her genie and could turn invisible, or disintegrate solid matter, or heal almost any wound, she’d always been quick to deny that she possessed supernatural powers. She’d shunned the label
witch
. Now, stripped of these powers, it might be dangerous to deny them. Having people believe you commanded supernatural forces was a kind of power in its own right.