The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (31 page)

“Shouldn’t you be sitting down or something?”

His solicitude raises a wan laugh, which was exactly his purpose. If he has to play the clown in order to lighten things up a little, N’Doch doesn’t mind. “All right, then. You go, girl.”

She perches on the rounded arm of the sofa, more like a girl waiting for her date to show up than a woman about to conjure a fire-breathing killer. She takes a breath and
seems to turn her awareness inward. The rest wait in silence for a minute, for two. Then Paia says, “Ah,” and N’Doch is aware of a difference in the room, as if a wind has shifted or the temperature’s risen very suddenly. He tenses, expecting smoke and fireworks of the sort he’s seen up on the mountain. He wishes he had a more obvious weapon in hand than a guitar. Seconds later, there’s a sharp rap on the front door.

“Oh, that’s excellent,” Djawara murmurs.

“What? The door’s locked?”

“No. This one can’t come in unless he’s invited. A good sign. Remember? The other walked right in.”

The rapping sounds again, louder, more preemptory. The shadow on the frosted glass is human-shaped but larger than human size.

“If I don’t let him in, he’ll be furious,” says Paia, as if she wishes someone else would volunteer.

Interesting
, N’Doch muses, that she looks to Djawara for permission, not Sedou or himself. “Can’t we just yell at him through the door?”

The old man sets down his glass. “Allow me.”

“Papa . . .” N’Doch starts forward, but Djawara, steely-eyed, waves him back. His first few steps are cramped and slow, but he’s striding along briskly by the time he reaches the door. The flat daylight falls through the glass onto his dark face and erect back, making his grizzled head and white robe shine.

And the angel let in the devil
. The lyric is already writing itself in N’Doch’s head. He pulls the guitar around in front of him, fingers fitting themselves to the strings.
Now the devil said, open up, open up. So the angel let him in
.

Djawara opens the door and stands beside it. “Lord Fire. Please join us.”

Fire fills the opening, shimmering gold and red, a haze of smoke behind him. Pale, questing tendrils approach the doorway and draw back. The man/dragon is forced to duck under the lintel, making it awkward for him to sweep through the doorway as he has obviously intended. Once inside, his glitter fades slightly, as if he’s walked into shadow. Irritated, he pauses, squinting into the dim room beyond.

Djawara holds out his hand. “Welcome. I’m . . .”

“I know who you are.” Fire brushes past him. “Where is she?”

At the bar, Sedou has turned his back to the door and is busily wiping down the espresso machine until its chrome and copper gleam.

Paia steps into the pool of soft light from the nearest chandelier. “Here. I am here.”

She and Fire stare at each other—rather hungrily, N’Doch thinks—across the scattering of empty chairs and tables.

“You are looking well, as always, beloved,” Fire croons.

“You are looking . . . odd.”

“Odd? Odd?” She has startled him. He preens defensively.

“I mean, why are you . . . aren’t you . . . what are you wearing?”

What’s really odd, N’Doch decides, is that she looks so disapproving. Having only seen the Fire-breather buck-naked except for a sinuous cloak of flame, he assumes that full parade dress is the dragon’s normal clothing in man-form. Besides, why should she care what he wears? Back in 2013, all the power brokers are in uniform. Except for Baraga, whose personal drag is silk, a designer business suit. Fire’s uniform is close fitting and smoothly tailored in a rich blood red. Gold glints at his high collar and across his chest. With his half-scaled skin and his furious red-gold locks, he looks like a battle-weary alien commander stepping off his starship. Either that, or a rock star, whose faintly dimmed post-concert luster makes him seem more approachable. N’Doch wants to find the Fire-breather vile and grotesque, but instead, the bile he tastes is envy. He can’t help thinking the dude looks absolutely splendid.

Fire tugs invisible wrinkles out of his sleeves. “My estates are under attack, may I remind you? And the Temple is in a shambles. How devious of the traitorous Son Luco to neglect the training of a competent successor! I am at war wherever I turn, thanks to you.”

Paia’s chin lifts. “The Temple’s command structure was loyal to their head priest, not to you. And my cousin seeks only to regain what belongs to us. Remember that the Citadel was mine before you seized control of it.”

“Seized?” Fire snarls. “You welcomed me gladly! I
brought order to chaos! Where would you and your ingrate cousin be now if I hadn’t come along? Dead. Both of you. Starvation, disease, attack from squatters or war bands, you name it. You would owe your life to me even if you weren’t bound to me by Destiny!”

“That debt was paid by our years of servitude in your temple! And how dare you invoke Destiny when you’re so busy denying it?”

N’Doch feels like he’s at a grudge match. Fire hasn’t stirred from his position of power by the door, and Paia has refused to go toward him. Already they’re yelling across the room at each other. He sees how it is with these two. Together much longer than the other dragons and their guides, their years of contention have compounded until every conversation starts at an inflated level, so weighted by emotional baggage that any possibility of amity is doomed from the start. His stance is aggressive, hers as sullen and passive as a child. They’re like a married couple who don’t get along, but just can’t imagine divorce. The most archetypal of the dragons turns out to exhibit the most human failings? There’s a lesson in this, N’Doch muses, as he risks a glance toward the bartender.

Maybe this wasn’t such a useful idea
.

NO TALK. HE MIGHT HEAR.

And Fire lifts his magnificent head, listening. N’Doch moves toward the bar. Hide in plain sight, he tells himself. He leans back against the fat ogee softening the counter’s edge. He has to crane his neck upward to meet Fire’s reptilian eyes. He knows he should feel driven to spit in his face, shout “murderer.” Or ram his fists into actual flesh, spew venom, acid, flame, anything to destroy the dragon’s awesome supercilious beauty. Instead, strumming the guitar flung across his chest, he says, “Can I get you a drink, general? What’s your poison?”

The distraction works. Fire tosses off a sneer as sharp as a shuriken and returns his attention to Paia. “Why have you called me here?”

Paia says nothing. N’Doch is alarmed by how obviously shaken she is, how she can’t keep her eyes off the glittering giant. But her silence seems to mean something else to Fire.

“I suppose you hope to lure me from the defense of my
kingdom. But you’ll be disappointed, beloved. Time is in my favor. I am able, no matter how long I am here, to return to the battle mere seconds after I left!”

N’Doch recognizes a vainglorious boast when he hears one. He’s been guilty of enough of them himself, and a few times he’s been caught out because of them, having given up too much information in the boast, thereby making himself more vulnerable.
So get him to brag and run his mouth
, he decides. Something useful is bound to turn up.

“I wasn’t thinking about your battles,” Paia replies.

Fire throws his weight back on one foot and crosses his arms satirically. “Then perhaps you’ve come to your senses and wish to be rescued. The company you’re keeping since you left me gets less interesting each time we meet.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Talk?
Talk?
” He flings his red-clad arms wide. “My Temple is burning, my Faithful are being slaughtered, and you need to
talk
?” He makes a great show of gathering up his patience. “All right, then. What is it? Shouldn’t we go somewhere more private? I don’t see your new concubine hanging about.” He tilts his head, a lampoon of sadness. “Oh, is that it? He’s ditched you already?”

“Is the Citadel really burning?” Paia stands up a little straighter.

The golden eyes narrow. N’Doch notes the quick calculation: which answer is more likely to rouse her sympathy and interest? Despicable as he is, his goal is to win her back. “Not yet, but every second that I am away from the line of defense brings that possibility closer. So state your business, and let me be on my way.”

Shrugging off her pout at last, Paia mimics his stance. “I thought it didn’t matter how long you’re away.”

“Impertinence is unbecoming in a woman, beloved. What do you wish to talk about?”

“Your sister Air.”

Fire stares at her as if she’s said the unpardonable, then looks away, out the window into the empty street. “I have no sister.”

“A lie. You have two.”

“My enemies feed you lies. I say I have no sister.”

N’Doch thinks it’s time to provide a little reinforcement.
“Too late for that, general. You already admitted to it up on the mountaintop. How ’bout this: you have an enemy . . .”

Fire’s glance at Paia is venomous. “I have many enemies.”

“Well, we’d like to negotiate for the release of the one called Air.”

It sounds right to N’Doch, like they do it in the vids: no beating around the bush, if you want to sound serious. Besides, what else can you say to the creep who’s murdered your mother? Small talk just doesn’t cut it. But Fire ignores him, driven at last into restless motion. He paces around the café, his knee-high boots clicking smartly on the little black-and-white tiles. He takes in its details and full measure, as if he was thinking of buying it. He studies the posters on the cracked walls. He pauses before the narrow door that says
monsieurs
. He stares up at the glass-and-brass chandelier just inches above his head until, apparently, curiosity gets the better of him. “What is this place?”

“My favorite café back home.” Djawara accepts the diversion as if happy to share a pleasurable nostalgia. “An exact replica.”

“I leveled your home.”

“Indeed you did. I meant, in the city back home.”

“Your favorite?”

“I spent many fond hours there.”

“I shall seek it out and destroy it immediately.”

The old man snorts gently. “No need. The politicians did the job for you long ago, when N’Doch was still a boy. One faction pulled down the old place to build themselves an expensive office building. As soon as it was finished, another faction blew it up. It’s a pile of rubble now, like much of the city.”

Fire looks interested, perhaps nosing out a weapon he hasn’t yet considered. “How sad for you.”

Djawara shrugs, nodding.

Fire wanders a bit more, smoothes a gilt-nailed hand along the length of the bar as if enjoying actual contact with its material surface. He gives the bartender’s muscular back a long moment of consideration, then moves on. “And how does your café come to be here, in
my
city?”

“Is it your city? I wondered.”

“It is, since the day I claimed it. This was not here until now.”

“It was not here until I created it.”

“Really? Aren’t you clever?” Fire jerks his thumb at the bartender. “Did you create him, too?”

Djawara beams. “I did! Isn’t he convincing? After all, can’t have a bar without a bartender.”

“Of course not.”

N’Doch is sure the Fire-breather has a tactical reason for this satirical display. Is he hoping to catch us off guard with his willingness to banter and admit ignorance? Or hoping to figure out how much we know? Or both? N’Doch senses his grandfather mulling over how much ignorance to admit to in return.

Scowling, Fire begins a second circuit of the room, studiously avoiding Paia, too impatient to wait the old man out. “A dull sort of place, to spend the rest of your lives.”

“I don’t expect it will be that long,” Djawara replies.

Fire grins at him, as if they were becoming fast friends. “How pleasantly ambiguous, old man. Should I take you for an optimist or a pessimist?”

“Take me for whichever you wish. And I will take you for a renegade and a murderer.”

“Tch! Insults!”

“What are your terms for the release of the dragon Air?”

“Oh, that old song. I liked the quaint little café better.”

“Your terms?”

“No terms. Prisoners do not negotiate.”

“Be nice, general,” says N’Doch. “You’re in our space now.”

“The instant you walk out that door, you’re in mine, and you
know
what I will do to you. So . . . prisoners.” Fire starts his third circuit, this time staring at Paia all the while. Paia tries to stare back at him, but soon gives up to gaze in confusion at the floor.

“But that’s not entirely true, is it?” Djawara continues. N’Doch admires his grandfather’s speculative tone. It’s as if nothing more was at stake in this debate than a proper understanding of the argument. “This was just another blank city block until I created the Rive in its place. Or should I say, until something allowed it to be created from my memory. . . .”

Fire gestures grandly around the room. “You wish to disavow this charming bit of magic?”

“Not I. I have no magic. But magic there is. It appears that we have a protector.”

“You put great stock in mere illusions, old man.”

“Can an illusion keep me fed and safe? Was it mere illusion that required you to knock before entering? Perhaps when I walk out that door, I will create the Rue Senghor, further neutral territory, which will allow me safely to create the Marché, which will lead me safely to create the . . .”

Fire halts his circular pacing. “Try it, then!” He stabs a forefinger at the door. “I dare you! You escaped me once in your own territory. You think you can manage so well in mine?”

“As long as my protector is listening.” Djawara moves toward the door.

N’Doch leaps to stop him. “Papa, no. You see what he’s doing, right? Turning it into a pissing contest, just to get us off center!”

“I have no need to waste my energy,” says Fire. “I am merely pointing out that there’s no possibility of negotiation, as you have nothing to negotiate with. Life in here, or death out there. Those are your alternatives.”

“No. There’s me,” says Paia.