The Dinosaur Lords (9 page)

What interest might they have in a poor street performer, and him kitten-harmless, so?

The busker’s bowl was duly filled. He emptied it into his purse. Then with the tip of his stick he hoisted the bowl into the air. Still puffing furiously on his pipes he stood up, holding the stick upright and setting the bowl to twirl. He finished with stick balanced on chin, and the bowl spinning atop it. The crowd erupted in applause as urchins ran among them with more bowls.

“He seems to have quite the going concern here,” Rob said as he straightened, to none but himself. He was always his best audience, after all. “Maybe he won’t be interested in my proposition at all. And wouldn’t that be my luck all over?”

The three hard men were no longer to be seen.

*   *   *

He caught up with the busker in a narrow, noisome alley toward the village outskirts nearest the volcano, whose eponymous crater stained red the sky above the rooftops, and whose bone-deep demon mutter never paused for breath. The street performer had a slouch hat, his sack shouldered, and carried his stick in his lone hand. Though not after the manner of a man who needed its help to walk.

“How are the mighty fallen,” Rob Korrigan murmured to himself.

And maybe,
of
himself. His life had been no path of blossoms since he’d been sacked.

He followed his quarry across a street little wider than the alley, then stopped and looked around. He saw nothing but shuttered windows and a rat or two to overhear him calling the busker by a dead man’s name.

“Ho, there, Voyvod Karyl,” he called softly.

The man broke stride momentarily. Then he continued. He didn’t look back.

Rob scowled at the cloaked back dissolving into the gloom.

“Wait, may the Fae curse you,” he said more loudly.

Instantly repenting letting anger take the reins of his tongue—as it did so often—he hastily added, “I’ve a proposition which might bring profit to the voyvod.”

On the brink of disappearing the busker halted.

“Voyvod Karyl is dead,” he said without turning. Like Rob he spoke Franc
é
s. His accent was unmistakably Slavo.

“You can speak?” Rob said.

The man walked on.

For a moment Rob stood scowling, with his big scarred hands folded over Wanda’s head. “Ah,” he said, “that I, a dinosaur master, should be reduced to chasing down alleys after madmen.”

For gold
, the ever-present voice at the back of his head reminded him
. With your purse as empty as your stomach soon will be.

And it was a princely sum he was promised for such a petty errand: a gold trono, sufficient to buy a sword or suit of clothes, either worthy of a gentleman. Which Rob knew well he’d never be.

“Then again,” he said, “as a minstrel, an
Ayrishmuhn
, and a Traveler, what’s more natural to me than skulking down alleys?”

Tipping the oak axe haft back over his shoulder, he trudged after the man he called Karyl. He was still puzzling over how he might nail down the busker’s attention long enough to make his pitch when three men stepped from the shadows in front of him.

Chapter
6

Chi
á
n, El Rey,
The King,
Padre Cielo
, Father Sky
—King of the Creators:
Qian
☰
(Heaven)—The Father. Represents Fatherhood, rule (and misrule), power, and the Sun. Also dinosaurs. Known for his majesty. Aspect: a sturdy, white-bearded man with gold-trimmed scarlet robe and golden scepter, sitting on a throne. Sacred Animal: Tyrannosaurus rex. Color: gold. Symbol: a golden crown.

—A PRIMER TO PARADISE FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUNG MINDS

Uncomfortable as always in her elaborate Imperial regalia of red ridiculous reaper plumes and heavy gold baubles, Melod
í
a stood by the left arm of the Emperor’s chair. She was bored, as she always was when called upon to wear that outfit.

She shut her ears to the drone of the stout priestess, who wore the grey robes with the eight-sided symbol on the front that signified dedication to all eight Creators without patron or favor. The Princess had long practice at that.

If she squinted through the gloom, Melod
í
a could just see her father’s Chief Minister, Mondrag
ó
n, standing like a scarecrow on the other side of the Emperador’s throne-away-from-home. The Great Hall of Firefly Palace devoured light. She knew that the alternating courses of sand and amber stone that vaulted upward over the Imperial heads constituted an architectural wonder. At the moment she had to take it on faith. It wasn’t as if you could actually
see
it. Especially now, with no sunlight streaming in the courses of narrow arched windows to alleviate the darkness. A myriad of oil lamps and candles burning their little hearts out could barely scratch it.

She let her eyes slide over the gaggle of courtiers and local grandes standing about pretending to listen raptly to the convocation. There were times she almost envied the more prudish North, with its predisposition to more body covering despite its warmer clime. Parchment-skinned pots and sagging breasts were not complemented by loincloths and feather yokes, however resplendent.

Though she could, to her regret, put names to almost all the hangers-on, she had far less notion of what most of them
did
.

The priestess finished. Felipe smiled and nodded approvingly. She withdrew amidst a gaggle of acolytes¸ who waved censers enthusiastically about, surrounding her with dense aromatic clouds as if warding off mosquitoes.

Melod
í
a’s father had an infinite capacity for pious boredom. So, apparently, did the Creators themselves, who forbore to strike down even the longest-winded of Their servitors. It was another reason Melod
í
a secretly doubted their existence.
She
would have slagged the marble beside the priestess’ sandals with a lightning bolt, just to see her dance.

The Imperial Herald stepped forth and in tenor-trumpet tones began to introduce Felipe by his titles, real and fanciful: “
Behold his Imperial Majesty,
Terror of the
Evildoer—
”

Luckily Melod
í
a also had experience keeping her face expressionless. Not even she thought of her father as
prepossessing
. Felipe Delgao was a man of middle age, middle height, and slightly more than middling paunchiness, wrapped in a gold-trimmed cloak of scarlet feathers. A simple crown with a single red reaper plume sat on short hair just on the red side of sandy. His slightly protuberant eyes were pale green this evening.

He looked, even to his daughter, who really did love him, like the personification of mediocrity. Which fact had much to do with his Election. All factions had agreed the stout Duque de los Almendros was far too inconsequential to upset any dung-carts.

And here he was, kicking them over right and left like a child pitching a tantrum among his toys. Melod
í
a wished she could enjoy the dismay her father caused Nuevaropa’s magnates. Unfortunately she deplored his methods as much as his sternest critic did.

“—
Defender of the Faith, Shield and Sword of the Holy Church, Upholder of Creators’ Law—
”

Felipe looked amused by the hyperbole, knowing it accreted to the office, not the man. Sometimes in private he liked to remark they’d spout the same encomiums to Don Rodrigo, the fat, half-blind, and toothless old Tyrannosaurus rex that served as Imperial Executioner, should he somehow get elected. And the courtiers would suck up to him as eagerly.

Still, Felipe looked for all of Paradise as if he were enjoying this immensely.

“—
el Emperador del Imperio de Nuevaropa, Felipe!
” the Herald finished ecstatically. The mob of hangers-on erupted in applause, as if Felipe had just slain a legendary monster like his progenitor and predecessor, Manuel Delgao.

Melod
í
a glanced down at her sister, fidgeting by her side. As Infanta, Montserrat got away with just a modest silver circlet confining her unruly dark-blond dreadlocks. She wore a simple white child’s gown, which for a wonder was spotless. Its state meant some harried attendants had shrewdly waylaid the girl and wrestled her into it as she was on the utter threshold of the Great Hall. Her Imperial inveterate tomboy Highness Montserrat could notoriously get dirty walking across five meters of freshly scrubbed tile.

With nobody else paying attention, Montse stuck her tongue out at her sister. Melod
í
a winked back. She felt a warm rush of closeness and love.

In some ways the siblings were as different as fur and feathers. Yet they loved each other with a fierce and almost conspiratorial devotion: allies against an indifferent, uncomprehending court and world. And, too often, father.

The guards flanking the entrance stamped their nosehorn-hide sandals ceremonially. Trumpets flourished. Conversation died as the tall ironwood doors groaned open. A herald entered between the stone-faced Scarlet Tyrants with their figured and gilded cuirasses, scarlet capes, golden red-crested barbute helmets, and altogether businesslike halberds. Felipe grinned.

And why not? His favorite kinsman and personal champion was about to walk through those doors.

That made Melod
í
a smile as well. She held her breath as the new herald belted out, “His Grace—”

What?
she thought.
Did father make Jaume a Duke and not tell me?

“—Falk, Herzog von Hornberg.”

A figure strode in, tall, wide, and astonishing in gleaming royal-blue plate armor. A black cape hung from impossibly broad shoulders. A black falcon displayed, wings elevated, screamed silent defiance from the silver shield painted on his breastplate. Blue and black plumes nodded from a helmet held in the crook of his arm. The head above all that splendid metal was wide, if no wider than the neck, the strong, square face fringed by black beard. The eyes pierced like naked sunlight through blue glass.

After a breathless moment, the courtiers swirled into excited whispers. Melod
í
a realized she had been holding her own breath. She let it go.

“Von Hornberg?” she heard the Chief Minister exclaim. “Von Hornberg, the rebel?”

The newcomer looked down at Felipe, who sat gazing up at him wide-eyed as a hatchling raptor. He stopped the prescribed three meters from the throne.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a voice like a great bass drum, “I have come to thank you for the most gracious pardon you have seen fit to bestow upon me, and pledge my sword to your service.” He spoke in excellent but abominably Alem
á
n-accented Spa
ñ
ol.

Voices cried out in alarm as he drew blade. The Tyrants behind Felipe’s throne stepped forward, ready to split that huge head like an orange with their halberds.

Falk tossed the meter-long weapon in the air. It turned over once. He caught it by the tip in a gauntleted hand, took two strides forward, and knelt with a
tunk
of steel kneecap on scarlet carpet, presenting the hilt to his Emperor on his low dais.

Shocked silence ensued, and lingered for many beats of Melod
í
a’s heart.

“Oh, bravo!” Felipe cried. He clapped his hands in delight. He reached out and briefly grasped the proffered silver pommel.

“I accept your service and gladly, my good Duke,” he said. “Rise, and know that you have won my favor.”

The courtiers clapped madly again as Falk rose once more to his imposing height, feeding his arming-sword back into his scabbard as he did so.

Father always was a sucker for cheap melodrama
, Melod
í
a thought.

Pages stepped forward to guide Duke Falk to the appropriate place to the Emperor’s right. Mondrag
ó
n’s gaunt great-nosed face looked even more pinched than usual, as if he smelled someone who’d stepped in fresh horror dung.

From his side Melod
í
a saw the Duke staring frankly at her. She frowned and looked quickly away.

Then she glanced back.
Why, he’s so young!
she realized with a shock.
He can’t be a dozen years older than I am.
His outlandish size and presence had masked his youth.

Trumpets skirled again. The herald seemed somehow revived when he stepped forward this time.

“Comes now,” he cried, “the most worshipful Montador Jaume, Comte dels Flors, Knight-Commander of the Order of the Companions of Our Lady of the Mirror.”

A waiting ensemble struck up a tune with brio: “Un Ball per la meva Noia Jove,” “A Dance for My Young Girl.” Melod
í
a felt a flush rise hot up her cheeks: it was she for whom Jaume wrote the tune, years ago when she was a child and he a dashing youth who had already begun to make his name in the professions of both arts and arms.

Jaume entered the Great Hall as if he’d just conquered it, step lively, head high. He was tall, lean, and lithe, yet wide across the shoulders in his cream surcoat with the red Lady’s Mirror emblem of his order on the chest. His dark-orange hair was tied back.