The Dragon Round (28 page)

Livion would make small talk if a voice in his head didn't tell him the man was probably a spy. He should avoid the vendor altogether. But his okono is so good.

Instead, he looks at the galleys docked at Hanosh's three piers. He
doesn't see any of Solet's ships, which were due this morning, nor has Tuse's arrived with its cargo of sulfur from the Dawn Lands. It's several days late. This isn't unusual, but he will have to excuse it to Chelson. He calls tardiness a theft of hours. The additional time away from Mulcent and Sumpt should assuage him somewhat.

A towering man blocks his view, his arms like tree trunks, his eyes cold steel, his shock of hair a fiery red. It's not his size that alarms Livion. It's his presence. The trade rider is a day early and obviously looking for him.

“Omer,” Livion says, pulling the paper wrapper over his okono. “Let's go down to my office.”

Omer grunts, and Livion lets himself be pulled along by the large man's wake.

Decades earlier the Shield built a block of warehouses near the docks, whose stone-walled lower floors, towers, and central courtyard saw it dubbed the Castle. Livion is officed atop the warehouse beside the main gate so he can keep an eye on the movement of goods from one window and the movement of galleys from his other. He precedes Omer into his office, overturning memos, charts, and manifests. Trade riders traffic information. Although Omer's under contract to the Shield for a few more years, there's no reason to reveal something Omer might sell later. Or on the side today. The gibbets that others earn by selling commercial secrets don't deter the Omers of the world.

Omer smirks at Livion's precautions. Even he could fit through one of those windows at night. He nods to a harpoon mounted on the wall with a brass plate of appreciation from the City Council. “That the one?”

“One of them,” Livion says, sitting behind his desk. “Solet got the kill shot. Why the rush to see me?”

“Ever hear of Wheaton?” Omer says. “No? Nothing little town a ways off the coastal road to Yness. Doesn't even grow wheat. Last night I found a drunk outside its tavern. He wanted to earn some
pennies to get back in and offered me the story of three ships, two dragons, and one dramatic escape.”

Livion gestures toward his couch. “Have a seat.”

Omer glances at it and remains standing. “He was a rower on your
Pyg
. His bench was a poor vantage point, so some of the details he got secondhand. I'll spare you the belching, confusion, and minor inconsistencies, and summarize.”

Livion leans forward, trying not to look concerned, and opens his hand to indicate
Proceed
.

“Several days ago your wolf pack attacked an immense green dragon. The
Pyg
was seriously damaged when her deck was bathed in acid and her powder barrel exploded. The
Pyg
disengaged, then a second, smaller dragon came out of nowhere and fired their stern deck. They lost all their officers except their oarmaster, who got them, barely, to shore.”

“The oarmaster released the rowers?”

“Yes,” Omer says. “The galley was half-sunk. As you might expect, several took this opportunity to shorten their contracts and scamped into the woods. The drunk struggled up a high, steep slope in the dark. At the top he could see that another one of your galleys, he didn't know the name, had landed nearby. Then a line of fire erupted in the woods, and the little dragon—”

“What color?”

“Dark gray,” Omer says, a bit annoyed. “The gray flew at one of the men. He seemed to invite this. He'd put out a lantern with a beautiful light as if to attract the dragon. It was brighter than the flames already engulfing the
Pyg
. A harpoon cannon fired, and the dragon went down. Men ran from the woods, swarmed it, and apparently netted it. It was tough to see details from that height.”

“Solet captured a dragon?” Livion says.

“Momentarily,” Omer says. “The dragon blasted everyone standing around it, and they scattered. Then the green reappeared, badly injured. It swam—”

“Swam?”

“Did I stutter?” Omer says. “It crawled onto the beach, which sent the first man flying to the woods. It attacked the little dragon, which somehow got the better of it. Or maybe the green just died from its earlier injuries. The gray bit its head off then ate its guts. At this point, our drunk left before the gray could look for more prey.”

And that explains why Solet hasn't arrived. The third ship must have been lost at sea, but what happened to the second? Did the dragon destroy it after the drunk left? A predatory dragon is bad enough. One that sinks ships and kills larger dragons is an unprecedented threat. One that kills shipowners exceeds catastrophe. On top of that, the Shield has two galleys about to head to Yness. Other companies have their own. He has to tell his superiors. They have to tell the Council.

He wishes he had more evidence. His superiors aren't likely to accept hearsay from a trade rider. “Where's the drunk now?” Livion says. “I'd like to question him myself and find out exactly where all this took place.”

“That will be difficult,” Omer says. “I only stopped there because I recognized him as Chalfin, the man who robbed and raped my sister. I figured I'd get his story before I gave him a more fitting punishment than a bench. I rode for Hanosh immediately afterward.”

And away from any law in Wheaton. “That was unfortunate. Nevertheless, I'll see that your monthly has a perk for your efforts.”

“I could be dead by the end of the month,” Omer says, “the roads the way they are these days, Aydeni bandits everywhere.”

Livion groans inside. He writes a chit and says, “Give this to Gran. She'll advance the perk.”

Omer takes it, considers the number the way he did the couch, and returns it. Livion adds the monthly to it and says, “For your discretion.” Omer, grudgingly satisfied, leaves.

There's one thing Livion can check. He takes up his pipe and blows a little tune.

A young man appears in the door. Livion says, “Felic, get me the bench roster for the
Pyg
.” A moment later he reappears with several sheets of paper. He hands them over, head bowed, and leaves.

Livion's glad Felic's head is bowed less than it used to be. Like scores of plague children, a black crust covers half his face like a mask, and he lost many family members, in his case, his two sisters. Livion often wonders how many wouldn't have caught the flox had Solet not persuaded him to render the dragon, so he's found homes and places for as many of the plague children as he can, including Felic. Many think he's an even greater hero for this than for what got him the boots: saving the medicine and, by staving off the plague, saving Hanosh from declaring war on Ayden at the time.

Livion scans the list. There: Chalfin. They'd bought only the first six months of his sentence, the usual probationary period for a small or weak man who might not make it on the benches. Another write-off.

Would this be enough? Maybe he jumped ship while the galleys were on shore getting water and wanted a story to sell for drinks. He couldn't let his superiors go to Council, though, without knowing about the rumor.

Livion heads to the Round Dragon, the coffeehouse where the real business of the Shield is done. It's off a small square that's become called, naturally, the Round Square. There, itinerant traders hawk their wares, the financially embarrassed hawk their household goods, and indigents hawk oddments they've scavenged. The latter always present a container into which potential shoppers can throw pennies as down payments on future purchases. Charity is illegal, but commerce is law.

As Livion pushes through the square, one of the indigents calls to him, “Captain! My captain!” He wears black leather pants beneath a ratty black shift tied at the waist with a flaxen cord, old sandals repaired with similar cord, and a poorly tended black beard. Before him on a folded square of sailcloth are several huge blue shells, possibly
from crabs. Livion's never seen anything like them. They could have value as decorative goods or maybe platters, but he doesn't have time to ask where they came from.

The man calls after him, “Can you help an old sailor, Captain?” Livion keeps going. There aren't enough berths in the world to help every old sailor.

3

Almond, owner of the Round, ushers Livion through a wide, low-ceilinged hall choked with smoke, chatter, and petty traders, past a curtain and down a corridor to a private room. His father-in-law, Chelson, stands amid several other Shield owners. All have hard eyes, harder cheeks, and the barest hint of lip. There are no seats. Sitting prolongs meetings.

“You've anticipated our call,” Chelson says. “Almond.” Chelson jabs at the urn on the sideboard. The owner pours Livion a bowl of pit roast, serves it on a matching dish, and leaves with the elevated dignity of one who's been forced to perform a service below his presumed station.

Chelson says, “We've had news from Herse regarding our wolf pack.”

“I've had news myself,” Livion says, “from one of our trade riders.”

Chelson opens his hand. Livion relates what Omer told him. All but Chelson exchange glances when he mentions the second dragon.

Chelson says, “The general says the wolf pack was destroyed by Aydeni ships.”

Livion knows what a party line sounds like. The conversation was over before he arrived. Nevertheless, he says, “Our rider's source was on the
Pyg
. I confirmed it.”

“Your rider's source,” Chelson says, “was a wretch. Now dead.”

“He was very specific regarding dragons.”

“He saw fire. He heard explosions,” Chelson says. “The damage to the wrecks bears that out.”

“They've been found?”

“Yes,” Chelson says. “A dragon's corpse was not, however. Only evidence of how our officers were treated by the Aydeni. Burned alive, the general said.”

“That would mean war,” Livion says. “A disaster for trade. For us. And,” he adds, “the city.”

“Trade knows no disaster,” Chelson says. “Only opportunities.”

This brings to mind another of Chelson's axioms: “When one wave falls, another must rise.”

“The general will report at Council today,” Chelson says. “We can't have any wild talk about dragons. As for the city, if there's a war, we would rebuild it.”

Livion tallies the construction interests the Shield has assembled the past few years, the raw materials and weapons it's stockpiled, the forests and quarries it's acquired, all in anticipation of a war with Ayden. The markups will be enormous. As will the destruction.

“You look conflicted,” Chelson says. “I'm surprised. You've taken the long view before. It's why you're sitting here.” Chelson puts his hand on Livion's arm. “I'm sure we can continue to count on you.”

Could the rider have been wrong?
Livion thinks. If he contradicts the Shield at Council, his career would be over. He would lose Trist. And, if he's wrong, he might leave Hanosh unprepared for an Aydeni attack.

Chelson notices Livion's bowl. “You've barely touched your coffee. It is bitter today. Here.” He takes a tiny silver box from his pocket. The spoonful of sugar inside probably cost three of Livion's monthlies. Chelson rubs a pinch into his bowl. “This will make it more palatable.”

Livion says, “An Aydeni attack would explain why Tuse's ship
hasn't arrived either. It passed through the same area. It might have also been sunk.”

Chelson grunts and the owners respond in kind.

As Livion sips his coffee, trying not to scald his tongue, something occurs to him. “What if the other survivors spread the dragon story?”

“The general assures us there are no other survivors.”

Herse is playing a friendly game
of hip ball against two brothers in a wide Upper City alley. People cheer them from doorways at either end of the alley, and the windows above. They admire the general's ability to lose without seeming to.

His adjutant, Rego, argued that he didn't have time before Council, but Herse can't help himself. Who knows whom he'll inspire? Who knows whom he'll discover? Hip ball gave him his start. It took him from alleys lower than this one to the captaincy of a company team and several League championships. There, in fact, painted on the wall is a faded advert in which a much younger Herse touts Sea Circle olive oil with the slogan
WINNERS STAND ALONE
. He won't fade himself, though, and pick-up games keep him popular. Besides, by playing he'll distract people from seeing Rego and several soldiers enter a nearby lodging house. They have to deal with a situation.

Herse sends a lob to the older boy, who's playing back. Given the boy's stance, Herse readies himself for a lob in return, but the boy closes his hips and passes the ball to his brother, playing up. Herse, now out of position, says, “Ah!” and leaps to where the up man should send the ball. The younger boy can't handle the pass, though, and costs them the point. The older boy gags in frustration. His brother scowls and sags.

Herse picks up the ball and gathers the boys to him. He says, “That was an excellent pass. You fooled me completely, but you fooled your brother too. Keep an eye on him to make sure he knows what you're doing. And, you, you were playing me well, your position was good,
but you have to play with your brother too. Angle your hips toward him to stay ready for a pass. Good?” The boys nod. “Let's call this match point,” Herse says. They run to their positions, and he serves another lob.

The older brother crouches, smacks the ball on the short hop, and sends his brother another nice pass. The younger boy turns on it like an oar in its thole. Herse was ready for the return, and the ball still skips off the wall past him. “There it is!” he says. “Work together. Win together.” The boys bump their left hips, then right, and the crowd applauds. Of course a few smirk, thinking Herse a grandstander with no business inside the walls, but that's better than jeering or throwing fish.