Mistress of Dragons Page 5

  His bright eyes fixed on Draconas, who stood calmly, resting easily on the balls of his feet, waiting patiently for his part. “Well, what is this plan?” Anora asked, when Braun did not immediately speak.

  “I would ask to tell it only to you, Minister,” said the young dragon. “You and Draconas.”

  Colors of anger and outrage from the assembled dragons burst upon Draconas. He instinctively raised his hand to shut them out, as he might raise his hand to block out the searing rays of the sun.

  “Are you accusing one of us of being a spy?” Malfiesto demanded. “The elders of the twelve houses!”

  Braun stood steadfast against the fury. “I do not accuse anyone here. But someone did warn her before and the plan was discussed only among the members of Parliament.”

  “I’m afraid that is not precisely true,” Anora interposed. “Some of us might have told our mates or spoken of it to others.”

  “Yet, I think I am right in this,” said Braun stubbornly. “But I leave it to you to decide, Minister. I will abide by your decision.”

  “I do not want to put us at odds with each other,’ said Anora, “as must surely happen if I do as you request. We are the Parliament. Each member’s loyalty is unquestioned. Tell us this plan.”

  Braun was not pleased. “So be it,” he said. “I traveled to the kingdom of Seth—”

  “That was foolish, young one,” stated Malfiesto with a snort.

  “I know that, but I was half-mad with grief over my father’s death. I wanted to talk to Maristara, to ask her—” Braun broke off. “In any event, I nearly paid for my folly with my life. Yet, while I was there, I did manage to accomplish something. I managed to penetrate the magic long enough to view one of the humans, a female, sent to repel me. I saw into her mind, only a glimpse, but what I saw there intrigued me. Her mind was filled with an image of a woman she knows as the ‘Mistress of Dragons,’ who is, I believe, the kingdom’s ruler.

  “My idea is this: If Draconas could capture this Mistress of Dragons, he could bring her back here for study and questioning. We would know for certain that Maristara has broken the law by teaching humans dragon magic. The Mistress might know who among us is working with Maristara. We might be able to find out where Maristara has her lair and we could bring her to justice.”

  The Minister liked the proposal, as did the others. They were all relieved, glad to be able to hand their problem to someone else. There was just one small detail.

  “Your plan is good, Braun,” said Draconas. “But you have overlooked one important factor—a factor that is easily overlooked, I admit, due to my appearance. Maristara’s magic is just as effective at keeping me out of the kingdom of Seth as any of the rest of you.”

  The dragon was baffled, confused. “I am afraid I do not understand, Draconas. You are human—”

  “He looks human,” Anora corrected. “He is, in reality, a dragon. Surely you knew this, Braun? He is the chosen.”

  “I am not a hatchling,” Braun returned, blue-white and chill. “I thought that perhaps because he has was given human form, the dragon magic wouldn’t affect him.”

  Anora shook her head. “The clay is the same, whether it is molded into the shape of a human or a dragon. Draconas’s body is different, that is all. Thus he retains his powers of magic, his strength, his ability to communicate with us, and so forth.”

  Braun’s head slumped. His talons dug into the stone, his tail slashed. Dejected, frustrated, he glared at Draconas, irrationally blaming him for not being what the dragon wanted him to be. The other dragons unleashed their thoughts now, offering suggestions, arguing, dithering, and debating. Anora, her images vibrant and imposing, endeavored to restore order, but without much success. The dragons were outwardly affronted and inwardly disturbed by the accusations and the thought that one among them could be a killer of his own kind.

  The bombardment made Draconas’s head ache. This might go on for days or weeks and he was frustrated. He’d long thought the Parliament had been lax in its dealings with Maristara. He’d long advocated that they do something, take some sort of action. Of course, they said, that was the human part of him talking.

  He stood in the midst of the maelstrom of thought, his gaze fixed on the dejected Braun, mulling over in his mind what to do. There was a way, but it would mean doing something he had carefully avoided doing for six hundred years. It would mean bending the law, if not outright breaking it.

  It would mean meddling in the lives of humans.

  “But then, after all,” Draconas told himself with a wry grimace, “I am the exception.”

  He stepped forward. “Minister,” he said, holding out his hand, his human hand, “I request the wand . . .”

  4

  THE ROAD LEADING TO THE GREAT WALLED CITY OF Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston was generally well-traveled, for the city was the capital for the realm of Idlyswylde, one of the most prosperous nations on the continent. Merchant caravans, their mule-drawn wagons loaded with goods of every kind and variety, rolled ponderously down the road, the fat merchants smiling broadly on all they encountered, for every person they met was a potential customer. Knights with hawks upon their wrists traveled in company, laughing and jesting as they rode in search of glory. Tinkers, mendicants, gypsies, noble ladies peeping out from behind the curtains of their sedan chairs, thieves, assassins and cutpurses, minstrels, bards, and traveling actors all walked the old highway or rather, all had walked it in the past.

  This day, though the midsummer’s morning was fine, with the hot sun beaming through lazily drifting clouds, the lone traveler had the road all to himself. Not a fat merchant in sight, nor yet a single mendicant, shaking his begging bowl. Draconas might have thought himself alone in the universe, but that he came upon three small, ragged boys sitting on a bridge that spanned the Aston river. Draconas had a good view of the boys for quite a distance, as he walked toward the bridge. Every so often, one or more would leave off swinging his bare feet and throwing rocks in the water to lift his head, shade his eyes with his hand, and peer up into the sky. Then, with a shake of his head, the boy would go back to his heel-swinging and rock-tossing.

  Knowing that there is no more knowledgeable person in the universe than a seven-year-old boy, Draconas stopped to speak to them.

  “Do those towers I see ahead mark the city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston?’’

  One of the boys looked up. Children have an innate sense about people. The boy cast Draconas a shrewd glance, that took in everything from his knife, thrust into his belt, to his leather jerkin and leather boots and his green breeches made of the fine strong cotton known as moleskin, to his nondescript walking staff from which hung a leather pouch. The clothes bespoke a huntsman, maybe even a poacher. The man’s dark, hooded eyes bespoke something else. The boy jumped respectfully to his feet.

  “Yes, master, that is the city,” said the urchin. “I can guide you there for a copper.”

  “I am hardly in need of a guide, since I can see the towers for myself,” said Draconas mildly. Seeing the child’s face fall, he added, “I would gladly pay a copper for information, however.”

  “Yes, master,” said the boy.

  There was a minor scuffle, as the boy’s two friends, hearing the word “pay,” leaped up to join him and an argument ensued. When the dust settled, the first boy emerged as the winner. As the others rubbed their jaws and noses, he turned triumphantly back to Draconas. “What do you want to know, master?”

  “I have heard that this Ramsgate is a large city, wealthy and prosperous, and that its markets are famous throughout the realm.”

  “That’s true, master,” said the boy proudly.

  “Yet, I find the highway empty. No one travels to Ramsgate, it seems, except myself. Can you tell me why that is?”

  “Why, the dragon, master,” said the boy, looking as astonished as if Draconas had expressed a wish to know what that strange yellow orb was, blazing in the heavens. “You mean to say you ain’t heard what’s b
een going on? S’all anyone’s been talkin’ about.”

  “No, I am sorry to say, I haven’t,” said Draconas. “A dragon, you say?” He glanced skyward.

  “Yes, master.” The boy jerked a thumb at his companions. “That’s why we’re here. We’re hoping for a sight of the monster.”

  “He’s come every day for a fortnight,” added another boy, younger than the other two, probably a little brother, tagging along. “Joe, the miller’s boy, seen him. Green, he was, and huge, with fire a’blazing from his mouth and the blood of those he slaughtered a’smearing of his claws.”

  “He didn’t slaughter Joe, I hope,” said Draconas.

  “No, sir. Joe run for the bushes when he saw the monster and hid there ‘til it flew past. But the dragon’s killed thousands of people and set fire to all the villages up and down the river.” The boy looked positively thrilled.

  “No wonder no one is on the road,” said Draconas. “Killed thousands, you say? This dragon does sound a fearsome beast. Still, you lads do not appear to be afraid of it.”

  “We’re not,” said the first boy, though he kept looking warily at the sky.

  “Is anyone going to fight this dragon?” Draconas asked.

  “The king and his knights set out in search of him. We seen ‘em ride out of the city gates and then we seen ‘em ride back in, all hot and angry and a’swearing that they didn’t get a sniff of the monster the livelong day.”

  “And they wasn’t even out of the saddle a’fore a farmer comes running in a’crying that the dragon has made off with his herd,” chimed in the little brother. “And then they swore some more. The king swore, too. I heared him.”

  “The markets and shops is all closed,” spoke up the third boy. “People are a’feared to stick their noses outen their windows. Joe said that the miller said that the monster will be the ruin of us, even if he don’t kill us all in our beds.”

  “A wise man, the miller. Here is a copper for each of you,” said Draconas, removing the pouch and doling out the coins. “And one for the intrepid Joe.”

  He started off across the bridge.

  “Wait, master!” cried the boy. “You’re a’headin’ into the city.”

  “Well, what of it?” said Draconas.

  The boys ran alongside. “Even after we told you about the dragon? Ain’t you a’feared?”

  “I am,” said Draconas. “But I need the work.”

  “There ain’t much work to be had,” said the boy. “Not since the dragon come. What work do you do?”

  “I’m a dragon hunter,” said Draconas.

  He continued on down the highway, the towers of the city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston before him and the empty road behind. The boys, after a moment’s conferring, left the bridge and scampered along the banks of the river, to take Joe his copper and tell him the exciting news.

  Draconas arrived at the city gates, which should have been standing wide open to welcome all and sundry. This day, the gates were closed and barred. Draconas shook his head, amused.

  “They must think the dragon is going to fly in through the front door,” he muttered. The irony of his statement struck him and he gave a shrug. “Well, well. Perhaps they are not so foolish, after all.”

  The city walls were heavily manned. Sunlight gleamed off the helmed heads that peered at him over the ramparts. Only a few looked down at him. Most were tilted upward, searching the skies.

  Eschewing the enormous main gate, Draconas made for a wicket, set off to one side. The door opened as he drew near. A large man, armored in plate and chain from head to toe, a dazzling sight in the noonday sun, waved the traveler to step inside.

  “You’re a bold one, mister, to be out in broad daylight,” said the guard, fixing Draconas with a keen look.

  “Not so bold as in need of work,” Draconas answered. “I heard that my talents might be of use in Ramsgate and so I made haste to travel here.”

  “Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston,” the guard corrected dourly. “We’re particular about the name, there being a town called Ramsgate about twenty miles south of here. A low sort of town, if you take my meaning. We don’t like being confused.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Draconas. “And I beg the pardon of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston.”

  “In fact,” continued the guard, frowning, “you might be best advised to take yourself to Ramsgate. They welcome beggars, I hear. We do not.”

  “I am not a beggar,” said Draconas mildly, maintaining his pleasant demeanor.

  “You said you had no work.”

  “I said I was looking for work and I’m fairly certain of finding it here. My name is Draconas. I am a dragon hunter.”

  The guard’s eyes widened in astonishment, then narrowed in suspicion. “Here, now, if you’re a dragon hunter, where’s your great sharp sword and your armor and your shield? And where’s your horse?”

  Catching sight of Draconas’s staff, the guard leapt to a conclusion. He backed up a pace, made the sign against evil. “You’re one of them devil-serving warlocks, aren’t you?”

  “I have come to Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston to offer my services to your king,” Draconas stated. “As for how I deal with the dragon, that is my concern. Though I would point out that sharp swords and shields and horses have not done you much good thus far.”

  The guard’s forehead furrowed in a frown. Rattling his sword, he said in threatening tones, “Be gone, foul wizard! Our king has no need for the services of those who worship the devil.”

  “On the contrary, your king is the one who sent for me,” Draconas said coolly. “Let me speak to your commander.”

  The guard hesitated, then shoved his blade back in its sheathe. “Wait here,” he ordered and clanked off.

  He was back with his commander. “You say His Majesty sent for you, sir. I suppose you have proof?”

  Draconas removed the leather pouch from the end of the walking staff, opened it, took out a letter, opened that partway, and pointed at the signet at the bottom.

  The guard peered at it closely. “That’s His Majesty’s,” he said, straightening.

  Draconas folded up the letter, placed it back into the pouch.

  “Now, sir,” he said, “I have told your cohort who and what I am and I assume he has told you. I have told him my business—I am here to deal with the dragon. And I have showed you a letter with His Majesty’s seal. I am expected at the palace and I intend to keep my appointment with His Majesty. You may send an escort with me, if you do not trust me.”

  The commander looked past the dragon hunter to the empty road, down which no travelers had come this day nor would any come another day, so long as there was a marauding dragon about. The commander’s thoughts went to the market, whose stalls were empty as the road, to his friends and neighbors who were starting to grow restless. His gaze shifted to the gleaming towers of the palace, where—it was said—the king was at his wit’s end.

  “Take him along,” the commander ordered the gate guard. “His Majesty will decide whether to see him or not. If His Majesty turns him out, bring him straight back here.” He turned to Draconas. “Will that do, sir?”

  “More than fair, Commander,” replied Draconas.

  “You had best make haste,” said the commander, opening the wicket. “One never knows when or where the foul monster will suddenly appear.”

  “One never does,” Draconas agreed politely.

  Draconas had visited many human realms in his six hundred years, but Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston had not been one of them. He could see that he had missed something. He was impressed with the cleanliness of the city, its obvious wealth and prosperity—both of which were being threatened by the presence of the dragon. Braun had really been outdoing himself. The boy’s tale of the dragon slaughtering thousands wasn’t true, of course. Braun and Draconas were to bend the laws of Dragonkind, not shatter them.

  Nor did they need to. The sight of the dragon sweeping down from the skies, slaying cattle, burning barns and hay ricks, was
all that was needed to terrorize the populace.

  “In a week’s time,” Draconas predicted, well aware of human foibles, “a hundred dead cows will become a hundred dead people. A single barn burned will be a city ravaged.”

  He was glad to see his faith in humanity had been upheld.

  The guard was sullen and uncomfortable in Draconas’s presence and refused to be drawn into discussion. He walked the streets in grim and clanking silence, always at Draconas’s elbow, though the guard took great care not to touch him. The only time the guard deigned to speak was to point out the local abbey, where he laid great emphasis on the fact that the priests would be more than happy to save Draconas from demonic influence. The guard also took Draconas past the town square where, so he said pointedly, they burned witches.

  Draconas paid scant attention. He was taking in every detail, making note of every street, every building, making his evaluation. Above all, he was interested in the ruler of this fair land of Idlyswylde.

  His castle was typical of those Draconas had visited in other realms. Built on the high ground, it had started out as a motte and bailey structure established on a hill above the river. The now proud city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston had probably begun life as a ramshackle collection of thatched-roofed huts, huddled close to the wooden bailey for protection.

  Over the years, the wooden fortress had been transformed into an imposing castle of white stone with turrets and towers and ramparts and crenellations, courtyards and outbuildings, stables and barracks. Scaffolding raised on the south side of the castle walls meant that improvements to the palace were ongoing. The city had crawled out of its thatched-roofed huts and moved into grand stone and timber structures, with plastered walls and garishly painted signs, paved streets and flowers in pots.

  Draconas was not one to be impressed by architecture— dragons live in caverns, where the temperature remains unchanged year-round, perfect for cold-blooded reptiles, and he found that even after six hundred years, he still felt most at home in caves. He was more interested in this proof that the castle and the city had grown and prospered and thrived. Prosperity indicated a realm at peace with its neighbors.