Dragonsight (5 page)

‘Gah, six weeks are hardly long enough to scour the taverns of D’loom, let alone an entire planet,’ spluttered Zimak.

The vizier smirked. ‘Then you will need to spend your time wisely.’

‘I gather Osric is coming with us,’ said Jelindel, noting the red mark on his forehead.

‘You will need transport and I see no reason to risk one of our own loyal servants. Yes, the traitor and his equally treacherous dragon will go with you,’ said Rakeem, sneering at Osric. ‘My assistants will provide you with supplies, and I suggest that you waste no time in commencing your journey. You have very little time. The poison is already at work within your bodies.’

‘You have no honour,’ said Daretor, scowling.

Rakeem paused near the door, then turned to face Daretor.

‘I do my duty as I see fit,’ he replied in a neutral voice. ‘Why is that worse than running someone through with a sword?’

Daretor spat. The guards surged forward, but Rakeem stopped them with a cursory wave. He smiled.

‘Let the barbarian be,’ he said calmly. ‘I want results, you want honour. Very well, then, you may have the chance to settle all accounts at the end of your little quest.’

‘Be sure of it,’ Daretor promised.

The dragon S’cressling had been fitted with a palanquin that easily accommodated a party of four. Two rows of saddles were mounted against a solid gunwale larboard and starboard. A double saddle occupied the bow, or what dragonriders called the mane.

S’cressling had grown considerably since Daretor and Zimak had last seen her, adding further credence to Osric’s claim that time passed at a different speed between the two worlds.

They flew south at first, heading toward the Garrical Mountains before striking for Yuledan. While Osric guided the dragon, Jelindel called Daretor and Zimak together to make plans.

‘The first question is where do we begin?’ she said. ‘Gratz is the obvious choice, since that’s where Fa’red was seen last.’

‘He’s in this up to his eyeballs,’ said Daretor. ‘I think we can all agree on that. Besides, finding Fa’red would give me the chance to squeeze his neck until his eyeballs pop out.’

Zimak cleared his throat. ‘Er, Gratz might not be a good idea,’ he suggested.

‘And why not?’ Daretor asked, his voice edgy.

‘Fa’red has certainly
been
in Gratz, but I heard a rumour that he has shifted his headquarters.’

‘Where to?’ asked Daretor.

Zimak shrugged. ‘Even the gossips are tight-lipped on some matters,’ he said calmly.

Daretor scowled, as if Fa’red’s absence might be Zimak’s fault.

‘Our lives depend on finding this bauble in time, yet you want us to base our search on gossip?’

‘Well, let us hear your suggestion,’ replied Zimak.

Jelindel spoke quietly to Osric. A moment later S’cressling wheeled slowly to the east, heading for the Dominer Pass. Daretor and Zimak looked mildly annoyed as she returned.

‘So, do you have a revelation you might care to share with us?’ asked Zimak.

‘Once through the Pass we will turn north into Baltoria,’ she explained, sounding impatient. ‘There’s no point in gallivanting about Q’zar, and I have a feeling I know where Fa’red is.’

‘Our lives are at stake, yet Zimak wants to trust them to gossip, while you would rest them on a feeling,’ said Daretor with a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not feeling very hopeful about the future.’

‘My feelings aren’t just vague fancies. Wants and desires cast shadows into the paraplane, and I still wander there as much in my sleep as I do in this world when awake. I have seen the ripples of people’s intents and needs. From the ripples in a pond you may deduce that a stone has been thrown in, its size, and even its location.’

Zimak opened his mouth to say something but Jelindel held up a hand. ‘No, I will not teach you how to tell which girls desire you. I’m afraid you will have to blunder about working that one out like every other male in the world. But because I am feeling malicious I will tell you that it can be done.’

Zimak nervously fingered the hem of his tunic, then rallied. ‘So we’re risking our lives on a dream of yours, are we?’

‘Do you have better insights than I?’

‘It’s your life as well,’ Zimak said moodily.

Jelindel looked at Daretor, who nodded reluctantly.

‘Well, that’s settled, then,’ she said.

S’cressling negotiated the buffeting air currents of the Dominer Pass, staying clear of the snow-capped peaks that they passed on either side. The thin air was chilly, and far below they saw travellers on the high mountain road, stopped and staring up at them. Jelindel and Zimak waved. Some waved back, others scattered to take cover. A dragon carrying people was liable to be well behaved, but it was nevertheless still a dragon.

‘They’ll have a story to tell tonight when they reach the next inn,’ Zimak laughed as they saw two men plunge into a snowdrift to hide.

The dragon turned north, crossing the Marisa River and heading across the heart of Baltoria, toward Dremari in the Passendof Mountains. Fa’red had chosen well. It was an ideal place to hide in and to defend. The inhabitants of the Passendof Mountains had resisted invasion for hundreds of years. They remained neutral while other low-lying kingdoms fought wars, and experienced rebellions and uprisings. The capital, Dremari, had a wondrous system of alpine canals that linked it to the lowland rivers and hence to the port city of Tol and the world’s seaways. Most people found the idea of a mountain city being a port rather surprising, but this was Passendof’s advantage. It enjoyed not only an enviable record of peace and neutrality, but was also rich from trade.

Despite the speed of their dragon transport, the journey was long and tiring. The ceaseless wind was chill, yet the sun burned their hands and faces because they were close to the equator. Flying was disturbing for all but Osric. While he slept, the others cried out in fear as they woke from yet another nightmare of falling. Thus they slept badly, huddled on the exposed deck, watching the stars, or peering at the inky darkness of the invisible landscape below.

They spotted the first outflung foothills of the Passendof Mountains early the next morning. Jelindel directed Osric toward the Valley of Clouds. Not only did the villagers there owe her a great debt of service for having rid them of daemons, but the cloud-enshrouded realm offered the best concealment for S’cressling.

They landed high on a mountainside in a forest clearing. While Osric remained behind to pack their gear, Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak made their way along narrow mist-enshrouded trails, past an ancient, weathered skull the size of a large boulder, to a wall-fort with a signpost that read: ‘Fontimark Federation of Squires’. After bargaining with the two fort guards over the size of the bribe, they were allowed to pass into Fontimark itself.

Jelindel headed for the blacksmith’s shop. As she made to enter, a massive, bearded man wearing gloves and a short cloak bumped into her as he stepped out.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said. He made to walk on, then he stopped and his eyes widened. ‘Jaelin!’ he exclaimed. ‘But you’re –’

‘Yes, Drusan, I am a girl.’

‘But, but –’

‘When you knew me I had to go about in disguise. Forgive me, the deception was necessary at the time.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Come in, come in, you do me great honour by this visit. Your companions, too.’

He gestured them inside, calling for his wife to fetch ale and fresh bread, and what new baked honey cakes they had. While they ate and drank, Jelindel explained what she needed.

‘You’re not seriously telling me that you flew here on a
dragon
?’ Drusan said in wonder.

Jelindel nodded, smiling at the incredulous look on Drusan’s face.

‘But they’re figments of the imagination, stories told to frighten children into behaving.’

‘Nevertheless, Drusan, the dragons have returned to Q’zar, their ancient home,’ said Jelindel. ‘Even now they roost at Dragonfrost and despoil the country thereabouts. Our dragon is better behaved than that, but I need your help to keep people away from her. She will also need feeding.’

Drusan’s face fell. ‘Not virgins, I hope. Not many of those around these parts.’

Jelindel closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘A few sheep will do, and I don’t think they have to be virgins. With luck, we’ll call S’cressling before too long.’

She offered him money for the dragon fodder but he refused. Then her gaze fell on his gloved hands. Long ago, Drusan had been branded a coward; the backs of his hands had been marked with the sign. Even though he had proven his courage many times over, single-handedly battling terrifying daemons from which the town folk fled, the brands marked his skin forever. To keep his shame hidden he wore gloves. Even in the presence of his wife, he only removed them in the darkness of the bedchamber.

Jelindel took his hands in her own. Drusan almost jerked them away.

‘It’s all right,’ Jelindel said. ‘Drusan, when I was here last I was still an apprentice of my guild.’

‘But you fought the daemons and won,’ he exclaimed.

‘I uncovered a plot, that was all,’ she said. ‘Remove the gloves, Drusan.’ When he hesitated, she said gently: ‘Trust me one more time?’

He took a deep breath and slowly pulled off the gloves, revealing the humiliating marks. Jelindel held his hands, massaging with her thumbs the fused and furrowed skin on the backs. She spoke magical words of plasticity under her breath, and a strange blue light flickered about her lips. Gradually, a blue glow appeared around Drusan’s hands, outlining the brands so that they blazed more strongly than before.

Drusan whipped his hands away as if scalded, and muttered angry words to himself. The scars caused by the brands went deeper than the skin. The coruscating blue light shot back to Jelindel’s lips, and faded.

‘How are your hands?’ she asked.

Drusan held out his hands before him and shrieked. The skin was without blemish, the scars sponged away as if they had been sooty grease. He raised his eyes and stared at Jelindel. She shrugged and spread her hands with a smile. Drusan’s wife hurried in, saw her husband’s hands, then burst into tears.

Drusan looked at her, perplexed. ‘Why do you cry?’ he asked.

‘Your hands. The branding is gone.’

‘You knew?’ he exclaimed, tears running down his own cheeks. ‘Of course I knew,’ she said. ‘I’m your wife, am I not?’

‘But you … you stayed …’ Drusan seemed lost for words. His wife sighed and gently wiped the tears from his face.

‘Men are so foolish,’ she said. ‘You have been a wonderful husband and a loving father. Why would I leave you? Because you were once afraid in battle? Shame on you for thinking so badly of me. I’m not some silly hoyden with air between my ears.’

He threw his arms around her and they hugged. Over her shoulder he locked eyes with Jelindel.

‘Thank you, thank you, more times than I can say,’ he began. Jelindel silenced him with a flick of the wrist, and then motioned for Daretor and Zimak to follow her outside.

‘Hie, Jelindel,’ Zimak said. ‘I don’t suppose you can make my scars vanish, too? Daretor’s messed his body up a few times and –’

For several frantic moments Jelindel struggled to keep Daretor from getting his hands on Zimak.

‘Enough,’ Jelindel said. ‘Zimak, not all the gold on Q’zar could persuade me to misuse the gift of healing on you.’

‘I don’t see how that would be misusing it,’ Zimak said. ‘No more so than removing Drusan’s scars.’

‘Daretor’s scars were earned in honour. You may not be familiar with the word, but some people value it rather highly.’

Drusan joined them, and they walked most of the way back to the clearing in silence – apart from Daretor, who was muttering about how it was probably not ‘murder’ to kill one’s own former body. Jelindel kept herself between her two companions.

Jelindel introduced Drusan to Osric, and the two men discussed the feeding of the dragon. In turn, Osric told S’cressling that Drusan would be bringing food, and that he was a friend.

‘And you are sure he will not eat me or anything?’ Drusan asked yet again.

Osric smiled. ‘Only if you keep calling her a he.’

‘He’s a she?’

‘Yes. The only female I trust. The dragons are a proud race, and they admire intelligence in whatever form it takes. They don’t harm anybody, unless they’re driven to it.’

‘By being insulted while hungry,’ Zimak joked, but no one laughed.

With the dragon’s care and feeding arranged, the foursome set out along the narrow trails that led from the vales to the canal road that would take them to Dremari. The paths through the Valley of Clouds were narrow, windy, and somewhat precarious. The arches over the many ravines were usually constructed of cut stone cleverly laid together so that even a knife blade could not enter between them. There were no rails or handholds, and the paths had been cut into the sides of steep hills and even cliff faces. Invariably, one side of the trail dropped sharply away into the chasms between mountains. The vistas were such that often they found themselves whispering, as if in deference to the majesty of the landscape. Their normal voices echoed eerily between the peaks. Daretor remarked that the permanent cloud cover made it seem as if they were walking under water.

For two days they wound their way through the mountains as if they were ordinary travellers, concerned only with the cold, the damp, and not stumbling off the trail into half a mile of nothingness that ended in sharp rocks. As they approached Dremari, however, they became wary. All except Osric knew that Fa’red was probably the most formidable man on Q’zar. To underestimate him, or to ignore his fox-like cunning, was generally the last thing that the more foolish of his enemies ever did.

They finally came down out of the clouds and encountered a real road, along which a fair number of pedestrians and horse-drawn wagons moved. They followed the road round a bend and there was the capital of Passendof.

Dremari was a city of wonder, festooned with tall, slender spires and towers, seemingly so fragile that they defied gravity and wind in remaining upright. The Q’zarans had been here before, but Osric’s breath was taken away.