CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TINTAGLIA’S BARGAIN
REYN TOOK A DEEP, GASPING BREATH OF AIR AND OPENED HIS eyes to darkness. He’d dreamed of the dragon, trapped in her coffin. The dream still had the power to make his heart thunder and his body break into a sweat. He lay still, panting and cursing the creature and the memories she had left him. He should try to go back to sleep. It would be his watch soon, and he would regret the sleep he had lost to the nightmare. He held his breath and listened to Grag’s deep snore and Selden’s lighter breathing. He turned restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable place in the sweaty sheets. He was grateful to have a bed to himself; many others were sharing. For the past few days, the Tenira household had been swollen with other folk so that it now encompassed a cross section of Bingtown’s population.
The fledgling alliance of Old and New Traders, slaves and Three Ships folk had nearly died hatching. The same group that had gathered at the Tenira table, with the addition of several New Trader representatives, had boldly arrived at Restart mansion and demanded entrance. Their spies had already watched the remaining heads of the Bingtown Council enter. A number of Roed’s more rabid followers had assembled as well; Reyn had wondered if they were not plunging their heads into a noose. But Serilla had appeared calm as she came to the entrance. Roed Caern stood glowering just behind her left shoulder. Despite his scowls and muttered complaints, the Companion had graciously invited them all to enter and join in an “informal discussion of Bingtown’s situation.” But as they had gathered uneasily at the bargaining table, trumpets and alarm bells had sounded in the city below. Reyn had feared treachery as they rushed outside. A rooftop sentry had shouted that a flotilla of Chalcedean ships was approaching Bingtown Harbor. Roed Caern had drawn a blade, shouting that the New Traders had invaded this meeting in the hopes of dispatching all of Bingtown’s rightful leadership at once while their Chalcedean allies made their attack. Like rabid dogs, he and his followers had flown at the New Trader emissaries. Knives that all had promised not to bring were suddenly flourished.
The first blood of the current Chalcedean attack had been spilled there on Restart’s doorstep. To their credit, the heads of the Traders’ Council had opposed Roed and kept him and his men from massacring the Three Ships, Tattooed and New Trader delegates. The meeting dispersed as folk fled Roed’s madness and scrambled to protect their own houses and families from the invaders. That had been three days ago.
The Chalcedeans had arrived, thick as grunion spawning on a beach. Sailing ships and oared galleys took over the harbor and spilled warriors onto the beaches and wharves. Their might had overwhelmed the disorganized Bingtown folk, and they had captured the Kendry. A prize crew sailed him out of the harbor. The ship had gone unwillingly, wallowing and fighting as small boats manned by Chalcedean sailors towed him out. Beyond that, Reyn had no knowledge of the fate of the ship or its crew. He wondered if they could force Kendry to take them up the river to Trehaug. Had they kept his family crew alive to use as hostages against the liveship?
The Chalcedeans now held the harbor and the surrounding buildings, clutching the heart of Bingtown in their greedy hands. Every day, they pushed farther inland, systematically looting and then destroying what they could not carry off. Reyn had never seen such destruction. Certain key structures, warehouses for storing their plunder, defensible buildings of stone, they left intact. But all the rest, they laid waste. Old Trader, New Trader, fisherman, peddler, whore or slave: it mattered not to the Chalcedeans. They killed and stole without discrimination. The long row of Three Ships dwellings had all been burned, their little fishing vessels destroyed and the people killed or driven away to take refuge with their neighbors. The Chalcedeans showed no interest in negotiating. There could be no surrender. Captives were put into chains and held in one of the sailing ships, to be carried off to new lives as slaves in Chalced. If the invaders had ever had allies among the Bingtown folk, they betrayed them. No one was immune to their destruction.
“They plan to stay.” Grag’s deep voice was soft but clear. “After they’ve killed or enslaved everyone in Bingtown, the Chalcedeans will settle here, and Bingtown Bay will be just another part of Chalced.”
“Did I wake you, tossing about?” Reyn asked quietly.
“Not really. I can’t find true sleep. I’m so tired of the waiting. I know that we needed to organize our resistance, but it has been hard to watch all the destruction in the meantime. Now that the day is finally here, each moment drags, and yet I wish we had more time to prepare. I wish Mother and the girls would flee to the mountains. Perhaps they could hide there until all this is over.”
“Over in what way?” Reyn asked sourly. “I know we must have heart for this foray, but I cannot believe we will succeed. If we drive them from our beaches, they will simply retreat to their ships and then launch another attack. While they control the harbor, they control Bingtown. Without trade, how can we survive?”
“I don’t know. There has to be some hope,” Grag insisted stubbornly. “At least this mess has brought us together. The whole population now has to see that we will survive only if we stand together.”
Reyn tried to sound positive but failed. “There is hope, but it is faint. If our liveships returned and boxed them into the harbor, I think all Bingtown would rally then. If we had a way to catch them between the beach and the harbor mouth, we could kill them all.”
Worry crept into Grag’s voice. “I wish we knew where our ships are, or at least how many still float. I suspect that the Chalcedeans lured our ships away. They ran and we chased them, possibly out to where a much greater force could destroy us. How could we have been so stupid?”
“We are merchants, not warriors,” Reyn replied. “Our greatest strength is also our greatest weakness. All we know how to do is negotiate, and our enemies are not interested in that.”
Grag made a sound between a sigh and a groan. “I should have been on board Ophelia that day. I should have gone with them. It is agony to wait and hope, not knowing what has become of my father and our ship.”
Reyn was quiet. He was too aware of how the knife-edge of uncertainty could score a man’s soul. He would not insult Grag by saying that he knew what he was feeling. Every man’s pain was personalized. Instead, he offered, “We’re both awake. We may as well get up. Let’s go talk in the kitchen, so we don’t wake Selden.”
“Selden is awake,” the boy said quietly. He sat up. “I’ve decided. I’m going with you today. I’m going to fight.”
“No.” Reyn forbade it quickly, then tempered his words. “I don’t think that is wise, Selden. Your position is unusual. You may be the last heir to your family name. You should not risk your life.”
“The risk would be if I cowered here and did nothing,” Selden returned bitterly. “Reyn. Please. When I am with my mother and my grandmother, they mean well, but they make me . . . young. How am I to learn to be a man, if I am never among men? I need to go with you today.”
“Selden, if you go with us, you may not grow up to be a man,” Grag cautioned him. “Stay here. Protect your mother and grandmother. That is where you can best serve Bingtown. And it is your duty.”
“Don’t patronize me,” the boy returned sharply. “If the fighting reaches this house, we will all be slaughtered, because by the time it gets here, you will all be dead. I’m going with you. I know that you think that I’ll be in your way, someone you have to protect. But it won’t be like that. I promise you.”
Grag took a breath to object, but Reyn interrupted them both. “Let’s go down to the kitchen and discuss it there. I could use some coffee.”
“You won’t get it,” Grag told him grumpily. Reyn saw his effort to change his mood. “But there is tea, still.”
They were not the only restless ones. The kitchen fire had been poked to life and a large kettle of porridge was already simmering. Not only Grag’s mother and sister but also the Vestrit women moved restlessly about the big room in mimicry of cooking. There was not enough work to busy them. A low mutter of voices came from the dining hall. As food was prepared, trays were borne off to the table. Ekke Kelter was there as well. She offered Grag Tenira a warm smile with the cup of tea she poured for him, then seated herself across the kitchen table from him and said matter-of-factly, “The arsonists have already gone. They wanted to be certain they’d be in position before the attack.”
Reyn’s heart give an odd little hitch. Suddenly, it was real. Smoke and flame rising from the Drur family warehouse by the docks was to be the signal for all the waiting attackers. Daring spies, mostly slave boys, had established that the Chalcedeans had amassed their loot there. Surely, they would return to fight a fire. Bingtown would burn its stolen wealth to draw the Chalcedeans to a central location. Once that fire was burning, they would attempt to set the Chalcedean ships ablaze with flaming arrows. A team of Three Ships men, their bodies well-greased against the cold waters, would swim out to the Chalcedean ships and slip some anchor chains as well.
The various Bingtown groups had planned this diversion to disorganize the invaders before they made a massed dawn attack. Each man had armed himself as best he could. Ancient family swords would be wielded alongside clubs and butcher knives, fish bats and sickles. Merchants and fishermen, gardeners and kitchen slaves would all turn the tools of their trades to war today. Reyn squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. Bad enough to die; did they have to be so pathetically ill-equipped as they did so? Reyn poured himself a hot cup of tea, and silently wished well to all the grim saboteurs slipping quietly through the chill and rainy night.
Selden, seated beside him, suddenly gripped his wrist hard under the table. When he looked at the boy questioningly, a strangely grim smile lit his face. “I feel it,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t you?”
“It’s natural to be afraid,” he comforted the boy quietly. Selden only shook his head and released his grip on Reyn. Reyn’s heart sank. Malta’s little brother had been through far too much for a boy of his years. It had affected his mind.
Ronica Vestrit brought fresh bread to the table. The old woman had braided her graying hair and pinned it tightly to her head. As he thanked Ronica, his own mother entered the room. She was not veiled. Neither of the Rain Wilders had covered their faces since the day Reyn had removed his veil at the Council table. If all were to be a part of this new Bingtown, then let all meet eyes squarely. Were his scaling, growths and gleaming copper eyes all that different from the tattoos that sprawled across the slaves’ faces? His mother, too, had confined her hair in securely pinned braids. She wore trousers rather than her customary flowing skirts. In response to his puzzled glance, she said only, “I won’t be hampered by skirts when we attack.”
He stared at her, waiting for her smile to make her words a jest. But she didn’t smile. She only said quietly, “There was no point in discussing it. We knew you would all be opposed. It is time the men of Bingtown remember that when we first came here, women and children risked just as much as their men did. We all fight today, Reyn. Better to die in battle than live as slaves after our men have died trying to protect us.”
Grag spoke with a sickly smile. “Well, that’s optimistic.” His eyes studied his mother for an instant. “You, too?”
“Of course. Did you think I was fit only to cook for you, and then send you out to die?” Naria Tenira offered the bitter words as she set a steaming apple pie on the table. Her next words were softer. “I made this for you, Grag. I know it’s your favorite. There is meat and ale and cheese set out in the dining hall, if you’d rather. Those who went out before you wanted a hearty meal against the cold.”
It might be their last meal together. If the Chalcedeans did overrun them today, they would find the larder empty. There was no point in holding anything back anymore, whether food or beloved lives. Despite the hovering of destruction, or perhaps because of it, the warm baked fruit, redolent of honey and cinnamon, had never smelled so good to Reyn. Grag cut slices with a generous hand. Reyn set the first piece of the warm pie before Selden and accepted another for himself. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He could think of nothing else to say.
AS TINTAGLIA CIRCLED HIGH ABOVE BINGTOWN HARBOR, THE simmering anger in her finally boiled. How dare they treat a dragon so? She might be the last of her kind, but she was still Lord of the Three Realms. Yet at Trehaug, they had turned her aside as if she were a beggar knocking at their door. When she had circled the city and roared to let them know she would land there, they had not bothered to clear the wharf of people and goods. When finally she had come down, the people had run shrieking as her beating wings swept crates and barrels into the river.
They had hidden from her, treating her visit with disdain instead of offering her meat and welcome. She had waited, telling herself that they were fearful. Soon they would master themselves and give her proper greeting. Instead, they had sent out a line of men bearing makeshift shields and carrying bows and pikes. They had advanced on her in a line, as if she were a straying cow to be herded, rather than a lord to be served.
Still, she had kept her temper. Many of their generations had passed since a dragon came calling on them. Perhaps they had forgotten the proper courtesies. She would give them a chance. Yet when she greeted them just as if they had made proper obeisance to her, some behaved as if they could not understand her, while others cried out “she spoke, she spoke,” as if it were a wonder. She had waited patiently for them to finish squabbling amongst themselves. At last, they had pushed one woman forward. She pointed her trembling spear at Tintaglia and demanded, “Why are you here?”
She could have trampled the woman, or opened her jaws and sprayed her with a mist of toxin. Yet again, Tintaglia swallowed her anger and simply demanded, “Where is Reyn? Send him forth to me.”
The woman gripped her spear more tightly to still its shaking. “He is not here!” she proclaimed shrilly. “Now go away, before we attack you!”
Tintaglia lashed her tail, sending a pyramid of casks into the river. “Send me Malta, then. Send me someone with the wit to speak before she makes threats.”
Their spokeswoman stepped backward to the line of cowering warriors and conferred briefly there. She only took two steps from the shelter of the mob before proclaiming, “Malta is dead, and Reyn is not here.”
“Malta is not dead,” Tintaglia exclaimed in annoyance. Her link with the female human was not as strong as it had been, but it was not gone, either. “I weary of this. Send me Reyn, or tell me where I may find him.”
The woman squared herself. “I will tell you only that he is not here. Begone!”
It was too much. Tintaglia reared back on her hind legs and then crashed down on her forelegs, making the dock rock wildly. The woman staggered to her knees, while some of the warriors behind her broke ranks and fled. A lash of Tintaglia’s tail swept the dock clean of crates and barrels. Tintaglia seized the woman’s puny spear in her jaws, snapped it into splinters and spat them aside. “Where is Reyn?” she roared.
“Don’t tell!” one of the warriors cried, but a young man sprang forth from them.
“Don’t kill her! Please!” he begged the dragon. He swept the other spear-carriers with a scathing glance. “I will not sacrifice Ala for the sake of Reyn! He brought the dragon down on us; let him deal with her. Reyn is gone from here, dragon. He went on Kendry to Bingtown. If you want Reyn, seek him there. Not here. We offer you nothing but battle.”
Some shouted that he was a traitor and a coward, but others sided with him, telling the dragon to leave and seek out Reyn. Tintaglia was disgusted. She levered herself back onto her hindquarters, allowing the pinioned woman to escape, brought her clawed forelegs down solidly on the dock, dug in her claws and dragged them back, splintering the planking of the dock. It crumpled like dry leaves. A lash of her tail smashed two rowing boats tied to the dock. She let them see that her destruction was effortless.
“It would take nothing at all for me to bring your city crashing down!” she roared at them. “Remember it, puny two-legs. You have not seen nor heard the last of me. When I return, I shall teach you respect, and school you how to serve a Lord of the Three Realms.”
They rallied then, or tried to. Several rushed at her, spears lowered. She did not charge them. Instead, she spread her wings, leaped lightly into the air and then crashed her weight down on the dock once more. The impact sent the humans’ end of the dock flying up, catapulting would-be defenders into the air. They fell badly, landing heavily. At least one went into the water. She had not waited for more of their disrespect, but had launched herself into the air, leaving the dock rocking wildly. As she rose, people screamed, some shaking fists, others cowering.
It mattered nothing to her. She sought the air. Bingtown. That would be the smelly little coastal town she had flown over. She would seek Reyn there. He had spoken for her before; he could speak again, and make them all understand the wrath they would face if they did not do as she commanded them.
And now she was here, riding a chill winter wind over the huddled town below. Fading white stars pricked the winter sky above her; below were a few scattered yellow lights in the mostly sleeping town. Dawn would soon stir the human nest. A foul stench of burning wafted up to her. Ships filled the harbor and, along the waterfront, watch fires burned at irregular intervals. Beside the fires, she saw men pacing restlessly. She dug back in her memories. War. She witnessed the stink and clutter of war. Below her, thick smoke from a dockside building suddenly blossomed into orange flame. An outcry arose. Her keen eyes picked out the shapes of men running furtively away as a much larger group converged on the fire.
She dropped lower, trying to discern what was going on. As she did so, she heard the unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight. The flaming projectiles missed her, striking instead a ship where they swiftly went out. A second volley followed the first. This time, a sail on one of the ships caught fire. Flames from the tarred and burning shaft ran swiftly up the canvas toward her. She beat her wings hastily to gain altitude, and the wind of her passage fanned the racing flames. On the deck of the burning ship, men yelled in astonishment. They pointed past their burning sail to the dragon silhouetted above the ship.
She heard the twang of a bow, and an arrow sang past her. She sideslipped the errant missile, but others took swift flight against her. One of the puny shafts actually struck her, pecking harmlessly against the tight scaling on her belly. She was both astonished and affronted. They dared to attempt to harm her? Humans sought to oppose the will of a dragon? Anger flared in her. Truly, the skies had been empty of wings for far too long. How dared humans assume they were the masters of this world? She would teach them now how foolish that concept was. She chose the largest of the ships, folded her wings and plummeted down toward it.
She had never battled a ship before. In all her dragon memories, there were few in which humans had opposed dragons. She discovered quickly that seizing rigging in her talons was a bad idea. The rocking vessels did not offer satisfactory resistance to her attack. They swayed away from her, and canvas and lines tangled around her clawed feet. With a wild shake, she tore herself free of the ship. She flapped her wings to gain altitude. High above the harbor, she divested her claws of the tangled mess of lines, spars and canvas and with satisfaction watched it crash down amidships of a galley, foundering the smaller craft.
On her second pass, she selected a two-masted ship as her prey. The men on board, seeing her stoop toward them, filled the air with arrows which clattered against her, falling back onto the ship below. As she swept by the ship, a slash of her tail sliced both masts. Tangled with sails and rigging, they fell, but Tintaglia flew clear of them. She passed low over a galley and the men on board leapt over the sides into the sea. She roared her delight. So quickly they learned to fear her!
The beating of her great wings set smaller craft rocking. A chorus of shouts and screams rose in homage to her fury. She drove herself skyward and then swung back over the harbor. As the winter sun broke free of the horizon, she saw a brief, dazzling reflection of her gleaming body on the dark water below. Her keen eyes swept the city. The fires went unfought, the battles of mere humans unjoined. All eyes were lifted to her, all motion suspended in paralyzed worship of her wrath. Her heart soared on their awestruck regard. The bouquet of their fear rose to her nostrils and intoxicated her with power. She drew breath and screamed, releasing with the sound a mist of milky poison. It drifted on the morning wind. A few seconds passed before the satisfaction of agonized shrieks rose to her. In the ships below her, the droplets of poison ate skin and sank deep into flesh, piercing bone and eating through gut before passing out the other side of the victims’ twitching bodies. Battle venom, born in the acid waters of her birth, strong enough to penetrate the layered armor of an adult dragon, passed unspent through the watery flesh of the humans and sizzled through the wood of their ships. The tiniest drop created a wound that would not heal. So much for those who had thought to pierce her flesh with arrows!
Then, through the turmoil and screams, through the crackling of flames and the singing of wind, a lone, clear voice caught her attention. She swiveled her head to separate the sound from all others. A voice sang, a lad’s voice, high but not shrill. Sweet and true, it rang the word. “Tintaglia, Tintaglia! Blue queen of winds and sky! Tintaglia, glorious one, terrible in your beauty, lovely in your wrath! Tintaglia, Tintaglia!”
Her keen eyes found the small figure. He stood alone, atop a mound of rubble, heedless that his silhouetted body made a perfect arrow target. He stood straight, joyous, his arms lifted, and he sang to her with the tongue of an Elderling. His flattery spelled her, and he wove her name into his song, uttering it with ineffable sweetness.
Her wings gathered the wind beneath them. She banked and turned in graceful spirals, leaning against the air currents. His song spiraled with her, wrapping her in ensorcelling praise. She could not resist him. She dropped lower and lower to hear his adoring words. Battered ships fled the harbor. She no longer cared. Let them go.
This city was poorly built to welcome a dragon. Nonetheless, not too far from her charming suitor there was a plaza that would suffice for a landing spot. As she beat her wings to slow her descent, many humans scuttled away, taking flimsy shelter behind ruined buildings. She paid them no mind. Once on the ground, she shook out her great wings and then folded them. Her head swayed with the rhythm of her minstrel’s words.
“Tintaglia, Tintaglia, who outshines both moon and sun. Tintaglia, bluer than a rainbow’s arc, gleaming brighter than silver. Tintaglia, swift-winged, sharp-clawed, breathing death to the unworthy. Tintaglia, Tintaglia.”
Her eyes spun with pleasure. How long had it been since a dragon’s praises had been sung? She looked on the boy, and saw he was enraptured with her. His eyes gleamed with her beauty reflected. She recalled that she had touched this one, once before. He had been with Reyn when she rescued him. That solved the mystery, then. It happened, sometimes, that a mortal was enraptured by a dragon’s touch. Young ones were especially vulnerable to such a linking. She looked on the small creature fondly. Such a butterfly, doomed to a brevity of days, and yet he stood before her, fearless in his worship.
She opened wide her wings in token of her approval. It was the highest accolade a dragon could afford a mortal, though his juvenile song scarcely deserved it: sweet as his words were, he was scarcely a learned minstrel. She shivered her wings so that their blue and silver rippled in the winter sunlight. He was dazzled into silence.
With amusement, she became aware of the other humans. They hung back, peering at her from behind trees and over walls. They clutched their weapons and trembled with fear of her. She arched her long neck and preened herself to let them see the ripple of her muscle. She stretched her claws, scoring the paving stones of the street. Casually, she cocked her head and looked down on her little admirer. She deliberately spun her eyes, drawing his soul into them, until she could feel how painfully his heart leapt in his chest. As she released him, he took breath after panting breath, yet somehow remained standing. Truly, small as he was, he was yet worthy to sing a dragon’s praises.
“Well, minstrel,” she purred with amusement. “Do you seek a boon in exchange for your song?”
“I sing for the joy of your existence,” he answered boldly.
“That is well,” she replied. The other, hidden humans behind Selden ventured fractionally closer to her, weapons at the ready. Fools. She clashed her tail against the cobblestones, which sent them leaping back to shelter. She laughed aloud. Yet here came one other who refused to fear her, stepping boldly out to confront her. Reyn carried a sword, but he allowed it to hang, point down, from his hand.
“So you have returned,” Reyn spoke quietly. “Why?”
She snorted at him. “Why? Why not? I go where I will, human. It is not for you to question a Lord of the Three Realms. The little one has chosen a better role. You were wiser to emulate him.”
Reyn set the bloodied tip of his blade to the street. She smelled blood on him and the sweat and smoke of battle. He dared frown at her. “You clear our harbor of a few enemy vessels and expect us to grovel with gratitude?”
“You imagine a significance to yourself that does not exist, Reyn Khuprus. I care nothing for your enemies, only my own. They challenged me with arrows. They met a fitting end, as will all who defy me.”
The dark-haired Rain Wilder drew closer. He leaned on his sword, she saw now. He was wearier than she had thought. Blood had dried in a thin line down his left arm. When he lifted his face to look up at her, the thin winter sunlight glinted across his scaled brow. She quirked her ears in amusement. He wore her mark, and did not even know it. He was hers, and yet he thought he could match wills with her. The boy’s attitude was more fitting. He stood as straight and tall as he could. Although he also looked up at the dragon, his eyes were worshipful, not defiant. The boy had potential.
Unfortunately, the potential would take time to develop, time she did not have just now. If the remaining serpents were to be rescued, the humans must work swiftly. She fixed her gaze on Reyn. She had enough experience of humans to know that the others would listen to him before they would listen to a boy. She would speak through him. “I have a task for you, Reyn Khuprus. It is of the utmost importance. You and your fellows must set aside all else to attend to it, and until it is completed, you must think of nothing else.”
He stared up at her incredulously. Other humans drifted in from the rubble. They did not come too close but stood where they could hear her speak to Reyn without attracting undue attention to themselves. They regarded her with wide eyes, as ready to flee as to cheer her. Champion or foe, they wondered. She let them wonder, concentrating her will on Reyn. But he defied her. “Now you imagine a significance to yourself that does not exist,” he told her coldly. “I have no interest in performing any task for you, dragon.”
His words did not surprise her. She shifted back onto her hindquarters, towering over him. She opened out her wings, to emphasize further her size. “You have no interest in living, then, Reyn Khuprus,” she informed him.
He should have quailed before her. He did not. He laughed. “There you are right, worm Tintaglia. I have no interest in living, and that is your doing already. When you allowed Malta to go to her death, you killed any regard I ever held for you. And with Malta died my interest in living. So do your worst to me, dragon. But I shall never again bend my neck to your yoke. I regret that I attempted to free you. Better you had perished in the dark before you drew my love to her death.”
His words shocked her. It was not just that he was insufferably rude to her; he truly had lost all awe of her. This pathetic little two-legs, creature of a few breaths, was willing to die this very instant, because—she turned her head and regarded him closely. Ah! Because he believed she had allowed his mate to die. Malta.
“Malta is not dead,” she exclaimed in disgust. “You waste your emotion and grandiose words on something you have imagined. Set aside such foolishness, Reyn Khuprus. The task you must perform is vastly more important than one human’s mating. I honor you with an undertaking that may well save the whole of my race.”
THE DRAGON LIED. HIS CONTEMPT KNEW NO BOUNDS. HE HIMSELF had been up and down the river in the Kendry, and found not a trace of his beloved. Malta was dead, and this dragon would lie to bend him to her will. He gazed past her disdainfully. Let her strike him where he stood. He would not give her another word. He lifted his chin, set his jaw and waited to die.
Even so, what he saw now widened his eyes. As he stared past Tintaglia, he glimpsed furtive shadows stalking through the ruins toward her. They moved, they paused, they moved, and each time they got closer to the dragon. Their leather armor and tails of hair marked them as Chalcedeans. They had rallied, despite the shattered ships in the harbor, despite their many dead, and now, swords and pikes in hand, battle-axes at the ready, they were converging on the dragon. A grim smile twisted Reyn’s lips. This turn of events suited him well. Let his enemies battle one another. When they were finished, he would take on any survivors. He watched them come and said nothing, but wished them well.
But Grag Tenira sprang forward, crying, “Dragon, ’ware your back! To me, Bingtown, to me!” And then the fool charged the Chalcedeans, leading no more than a bloodied handful of his householders in an attack to defend the dragon.
Swift as a striking serpent, the dragon turned to confront her attackers. She bellowed her fury and beat her great wings, heedless that she sent several of her defenders rolling. She sprang toward the Chalcedeans, her jaws gaping wide. She breathed on them. No more than that could Reyn see, and yet the results were horrifying. The hardened warriors recoiled from her, shrieking like children. In an instant, every face ran blood. A moment later, clothing and leather armor fell in tatters from their red-streaming bodies. Some tried to run, but got no more than a few steps before they stumbled. Some of the bodies fell in pieces as they collapsed. Those farthest away from the dragon managed a staggering retreat before they collapsed screaming on the ground. Even the screams did not last long. The silence that followed their fading gurgles was deafening. Grag and his men halted where they stood, fearing to approach the bloody bodies.
Reyn felt his guts heave. The Chalcedeans were enemies, lower than dogs and deserving of no mercy. But to see any creature die as those men had died was wrenching. Even now, the bodies continued to degrade, losing shape as they deliquesced. A head rolled free of its spine, settling on its side as flesh flowed from the collapsing skull. Tintaglia swiveled her great head back to stare at him. Her eyes spun; was she amused at his horror? An instant ago, he had told her that he no longer valued his life. That had not changed, but he also knew that any other death was preferable to the one he had just witnessed. He braced himself, determined to die silently.
Where Grag Tenira found his courage, Reyn could not say. He strode boldly between the Rain Wilder and the dragon. He lifted his sword high, and Tintaglia bridled in affront. Then the Bingtown Trader bowed low and set the blade at her feet.
“I will serve you,” he offered Tintaglia. “Only free our harbor of these vermin, and I will set myself to any task you propose.” He glanced about; his look plainly invited others to join him. Some few crept closer, but most kept their distance. Selden alone advanced confidently to stand beside Grag. The shining eyes the boy turned up to the dragon made Reyn feel ill. Selden was so young, and so deceived by the creature. He wondered if that was how his mother and brother had seen him when he was advocating so strongly on the dragon’s behalf. He winced at the memory. He had turned this creature loose on the world, and his price for that folly had been Malta.
Tintaglia’s eyes flashed as she considered Grag. “Do you think I am a servant to be bought with wages? Dragons have not been gone that long from this world, surely? The will of a dragon takes precedent over any feeble goals of humans. You will cease this conflict, and turn your attention to my wishes.”
Selden spoke before Grag could reply. “Having seen the marvel of your wrath, mighty one, how could we wish to do otherwise? It is those others, the invaders, who dispute your will. See how they sought to attack you, before they even knew your bidding. Smite them and drive them from our shores, wide-winged queen of the skies. Free our minds from considering them, that we may turn willingly to your loftier goals.”
Reyn stared at the lad. Where did he find such language? And did he think a dragon could be so easily maneuvered? With amazement, he watched Tintaglia’s great head dip down until her nostrils were on a level with Selden’s belt. She gave the boy a tiny nudge that sent him staggering.
“Honey-tongue, do you think you can deceive me? Do you think pretty words will convince me to labor like a beast for your ends?” There was both affection and sarcasm in her voice.
Selden’s boyish voice rang out clear and true. “No, mistress of the wind, I do not hope to deceive you. Nor do I try to bargain with you. I beg this boon of you, mighty one, that we might more fully concentrate on your task for us.” He took a breath. “We are but small creatures, of short lives. We must grovel before you, for that is how we are made. And our small minds are made likewise, filled with our own brief concerns. Help us, gleaming queen, to put our fears to rest. Drive the invaders from our shore, that we may heed you with uncluttered minds.”
Tintaglia threw back her head and roared her delight. “I see you are mine. I suppose it had to be, as young as you were, and so close to my wings’ first unfurling. May the memories of a hundred Elderling minstrels be yours, small one, that you may serve me well. And now I go, not to do your bidding, but to demonstrate my might.”
She reared, taller than a building, and pivoted on her hind legs like a war stallion. Reyn saw her mighty haunches bunch, and threw himself to the ground. An instant later, a blast of air and driven dust lashed him. He remained down as the beating of her silver-blue wings lifted her skyward. He rose and gaped at the suddenly tiny figure overhead. His ears felt stuffed with cotton. As he stared, Grag suddenly gripped his arm. “What were you thinking, to defy her like that?” the Trader demanded. He lifted his gaze in awe. “She’s magnificent. And she’s our only chance.” He grinned at Selden. “You were right, lad. Dragons change everything.”
“So I believed once, also,” Reyn said sourly. “Push aside her glamour. She is as deceptive as she is magnificent, and her heart has room only for her own interests. If we bow to her will, she will enslave us as surely as the Chalcedeans would.”
“You are wrong.” Small and slight as Selden was, he seemed to tower with satisfaction. “The dragons did not enslave the Elderlings, and they will not enslave us. There are many ways for different folk to live alongside each other, Reyn Khuprus.”
Reyn looked down on the boy and shook his head. “Where do you get such ideas, boy? And such words as could charm a dragon into letting us live?”
“I dream them,” the boy said ingenuously. “When I dream that I fly with her, I know how she speaks to herself. Queen of the sky, rider of the morning, magnificent one. I speak to her as she speaks to herself. It is the only way to converse with a dragon.” He crossed his thin arms on his narrow chest. “It is my courtship of her. Is it so different from how you spoke to my sister?”
The sudden reminder of Malta and how he had used to flatter and cajole her was like a knife in his heart. He started to turn aside from the boy who smiled so unbearably. But Selden reached out and gripped his arm. “Tintaglia does not lie,” he said in a low voice. His eyes met Reyn’s and commanded his loyalty. “She considers us too trivial to deceive. Trust me in this. If she says Malta is alive, then she lives. My sister will return to us. But to get this, you must let me guide you, as I let my dreams guide me.”
Screams rose from the vicinity of the harbor. All around them, men scrabbled for vantage points. Reyn had no desire to do so. Chalcedeans or not, they were his own kind that the dragon was slaying. He heard the crack of massive timbers giving way. Another ship dismasted, no doubt.
“Too late for those bastards to flee now!” a nearby warrior exulted savagely.
Close by, others took up his spirit. “Look at her soar. Truly, she is queen of the skies!”
“She will cleanse our shores of those foul Chalcedeans!”
“Ah! She has smashed the hull with one swipe of her tail!”
Beside him, Grag suddenly lifted his sword. His weariness seemed to have left him. “To me, Bingtown! Let us see that any who reach the beach alive do not long remain so.” He set off at a jogging run, and the men who had earlier cowered in the ruins hastened after him, until Reyn and Selden alone remained standing in the ruined plaza.
Selden sighed. “You should go quickly, to gather folk from all of Bingtown’s groups. It is best that when we treat with the dragon, we speak with one voice.”
“I imagine you are right,” Reyn replied distractedly. He was remembering the strange dreams of his own youth. He had dreamed the buried city, alive with light and music and folk, and the dragon had spoken to him. Such dreams came, sometimes, to those who spent too much time down there. But surely, such dreams were the province of the Rain Wild Traders only.
Wistfully, Reyn reached down to rub a thumb across the boy’s dust-smeared cheek. Then he stared, wordless, at the fan of silver scaling he had revealed on Selden’s cheekbone.