Dragons of Wild (Upon Dragon's Breath Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  Putting a hand to my forehead, I touched cold sweat. I stood. “I’m going to go and get something to eat. It’s too hot in here.”

  “You do that,” Vic called out.

  Half stumbling, I staggered back down to the main doors and out onto the steps. The air seemed dank and foul just outside the room. A splash of red stained the entrance.

  My stomach turned and I fled down the street.

  I didn’t stop until my breath came in ragged gasps and I was far from the chambers and courts. That splash of red stayed in my mind. My mouth dried and my head spun. I didn’t quite know how long I’d been walking. The day seemed wrong. Hadn’t I gone to the courts in the morning? It was already late in the day, with clouds overhead and a sharp wind. It would be dark soon. Stopping, I leaned against a wall and pressed my hands against the stone wall.

  This part of the city was in worse repair than others. Buildings sagged as did the wooden doors. Most windows had bars over them. Trash fluttered down the street, and the gutters stank of filth. A few ragged children ran past, eyeing me as if they might try for my money—they seemed to decide I was not worth the effort.

  On the house opposite, dark paint in a reddish brown stained the wall with a roughly drawn W that had a small spark above it.

  The fire within.

  It was the sign of the Salamanders, the resistance movement, the dangerous lunatics the king was always raving about. This looked the type of neighborhood to harbor resentment and anger. The mark almost looked like the wings of a dragon.

  I shivered, pushed off the wall and started for home.

  The streets of the noble quarter were quieter than the rest of the city, and I had to climb upwards to my family’s house. Below, the dull yellow glow of the lights began to flicker in the windows of the mansions. The curfew bell began to toll—a deep, sad sound. How had it gotten so late?

  Shoulders sagging and legs aching, I stepped into my family’s mansion. Brown and yellow leaves dusted the courtyard, iron knocker on the door had rusted and most of the windows in the two side wings had been boarded over years ago. House Daris had fallen on hard times, as had most of the city. I could not bring myself to sell the aging mansion nor did I have the funds to keep it in good repair. The roof needed new slates, the chimneys all smoked, and I had four floors of vast rooms, most of which had been emptied by my parents and myself in auctions to keep the household together and to do what we could to help our neighbors. They hadn’t succeeded in stopping the growing poor of the city, and neither had I.

  I opened the front door—we had given up a porter for the door years ago—being careful not to ring the bell. It was already so late and I saw no need to disturb the two servants who had stayed with me.

  Inside, the lantern hung high in the vast entrance hallway had burned down. Gloom clung to the corners of a room as tall as it was wide and long. The house smelled damp and musty and seemed full of night air and the sigh of the wind. My steps echoed on the marble floors, which needed scrubbing, but it was hard to keep up with the cleaning needed. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since early this morning.

  Deciding to make my way to the kitchens, I slipped into the door that would take me to the scullery and past the servants’ quarters. Even if the cook wasn’t still up, I was sure to find something bubbling on the stove—she always had a soup or a stew cooking, for it was the best way to stretch whatever meat I could afford for the house.

  My boots were soft enough to make hardly a sound on the old, stone steps that led from the main hallway. I was tired enough that when I first heard the whispering, I stopped, thinking of ghost and unquiet souls.

  Wavering firelight danced out from the door that led into the kitchen, and then voices slipped into the stone stairway.

  Gernigan said, “It was sitting right there. I saw it with my own eyes.” My butler and steward, sounded upset, but then Gernigan managed to upset himself over most things. The lack of money in the household, how far House Daris had fallen, the dearth of visitors to the family mansion—all of it he would complain about and give a sniff and an accusing stare. He felt it was all my fault for giving away funds to the poor. His favorite phrase was, ‘Things would have been different if your father was alive.’

  Cook gave a laugh, her voice rough and low and said, “You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m not. And I did what any sane person would do,” Gernigan replied.

  I stiffened. What had he done? What had he seen?

  A pan clanked and then Cook said, “You didn’t destroy it? You know what Master Bower thinks about us going into his library. If he finds out you took a book, why, you’ll be lucky to ever have a job again.” “Dragons,” Gernigan hissed.

  My throat tightened. With one hand on the stone of the wall, I took a step forward. Oh, Gernigan, what have you done?

  His voice dropped lower and took on an unpleasant scratch. “Dragons it was. Drawings and descriptions, with writing about their names, their colors and all sorts of terrible, untrue things.”

  Cook gave a disapproving sniff, and I could almost have bounded in there and kissed her. “The master isn’t like that, Gernigan. He’s sensible. Who could believe in dragons? It’s just ridiculous. And a book don’t mean he thinks anything of it.”

  “Don’t it?” Gernigan’s voice rose and hardened. “I tell you it will come out that he is one of them Salamanders himself.”

  Cold swept over me. I wanted to leave, but I had to hear what Gernigan had done—for I knew in my bones he had done something rash.

  “A traitor, that’s what he is. This wouldn’t have happened if his father were alive. And there was nothing to be done but to inform the king’s men. They took my complaint they did.”

  Metal clattered onto stone, and I could picture Cook having dropped a spoon. She might have been shocked, but nowhere near as much as I.

  I sucked in a breath. My face seemed both chilled and numb. I couldn’t believe Gernigan had disobeyed my orders, and he had seen one of my dragon books.

  What if he had destroyed it?

  My stomach knotted at the idea that he might have actually burned one of my prized possessions. It was worse than his calling the king’s wrath down upon me.

  My hunger forgotten, I backed up the steps and headed into the entrance hall again. I had to protect the books—and then myself.

  The house no longer seemed the same mansion I had once called my own. My trust had been betrayed by someone I had thought reliable. I had been betrayed. Running up the stairs, I headed to the library. Closing the door, I leaned against it. But then I saw the dragon book, still on my desk.

  I had left it closed, but it lay open now. Hurrying to it, I touched a hand to the page. At least Gernigan had not burned it. But what now?

  I had so little left to me—and so few books. And yet, I probably had the largest collection of literature in the entirety of Torvald. I could not leave it for Gernigan or the Iron Guard. If I hid them all, would the king believe me when I denied any wrong doing? That had not helped Master Julian.

  I thought of the scream I had heard—and yes, I had heard it. Master Julian’s last breath had been in that scream. I knew I could not stay.

  Hurriedly, I pulled the books from the shelves. I picked out only five to pile into an old, leather scribe’s satchel—one on maps, a collection of old stories, two histories and one on dragons. The others could be hidden behind a false bookcase in a hiding room that had been known only to my father, my mother and myself. My father had built it himself, foreseeing troubled times looming. He had been right to worry. Now I would just have to hope the secret was enough to keep the rest of my library safe.

  The five I books I took with me would be a heavy load to carry but I could not leave these—they were rare volumes and could never be replaced. And the scribe’s case would suit my plans. Like any noble born, I could wield a sword, but I could also read and write almost a dozen languages. I would make myself into a scribe.
A wandering scribe. I could do no more here other than to save myself now.

  Heading to my room, hauling my books with me, I packed a few clothes, what money I had left to me, and a few precious reminders of my parents in a soft-sided bag. I could imagine myself traipsing along the highways and byways, and I almost grinned at the thought.

  And then I heard a pounding on the main door.

  My heart gave a lurch. Sweat slicked my palms and my upper lip. Heading to a window, I glanced out and saw moonlight glint on metal.

  The Iron Guard! They’re here for me.

  Grabbing a heavy cloak, I glanced around for an escape. A small, high window let out into the Rose Conservatory, which was little more than a summer-room whose windows had long since been cracked and smashed, making it very wintery indeed. I could exit my room into the conservatory and then head onto the roof and go down one of the back stairs. I could flee into the city where I could lose myself in the winding, narrow streets of the slums. I would make for King’s Village and take on a new life for myself.

  The pounding below sounded again, and I heard Gernigan call out that he was coming. Coming to let my doom into the house. Going to betray me again. With a last glance around me, I opened the window, took up my scribe’s case and my bag and headed into the cold night. Behind me, the clank of metal boots filled the house—but it was no longer my house, no longer my home. I was now not just a man with a dying name—I was nothing at all.

  And oddly, it felt as if I was free for the first time in my life.

  3

  On the Run

  The great sage of the Thirteenth Age, Tantalus Mas, wrote that ‘every step along the journey toward your destiny is a blessing.’ Tanatalus Mas clearly never had to escape a city, hugging the shadows and walking in the thinnest of calfskin boots. I cursed myself for not changing my boots before I’d left, but there had been no time. And I curse myself for ever having collected books—but what else would I have done with myself?

  I had been raised an only son of a noble house. I’d never had brothers to play with or sisters to defend or tease. My parents never encouraged me to fight duels or to brawl with the lower classes, as had some of my friends. But I’d had books, and my love of reading had been smiled upon. It had been my life. Now, it seemed to me that the way King Enric was ruining the land was linked to this ruination of me. I could only hold out a small defiance against him by denying him my life and my books. But my feed still hurt, as did my shoulders from carrying the weight I must take with me. But I could not leave the books to be thrown onto a fire.

  In these books, were tales of pageants that had lasted days, festivals that had lasted weeks, tales of battles and feats of strength. Someone must hold to the past and keep alive the stories of a long ago world. I would be that person and I would take my strength from that. But it saddened me that I had to run away like a thief just now.

  Heading into the poorer parts of town, down past the lower-middle tier of the city and past the second and third bridges across the ravine-rivers that scored through the mountain, I knew I could hide myself here. But this was a city under curfew. While there might be no other citizens out to see me, the Iron Guards would be on patrol and would be stationed at key spots.

  I made my way slowly, stopping to listen for the clank of metal at every corner, keeping to the narrowest, meanest streets., But I knew just where the Iron Guards should be stationed. They would be at each bridge, at the Carpenter’s Mark, at the Courtyard of the Lost and at the Square of Remembrance. The Iron Guard were a constant in the city, never moving from where they were placed unless they had a direct order to move or had seen a violation of the king’s law. They just stood watch, silent, metal giants. Or they searched for fugitives such as myself.

  Still, they made a lot of noise and that would make it easier to avoid them. But that didn’t lessen the pounding of my heart or the speed of my breath.

  By now every Iron Guard must know that I was on the run. I had read in one book years ago that the Iron Guards were mechanical—and somehow they were all connected. If one Iron Guard knew one thing, they all knew it. It wasn’t magic, or at least it wasn’t magic in the old sense that I had read about. But it meant that I must treat every Iron Guard as if it wanted me dead.

  I had once seen one of the huge, metal Iron Guards explode into action. It had been terrifying. A shout had gone up to stop a thief, and then a small man, dressed in rags, had pushed his way out of a crowded set of stalls. The Iron Guard stationed at the market had swung out a metal fist, catching the thief in the middle of his chest and dropping him.

  With two fast steps, the Iron Guards towered over the thief, grabbed him by the leg, picked him up and tossed him down again, as if the man was nothing more than a sliver of wood to toss about. The Iron Guards had dragged the thief away and I never knew what happened to that poor man. That was the way of it—those who broke the king’s law paid the penalty.

  And I had broken the law.

  But I did not feel guilt for that—unjust laws should not be followed. But I knew I had to watch my step now.

  The streets around me narrowed even more. This was an old, abandoned part of the city that had been ravaged by fire many years ago and had never been rebuilt. There were a few such places in the city—tangled streets with half-fallen houses. The building materials had long ago been taken by others. Rats scrabbled in the ruins and I saw a cat slink past, on the hunt for its meal. The place had an odd smell to it—dusty and dry, for no one lived here. And I had a chance to stop and slow my breaths and pat the very few coins I had in my pocket.

  It would be wise to hold them back—to use them only if the need for food became dire. For tonight, I would need to wait and get as near to a gate out of the city as I could. I might find a friendly trader who needed help with their records, or a merchant with a wagon bound out of the city. For tonight, I needed shelter.

  An hour later I came upon a house with half a roof and walls to break the chill wind. It would do. I put down my bags and used them to make a seat for myself so I would not be on cold stone. My empty stomach flapped at me and a headache had started. I would need water soon, and food, but for now I wrapped my cloak tight and tried to get what sleep I could.

  A gray light woke me from a light and uneasy sleep and dreams of blood and an ancient king. I shook myself awake and rubbed my arms. Even with my cloak, this seemed a freezing time of day. Clouds hid the sun, and I was more accustomed to staying up to greet the dawn, not waking to find it a cold and miserable morning. I stood and stretched. Every muscle ached, and I knew I must smell of sweat and dust, but I had to push on. The Iron Guards did not rest. Picking up my bags, I headed for the nearest gate. With dawn, the city was waking and the curfew lifted.

  The day brightened and so did my mood.

  Voices lifted, shouts and whistles of the merchants and traders as began their day.

  The smell of cooking pulled me down a lane and to a narrow, mean house with a stall outside. A lady was selling a hot pie for a copper. I bought two and sat by the edge of the fountain in the square, watching the world wake. I ate the pie and wondered if I could perhaps send a gold piece to Cook—she had been good to me and I hated to leave her with no salary and now she would have no job. But I knew she could take pots and silverware from the house and sell it. It would have to do.

  Gernigan would most likely raid the house, and then others, but that did not matter now. I was the last surviving heir, and without me, the house will be given by the king to someone else.

  A solid thump to my back had me rising and turning, dodging in time to avoid a second blow. “‘Ere! Get off with you, lazing about like you was a lord.” I glanced over at a wash woman, come to do her basket of laundry. She wore a red scarf on her head, a badge of her office, and smelled of onions and ale. She set the basket down on the spot near the fountain where I had been sitting. She looked me up and down, dark brown eyes dismissive and hands propped on wide hips.

  The woman
who had sold me the hot pie gave a laugh and called out, “Oh, don’t be treating the poor fellow badly, Das. He didn’t know he was stealing your spot.”

  The wash woman gave a snort. “Didn’t know? I didn’t know him. What do you think you are, Knight of the Pigeon Poo and Rat Tail, huh?”

  Chin lifting, I stared down at her. “I am…” The words dried and faded away. I could not and should not give her my name. Glancing down at my dusty breeches and boots, I knew I must look more like a vagabond with borrowed finery than any kind of lord. Which was probably a very good thing.

  I swept the wash woman a bow. “I am most sorry. I am but a scribe searching for work and I’ve found none in this city, so I’m looking to travel on.” I offered her my best smile.

  She didn’t smile back. “Taking my place. Looking to offer your services. Well, none around here need a scribe to write out their letters. Ger’on with you.” She slapped my arm and turned away, muttering, “Monger’s Lane would be too good for the likes of you!”

  Monger’s Lane! Of course!

  Gratitude warmed my chest and I could have hugged this horrid old woman. She might believe the king’s decrees that beggars and the poor people lack moral character and are one step away from being as dangerous as the Salamanders, but she had pointed out the best escape route from the city.

  The bridge to the district known as Monger’s Lane had been built in the old style, meaning tall and high, and wide enough for two carts. It was also no longer a bridge, for the water underneath had dried up decades ago, and so it was not deemed worth guarding by the king. There were no Iron Guards here.

  Laborers strode into the city across the bridge. In my shabby clothes, I seemed to fit right in.

  Monger’s Lane was even smaller and more cramped than the narrow streets I’d wandered last night. The buildings, mostly of tired wood that sagged, looked outdated by centuries and seemed dry enough that one fire would take out the entire district. The streets curled around and re-knotted with each other. The Iron Guards would have a hard time finding me here, but I was also having a hard time finding my way out and to the gate.