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“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because, oddly enough, I think you’ve got the simpleton’s faith. The same as my mate has. You’re duller—and uglier, certainly—but I believe you think of dragonkind first and yourself second. My mate has that quality too.”
“He has all a dragon’s virtues—”
“Oh, rot all that tripe. Virtues? What’s the first of them?”
The Copper thought for a moment, remembering his lessons. “Destiny. The gifts of the four Spirits in shaping—”
“Mythological balderdash that lets dragons with nothing to offer the world get puffed up about themselves. Next!”
“But everyone knows—”
“No, they don’t. That’s the problem. Let’s have another; your tongue’s slow as your wit.”
The Copper stiffened. “Courage to—”
“Courage? Exhibitions of courage have killed more dragons than spears. Give me a dragon who sneaks in when the warriors are otherwise engaged and visits the cribs of the hominids; they put up as much of a fight as squalling babes. Next.”
The Copper found her aroma warm, comforting, pleasant. Almost motherly. She was obviously enjoying this. “You can’t have anything against fidelity to mate, kith and kin. Every dragon in the Lavadome admires your devotion to our Tyr. You and your brother—”
“You’re not old enough to know better. We’ll talk again when your mating flight was four scale-ages ago, and your precious clutch champion has breathed fire into your face as he drives you away from your hoard. When some bright young thing spreads her wings for you and promises better times, we’ll speak again. Come, come, I’m eager for more.”
“Serenity.”
“Now, there you may have something. It’s the dragon who can control his emotions, wait instead of rage, take an insult or a setback with a song—that’s a dragon to be feared. Never let your thoughts past your tongue; never let a competitor know what you really think of him.”
“Then why do you tell me what you think of me?” the Copper asked.
“Because you’re the sorry, sawed-off tail-tip of the Imperial line, not a competitor. Go on now; you’ve scored a hit. Press home.”
The Copper thought it over. Tighlia was mistress of a thousand details in the Imperial Resort, from arranging matings to seeing after the quality of her mate’s kern. “Diligence. It’s attention to detail in the routines of—”
“Oh, and now you’ve gagged on it. Strained at a bat and swallowed a warthog. I’m devoted to idleness. Adore it. Gives one time to think. You’d be amazed how few dragons sit down and just think these days. Don’t look cross; I’m giving you medicine that tastes bad, but it’ll do you good if you have the sense to repeat the dosage.” She tapped her claws on the shining black stone of the rock. “I’m waiting.”
“I was going to say charity to those in your thrall, but I expect you’d answer that the more you task them, and the greater they fear you, the better the results.”
“Now you’re learning. Maybe you’re not hopeless after all. There’s only one left, so I’ll save you the breath. Strength. Strength I believe in. But I’m not talking about roaring and stomping and being able to knock down trees with your tail. That just brings the foemen. Intellectual strength to form a plan, physical strength to carry it out, and moral strength to see it through—those are virtues indeed. That alone will take you farther than the rest of your Drakwatch ideals put together.”
“Why do you tell me all this, Granddam?”
She winced as though struck. “Tomorrow a messenger will come for you, asking for a private interview with my mate. He’s going to give you a new position as a reward. An important one. I don’t want you buggering it up and making slippery bat droppings out of it. Husband your strength and display serenity, and you’ll do well enough.”
“Thank you, Granddam.”
“That’s not all. My mate may ask you about SiDrakkon and matters in Bant. Praise him and you’ll find me grateful. Those who are good to me make no complaints about my kindnesses in return. But guard your tongue against any slanders, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I have no slanders to offer, Granddam.”
“That’s a clever answer, drake. Be equally clever when you talk to my mate tomorrow.”
He spent a restless night in his cave, listening to the bats go in and out. Two new litters of hungry young bats suckled at a vein on his inner saa, leaving him rather dreamy.
He rose early and had a hearty chicken-and-kern breakfast brought by Fourfang, who burped and vented all while arranging the platters, proof that he had filched a hearty portion for himself.
“Let me smell your fingers, Fourfang.”
The blighter shrank away. The Copper clacked his teeth together. “Your fingers or your head. Which will it be?”
