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“I’m going up.”
“Squeeze up the thrall passages, if you can. The great winding one is blocked by those waiting for news and spreading rumor.”
The Copper took his advice and made his way up to the Imperial kitchens, at some cost of scrapes to the poor, thin-skinned humans he had to squeeze by. He fought his way out into the gardens, past dragons, drakes, dragonelles, and drakka thronging the garden.
Some of SiDrakkon’s Skotl clan kept them back from the doors, exchanging rather profane insults with the catcalling Wyrr.
“We want NiVom back; he was an honest Wyrr!”
“Anklene, more like,” a Skotl roared back.
“Make a breach, you; I’m in the Imperial line,” the Copper boomed, a little surprised at how loud his voice sounded. “Let me in to see my family.”
“Air Spirit, even Batty’s turned up,” someone said.
“NoSohoth,” the Copper roared at the Tyr’s door. “I know you’re on the other side of that. Let me in.”
“He fought with NiVom at the Black River. Let him pass,” someone in the throng shouted.
“He’s a no-line half-wit.”
“Not even hatched in the Lavadome. What business is it of his?”
The portal opened, but the Copper didn’t catch what was said. In any case, the fat Skotl toughs made room for him.
“RuGaard, what a pleasant surprise on this tragic day,” NoSohoth said. Naturally he was the one dragon who pronounced his new appellation effortlessly, as though it had always passed his lips that way. “Follow me.”
Nervous thralls gathered in the shadows. Even the tiniest brazier was aflame, sending out soothing fragrances. At the larger versions blighters worked the fire with bellows.
“Where’s Tighlia? I wish to speak to her,” the Copper said.
“She’s obviously in a delicate condition, shattered by the loss of her mate. It happened in her sleeping chamber, you know. Tyr SiDrakkon is holding court in the Tyr’s chamber.”
“Why don’t you just call him Tyr? Did the Tyr name a new heir?”
“Careful, now. There’s the traditional one-year period of mourning.”
“Of course. I’m no courtier; I apologize.”
The Copper heard SiDrakkon’s voice as he passed through into the Tyr’s audience chamber. It was smaller than he remembered it, perhaps because of the crowd. Griffaran crowded the upper areas, two to a perch, looking agitated.
“We’ll speak with one voice. United. I’m Tyr and that’s all there is to it,” SiDrakkon said. “They’ll have to accept it. The succession is legal and according to tradition. The worst thing we can do is divide and argue like this. Blood could be spilled at any moment.”
Imfamnia lounged at his side, looking as though she were enjoying the view down on the Imperial line.
“I still say NiVom should have a proper trial,” Ibidio said. She stood just below the shelf. “One Anklene, one Skotl, and one Wyrr judging him.”
“Mother, not that again,” Imfamnia said. “He’s violent. War-worn, I expect.”
“He ran from a challenge. He’s not going to appear for a trial,” SiDrakkon said.
“You seem very sure of that,” SiMevolant put in airily. He’d dusted his golden scales with ash for the occasion; otherwise he would have outshone the whole room.
“Are you implying anything?”
“Imply? Me? I come right out and say things. I’ve no ambition to conceal. I was just wondering if you’d had him killed, is all.”
SiDrakkon turned a deeper shade of purple. “Of course not! Shut your snout if you’ve nothing to offer but blather. Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! That’s all the whole lot of you is good for. We have to act. Let’s go out there and tell them something before flame begins to fly.”
