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“They’d never keep their word,” NoFhyriticus said. “We’re talking about hominid kings, not dragons. If a hominid ruler keeps a promise from one solstice to another they etch the title faithful on their obelisks.”
“My Tyr,” CoTathanagar said, poking his head in through a hedge of crest and horn. He’d polished his scale to a blue as bright as the sky for the meeting. “I have just the dragon for you for this commission. My cousin CuNiss. His Parl, perfect! And such a diplomat! He knows just when to use sweet words and just when to bite a head off.”
“I hardly think biting the head off some Hypatian noble would help negotiations along,” LaDibar said.
“Oh, not a king or anything, just some ventwipe or whatever wretches important hominids employ to keep their orifices clean. It has a most salubrious effect on the waste-elves of Yellowsand.”
“I shall give it my deepest consideration,” the Copper said, tempted to add, The next time I’m in difficulty at the Tyr’s personal waste-chute and need something ridiculous to ponder.
But it wouldn’t be to advantage to insult CoTathanagar. He had relatives in most of the Upholds and Firemaid posts in the Empire.
“Perhaps we should continue this discourse another time,” the Copper said. The idea of an alliance with a great hominid power like Hypatia needed time to sink in. If he left them talking, they’d resolve on it being impractical, even dangerous.
At a wink from his Tyr, NoSohoth called the meeting closed. Little factions formed between those inside the room and outside as dragons of like mind discussed the matter.
He thought about it all through his meal, eaten alone since Nilrasha still hadn’t returned from her meeting with those Firemaids. His former mate-sister was probably telling war stories.
He went to his gallery, alerted the griffaran, and took wing for a few circuits of the Imperial Rock.
The flight was an easy one. He never dared be too vigorous, since he still didn’t quite trust Rayg’s artificial joint, though it had not failed him since it had been properly installed. Rayg had just put some new rigging in it—some animal’s tendon that blighters used in their bowstrings—and it would be a shame if he—
Later he wondered if it was his bad wing that saved him. He had it slightly closed as he flew, making his other side work harder to give himself the momentum to stay aloft. His instinctive protection of the injured wing caused him, at the first sense of a presence falling from the Imperial Rock, to close the wing, forcing a quick turn-dive.
He heard the sound of teeth snapping shut just behind his head and felt a blow across the back.
A flash of red scale passed. He felt the air of the scaly missile’s passage more than the wing-strike. By the time he turned his head to see what was happening, the two griffaran converged on a smallish dragon.
The dragon made one more attempt to fly at him, lashing hard with sii and flapping through the griffaran, but his eagerness to come to grips with the Copper left him open to the griffaran talons. They tore at his wings and the red tumbled broken-winged to the earth below.
He landed hard, righted himself, and searched the sky.
Long necks projected from the Imperial Rock.
The griffaran dove, claws out, like hawks after a running rabbit. But this prey didn’t run.
“Death to the Tyr, killer of hatchlings!” he shouted.
Then he turned his snout to his shoulder and bit himself just under the sii.
The griffaran struck but he made no effort to resist; he didn’t even cry out as their talons tore flesh from neck and spine.
The Copper drifted over the body. Two more griffaran, attracted by the war-screams of his escort, swooped down from atop Imperial Rock.
The body arched away from the ground, the tail and one saa stuck in the air. He’d seen stiff dead dragons before—too many—but never a dragon who’d just died like this. The dragon was very young; his skin was striped with clear extrude where his wings had emerged. Not more than a few months since he’d begun flying.
And he’d expended his life in trying to kill the Tyr.
The Copper was so shocked he could hardly stay aloft. It was one thing to have a defeated deman charge you, quite another to have a young member of your own society, without apparent quarrel, try to kill you. He found that his sii and his tail were shaking.
“Return to your nest, sir,” Aiy-Yip, the chief of his personal guard, called. “You two, keep close! Yes! Close! No tailfeather-slacking!”
Some young drakes, probably on a Drakwatch hike, were already trotting toward the scene. He was Tyr—he shouldn’t just scuttle off to his hole.
“There’s been an attempt on my life,” he said, passing over the drakes. “The griffaran guard killed the dragon responsible. I don’t know who he is, but two of you watch the body and two more send for help to the neighboring hills.”
Later he learned that the dragon’s name was RuPaleth. He made a brief appearance to concerned members of the Imperial Line out in the gardens—yes, he was fine, just shocked, no, nothing was known of the motive or grievance of the villain.
NoSohoth told him what he’d learned under the eyes of six griffaran in the throne room.
