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“NoSohoth, what was all that killer of hatchlings insult the fool shouted?”
His chief counselor shifted his stance and looked around, as he always did when choosing words. “Why should my Tyr pay attention to the ravings of a mad dragon?”
“What hatchlings have I ever killed?”
“None, my Tyr,” NoSohoth said. “Forget his words.”
But the Copper couldn’t forget them. He had a double helping of Tighlia’s brand of wine to calm the distress. Nilrasha returned, exhausted, clearly having had a dash of a flight.
“An assassination attempt. My love! My love! Oh, what wickedness,” she said, wide-eyed. She ran her head this way and that, neck against his, as though checking for a hidden, festering bite.
“Never mind. It’s over.”
She sniffed his breath. “Who was it?”
“A young drake from milkdrinker’s hill. RuPaleth.”
“RuPaleth! I knew him almost out of the egg. He was half strangled in his fight for the eggs, but he was bit and the venom took hold. Grew up stupid because of it. That old tradition of squashing venomers was a good one, I think. They should never have abandoned it.”
“So he wouldn’t have thought of this himself?” the Copper asked.
“As I told you, my Tyr, his brain’s deformed. Don’t credit his words. Shall I have the thralls bring more wine? It may help you sleep.”
“Did he rave?” the Copper asked, waving away the thralls.
“He’d never raved, or his parents would have squashed him for sure,” Nilrasha said.
“I ask because he said ‘Death to the Tyr, killer of hatchlings,’ ” the Copper said.
“Idiots,” Nilrasha said. “Those Anklenes—their brains are too big. All they can do is dream up trouble.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, Essea told me she’d been to Anklene Hill to see about a sculpture and she overheard a couple of young Anklenes gossiping, or maybe theorizing is the word. They were going on about how you probably poisoned the grain yourself to get the dragons stirred up and start another war now that the one with the demen is finished.”
The Copper could only blink for a moment.
“Sometimes, my love, I wish I’d never been named Tyr.”
“Oh, don’t say that, my love. Just today I was with the Firemaids and they all—all—praised you to me. Since the victory in the Star Tunnel there’s been only one attack by the demen, and that was a rout. I had it direct from a messenger who was there. Ayafeeia rescued a dragonelle captive with some sad loss, but apart from that it’s been two full seasons now without so much as a drakka taken in the Lower World.”
“I hope my mate-sister is well?”
The Copper knew he was setting saa upon drift-ice in mentioning his former mate, a delicate dragonelle who had choked to death despite Nilrasha’s attempts to save her.
At least that was the story he chose to believe.
“She sent her respects.”
“Wait—you said the demen had one of our Firemaids held captive? I don’t remember being told about that.”
“That’s because she wasn’t a Firemaid. She’s some dragon out of the wild. She’d been injured in a fall and the demen took her captive.”
“A strange dragon? The Anklenes will probably want to talk to her. They always ask questions of anyone who travels in the Upper World. I’ll send them a message.”
“What shall we do with her?”
“Do with her?” the Copper asked. “Is she some criminal or exile?”
