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CuSupfer was a member of the Aerial Host killed in the fight with the Rocs over Ghioz.
“Good. She should name him after CuSupfer. I won’t have any losers in hatching fights not given a proper, honorable name.”
Humans may make the same mistakes generation after generation, but he’d be descaled if he repeated the errors of his parents.
“I believe she has done exactly that,” NoSohoth said, with a tone that suggested that if she hadn’t, she would shortly at a gently placed hint from a dragon at the Tyr’s ear as wealthy as NoSohoth.
“See that both Pillithea and Mulnessa have plenty of Imperial thralls to attend them, under the usual conditions that once the hatchlings breathe their first fire the thralls will be their property to keep or sell as they choose, with the usual messages of gratitude from myself and Nilrasha.”
“Done and done. My Tyr does enjoy checking up on me.”
“You look as though there’s bad news behind the good,” the Copper said.
“I’m afraid so, my Tyr. There’s problems with the oliban trade. Perhaps it’s not so critical, now with the Lavadome less crowded, but so many of the trees have been harvested now, the ones left are small and at great height.”
Oliban was a sort of sap from rare trees that looked like citrine quartz when properly dried. Burned in the plentiful braziers used for light and warmth deep in the dragon caves, it produced a pleasing, soothing aroma that relaxed dragons. It was traditionally burned whenever dragons met in groups to keep tempers from flaring.
“We must see about replanting it elsewhere, in suitable soil,” the Copper said. It never ceased to amaze, the matters that came under his nose. One day the proper burning of a dead egg, the next horticulture. He’d made a study of oliban, just as he had kern and other products necessary to draconic health and comfort. “The Ankelenes can do a survey of places where it might grow. There’s less need for kern now, perhaps in Anaea.”
His old uphold had rich volcanic soil. Or did oliban need sea air to thrive? Something about salt, he’d have to ask the Ankelenes.
“Yes, my Tyr.”
“We should have attended to this before,” the Copper muttered.
“Hard to think about a few loose tail-scale when there are swords about your throat,” NoSohoth said.
“What else do you have for me. Briefly, please, for I am tired.”
“Nothing that can’t wait until you’ve rested from your flight and enjoyed a few meals. There’s some rather good blind bonefish in the larder.”
“I’ll spend a few hours in the Audience Chamber. I can try to keep myself awake. I don’t want my dragons to think themselves unattended. I’ll be on the shelf in one hour; see there’s some coin to pass around.”
“Just some poor Hypatian amalgams. Next to worthless.”
“Well, there’ll be some gold from the sack at Swayport shortly.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” NoSohoth said. “I rather think the Imperial Treasury spends more on the Empire than it gets in return. If it weren’t for NiVom squeezing what he can out of the Ghioz, we’d be destitute.”
“We? You mean me, you old hoardbug,” the Copper said.
“My Tyr, have I ever denied you grateful coin?”
“No. I’ll think about finances later. I’m for a splash, then you can admit the petitioners into the audience hall.”
He shook off the thralls busy polishing his claws and oiling his artificial wing joint and descended to his baths. The heat and steam would work faster than any thrall.
The fleshy human female thrall in attendance gave the air a juicy aroma that made him relish his bath. She spread frothy bubbling fats on his scale and scrubbed them off again with a bristle brush. One of his predecessors, SiDrakkon, had made a fetish of the place, filling it so the musky feminine reek made one’s head swim, but that was entirely too much of a good thing. One had to come out of the bath sooner or later.
Feeling delightfully clean, he hissed for his monitor-bats.
Aged Ging and her son Fang came in, trailed by a tiredlooking Gang. Ghoul had disappeared some years ago in the Star Cave, but then he’d always been the slowest of the three.
“A sup, a sup, my Tyr?” they chorused, like eager, whining puppies.
They whined for blood, of course, and he relented and let them open a vein in his sii where he could keep an eye on how much they slurped down. They were the descendants of bats that had been dining on his blood for generations, and they’d grown into monstrous versions of the original clan; they were the size of largish dogs these days, and toothy young Fang displayed a pebbly skin that might be mistaken for his brother’s dragon-hide. Fang had cunning eyes and sharp ears, and a nose for sniffing secrets, and a devious mind. The Copper trusted only Fang’s weakness and lust for dragon-blood.
The Copper resolved not to feed Fang’s offspring dragon-blood. These bats had grown quite freakish enough, thank you.
