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“After a fashion. But the dwarfs have a method of mining using water forced through nozzles. It scrapes away the mountainside like you cleaning your scale of dirt with your tongue. Valleys thought long since cleared of gold have been richly harvested of fresh nuggets, according to the dwarfs.”
Shadowcatch ground his teeth in impatience behind. The black dragon had no interest in technical talk.
“I wonder,” the Copper said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve looked at the map. It’s a vast stretch of mountains, and far from Ghioz. How will you possibly manage it?”
“As you know, my Tyr, I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” NiVom said.
“Why a war? Ghioz must be rich in goods it can trade.”
“We’re still rebuilding after the conquest.”
“You’ve had years, NiVom. Let me guess. Imfamnia is spending all the tribute on parties, baubles, and gold paint.”
“No, if you must know, we’ve been working on this.”
With that he called to his linemen, who ran to their places at drag ropes and hauled off, their taskmasters counting the step.
There was a groan, the high bowstring twang of lines parting, and the sailcloth covering of the mountain’s face fell away.
The Copper looked across the valley, into his own reflection. NiVom had chosen their vantage well. He wondered how the people in the city below felt, under the unblinking stare of a monumental dragon.
You wouldn’t call it lifelike, but it was eerily accurate. Except they’d given him two normal eyes—perhaps modeled off of NiVom. It did look rather like him about the eyes.
“Of course, it’ll go green eventually,” NiVom said. “Copper only looks this way for a few years, unless the tarnish is removed.”
“I’ve no words.”
“A thank-you in artistic tribute, for forgetting old grievances and remembering old friendships. Imfamnia herself corrected the model to better match your appearance.”
While he was glad of a chance to praise NiVom, he refused to do the same to his mate. She’d be tolerated, nothing more, until she died a natural death. A natural death that couldn’t come a moment too soon for the Copper.>“Her experiences predate the Grand Alliance,” the Copper said.
“Of course.”
“I think my Protectors are cheating me,” the Copper said.
Wistala sighed. She’d much rather brief him on the campaign to get the bandits off the oliban trade routes. Or new hatchlings. Or the promotions in the Firemaids, and who had taken what oaths.
No, he had to talk about the Protectorates—and how much gold was coming in.
She prepared her usual speech about how dragons should work out a system where they’re paid for the services they provide—keeping bandits off the roads and brigands out of the hills, and flying messages. The problem was the role of “Protector” wasn’t codified in Hypatian law.
Her brother had kept the costs, duties, and responsibilities of a Protector vague for a reason.
“Everyone takes a little bit off the tributes we are supposed to be given to keep scale healthy,” the Copper said.
Wistala was distracted by motion caught in the corner of her eye.
The Copper continued: “I think that the men—gaaagk!”
Wistala felt a hard jerk under her jaw. Strangulation—her vision blurred.
A winged shape, smaller than a griffaran, fluttered under her neck and she felt new pressure on her throat.
Her brother had managed to get a griff open—the one on the side where his eye was damaged tended to hang half open or move about on its own, adding to the lopsided look of his features.
He extended his wings and used them to deflect other fliers circling his throat with lengths of chain.
Wistala felt the pressure subside and took a desperate breath. Her brother pulled a length of chain away from her throat with his tail—he couldn’t reach his own but he could get at hers.
