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“Anyway, no mates for me. I’m oathed into the Firemaids and meant every word of the Third Oath. Nowadays there are Second-Oathers who speak the words as though they mean to say, Sundering myself from mated life for the protection of all (until a likely dragon starts a-courting, that is).
Wistala chuckled. She’d been oathed into the Firemaids as well, but political troubles and DharSii had come along before she’d spent enough years among them for the most solemn Third Oath vows.
Wallander was still a dumpy little collection of hovels on the riverbank. All it had to recommend it was a lake of slack water in the Falnges River and a wide beach for landing trade-craft. The only difference Wistala could mark was that the wall had fallen into even greater disrepair, and there were slave-pens everywhere, inside and outside the walls.
Wistala watched the wretches in the pens. Poor things. The dwarfs would chuck them into one of the barges, and from there they’d be taken to a tunnel portal. How many would never see the sun again, sicken, and die after a few years of hard work underground?
She’d never given much thought to thralls before, but the ones she’d known were the descendants of warriors who’d fought the dragons and were warm and clothed and fed decently. If the occasional gravely injured or sick thrall had been given quick death to ease their passing before being devoured, she shrugged it off as part of the long, unfortunate history between hominids and dragonkind. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a dragon of any age caught by men or elves or dwarfs would be pierced with spears and end up with its bones adorning some thane’s trophy room or great hall. Gentlebeings like Rainfall were the rare exception in a hard world.
Remembering Rainfall’s kindness, his hatred of cruelty and injustice shamed her. What was her excuse for coarsening over the years? Rainfall had been cast away and forgotten by the Hypatian Order, its chivalry he’d preserved and kept until his dying breath.
“They aren’t part of the Empire yet, are they?” Wistala asked, pointing with her tail tip to the pens.
“They’re still outside the walls. The dwarfs are probably negotiating the sale,” Yefkoa said.
“There’s a problem with taking a long time bargaining. You may be shocked to find out your wares suddenly aren’t worth so much.”
The men and dwarfs of Wallander barely looked at the pair of winged females idling beside the river. When they’d washed the dust of travel—an amazing amount of spiderweb and bug-grit would get caught in one’s scales during flight and the ability of insects to reach every claw’s-breadth of the world continually impressed Wistala—from their bodies, they sunned themselves and cocked their heads to get a better view of the headhunter dwarfs and their captives.
Old animosities burned like embers deep in Wistala’s hearts. Slavers had come for her family, once, killing her mother and sister. She tussled with herself. The first job was to pass through and into the Dragon Empire.
Yefkoa introduced her to the Protector of Wallander.
He was a young silver dragon with black tips on his scales, with wings so fresh they were practically still wet. Wistala could see the faint scars of the emergence of his wings, where scale had not quite overgrown the crocodile-smile wounds running along his back.
“I am Yefkoa, and we are of the Firemaids. We are on our way back to the Lavadome and seek permission to reenter the Empire.” Yefkoa had chosen her words better than Wistala could have hoped.
In one of the wood-beamed lodges behind, Wistala heard shouts. Human and dwarfish voices were trying to win one another over in a debate of noise rather than ideas, as Rainfall might have put it.
“I am OuThroth, page to NoSohoth, exchequer of Wallander and knight-esquire of the Empire.” Wistala thought he’d collected an interesting assortment of titles for such a young dragon. “You are welcome, Firemaids. Enjoy the poor hospitality of Wallander before continuing your journey. There are some nice fish running in the river, if that’s to your taste.”
“Is this your own Protectorate, or do you serve as steward for another?” Yefkoa asked, carefully keeping her head below the young dragon’s and setting and resettling her wings, as a flirtatious young dragonelle might.
“I speak for NoSohoth. My father used to run the uphold trade in oliban.” Wistala remembered the strong-smelling resin burned in the Lavadome to subdue dragon odor. Male dragons became fierce and argumentative when crowded among the smells of too many of their sex. “Wallander is one of the smaller provinces NoSohoth oversees and they sent me here to gain experience.”
The Empire had changed, Wistala thought. Stewards now, for Protectors who had amassed more lands than they could manage. No surprise that NoSohoth would have a collection of provinces; he always was a rapacious dragon.
“Have you gained any, young dragon?” Wistala asked.
He blinked, perhaps unused to questioning from Firemaids. “I’ve learned how to survive with no polite society. If you’ve been out in Ironrider lands, you’ve been long without wine. Would you like some of mine?”
“Please,” Yefkoa said. They followed him from the gate. The contest of voices faded.
“What was that ruckus with the thrall-gatherers?” Wistala asked.
“The dwarfs are exhibiting their usual arrogance in pricing their captives. It’s more than the Hypatians are willing to pay, yet I’m still expected to fill a tally of thralls or NiVom and NoSohoth will have me supervising diggers, with one day in the sun out of thirty. I’ve never been able to figure out where all this pride comes from in dwarfs. Unless being dirty and uncouth is something to be proud of.”
“What will you do?” Wistala asked.
“If I must, I’ll make the difference out of my own funds, limited as they are. Thralls must be found.”
OuThroth’s hall was a work-in-progress. A good stone foundation had been laid—Wistala saw a dwarf working figures on a piece of paper next to a small fire with an infusion kettle atop it—but the roof timbers were still half-done, gaps covered by a mix of canvas and cordage.
A vast amount of lumber was piled near the riverbank, but it was poorly situated. The bottom trunks were wet and rotting and she could see mosses and mushrooms the size of chest-scale growing out of wet cracks in the bark. If OuThroth wasn’t careful, half of his purchase wouldn’t be fit for bedding-chips, let alone roofing. A shame, since they were fine big boles. Some venerable stands of timber had been cut, only for this heedless youth to leave it to rot along a riverbank where it had been dumped by a barge.
Waste. Her old guardian Rainfall would have been outraged to see such ancient trees cut but then left to rot.
Inside, OuThroth’s hall was sparse but comfortable. His bed-platform was set up in the coziest corner, if the winds to-day were the prevailing. A mass of copper tubing ran beneath it, giving a hiss now and then.
