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“Tala is from one of the noblest families in the land—but she dislikes when I name names,” Yefkoa said, and Wistala grew afraid that Yefkoa would play the game too sharply and arouse the youngster’s suspicions.
“If you have any younger relatives, I’d welcome their society here—if they have a yen to travel.” OuThroth said, bowing. “I’m still unmated,” he added, unnecessarily.
“A dragon under the tutelage of NoSohoth is on his way up,” Yefkoa said, simpering.
They bowed out their farewells, thanked him for his hospitality, and took off across the river, heading for Dairuss, the Protectorate of AuRon’s mate.
“He’s still a bit wet about the wings for a border post, I think,” Wistala said.
“Titles are bought and sold these days,” Yefkoa said. “Nowadays your title doesn’t matter so much as the sheer number of them behind your name. It takes much of a sunrise to list NoSohoth’s. He’s always willing to sell a few. You see the quality of dragon it gets us.”
Chapter 5
Even from an altitude, the tower stood out. Its position when viewed from the east, framed against the sea, presented an unmistakable landmark. And if that wasn’t enough, a light burned atop it. The Copper judged it an ordinary fire reflected and magnified with polished metal, set as a beacon for night-travelers, or perhaps a warning for ships about the dangerous break in the coast.
The last time he’d been here he’d been half out of his mind with regret and recrimination. AuRon had known something of the dragons here—he’d had communications with them in his time on the Isle of Ice, and they’d used the landmark to take their bearings. All he remembered was the vague loom of the tower and the cold, misty coast.
On the flight he’d toyed with the dragonhelm Scabia had given him. If it did in fact amplify mindspeech, it didn’t work very well on him and Wistala. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of an affinity between them. Or she wasn’t wearing it. All he received was vague impressions, like a remembered dream, and most of those were of DharSii or Scabia speaking. He’d had enough of both to last a lifetime.
The lands he’d flown over looked cold and unfriendly. Hostile, too. The barbarian villages had piles of lumber and were putting old fences back into repair and constructing new ones around unprotected clusters of buildings. His passage overhead seemed to cause some consternation, the barbarians shuffling their livestock and children about like disturbed ants.
The only philosophy that makes sense is to treat all as your friends, or none. I think all’s more pleasant, don’t you, lads? Tyr Fehazathant used to say when visiting the wingless drakes in the Drakwatch. The Copper had done well treating all as friends—though perhaps he’d have lasted longer on the throne and kept his mate besides if he’d adopted the latter mind-set.
He circled above the tower three times before starting his descent. Closing the wing today would be extra painful.
The mistress of the tower was an old crone who walked with the aid of a cane. She was supervising the unloading of a dwarf-driven, mule-drawn wagon. The mules didn’t care for his presence and brayed an alarm as he landed. She still had bright eyes and a kind of beauty about her, the way a wind-bent tree clinging to a cliff’s edge over the sea was picturesque in its twisted tenacity.
“I’ve seen you somewhere or other before, Copper,” she said, in intelligible but flat dragonspeech. “You fly in a very distinctive manner. What’s your name?”
“RuGaard,” the Copper said, fiddling with his wing and pulling it shut with a pained wince.
“The old Tyr? I have seen you before, years since. Passing eastward, you were.”
“Thank you for the compliment of your memory.”
“The day I start forgetting dragons is the day I’ll be fit for my last trip beyond the surf aboard a flaming raft. But I’m not ready for my last ride yet, if you think you’ll be taking over in the name of the Empire—”
“Nothing like that. I’ve given up all claim to any title or position. It’s been years since I’ve had any part of the Empire. I’m a wandering exile, lonely for the smell of my kind.”
“Smell we have, all you want, free as air. You take anything else, I expect you to work for it. Everyone earns their keep in the tower, man or dragon.”
“What is the price of a decent meal?”
“A ride to the top of the tower. Don’t worry about a saddle, I know how to hook on to scale for short trips. I need to check the fire-wardens up there. I found some drips of whale oil at the bottom of the tower, which means they’re getting sloppy again, and I don’t want my tower burned to the ground. Ain’t like whale oil is cheap, neither.”
She introduced herself as Gettel and clung to him using her knees and ankles. The Copper sighed and extended the wing again. He double-checked the condition of the locking-peg. It would be just his luck for it to give way at the top and have him kill the mistress of the tower by accident.
The Copper wasn’t used to bearing a person. He’d last done it in his youth and he didn’t like the sensation. His neck was a vulnerable spot for a blade.
“So, sick of old Scabia at the Sadda-Vale, m’dragon?”
“I’m lonely,” the Copper said, honestly enough. “I’ve spent too much of my life in decisive thought and action. A life of contemplation of the day’s fish haul and techniques of de-boning and filet preparation isn’t for me.”
“If it’s activity ye seek, I can use you. There’s coin in it for you to eat—I know there’s precious little of that where you come from. Not just messenger-flying, either, but real fighting. Feel up to taking on some dwarfs? I’ve a rich commission from the Hypatians.”
“I’ve no enemies among dwarfs. All mine are farther south.”
“Your Empire. They tried to get me to join, but I don’t care to call another my master. Between them to the south and the barbarian chiefs to the north, Juutfod is in a bad way. Both would like to claim this tower and my dragons.”
