Dragon Avenger

Jessup dropped his mug, sending mead across the assembly. “A . . . a dragon. A citizen?”



“And why not?” Rainfall said, wiping away the stray mead on his hand with a small cloth he kept in his pocket. “There are precedents, albeit ancient ones. She can understand our laws and take the oath.”



Jessup chuckled. “The teeth will drop out of his skull.”



“But we must hurry. I can administer the citizenship oath, and you shall witness it, Jessup, and then we will have a bill of sale, and it will be done. What say you?”



“I fear.”



“What do you fear?” Wistala asked.



“The course of these events. I don’t want to be the one whose witness frustrated the thane.”



“He’ll count me as an enemy if he does anything to you and yours,” Wistala said coldly.



Rainfall turned. “I must ask you, Wistala, for something of an imposition.”



“Nothing would be too great to my savior and host,” Wistala said.



“I’ll adopt you as my daughter. That confers on you full citizenship after you reside in Hypatia for six years. A simple oath gives you citizenship for now.”



Wistala had been practicing the words daily.



“I’d hoped to hear the words in the Hypatian Hall at Quarryness, but Jessup’s Inn won’t be hurt for having one more story to tell about its sign.”



Jessup looked out the windows, as if fearing hostile eyes in the night.



Rainfall pointed to the floor before him. “It’s customary to touch the hem of the officiant’s robe of state before taking the oath, but I’m afraid this mead-spattered bit of blanket will have to do; it’s the words that matter in the end.”



Wistala laid her sii on his blanket.



“The oath-taker usually kneels before the officiant. But having four legs—”



Wistala folded her sii under her. In consequence her saa and tailvent were raised, but as they were facing in the direction of Galahall, it seemed befitting.



“Do you understand the difference between a truth and a lie, and the seriousness of an oath, Nuum Wistala?”



“I do,” Wistala said.



“Then take the oath.”



“I, Wistala, promise to take up the responsibilities of a Hypatian Citizen. I will obey the Hypatian laws, keep the Hypatian peace, and maintain the Hypatian lands and seas against all enemies. May my strength and honor sustain this oath and Hypatia’s glory from now until the end of days.”



“Rise, Citizen, and never kneel again,” Rainfall said.



“Walls fresh up and already hallowed,” Jessup said. “That reminds me: I should have Mod Feeney in to bless the post and lintels.”



“Jessup, I must beg for a delay in the rites. Wistala and I must go into Quarryness. Wake up Forstrel and tell him to put my saddle on Stog. Oh, and could I trouble you for a pennysworth for Tala?”



“Of course, sir, but she needs no pennies here. As long as I’ve got a bit of bone in back, her meals shall be free under this roof.”



“Not for food, Jessup. She must purchase Mossbell, and while I’d accept her loosest dragonscale, a land sale’s not legal unless it’s in Hypatian coin. And it’s just bad form for me to lend it to her.”



Stog could keep a punishing pace when he put his will into his hooves. Wistala loped along the road northward in the evening dark as best as she could, and finally begged him for a ride behind Rainfall’s special strapped saddle.



“Fine,” Stog said. “But sheathe your claws.”



Wistala climbed up, and Stog broke into his buck-trot again.



The night was foggy and turning cold, the moisture thick enough to collect at the branch-tips and drop with soft, wet taps into the fallen leaves. There would be a thick frost by morning, she expected.



“You dragons are supposed to be able to sing,” Stog said. “I’d like to hear a song of the merits of mules. What horse could carry this burden at this pace?”



“Is he complaining about the weight?” Rainfall asked. “My beast-tongue is not that of my forefathers—I’ve been too long in tamer lands.”



“He wants a song,” Wistala said.



“Perhaps it would help pass the time,” Rainfall said. “Beside, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing.”



Wistala cleared her throat. “Drakes and dragons are more fond of these kind of displays, and more skilled, but I’ll do my best:



While a horse will carry any fool



If the going’s hard you’ll want a mule!



Twice the load on half the feed,



A mule is tougher than any steed!



But treat him well when put to task



Or he’ll knock you on your—



“Ask no more verses of me, I’m out,” Wistala finished.



“Prettier than any nightingale,” Rainfall said. “And a good deal louder.”



“Let’s have it again,” Stog said. “While a horse will carry any fool . . .” he brayed in time to his hoofbeats.



And so, with Stog repeating the verses until dogs whined in complaint, they came into the Quarryness around the midnight hour.



The town was bordered by Rainfall’s road to the east and a great hill to the west. The hillside facing the town was one long cliff, with some wooden scaffolding up the side where men took building stone. A small watercourse cut through the town, bridged in two places by stone. There were several constructs of two or three levels at the center of town around a rather muddy common and a few leafless trees, but the rest of the town was a small warren of narrow, twisting streets.



“The thane allows for division and subdivision of the town parcels,” Rainfall said. “He forgets that the old Hypatian engineering, while somewhat wasteful of space, also prevents fires.”



There were still a few lights in some of the upper windows and galleries of the town, but none strode the streets save for a pair of men Rainfall identified as firewardens—also charged with keeping the peace. Downstream Wistala heard faint notes of music and song.



Rainfall turned Stog into the center of town, just off the main road. He stopped Stog before a stout, triangle-topped building with a silver banner-staff at the peak. “High temple,” Rainfall said, pointing to a grand, round-topped building. “Low temple,” he said, referring to a long, flat-roofed stone-walled building opposite. “Courthouse and muster-hall.”



Ranks of carved men carrying spears and shields decorated the sides. “Bring me right up the steps to the door,” Rainfall said, in beast-tongue, to Stog.



The doors were metal-covered and fitted in such a way that the hinges were concealed.



“There will be a low judge or two within,” Rainfall said. “The law never sleeps, as old Arfold, my law-teacher used to say. Strike the door with your tail, Wistala, and wake them.”



Her scales rang on the metal surface, and the pounding echoed within.



The pair of firewardens watched from the common, talking to each other quietly. One hurried away toward the road.



“Again, please,” Rainfall said.



Wistala pounded on the door again.



A decorative panel in the door suddenly opened. “I rise, I rise. What have you to say that can’t wait until a daylight hour? Is there a murderer to be celled?”



“Good evening, Sobyor,” Rainfall said.



The man’s rather small eyes widened. “Your Honor!”



“Oh, that title’s long since washed to the sea. What are you doing manning the door-minder’s garret, Sobyor? You were once the best low judge in the three north thanedoms.”



“And high judge for three whole days, thanks to you. What in the worlds is that?” he asked, staring at Wistala.



“She’s my legs, if you’ll let me through this door. We’ve some small matters of business to attend, and I’m afraid they cannot wait. Admit us, and help me mind the mule, would you?”



“I’m . . . I’m not to recognize you,” Sobyor said. “Orders from High Judge Kal himself.”



“What authority does Judge Kal have to give you such an order? This is a Hypatian Hall, and I require admittance.”



“I am . . . I am not alone in here,” Sobyor said with a glance to his right.



“Who is in there with you?” Rainfall asked.



“A pair of firewardens.”



“Tell them—,” Wistala started to say.



“Hold your temper,” Rainfall cut in. “Sobyor, how is your practice in Thellass-tongue?”



“Mus mis palandam,” Sobyor responded.



“Rah-ya!” Rainfall said. He rattled off a string of speech Wistala didn’t understand, but it meant something to Sobyor.



“Opt,” Sobyor replied, shutting the panel.



“What are you about?” Wistala heard a gruff voice inside say. There was a brief rattle inside, perhaps a hand checking the lock on the door.



“My duty,” Sobyor’s voice replied.



Quieter now: “What was all that grotting about?”



The voices faded.



“Wistala, how would you like to perform your first duty in defense of the Hypatian Order?”