Dragon Stones (32 page)

This didn't seem like a very good place to be, either.

He scurried to the edge, where a waist-high balustrade prevented a drunken fall to the courtyard below.  He vaulted it and dropped to the ground, landing on flexed knees, going into a roll, coming out of it at a run.  The wall of the keep loomed nearby.  He didn't know what was on the other side—freedom, more guards, another wall—but he knew what was on
this
side, and he needed to escape from it.

He leapt onto the wall, dug his fingers into its tiny cracks and irregularities, and started climbing.

Ponn awoke to the smell of ashes.  He hadn't expected to fall asleep, but obviously exhaustion had gotten the better of him; or perhaps he had passed out from the heat.  He sat up too quickly and his head threatened to detach itself from his body and drift away.  He waited until the feeling passed, then rolled onto his hands and knees, crept to the wall, and followed it until he found the iron door.  The metal felt warm but not hot, so he pushed it open and crawled out into the yard.

A fine layer of ash covered the ground, blackening Ponn's skin.  He stood and stretched, shivering now as the chill night air drew warmth from his sweat; then he took stock of his surroundings.  The wooden fence that surrounded the small yard was charred in spots, but mostly intact.  He noticed a gate with a latch nearby, something he hadn't spotted in his earlier haste.  A small fire smoldered in the pile of refuse at the far end of the garden.  The walls of the Sack of Sorrows itself still stood, but its thatched roof and wooden doors and shutters had burned away, like a face that had been stripped of hair and ears and eyelids.  The air stank of smoke, with an undercurrent of burnt flesh and something sharp and strange that he had never smelled before, even in the exhalation of a fumarole.

"My inn!"

He had forgotten about Jalla, who had weathered the fire with him.  He went to the oven and helped her to her feet, but then she pulled away from him, leaning against the blackened brick dome.  "Gone," she moaned.  "Everything is gone."

"At least you still have your life," he said; but she only glared at him, as if that were of little comfort.  Foolish woman.  Leaving her, Ponn went to the gate, turned the latch, and stepped out into an alley.  He walked along it to the main avenue where he and T'Sian had separated.  He heard a voice shouting somewhere in the distance, but couldn't make out the words.  He wandered farther down the street, eyeing the destruction.  A large number of buildings in the neighborhood had been damaged or destroyed; some still burned, belching black smoke into the orange-black sky.  He saw a few charred shapes, human-sized, lying in the street; he did not inspect them too closely, preferring instead to look at other survivors, like himself, dazed but alive.  Few of them spoke, although most gave him wordless greetings.

"You there!  Foreigner!"

He turned, startled.  Three men on horseback approached, looking like phantoms wrapped in smoke and darkness; a small man hurried along on foot, trying to keep up with the trotting steeds.  The riders wore the livery of King Varmot, and the lead horseman carried an unsheathed sword that looked broad enough to fell a tree.  He pointed the blade at Ponn and said:  "What is your name?"

"They … they call me Pyodor Ponn, my lord."

"All survivors are to gather in King's Square!" the footman cried.  "Spread the word!"

"Wait!" Ponn said.  "Where is King's Square?"  But the soldiers had already spurred their horses onward, scanning the buildings as they passed, ignoring his questions.  The crier hurried after them, shouting out the same instructions over and over.

Ponn had no idea where King's Square was, although he supposed it must be near the castle; and he was not at all sure it was a good idea to assemble so many people in a single place.  If the eagles attacked again, they could kill hundreds of people with a single strike.  He returned to Jalla's small yard.  She was no longer near the oven; he found her by the back door of her inn, peering into the dark interior.  She glanced at him as he approached.  "I am ruined," she said.  "Everything is gone."

He looked in through a window.  It had once given onto the kitchen, but the walls had fallen and he could see all the way to the other side of the building.  The floor of the second story had burned and collapsed into the common room, creating a pile of debris that had buried the bar, the dining area, the storeroom.  Smoke hung in the enclosed space like the burnt memory of better times.

"My husband and I built this place," Jalla said.  "We ran it together for twenty years."

"I'm sorry.  When did your husband pass away?"

She glared at him.  "He didn't.  The red-nosed bastard ran off with the barmaid two years ago."

"Oh."  Ponn considered this for a moment, then decided it would be best to change the subject.  "Did you hear the crier?  We are summoned to King's Square."

This appeared to shock her.  "You and me?  Why?"

"Not just the two of us.  All survivors.  By order of the King."

"The King is all right?"  Her pale face took on an eager expression, like a lost child spotting its mother.  "He's going to do something?"

Ponn didn't know what Jalla thought Varmot might do about all the destroyed buildings, but it seemed that she needed to believe he had some plan.  "I would think so.  After all, he
is
the King, and the King has to take care of this kind of situation, doesn't he?"

"Yes.  Yes he does."  She brushed herself off, then shook her long white hair; ashes flew out, drifting slowly to the ground.  She attempted to smooth it back, winding the wispy strands into something resembling a bun.  Ponn wondered if she thought she was going to be presented to the King personally.

"All right," she said.  "I'm ready."

"Fine," Ponn said.  "Lead the way."

T'Sian awoke to warmth and the comforting smell of smoke, and for a moment imagined she might be back in her own lair, with her hatchlings piled up against against her.  Opening her eyes, though, she could see nothing; darkness surrounded her, stained red by heat.  She felt something heavy across her legs, pinning her down.  She squirmed a bit but gained no freedom of movement.  She did not think that she was injured, but she was very definitely trapped.

The dragon reached out, felt the wreckage that surrounded her.  Splintered wood, rough stone, chalky plaster.  It seemed she had smashed through a large beam, which had broken in two and formed a pocket in the rubble.  She wondered if the debris would have crushed her if it had fallen on her directly.  What a sad fate that would have been!

What to do now?  Could she burn herself out?  She opened her mouth, then remembered that the powerful man had stolen her flame away, leaving her bereft even of the merest flicker.  She struggled again, pushed with her arms, but the rubble refused to shift.

Perhaps if she changed into her true shape, she could push the debris away, dislodge it and break free; but she did not know how deeply she was buried or how much weight was upon her.  What would happen if she tried to transform to her full size, and the wreckage on top of her did not move?  Would she die?

It was too risky.  If she killed herself trying to escape, there would be no one to avenge her babies.  She bellowed in fury and frustration, the cry of rage muted and muffled by the detritus that surrounded her.

T'Sian fell silent.  She lay there a moment, steeling herself for what she had to do next.  Surely it was something no dragon had ever done before.

She shouted, "Help!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

If Talbrett's men wondered who this woman in their midst was, they showed admirable discretion and did not ask.  Instead they went about their business with a brisk efficiency, leaving Tolaria to sit beneath the shelter of the cabin's overhang and watch the rocky, scrubby hills scroll past.  She kept checking the sky, mindful of the giant eagles she had seen in Dunshandrin's castle; but either they could not spare any to search for her or they did not know where to look, because she saw no signs of pursuit.  In the distance, circling above the city, she saw some of the great birds; but they were soon lost beyond the horizon, and did not appear again.

When dusk came, she went below, intending to return to her closet-like room.  As she passed Talbrett's cabin she saw a light burning under his door and heard low voices from inside.  She hesitated, then knocked.  The murmuring stopped and Talbrett said:  "Who is it?"

"Tolaria."

"Come in, come in."

She opened the door and found the merchant seated at a tiny fold-down table with one of the sailors, papers spread across the surface between them.  Talbrett's room was scarcely larger than her own; with the table open and the two men sitting at it, there was no room for her to actually enter.

"Hello, Tolaria," Talbrett said.  "This is Rennald, my first mate.  You're sleeping in his cabin, so forgive him if he behaves in an unbecoming and surly manner."

Rennald snorted.  "I would hardly call it a cabin
," he said.  "It is a rather large closet at best."  Then, to Tolaria:  "With such poor accommodations, it's a wonder Talbrett has any crew at all."

"You see what I mean," Talbrett said.  Then, when Tolaria didn't laugh or smile:  "Is something troubling you?"

"Have we left Dunshandrin yet?"

"No.  We'll cross into Barbareth during the night.  But we are in largely unsettled territory, Tolaria.  You needn't worry about being spotted from the riverbank, if that's your concern."

"There are other ways for Dunshandrin to search for me.  His alchemist has grown giant birds that his men ride upon, and he employs a wizard who likely knows spells of location."

"Well, as far as spells of location go, I once paid a local witch to inscribe wards on the ship to prevent that sort of thing.  I can't say for sure that they work, but no one has ever found anything on board that I didn't want them to.  And if these giant birds exist, Tolaria, surely they have better things to do than look for an escaped girl?"

As Talbrett finished speaking, Tolaria felt a strange faintness overtake her, a vision, unbidden, brought on by Talbrett's question.  She clutched at the door jamb, missed it, and fell to the floor of the hallway as Rennald lunged to catch her.

When she came to herself again, she was no longer on the boat, but rather in a city.  It was night, and she was alone, standing in a wide dark street.  Lamps lined the cobbled avenue, casting fitful illumination that didn't reach to where she stood in the center of the road.  She looked at the sky and knew that something was coming, flying in under cover of darkness, unseen and unheard.

She wanted flee, but could not lift her feet.  She looked at the ground and saw that it had risen up around her ankles like a tide, locking her in place.  The earth itself was in motion, ripples passing through it, radiating from where she stood.  She was slowly sinking into it, up to her shins now, as something pulled her inexorably into the street.

Suddenly light and smoke and flame and sound splintered the evening stillness.  Great eagles soared overhead, dropping packages that exploded when they struck, shattering buildings, setting fires, blowing holes in the street, not unlike Qalor's demonstration.  But these were not tiny devices like the one he had used to impress his masters; these had been built for true destruction.

The bombardment ended abruptly, as dawn broke over the city.  The eagles had gone.  Fires burned all around her.  Grimy survivors, dazed and frightened, shuffled past, paying Tolaria no attention.  She had sunk past her waist, but no one tried to help her.

Suddenly something came rolling through the crowd, weaving between the legs of the citizens.  It went around and around her in tightening circles, spinning like a twirled coin, finally coming to rest upside-down in the dirt in front of her.  A crown, tarnished and battered.  She leaned forward and tried to pick it up, but she couldn't quite reach it.  She grunted and stretched, tracing little furrows in the dirt, until at last her fingertips just brushed the gilt surface of the diadem.

Tolaria opened her eyes, sat up with a gasp.  She lay on the cot in Talbrett's cabin.  The table was folded up and Rennald was gone, but Talbrett sat in the same chair he had been in before, watching her by the light of a single dim lantern.  Seeing her awake, he said:  "Are you all right?"

"A vision," she said, sounding like a frog that had been wandering in the desert.  "Did I speak?"

"Nothing that made sense to me," he said.  "Something about fire, and a crown.  What did you see?"

"I don't remember.  Wait … I do, a little.  There was a city.  I was in a street, in a city."

After a moment, Talbrett said:  "Ah.  A city.  Which one?"

"Nowhere I've ever been," she said.  "It probably wasn't even a real city, just an … an imago."

"An imago?"

"Something that my mind invented for the purpose of the vision.  Something not real."  She raised her hands to her head.  "I haven't been quite right since the princes made me breathe too much vapor.  I think I may be losing my mind."

"You seem perfectly sane to me."