Chapter Seven
The dead dragonlets from Castle Bellemontagne did not, after all, wind up rotting in some damp cliffside cavern or hastily dug forest pit. Either of Ostvald’s predictions might have come true in the normal course of events, given King Antoine’s relaxed approach to decision-making; but his purse-minded wife regarded business affairs—and the world itself—from an entirely different angle. Resigned to living with dragons up to a point, Queen Hélène saw no reason to pay for their deaths and then let the carcasses go to waste—not when the one person who could guarantee a handsome profit was already on hire. And so Robert found himself heading off to Dragon Market in no fashion that he could ever have predicted or imagined.
“You shouldn’t expect too much,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not the haggler my father was, and not at all frightening. I won’t be able to bully anyone into more than a fair price.”
“Hmmph,” said the chamberlain. He was seated on the opposite side of the horse cart in which they were riding, his face dressed in its usual professional thundercloud. “I used to hire and pay Elpidus Thrax, young man. If this were his task, do you know what he’d have done? Swaggered through the arch like an Argonaut home from the sea, that’s what, then downed enough ale, mead, and mulled wine to float him straight back. And in between the drinking and the back patting and the spitting contests, he’d have been robbed blind in every deal he made. Not a bad man, your da, as men go, for all his failings. But he wasn’t bright outside his measure. And this”—he gestured back behind them—“this would have been outside the maddest fancy he ever drank to.”
Robert turned, not wanting to look again but unable to stop himself.
Trundling along behind the large horse-drawn cart in which he and the chamberlain rode were twenty-eight more just like it, each driven by a carter in royal livery, each marked with the royal colors, and collectively bearing an extraordinary number of dead dragons. By the Queen’s order the creatures had already been sorted and organized by species, sex, color, and such other distinguishing characteristics as might facilitate their more rapid sale, then divided among the carts for greater efficiency. It had taken Robert two days to guide the castle’s servants through the task of identification, deep in the keep’s cold cellar, light glittering off dragonskin as if the bodies had been dusted with bits of brass and crushed diamond. The final tally was frighteningly exact: seven thousand two hundred and ninety-eight dragonlets of twenty-one different species, including two thousand two hundred and thirty males, two thousand nine hundred and forty-five females, thirteen hundred and eighty-three belonging to hermaphroditic varieties, and seven hundred and forty still too young to be accurately sexed. The largest dragonlet was five and three-quarters hands long; the smallest not even half a hand from snout to tail tip.
Robert could only guess at how many corpses still remained within the walls.
Briefly he had considered refusing to participate, telling himself that the broad language regarding disposal in his verbal agreement with King Antoine could not be stretched to cover delivering a year’s normal kill to Dragon Market in a single day. But he knew it wasn’t so. Nor could he abandon his due share of the sale, knowing the state of the Thrax home and the needs of his mother, brothers, and sisters.
In the end, what did it matter? Dead was dead, and guilt grew no sourer with quantity, merely deeper. His life was as father and fate had willed: it had rules he could never violate, no matter how much he might dream of such impossibilities.
They passed under the curved rib-bone arch marking the entrance to Dragon Market and entered into chaos. Some of the noise and commotion was the natural cacophony of the market itself—the squalling and hissing of captive dragons, the shouting of vendors, the squealing and laughter of children at play with this or that toy, crying out for this or that confection—but the greater part was of their own making, as cart after royal cart came rocking and swaying into view. Their arrival was spark to dry tinder, and it set the market gossips ablaze. As word spread, sellers and customers alike abandoned their haggling, crowding close to see the miracle. Cries and questions flapped in every direction. It’s Robert! That’s right, Elpidus’s boy! Swog me if you can guess what he’s brought in… no, no, I didn’t believe it either, but one of the cartwheels clipped the toe of my boot, so it’s no illusion! The clot of goggle-eyed wonderers grew thick as old milk, making it difficult for even the stern-faced chamberlain to bring the carts into some kind of practical order within the open space at the market’s entry.
Robert stood up on the lead cart’s seat, where everyone could see him, and gestured for silence. It was not at all quick in coming, but after a time it finally did.
“Good my friends and neighbors, you know me well!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “And as some have already heard, I’ve been at hunt this past nine days in the King’s own untended preserves!”
“Well, you surely haven’t been at Jarold’s,” someone called back. “I figured your mum wasn’t letting you out of the barn!”
A ragged burst of laughter and catcalls swirled through the crowd. Robert feigned shock, then let free a smile. “I’ll see you at Jarold’s tonight, Guillaume—and I know you’ll be there, for I’ll be buying. The castle’s loss in tenantry is my gain. The castle’s loss is all our gain, as you can plainly see. Albrecht Schenck, are you here? I’ve got a dozen surikaks for you, perfect for tanning, not a mark on them. And you, Bernard Ullie Gabrie, scoundrel of scoundrels—I’ve got tichornes, God bless me, you know you were begging for some to appear from thin air last time we spoke! I’ve got something here for everyone, and a promise from the King that half the coin I get out of you will be freely given to the Queen’s good charities throughout the kingdom. So tell me, you great gaping jackanapeses, what say you? Is there anyone here today who came to buy a dragon?”
In earlier days Dragon Market had been a mobile affair, casting anchor with the seasons, never settling for long near any one town. The reasons for this were a mix of the superstitious and the practical: never recorded, but simply understood. Needs, however, may change, and when they do, beliefs have a way of being bent or reimagined. To Dragon Market, there came in time a winter when the sheer volume of ongoing commerce was too costly to interrupt. Simple as that—barely a tinker’s finger snap, really—the traveling life turned stationary. Evidence of the abrupt transition could still be seen in the market’s wandering layout and haphazard construction; in ungainly booths that had once been sleek wagons; in walls and signs and fittings built by accretion and loud compromise rather than design. Dragon Market had grown roots but was imperfectly fitted for such permanence, twisting and turning on itself like a cat unable to settle on the right absurd posture in which to sleep.
Robert knew every hateful, noisy, stench-filled inch of the place. He never stayed longer than he had to, not since his father had died and he gained choice in the matter. With the King’s sale complete—at last, after many hours—all that remained was to finish his normal obligatory rounds, after which he would be free for home or Jarold’s, whichever offered the swiftest relief.
As he walked the market’s crimped and curving path, he tried to ignore the furtive glances cast his way, and the whispers, focusing his attention instead on the unusually heavy wallet laced down inside his shirt. It was not a good day—no day at Dragon Market was ever a good day, as far as Robert was concerned—but he prayed there might yet be something he could do to turn the thorns of his conscience.
The sky now warned of rain, but even so the market was still alive with merchants and buyers, not only of dragon hides and teeth and organs (the liver and the tail meat of certain species were considered special delicacies, while the dried-and-ground heart of a snap-so was reputed by some to be an aphrodisiac), and all things that might possibly be made from them, but also with vendors selling ale and hot soup and candy dragon claws. Robert briefly watched an old woman energetically bargaining with a dealer over the price of a tail, not yet removed, while a young woman with three small children climbing her skirts tried to outbid her, and the poor dragon itself looked on with eyes like topaz fire. One vendor was offering snares and traps for half price, but finding few takers. Robert could have told him as much; no professional trapper would have bought workmanship this shoddy, and most ordinary people wanted nothing at all to do with the job. Risk a bite or a burn or worse? No thank you, please, and call for Robert Thrax or one of his fraternity. Let them face the danger and live with the scorn.
He studied the drying hides and the live captives alike, noticing when a catch of a rare variety was brought in. He tested the edges of skinning knives, complimenting their makers. And after a time he came to a stand more gaudily ribboned than any other in the market.
Dagobert Swane’s specialty was imports. He took pride in the breadth of his sources, and in blithely offering creatures such as no other merchant had ever seen. Sports of birth, distant oddities, startling and improbable hybrids—all these and more were his stock in trade, and he reveled in both the notoriety they brought him and the prices he was able to command.
Today the centerpiece of Swane’s display was a large floor cage containing a matched pair of Serpens avramis karchee, reputed to have come all the way from Egypt or Kalmuks or some place in Afrique called Monomotapa—only Dagobert knew for certain, and he changed his public story on the hour. The karchee were like nothing else in the market: all rainbows from one angle, shimmering like the sky after a storm; and a deep blue-green from another, as though they were wrapped, head to tail tip, in the sea. Half again as big as the largest house-dragons of Castle Bellemontagne, they had been huddled together in a far, cramped corner of the cage, hissing fiercely at inquisitive viewers; but when they saw Robert peering in, they came slowly forward, gazing intently at him out of pure white, seemingly pupil-less eyes. Robert knelt and put his hands flat against the wire mesh, letting the karchee smell him.
Seeing him there, Dagobert called out a greeting. “Pretty little things, aren’t they, Robert? First we’ve had in ages.”
“You had one six years ago, and three the year before that. I remember. They were all bigger than these, though.”
“Not a bit of it. You were smaller, that’s all, so they looked bigger. But it’s true I mean to grow these a bit yet before selling, and not just ’cause I like to wipe Bosset’s face in the mud. A true pair, Robert—do you know what they’ll go for, once they tip the scale at twenty?”
Robert stood up. “More than you deserve to get. As usual.”
The merchant laughed amiably. “Someday you’ll cut your lips with that tongue, boy. There’s no room for shame in this business. I can’t afford it. Nor can you, with all those mouths to feed.” He eyed Robert shrewdly, scratching his head and knuckling his chin. “You want to buy those two?”
“Why would I be buying? That’s not my trade.”
“I know you just sold a bunch of dead ones, that’s what I know. I know that you’re suddenly fat on one side of your belly, and I doubt it’s from eating the left half of your last meal.” Dagobert made a show of considering; then his small eyes suddenly brightened. “Could be a man with resources might want to expand his options, is what I’m thinking. Go into a more respectable line of business, and needing special stock to start. Skins like these would do it. Or maybe looking to partner, hmm? Thing is, Robert, you’re as easy to read as Elpidus was. You want those two, or leastwise you don’t want me to have them, I can see that plain enough. Tell you what, tell you what—really special rate. They’ll get me thirty silver apiece in six months, but there’s at least fifteen in food and care between now and then, plus the headache of repeating this conversation the next time you come round, all hungry like. So give me thirty-six today and they’re yours. Or twenty-nine, and you put in a good word for me with your mother.” Robert stared at him, but Dagobert only grinned back, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Handsome woman, that one, and I’m not the only man here who thinks so. A good word, nothing more—I’ll do the rest. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
Robert opened his mouth to answer, but at that point noticed the valet Mortmain standing in view behind the merchant, discreetly back and to one side. Mortmain smiled upon catching Robert’s attention, clearly mouthed the words, When you’re done, and then wandered unhurriedly down the row toward a display of clothing and armament.
Without even looking at Dagobert, Robert told him, “I’ll be by later,” and hurried after Prince Reginald’s man.
When he caught up, he found the valet fingering a simple dragonskin shirt and listening diffidently as its seller assured him of its many virtues, which at latest count included protection against fleas, lice, crossbow bolts, and anything short of a battle-axe wielded by a giant. It was a brilliant pitch, and Robert hated to interrupt it, but he had good reason.
“I wouldn’t recommend buying,” he broke in. “This is house-dragon stuff, Serpens domus borenza at best, and not feuerdrach for a minute. It won’t turn anything sharper than a serving spoon.”
The vendor darkened. “God rot you, Robert Thrax—”
Mortmain lifted an eyebrow. “As you appear to know this young gentleman, proprietor, I assume that what he says is true. Just as I had already assumed everything you were saying was not… though you did say it prettily, I must admit. And I do like the stitching. So in the interest of not marring this wonderful day, I will pay you a fifth of what you were asking, which is twice what the shirt is worth. How is that?”
Thatwas apparently fine, and the transaction was quickly completed.
“A piece of advice, sir,” Mortmain concluded, “to increase the value of our exchange. The next time you hear a Corvinian accent, pray remember that as bargainers go, my people consider me quite a dullard.” He turned toward Robert, his eyes seeming somehow to belong in a different face. “And now, Master Thrax—if you’d walk with me?”
“Yes, I came here looking for you, and yes, I will tell you why. But first, another question.” The valet picked up the dagger he had been examining and turned it this way and that in the afternoon light. “Would you say that this inlay is real dragon bone? And if so, what species?”
“Serpens flamma uxbeck. Shaved thin like that, you can see the silver threading in the bone. And before you ask me about the next one down in the bin, and the one under that, they’re fakes. Most of what’s here is fake. Hannes could afford better, but likes his margins where they are.”
“Lord, I swear to you, on the golden heads of my three little children—” The short stallholder was in full hawker cry, literally dancing with anxiety to make the sale.
“You don’t have any children, Hannes—none who know your name, anyway.”
“Yah, but he didn’t know that, did he? Jesu!” Shrugging, Hannes turned from Robert and rounded on Mortmain, all pretense dropped. “See here, do you want it or not?”
“No. But I’ll have one of the counterfeits, if you please.”
Hannes and Robert both stared, but the valet insisted. He spent several minutes picking through the contents of the bin, perfecting his selection, before finally announcing himself well-pleased.
They walked on. Mortmain moved through the crowd with an unstudied grace that fascinated and eluded Robert, and kept his silence until they were near the market’s fringe. Once there he turned his back on everything, facing the dark green quiet of the forest. His gaze hardened.
“I have three more questions for you, sir. Or one, depending. Can you be discreet?”
Robert thought of the dragonlets he kept at home, secret from all save his own family, and nodded.
“Yes.” Mortmain had clearly reached a decision. “All right then—what is the largest dragon you’ve killed?”
“Largest or most dangerous? They aren’t the same thing.”
“Both, if you please.”
Answering accurately meant weighing memories that Robert normally tried to avoid, but curiosity had firm hold of him. “Most dangerous would be a pregnant mistdrake. No bigger than your fist, but mistdrakes are live-birthers, one drachling to the decade, and the mothers have a little trick of spitting poison. Nasty stuff. A couple of drops will kill a horse, and the fumes alone can raddle the lungs till you spit blood when you breathe.”
“And you killed one.”
“Done five, so far.”
“Five!”
“Worth too much to walk away from. There are people here who brew up powerful medicines from the glands. As for size, since you were asking, at least once every season a hungry rakai wanders in from the mountains, and I have to deal with it before too many sheep or goats are taken. Mostly that’s trapping work, but last year I had to kill one that was at least two of you long. Spear job.” He paused. “Why do you want to know?”
Mortmain lifted a bemused eyebrow. “Because I have need of certain… services… and you seemed a likely candidate for the job. You know dragons, you keep your own counsel, and you clearly want something I can provide, though what it might be beyond money—which you now have plenty of—I can’t begin to guess. Piercing that mystery was, in fact, the point of my third question. You may consider it asked.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Nonsense. I’ve seen you watching me at the castle. The Princess Cerise doesn’t distract you from your work. My master doesn’t. But I do. And I would know why before we speak a moment further.”
Robert’s mouth tightened. “There’s nothing to say.”
Mortmain looked at him, measuring the moment. At last he sighed. “Indeed, dragonslayer, there is nothing. I apologize for wasting your time.”
He turned in perfect dismissal and walked away.
“I’m not a dragonslayer!” Robert shouted. “I just kill the damn things! What do you want from me?”
Mortmain stopped but did not turn.
“More truth,” he said, his voice as certain as carved stone. “What were you going to do with those sparkling dragons you were about to buy?”
“I—” Robert’s voice faltered before he could say, I wasn’t going to buy them, because he realized, with frightening certainty, that the valet was right—another minute standing before that cage and he would have. Family responsibilities or no, he truly would have done it. The understanding gutted him.
At last he said, “Why the fake knife, and not the real one?”
Mortmain turned at that, the look on his face a mix of admiration and surprise. “We’re to trade, then, are we, like all the good, honest merchants of this market? Your truth for mine, unhindered?”
Robert felt increasingly unmoored, as though the world had just changed around him, but not knowing how or why. “I… I don’t know. Are you discreet?”
“My honest answer: as needed. Now your turn. Did you want them for their skins? Was it business, or was it something else?”
“I wanted to set them free.” Robert looked down at his rough, open palms as if he might find an explanation lurking in the calluses. “Somewhere safe. Though God knows where that might be.”
“Well,” Mortmain mused. He began to walk back toward Robert. “Well, that’s really interesting. A fellow who slays—all right, then, exterminates—dragons for a living, wanting to rescue other dragons from slaughter. A puzzling sort of dedication, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t want to be an exterminator,” Robert blurted. “And I don’t want to be a rescuer, either, if it comes to that.”
“Really. What do you want, Master Thrax?”
“To be like you.”
Mortmain gaped at him in true and total astonishment. “Like me? A valet?”
“A valet to a great prince!” Robert hesitated, now abashed by his own eagerness. “All right, it wouldn’t have to be such a great prince. It could be anyone, really, as long as their path led far away from here. To be free of this place and my father’s work. To never again be ‘Elpidus’s boy,’ but just my own man, doing decent and honorable service appropriate to my station. I’ve dreamed of it all my life.”
Mortmain was still taken aback. “You make it sound romantic. But a valet’s life isn’t one that most people would consider romantic. I don’t myself. It’s harder work than you might imagine. Especially in my particular circumstances.”
Robert frowned, his words emerging in puzzled bursts. “I don’t see why. Prince Reginald is… well, he’s perfect, isn’t he? I mean, just look at him.”
“It is an old wonder to me,” Mortmain mused aloud, “that the false and the genuine so often tend to live hand in hand—as with that dagger I purchased, for instance. You wonder why I chose the fraudulent over the real? Because of precisely this puzzling divide. The haft is not in the least what it pretends, being more beautiful than the reality it imitates; while the blade is as honest and moral and straightforward as any blade could possibly be. Are the two, together, a truth unspoken or a lie concealed? Without the lure of that charming handle, would anyone have picked up the dagger at all? And without the truehearted blade, would anyone hold it for more than a moment? I ponder such matters. I do indeed. As I must, given my responsibilities.”
“But he looks like a prince. The way they should look, I mean. Exactly.”
Mortmain’s thin mouth twitched at one corner. “You are aware that the Crown Prince and I make our beds in the stable. What you are certainly not aware of, but must understand in order to serve my needs, is that this accommodation was neither his choice nor King Antoine’s command. I ordered it.”
It was Robert’s turn to be astonished, and Mortmain drew rueful satisfaction from the play of emotions he observed passing across the young man’s face. “He will continue to sleep there,” Mortmain continued, “and he will cook his own meals with the grooms, as they do, for as long as I say. Just as he will decorate the Princess Cerise’s arm and trouble her observant parents for as long as I say. As I told you in the castle, I am something a bit more than a servant. Just a bit, mind you. I am under orders from King Krije to turn his son into something at least resembling the hero he appears to be. As you will see when you know him better, it’s rather a job.”
“When I know him better?” Robert was beginning to feel light-headed. “And how should that ever happen?”
“Because—assuming we can settle on terms, which I no longer doubt—you are going to help him find and kill a very large dragon.”