The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(67)
Tristaban takes a deep breath and settles back into herself. She brushes the shoulders of his white silk shirt, the latest trend among shipowners. She says, “I hate to trouble you with household affairs. Say hello to my father at Council.” She pecks his forehead. Her neck smells like vanilla. It’s his favorite scent. And if her neck smells like strawberries tomorrow, that will be his favorite scent.
She goes around the corner toward her chamber. A moment later the girl appears. She silently pushes his boots on. She reminds him of a doll, her cheeks as hard as ceramic, her eyes as cold. She can’t be more than twelve.
Livion stands up and turns each boot in the dawnlight coming through the small window beside the door. “Good,” he says. “Here, between you and me.” He holds up a penny then sets it on the bench.
“I cannot,” she says and hurries away. Did she rebuff his guilt? Or, how stupid is he, a perceived advance? Livion shakes his head. He pockets the penny—today’s penny is tomorrow’s coin, his father-in-law says—and steps outside.
His small whitewashed stucco home is on a skinny lane, Brimurray, just above the servants’ district, and halfway up the Hill. It’s a respectable height for one of his position, and the sundeck abutting its blue tile roof adds a rare distinction. Nonetheless, Trist has her eye on a house a few lanes higher, one big enough for children. Or live-in servants.
Brimurray leads to a larger, guarded boulevard that connects to one of the switchbacking streets between the weathered Harbor and the blinding white mansions of the Crest at the top of the Hill. The streets are already streaming with barrows and carts bringing goods from the early galleys to the Upper City beyond the Crest, and with people flowing down to offices and jobs in the Harbor. Most are dressed in drab cotton and leather, and he remains surprised when someone darts out of his way. Trist says they dart out of respect—he’s a Hero of Hanosh—but he can’t believe he’s recognized even when people do point him out to their children.
At a switchback he stops at a grill cart to buy an okono, a pancake rolled around pork, cabbage, and a brown sauce. The vendor is Aydeni, a rarity in the city nowadays, and he wouldn’t say it out loud, but Livion prefers that city’s version of okono to the Hanoshi, which has crab instead of pork. He hates crab. The vendor keeps his secret with a rough finger pressed to his nose, and for that Livion puts an extra penny in his tray.
Livion would make small talk if a voice in his head didn’t tell him the man was probably a spy. He should avoid the vendor altogether. But his okono is so good.
Instead, he looks at the galleys docked at Hanosh’s three piers. He doesn’t see any of Solet’s ships, which were due this morning, nor has Tuse’s arrived with its cargo of sulfur from the Dawn Lands. It’s several days late. This isn’t unusual, but he will have to excuse it to Chelson. He calls tardiness a theft of hours. The additional time away from Mulcent and Sumpt should assuage him somewhat.
A towering man blocks his view, his arms like tree trunks, his eyes cold steel, his shock of hair a fiery red. It’s not his size that alarms Livion. It’s his presence. The trade rider is a day early and obviously looking for him.
“Omer,” Livion says, pulling the paper wrapper over his okono. “Let’s go down to my office.”
Omer grunts, and Livion lets himself be pulled along by the large man’s wake.
Decades earlier the Shield built a block of warehouses near the docks, whose stone-walled lower floors, towers, and central courtyard saw it dubbed the Castle. Livion is officed atop the warehouse beside the main gate so he can keep an eye on the movement of goods from one window and the movement of galleys from his other. He precedes Omer into his office, overturning memos, charts, and manifests. Trade riders traffic information. Although Omer’s under contract to the Shield for a few more years, there’s no reason to reveal something Omer might sell later. Or on the side today. The gibbets that others earn by selling commercial secrets don’t deter the Omers of the world.
Omer smirks at Livion’s precautions. Even he could fit through one of those windows at night. He nods to a harpoon mounted on the wall with a brass plate of appreciation from the City Council. “That the one?”
“One of them,” Livion says, sitting behind his desk. “Solet got the kill shot. Why the rush to see me?”
“Ever hear of Wheaton?” Omer says. “No? Nothing little town a ways off the coastal road to Yness. Doesn’t even grow wheat. Last night I found a drunk outside its tavern. He wanted to earn some pennies to get back in and offered me the story of three ships, two dragons, and one dramatic escape.”
Livion gestures toward his couch. “Have a seat.”
Omer glances at it and remains standing. “He was a rower on your Pyg. His bench was a poor vantage point, so some of the details he got secondhand. I’ll spare you the belching, confusion, and minor inconsistencies, and summarize.”
Livion leans forward, trying not to look concerned, and opens his hand to indicate Proceed.
“Several days ago your wolf pack attacked an immense green dragon. The Pyg was seriously damaged when her deck was bathed in acid and her powder barrel exploded. The Pyg disengaged, then a second, smaller dragon came out of nowhere and fired their stern deck. They lost all their officers except their oarmaster, who got them, barely, to shore.”
“The oarmaster released the rowers?”