The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(92)

Many, unable to wait for Council to begin, are throwing dead fish at the tower’s massive doors while the four guards flanking them maintain their stiff posture. There are nearly as many children as adults in the crowd, and they’ve taken to the chanting with a passion and a pitch all their own, especially those armed with sacks of minnows. A majority has strips of bleached cotton tied around their heads like whitecapped waves. Women are tearing off the hems of their skirts to make more.

This is not good. These should be their people. He has to hand it to Ject. His rumor was an effective counter, and his guards are letting it simmer. A couple dozen arrayed in pairs around the plaza are doing less than the tower guards and with worse posture. Their commanding sergeant, Husting, meets the wagon as it enters. Pashing says to him, “Break up this demonstration. It’s illegal.”

Husting says, “Why, as a restraint of trade? Ask the owners of those grill carts and coffee carts. They’ve never done so much business this early. It’s a flash market, not a demonstration.”

A pig-tailed little girl in a darling blue-check dress made of feed sacks sees them and yells, “Pa, there they are! Let’s get them.” Part of the crowd breaks toward the wagon.

A man with six fingers and a stub says, “If there’s a war, it won’t come out of our pockets!” The others shout in agreement. Another holds up his bony son and says, “You want him to starve?” The boy cries in terror, which infuriates the crowd more.

Rego has never fought in a battle or wanted to. His blade is slow, and he’d be washed away on a battlefield like crops in a flood. But he would follow Herse anywhere, just as he did when they were growing up, Rego younger and smaller, Herse including him in all his escapades and making sure Rego ate. Herse always said he would shine in his own way sometime. This is his moment.

Rego and Birming take the chest from the bed and put it between them on the seat. It lands with a distinctive jingle and clink. He stands and with a flourish takes the key from his pocket. The crowd’s anger shifts momentarily to curiosity. Rego unlocks the chest with a happy snap. He pockets the key and turns to the crowd, one hand on the chest lid. He flips it open. The chest is stuffed with the small raw cloth bags he spent the night filling while Herse was out rallying the troops.

He opens one and tips silver into his hand. “If there’s a war, those good Hanoshi who volunteer will receive an immediate bonus of four whole coins.”

That’s the monthly for many. A discord resonates throughout the crowd. One man calls out, “I’ll do it for three!”

The six-fingered man says, “You fool! They’d pay you with your own money.”

“No,” says the father, “they’d pay you with my money.” He lowers the boy and confronts the bargainer.

Arguments break out across the plaza. Scores of people surge at the wagon when they hear the army is giving away coin.

“You can’t perform army business in the city,” Husting says.

“Except for recruitment,” Rego says.

The crowd bores in. The soldiers’ shield wall expands to collect Husting and Pashing, then condenses again and stiffens. A fish flies past Rego’s head. Rego sees the man who threw it knocked down. The arguments are turning physical. Rego says, “Unless there is order, there will be no bonuses.” This only confuses people, who surge against the shields. Rego feels like he’s on an island.

Pashing says, “Either the guard moves these people back or we do.”

“You move back. Get this wagon out of the plaza. And the city,” Husting says.

A roar erupts from a street east of the plaza and a large band of workers, armed with hammers, awls, and fury, appears. A moment later the gate horn blows three times. Their sympathizers outside will soon arrive and with those already here clamp down like a crab claw on the antiwar faction.

Chelson and Rowan approach the plaza from the east on Hill Street, surrounded by Chelson’s house guards. They hear the singing before they see the band of workers emerge from alleys and lanes behind them. The house guards half draw their weapons at their approach, but when the band sees their badges they cheer.

A tanner shakes a poker like a mad conductor. “Up with the Shield!” he shouts. “Down with Ayden! It’s time they pay.” Some are wearing bits of kit from previous service. Wannabes wear scraps of salvaged uniforms. All carry tools yearning to be weapons.

They part to reveal Herse in full uniform, his sash perfectly ordered for once. He says, “What do you think of my own guard?”

Chelson thinks, These people should be the making of my army, not his. And at least two of the men are the Shield’s. He wonders what work is not getting done.

He says, “We have to speak.”

“Of course.” Herse leaps onto a nearby barrel so he can be seen, holds up his arms, and says to the crowd, “I’ll meet you at the tower in a few minutes. And in a few weeks we’ll meet in Ayden!”

The crowd thrusts their weapons in the air and continues on. Herse jumps down and the guards create a wall around him and their master.

“A dragon did attack the Hopper,” Chelson says. “This powder boy is the only survivor.”

Herse grimaces.

“He can turn it to our advantage, though,” Chelson says. “The dragon was ridden—”

“Ridden?” Herse says. “Mounted-on-its-back ridden?” He holds his hands as if gripping reins. “And flying?”