The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(94)

“Ject?” Ravis says.

“When we looked for the dragon,” Ject says, “we didn’t search the cupola.”

2



* * *



Herse and Rowan stand in the waiting area outside the council chamber while the Council conducts some last-minute horse-trading over who will get what shares of the army contracts. After seeing Eles close the door on Ject, Herse is feeling confident. Rowan looks less so.

“You’ll do fine, son,” Herse says.

“It’s not that,” Rowan says. He’s reluctant to be too familiar with the general, but he’s Herse. Rowan was raised on stories of his exploits on the ballcourt and how he used to go into the crowd after big wins, especially against Aydeni teams. His interest in a ship’s boy is encouraging.

“It’s my father. He’s a supply master. Birming.”

“I thought I recognized you. You used to wait for him outside camp.” The boy nods. “Steady man, your father,” he says. “Like yourself, I understand.”

Rowan’s spine stiffens.

Herse got the basics of Rowan’s story from Chelson as they walked to the tower. The boy saw scores of men die horribly. Herse knows what that’s like from fighting bandits. You can’t get the images out of your eyes, like the glare that persists after you look at the sun. As much as Herse wants to ask about the dragon and how Rowan survived, he’ll wait until after Council. When they grill him on this, he needs Rowan’s emotions to be fresh and raw.

“Have you seen him yet?” Herse says. “Or your family? You have a sister, right?”

“A sister, yes,” Rowan says, “and no. There’s been no time.”

“I’ve kept him busy the last couple days too. Right after Council, we’ll change that.”

“It’s not that either,” Rowan says. “When we go to war, what will happen to him?”

“He’ll do his job,” Herse says. “I’ve always counted on him.”

“Will he die? Like Tuse?”

Herse says, “I was younger than you during the last war. Do you know why it was fought?” Rowan shakes his head. “Tolls. Tolls. My father went, though. Many fathers did. Not for the owners. For their neighbors.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fought,” Herse says. “He was no soldier. But a sword’s a tool, and he knew tools. He could make anything. Build anything. He showed me the sword he made. It was nearly as impressive as his saws. Or his uniform.” Herse listens at the chamber doors for a moment. “He looked taller in it, more solid. Nicest clothes he ever had. Same’s true for most of our men. You should have seen them on parade.”

“What’s parade?” Rowan asks.

Herse looks sad. “I don’t imagine you’d know. Parades were like parties the city threw itself, some people marching, some watching them march, and everyone in fancy or fantastic clothes. Sugar cakes and salted knots sold on every corner. A hundred songs blooming across the city. My mother nearly swooned when Papa marched by. I thought she was scared of what would happen to him. I was scared myself, but when I got older and put on my first military uniform, I realized she’d swooned because he’d looked so good.”

Rowan can’t imagine his parents looking at each other like that. They don’t hold hands. They don’t hug. That’s why his father sent him away. That’s why he happily went.

“A war will bring that back,” Herse says. “We’ll have parades again.”

“Did your father die?”

“Yes.” At Rowan’s expression he adds, “Many years later with a beer in his hand and a pipe between his lips.”

They smile. The chamber door opens. The tower guard says, “They’ll have the boy now.” Herse pats Rowan on the shoulder and gives him a gentle shove toward the arc of cold faces.

At this point Ject can’t recall if he really believed the dragon story. “We have to check the cupola,” he says.

Ravis looks dubious, but that’s as far as he’ll go.

They stride off the porch with as much dignity as possible with the crowd jeering Ject. At the edge of the plaza he stops a half squad of guards just arriving. They’re from Quiet, not the best men, certainly not as capable as those from their opposite tower, Riot, and more used to soothing silk than wading into a seething mob of drunks in the Rookery. He relieves them of their crossbows and hip quivers and sends them to South to help with processing.

One, Isco, looks too relieved. He will profit from a post in the dungeon, Ject thinks.

The general gives the weapons to his own men. “We’re going up top.”

Oftly, the newest member of the detail, looks dismayed. “Will we still get a share of the arrested?”

“If we bag what’s up there,” Ject says, “the boys down here will want to share with us.”

Ravis holds up a hand. He presses his middle three fingers together and flaps his pinky and thumb. The men stand a bit taller. They’ll get new boots from this.

Ject quickly directs several sergeants to form up two ranks like plows along the west side of the plaza, then he leads his own men to the tower’s rear entrance. A huntsman with a bag of turkeys nearly leaps off the stoop, having seen how Chelson treated the cabbage dealer.