The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(97)

Jeryon peeked out. A scullery in a ratty tunic entered from the back stoop. She cradled a stub of candle to light her way. Jeryon drew his knife. He didn’t want to kill her, but others would arrive soon, and she was between him and the servants’ stairs. She was so scrawny he wouldn’t need the broom to get her into the cesspit.

The scullery closed the back door and walked toward the kitchen stairs. Jeryon moved the knife to his left hand so he could take her without exposing himself. She stopped. He bent his legs and waited to spring. She hung her head and tears fell into her hands, so many they nearly put the candle out.

Is this how all her mornings began? What had she done? The men upstairs, he’d recognized them as Chelson’s guards. He’d known what they were and what they would have done to him. Tuse and Solet, their crews, they were all soldiers in a war the Shield had started. The girl with the knife he’d dumped in the sea, he probably shouldn’t have let her live. Who knows how she’d come back to haunt him. Foolish sympathy. But this scullery, she was no one. She might have welcomed his knife, but she hadn’t earned it.

Jeryon tiptoed down the stairs and hid in a corner. Is this how all his mornings would begin? Hiding and waiting and making excuses the poth couldn’t hear? He was so close to what he wanted, but it felt further away than her.

The girl came down a moment later, and as she kindled the stoves and ovens he tiptoed up and ran down the hallway to the servants’ stairs. At the door to the empty stories he put his candle back in its sconce and rigged the door to make it appear locked.

In the old council chamber Jeryon stood over Skite until dawn illuminated the stained glass and the trapdoor above stopped thumping. Gray isn’t gentle with her food, especially long pig, which she’s favored since Tuse. She barely nibbled the meat he stole.

Jeryon hoped the girl stopped screaming because she’d been obedient.

When the thumping started again, Jeryon decided he needed some fresh air.

The door in the council chamber to the widow’s walk was locked and barred, but he found a dusty key hidden atop its arch. He crawled outside so he wouldn’t be seen from below, and closed the door behind him. He heard chanting and arguing in the plaza, so he looked through an iron balustrade painted cream to match the tower. He was astounded by its size and the fact that the guards weren’t arresting anyone.

Jeryon considered how he could work the crowd into his plans. Being discovered by Chelson’s men meant he would have to accelerate matters. Surely others knew where they went. If he were to expose Livion and the Shield for what they’d done, simply flying into the plaza might have made his case. Of course, he might have also caused a panic and caught a dozen crossbow bolts before he reached the ground.

He could make his case directly to Ject, but Jeryon can estimate his price: the dragon.

While he waited in the Round Square to see Livion yesterday, Prieve walked by, and Jeryon thought about making his case to him. The old man would have been sympathetic; their interactions had always been enjoyable, but unlike Ject Prieve couldn’t have overlooked the guard and maid that Gray plucked off Quiet Tower.

The crowd roared, and Jeryon crawled to the north side of the tower for a better view. The people swirled and clashed. Soldiers entered the plaza, but few and in danger of being overrun. Jeryon doesn’t know this city anymore.

And they didn’t know him. He must have seen a dozen acquaintances in the square and none recognized him. He was glad at first, not wanting his plan disrupted, then increasingly sad. When his father appeared and put a few poorly made pieces of scrimshaw on the cobbles, he stood up so his father could get a good look at him. Nothing. His eyes were blank.

The sun crowned on the horizon. The glare reminded him of how his father’s eyes used to be and what drove him to the tower when he was a boy.

His father had been reduced to making penny bets to pay for his beer, bets he always lost for pennies he never had, which saw him paying off his debts with scars and bruises. People would bet him just to beat him after he lost. One day someone in the Salty Dog with rare pity slipped Jeryon some pennies. His father noticed and told him to turn them over. Jeryon refused. So his father went after him with a knife and glass. A man doesn’t get in the way of another’s business, plus the betting favored Jeryon, so no one stepped in. Jeryon couldn’t do what had to be done. He flung the pennies at his father and fled to the tower. If he hadn’t been lured by the sea he might have jumped.

The thumping in the cupola diminished. He decided to give Gray a few more minutes to digest before going up. In the meantime, he watched the crowd. He pillowed his head on his arms. He hadn’t had a decent hour’s sleep in weeks. His legs were full of sand. His head was too. The walk was cool. The breeze was soft. He’d deal with Skite later.

Jeryon’s startled awake by a sound inside. So used to worrying about the blue crabs, he leaps up, draws his knife, peers through the stained glass beside another door, and finds several shadows peering back.

4



* * *



Ravis unbars and unlocks the door to the widow’s walk from the foyer and Ject’s detail surges through. Two run left around the northwest arc of the tower, and two run right. Ravis and Oftly turn and scan the dome, the short eave two feet above their heads. Both spy the man crawling toward the cupola. “Got him,” Ravis says. “You. Stop.”

Ject shouts so all his men can hear, “You. Stop. You’re surrounded.” The man looks back through goggled eyes and a scraggly beard, but keeps climbing. “Wing him,” Ject says.