Seraphina(50)

The tapmaster came rushing toward the quigs, brandishing a broom and shouting. The quigs scattered, some under the table, some up the walls. “Clean this up!” the man cried. “You can’t come in here if you’re going to jump around like apes!”

The quigs all lisped insults at him, but they crept back and cleaned the table, using the sticky fingers of their ventral hands to pick up splintered glass. They collected it in their mouths, masticated it, and spit molten globs, hissing, into a glass of beer.

There was a glass of beer at our table, too, belonging to Orma. Basind had homed in on it and was leaning over the cup, sniffing. He rose with a drip on the end of his nose. “That’s an intoxicant. I should report you.”

“Recall clause nine of the exemption papers,” said Orma coolly.

“ ‘A scholar working incognito may bend Standard Protocols 22 and 27, or such other Protocols as he deems necessary for the successful maintenance of his disguise’?”

“That’s the one.”

Basind continued: “ ‘Clause 9a: Said scholar will file Form 89XQ for each of his deviations, and may be required to undergo a psychological audit and/or defend the necessity of his actions before the Board of Censors.’ ”

“Enough, Basind,” said Orma. As the patron Saints of comedy would have it, however, a quigutl brought our dinner at that very moment: lamb olio for me, leek and turnip soup for Basind, and for my uncle, a fat boiled sausage.

“Tell me, must you file a separate form for each item individually, or can you lump together sausage and beer consumed at the same meal?” asked Basind with surprising acuity.

“Separate forms when I’m overdue for an audit,” said Orma. He took a drink. “You can help me fill them out later.”

“Eskar says rules have reasons,” rasped Basind. “I must wear clothing so as not to frighten people. I mustn’t spread butter on my itchy skin, because it offends my landlady. Similarly, we may not eat the flesh of animals because it makes us hunger for the abundant flesh around the table.” Basind flashed his horrid buggy eyes toward me.

“That’s the idea, yes,” said Orma. “But I’ve never found it to be the case—particularly with sausages, where the meat barely resembles meat at all.”

Basind looked around the dim basement at the other saarantrai and muttered, “I should report this whole room.”

Orma ignored this. He drew a small handful of coins out of the hidden recesses of his doublet, lowered his hand to his lap, and jingled the coins. Suddenly there were quigs on the floor all around us, crawling under the table, winding around our ankles like snakes. This was a bit much, even for me.

Orma broadcast the coins into the tangle on the floor, as if he were feeding chickens; the quigs scrambled for coins, went still a moment, and then swarmed Basind.

“No I don’t,” said Basind confusedly. “Leave me alone.”

I gaped at Basind, not recognizing the opportunity Orma had created until my uncle grabbed my arm, pulled me away from the table, and whispered, “I know quig hand signals; I told them Basind has a hoard at home. If you have news, out with it now.”

“I showed Kiggs the coin and told him your concerns.”

“And?”

“A rogue dragon has been spotted in the countryside. Two knights came to report it. I interviewed them. They say the dragon had a distinctive perforation in its left wing, in the shape of a rat. Did your father have any such—”

“His wing was once injured by ice, but it was repaired. Sixteen years is ample time to acquire additional perforations, however.”

“In other words, it may or may not be Imlann.” I sighed, frustrated. “So what can you tell me about his natural shape? How might Kiggs recognize him?”

Orma had described his father’s saarantras so vaguely that I did not expect the wealth of detail he gave me now: the sheen of Imlann’s skin (different in moonlight), how sharp he habitually kept his talons, the precise shape and color of his eyes (different when he pulled his third eyelid across), the curl of horn and fold of wings (delineated with mathematical precision), the spiciness of his brimstone breath, his tendency to feint left and strike right, the width of the sinews at his heels.

Orma remembered his father’s dragon shape as clearly as if it had been treasure. I felt like I was hearing him describe a heap of gold coins, which I would be expected to distinguish from other heaps by description alone. There was no point asking for more. Did dragons find descriptions of humans confusing? Did it take time and experience to tell us apart?

“I can tell you’re not going to retain any of this,” said Orma. “You have that empty look you used to give your history tutors. You could look for Imlann—”

“You told me not to!”

“Let me finish. You could look for him in your own head, among your maternal memories. Surely Linn left you some image of our father.”

I opened my mouth and shut it again. I did not care to go digging around in that box again, not if I could avoid it.

The knights had mentioned a Sir James as their specialist dragon identifier. He was the one I needed to talk to—Kiggs needed to talk to, that is. In the meantime, I hoped Kiggs hadn’t put off talking to Eskar in hopes that I might gain good information.

Basind, with the help of the tapmaster and his broom, had cleared off nearly all the quigs. Our time was ending.