Seraphina(66)

Sir James flashed him the fish-eye. “Those were terrible times. We had to know who was who, so we’d have some inkling what they’d do. Dragons don’t work well together; they prefer an attack of opportunity, like the Zibou crocodile, and they’ve a devilish fast eye for an opening. If you know who you’re dealing with, you know what he’s likely to do, and you can lure him in with a false opportunity—not every time, but then, it only has to work once.”

“Did you recognize the one that approached your camp?” asked Kiggs, looking around. “And what did it do? Stick its head in the cave entrance?”

“It set the barn on fire. Our third sally port comes out in that barn; there was smoke pouring all the way into the great hall here.”

“It’s taken two squires a week of dancing around with vinegar-soaked rags to get the smell out of the air,” said Maurizio drily.

“Sir Henri went to see what had caught fire. He came back reporting a dragon hunkered beside the barn, and of course we all laughed at him.” He grinned at the memory; he was missing a number of molars. “It was getting smokier: the barn burned but poorly, being damp and moldy. We split up. It’s been a while since we drilled properly, but you never forget your basic approach.”

“You send the squires out first, as bait,” said Maurizio.

Sir James didn’t hear, or ignored him. “I was upwind, so I was speaker. I said, ‘Halt, worm! You are in violation of Comonot’s Treaty—unless you have the documents to prove otherwise!’ ”

“Fierce!” said Kiggs.

Sir James waved a gnarled hand. “They’re nothing but feral file clerks, dragons. They used to alphabetize the coins in their hoards. Anyway, this one neither spoke nor moved. He tried to gauge our numbers, but we’d done the standard numbers bluff.”

“What’s that, then?”

Sir James looked at Kiggs like he was mad. “You conceal your numbers—harder than you’d think. They can distinguish individuals by smell, so you put men downwind and a distracting stench upwind. We brought decoy torches and two sacks of warm cabbages, and made a little extra noise. Don’t grin at me, you young rapscallion! You never let a dragon know how many you are, or where you’re all concealed.”

“That’s a prince of the realm you’re calling rapscallion,” said Maurizio.

“I shall call him what I like! I’m banished already!”

“I’m awestruck that you had warm cabbages sitting around,” said Kiggs.

“Always. We are always prepared for anything.”

“So what did the dragon do then?” I asked.

Sir James looked at me, a fond spark in his watery eyes. “He spoke. My Mootya’s not what it was, and it never was much, but I’d say he was trying to goad us into action. Of course, we took none. We abide by the law, even if the monsters do not.”

That was funny, coming from a banished man who hadn’t been banished particularly far. Kiggs met my eye; we silently shared the humor of it. He nudged Sir James back toward fact. “Was this dragon anyone you knew?”

Sir James scratched his bald pate. “I was so shocked, I hadn’t considered. He reminded me of one I faced, but where? White Creek? Mackingale oast houses? Let me think. We’d lost our pitchman and fork; we staggered back to Fort Trueheart, when we stumbled into the … right. Mackingale oast houses, and the Fifth Ard.”

A chill coursed down my spine. That was the one.

“A dragon of the Fifth Ard?” Kiggs prompted, leaning forward keenly. “Which dragon?”

“The general. I know they all call themselves General—they’re not pack hounds, dragons; don’t take orders well—but this fellow really was what we’d call a general. He knew what he was doing and kept the rest ‘in ard,’ as they say.” He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and finger. “His name, though. That will come to me directly after you’ve gone, I expect.”

I wanted so badly to blurt out the name, but Kiggs flashed me a warning glance. I understood; my father was a lawyer. Witnesses can be very suggestible.

“Squire Foughfaugh!” cried the old man, meaning Maurizio, apparently. “Fetch me the old register of ards from my trunk. I don’t know why I’m trying to wring water from my stone of a head when I’ve got it all written down.”

Maurizio brought the book. The pages flaked and cracked as Sir James turned them, but the name was still legible: “General Imlann. Yes, that sounds right, now.”

I had known it was coming, but I still shivered.

“You’re certain it was him?” asked Kiggs.

“No. But that’s my best guess, a week later. That’s all I can give you.”

It was enough, and yet it wasn’t. We’d come all the way out here to confirm this, and now that we knew, we were no closer to knowing what to do next.

The knights made tea and chatted at us, asking after their imprisoned comrades and news from town. Maurizio kept joking—that seemed to be his primary function as squire—but Kiggs, lost in thought, did not respond to his banter, and I too sat silently, trying to work out our next step.

No course of action struck me as good. Scour the coppice for him? Search the villages for his saarantras? Kiggs couldn’t get enough men out here without diverting them from Comonot’s security. Tell Eskar? Why not the Ardmagar himself, and the Queen? Make the authors of the treaty, the ones most invested in the continuation of the peace, sort this out.