Artist!
“Dragon, why are you breathing over my shoulder?” she probed.
“Appreciating your work, ma’am.”
“Is that so?”
“With that talent, you could design scales for Dragons,” he returned, satisfied when her neck visibly heated up. He scented her delight.
“You are too kind to an old woman, Dragon.”
“Is that so?”
She laughed openly at his riposte. “Dragon, would you and your Princesses be open to the suggestion of flying an old woman back to Hamirythe Kingdom, to the shores of the ocean?”
“Grandmother!” Yardi protested.
“Now, child, I’ve been talking about this for at least a decade. You know my heart.”
It had been on the tips of his forked tongue to chuckle indulgently at her request, but now, Dragon stilled to a different realisation. She meant to die there. He had read that at the end of their days beneath the suns, old Dragons might sometimes be struck by an overwhelming desire to return to the lair of their birth. People shared this gift? How curious. Perhaps it was a commonality of a soul’s knowing?
This lore was deeper than most Dragons would allow of the Humankind in their worldview, but her desire could hardly be mistaken.
Glancing at Azania, who nodded slightly, he said, “Honoured Yarimda, we would most certainly be amenable, but you should know our flight path is no easy one – from here, we intend to swing around the mountains and fly up through the Blood Desert to the Umber Steppes, from where it is a steep climb to the lair of Juggernaut the Grinder. We would then fly over the high passes to the Kingdom of Amboraine and straight north to Mornine.”
“North until Mornine?” she jested lightly. “That could work.”
“Grandmother, that is a gruelling flight over the very roof of the world!” Yardi protested. “You are no longer a spring chicken of eighty, may I remind you? Ninety-four this autumn!”
“Child, neither of us have been happy in Chakkix Camp for many a year. Let’s talk about this. You’ve wanted to travel and find yourself a man –”
“Grandmother!”
Yardi flushed so violently, the colour moved down her tan throat and into her muscular arms. Intriguing response!
Dragon narrowed his eyes. “Is there a man?”
“No!”
“May I threaten to eat him if he does not treat you honourably?”
“Er … sounds good to me,” the armourer grumbled.
Her grandmother said blithely, “None in this camp anyways. Yardi, fly with us. Come see the ocean with me – come fly Dragonback, as I used to fly on Wavewhisperer’s back. I warn you, once you start …”
Tarangis Lionbaiter said, “Well, educational as all this is, I must ask, Princess Azania, if the new King might be amenable to continuing our arrangement?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Dragon put in testily, “What do Roving Ambassadors of T’nagru do, then – wander about the kingdoms looking vacuously pretty? Use your authority, woman!”
“Ambassador?” Tarangis chortled. “Old N’gala must be turning in his – ahem. Terribly sorry.”
Wince. Tasteless joke.
Azania clearly did not know where to look nor what to say.
The Lionbaiter rubbed his temples. “I apologise. It’s been a very long day. Princess, I will have my accountant turn in a statement of our business to you by morning. Suffice it to say, you and Dragon have enough credit to buy half of the clothing in this camp, not that you’d want it, mind. I can recommend an excellent tailor who will have you back in those lethal leather trousers in no time at all … grief, what is the matter with my tongue? I meant to say, he will have you suitably attired in a timescale of your choosing.”
Inzashu dared a little wink at Dragon. “Timescale?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Azania advised.
“I’ll send her right over so that you can ratify the Ambassador’s derriere – I mean, your new, upscaled agreement, Tarangis,” Dragon put in.
He smacked his thighs in delight. “I could not possibly comment.”
“I’m glad you know what’s healthy for you,” Azania warned, “unlike my Dragon, who has just dug himself a hole through which one can see the other side of Solixambria!”
Glare, glare.
After a moment, he chuckled smokily, for the first time in his life. So startled was he, he chuckled a second time.
Plainly angered by what she took for a snarky response, the Princess snapped her fingers. “Dragon! Heel.”
By tone, he knew she meant to tug his wings, he was just not sure how. “What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t help if you don’t know Human culture,” she complained. “To call to heel means, well – perhaps I shouldn’t … exactly …”
Yarimda pointed at the open forge. “Dragon, aim that way.”
“Oh, it’s that bad, is it?” said he, pointing his new fire-squirter anywhere but in the proposed direction.
Azania marched out of the cavern in a fake huff, calling back, “Dragon, we’re going to the tailor. Will you come along to protect us, please?”
He prowled along after, nursing the unfamiliar feeling of a stomach boiling with fiery fury. By his sire’s egg, he would need to be careful with these volatile white fires. Either that, or learn to keep his fangs firmly clamped shut. That idea would not be shared with the Princess. It would be used against him most unfairly, with a coy female smile.
Ten minutes later, he asked a perfectly innocent tailor’s
