The Scroll of Years: A Gaunt and Bone Novel (23 page)

“Flattery. Interesting. But it is perhaps merely by proximity that we know more of dragons. They were ever in our thoughts. We represented our emperor with a dragon, basing our astrology on the encircling dragon-eggs (as yours is based on stars farther afield). We know, too, the effect of dragons upon the growth of the world. Its structure is enriched by the male dragons, whose life is enhanced by the females. It is even perhaps a side effect of their chosen haunts that our continents now have differing characters: our fertile, river-washed land is largely unified by one Empire; your land is broken into rocky peninsulas and divided into squabbling states.”

“There may be more to it than that,” Gaunt said, who had heard many one-note theories of history.

“Even so,” said Wu. “Yet it is sure enough that the Dragonheat once caused great harm to our land . . .”

“But no more?”

“In the days of the Sage Emperor the dragon mating ground changed. Know you the Ruby Waste? That desert between East and West so heat-blasted one can only skirt its edges? There the dragons now go to mate.”

“That—that is . . .”

“That is a great mystery, yes. Why did it change? What did the Sage Emperor do?”

But Gaunt had not responded to Wu. “That is . . . my baby,” she said, wincing, breathing fast. “I think it is time . . .”

“I will summon assistance.”

“First I must speak to Leaftooth.”

“Certainly. He can serve me as well as any monk.”

“No, there is a tea ceremony he must perform.”

“Most interesting. I was not informed of this ceremony. I look forward to witnessing it.”

The Phoenix Kite teahouse topped a hill near the flank of the Blue Heavenwall, in sight of both rich merchants’ homes and commoners’ hovels. True to its name, it offered kites to its customers, who staged aerial battles for the amusement of the teahouse’s other patrons. Even now a flying lion chased a fluttering sea serpent. The winner would fight the proprietor’s phoenix kite, now undefeated in twenty engagements.

The hooded woman watched the proceedings while setting out a game of weiqi, sipping yak-milk tea from the Argosy Steppes. A girl, also hooded, walked up to her table.

“May I join you?”

“Only if you play.”

The girl’s weiqi game was lackluster, and the older woman carefully built entrapping nets across the board. The goal was not to crush her opponent, nor indeed to win, but to prolong the game just as long as needed.

“I have heard report of friends,” said the older woman.

“Oh?”

“Gaunt and Bone are coming. They will arrive soon, I think.”

“Oh! Are they coming for you, Eshe? Or for us?”

“It could be either, Next One. Or neither. They are hunted, and may simply be using the city to hide.”

Outside, the sea serpent fell to the lion, plummeting earthward.

The girl paused, finally setting down a stone. The placement was rash, Eshe decided. Next One said, “Things have changed quickly since we came here, Eshe, since you got us settled. I have a new gang, new responsibilities. The kids we found in the streets, they need me. Nightsoil keeps challenging Flybait, and Stinkblossom takes on too many risks, and Goatbreath only talks to that crazy mutt of his . . . They need guidance.”

“Bone guided you, for a time.”

“I’m grateful for that. But I got to know him, Eshe. He’s mad for thieving. He’s even worse than a man just crazed for gold, because nothing will satisfy him but the next challenge. Only Gaunt can calm that in him. I’m no Gaunt.”

Eshe smiled. “Nor I.” She placed a stone, secure in her strategy.

“I’ll give reports to you, as we agreed. But I won’t shelter Gaunt and Bone. They’d bring disaster on us. I can’t do that to the kids. And Flybait . . . gods know, he needs someone halfway sensible to keep him from dancing on cliffs.”

“I am not asking you to shelter them. I want you to watch for them. And I suspect the place to do so is the riverside wharf.”

“All right. We’ll start looking tomorrow.”

“Today. As soon as we’re done here.”

“All right, today. But the game is young . . .”

Eshe placed a single new stone. Outside, the lion fled the phoenix, and hit the ground.

“Oh.”

“Now,” Eshe said.

As the pursuit drew near, Bone drove
Cradle
behind a fishing boat, propped up his fake Imago Bone of straw, lashed the rudder, and leapt across to a family houseboat.

Curses surrounded him—
crazy, ghost-man, grab him
—and Bone danced his way past men, women, children, and dogs (a truly astonishing number of denizens) with an apologetic smile on his face and his improvised scroll case in his hand. Reaching the far side he dove and swam, holding upon the surface the small log, whose ends he’d plugged with clay. The painting was protected, or so he hoped.

Moreover, an entirely separate hole through the width of the log admitted a reed, which he now used for breathing.

Where once there had been Imago Bone, now there was a floating log drifting cityward—and a decoy sailing downriver.

Swimming, breathing, swimming, Bone neared the harbor gate. He dared a peek into the air. Hundreds of yards away the large river-junk loomed beside the abandoned
Cradle
.

In the other direction lay a vast harbor wall with a dragon-maw gateway, soldiers and passers-by crowding a crenellated road that creased the dragon’s eyebrows. Beyond that, Bone could see the land rise like a billowing carpet of foot-crowded streets, banner-speckled markets, rectangular peak-roofed houses, and slender pagodas. There was even a clock tower, hands pointing to characters in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell. All roads converged upon the high purple wall at the feet of dragon-fortress of the Forbidden City, staring down with glowing eyes crowded with scores of paper lanterns.

Bone forced his gaze downward, for ahead lay the harbor gate and a conundrum. The gate admitted boats; but iron-barred side grills admitted water and smaller detritus.

Bone could slip through the gate, but his log might alert the guards above. On the other hand . . .

If he dared, he could allow the log bearing the painting to slip through the grill. He would swim like a seal through the gate, deep under the soldiers’ noses, and reclaim the log on the far side.

All this would require was a long breath, some exertion, a little luck and a cold willingness to risk never seeing Persimmon again.

At that moment the log hummed.

“I am busy,” he began, voice low.

Imago! I need you! I can’t do this!

He saw the crew of the pursuing junk toss his straw dummy overboard.

“You can do this, Persimmon Gaunt,” he said, swimming, risking all by staying in air and speaking. “You did not break with your bards, leave Swanisle, face angels of death and sorcerers and cannibals to falter now
. You will get through
. This will be a memory. And together we’ll hold our child.”

He dove. He shoved the log bearing
A Tumult of Trees on Peculiar Peaks
through the grill.

When he resurfaced he saw the wharf-side ahead, piers spearing out from artificial islands linked to the city by arching bridges. He also noted a commotion at the harbor gate, with bellows echoing between the guards and Bone’s pursuit. Not much time.

He searched and saw the log spinning near a dilapidated pier to one side of the islands and bridges, in the shadow of the city wall. A quartet of rumpled, dirty-looking youngsters lurked nearby.

A yapping arose, and a boy released a dog, a patchy-looking grey mutt who seemed all snout and legs. It splashed into the water with evident joy and nosed directly for Bone’s log.

Bone swam. He dared not lose speed, so he stayed on the surface, kicking and stroking until his whole being seemed an aching wave that surged toward shore.

But he was too late. The dog snatched the log in its mouth and dragged it toward the pier. Bone pursued.

Sound could sometimes travel swift and clear over water, and Bone heard snatches of conversation as he swam.

“Hey, Goatbreath!” called a boy. “Control your dog, willya? We’re supposed to watch for barbarians, not play in the water . . .”

“Dog does what Dog does, Nightsoil!” came the voice of a younger boy. “I do not control him. He is wiser than we . . .”

“Leave Goatbreath alone, Nightsoil.” A female voice now. “He and I had few friends since we escaped the orphanage, except this dog . . .”

“Sorry, Quickcloud,” said the first voice. “I guess I get bossy. I used to be solo, and it’s weird working in a team, especially with you-know-who riding us all the time . . .”

“Flybait’s not so bad, Nightsoil . . .” said a new male voice.

“Stinkblossom,” said the one who must be Nightsoil, “you’re just like Flybait. You both lack a survival instinct . . .”

Flybait?
Bone sputtered in the water, tried to call out.

“Hey!” said the youngest boy. “There’s someone coming after Dog!”

“There must be something valuable inside that log!” said the girl.

He saw the child-gang take the dog’s prize and run with it to a nearby alleyway, the dog an amiable wet cloud behind them.

Now Bone recognized the young man and woman who met the quartet at the mouth of the alley, even as they turned away: a lanky, cocksure boy with tangled hair and a slim girl with straight hair and a direct gaze. “Next One!” Bone gasped. “Flybait!”

But he was exhausted, and his shout emerged as a rasp. He staggered from the water, but before he could take more than a few steps a dozen Imperial soldiers in lacquered, dragon-ornamented armor barred his path. They raised gently curved broadswords with expressions lacking in gentleness altogether.

From the harbor behind Bone came the voice of Walking Stick.

“Respected devil Imago Bone!” the official called from the soldier-filled junk. “You have given a good chase! But I mean only honor to you and yours! Where is Persimmon Gaunt?”

Bone, heart like a stone, was ready to tell Walking Stick the answer.

As he opened his mouth, dripping and downcast, he saw a huge shadow absorb his own and those of all the soldiers—and he heard the booming of wings.

Flame burst from the skies.

Night’s Auditors had come to Riverclaw.

Warriors scattered, warehouses caught flame, citizens screamed, but Walking Stick leapt upon a pier and raced toward Bone.

The dragon of the West plunged then, and wrapped itself around the wharf-side where Bone now stood alone. Its tail slapped a boat, which flipped against the harbor wall and splintered. Its wings stretched and windows shattered. Its snout casually immolated the pier upon which Walking Stick ran, before its body closed in a circle and blocked Bone’s view, trapping him within a ring of metal- and jewel-encrusted dragon-flesh.

The dragon had two riders. The first concentrated upon the serrated shard of magic mirror embedded in his skull. Images of a leaping Walking Stick appeared within. Hackwroth hissed a command, and the dragon’s tail whipped through the air. Bone heard a
crack!
torment the air, and saw the Garden warrior tumbling head over heels back toward the harbor like a child’s doll.

The second rider, a hulking figure bearing a lantern upon a chain around one arm, extended the other arm toward Bone. “Imago Bone!” cried Lampblack. “Surrender, and we offer rescue. Fight, and we offer death.”