Polo Shawcross: Dragon Soldier Read online

  When we moved to Malion she doubled my stipend despite my protests, and as in Peterhaven, I had her permission to open accounts in her name though I hadn’t done so. In exchange for being there with Azrael, Lilith sent large supplies of golds, as did Theo. Even Mother and Father, who were together again and living in Peterhaven, sent gifts.

  It was more money than I could spend, especially with my new ascetic lifestyle. I did buy two more horses. The Turk was a bright bay, black socks, mane and tail, fast and well-trained. Dream was a big brown, plain-looking but kind, jumped anything you set him at and turned on a copper.

  I had a good set of practice armour made, rather snazzy and expensive. It was the same green as my eyes, edged with the same copper colour. I had to admit, I looked like a mythical hero wearing it. Azrael had some made in a cobalt blue.

  Having bespoke practice armour was much better than borrowing from a collection, as was having your practice swords made for you. I also ordered a real metal sword for ceremonial occasions. I could have borrowed from the guild collections but couldn’t resist one of my own.

  A one-sided straight-bladed cavalry sabre, it was the best coin could buy, weighted exactly to my size and height instead of made to a mass order for the army. After I cut my hand twice on the first day I had the blade, I decided the army was very lucky I wasn’t ever going to be a serving officer.

  By the end of the first two terms, out of a school year of four, my fighting skills had improved out of all proportion. My body reached a new stage of fitness, and I was faster and stronger. Fenric sometimes operated at three-quarter speed when I went for him.

  At last, thanks to a new city and new horses, I could wander about without being recognised. I hadn’t realised how much a distinctive horse contributed to that. Magpie was a very distinctive black and white, or piebald, the edge of each of patch interlaced like a magpie’s wing. Providing I wasn’t on him nobody paid me much attention, well, except the sexual kind. I was appealing in civvies, but like every officer-in-training I was extremely desirable in my cadet uniform or fatigues, the target of women who wanted a husband to provide the steady income of the military whilst not bothering them too much thanks to being off at war.

  Scabbard-humpers, Azrael’s guards called them. The desperation in the women’s eyes scared me. They didn’t see me as a person at all, just a uniform. That I was wealthy and titled in my own right was of course a bonus. Perhaps because of my training at Court in Sendren, often off to one side watching insincerity in action towards Azrael or the king, I spotted the fake more often and more easily than others seemed to. Fenric said mindweed helped, heightening certain instincts and enabling one to read others more clearly. I thought it was a good gift to have and tried to listen to my instincts.

  ****

  Chapter 5 – Life and Death

  In the interest of siring an heir, Azrael acquired a harem, a group of women who were faithful to him. For coin of course, one doesn’t buy loyalty in bed without love or golds, and Azrael didn’t want to marry. There were three in first term, another four in second, and as we finished second term he was having another four starting that night. To my intense amusement, and to the envy of most men, he was to get them pregnant. The Sendrenese Royal Family were getting desperate.

  The women were chosen from a list of suitable brood mares his mother and Nanny Black drew up for him. He liked all the women well enough but not enough to make any one Crown Princess, so he offered coin instead. As he explained, with the awful examples of his parents and his grandparents, he didn’t want to end up hating someone he married for the wrong reasons.

  To everyone’s surprise, a fair number accepted instead of being outraged. One told me she saw it as a way of a young woman assuring herself a large dowry and a good marriage afterwards, with the possibility of lifelong independence for those who proved fertile. Once selected, if they agreed to the rather unusual proposal and conditions, they went to live in Malion in a mansion not far from the guild, with Nanny Black – a diminutive but fierce family servant - overseeing them. Azrael confessed it was excellent fun but by the end of second term, none of the girls were pregnant.

  I didn’t like to mention, and didn’t know if anyone else had, but if all these otherwise healthy young women couldn’t get pregnant, the problem might not be with them.

  “The harem made sense to me at the time,” Azrael said, on his way out of the quarters we shared, “but this many of them? I must have been mad. Still, it’s only for a few more months. Mother and Nanny agreed I could take a break for the summer and tumble who I want to.”

  “I suppose,” I said, stretching in the leather armchair, “if it works, Aunt Kristen loses her hopes of taking over. She kills any little kiddies, the people will never accept her as a queen, same goes for Young Perry.”

  “Exactly,” he said. We shared an apartment at the guild, and although we got on fine, I was looking forward to him being gone for the night. Him away most nights of the week made sharing the small quarters bearable. Another reason not to join the army, I thought, having to share accommodation. I mentally added it to my list ‘Reasons Not To Join the Army’.

  In my glorious solitude I planned to begin a new book while smoking copious amounts of mindweed, and had a selection of cheeses and various dried and glace fruits bought from a local speciality shop, along with bottles variously of red wine and port from the guild cellars. A lazy masturbation session to follow. First I would attend the mess, which was no privation.

  “You should go out,” said Azrael. I shook my head.

  “No thanks.” He shook his head, mimicking me.

  “You need to see people,” he said, “you can’t sulk over Miri forever.” I shrugged.

  “To be honest I think I’m over her. I want to avoid involvement. With anyone.”

  “Are you changing your mind,” he said, frowning, “about joining the army?” I laughed.

  “Gods no,” I said, “this is just my way of coping. It’s bad enough being bossed around but at least around here my life doesn’t depend on orders. And I’m not risking a death sentence for disobeying an order that might kill me. I can think of better ways to die than the army.” He laughed.

  “So,” he said, his expression serious, “that’s a no, then?” I threw a cushion at him.

  ****

  The food at the guild mess was known for being consistently good, but the end-of-term dinner that night was even better than usual. I felt over Miri. After six months or so of abstinence, I broke my no alcohol rule, drinking the supplied wines with each course. The company was excellent, everyone cheerful over the beginning of the holidays, talking about plans for sex, trips home, partying or all three.

  At the guild a young man was supposed to learn to be an officer and a gentleman, with all the knowledge of fine living they could stuff into us. We started with oysters served hot, lightly grilled with a lemon sauce spiced with slivers of chilli, paired with a chilled white burgundy. The main was curried beef and vegetables, with warm pumpkin bread, my favourite, served with a powerful spicy red wine.

  There was a choice of puddings, date or toffee, with icecream, custard, cream or all three, paired with a sweet golden wine. I remember savouring the dessert wine, thinking it was like distilled liquid sunshine dancing on my tongue. It was rich and syrupy enough to partner a heavy dessert, which for me was the date pudding with custard and cream.

  As I joined the smokers out on the veranda at the café tables, where I sat and sipped a coffee-and-chocolate liqueur with a cup of strong coffee. And a small saucer of a half-a-dozen filled chocolates. If I knew I was going to be hurling it all up later, I’d have held off.

  Before settling back in my quarters I decided to go for a walk through Malion, perhaps window-shop while I walked off some of the alcohol and rich food. I didn’t prepare much. I could change out of dress uniform thanks to it now being officially guild holidays, so slipped into fatigues – a casual shirt and trousers – and some slip-on knee-high
boots, then found greatcoat, hat, gloves and scarf, checked I had some coin and walked out. I didn’t think to get a knife or one of Azrael’s off-duty guards from their hotel. I forgot, the city was not the guild.

  In the guild, my enemies didn’t bother me. Some enemies, like Indigo Sutherland, came from Peterhaven, others I’d made since I arrived. One cannot be universally liked, especially if you appear to have it easy. A certain circle congregated around Indigo shared my bewilderment at my good fortune, and felt I was moving in circles above my station. I could only agree. I was very lucky.

  The gatekeeper said to watch my step, there might be frost on the pavements, and I thanked him. I slowed, buttoning my coat. It was quite icy but my boots were fleece-lined with a rippled sole, and my clothes snug and warm. I lit a pipe then put my leather gloves on and strolled along, a young gentleman out for his constitutional. A trifle eccentric, with my long hair, at that moment tied neatly back with a bioplas band, which I used because they didn’t slide off.

  I understood my detractors’ disbelief. How could someone like me end up where I was? Titled? Rich? Me? It felt quite bizarre. My father was a peasant, my mother wanted to be a farmer, and I grew up in Lower Beech tending to the whims of farm animals and insane parents, without enough hot water. Unless pressed, I’d stopped mentioning my home village by name, because nobody ever knew where it was. Most people had never heard of the Duchy of Beechwood, let alone Lower Beech, so I would say I was from a little place near Peterhaven over in Sendren, and people would nod.

  The guild was only a few blocks from the palace. As I walked in that direction I pondered direction. I could go over the bridge, see what was happening in King Lewis’s Court, where I was welcome. The king and I shared an interest in mounted combat. He was of course predisposed to like me thanks to my mother’s blood, my title, my father being an ex-cavalry officer and my connections. It’s how the world works.

  Did I feel like more alcohol? I could go for a drink somewhere. Being nearly eighteen and big since I was much younger, I had no trouble passing for old enough, looking like a man, not a boy. As I strolled to the river, still mulling options, there were people around. At Malion the river was artificially split, the majority of the channel bypassing this side of the city. The fast-moving moat was a narrow but deep canal, thundering along, swollen with melt and rain, splitting the city from the palace.

  Changing my mind about the company of sex-crazed courtiers, I continued past the bridge road and down the narrow lane that ran alongside the moat. I would be virtuous and walk instead of looking for something to tumble. I was warmed up enough to unbutton my coat, which probably saved my life.

  Since we came to Malion I’d ignored Indigo Sutherland. The penalties for letting personal feuds into the guild meant they weren’t worth the bother. Indigo hadn’t offered an apology for the time he’d tried to drown me in the Peterhaven baths and made it clear he still didn’t like me. In turn I wasn’t inclined to be his friend. We sparred on tutors’ orders. He was damn fast and even bigger than I was, but I had his measure. I’d been training since I could walk, it gave me an edge.

  The rules were different out on the city streets. I was completely oblivious but, as I left after dinner, Indigo and some of his friends must have followed me. Finally it penetrated my happy state that the people under the next streetlight were boys from the guild, including Indigo, their breath hot and too heavy, puffing steam into the cold night, casually trying to get their wind back after running to get ahead of me.

  “Indigo!” called someone behind me. “Got the rat trapped!” The rat? I had a bad feeling about this. I glanced back, seeing how many and where. There was nowhere to go here, no streets leading away from the river. A four-foot wall on my right guarded the moat, a much higher one on my left guarded the backs of the buildings there. Smooth and high to prevent people climbing it, I’d seen it from the palace, and knew there was a nasty surprise on top, with the plascrete set with jagged glass. It had caught my eye, sparkling in the lights above the street.

  Pretending to be oblivious, I paused to light my pipe. I kept an eye on the boys coming up behind. Their eyes glittered with the promise of alcohol-fuelled violence. I took a breath and walked on until I reached Indigo.

  His group spread out and blocked my way ahead. I saw Bailey Westwych coming round the nearest corner. He usually stopped any fights, but I had the feeling this one was beyond stopping. Indigo and the others stood there, arms crossed. I sighed.

  Behind me, I heard someone pull a knife.

  ****

  I broke Indigo’s nose to start with, a hard forearm across his face, instant claret, left him blind with blood and tears. I was on the one with the knife, who I flipped the way I’d flipped Father, straight over my hip. As he went sailing right over the four-foot wall into the steep canyon of the moated river, I realised how much I held back in sparring. The trappings of civilised behaviour fell away from me as I kicked someone in the knee, felt the snapping crunch in the joint through my boot as he went down screaming.

  There was one chance to drop them all, first and only blow. Therefore, I went all out, intending to incapacitate on first contact. My target was anyone close to me or trying to get there and then, if they let me, I’d run. Considering there were about thirty of them, I did quite well. A few like Bailey were trying to pull the others off me, which helped. Most men posture a lot before they work up to a fight. I never saw the point. Getting hit hurts, a lot. You don’t want to be hit, believe me.

  Indigo was still screaming, blood running out between his fingers. The other boy, someone I thought was a second year, was sobbing on the ground, holding his knee. Someone grabbed me from behind. I went limp, dropped with my knees bent then curled one arm back behind his knees as I straightened my legs. He went straight up off his feet and overbalanced backwards. Nice, I thought, letting go as he pitched back into the town-side wall. Forearm into the face of someone coming at me, kick to one at the side, at the knee. Keep it low, I heard Fenric say in my head, high kicks are for bloody dancing girls. Wrist-hold for the next and my elbow under his, a quick lift, and the joint cracked.

  Of course, good as I was, there were limits. Soon I was having the crap beaten out of me and I wasn’t lying about how much it hurt. Fortunately, enough of the ones I’d injured were screaming and someone alerted the polis in their station two blocks away. They arrived and arrested them all. The ones who weren’t in the moat, that is, which by that stage didn’t include me.

  As the polis shouted at the mob kicking me to stand, the boys threw me bodily into the moat then surrendered like lambs.

  ****

  With my dilettante’s interest in sewage systems, sparked by my friend Rory back home, who happened to be the Royal Keeper of the Plumbing at the Peterhaven citadel, I happened to have talked to his opposite number at this palace, the Malion Royal Keeper, Frank. Frank said a death toll less than ten at a Malion palace ball was considered low.

  The usual cause of death was a drunken attempt to jump into the moat. A scary number didn’t look when jumping off the palace walls and landed on one of the stone bridges instead of in the moat. Those who went into the water, who survived the initial experience, tended to die from disease. All this was going through my mind as I fell, then went under slushy ice, losing my breath, choking on liquid so vile I didn’t want to think what was in it. It was so cold.

  Coughing, I reached the surface, floundering, struggling to get free from gloves, coat, and boots, all filling with freezing water and dragging me back under. Everything in my body was cramping. I knew where I was going. Interested in how the system worked, I’d asked Frank questions. He was happy to explain this was a diverted bow of the river, sweeping through the moat then out the other side, over a waterfall and into a large holding dam.

  It ran very fast, designed to prevent settlement and wash out the town and palace’s sewage. The liquid and sludge in the dam was flushed and funnelled off into ponds and then through gravel, sand
, and reed filtration beds for treatment. Eventually, safe again to drink, it rejoined the Little Dragon. I remembered Frank saying the waterfall was about a fifty-foot drop and the dam quite shallow. How shallow, I didn’t know.

  Funny, it hadn’t seemed a point I needed to clarify. He had also mentioned that the palace baths’ outflow warmed the river water not far above the dam, so it didn’t freeze solid even in the coldest weather. If I survived that long, I might live.

  Suddenly a current of warm water buffeted me and I guessed that was the outflow. I tried desperately to keep my head above the foul soup, wondering if it was worth it, struggling half-frozen to keep gasping in stinking air, only to die of a broken neck at the end of the ride, then there was the disease-ridden water I’d swallowed.

  At least it was warmer, body merely in spasm, not full cramps. It was so hard to move. Easier, I was thinking, to let go. There was a roaring in my ears. I was so tired. The roaring was so loud it felt like being crushed. I was sucked beneath the surface then shot out into freezing space, flailing, eyes snapping open, falling into a churning, foetid maelstrom surrounded by mists. I think I screamed.

  That time, as I dropped into much warmer water, I did manage to hold my breath. The change was shocking and rather ghastly. For a while I was underwater with the current pushing me down, feeling my ears under pressure. I kicked upwards at an angle, away from the turbulent waters behind me, surfacing in icy air, spitting, trying to breathe and not vomit until I’d managed the former.