The Birthday Dragon Page 6

  “I’m wondering if I’m good-looking,” I said. She burst out laughing but then she was beautiful, with long dark hair and wide eyes, the irises a bed of opal like a starfield, called opalescent.

  In Mother’s case, an emerald orbital ring surrounded the black opal iris. I had emerald green eyes with a bright copper orbital ring. My eyes and hair, so Grandmama Daeva told me, were the same colour as some long-dead great uncle. Father’s eyes were blue and his hair was a darker corn-blonde. “Am I really Father’s son?”

  “Of course you are,” Mother said, “you look like him.”

  “But he has blue eyes. And I have cat’s-eyes.” Mother nodded at me in the mirror.

  “With our blood, dear, you never can tell. When they messed with our genes they didn’t expect the results.”

  “I didn’t realise how strong I am,” I said. Throwing Father through the wall was a rather scary reminder that I was stronger than a commoner.

  “Yes,” she said, “do be careful in Peterhaven, darling. I don’t want to be trying to get you off a hanging because you’ve killed some idiot peasant like your father. I have the feeling even Uncle Theo couldn’t manage that.”

  “I promise I’ll be good.” I frowned at my reflection. “Am I good-looking?”

  “You’re a handsome young man.” I smiled at her in the mirror.

  “I do have good shoulders.”

  “Oh Polo,” said Mother, and suddenly hugged me, “I’ll miss you.” There was nobody around so I didn’t have to be embarrassed and could hug her back.

  “It won’t work,” I said, spoiling the moment, “he’s not going to stop drinking for you.”

  “I could have aborted you,” she said, and gave me another quick squeeze then let go.

  “But you didn’t,” I said, and grinned. It was an old and very black joke between us.

  “It’s not too late,” she said, and I snorted. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get on. I have to take your father some food tonight.” She sighed.

  I bit my tongue. I wasn’t going to say anything more about him. If she wanted to fall for his charm again, who was I to stand in her way?

  Only her flesh and blood, I thought, stuffing more old shirts into a bag. Mother started prattling on, about the dances I’d go to, the fun I’d have, and we got talking about how things were in her day, which kept us both occupied as we finished off.

  She went off to the village for more packing paper. Though I begged the opportunity to say goodbye to the few friends I had, she forbade me to leave the house.

  “I’ll pass on your goodbyes,” said Mother, “I’m not having you slipping your leash before morning.” I sulked as she left, then thought about it. I’d wait and sneak out later. I was leaving at dawn, what could she do?

  I visited the animals and said my goodbyes to them at least, then filched some more of Mother’s smoke and watched the sunset. It seemed strange to be thinking this was my last night here. Wondering if I’d forgotten anything, I wandered about until Mother came home. She gave me some mindweed to smoke, which was a surprise, and I helped with dinner. It was quiet without Father there, and I wondered how life might be if it was just Mother and I. How bored would she get with only me to shout at?

  After dinner I went to lie down, dozed for a bit, and woke up as Mother went to her room. Then I rolled out of bed still dressed and picked up my boots. It was quieter if I waited to put them on when I was astride the windowsill. The window was jammed, and I put the boots down to try to get it free. I heaved and wiggled. Then I spotted the problem. I could just see the glint of a nail-head sticking out from the frame on each side.

  Mother had nailed it shut from the outside while I was on the barn roof. Now I knew what she had been doing with that hammer. Thwarted, because I knew I couldn’t get out through the house without her hearing, I stripped off and went back to bed, stunned that she knew I was going to be grounded and trying to get out my window before she even caught me with Molly bent over the kitchen table. It was logical, I always went out my window, but I hadn’t realised she was that good at reading me.

  Back in my still-warm bed, I stretched. I didn’t like to admit it but I really was tired. Although Bertram only clipped my balls, he did stand on my thigh, and the bruising was getting painful.

  Thus passed my last night in my childhood home.

  ****

  Chapter 6 – I Make My Escape

  In the morning I stumbled around in the dark, and managed to shower and eat without showing Mother how utterly suffused with joy I was. Soon I’d be free.

  “Your father’s going to wander down if he wakes up,” Mother said, putting Theo and Grandmama’s letters into my bag. I grunted. “Come on darling,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

  “If you say it’s going to be fun one more time,” I said, pouting, “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Oh gods, not like your father,” she said. “We don’t need another one of those around.” Why didn’t we need even one? Why did she? I wanted to shout it. Instead, I looked serious. She smiled. “It will be fun, darling, you’ll see.” I mimed being sick.

  “You always said Uncle Theo’s was full of crazy people,” I said, “after the last time you went to Peterhaven you said that it was full of mad people and whores who deserved flogging. You told Grandmama, I was there.” She looked thoughtful.

  “Ah,” she said, “that’s right. That was years ago. They’re not mad-and-dangerous, darling, or they’d be in the asylum. And I remember, I was angry because Cousin Thea wouldn’t leave your father alone and he was too drunk to fend her off. Did I tell you, Thea married one of the Keller’s from Lakeleas?” I shook my head. I had no idea who Cousin Thea was and didn’t remember the incident because I hadn’t been there.

  “Now Thea,” said Mother, looking cheerful, “died in childbirth.” I shuddered. “She was your Aunt Rosalind’s girl. Rosalind wasn’t really your aunt, she married-” Mother was still going, giving me details of Rosalind’s family and life, along with many tangential relations, acquaintances, and family-by-marriage, until I was lost.

  I never managed to get a straight answer out of her about the family tree. She always ended up distracted. The stories were interesting but bewildering. I didn’t know where these people fitted into our family’s rather tangled genealogy. As I listened I remembered there was bound to be some decent information in the libraries in Peterhaven, and Uncle Theo would have his parentage worked out, so with any luck at all I could trace back further than Grandmama Daeva.

  It was pouring with rain and still completely dark when we arrived at the village coach station, which was just a sign in the portico of the inn. Mother kept giving me last-minute instructions on how to behave and anything else she could think of.

  The coach pulled in, people suddenly appeared everywhere, and the coach was loaded up. Mother gave me my ticket and pushed me in that direction. As we reached the door, she told me she loved me, and as we hugged I said I loved her too, softly as I could, not wanting to be overheard.

  Then I was in the coach, feeling the springs dip as I moved to the nearest seat, next to Miz Flora, a woman I knew from the village. She said as I was going further than she was, I could have the window, so we swapped. Outside the coachman shouted,

  “All aboard!” The horses started pulling at the traces, we began to roll. I looked out the window and there was Father, one arm in a sling, raising the other in a wave. I waved back. Mother was smiling, waving too, an arm around him. I was feeling most tolerant, and hoped they were very happy together. Who knew, maybe this time Father would get a handle on his drinking. Then we were past them, on the road to Beech Wood, and I was free.

  I contemplated not going to Peterhaven at all, instead getting off the coach with Grandmama Daeva’s golds to start a new life somewhere. However, it was warm in the coach and more comfortable than the cold wet morning outside. In reality, if I still wanted to, it was easier to run once I got to Peterhaven, as coaches
went from there to every possible destination. As the rest of the passengers slept, I dozed, not quite able to sleep, a knot of excitement in my belly.

  The world hummed past at a smart trot, rain thrumming on the roof, wheels and hooves splashing in the water. Mother had said everything was sold and she was giving up farming for the time being. I couldn’t believe it, after all her work. And mine. Who would rescue Bertram and his sisters when the weight of the world became too much for their narrow woolly shoulders?

  The coach headed for Beech Wood and a change of horses, a number of the passengers got out, including Miz Flora, and more got on. I looked out the window at the gloomy morning. There was the library, where I spent so much time escaping the farm, even occasionally meeting a kindred spirit there. Despite the initial euphoria over my escape I became occupied by gloomy thoughts, of my home and family gone forever, and they must have shown on my face.

  “Leaving home, eh, lad?” said the middle-aged man next to me.

  “Not quite,” I said, turning to him with a polite smile, “being sent to Peterhaven, to school. Staying at my uncle’s.”

  “Don’t want to go?” I explained about the farm, about parents, without too much detail, and he was sympathetic. Then he said, “My parents sent me to my grandma’s when I was five, supposed to be for a few days. I never saw them again.”

  “Never?” I said, shocked. “Mine used to dump me on my grandmother regularly but they always came back.” It was something I had wished for, to be abandoned. He shook his head.

  “Quite recently I found out they divorced. He died, she remarried, and I have a bunch of half-brothers and sisters I don’t know. She never told my grandmother, so of course when I was a young man and tried to find them, all I found was my da’s gravestone, no trace of her. I didn’t expect her to have forgotten me so completely, that she’d never try to find me.” I offered sympathy, and reflected that things, as Grandmama Daeva always said, could be worse.

  After some more conversation the man got off, and I was left to imagine my parents vanishing, never to be seen again, or perhaps only tracked when I was grey. It was true I didn’t have a forwarding address, which made me frown a little. Mother said she would write once they had one. All I knew was they were going to Torc, a kingdom like Sendren, but over on the west coast. What would I do if they disappeared?

  On the horizon, the sun suddenly shone through a gap in the clouds, illuminating the valley with a brilliant blaze of light, and my mood lifted. I nearly laughed aloud. Abandoned? I couldn’t be so lucky. My parents delighted in haunting me. Even if they died I could be assured they’d pop back for visits, Mother in particular.

  I stretched, trying to figure out how far it was to the city. The sky was still overcast and threatening but the rain had stopped. My watch said seven but I wasn’t sure when we were supposed to arrive, other than before lunch. In the meantime, the coach would run express from Upper Beech, where we would change horses again.

  We were invited to the ducal castle at Upper Beech quite often and to Peterhaven at least once a year, although I hadn’t been to either place as Mother hated dressing up and, unless they were army officers, Father hated being around lots of Blood. I hadn’t been this far on my own, though as a child - before Grandmama moved south - I often caught the coach from the Lower Beech inn to her house in Beech Wood.

  When on expeditions, Grandmama and I caught the night coach from there, coming this way but turning north at the Peterhaven to Port Azrael highway, whereas this time I would be heading south. From looking at maps for years, plotting my escape from parental influence, I knew the lay of the land. If you’re imagining running away to a big city to make your fortune, you might as well figure out the easiest route.

  The road began to climb steadily, the sky continued to clear, and the road cut neat green farmland, dark with the black soil that grew vegetables so well. The trees were dusted with budding leaves, the impossibly bright light green of spring. Above us the peaks were still snowbound, all soft pink and apricot as the sun burnished them. I wondered if I’d ever see these signs of home again.

  We crested a rise and across the valley was Sutherland Castle, the ducal seat of Beechwood. The castle had kept that name for nearly two thousand years, despite it being nearly that long since a Sutherland lived there. Things changed slowly in Sendren. Place names particularly so.

  They said ours was a charmed kingdom because the monarchy was generally sensible and kept the people happy enough for long enough. Mostly. So there had been no revolutions. No bloody coups. At least, that was what the history books said. However, they couldn’t help noting the preponderance of sudden deaths among the most wealthy and powerful, but put it down to what Mother called Unfortunate Accidents.

  “That is,” she said, “they’re not accidents, and they’re damn fortunate for someone.”

  Father said the Unfortunate Accident was the Blood’s way of your children telling you they were tired of waiting for you to die, but Mother pointed out the most common kind was the death of the heir, not the incumbent.

  “Killing Daddy seems a bit over the top,” she added thoughtfully, “but killing your brother or sister is fine.”

  “Gods, Tess,” said Father, “do occasionally add a codicil when you’re talking to the boy. It’s not fine to kill your siblings, Polo. It’s only fine in their twisted minds.”

  “Money,” said Mother, with the assuredness of someone who’d never wanted for it, “is the root of all evil.”

  “The saying is that the love of money is the root of all evil,” said Father, “not money alone.” Of course, then they began to argue in earnest.

  Being away from them wasn’t so bad. Already it was quieter than I was used to. The coach stopped in Upper Beech and the rest of the passengers exited. I looked out at the main street of the very picturesque village, larger than Lower Beech but smaller than Beech Wood, nestled in a pretty valley between two long flanks of the high hills, the castle above us. A groom stuck his head in the door.

  “Passengers to collect at the castle, lordship,” he said, “doing a detour.” I nodded and smiled, gritting my teeth over the lordship part. Though much preferring a world without titles, it was the way things were, as everyone told me when I argued. Back in Lower Beech I was just Polo, for all they might call me other names. Outside I was Blood, and getting a peasant to call me by my name was like pulling teeth.

  The coach headed up a steep hill, where the ascent was made easier for the horses with a series of sharp hairpin bends. Alone in the coach, I moved from one side to the other, watching the view and craning my neck trying to see the castle above me, but the walls hid all but two high towers. The gate was open, though we slowed, then the coachman was cracking the whip at the team as the horses tried to head for the stables, which they’d all obviously visited at some time.

  Instead, we headed onto a road that snaked round a series of banked terraces, all set with spring flowers up to the castle’s main entrance. There were golden primrose, bright yellow daffodils and cowslips, including red ones of the latter, and beds of pale pink anemones and tulips of every shade. I imagined gardeners carefully raising all the flowers to planting-out stage, and how many greenhouses they must have. The coach stopped, and the door opened. Someone said,

  “Everyone out!” I didn’t really look but stepped out, still sleepy, the sun in my eyes. Suddenly I was being rendered limp and very cooperative as someone grasped one of my wrists, the fingers of his other hand pressed in firmly on the pressure point under my arm, moving me in an arc until I fetched up face towards the coach, still completely quiescent. It was a move Father had taught me, though he’d never covered how to get out of it.

  “Please don’t struggle, lordship,” said a voice, “going to search you.” I couldn’t have moved to save my life but grunted assent. It came out slightly like a squeak. The speaker didn’t move but someone else searched me rather more intimately than I would have thought possible with my clothes on. I w
ondered who our castle passenger was. “He’s clean, Fenric.”

  There was a pause and they let me go. I felt safe to breathe again. They smoothed my clothes, apologised, cited kingdom security, and I said I understood.

  Above our heads, Sutherland Castle rose as if carved from the peaks, and I tried not to be too obviously impressed, having not been this way since I was about twelve on a trip with Grandmama Daeva. We saw the castle from the road below on our way to the north, at exactly this time of day.

  The men around me were all in ordinary clothes, but had a certain military look to them. I realised they were all wearing some kind of armour under their clothes. The one called Fenric looked familiar, grey eyes flecked with gold and close-cropped black hair. I was wondering in a vague fashion if we had met at the local garrison. One of the other guards came out of the coach.

  “Fenric,” he said, “here’s Master Shawcross’s papers.” He looked at me, saw my eyes and hair. “His lordship’s papers.”

  I wasn’t game to complain that they went through my bag without permission. The coachman and his grooms were like me, just-searched and papers being checked. There were riding horses being brought up, and a group of servants who’d been hanging round looking bored began putting some bags into and onto the coach.

  “Matter of kingdom security, Master Shawcross,” said Fenric, looking at me again, “I’ll get Her Grace to look these over.” He waved my various documents up at the castle. “Here Herself comes now.” I looked up the staircase.

  Herself was stunning. Rather like an angel ascending from the Underworld, but in reverse, she seemed to descend from the dark cloud above in a dazzle of morning sun. Her copper hair floated as she half-skipped. She saw us watching her and smiled in a friendly manner.

  In a heartbeat, I shed every promise I’d made about not doing older women any more. How old was the duchess? I guessed late twenties, lushly mature, with copper hair curling past her shoulders and fanning out on a white fur cloak, which in turn caught the air and floated out behind her, exposing the clothes underneath, which to my delight, was a blue satin dress over a pair of riding boots, the latter not at all duchess-y. She saw me notice her boots and grinned.