The Birthday Dragon Read online

  Saraia waved an elegant hand, and the sun from the window flashed through the gems in her rings. For the first time I noticed her jewellery, which gives you an idea of how beautiful she was, because even one of the pieces would have faded a lesser woman. Gold rings on every finger, some set with heart-shaped sapphires and diamonds, matching combs in her hair, and a matching, breathtaking, necklace. I tried not to stare at it, lying across her collarbones. The faceted centre stone, a dark blue heart, was the biggest jewel I’d ever seen.

  I took my attention quickly back to her face as she went on, “I’m quite annoyed with Perry for dying while I’m still annoyed with him.” She laughed. “Excuse my vehemence,” she said, “I really am still annoyed.” I laughed too.

  “My mother would be completely furious if Father died,” I said, “but then she thinks he’ll change. Drunks don’t change.” I paused, suddenly aware of what I’d said, and about the late Crown Prince, no less. “Sorry.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Saraia, looking serious. “I should have divorced him. Drunks, any kind of addict, they don’t get fixed by other people. And he was still in denial over it, didn’t even think it was a problem.”

  “My parents have been together for twenty years,” I said, and sighed. “Mother threatens divorce at least twice a year. So far, she hasn’t managed it. They also tried sending me away before. Lots of times. It didn’t fix their marriage either.” We shook our heads. By mutual agreement, we changed the subject to a lighter one, the hunting around Peterhaven.

  The coach was stopped at the city gate despite its occupants, then it and the escort platoon were thoroughly checked. With eighty soldiers, twenty or so non-com’s, and sixteen officers, that took some time. We couldn’t proceed without a full platoon, king’s orders.

  “Kingdom security alert,” the men at the gate kept parroting, ignoring the fact that the alert was to protect the Crown Prince, not keep him waiting at the gate. Saraia rolled her eyes then sat on the step of the coach and had a pipe of mindweed.

  “You’re both too young to smoke,” she said, smiling.

  “She’s cruel to me,” said Azrael, “does your mother let you smoke?” I shook my head.

  “Not often,” I said, “and not in public. She gave me some after she told me I was coming to Peterhaven. To lessen the shock, I suppose.”

  “Spring it on you, did they?” said Azrael.

  “Told me last night as I was going to bed,” I said, exaggerating for effect. Saraia choked on her pipe, and Azrael laughed and laughed. I grinned. It was good to make people laugh. As Grandmama Daeva said, if you could manage it, making your travails into a funny story often shifted your own perceptions, and wasn’t half as boring for your listener.

  Eventually we piled back into the coach and moved on. I was feeling good. It was only mid-morning and I’d befriended a princess, had a good time with her, and discovered that I already knew the Crown Prince of Sendren. This beat Lower Beech by miles. I was sitting by the window by then, with Saraia next to me and Azrael next to her.

  The lip of the valley hid Citadel Hill for now, but I was in Peterhaven, the Royal City. Saraia was lecturing Azrael on how to behave again. I listened with half an ear as she reminded him that neither of them wanted to be here but had to make the best of it. Azrael didn’t seem to be missing his father much.

  “You must at least pretend to be bereft,” Saraia was saying. The dry humour reminded me of my own mother and I felt a sudden wave of poignant sorrow wash over me. I wondered if Mother and Father were fighting or happier without me then remembered Mother screaming and throwing things and immediately felt better. I found that mind picture invaluable as I settled into the city. Whenever I began to get nostalgic over my life with my parents, I would imagine Father drunk and Mother angry.

  With the assistance of the soldiers, the coachman was doing his best to get his coach to the citadel in time for it to leave on a trip to Malion, which was in the neighbouring kingdom of Highcliff. Men were riding ahead, and I could hear the shouts,

  “Make way! Make way! Make way for the Crown!” This was the life.

  ****

  The coach crested a rise and there in the distance, so high I had to crane my neck to see it, was the Citadel Hill. I’d seen pictures of course, but nothing prepared me for the reality. The complex was partly visible behind a high wall, a series of three large buildings on the terraced slope, each with three floors above the ground, and behind the citadel at the top was a large park with pastureland and whole forests of mature trees.

  The Green Dragon Citadel was a fantastic conceit, the visible structure appearing to float tethered by long vines. The mass of the walls disappeared behind a forest of mature trees in giant camouflaged pots. They were set around and up the face of the building, further disguised by terrace and balcony gardens of plants and vines. The illusion of being a growing plant, not a fixed architecture, continued with elegant facades of a dark green marble, threaded with gold that winked with every spark of light, as if one was looking into a forest dappled with sunlight.

  It took my breath away. For nearly two thousand years it was called the Greened Citadel but once Dragon came, like many other places, the name changed.

  “It is rather silly,” Saraia said next to me, “but spectacular.” I laughed.

  “That’s an excellent description.” On the roofscape, giant arrays of solar panels followed the sun, flashing ruby, emerald, gold and blue. I was glad I didn’t have to clean that lot, the set-up on the barn at Blue Hill Farm looked like a toy in comparison. The city was spread over several hills around the Citadel Hill, and I lost sight of the citadel buildings again as the coach dipped into the next valley.

  To my surprise, the architectural style in the capital was quite different from Beechwood. The stone was no longer the peach of my home duchy but a pale grey, though they used the same blue slate on the roofs. Instead of only the main roads having bioplas surfaces, the roads were all paved and surfaced. Set bioplas held the surface together and deadened the noise, so it was surprisingly quiet despite all the people and wheeled transport. You could hear people’s voices over the hum of wheels and the soft thud of hooves. It was very busy, unsettling but exciting.

  I’d never seen so much traffic but the main road we were on was wide enough that our military escort could force other travellers to the inside lane without causing chaos. Nobody was supposed to stop in the main streets, Saraia told me, and deliveries were in the alleyways or at specified times.

  “Have to be rules,” she said, “or the city would stop moving.” There were hundreds of shops. I couldn’t imagine how they all made money. They seemed to sell everything I could imagine and several things I couldn’t. It took me a few moments to figure out what a foundation garment was, and likewise instrument fitting was something at first I couldn’t imagine. I wanted to get out and walk along despite the crowds, but for now the coach continued at a spanking trot, the soldiers all around and the continual cry,

  “Make way! Make way for the Crown!” Passers-by looked at me, and I could see them wondering who I was. I felt a little apologetic, as if I should shout,

  “I’m nobody! Sorry!”

  ****

  Chapter 8 – Welcome to the Citadel

  There was a steep ascent to the citadel gate and the road did several switchbacks, the horses snorting and blowing, leaning into the traces.

  I could see why they said the citadel couldn’t be taken. In each direction any attacker would be stopped by high walls over hundred-foot cliffs, and you weren’t going to make it up the exposed and winding direct road, where a defender could simply lob rocks at you until you gave up or were squashed beyond redemption. And this was the low side, it was even higher on the other. In event of invasion, everyone in the kingdom was supposed to withdraw to specified fortresses like this one.

  The gate guards knew Fenric and despite the security emergency, waved us through on his cognisance. They called him colonel, although
the guards we travelled with called him just captain or Fenric.

  “Is Fenric a colonel?” I said. “He looks too young.” He did look youngish for that rank, thirty at a guess, but I was fishing for information because I thought him most impressive. Despite my aversion to the army I wanted to be Fenric in some ways, big, bluff and fierce, with eyes that stared right through a person. I admired him immensely. It wasn’t sexual at all.

  “Aye,” said Azrael, sounding proud, “only thirty-three, but he was a full colonel in the Army of the North. He won the Black Dragon, for exceptional bravery in a covert operation, twice. He’s a captain now because he’s captain of our personal security.” I was impressed, struck with a case of hero worship of my own. Two Black Dragons? I resolved to see if he might talk about it, though from my experience with others I guessed it was probably too soon.

  The coach moved through the gate and into a series of hairpin bends that were easier on the horses than a straight hill. Azrael pointed out the stables on the right. On the left and proceeding up the hill were a series of large buildings - the old fort, the new fort, and then the citadel - all connected by various walkways and paths, with high front facades dotted with wide balconies and terraces that supported even more plant life. I guessed the full-time gardener count was close to a thousand.

  “They have a guidebook to help you find your way round,” said Saraia, “but there are basic rules. Meals and the bathhouses are in the citadel unless your servants arrange otherwise. Do you know where you’re staying?”

  “No,” I said, looking up at the biggest series of edifices I’d seen in my life, and feeling incredibly small. The Citadel Hill complex made Sutherland Castle look like a dowdy little place and the whole of Lower Beech a flyspeck. Saraia’s voice broke into my thoughts,

  “Come with us, we can find out. Administration has an office right near the front of the citadel, they should know.”

  “Where are you staying?” I said without thinking, and then felt my cheeks get hot. I hadn’t meant to sound so personal. “I mean generally,” I added.

  “I believe the North Tower,” she said, smiling, “which is up on the left hand side of the citadel from here. Azrael will be in the main citadel building, in the Queen’s Mews, which is close to me. At least, that’s what the king promised.”

  We alit from the coach under the watchful eye of a towering copper statue, all green with verdigris, and the king himself was there. We’d never met but people were Your Majesty’ing him, so it was obvious. A servant took my bag and disappeared up into the citadel. I waited politely with the rest.

  The king embraced Azrael, then he and Saraia were icily polite to each other. Azrael and the king had the same colouring, black hair and blue eyes, though the king’s hair was greying. I guessed the monarch was maybe five-feet-four and stocky, carrying fifty pounds more than he should, whereas Azrael was my height, about six feet, and lean. The king was wearing a scarf round his neck and half-whispering as if he had laryngitis. To top off the effect, the whites of his blue eyes were bright red. It made him seem quite bizarre, like a very camp and possibly mad uncle, of which I had a surfeit.

  As usual at family events, I ignored strangeness and kept smiling. As Mother always said, inbreeding brings madness, both kinds. Mad-but-not-dangerous, and mad-and-dangerous. I wondered if the king was one of the latter. Meanwhile, His Majesty finished greeting Azrael and Saraia introduced me, Master Polo Shawcross, late of Lower Beech.

  “Tess Casterton’s boy, sire,” she said. The king turned and to my surprise, gave me a hug. I wasn’t so surprised that I didn’t politely hug him back. He let go and stepped back.

  “Galaia preserve me,” he said with a big smile, “so you’re Tess’s son. I remember when she was less than your age, doesn’t seem possible she’s mother of such a strapping lad. How is she?”

  “Mother’s well, Your Majesty. She sends her best wishes, as does my father, and we’re all very grateful for your hospitality.” He gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  “Nonsense,” said the king, “my home is your home, Polo, and you’re to call me Uncle Theo. After all, we’re family.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Theo,” I said, “I’d also like to say how sorry I am about your son.”

  “Thank you, Polo,” said the king, “it’s a terrible business.”

  ****

  The king ushered us up the stairs, and we began talking about a recent cavalry battle up in the north that was in the news, where our General Slade had won a great victory.

  Swept along on a tide of servants and courtiers, before I knew it we were up the stairs and through the huge open doors. The architecture was impressive and the decor overwhelming.

  Men were wearing silk and satin, not to mention beaded shoes. The women were likewise done up in finery. If Azrael and I weren’t dressed much the same, in casual trousers and jackets matched with jumpers and shirts with plain shoes, I’d have felt horribly underdressed along with overwhelmed.

  We were shown into the Peacock Dining Room, where morning tea was being served. Saraia excused herself, and the king had Azrael and I sit with him. First they brought round hot damp towels, and everyone sighed happily, wiping their hands and faces. The tea was at once a dizzying pleasure and a nightmare, the business of trying not to swear, to eat with my mouth closed, make polite chat, keep my elbows in, and not be a pig.

  I don’t think I managed the latter. An ordinary, fit young man, I could eat most of a horse at a sitting. Servants kept coming past with trolleys filled with irresistible delicacies. They seemed to take it personally if one didn’t try the particular morsels they offered. There were tiny open sandwiches, bursting with tangy flavours, in delicate mouthful-sized bites. It was the first time I had tasted smoked salmon, presented on caraway-scented triangles of rye bread with soft cream cheese, little capers, tiny sprigs of dill, and a delicate saucing of lemon juice. One of my favourites was lean bacon dressed with maple syrup on buttered brown bread.

  I ate fat golden pork pies, creamy stuffed vol-au-vents, and various unctuous pates with either toast or crackers. The chicken liver with port pate was rich and smooth, decorated with slivers of cucumber and sliced radish. There were even bite-size scotch eggs made, so the servant told me, from the boiled eggs of bantams, rolled in spiced pork and breadcrumbs then fried.

  A delicate arrangement of pickles, vegetable flowers, and citrus-glazed pickled pork on a platter was pressed into my willing hands. I finished that then the corned beef sandwiches came past, the beef just warm enough to be melting the butter, said the servant trying to tempt me, topped with tomato sliced thin, and smeared with a nice dollop of mustard pickle. I had several.

  As I relaxed, I realised not everyone was dressed up. Some were obviously in from a ride or a spar, sweaty and due a shower, though their riding clothes were so beautifully-made and of such high quality cloth it looked as if they were ready for a formal event. I commented on the tailoring of people’s casual clothes, and Azrael mentioned that lunch and dinner meant dressing up, but breakfast and teas allowed a less formal dress.

  The servants were very friendly and explained everything in voices low enough that other people didn’t hear. I watched what people did, and copied. The other Blood were wearing a bizarre range of fashions, including an old man dressed as a woman, who gravely offered flowers from a carried bouquet.

  A servant replenished the bouquet, and I was told the man was known as Old Galaia, after the Goddess of the World, but used to be a duke in the south of Sendren. His son was steward there until the old man died. Meantime, Old Galaia stayed at Court, along with several of his family.

  I didn’t know how the king stood it, all the visitors, and the mad-but-not-dangerous thronging around all the time, the women throwing themselves at him while men did the same, only with less cleavage. How did a man stand that? It was unsettling. I didn’t mind being popular or even notorious because of who I was, but not because of a title.

  Old Galaia skip
ped up and gave me a carnation. I thanked him, and smelled the flower, a pretty soft pink ruffled head.

  “Blessings of the goddess upon you, my son,” the old man said in a high-pitched voice. I was prepared to feel sorry for him, but his face was so suffused with joy I figured he might be misguided and mad, but was at least beyond any pain.

  “And with you, goddess,” I said, imitating what others said to him, and not wanting to be rude. The carnation had such a sweet scent.

  “The Crown supplies them for Herself, lordship,” said a servant in a low voice, “never let anyone tell you Himself has no heart.”

  “It’s alright for,” I said, and hesitated, “Old Galaia to be running around?”

  “Herself is mad-but-not-dangerous, lordship,” the man said. “A fair number of them here but they’re safe, plenty of staff to keep an eye on them. Meals being a distance from the new fort, the visitors have to walk for their food, so it keeps them fit. Only the very infirm get housed nearer meals.” Right then, one of the citadel cats attacked Galaia’s fluttering dress, bringing her, or him, down as neatly as a leopard with a gazelle. Galaia squawked, and the cat hooked its claws around the goddess’s leg then bit down hard on the back of her calf.

  Servants rushed to lend a hand and unhooked the cat to eject it, over the protests of several of the Blood saying oh, let the poor beast stay. The servants were not swayed, there being rules. Cats weren’t supposed to be let in the food rooms when there was food in there. “Place would be overrun with vermin without the cats, lordship,” said the servant, “but you know how cats are, they aren’t like dogs, you can’t train the killer out of them.”

  “They’re dangerous to people?” He laughed.

  “No, lordship,” he said, trying to stop smiling, “they just spike you with a claw every so often, as cats do. And they won’t stay off the tables.” I pretended I hadn’t thought it was anything more. The place was fraught with ways to embarrass oneself. In Lower Beech I knew the rules. It was up to me to break them if I wished, but I knew them. Here I hadn’t a clue. And I wasn’t wearing an armband.