Dragonhaze: A Dragonhall Chronicles novel (The Reasoner Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  "Then get in, for the love of reason, before the sun burns you to crackling."

  Resenting the suggestion that she was some sort of sow, Dashka shot her a look, but climbed up into the carriage. She'd never much cared for the sensation of rocking from side to side and bumping over every nook and cranny in the road, but it was a degree or two cooler in the shade, and the breeze coming in through the window was refreshing.

  She leaned back in her seat and watched the city pass by. It certainly was different to home. Back there, the buildings were squat, built of heavy stone to keep out the cold. Vines grew over every spare facade, acting as extra insulation.

  Here, however, the buildings bore verandahs, which encircled each structure. Beneath wide roofs, the enormous windows were not even filled with glass.

  "I read that they build those verandahs so people can sleep there during summer," Mabyl said, pointing toward a hammock hanging over one of them. "I wouldn't want to think about the biting bugs here at night."

  "I'd imagine you wouldn't," Dashka agreed. She noticed that each one had a set of steps leading up, and often ornate posts and railing.

  They rolled past a building with a sign hanging out the front, marking it as a government office. Several workers stood on the street below, painting the railings with dark brown paint. As they brushed, she noticed a variety of symbols in white which she gathered they were painting over. They looked like a letter Y, but with all three legs of equal length and equidistance apart.

  She watched a worker splash paint over one and glanced at Mabyl. Her great aunt was looking the other way. When Dashka looked back out the window, they'd moved past the building. Whatever the symbol meant, it was bad enough the governor wanted them removed. Perhaps it was nothing, and just her imagination making a mystery where none existed.

  Chapter Four

  The evening offered some relief from the heat. As Dashka stepped where her guide indicated, she realised that the streets had filled. It made sense that people would spend their days in the shade, only coming out as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Perhaps they'd done as she had and slept during the hottest hours, when even rolling over produced sweat. Now she was wide awake, and relieved that Mabyl had stayed behind in their lodgings while she explored one of the ruins close by.

  A slight wind came up, ruffling her hair and drying her skin. In a few hours it would probably be cold.

  "Careful where you step," the guide said. He'd introduced himself as Umid, and no doubt charged her more than she should pay for his services. If there was one thing she'd learned from Mabyl, it was that if you pay well enough, people will be attentive. She'd be able to call on Umid for the duration of their stay, and he'd be there, a smile on his face, ready to share the city. With his hand out, of course, but the arrangement would benefit them both.

  She followed him down a set of steps carved into the rock, worn smooth with time and people passing. They stepped out into what she first thought was a paved courtyard. She soon realised it had once been the inside of a large building, although the crumbling columns had long ago given up supporting a roof.

  "Does it flood in here?" she asked, looking back to see they were under street level.

  "Yes. That's why it's a ruin." Umid grinned, showing rows of even, white teeth. "The people who lived here, they drowned."

  "Oh, that's terrible!"

  He shrugged. "It was three hundred years ago. Very sad at the time I suppose. They said the death of the Avona civilisation in Paryos happened because of a great flood. When this place was uncovered, they had to dig drains," he pointed across to the opposite side of the structure, "to keep the water from filling and destroying the rest of it."

  Steel grates covered wide rectangular holes. A coating of debris and rust suggested they too had been there for some time.

  "Where does the water go?" She started toward them and peered down, but saw only blackness.

  "Back to the sea," he said, coming up behind her. "But the salt in the water makes this fragile." He poked a toe at the grate and a section crumbled away. "Don't fall, you're liable to go right through. I'll remind you now there are no refunds." He chuckled while she rolled her eyes.

  "I'll bear it in mind,” she said, stepping back. She turned her attention to the wide columns and tried to picture what they looked like when new. Someone, or more likely several, had spent more hours than she could imagine, carving each one. She glanced toward Umid, awaiting his nod before she touched the cool stone with her fingertips.

  Up close, she made out the forms of dragons, some flying, some curled up in sleep, each different from all the others. A handful included draakin riding their beasts, chins lifted in pride.

  In other sections chunks of stone were missing, the surface smooth as if something had been there, but was later chipped away.

  "What happened here?" she asked. "It can't be from the floods. It looks too precise."

  Umid moved closer, until his shoulder almost touched hers. A quick sideways glance suggested that he was being careful not to.

  "Ah, the carvings were removed," he said helpfully.

  "Well obviously," she said, "but why?"

  "Oh." He leaned back and rubbed his chin. "They were depictions of people doing magic. My grandfather tells a story that after the war, the new governor and General Narick Sandvaal inspected all of the ruins personally, and ordered work crews to destroy any references to magic."

  "I see." Dashka's heart pounded. For once she was glad of the heat, it hid the flush that crept up her face.

  "Yes. And in the ziggurats, there are chambers where they removed any sign of religion as well. If they'd the skill, they might have replaced them all with pictures of people doing logical things. However, it seems the illogical and magical are easier to symbolise."

  "I suppose it would be," she agreed, trying to visualise a carving of someone in the act of logic. Perhaps a scholar. Didn't they embody all that was reasonable, at least in theory?

  "There were a lot of magin in Eritsa?" she asked. Although every governor in every province in Dargyn would deny that magic remained, the word for magic user hadn't been chipped from the vocabulary.

  Umid hesitated and glanced around. A few people had entered the ruins after them, but they stood near the steps, talking amongst themselves.

  "Eritsa once held the highest concentration of magin anywhere in Dargyn."

  She gave him a questioning look. "Magin preferred hot weather?"

  He gave a soft laugh. "No, Paryos has always been the most beautiful city in Dargyn. Some say it's the birthplace of magic itself. Young magin came to learn how to use it from those considered expert. Without the proper knowledge, magic, like anything else, was dangerous.

  "The ability to kill with a touch, or a few words of a lullaby was a powerful tool indeed. And then when the magin joined the wrong side during the war—well, what choice did the government have but to ban it, and rid Dargyn of magin?"

  "What choice indeed," she agreed.

  "Ah, but that was the past." Umid grinned. "The future is to be embraced, no?"

  "Yes," she replied, wondering at his sudden change in subject. She sensed movement nearby and realised other sightseers had moved close enough to hear.

  "Hazing shame," one of them was saying, "they won't care when there's nothing left."

  "Watch your language," snapped another.

  "It's true though," the first speaker said. He was tall, with a wide face now set in a scowl. His clothing suggested he was a local, the bright cotton in loose pants and tunic in contrast to his dour demeanour.

  "Maybe it'll never happen." One of his companions was a small woman, her dress sleeveless, but chin to knees as most Eritsan women.

  The tall man snorted so hard he had to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his nose afterward. "Braids,” he said through the fabric, "it's all about braids. The governor doesn't care about history, she just wants to line her pockets. Putting a train line through the middle of Paryos, it's unconscionable."

  "Jannad," the woman hissed, glancing toward Dashka and Umid.

  "Bah," Jannad replied, "people need to know about it." Even so, he stalked away after his companions, looking around at the ruins, muttering angrily.

  "Would they really do that?" Dashka asked.

  "It is possible," Umid replied. "When the war ended, the government of the day wanted to make things fair and safe for everyone. They wanted people to earn their promotions, and with hard work would come braids. Now," he shrugged, "some like having more braids than others, and the governor has her hand out more and more often."

  Dashka flushed when he gave her a pointed look. She hadn't asked to be better off than anyone else. Great Uncle Huberth had invested in trains while people were still laughing at the idea that people wanted to travel around Dargyn. His gamble had paid dividends before he'd sold his stake and retired.

  "But to destroy all of this, just for braids." She spread her arms to either side. In three hundred years, a city had sprung up around it, but it had managed to survive, more or less. Didn't it deserve to be left as it was, until time wore it away of its own volition?

  "It's crumbling stone," he said sadly.

  "From which you make a living," she reminded him. The ruins brought hundreds, thousands to Paryos each year. "As do the lodging houses and taverns nearby."

  He shrugged. "I can only but agree, I cannot change it." His expression was heavy. She doubted he had skills with which to earn braids, other than showing the city to people like her.

  She frowned. It seemed like the governor led with a heavy hand. Her frown deepened when he added, "But at least we are safe from magic."

  "Right."

  "Come. I'll show you the ziggurat. They should have lit the torches there by now
."

  Chapter Five

  The first of the moons snuck out from behind the cloud cover. It illuminated the rooftop, making Brish Loh duck down and freeze. His heart pounded like a slow drum in his ears. He took several shallow breaths and waited. The light retreated, leaving him again in the safe blanket of darkness. Of course, safe was a relative term when you were walking on the rooftops of Paryos. Built flat, they held water from previous rainfalls, making them slick. Or worse, the owner planted a garden, leaving little room to step without squashing growing vegetables or leaving footprints in the dirt.

  He stopped at the edge to listen. A footstep shuffled on the ground below. A muffled cough. A whispered word from one person, then a response from the other.

  He crouched down to hear, catching snatches of the conversation.

  "… sure you weren't followed?"

  "I didn't see anyone. … Storm coming … no one out in this weather."

  "It's hot as haze. What's … message?"

  Brish leaned over the side of the roof and hoped to reason it'd hold his weight. If he survived the fall, he might not live much past that. The master of the bard's guild wouldn't be happy with him for dying while spying on people he shouldn't be. His job was to look for anti-government sentiment before it became whispers in back alleys. If only he knew how Brish got most of his information. He smiled to himself. Whatever Daris Targra didn't know, would hurt.

  "Yaraz,"

  Brish decided the speaker was a woman, perhaps in her late third decade or early fourth.

  "Yaraz," the other repeated, a male voice, older and gravelly.

  Brish frowned. Was that her name? No, from the way they spoke, the word had some meaning to them both. A place then? He sat back and pictured the map of Dargyn in his mind. He couldn't recall seeing a town or village with that name. He couldn't remember anywhere even similar. Whatever it was, it seemed to be the reason for the meeting. The pair moved apart, one heading toward the entrance to the alley. The other waited a few moments before following.

  A flash of lighting out to the west spoke of a storm coming in from the ocean. That was all the incentive Brish needed to hurry away toward the guildhall.

  Brish took the time to change and dry his hair before he went to tap on the master's door. Although under orders to see him immediately if he found anything of interest, the master had glowered at Brish the one time he dripped all over his floor because Brish took it too literally. Daris hadn't said a word until Brish had finished delivering his report. By then the apprentice was shivering from head to foot. Even he had to agree he'd taken being too clever too far. That hadn't stopped him from having to mop the floor and do a week of kitchen duty, but he'd learned his lesson.

  He wrapped a towel around his head and knocked on Daris' door. The solid wood muffled the response, but he heard, "Come in" before turning the knob and stepping inside.

  Even at this late hour, the highest ranked third-level in the hall was still up, candle burning, pouring over piles of paper on his desk. No one said being guild master was glamorous. He looked up as Brish stepped into his office. Daris looked tired, faded grey eyes lined, beneath a deep brow and a receding hairline of grey, with a few remaining strands of ginger.

  "What trouble have you found this evening?" Daris asked, his voice a rich tenor trained to reach across a room even when he spoke softly. His face crinkled in a smile.

  Brish grinned back. He'd been an apprentice for four years now, long enough to know he was one of the master's favourites. He might be a rascal, but he worked hard and brought back useful information for the guild. If the punishments he received were harsher than those given to others, it was only because Daris had high expectations. Hopefully, he had no assumptions that Brish would be guild master someday. The highest position he aimed for was master of apprentices. Perhaps then he could spend his time teaching young ones how to climbs roofs and listen at windows.

  "Who me, sir? Find trouble?"

  Daris arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should put you on latrine duty and be done with it," he said dryly.

  Brish wrinkled his nose, but said, "Trouble finds me, sir."

  Daris snorted. "I doubt it. Now, report." He held a writing tool in his hand while searching for a clean sheet of paper. Brish rarely saw him without something to write with, and something to write on. The man took so many notes, reason only knew why he didn't drown under them.

  "I went to the Donkey's Ear. They still think I'm too young for ale."

  "That's because you are." Daris waved for him to continue.

  "All I heard was a rumbling about taxes being too high and wages being too low. The usual grumble. They spent all their money on ale and whores and wonder where it all went. Then they blame the hazing government for not giving them enough."

  Daris' lips tightened as Brish swore, but he said nothing. He would know that he was only repeating what he'd overheard. Not that Brish didn't use the word when he was around his friends.

  "What does that tell you?" Daris asked, keeping one eye on Brish while he wrote.

  "That people are never content," Brish replied. "Or they need better paying jobs." Seeing the look on Daris' face, he added, "Reason would suggest that they stay out of taverns and brothels, or stick to what they can afford."

  "Indeed." Daris nodded. "Anything else?"

  "As a matter of fact—" Brish told him about the people he'd overheard, but gave no details about the circumstances of the conversation. The look in the master's eyes was shrewd, making Brish wonder if maybe he'd known all along.

  "Do you know what it means?" he asked, "Yaraz?"

  Daris scratched his temple with the end of his writing tool. "Do you suppose I'd tell you if I did?" he asked. His expression was as vague as his answer. He looked concerned, but there was something else Brish couldn't put his finger on.

  "I'm sure you'd tell me if you thought I should know," he said, feigning innocence.

  Daris looked up at him sharply, but his face softened after a moment. "You are correct," he replied. He put down his writing tool and steepled his fingers. "I believe you think you should know every detail of guild matters, and those of Paryos itself, but there are many things which are—to put it simply—none of your business."

  Brish pretended to huff, but he couldn't keep the smile from his face. "Yes sir."

  Daris shook his head slightly and picked up his writing tool. "Get to work," he said, "I want a legible song on my desk by sunset tomorrow. And not—" he added before Brish could open his mouth, "about Yaraz. That stays between you and me. Understood?"

  "Yes sir." In a way Brish was relieved. A scolding song about the waste of braids was easier than some enigmatic word which may or may not have a deeper meaning. He might even have half a song written which he could polish off in a few minutes. Then he could—

  "Apprentice," Daris said as he turned to leave, "a new song. In double time."

  Haze! He'd have to start from scratch. "Yes, sir." He sighed as he stepped out the door and started down the corridor. Hearing footsteps in the other direction, he turned to see the guild's second, Hailyn Marse, enter Daris' office. He hesitated for a moment before stepping lightly back and stopping just outside.

  "We could have a problem," he heard Daris say.

  His heart skipped. He'd known that there was some important meaning to whatever yaraz was, but maybe it was more serious than he'd suspected.

  "One of our young apprentices overheard—"

  A tap on Brish's shoulder made him all but jump out of his skin. He bit back a vocal response and tasted blood on his tongue.

  "What are you doing?" At least Waya had the sense to whisper.

  "I—" He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down the corridor, giving the office door a last wistful look before they rounded a corner. "I was listening," he whispered back.

  "To what?" She planted her hands on her hips and looked down at him. He was of shorter than average height, making her at least a head taller than him. Dark, wavy hair framed a face that would take no nonsense from anyone. That, he'd decided long ago, was why she was one of his best friends. She kept him from doing too many stupid things, and vice versa. Her temper was as irrepressible as his curiosity. Luckily, it was rarely aimed at him.