The Rook
“I suppose the civil service is always the civil service,” said Gubbins breezily.
“Well, thanks to Noel whatever’s research, this dragon egg was brought to our attention. Now, these things take centuries to hatch, but this kid, with freakish attention to detail, calculated the exact date of the hatching.”
“The exact date?” asked Gubbins skeptically.
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m no dragon expert, but it seems they’re fairly punctual about this sort of thing. Our little prodigy did some math, got a long-suffering tutor at the Estate to drive him out there, and his powers told him that the dragon in the egg was alive and would be hatching this evening. You and I are going to make sure everything is ready. Which is why we are going up so early.”
“And this all happened in the past few days?”
“No, this happened about six months ago,” I said wearily. “But I had to authorize the ground scans and excavations.”
“Excavations?”
“Dragons bury their eggs pretty deep,” I said. “So we have been conducting a discreet archaeological dig.”
“And now we are going to witness the hatching of a dragon egg?”
“Uh-huh. But not just the hatching. This kid…” I shuffled through my papers. “His name is Noel Bittner. And he maintains that he will be able to establish some sort of psychic rapport with the dragon when it hatches. He says he’s already touched minds with it and that they will bond when it emerges.”
“Fascinating,” said Gubbins.
“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically. “So naturally we have to have half the Court there to witness the occasion. A Rook, a Chev, a Bishop, and the Lord. In addition to all the support staff, and Bittner.”
“So, where are the Bishop and the Lord?” he asked pointedly.
“Bishop Alrich will arrive after sundown with Sir Henry,” I said bitterly. “They’re flying up.” He nodded glumly, and we both settled down with our laptops and the many, many papers that are necessary if you are going to run any government department.
By the time we arrived at the site, I was starving and Gubbins was suffering from a bad case of cabin fever. You would think that a man so flexible would do all right in a small, enclosed space. After all, I know for a fact that he can fit himself into a suitcase and remain there for seven hours. I’ve seen him do it. But within the relatively spacious confines of a Rolls-Royce limousine, he managed to drive both himself and me to the brink of insanity.
Only scrupulous good manners (which we had both acquired at gunpoint at the Estate) and the fact that he was my favorite member of the Court prevented us from coming to sharp words. As it was, we both bounded out of the car into the snow with an enthusiasm that surprised the Pawn waiting for us. Gubbins’s bodyguard emerged somewhat more slowly but with even wilder eyes. Anthony, who had been up front with the driver, seemed positively languid by comparison.
“Rook Thomas, Chevalier Gubbins, welcome to the Hatchery,” the Pawn said wearily.
“Thank you, Pawn Cahill,” I said, looking up at her. She was tall, and dressed in the kind of casual clothes that will let you kill someone easily and won’t draw attention from passersby. Khakis are good for this sort of thing. “Gubbins, this is Pawn Breeshey Cahill. She’s been overseeing this project since it was brought to our attention by Bittner.” She flinched at the mention of his name. From what I’d heard, Bittner had taken his discoveries to mean that he was head of the entire show. For Pawn Cahill, who had been obliged to simultaneously stroke his ego and run a thirty-man operation, it had been somewhat trying.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pawn Cahill,” said Gubbins, like the gentleman he was. “I understand you’ve been working under difficult conditions, but I’ve heard nothing but good about the way you’ve handled everything.” She flushed with pleasure. “Thank you for meeting us,” he continued. “I know it’s an early morning.”
“Coming on the end of an extremely long six months,” she said, smiling at him. I marveled for a moment at how she blossomed under his attention. She hadn’t brushed me off exactly, but her eyes seemed to slide over me to him. I’d been disregarded, and it chafed. It didn’t used to bother me, but since I learned what is going to happen—since I learned about you—I’ve been observing myself more. People ignore me. They scan right over me, and they do it because I’m not… not what they expect a leader to be.
I brought myself back to the conversation. Cahill was explaining the details of the facilities that had been installed. I listened and mentally ticked off all the expenditures I had authorized. Checquy archival crew with camera equipment. Scientists with sensory equipment. A huge mobile refrigeration unit for housing the dragon when it hatched. One of our satellites put into geosynchronous orbit above us. Accommodations for the excavation crew. A relatively plush command center. Catering. It had cost an astonishing amount of money, and still Bittner the wunderkind hadn’t been pleased. He’d wanted the egg and the entire shebang moved to Stonehenge. When that had been denied, he’d wanted a new Stonehenge created somewhere else. My observers at the site had reported he’d been outraged at some of the other things I’d denied him. If he knew what I had authorized, his outrage would have known no bounds.
“… and if you’ll follow us over to the farmhouse, there’s breakfast waiting for you,” finished Cahill.
“The farmhouse?” repeated Gubbins.
“Yes, this land was a private farm,” she explained. “We acquired it for a handsome sum.” I listened silently but mentally added the qualifier that it had been I who vetoed the proposal that we pay the farmer a pittance and use government authority to “scare the living hell out of him,” as Bittner had suggested in one of his many memos. Remembering the appalling treatment of my father, I had opted for the kinder side of eminent domain. We had paid the farmer well and provided a cover story calculated to allay concerns and discourage interest.
Pawn Cahill gently guided us through a complex of temporary structures to the farmhouse, where a gorgeous buffet had been set up. I may have scrimped in some areas, but one of the lessons my teachers at the Estate had drilled into me was that an army marches on its stomach. As a result, I always made sure there was a good catering staff at all long-term field operations.
Gubbins, the bodyguards, and I gathered up platefuls of pastries and hot food and poured ourselves brimming cups of coffee, fueling up for a long day of finalizing details. We had all settled down when the door burst open with a bang. Anthony produced, seemingly out of his armpits, a pair of submachine guns, while Gubbins’s skeletal bodyguard (whose name was Jonas) turned out to have been hiding a sawed-off shotgun within his robes. (Did I mention he was wearing robes? Well, he was. Bright purple ones.)
“Stop,” I said quietly to the bodyguards. The person who came into the room pointedly ignored them.
“So, you’re Rook Thomas,” he said loudly. I had recognized him instantly as Noel Bittner—something about his overwhelmingly irritating arrogance and the fact that he was still unable to drink alcohol legally. And his glasses. “I have put up with your small-minded limiting of funds. I understand that not everyone can appreciate the astounding opportunities that exist here. The unique forces at work today allow a chance for majesty, pride, and magic to reenter these islands!” He paused for breath, and Gubbins murmured to me out of the side of his mouth, “Should we have them shoot him?”
I shook my head. “Apparently he’s the one who needs to bond with the dragon,” I whispered back. Gubbins looked as if he wanted to reply, but Bittner had already commenced another rant, armed with more outrage.
“I would expect that a Rook of the Checquy would have an understanding of the raptures surrounding this event and would not have denied the appropriate conditions for the dragon to emerge into this world. I had heard rumors about you, but I could not believe that you would be so inured to the wonder of this occasion. And now! Now I have just learned that you have allowed armed soldiers on this site, not to gu
ard the hatchling, but to stand by to kill it.” Bittner leaned over the table, talking in my face. Instinctively, I shrank back, and noticed with disgust that he was spitting on my food.
“I demand that you remove the troops! The dragon and I have already touched minds, and it may sense the horror I feel. I can’t promise that I will be able to soothe it, even with my innate empathy.” He glared at me. Behind me, Anthony was tensed, ready to crush the boy utterly, and I tried to take heart from his presence.
“Noel,” I began quietly.
“I prefer to be called Adept Bittner,” he said. Gubbins raised his lack of eyebrows but refrained from pointing out that no such title existed.
“Adept Bittner,” I said. “I can understand your concern.” He swelled righteously, and I hastily continued. “But you must understand that not everyone can easily comprehend what is going on here. This is an unusual situation, even for the Checquy.” I could mangle words with the best of them, and this was a kid who had clearly read too much of a certain kind of book. His righteous swelling changed subtly to prideful puffing. “These men are not here for the dragon but rather to reassure the visitors, who are exceptionally important, as befits the situation.” Bittner nodded reluctantly.
“I understand. And it’s not as if bullets could harm the dragon; it was the disrespect I objected to.”
“Rest assured,” I said, “we are sensible of the honor that is being done here.” He liked that and nodded in a manner that he probably thought grave and wise. I took a deep breath. “Adept Bittner, will you join us for breakfast?” Beside me, I could feel Gubbins recoil at the prospect.
“No,” said Bittner, casting a reluctant look at the buffet. “I am fasting in preparation for this evening. Now I must go to the egg and commune with the dragon.” Noel Bittner swept out, and I pushed my plate away with an unsteady hand. He wasn’t a scary person, but I didn’t like being shouted at by anyone.
“Myfanwy,” said Gubbins. “I cannot believe you let that little shit talk to you like that. I don’t care how talented he is, you are a member of the Checquy Court, and he is just a student at the Estate.” Gubbins was pissed off—not just at Bittner, but at me. I took a deep breath.
“Chevalier Gubbins,” I said. “This is the only person who can communicate with the dragon. If we can stop it from doing what dragons traditionally do, which involves flying all around the place burning houses and eating hundreds of humans before heading north, then it will be a good thing. If we can bring it under the control of the Checquy, then it will be a great thing. To that end, I will put up with almost any amount of shit.” Gubbins subsided, but I could tell he was not happy. Wordlessly, I stood up and got myself a fresh breakfast.
The rest of the day was spent overseeing preparations for the hatching. It was winter, and although the egg had been moved from its hole, it couldn’t be brought inside. Dragons like it cold. Really, really cold. So even though it was below zero, we’d had a huge cooling apparatus set up. There also needed to be special accommodation so that humans could observe closely without freezing to death or being killed by a newborn dragon’s temper tantrum. So a ring of viewing chambers had been placed around the egg, furnished with comfortable chairs, heaters, bulletproof glass, brandy, and opera glasses. And heavily bundled snipers on top. All the luxuries of home.
By the time the helicopter arrived, it had been dark for quite a while, and I’d been able to shower in the farmhouse and put on something slightly more formal. After all, it’s not every day that you appear at the birth of a dragon. Gubbins and I were both stationed at the entrance to the pavilion, ready to welcome the last witnesses from the Court.
“Good evening, Sir Henry,” I said demurely. “Welcome.” The Lord crunched through the snow, nodded benevolently, and hurried into the heated room, casting off his heavy coat. Gubbins followed him to make him comfortable, leaving me to welcome Alrich, who came out of the darkness. The guards tensed discreetly. Everyone was cold, and a light snow had begun to fall, glowing in the glare of the lights, but Alrich glided over the ground without a sound. He left no footprints in the snow, and his breath didn’t steam. His hair shimmered like burning blood, and he was dressed in thin black silk. Waiting for him, even with the heat coming through the door behind me, I shivered.
“Bishop Alrich,” I whispered. He smiled and nodded his head slightly. I was ready for him to glide past me, but he offered his arm, and, gulping, I accepted it. Behind us, the glass doors slid shut, and I began to regain feeling in my feet. Gubbins was introducing Sir Henry to various key members of the site staff.
“… and this is Noel Bittner,” he finished. Bittner swept forward, stepping on my foot. He was dressed in some sort of tailored robe with a hood, which was drawn back. Sir Henry looked at him with an amiable smile that deepened when Bittner made a deep bow. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I had to acknowledge that we all made habitual obeisances before the heads of the Checquy. Though we didn’t generally clap our fists to our chests and sink to one knee.
“So this is the young man who has unearthed both the history of the egg and the egg itself,” said Sir Henry in approval. I saw Pawn Cahill stiffen, but she kept her mouth shut.
“Actually, Sir Henry, Pawn Cahill oversaw the excavation,” I said discreetly, and Bittner shot me a dirty look.
“Ah, of course,” said Sir Henry benevolently, clasping her hand and giving it a hearty shake. “Damn impressed with the setup here. Rook Thomas sent along the reports, and I gather it was a first-rate operation.” She brightened while Bittner looked on sourly.
“Noel,” I said, “this is Bishop Alrich,” and the little snot stepped back slightly. He’d been drawn to the power of Sir Henry, but Alrich intimidated him. Enough so that he didn’t correct me for not using his self-bestowed title. He bowed, another choreographed affair but one that was a little less prostrating. Alrich, to my amusement, said nothing and merely gave a small nod. Bittner rose uncertainly before checking his watch.
“Sir Henry, it’s almost time for the egg to hatch,” he said. “If you will excuse me?” Sir Henry nodded, and Bittner strode off. He slid open a door leading into the courtyard where the egg stood, and I flinched as the wind blew in.
I’d taken the opportunity to inspect the egg earlier in the day. Dark blue, with a faintly pebbled surface and centuries’ worth of dirt ground in, it was twice as tall as me and would have taken four or five of me holding hands to encircle it. It was still, a little snow piled up on top of it, and it made me very uncomfortable. Bittner invited me to touch it, but, wary of any possible activation of my powers, I put my hands behind my back and declined. He responded with a contemptuous smirk.
Now the egg was illuminated by spotlights, and the drifts of snow around it had melted. A wooden walkway stretched up to it, and it was along this that Noel Bittner walked, his robe flapping in the wind. In the viewing galleries surrounding the egg, technicians, biologists, historians, and a camera crew were all watching intently. On the roof, a ring of Checquy troops were armed with a variety of weapons. The historical texts were hazy about how to kill a dragon, since no one in recorded history had ever managed it. In our section, we settled back in vast armchairs and accepted beverages from a butler. The lights dimmed overhead, but the lights on the courtyard brightened, so we could see everything clearly.
Bittner was rigged with a hands-free radio so that his every reaction and observation could be recorded for posterity. He was breathing deeply. I suspect it was on purpose. His stance was, to my eye, overly dramatic—he’d spread his arms, and his thin robe flapped in the wind. I suppose he had thought this would appear striking in the icy cold, but after Alrich’s entrance, anything short of actual nudity was unimpressive. Besides, I’ve never had any patience for posers.
“It’s warm under my hands” came Bittner’s breathless report through the intercom. “I’d say we have two minutes.”
One of the scientists’ voices came through next. “All observers, don your protective eyewe
ar and sporrans.” The butler came around with a tray full of glasses that looked like old motorists’ goggles. There were also little lead-filled aprony things that we draped over our laps.
“One minute,” said Bittner. I smoothed my skirt anxiously and then replaced the lead sporran. Around me, the other observers were tense, and Alrich, as always, was utterly still, no breath stirring his body. All of us were staring at Bittner’s white hands on the egg and listening to his voice over the intercom.
“It’s stirring. I can feel its movements. Its muscles are flexing within the shell.” He was milking the occasion for all it was worth. And why not? After all, this was the sort of thing that could make a career in the Checquy.
Besides, now I could feel it too.
It was there, faintly itching on the edges of my perception. I looked around to see if the others could sense it, but they were all intent on the adolescent prodigy communing with the waking monster. I had a twinge of last-minute doubt. Dragons had ravaged Europe before, killing untold numbers. In front of us was the last of a dynasty that had faded by the fourteenth century. An eleventh-hour surge of the bloodlines, and now we were watching it emerge.
I sensed the movement within the shell. Muscles flexed against their containment, and mine flexed in unconscious sympathy. I felt the stirrings of panic in my stomach. Normally, to use my powers I need to be touching someone. Occasionally, when someone is under major physical or mental pressure, I get hints of that person. But this was different. My fingers hooked into claws, and I strained against my own muscles to straighten them out. I wanted to spread my wings and scream into the air.
Bittner had fallen silent, but we could all see the egg rocking slightly. Then a claw cut through the shell, stabbing like a stiletto. It was neat, controlled, slicing through the egg and peeling off six-inch-thick sections. In a shockingly short amount of time, the egg had fallen away and we could see a mass of brown scales. Bittner spread his arms and the dragon uncurled, limbs stretching, tendons snapping into place. A serpentine neck drew itself out and up. Massive, fanlike wings were unfurled up into the sky. We watched, spellbound.