In the Labyrinth of Drakes

  I am not a legal expert in my own nation, let alone Akhia, but I knew that if we wanted to convict our two captives of anything, we would need something more than the suspicions of one (female) physician. Suhail’s word might be enough, depending on how much deference was given to the brother of a sheikh—but I did not want to test it.

  The Yelangese man was squirming on the floor. My first instinct was that he was trying to get away … but he stood no chance of squirming past Suhail and the three men still with us in the room, and he was not making any forward progress, besides. I almost bent to grab him, then remembered my manners. “Suhail,” I said sharply, and he turned around.

  The man thrashed as Suhail rolled him onto his back and delved into his caftan. The thrashing did him no good: Suhail’s hand emerged holding a small bag of powder, which had come open and was spilling its contents over his fingers. My heart sped up. “Here,” I said, holding out one of the dishes. Suhail dropped the bag into it and dusted his hands off—then stood there, eyeing his own fingers warily. “What now?”

  Without knowing what the powder was, I could only guess. It had not killed me or Tom … but what quantity had been going into our food? I took the corner of my headscarf in my hands and stared at it as if I had never seen fabric before, then blinked and shook sense back into my head. The knife was still on the floor. I picked it up and cut a square from the scarf, and Suhail used it to wipe his hands off. “Good thing Mother broke me of the habit of biting my nails,” he murmured, trying to smile.

  The magistrate arrived not long after that. I delivered the dish and its contents to him, while Suhail explained that the Yelangese man had been trying to disperse the evidence. Our prisoners were bundled off to the local gaol, but dealing with them would be delayed; Suhail insisted he needed to accompany me back to Dar al-Tannaneen, after a brief detour to scrub his hands clean under a street pump.

  I almost told him the escort was not necessary—that I had, after all, come here on my own, and could very well go back the same way. But I remembered my conversation with Andrew in the desert, and bit my tongue. I was glad of Suhail’s company, and the gossip-mongers be damned.

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. Then, abruptly, Suhail said, “Did you think you could take on those men by yourself?”

  My mouth had become very dry; I wished profoundly for a glass of lemonade. “I knew I would not have to do so. Even in those clothes, Suhail, I knew you. I recognized your stride.”

  He looked at me, startled. Then he looked away. I swallowed, trying to wet my throat, then said, “I was foolish, yes. But so were you. What if that man had friends with him?” He was lucky Maazir had chosen to run, rather than staying to fight.

  In a low voice I almost could not hear through the noise of the market, Suhail said, “I was not thinking very clearly.”

  The weight of everything we were not saying hung between us, as if from a rope that might snap at any moment. Suhail had seen me in peril before. He had been with me in the diving bell when the sea-serpent attacked, and had resuscitated me after I drowned. We had ridden other serpents together, stolen a caeliger, taken part in the Battle of Keonga. But at no point during that time had he been asked to sit idly by; and none of that had involved such carefully directed malice as this. He had not taken it well.

  Nor had I. My hands still shook every time I envisioned what must have happened in that cramped room while I was stopping Maazir. One strike with that knife, and Suhail might not be at my side now.

  I licked my lips and tried to focus on practical matters. “That man. The Yelangese. Maazir was going to meet him?”

  SUHAIL

  “So it appears,” Suhail answered, straightening his shoulders. “To report in, or get more poison—I’m not sure. We’ll know more once they’ve been questioned.”

  That would not stop me from speculating now. “I imagine the Yelangese want to put a halt to our work, or at least to slow it down. Anything that might hamper Scirland—and Akhia, too—in getting more caeligers. We should count ourselves lucky they haven’t been out in the desert—”

  I stopped dead in the street, and so did Suhail. His eyes had gone wide. “The Banu Safr,” he said.

  “Would they ally themselves with the Yelangese?” I asked.

  “Ally? No. Not as you are thinking of it. But take payment from, yes—especially if it gave them the chance to strike at my tribe.” A muscle jumped in Suhail’s jaw. “The feud goes back for generations. They do not lack the will to work against us, only the resources.”

  The difficulties the Aritat had faced out in the desert took on a new cast in my mind. As did every problem we had faced at the House of Dragons: how many of those had been accident, and how many the result of sabotage? I blessed the discipline of the Scirling army, and the tribal loyalty that meant the most highly placed Akhians at Dar al-Tannaneen were members of the Aritat. Without those forces to bind us together, we might have had a dozen Maazirs working against us.

  “Isabella,” Suhail said. “I know you do not think it necessary, but—you must not go anywhere without an escort now. You or Tom.”

  It was no longer a matter of propriety. Our capture of the Yelangese agent might put a stop to their efforts … or it might provoke them into trying something more extreme. “Yes,” I said, feeling cold down to the bone. “I think that is wise.”

  * * *

  I was not present for the questioning of the prisoners. Such things were considered inappropriate for ladies; Tom, who could have gone, chose not to. “If it’s anything like back home, it won’t be pretty,” he said, grimacing.

  My feelings on the matter swung wildly back and forth. One moment, I did not like to imagine the magistrate beating a confession out of either man; the next, I remembered what they had done, and I felt they had brought it upon themselves. The bag of powder the Yelangese man had tried to spill was confirmed to be arsenic, which would have been lethal in larger or more prolonged doses. Maazir’s home, when searched, turned up a cache of money that could not be explained by reputable means; there were people in the market who remembered him going to that building before, several times. We had evidence even before we had the confessions.

  Security became a good deal more stringent. I no longer ambled off to the House of Dragons with Andrew in the morning. Instead he came with three other soldiers, all of them armed, and met up with Tom at the Men’s House before coming to collect me. It felt excessive, and I said as much—but our escort remained. There were guards at the gate of Dar al-Tannaneen, patrols of the enclosures, and daily checks of the feed for humans and beasts alike.

  This state of affairs did not persist for long, however. We had scarcely settled into our new routine when the announcement came that Colonel Pensyth wanted to see us first thing that morning.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Tom murmured as we made our way through the streets of Qurrat, bracketed by our guards.

  “Andrew,” I asked, “what is this about? Have the Yelangese made some kind of threat?”

  My brother shook his head. “If they have, nobody’s told me. I just know Pensyth wants to talk to you.”

  At least he had the consideration to meet with us right away, so I did not have to fret long. Tom and I were not even asked to sit down in the waiting room before his adjutant escorted us in to see the colonel.

  I wasted no time in posing him the same question I had asked Andrew. Pensyth likewise shook his head. “No, not at all. In fact, given the recent … unpleasantness, you may be glad to know that you will not have to worry any longer. I’ve just received word: we are to close down.”

  “Glad” was not the word I would have used to describe my reaction. I sat open-mouthed, staring at Pensyth; Tom was doing the same. “Close down?” I said, a faint and disbelieving echo.

  “Yes, Dame Isabella. The dragon-breeding programme is over.”

  “But—” All my words seemed to have gone astray. I floundered after them with clumsy hands. “You haven’t
even given us a year! We’ve scarcely gathered data on their breeding habits in the wild, the incubation of the eggs—let alone tried to apply what we’ve learned—”

  Pensyth made a gesture I think was supposed to be mollifying. “I’m sorry, Dame Isabella. This wasn’t my decision: it came to me from Lord Ferdigan in Sarmizi.”

  “Give us a chance, at least.” Tom sounded as if someone were strangling him. “Six months, even. If we cannot show substantial progress by then…”

  He trailed off. Pensyth sat behind his desk, impassive. Unyielding. We would not have six months; we would not have six days. Even in my most cynical moments, I had not imagined they would pull the rug out from under us like this. The grand opportunity, the posting that might have been the pinnacle of my career: done. Ashes. Had Pensyth been within reach, I might have slapped him.

  Tom recovered before I did. His voice heavy, he said, “What are we expected to do?”

  “Naturally we’ll have to wrap things up here,” Pensyth said, with a jovial aspect that said he was relieved we hadn’t protested more. “Might as well collect the bones from the adult specimens. You can return the eggs to the wild if you like, or dissect them—it doesn’t much matter. The juveniles might pose a bit of a problem, I suppose. But don’t worry about tidying up the site itself; the sheikh’s men will take care of that.”

  Bile rose in my throat at his cavalier suggestions. All our dragons, dead: not to learn anything, not because it was necessary, but simply because we no longer had a use for them. As if they were rubbish, to be disposed of by the least troublesome means, what little value possible extracted from them in the process.

  I didn’t hear the next few things Tom said, or Pensyth’s responses. All I could think about was Lumpy. Ascelin. Saeva and Quartus and Quinta. Every dragon under our care, every living creature toward whom I had a responsibility. Soon they would be dead, and I would be on a ship back home.

  The conversation ended. Tom led me from the office, one hand on my arm, and to the devil with what people might say. He took me up onto the wall that surrounded the compound; I think he wanted to make certain I was far away from anyone else when I finally exploded.

  But I could not explode. I was too devastated for that. I sagged against the hot stone of the wall and said dully, “I was right. They had already decided this was a failure, but they didn’t want to blame Lord Tavenor. So they brought us in to be scapegoats.” Tears threatened, burning my eyes. I tensed my jaw and forced them back. “I thought they would at least give us a year.”

  Gazing out over the buildings and enclosures of Dar al-Tannaneen, Tom shook his head. The wind lifted his hair, laid it down again in disarray. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Oh, it makes every bit of sense,” I said bitterly.

  “No, I mean—” Tom stopped, hands gripping the edge of the wall. Then he turned to me, suddenly animated. “Pretend for a moment that the Akhians have gotten tired of us being here, and want us out. What do we do? Not you and I, but the Scirlings as a whole. The army.”

  “Apparently we go.”

  He chopped one hand through the air. “No. If it’s the Akhians who want us out, we argue. Try to prove our worth. Even if it’s just a stalling tactic—look, this enterprise, this alliance, has given Scirland a military foothold in Akhia. We’re stronger than they are right now, but we need their dragons. If they decide they’d rather bow out of the whole mess, we don’t just accept that; we fight it. Pensyth would be demanding we come up with something to prove our worth. But he isn’t.”

  “So it’s Scirland instead,” I said. “As I thought.”

  “But that doesn’t make any more sense. Think, Isabella. Perhaps this is a waste of time, and the Crown no longer believes we’ll succeed. Even so—why pull out? It gains them nothing, and loses our excuse to be here in Akhia, with a Scirling military garrison. What benefit could they possibly get from this?”

  None. There was no reason to close us down, except that we were no longer worth the resources spent to maintain our presence here. And however small our chance of success …

  A small chance was better than none. They would only recall us to Scirland if they didn’t need us anymore. If they had found a different solution to the problem.

  On a breath that did not carry beyond the two of us, Tom said, “Synthesis.”

  The artificial production of dragonbone. Not just the substance itself—we’d been able to do that for years—but its structure, the microscopic lattice that gave it its tremendous strength. We were trying to breed dragons for their bones, so we could build caeligers and other devices that would allow our nation to maintain its power in the world, to meet the Yelangese and defeat them. But if our people could make the necessary material in a laboratory, it would be a damned sight easier than what we’d been attempting at Dar al-Tannaneen.

  Someone at home had figured it out. We had synthetic dragonbone, and Tom and I were no longer relevant.

  Conflicting emotions warred within my heart. Synthesis would obviate the need to slaughter dragons for their bones—perhaps. Scirland would not need to kill them, at least. But we would guard the secret of the process jealously, far better than Tom and I had guarded the notes taken from Gaetano Rossi’s laboratory. Every other nation would still be reliant on natural sources to supply them. If my country launched an aerial armada, others would be forced to reply, by whatever means they could.

  And even though I had hoped for that success ever since we discovered preserved dragonbone in Vystrana, I could not help resenting its effect now. Whatever the reason, it was still robbing me of my place here. I doubted the Crown would be announcing its achievement, not any time in the near future—which meant Tom and I would be going home in disgrace, the naturalists who had failed to breed dragons. I would leave behind this place, my work … Suhail.

  Unless …

  “What are you thinking?” Tom asked warily.

  “I am thinking,” I said, choosing my words with care, “that sending us home like this is very foolish.”

  Tom cocked his head to one side, frowning. I elaborated. “Not simply the loss of what scholarly advances we might make here—though yes, that as well. But it did not take you long at all to guess why our work was no longer needed. Who is to say another will not make the same leap?”

  “The Yelangese.”

  “We certainly know they’ve been keeping watch on us. Other nations may guess as well. Sending us home is as good as sending up a banner that proclaims, Scirland has found a solution.”

  Tom leaned back against the edge of the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His energy had subsided, leaving him quiet and grim. “They won’t be able to stop it—not short of serious action, at least, that would amount to a declaration of war. But it would give them time to prepare.”

  Our military minds would want to keep this a secret as long as they could, so as to get the advantage over our enemies. I had no particular interest in supporting that aim; wars, to me, were a thing that made my work more difficult (although honesty prompts me to admit that they have on occasion also facilitated it: viz. our presence in Akhia). In this instance, however, our goals might align. “If we were permitted to stay here and carry on our work, it might mislead them for a while longer.”

  He stared at me. Then he said, enunciating each word with distinct clarity, “That would make us bait.”

  I had not thought of it from that angle. Weighed the benefit of a smokescreen against the cost of maintaining it, yes; considered the associated risk, no. “We’re already bait, Tom. Had we not met with Pensyth this morning, everything would be as it was yesterday: the two of us working to breed dragons, and the Yelangese trying to stop us.”

  “There’s a bit of difference between swimming in shark-infested water because you’re trying to retrieve something from the bottom, and staying in just because you’re already there and haven’t been eaten yet.”

  “We are still trying to retrieve something from the bott
om. All that has changed is whether anybody on shore cares whether we—Oh, hang the metaphor.” I pressed my fingertips to my temples. The removal of poison from my diet had improved my health, but the sun was bright, and I had left my hat behind in Pensyth’s office. A headscarf alone did nothing to shade my eyes. “Look, the Yelangese have been rather less dangerous to us than some of the other things we’ve faced. Poison, at least, may be watched for. Diseases and storms come regardless of caution. Do you want to stay here or not?”

  He pressed his lips together, still staring at me. Then he turned and went back to his previous pose, hands braced against the edge of the wall, looking out over the compound. This time I joined him.

  It was a steep mountain we had set ourselves to climb, trying to breed some of the largest and most dangerous predators in the world. I had entertained any number of doubts as to whether we would succeed—and still did. But to think only of that obscured the fact that there were splendid views to be had from partway up the slope, and satisfaction to be found in attaining the tops of various ridges, even if they were not the peak itself.

  It was, apparently, my turn to wander off down the twisty byways of metaphor. In simple terms, we had done a certain amount of good work at Dar al-Tannaneen, and could still do more. Even if we failed to reach our main goal, that should not be permitted to overshadow everything else we might achieve.

  And there were creatures down there in the compound whose lives depended on us. One could certainly argue that the lives of the dragons had not been improved by our interference; but having interfered, I could not simply wash my hands of them.

  “Yes,” Tom said quietly. “I want to stay.”

  I put one hand over his, pressed until he turned his hand palm-up and gripped mine in return. “Good,” I said. “Now let’s go talk to Pensyth.”