Within the Sanctuary of Wings

  I frowned, one finger tapping my lip. “Have any of them reported finding unusual remains? Carcasses, bones—”

  Lord Rossmere gave me a look fit to freeze a specimen solid. “They are not there to study the wildlife, Lady Trent. Their attention is on other things.”

  Thu Phim-lat had spared a fragment of his attention for this matter. Assuming, of course, that he was telling the truth.

  He was maddeningly close-mouthed about his find. I knew why; it was his one bargaining chip, apart from what he knew about the terrain of the Mrtyahaima, which the Khiam Siu were not going to surrender without gaining a good deal more in return. Mr. Thu did let slip at one point, however, that the location was not of any particular use for invading Yelang, as the mountains there were much too difficult to traverse.

  That narrowed down the list of places he might have been … to only half of an impossibly large area. It was still too much. I tried again with Paul, this time accosting him at a garden party. “Mr. Thu believes more specimens may be found in the region, if we search. But if we wait, someone else will discover them first, and then we shall lose this scholarly coup. Possibly even to Yelang!”

  Paul only snorted. “No one in the government cares about that, Isabella. Dragon specimens, however interesting, have no military value.”

  I swallowed the impulse to point out that the bone specimens we discovered in Vystrana had turned out to have tremendous value, both military and otherwise. Bringing up that matter would only do me more harm than good.

  Despite my restraint, one Synedrion member (who shall remain nameless here) was blunt enough to say it to my face, in the lobby of the chamber where the Closed House met. “Why in God’s name do you expect anyone here to do you favours, Lady Trent? It’s your fault we’re facing caeligers from half a dozen nations in this aerial war, instead of just Yelang.”

  “I had nothing to do with Mr. Broadmay’s actions,” I snapped. The words came out by reflex; it was not the first time I had uttered them.

  The gentleman grunted, as if the response he wanted to make was a good deal more vulgar. “Do you deny that you encouraged him?”

  “I most certainly do. That I spoke out against the slaughter of dragons for their bones, I confess; but I never spoke directly to Mr. Broadmay, and had he introduced himself and explained his plan, I would have dissuaded him.”

  I would have tried, at least. Even now, I am not certain how sincere I would have been in my hypothetical attempt to stop him. Justin Broadmay, having heard my lectures and read my essays, had sought out a position at one of the factories producing synthetic dragonbone. His express intent, as confessed before a judge, was to learn both the chemical makeup of the substance and the process used to give it the proper structure, and then disseminate his collected information around the world.

  I cannot even say that I think he was wrong. Once upon a time, I feared that the discovery of a method for preserving natural dragonbone would have disastrous consequences for the beasts, as humans slaughtered them for material. I had poured all I could afford and more into pursuing a replacement, especially once the preservation method became known in other countries. When Scirling scientists finally developed that replacement, however, I realized that it had created a new problem.

  The availability of a form of dragonbone we could produce at will, in the shapes desired, spurred a great many subsequent developments, not least of all in the field of war. And if other countries wished to keep up, they would have no choice but to harvest as much as they could … from natural sources.

  The only solution was to make the replacement formula as widely available as the one for preservation. It did not entirely remove the competition, of course: now everyone was racing to acquire the necessary raw materials, and flogging their own engineers to build newer and better devices from this miracle substance. But there was no putting that jinni back in the bottle; once preservation had been achieved—and it was inevitable that someday it should be—we could only move forward.

  For better or for worse, Justin Broadmay had the courage of his convictions—a courage I myself lacked. As a consequence, a judge had sentenced him to prison two years previously, and ultimately he spent the greater part of a decade there. It was only through the efforts of my legal-minded and charitable friends that he was freed so soon.

  But the whole Broadmay incident left me on less than advantageous footing with Her Majesty’s government. In the end, I only achieved my goal by trading shamelessly on a connection I was not even supposed to have: my past encounter with Queen Miriam herself.

  I did not meet with Her Majesty in person. A baroness I might be, but a title alone does not grant sufficient clout to be able to call upon the sovereign at will—especially when the circumstances in which we met were, at the time, still considered a state secret. Instead I had tea with Lady Astonby, whom my readers may recall as “Hannah,” the woman whom, along with then-Princess Miriam, I met on the island of Lahana in the Broken Sea.

  A conversation over tea is not as irrelevant as you might think. Lady Astonby was not a peeress in her own right; she had her title by virtue of marrying her husband, and as such she had no vote in the Synedrion. But she belonged to that cadre of noblewomen surrounding the queen who participated in politics by other means. Through their social duties as hostesses, they gathered information; through their patronage and networks of friends, they dispensed influence. It was indirect, but not ineffective, and it permitted the queen to exercise more control over the Synedrion than she might otherwise have had.

  “You believe this man’s offer to be of value,” Lady Astonby said, once I had explained the situation to her.

  “Yes. I know that most would consider such information to be insignificant at best; but I believe it may be a discovery of great import to my field. And while draconic studies are not so impressive as the movement of armies, achievements in that area do raise our credit with other nations.”

  Lady Astonby studied me with a gaze that took in everything and gave nothing back. “But gaining that information requires you to support the Khiam revolutionaries. I would not have expected you to extend such charity to the Yelangese.”

  She had observed the Battle of Keonga, and I had to assume she knew of my other unpleasant encounters. I said, “I have been kidnapped, threatened, and otherwise mistreated by Eiversch, Bulskoi, Chiavorans, Yembe, Ikwunde, Keongans, Akhians, and my own countrymen. If I allowed that to discourage me, I should soon become a hermit, trusting no one at all.”

  It was a pert answer more than an honest one, but Lady Astonby allowed it to stand for the time being. “You have said in your publications and letters that you believe the Draconeans bred a unique species for their use. Do you think this specimen might be an example of that creature?”

  I knew perfectly well that if I said “yes,” my odds of success would go up dramatically. In theory any extinct variety should be of scientific interest; but that one, of course, was the Lost Ark of paleontological draconic research. Unfortunately, that would have been untrue, and I am not a very good liar. “As much as I might hope so, Lady Astonby, I doubt it. There were Draconean settlements in the lower reaches of the Mrtyahaima, but not up at the elevations where soft tissue might be preserved. And although we have evidence of breeding in various parts of the world, developmental lability makes it quite unlikely that the same species could have been bred in such a cold climate. Not without a great deal of effort, at least.”

  No doubt to Lady Astonby it looked like artifice when I hesitated. Upon my honour, though, it was genuine inspiration that made me go on to say, “Unless they bred more than one sort. Which is possible, I suppose.”

  The countess’s eyebrows rose. “I see. But that is nothing more than speculation.”

  “I’m afraid so. Nonetheless…” I bit my lip, casting my gaze toward the ceiling. “I do not recall whether any breeding grounds have been discovered in the local ruins. My husband would know. Though of course a great deal depe
nds on what we mean by ‘local’—as we do not know where in the Mrtyahaima the specimen was found.”

  My intellectual enthusiasm had begun to run away with me once more. Lady Astonby brought me back to earth with a pointed question. “Other than greater scientific knowledge, what gain is there for Scirland in extending the hand of friendship to these revolutionaries?”

  It was clear that my plea had made no impression, and was unlikely to do so. Still, I could not give up yet. “They oppose the Taisên,” I said lamely.

  “And if their rebellion were going well, that might be of use to us. Of course, if it were going well, they would not need our aid. So we are asked to gamble upon the possibility that they might succeed in overthrowing the Taisên.”

  Such a result would be beneficial to us in the long run, as it would remove an unfriendly dynasty and replace it with one that had reason to view us as friends. In the short term, however, it would require us to lay out resources and manpower, with no certainty of return. The mathematics of it made my head ache: this was why I stayed away from politics whenever I could. I was comfortable with risking my own life, but not those of our nation’s soldiers.

  Lady Astonby’s gaze became curious. “Let us lay aside for the moment the question of the revolutionaries’ chances, and the logistics of their rebellion. And let us also lay aside this dragon specimen of which you are so enamoured. Speaking only of the personal level—or the moral, if you will—do you truly support this alliance?”

  When people asked my political opinion, their true question was usually whether I would support their pet cause or not. If Lady Astonby had any such purpose in mind, though, I could not discern it; and so I gave her question due thought, sitting silently for a long minute.

  Finally I said, “There is a degree of hypocrisy in our opposition to the Taisên. Our two nations detest one another because we are too much alike: both of us are grabbing for territory and resources. We condemn them for their rapacity, and I would not be surprised to learn they condemn us for the same reason. But I do not believe we will ever find peace with the Taisên, and a continuation of the Aerial War will not be good for anyone—least of all the people whose lands we fight over. If the Khiam Siu take power, we might at least end that conflict. So yes, I support it.” Then I permitted myself a small, deprecating smile. “But if you ask me to swear that my own self-interest plays no role in that statement, I’m afraid I shall have to decline.”

  Lady Astonby nodded, as if she had reached a decision. “So Lady Trent supports the Khiam Siu. We can use that.”

  I had cause to regret my words in the weeks that followed. Use me they did, in ways I should have predicted, were I not so determinedly naive in the realm of politics. Lady Trent extending the hand of friendship to the Yelangese made a noteworthy symbol, given my history of hostility with that people: they arranged for me to do so not just metaphorically but literally, during a diplomatic meeting with representatives from both the Khiam rebellion (including their would-be emperor, Giat Jip-hau) and members of the Synedrion. And that, of course, was only the beginning. I sat through endless state dinners, smiled and made small talk with Yelangese men and women who were as single-minded in pursuit of their cause as I was in pursuit of dragons. We had very little in common, and I found myself recalling, almost with longing, my perilous experiences in other parts of the world. At least there, I felt I was equal to the challenge.

  In the end, however, I cannot complain too much. Thu Phim-lat obtained his alliance, and I obtained access to his notes.

  * * *

  “Is this all?” I said, gesturing at the small notebook on the table in my study.

  Mr. Thu shrugged apologetically. “There was only the one specimen, Lady Trent, and only a few scraps of it at that. How much could I record?”

  He had a point, but I had irrationally hoped for more. With Suhail leaning in at my left shoulder and Tom at my right, I opened the notebook and found myself looking at a pencil sketch of a decomposing dragon.

  Pieces of one, at least. Mr. Thu had not been exaggerating the scantiness of his material. We were fortunate that he found most of the head; his theory was that it had been the last part to emerge from the snow and ice, and therefore the least damaged by the warmer temperatures and passing scavengers. Apart from this, there were a few scraps of flesh, one of which might have been part of a leg, and a piece of wing, so thoroughly separated from the rest of the body that it must have been torn off by an animal. “Or by the avalanche,” Mr. Thu added. “Either before or after it died.”

  I shuddered to think of such annihilating force. I had taken up mountain climbing in recent years, partly as a hobby, but more to toughen myself for future expeditions. I had only rarely climbed above the snow line—almost every instance taking place the previous summer, when my son Jake persuaded me to take him on a holiday with the mountain pioneers Mr. and Mrs. Winstow to the southern Netsja Mountains—and had narrowly escaped what our Bulskoi guides assured me was a very small avalanche. A collapse strong enough to separate wing from body was harrowing even to think of.

  “This can’t possibly be the normal shape of its muzzle,” Tom said. “Even allowing for the collapse of the bone within.”

  “The flesh is very—” Mr. Thu paused, searching for the word. “Dry, and thin.”

  “Desiccated,” I said.

  He nodded. “By the ice. And I think the weight of the snow crushed it over time, pushed it out of shape.”

  “That often happens with frozen bodies,” Suhail agreed. “Like the pair found in the Netsjas thirty years ago. Without bone to provide support, I imagine the effect would be even stronger.”

  With Suhail’s assistance, Thu translated the notes scribbled below and around the images. The head was approximately forty centimeters from back to front, and thirty centimeters from base to crown. Many of the teeth had fallen out, making dentition uncertain. There were sketches of the remaining teeth on the following page: a few incisors, one surprisingly small cuspid or “canine tooth,” which Mr. Thu had tentatively identified as mandibular. A broken piece of what might have been a carnassial. We were lucky to have even that many, without bone to anchor them in place. The neck was set low on the skull, suggesting a head carried more high than forward. Mr. Thu could only guess at its intact length, but thought it was possibly quite short.

  “Not surprising,” Tom said. “In a cold climate like that, a long neck is only a way to lose vital heat.”

  Indeed, the neck of a rock-wyrm is much shorter and stouter than that of a desert drake—and the Vystrani Mountains are mere foothills in comparison with the Mrtyahaima. “What of the hide?” I asked.

  In reply, Mr. Thu delved within his pocket and brought out a small silk bag. With great care, he opened its drawstrings and slid the contents onto the table.

  It was a pair of … scales, I thought, but they were unlike any I’d seen before. One was long and thin: sized, I thought, to a beast much larger than that head would suggest. The other was a good deal smaller, and irregularly shaped. They were exceedingly pale and bluish in tone, but not the same colour; the larger one was mottled with darker grey spots. When I picked it up and tapped my fingernail against it, the sound was dull and heavy, though the scale itself was light.

  “I had more,” Mr. Thu said, “but they were confiscated by my commanding officer. I kept these only by hiding them in the lining of my clothing.”

  Tom and I grilled him on the shape, size, and thickness of the ones he had lost, and the details of where on the carcass the remaining pair had been found. At one point during this conversation, Suhail pounded his fist against the table in a rare display of frustration. “Oh, to have been there myself! I know you did not have much time to search,” he hastened to assure Mr. Thu. “But there may have been other scales or teeth scattered along the ground, not obvious to the eye. And even looking at where they fell … we might have guessed at the path your carcass took on the way down, how the scavengers tore at it, and used that
to tentatively reconstruct where the loose scales had been.”

  I understood Suhail’s vexation, feeling much the same myself. It was maddening to have such disconnected fragments. I was no archaeologist, accustomed to making do with what little evidence the depredations of time and decay saw fit to leave behind; my subjects were usually alive or recently dead, and in either case they were whole. If only we had been there when this specimen was discovered, to see it with our own eyes!

  My brain had not yet carried that thought through to its logical conclusion when I rose and pulled down the world map from its roller on one wall. I was thinking only of elevation, temperature, possible food sources. “Can you show me where you found this?”

  Mr. Thu came to join me. “You do not have a more detailed map?”

  “Not of that region. Though I can certainly obtain one.”

  He bent to peer at the area shaded to represent the heights of the Mrtyahaima. After a moment’s consideration, he stabbed one finger onto the sheet. “Here. Roughly.”

  I looked, and my shoulders drooped. “Of course it was.”

  He had pointed at a spot in the hinterlands of Tser-nga, an area very poorly known to outsiders. Sheluhim and various emissaries had visited in past ages, but the kingdom periodically closed its borders, and at present they were shut. It was no surprise that Mr. Thu and his compatriots would have been exploring there: to their east lay the high plateau of Khavtlai, which had been a Yelangese possession for more than a century. Given the remoteness and seclusion of Tser-nga, if the Yelangese came through the mountains there, they could be well established on the eastern side before we heard anything of it.

  It also made going there myself more than a little difficult.

  Only then did I realize what plan had been taking shape below conscious thought. I said nothing of it yet, though. Instead I asked Mr. Thu, “And what was the terrain like where you found the specimen? You said it was above the snow line?”