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Trembling, the blighter held out his hairy hands. The Copper sniffed them.
“I thought so. Don’t go digging around in my dishes before I’ve eaten, or I’ll bite few fingers off next time. Wait until after I’ve finished, like Rhea. Don’t I always leave generous portions?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“You’re not the cleanest with your hands, Fourfang. Your always either digging in some orifice or scratching scabs. In either case I don’t like the residue in my food. Just the other night I was offered an elf to take your place.” Which wasn’t true, but Fourfang couldn’t know that.
“I hope to see some improvement in the future, or I’ll have to make changes. But I hate unpleasant talk at the beginning of the day. Draw some water and take care of these bat droppings, won’t you?”
Fourfang showed admirable energy in getting a bucket and a bristle. The Copper watched the blighter work while Rhea cleaned and filed his claws. Fourfang scrubbed his hands in the bucket after finishing the floor.
“Much better. Now go down and get yourself a dried apple. One for Rhea, too; I think she’s exhausted from all the travel.”
The quick elf messenger came from the Tyr before Fourfang returned from the stores. The Copper followed the messenger up the winding air shaft and through the Gardens, where Simevolant was lounging, eating honeyed beetles.
“Come over here, Rugaard. The shadebells are blooming. You must see them. You don’t posses any beauty, but you have an eye for it. Oh! What did I say. An eye? I beg your pardon.”
The Copper wasn’t in the mood for Simevolant’s jokes. “I’m on my way to the Tyr. He summoned me.”
“Oh, he’s arguing with SiDrakkon; you’ve time to spare. Speaking of which, look at the purples; doesn’t it rather remind you of SiDrakkon when he’s angry?”
“A striking color,” the Copper said.
“I’ve been staring at these flowers all morning. You know, no two are alike? Why do flowers differentiate? The petals are just going to drop in a little while anyway, and unless you get right up under them, it’s hard to tell. I wonder why they bother.”
The elf cleared his throat.
“Don’t make noise, you,” Simevolant said. “You’re wilting my flowers. Look, that one’s gone all sad. I’ll have your hair plucked out by its roots for that.” The golden drake stood up.
“I can’t keep our Tyr waiting,” the Copper said, putting himself between the drake and the elf. “I must be off, cousin.”
The elf led him past the Tyr’s outer chamber, where messengers, many either bearing gifts themselves or with thralls to carry the load, waited. Curtains blocked the far end, and the elf slipped through them.
A few moments later the Copper heard a heavy tread, and before the curtains could even be opened SiDrakkon stormed out, glaring. The Copper shrank against some baskets of metal rings to clear his way, but SiDrakkon was staring at something only he could see.
The elf gestured for the Copper to come in.
He passed through a door of stone and steel that turned on a central pivot, and two blighters rushed in with braziers burning incense to clean away the angry smell within.
The Tyr’s audience chamber was roughly oval, with the door at one end and a shelf at the other. A cascade of gold coins and two waterfalls of silver made it look as though the Tyr reclined upon a mountain of gold. The walls were stacked with glittering, polished samples from the Imperial horde, the metallic art of a thousand or more years, coin, cup, statue, and frieze. Curtains hung thickly about the back of his shelf, and pleasing aromatic fragrances emanated from behind them.
Polished wooden shafts like ribs ran up either side of the chamber, joining at a peak in the top. Captured banners, some tattered and stained, hung here. Above the banners were four members of the griffaran, with polished metal talon extenders on their formidable feet. They sat on perches in the shadows above, vigilant as hawks. They looked strong enough to tear him into quarters of twitching dragon meat.
One of the griffaran let out a friendly click from the side of its mouth, and its fellows looked down at him.
“Ah, Rugaard, don’t let the bodyguards worry you. Come forward, and we’ll talk.”
The Copper smelled NoSohoth somewhere, perhaps behind the heavy curtains surrounding the Tyr’s shelf.
“What service can I do you, your honor?”
“I should be asking you that, drake. Take a mouthful of gold. No, don’t pretend; just enjoy. I’ve more than I could ever eat if I live to be another thousand.”
The Copper swallowed a mouthful of coin. The heavy yet soft metallic taste made him feel pleasantly fierce, ready to take on anything the Tyr asked of him.
Which, he supposed, was the point.
“I wanted a quick chat with you without a dozen ears listening to every word.”
