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“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.”
“Yes, Tyr?”
“According to Nivom, you’re one of the better drakes in the Drakwatch, yet you always get overlooked because of your…well, let’s be frank about it, your injuries.”
The Tyr stood on his shelf and turned, as though finding a more comfortable spot from which to speak. The Copper marked heavy scarring, as from a burn, on the inside of one saa. He’d never seen the injury before, but then, the Tyr always rested so it was hidden against his underside.
“It is a wickedness that dragons count so much on appearances. That’s the way of the world, and there are some things that just can’t be changed. But you’ve got nice teeth and some impressive horns coming in. Hopefully they’ll draw attention from the rest as you grow into your wings.
“I’ll tell you this, Rugaard: It’s something that impressed me about you from the very first. You get around very well, considering that sii. There are dragons who’d play it up to inspire pity, and tell their tale of woe at every pause in the conversation. But now my hunt’s lost the game trail. Oh, yes. Obviously, you’ve done well as a courier, my eyes and ears and all that, and you’ve shown good judgment, which is worth a whole set of limbs.”
“Thank you, Tyr.”
“Do you know anything about our Uphold in Anaea?”
“We…the kern comes from there, does it not?”
