Alex Bledsoe - Burn Me Deadly

Marantz unrolled a small parchment and read stiffly from it. “ ‘Tonight, you must stoke the flame of Solarian within yourself. Tomorrow you will offer it to Lumina. If your flame is strong, you will be rewarded by her presence among us.’ ” He sighed and almost rolled his eyes. “Praise the flame.”

“Praise the flame,” we responded.

“You have quarters waiting for you upstairs,” he said in his normal voice. “Breakfast will be one hour before sunrise.” We sat expectantly until he added an exasperated, “Praise the flame.”

“Praise the flame,” we replied again, and stood up. Several men adjusted their visible, ah, interest in the girls. Luckily I was better at controlling myself. We filed out toward the stairs. I walked right past Marantz, almost within arm’s reach, but he gave no sign I was out of place. Either I’d fooled him or he was waiting to see what I’d do.

As we entered the antechamber the young man beside me said breathlessly, “Wow.”

“Impressive ceremony,” I agreed with what I hoped was appropriate awe.

“I feel like I really can bring back Lumina,” he said. He was in his late teens, unmistakably sheltered and overwhelmed by all the bare flesh.

“Me, too,” I agreed.

He leaned close and said with a soft giggle, “I don’t know if I can hold off until tomorrow, though.”

“Sure you can,” I encouraged. I began to understand what was going on, and what this “flame” they were stoking-or rather, stroking-might be. I would definitely skip that ceremony. “Think about how good it’ll feel then.”

“I know,” he agreed, and giggled again.

As we started up the stairs, I stepped aside into the shadows and let everyone pass me. No one looked my way; they were exhausted from the march and thoroughly distracted by the effect of the dancing girls. I was tired, too, but really didn’t want to spend the night with a bunch of horny religious fanatics.

When the cellar door banged shut above me, I went back to the entrance and peered into the cavern. Marantz and his men had not passed me, yet the cave was empty. The braziers still burned, providing plenty of light. I slipped along the wall, hiding in the shadows provided by the uneven rock until I reached the stage.

The big skull had been left on the table beside its box. I listened for any sign of interruption, but heard only the steady drip of water somewhere above me. I climbed onto the stage and examined the precious artifact.

I saw no indication of trauma; the animal this belonged to had not been killed by a blow to the head. I looked for a sign that the skull had been created artificially, glued together from disparate parts, but found none. It had the organic appearance of something meant to look this way.

The idea that this might be a real dragon skull sank its sharp little claws into my imagination. The horn sockets on top were solidly attached like a steer’s, and the broken ends of the horns revealed lifelike striations. The teeth curved backward and were all the same size, like a snake’s. The upper teeth fit neatly into the gaps between the lower ones. That meant the animal hunted by biting and hanging on, not ripping or tearing. I suppose if it was also flame-charring its dinner while it held it, there would be no need for a fight.

I checked the joint where the jaw fitted to the skull. It moved smoothly, the knobs clearly meant for these sockets. And it was old. The grime and stain would not accumulate on new bone.

There were no signs of workmanship or modification. Fake “monsters” were common in carnivals, but either this was the best I’d ever seen or it was genuine. Yet being a real skull didn’t make it a real dragon skull. Did it…?

Oh, come on, I scolded myself. Act like you’ve been to school before. Sure, the obvious conclusion that the skull came from a real animal didn’t automatically mean it actually belonged to a mythical fire-breathing lizard. There were lots of places in the world where strange creatures still lived. It might have been some relative of the crocodile that, divorced from habitat and flesh, struck someone as a perfect prop to prove dragons once really lived.

I lifted it carefully; it was lighter than I expected, like the bones of a bird. Since dragons supposedly flew, that made sense.

I recalled the scribe’s strange question about “something flying overhead” before Hank’s barn went up in flames. Could he mean…? No, no, LaCrosse, I heard the voice of my cranky old tutor say, dragons are superstition. This skull fooled these people simply because none of them knew any better. I wondered if Tempcott knew it was a fake, or if he was so far gone it no longer mattered?

I returned it to its original spot, and peered into the cage. The black lizard regarded me with its dull, opaque eyes, its thick blue tongue testing the air.

Behind the stage, I spotted faint light from a small, narrow opening. I found a short tunnel, its entrance mostly hidden by a rock column; the light came from the other end. That had to be where Marantz and Tempcott went.

Once I got through the opening, the tunnel widened enough for three men to walk side by side. My foot hit something that softly clattered, and I knelt to examine it. It was the bottom half of a clay jug, the kind used to transport the cheaper kinds of ale and rum. It was dusty, and a cave spider scurried from it. These containers were easily made, and just as easily broken. More pieces, from jugs of various sizes, littered the floor.

That cleared up one mystery. The Lizard’s Kiss had been built over this bedrock with its natural caves so it could front for some of Marantz’s smuggling operations. Contraband could be brought in, taken out or stored here until needed. I wondered if Gary and Angelina knew about this and just never thought to mention it to me. In their world, it would be nothing unusual.

I reached the end of the tunnel and was about to peer beyond it when a sword poked me in the back and a voice hissed what could have been my personal litany: “Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I raised my hands immediately. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, I’m really sorry,” I said, and let my voice get high and shaky. “I was just looking for a way upstairs that wasn’t so crowded and got turned around. Please don’t hurt me.” I practically whimpered when I added, “Praise the flame?”

“Right,” the voice whispered, deliberately obscuring its identity. “Now start backing up. Slowly.”

“Please, I can explain; it’s not what it looks like,” I whined.

“You’re making me cry,” the voice croaked drily. “Move.”

I did as ordered. When we emerged back into the ceremonial chamber, the sword jabbed me again. “Stop. Turn around. Put your back against the wall. And keep your hands where I can see them, or you’ll find your guts warming your feet.”

“My guts warming my feet?” I repeated in my normal voice as I turned. “That’s good; can I borrow it?” Then I faced my attacker.

Prince Frederick’s distracted dancing girl stood there in her red cloak, my Shadow Slasher III in her right hand. She held it with ease, the tip touching my navel. “You again,” I said.

She raised the point to the center of my chest. I tensed; this model Shadow Slasher had a safety catch that you had to press with your thumb; otherwise when the blade was turned upright, spring-loaded spikes shot out of the hilt and made a thorough mess of your sword hand. It was a handy thing if you’d been disarmed by the bad guys, less so when a girl you wanted to question might set it off. “What do you mean, ‘again’?” she said.

“I saw you looking around before, and then keeping the other girls away from the prince.”