Marie Brennan: In the Labyrinth of Drakes

Tom’s thoughts must have gone along similar lines, for he said, “This isn’t much like our first departure.”

“No,” I agreed. “But I think they both would have been pleased to see where we are now.”

The wind was brisk and biting, causing me to think longingly of the desert heat that lay ahead. (I was somewhat erroneous in so doing: even in southern Anthiope, Acinis is not the warmest month. It was, however, warmer there than in Scirland.) If I felt a chill, though, I had only to cast my thoughts upon what lay in my future: the desert drakes of Akhia.

They are in many respects the quintessential dragons, the sort that come to mind the instant one hears the word. Scales as gold as the sun, giving rise to legends that dragons hoard gold and sleep atop mountainous piles of it, until their hides are plated with the precious metal; fiery breath that sears like the desert summer itself. I had seen many kinds of dragons in the course of my career, including some whose claim to the name was exceedingly tenuous… but the closest I had ever been to a desert drake was when I gazed upon a runt in the king’s menagerie, so many years before. Now, at last, I would see them in their full glory.

I said, “Thank you, Tom. I know I have said it before, and likely I will say it again—but it bears repeating. This opportunity I owe entirely to you.”

“And to your own work,” he said defensively. But then he smiled ruefully and added, “You’re welcome. And thank you . We got here together.”

His tone was awkward enough that I said nothing more. I merely lifted my face to the sea wind and waited for the ship that would bear me to Akhia.

Nature herself has provided the harbour of Rumaish with an awe-inspiring gate. Two rocky promontories rear pincer-like over a narrow strait between; in times of war it is easy to string chains between these to prevent the passage of enemy ships. The caliphs of the Sarqanid dynasty, however, felt this was not enough, and ornamented those two promontories with a pair of monumental Draconean statues taken from the so-called Temple of Silence in the Labyrinth of Drakes. The sea winds have taken their toll on the dragon-headed sculptures, and their features are now sadly all but indistinguishable; the effect of their steadfast presence, however, is no less impressive for that.

I stood at the ship’s rail and sketched while we approached these two guardians, looking up frequently at their massive forms. Sentimentality for that ancient civilization had never been among my weaknesses, but my interest in them had grown by leaps and bounds after we discovered the temple on Rahuahane. What breed of dragon had they hatched on that island? For what purpose? Was that dragon among the types alive today, or had it gone extinct during the intervening millennia? Entering the harbour that day, I permitted myself a moment of sentimentality, imagining those weathered stone eyes had seen the answers for themselves.

Then we passed through the gate and into the harbour itself. This is not so busy a place as Saydir, which lies at the mouth of Akhia’s middle river; a more generous entrance makes that harbour better suited for commercial traffic on a large scale. Rumaish sees its share of activity, however, with ships from all over Anthiope. Even in those days, it was necessary to coordinate passage through the gate with a local official, so that the channel would not become clogged to the point of danger with too many ships at once.

Two men in Scirling military drab were waiting for us on the quay as we disembarked. One of them wore the cap and shoulder boards of a colonel. The other needed no insignia to identify him, for I recognized him immediately.

“Andrew!” My delighted cry was almost lost in the clamour of the docks. I dropped the bag I was carrying and hastened forward to fling my arms around my brother—the one sibling with whom I could say I was on good terms, rather than merely tolerable. “I thought you were still in Coyahuac!”

“I was, until recently,” my brother said, swinging me around in a laughing circle. “But the rumour went around that you might be coming here, and so I asked for a transfer. Didn’t want to say anything, though, in case it fell through.”

“You mean, you could not pass up the chance to ambush me,” I said reprovingly.

Andrew’s unrepentant grin told me I had not missed my mark. Then a voice interrupted us: “Captain Hendemore.”

The sound of his name caused my brother to stand bolt upright and tug his uniform straight, murmuring an apology to Colonel Pensyth. My own reproving look was put to shame by the colonel’s, for he meant his a great deal more. I could guess at the conversation that had preceded this encounter on the quay: Andrew begging (with his best effort at proper military dignity) to be there when I arrived, Pensyth granting it on the condition that Andrew behave himself. My brother had idled away some time at university before deciding army life would suit him better, but the fit was still not ideal. I had loaned him the funds to purchase a lieutenant’s commission—the highest I could buy without selling too much firestone at once—and he had gained a promotion to captain after his commanding officer was killed; I doubted he would ever rise higher, as he did not treat military life with the gravitas his superiors desired.

Tom distracted Pensyth with an extended hand and a greeting. “I take it you are here to lead us onward to Qurrat?” Tom asked.

“Yes, we’ve arranged a river barge,” Pensyth said. “They’ll be all day unloading your gear from the ship and loading it onto the barge, though, so Captain Hendemore and I have taken rooms at a hotel. After you’ve had a chance to clean up, perhaps you might join me in the smoking room.”

This last was very clearly directed at Tom, not me. Ladies were not expected to smoke (though of course some of them did, and more of them do now); the smoking room was therefore an entirely masculine precinct. I could not help but wonder if Pensyth had intended to exclude me, or whether it was merely thoughtless reflex.

Either way, I would look quarrelsome if I pointed it out—especially since Andrew elbowed me in the ribs, grinning. “You and I will have a chance to jaw, eh?”

“Indeed,” I said. Miffed though I might be at Pensyth, I could not deny that I looked forward to time with my brother. My relations with the rest of my immediate kin were not so bad as they had once been; the honour of a knighthood had at least partially mended the bridge with my mother, though from my own perspective it was more for the sake of familial harmony than because of any change of heart. And as well as I got on with my father, I had never quite discarded the childhood image of him as a minor pagan god, to be propitiated but never wholly embraced. Andrew was still the only relation with whom I felt truly warm—my son, of course, excepted.

Andrew stepped aside to chivvy a cluster of local men to their feet: dockside porters, who would undertake the labour of shifting our belongings from ship to barge. Then we went along to the hotel, situated up a very steep hill, which vantage allowed it to catch what cooling breezes were to be had.

The hotel, like many in the south of Anthiope, had separate women’s quarters for the privacy of its female guests. I therefore left Andrew in the courtyard while I saw to my room. When I returned, he had arranged for cups of tea, of a variety I had not tasted before. It was delightfully warming on a day which, despite the sun, was rather more chill than I had expected.