Patricia Briggs - Steal the Dragon

She stretched her arms wide, hands open, holding the pose for an instant before bursting into furious motion. Each placement of foot and angle of wrist was choreographed, thoughtless, perfect. Her body flowed from one movement to the next, graceful, seductive, submissive in turn.

The beat of the drum was a familiar companion: its rhythm consumed her. Her heart kept time with the deep bass tones; the lighter beats of the small instruments were the quick movements of her hands and feet. The dance slowed, and her movements became languid, erotic.

She reveled in the euphoria that accompanied her dance, the pain of straining her muscles for the perfection of her art only adding to the exhilaration. Sweat blinded her, but she didn’t need her eyes to see—the floor was sanded and flat and she knew where the music would take her.

The beating drum accelerated again, built to a crescendo, then abruptly it ended. The brief silence pounded at her ears as she collapsed facedown on the floor, righting for breath. The clapping of a single pair of hands replaced the fading memory of the drumbeat.

“Very nice, Little One,” said the Master’s hated voice.

Rialla sat bolt upright in her bed. Her bedclothes were saturated with the sweat of a dance long past. Automatically her hands went to her neck, but the slave collar had been gone for a long time, and the scar on her face still replaced the hated tattoo.

Trembling, she bowed her head and ran her hands through her hair. She threw the covers back and got out of bed, though the dawn was hours away.

In the maze that was the oldest building in Sianim, Ren, better known as the Spymaster of Sianim, settled himself in his chair and looked out the open window at nothing in particular.

The chair had been made for his predecessor, who had been a much larger man. Ren’s slight, balding and graying person looked a little absurd sitting in it, like a child playing at grown-up, but no one in the mercenary city-state of Sianim would have called the Spymaster absurd: he held more power in his hands than many kings.

Turning his chair away from the window, he propped his feet on top of his crowded desk, ignoring the resultant thump as a pile of papers fell to the floor. He rested his chin on his hands and waited patiently for the arrival of one he had summoned.

At last there was a soft tap on the door.

“Who?” he barked.

“Rialla of the horses, as ordered, sir.” The voice that answered him was soft and shy. Ren’s mouth tightened in annoyance. If she was as meek as she sounded, he might as well send her back home.

Ah, well—it wasn’t the woman’s fault that his informant had misled him. Even if she wouldn’t serve his purpose, he could use whatever information she could provide.

Schooling his voice into a more welcoming tone, Ren called out, “Come in, Rialla of the horses. I’ve been expecting you.”

The door opened with a sigh and squeaked a protest when the horse trainer shut it behind her. She was taller than he was, but so slender that she appeared fragile. Her red hair was pulled tightly back in a short braid that barely reached her shoulders. He got a quick glimpse of emerald-green eyes before she dropped her gaze to the floor.

She waited silently for him to speak, her arms held loosely at her side and her face expressionless. He noted absently that she would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the scar that covered most of one cheek.

He greeted her in kind tones. “Trainer.”

The green eyes briefly met his. “Spymaster.” There was a slightly mocking note that someone who was less observant would not have caught. Ren was so fascinated by the inconsistency between the demure mien and that subtle disrespect that he let the silence stretch uncomfortably long.

When he didn’t reply, she shrugged and turned her back to him to examine a nearby bookcase. The illusion of fragility was shattered with her movement. She moved with the grace of a trained athlete, and sinewy muscle corded her arm as she reached to pull a book out of its shelf.

The Spymaster watched her with a tingle of pleasure. This just might work. Experimentally he held his silence. She turned a page and seemed to become engrossed in the book.

Finally, Ren laughed softly, pushed his chair away from his desk and said with a smile, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about why I called you here today?”

She replaced the book and turned back to him. “Yes.” This time her voice was as meek as it had been at first.

“I spoke with Laeth, I believe he is a friend of yours, who informed me that you speak native-quality Darranian.” He turned the statement into a question with an inquiring look.

She shrugged indifferently, but her left hand came up to finger the scar that marred her face and her gaze shifted back to the floor.

Darranian slaves were all elaborately tattooed on the left side of their faces for identification. In Darran, slaves could not be freed; the tattoo marked them for life.

Ren decided to change tactics. “Do you know who Lord Karsten is?” he asked bluntly.

“You mean other than Laeth’s brother?” she asked, but continued in indifferent tones without waiting for a reply, “He is one of the Darranian lords pushing to ally the kingdoms of Reth and Darran. I understand that the proposed alliance involves the marriage of King Myr of Reth to the king of Darran’s older sister.”

Ren nodded his head in agreement. “Lord Karsten is the most influential member of the regency council. With his support the new alliance is a virtual certainty.”

The light mockery eased back into Rialla’s voice as she spoke for the first time without being prompted. “Sianim wants to prevent the alliance? Maybe an accident for Lord Karsten?”

“Of course not!” replied Ren in a shocked tone, widening his eyes improbably to show his innocent dismay at her suggestion. “My dear young woman, Sianim never interferes with the politics of any government. We are mercenaries, and merely hire ourselves out to the highest bidder.”

He knew when the corner of her mouth turned up in a reluctant smile that she caught the satire with which he spouted their official dogma.

“So,” she said, “tell me. Why is it that Sianim doesn’t intend to hinder the alliance? The feud between Darran and Reth has diverted a steady stream of gold into our coffers over the past century or so.”

Ren looked at her with the same pleasure with which a schoolmaster might regard a pupil asking a thoughtful question. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and began to talk.

“The Great Swamp has long been a barrier between the East and our West.” He gestured to her impatiently. “Sit down, girl. This will take a while. Now then… the only trading currently done with the East is through the Ynstrahn sailing fleets that dare thread the shoals and reefs in the Southern Sea.

“Once there was a road through the Swamp. The magic of the Archmage held back the Uriah, wights and other nasty swamp dwellers. But as the seasons changed so did the Archmage, and other matters became more important. The road was overrun and swallowed by the Swamp.”

He paused and sipped water from a glass that sat on the corner of his desk.

“I have heard that there was once such a road,” commented Rialla, “but what does that have to do with Darran? The Swamp is nowhere near there.” She had cleared off a place for herself on a worn tapestry chair, and sat on the very edge of the seat, though her hands were open and relaxed in her lap.

“Have patience and I’ll tell you. Now,” Ren fell back into a storyteller’s voice, “when I came into office, I noticed that we lacked information on anything on the other side of the Swamp. An oversight, of course, which I have corrected.