And that explains why Solet hasn’t arrived. The third ship must have been lost at sea, but what happened to the second? Did the dragon destroy it after the drunk left? A predatory dragon is bad enough. One that sinks ships and kills larger dragons is an unprecedented threat. One that kills shipowners exceeds catastrophe. On top of that, the Shield has two galleys about to head to Yness. Other companies have their own. He has to tell his superiors. They have to tell the Council.
He wishes he had more evidence. His superiors aren’t likely to accept hearsay from a trade rider. “Where’s the drunk now?” Livion says. “I’d like to question him myself and find out exactly where all this took place.”
“That will be difficult,” Omer says. “I only stopped there because I recognized him as Chalfin, the man who robbed and raped my sister. I figured I’d get his story before I gave him a more fitting punishment than a bench. I rode for Hanosh immediately afterward.”
And away from any law in Wheaton. “That was unfortunate. Nevertheless, I’ll see that your monthly has a perk for your efforts.”
“I could be dead by the end of the month,” Omer says, “the roads the way they are these days, Aydeni bandits everywhere.”
Livion groans inside. He writes a chit and says, “Give this to Gran. She’ll advance the perk.”
Omer takes it, considers the number the way he did the couch, and returns it. Livion adds the monthly to it and says, “For your discretion.” Omer, grudgingly satisfied, leaves.
There’s one thing Livion can check. He takes up his pipe and blows a little tune.
A young man appears in the door. Livion says, “Felic, get me the bench roster for the Pyg.” A moment later he reappears with several sheets of paper. He hands them over, head bowed, and leaves.
Livion’s glad Felic’s head is bowed less than it used to be. Like scores of plague children, a black crust covers half his face like a mask, and he lost many family members, in his case, his two sisters. Livion often wonders how many wouldn’t have caught the flox had Solet not persuaded him to render the dragon, so he’s found homes and places for as many of the plague children as he can, including Felic. Many think he’s an even greater hero for this than for what got him the boots: saving the medicine and, by staving off the plague, saving Hanosh from declaring war on Ayden at the time.
Livion scans the list. There: Chalfin. They’d bought only the first six months of his sentence, the usual probationary period for a small or weak man who might not make it on the benches. Another write-off.
Would this be enough? Maybe he jumped ship while the galleys were on shore getting water and wanted a story to sell for drinks. He couldn’t let his superiors go to Council, though, without knowing about the rumor.
Livion heads to the Round Dragon, the coffeehouse where the real business of the Shield is done. It’s off a small square that’s become called, naturally, the Round Square. There, itinerant traders hawk their wares, the financially embarrassed hawk their household goods, and indigents hawk oddments they’ve scavenged. The latter always present a container into which potential shoppers can throw pennies as down payments on future purchases. Charity is illegal, but commerce is law.
As Livion pushes through the square, one of the indigents calls to him, “Captain! My captain!” He wears black leather pants beneath a ratty black shift tied at the waist with a flaxen cord, old sandals repaired with similar cord, and a poorly tended black beard. Before him on a folded square of sailcloth are several huge blue shells, possibly from crabs. Livion’s never seen anything like them. They could have value as decorative goods or maybe platters, but he doesn’t have time to ask where they came from.
The man calls after him, “Can you help an old sailor, Captain?” Livion keeps going. There aren’t enough berths in the world to help every old sailor.
3
* * *
Almond, owner of the Round, ushers Livion through a wide, low-ceilinged hall choked with smoke, chatter, and petty traders, past a curtain and down a corridor to a private room. His father-in-law, Chelson, stands amid several other Shield owners. All have hard eyes, harder cheeks, and the barest hint of lip. There are no seats. Sitting prolongs meetings.
“You’ve anticipated our call,” Chelson says. “Almond.” Chelson jabs at the urn on the sideboard. The owner pours Livion a bowl of pit roast, serves it on a matching dish, and leaves with the elevated dignity of one who’s been forced to perform a service below his presumed station.
Chelson says, “We’ve had news from Herse regarding our wolf pack.”
“I’ve had news myself,” Livion says, “from one of our trade riders.”
Chelson opens his hand. Livion relates what Omer told him. All but Chelson exchange glances when he mentions the second dragon.
Chelson says, “The general says the wolf pack was destroyed by Aydeni ships.”
Livion knows what a party line sounds like. The conversation was over before he arrived. Nevertheless, he says, “Our rider’s source was on the Pyg. I confirmed it.”
“Your rider’s source,” Chelson says, “was a wretch. Now dead.”
“He was very specific regarding dragons.”
“He saw fire. He heard explosions,” Chelson says. “The damage to the wrecks bears that out.”