"It's hard to be patient when you're starving," Royd muttered. Something was off-key here; Grail's speeches and official pronouncements had always painted Easterland as a deadly enemy whose destruction was vital to Rosette's security. What was this talk about supplying them with food?
Grail smiled faintly when Royd put the question to him. "The 'Easterland threat' campaign was put together by Clars Marwitz, my Civil Affairs Director, to try and unite Rosette behind me. Marwitz is shrewd—damn shrewd—but he's power-hungry and completely amoral. Bears close watching.... Anyway, I went along with the plan because I'd rather have all you dissidents working to help build up Rosette's potential than inciting riots and forcing me to put you in prison. Most of you are smart and educated, and Rosette needs all the help you can give her." A frown had been growing steadily across Royd's forehead, in direct proportion to his confusion. "What's going on? Why are you telling me all this?"
Grail's eyes bored into Royd's. "I want you to take over as head of state when I die."
For a long moment there was dead silence in the room. "What?" Royd whispered at last.
"You heard me. Rosette's developed about as far as it can under an absolute dictatorship. It needs to be nudged toward something more decentralized—a constitutional monarchy, perhaps, as a first step. But I can't do that."
"Why not? There's no one to stop you."
Grail sighed. "All right. Suppose I announced I was reorganizing the government and wanted the Rosette Freedom Party to share power with me. Would your leaders be willing to drop by the palace and discuss the issue?"
"Not likely," Royd admitted. "They'd think it was a trap."
"You see the problem, then. I'm known as a dictator, and there's no way I can easily change that image."
"But you could abdicate. Go into retirement."
"I could," Grail nodded. "Of course, there would probably be a bloody power struggle, possibly even a civil war. Rosette was on the brink of one when I arrived nineteen years ago, as a matter of fact, though you're too young to remember it. But assume for the moment I can find a way to block that. Who's going to defend Rosette from another Easterling attack?"
"Uh..." Royd hesitated; it sounded like a trick question. "I gather the army's not strong enough?"
"Not now. It could be, by drafting every single man from age seventeen on up. But then the economy would go straight to hell." Grail shook his head. "No, Easterland is held back mainly by fear—fear of the dragons. Rosette needs a Dragonmaster, at least for a few more years, and it's up to me to make sure the wrong man doesn't get that kind of power."
There were a lot of implications in Grail's statement, not the least of which the suggestion that the dragons could be transferred to a new owner. But for Royd one question overrode all the others. "Why me?"
Grail shrugged. "You care about the people of Rosette."
"How do you figure that? Just because I tried to kill you?"
"Because you were willing to spend many years of study and even give your life to gain freedom for them. And, maybe more important, because you didn't fire on the common soldiers who came to arrest you." Grail ran a gnarled hand through his graying hair.
"And besides, I haven't got enough time to go out searching for more likely candidates. The doctors tell me I've only got six to eight months left. All my instincts tell me you can handle the job of putting this country—and eventually the whole planet—back on its feet. If you're willing, the job's yours. I can start your Dragonmaster training tomorrow. What'll it be?"
Royd's head was spinning. This couldn't possibly be what it seemed; it had to be some sort of trick. And yet, what did he have to lose? He'd been prepared to die—had expected to die—and there was nothing worse Grail could do to him. As long as he was careful not to betray his comrades, it would probably be best for him to play along. Whatever Grail's plan was, perhaps he could turn it to his advantage. "All right," he said slowly. "I can't make any promises yet about succeeding you, but I'm willing to give it a try."
"Good." Grail got to his feet, rapped twice on the door. "I'll come for you in the morning. Sleep well."
The door opened, giving Royd a glimpse of gray uniforms in the hallway. Without another word the Dragonmaster strode out, and the door was slammed firmly behind him.
—
The emotional drain of the day's events made for a deep sleep, and Royd would probably have kept at it through much of the morning had Grail not awakened him at the stroke of seven. No guards were in sight; in fact, Royd saw no one else at all as the Dragonmaster led the way down two dimly lit corridors and up a narrow staircase.
"Where is everyone?" he asked, fighting the urge to whisper.
"These hallways are seldom used," Grail answered. "I'm sure you understand the need for secrecy. In here."
The room they entered was large and high-ceilinged, its furnishings those of a conference room. The view through the diamond-patterned windows told Royd he was on the east side of the palace and about four or five floors up—somewhere in Grail's private section, he guessed. On the carved rock-ebony table were four suitcase-sized boxes and a covered tray. The odors from the latter made Royd's stomach growl.
"Sit down," Grail said, indicating the chair closest to the tray. "We'll want to get started as soon as possible, but I can fill in some of the background for you while you eat."
Royd removed the lid and did a quick survey. Chopped phorlax meat mixed with nuts; two twelve-centimeter surf-skimmers, finned and roasted whole; a four- fruit salad cup; and a steaming cup of ch'a. His opinion of Grail went up a notch— anyone who would serve a meal like this to a prisoner couldn't be all bad. Another thought crowded in on the tail of the first: that that might be precisely what Grail wanted him to think. In a somewhat more subdued state of mind, he sat down and began to eat. "You and your dragons have already had breakfast?" he asked.
"I have; the dragons haven't," Grail said. "That's the first popular misconception you'll have to unlearn. The dragons aren't alive; they're just machines."
Royd blinked. Like everyone else, he'd always assumed that the dragons were living pets of their Dragonmaster. The idea that they were mechanical was actually harder to believe. "Machines?"
"Yes." With a pop, the small dragon appeared a few meters off to the side. "Take a look yourself. Go on, it won't hurt you."
Swallowing hard, Royd got up and approached warily. The creature sat motionless on its haunches, its talons glinting in the thick purple carpet, its red eyes following Royd's every movement. "Look at the outer skin, the eyes, and the talons," Grail instructed. "And inside the mouth; you'll see there is no saliva."
The monster opened its mouth. Gingerly, Royd looked in, then glanced briefly at the other points Grail had mentioned. "Doesn't look like any machine I've ever seen, but I'll take your word for it," he said, backing away. "You build them yourself?"
"Oh, hell, no. They're way beyond human technology. They were built by some extinct race out in the Castor stars millennia ago. My guess is that they were used as bodyguards." Another pop and the dragon was gone.
"That vanishing act is a good trick," Royd said as casually as he could, determined not to be overawed. "How does that work?"
"Look here." Reaching into his tunic, Grail pulled out a small gemlike object hung around his neck by a thin gold chain. He handed it to Royd. "This is the key. Somehow, the dragons are kept—well, not inside, of course, but sort of next to it. That's bad wording; what I mean is that there's some sort of dimensional pocket associated with the amulet, where the three dragons are kept. A kind of limited subspace, I expect, similar to the one starships travel in, except more localized."