The dragon is using magick.
The thought came to Prince Vlad unbidden, and he tried to dismiss it as a hangover from his morning’s considerations. It presented him with two problems, neither of which he liked. The first was that there was magick that would allow heavier-than-air creatures to fly. While no man might be able to discover, master, or power the exact nature of that spell, the Prince found himself making a mental list of every story in the Good Book that involved angels or other people flying and levitating. Adding in every saint who had been said to have managed it swelled the list enormously. Vlad transformed that into a battalion of flying soldiers armed with rifles and didn’t like the implications at all. That the Church might know of that magick and might have incorporated it into their grimoire frightened him.
On top of that, the idea that a dragon could work magick caused all sorts of philosophical problems. Men spoke proudly about their ability to reason as being what differentiated them from beasts. Use of magick was but one example of the fruits of reasoning. Men used the ability to reason in conjunction with passages from the Good Book to justify the subjugation of every other creature in the world-as well as their fellow men.
If a dragon could use magick-and magick use was a sign of the ability to reason-then there could be no moral justification for treating a dragon as chattel. Could he actually own a creature that had its own mind? Society would agree that he could-indentured servitude was an example of an acceptable form of it, and even the Good Book failed to condemn slavery. But Vlad had never bought a man’s contract, and the idea of owning slaves repulsed him. Yet if Mugwump is a reasoning creature, can I pretend to own him?
Prince Vlad’s eyes tightened. “How much do you know, Mugwump? How much can you understand me?”
The dragon looked back at him, then opened his mouth as if to smile and dove. He plunged head-first toward the ground, wings tight in. Vlad held on to the saddle and leaned back, forced into that posture by air resistance. Then Mugwump’s wings came out and his head came up. His tail went down, then twisted. The dragon came up and over in a somersault, then rolled over and soared back the way they had come.
Vlad’s heart pounded in his chest. “I hope to God you can understand me. Do not do that again.”
The dragon frowned.
“At least, not without warning.”
Mugwump raised his head and trumpeted proudly.
Vlad laughed, then something wet hit his face. He looked up, seeing not a single cloud in the sky. Then he looked at his shirt and saw a red splotch, as big around as his fist. He swiped a glove against his face and it glistened.
He pulled back on the reins. “To the ground, now, Mugwump. Now!”
The beast glanced back at him and more blood flew from his nostrils to strike Vlad in the chest. A shiver ran through the dragon, then he dove toward the ground. He unfurled his wings at the last moment and slowed, but not enough. They hit the ground heavily, though Mugwump’s powerful arms and legs cushioned the landing somewhat.
Vlad vaulted from the saddle and ran to the dragon’s head. He was bleeding from the nostrils and this confirmed what Vlad had wondered. Use of magick demanded a price of the user. Blood would seep beneath Vlad’s thumbnail when he shot. Likewise Mugwump’s use of magick had taken its toll on the dragon. Whether his nasal passages had begun to bleed, or the blood came from his lungs, Vlad couldn’t be certain-though Mugwump’s lack of distress and the regularity of his breathing suggested the former case was true.
Baker came running over. “Are you hurt, Highness?”
“Not my blood. His. Nosebleed.”
“Nosebleed?” The wurmwright frowned. “Can’t imagine what would cause that.”
“I believe he may have snorted a sparrow, much like one of us getting a gnat up the nose.”
“I hate noseeums.” Baker frowned. “I could swab out his nose, but I don’t imagine he’d like it. Ruin a mop and I’m not sure I’d get the bird out.”
Vlad smiled. “I think you should just let Mugwump rest for a bit. Stand clear in case he sneezes it back out. Then lead him home, let him eat his fill. He’s earned his rest.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
Prince Vlad patted the dragon below his left eye. “Take it easy, my friend. We’ll take a week, then try this again.”
The dragon made no sound, but his golden eyes seemed to reflect understanding.
Vlad headed off across the field to cut through the narrow strip of woods. He damned himself for not having at least a pistol with him. He didn’t really imagine that a jeopard would hunt something reeking of dragon’s blood, but the scientist in him could not discount that possibility. That same scientist also knew that a pistol wouldn’t be of much use, nor would running, since that would only attract the beast’s attention. Remaining as vigilant as he could, then, he headed home.
As he emerged, he caught sight of a young man on a horse, riding up toward the front of the house. He waved. “Is that Caleb Frost?”
Caleb reined around and rode toward him. He vaulted from the saddle, concern evident on his face. “Are you hurt, Highness?”
“Not any part of me you’d care to see. Not my blood.” Vlad stripped off a glove and shook Caleb’s hand. “What brings you out here?”
Caleb fell into step with the Prince, his horse trailing behind. “Fast packet boat came in this morning. Rumor from certain parts reports that Parliament has come up with a new scheme for collecting revenue. Since taxing our economy directly didn’t work previously, they are intent on creating a series of licenses and permits which one must purchase to hunt and harvest here in the Colonies. If you pay for a trapper’s license, for example, you will pay a much lower price for brimstone and firestones. Goods produced by a licensed person will pass through Customs faster, likewise products being released to licensed merchants. If you refuse to obtain a license, your goods can be confiscated, you can be fined or even sentenced to jail or servitude.”
As the Prince walked with Caleb toward the stables, his stomach tightened. He’d always known Parliament would retaliate for the Colonies’ protest against the document tax. Requiring licenses would generate income, and soon after would come fees which were, de facto, taxes. That Norisle needed the money was not in question, nor was the Mystrian resistance to sending money east over the ocean.
Caleb handed his horse over to the stable boy and Vlad washed up in a water trough. He raked wet, brown locks from his face and relished the tickle of cool water running down his back.
“Someone in Launston is being very clever. This plan forces merchants to become the tax collectors. They’ll have to pay less for unlicensed merchandise to cover the cost of their own licenses. Plus increasing the prices of brimstone and firestones guarantees that most people will buy licenses.” Vlad frowned. “Instead of taxing our economy everywhere, they put the pressure on the people at the point of contact with the Norillian economy.”
Caleb nodded. “It’s also selective. For someone like me, the licenses and fees mean nothing, since I only sell within the colonies.”
“Still, the added fees will get passed on to you when you buy anything that comes from Norisle, or through the hands of someone who has paid for a license. And what man in Mystria is not going to face higher prices for brimstone and firestones?”
“Men dealing with smugglers. Ryngian powder sends a ball just as far, just as straight.”
“True, but if you’re caught with it, you can get your thumbs ringed in iron or taken off entirely.”