She was starting to become concerned. If they couldn’t get the dragon to eat, it was going to die. Already she could see the outline of its ribs on its flank, its scaled hide stretched across its skeleton. Her father was gambling heavily on the effect that the dragon would have—the boost to his reputation and the distraction of seeing what could only be called a wonder of the world. If it died, he would blame someone, and that would be her. There were no other targets.
How could she get it to eat? There was no way she was going to climb into the cage and force-feed it and she doubted if any of her men would follow an order to. They were due to open the exhibit the following morning, and no one was going to be amazed by a lethargic, half-starved creature curled up in its cage.
Feeding it and livening it up were her pressing problems, but they weren’t the ones that concerned her the most. Looking into the dragon’s deep blue eyes told Ysabeau all she needed to know of its torment. She kept reminding herself that given the chance, this creature would slaughter livestock, raze villages to the ground, and kill scores of men, women, and children. Looking at it, though, that was hard to believe, and the memory of the other dragon at the temple—the one who spoke and changed into human form—made her wonder how much they really knew about dragons.
Might there be different types of dragon, some a danger and others not? Were they capable of higher thought? Certainly this dragon’s eyes contained far more intelligence than many men she had encountered over the years.
“Eat, damn you,” she muttered under her breath. The dragon just lay there, staring at her. Ysabeau swore in frustration. She’d not left the old arena since the dragon had been installed there; she’d been sleeping in a tent in the workers’ camp. Now she decided she’d had enough of the place, that she needed a break from those mournful, accusatory eyes.
She left without a word to her work crew—she was sick of them too, and she had no doubt they would be delighted by a few hours out from under her harsh glare.
Ysabeau had never been one for wine or ale—waiting for others to get drunk had always been a favourite tactic—but she felt as though she could use something to take the edge off the tension that gripped her like a vise. As she walked toward a tavern she knew, she realised the city was in a similar state.
The violence she’d heard of soon after her return to Mirabay seemed to have abated; perhaps her father was starting to get a grasp on things. Yet there was still an uncomfortable air of tension on the streets, though she didn’t feel unsafe, exactly. The ordinary business of the city seemed to be continuing. Maybe now that the agonised initial adjustment period was over, people were coming around to the new reality. That almost seemed too much to hope for, but Mirabay had always been a city of passion, where emotions ran high and the mood swung from one side of the balance to the other in moments.
The Little Palace had always been a favourite of Ysabeau’s, even when she was too young to be allowed in. It was a place of agitators, anarchists, and intellectuals. Over the years, she had killed at least a dozen men and women who had gained notice within those walls, removing those whose voices were loud enough to make the wealthy and powerful uncomfortable. At times she had wondered at the morality of it—cutting down voices championing the rights of the poor, the downtrodden. People like her. Her mother. Her friends. The half brother who had died in the night one bad winter, starved and frozen.
Such moralising rarely lasted long. She knew reality too well. No one really wanted equality, or rights for the downtrodden, they simply wanted to lift themselves up. Become the ones doing the shitting, rather than remain the ones getting shit on. Those foolish and naive enough to listen to their mellifluous words wouldn’t reap any benefit, just get killed during the process. People like her. People like her mother. Her brother too, had he lived.
Better cut those hollow words out of their throats before they convinced other people to get themselves killed. It wasn’t so hard to justify how she had made her life when she thought of it like that.
The Little Palace was quiet that afternoon. There were plenty of people about, but there was no noise, no lively discussion or passionate speech, merely groups huddled around tables, drinking and talking quietly. Intensely. Ysabeau sat and ordered a drink. One of the dandies, who appeared to fancy himself as an intellectual, or at least liked to give ladies the impression he was, made his way over, wire spectacles perched rakishly on his nose in a way ironically similar to a dandy banneret who wore his sword low on his hip and walked with a swagger.
She forced a smile as he sidled up next to her at the bar as her glass of warm spiced wine arrived. She had ordered it from habit—it was the drink of Kate dal Drenham, her Humberland alter ego, a woman who wore silk skirts and had perfect hair and makeup. As for Ysabeau dal Fleurat, in her leather riding britches, boots, and a swordsman’s tunic—Ruripathian whisky was more suited to her, but it was expensive and difficult to come by, not something to be found in the Little Palace, where claims of penury were worn like badges of honour.
She looked at her unwanted drinking companion and wondered what about her appearance had said “come and have a drink with me.” It certainly wasn’t her expression. She’d have thought that said something far, far different.
“Gerard Planchet, at your service,” the bespectacled dandy said.
Gerard Plonker, more like, she thought.
“What brings a beauty like you to so dreary a place as the Little Palace?”
If he thinks he’s poetic and charming, he ought to get a refund on his rhetoric classes. She flashed him her most radiant smile, the one she reserved for men whose decision-making she needed to relocate below their belt, and did her best not to laugh when she saw his overeager reaction.
“I’ve not had reason,” she said, drawing out her words with a level of delectation that she realised ought to shame her, “to geld a man for irritating me in over a week. I started getting twitchy, so here I am.”
Planchet’s grin widened, and he made as though he was about to laugh, until her facial expression convinced him she wasn’t joking. She brushed back her cloak to reveal the three daggers neatly strapped to her hip.
“I … If you’ll excuse me, madame, I think I see someone…”
She watched him walk away and almost smiled when he cast a furtive look back to make sure she wasn’t going after him. She turned her attention back to the spiced wine, and the question of how she was going to get the bloody dragon to eat.
CHAPTER 35
“We’re close,” Pharadon said.
Gill kept his eyes peeled and looked dead ahead. They hadn’t encountered any more Venori and he felt like they were long overdue. Pharadon was certain there were more of them down there, and Gill would prefer to be done with them rather than live with the thought of them lurking in the darkness, ready to attack at any moment. They couldn’t be that hungry if they were showing such restraint.…
The tunnel opened out into a large cavern. The light from Solène’s globe didn’t reach as far as any of the walls, imparting an air of uncertainty. How big was this chamber? What lurked in the darkness? Gill reckoned they’d reached their destination.
“The Cups are here,” Pharadon said. “They’re here.”
Gill could sense the relief in his voice, and realised that up until that moment, the old dragon hadn’t been sure they’d get this far. Given what they’d seen of the Venori, Gill didn’t understand Pharadon’s worry. He wasn’t ready to start underestimating them yet—he had too many fights under his belt to think he’d seen enough of them to form a worthwhile opinion. Nonetheless, he wasn’t quite as terrified of the demonic-looking creatures as he had been on entering the mountain tunnels.