She took a deep breath to calm herself. Unless they had used very potent magic, there was no way Xephan or his men could beat her to where she was going. But then they had access to powerful magic, and perhaps they might even have anticipated her plan. She pushed such thoughts aside. There was no sense in worrying about such things until the possibility materialised.
It had been a busy day, she reflected. She had failed to assassinate the Prime Minister and if things went according to plan she would commit a few more capital crimes before this night was out.
The thought amused her.
There were no guards at the estate gates. No one tried to arrest her as she raced towards the mansion house she had known since childhood. She felt a thrill of nostalgia as she thundered up the tree-lined approach. She remembered the scent and the taste of the night air and the moon-blossoming flowers. She caught the glitter of light on the crystal roof of the glasshouse in which her mother had once cultivated her exotic plants.
Her approach had not gone unnoticed. Lights came on in the windows and armed figures emerged from the doors. She was relieved to see that they were all servants, humans that she remembered, and hopefully loyal to her family still.
Guilt stabbed at her. She had signed all their death warrants by coming here tonight. She told herself that it was not her fault, that Xephan would kill them all anyway, but somehow she could not convince herself of it. She told herself that the deaths of a few score humans did not matter, not compared to the life of a Terrarch and especially her own, but that did not change anything either. She was doing them wrong and she knew it. She cursed herself- who had ever heard of an assassin with a bad conscience?
“Who goes there?” shouted a footman, pointing a blunderbuss in her direction. “You should know we are armed.”
“It is Lady Tamara,” she shouted back, and was gratified and made more guilty still by their immediate recognition. A groom ran to take her horse. If anyone noticed her unusual attire they gave no sign of being concerned.
“You’ll be wanting food, Milady,” said the chief servant.
“I will. Bring it to the dragon cave. I have urgent business to perform there.”
“As you command, Milady.”
Without waiting for any further questions, she headed towards the hill, praying that Ironfang was not still dormant from his winter sleep.
The ornate iron gates were locked. She took a deep breath, catching the faint acrid smell of dragon as she waited for the keeper to come with the keys. It was late, it was unusual to for anyone to want access at this time of night, and the Keeper was old and crotchety. Tamara drummed her fingers against her side. She had the feeling that Xephan’s minions could close in any time, and to be found here would mean death. They knew what she was capable of now, and the Brotherhood would see that anyone sent for her would come prepared. She did not like the idea of facing a host of sorcerously enhanced minions armed with magebane and truesilver.
The Keeper arrived, his keys clanking on a huge iron ring. Two of his apprentices accompanied him with prods and lanterns. He looked up at her, rheumy eyes disapproving, as if this were some dark conspiracy to separate him from his bed. Recognition dawned slowly and he smiled, revealing yellow teeth and black stumps. In the lantern-light his face was as leathery and seamed as those of his charges, and his eyes just as malevolent. They say shepherds come to resemble their sheep, she thought, so why not keepers and their dragons?
“Your wish, mistress?” he asked.
“Ironfang must be ready to fly at dawn.”
“The master sent no word to me, mistress.”
“That’s why he sent me.” At the moment it seemed best not to reveal her plan. All females save the empress were forbidden from riding dragons. She was glad now her father had been sufficiently unconventional as to secretly defy that law and give her lessons. He was always saying you could never tell when a skill might prove useful. At the time, she had not realised that if they were seen she could have been executed for usurping the Empress’s prerogatives. Even then her father had been reckless with her life, a foretaste of what was to come.
The old man shrugged and opened the way. Down in the gloom of the caves something enormous shifted its weight, the echoes of its movements loud. At least Ironfang was awake, she thought, then told herself to wait and see. Perhaps the old beast was simply fidgeting in his sleep. She would not let hope cloud her mind.
They walked down into the darkness. For a long moment, the illusion that she was walking down the gullet of some gigantic monster filled Tamara’s mind. The smell of dragon, and dragon excrement became stronger. They entered the caves proper, and the beast loomed before them, its plate-sized eyes glittering in the dark, as it studied those who had dared disturb it. She could feel its ferocity now, and the power of its aura. Ironfang was old even for a dragon. He had hatched when the Terrarchs first came to this world, one of the last clutches to breed true. As always, confronting a dragon Tamara was acutely aware of how a mouse must feel in the presence of a wildcat.
The Keeper muttered reassuringly, and moved closer to the dragon, showing no signs of fear. He took the grooming pole from his apprentices and began to work on Ironfang’s scales. The dragon let out a hiss of pleasure, for all the world like a dog having his stomach scratched.
Tamara inspected him in the lantern light. He was massive, large as a bridgeback wyrm. The eyes that stared back at her were far more intelligent than any wyrm’s.
“Your father will be wanting his flying suit,” said the Keeper. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the apprentices and told them to go get it.
“Bring a second,” said Tamara. The Keeper raised an eyebrow and kept scratching away where scale joined scale. He had known about her secret flights with her father. Or at least about the fact that she had accompanied him.
“Do as Lady Tamara says,” he said, almost as if he was the master here, and her orders might not be obeyed without being reinforced by his own. Maybe he was right. It had been a while since she had been down here.
“How is he?” Tamara asked, pointing at Ironfang.
“He’s had a good long winter sleep. He’s been awake and hungry for some time. He should be ready to fly. It’s odd. Most dragons are hibernating longer this year or so I heard, but he’s awake. It’s as if he senses something. I’m not sure what. A lot of strange tales being told, mistress, so no wonder.”
“What tales?”
“Dead men walking. The Elder Races stirring. War and rebellion. Maybe it’s the war that’s got him all riled up. He’s a fighting dragon of the old breed, and war calls his sort. Born for the slaughter they are.”
He said that as if he had sure and certain knowledge of it although the last time Ironfang had flown to battle was in the time of Koth over a century before. It was amazing how the keepers transmitted their lore down the generations. She reached out and touched a scale. It was cool and hard and the dragon paid her no more attention than if she had been a fly.
“War is coming for certain,” Tamara said softly. Her father had always claimed that there was some sort of bond between him and this old beast. Might it have sensed his death? She flexed her mystical senses and touched Ironfang with her power. It roared softly in response. The old man looked at her. He was human, so he could not have sensed what she was doing, but he was keenly aware of the dragon and its responses. The beast’s great head rose on its long serpentine neck and then looped down to inspect her. She could smell its carnivore’s breath, and see its dagger-like teeth. The Keeper did not even flinch.