No doubt to Lady Astonby it looked like artifice when I hesitated. Upon my honour, though, it was genuine inspiration that made me go on to say, “Unless they bred more than one sort. Which is possible, I suppose.”
The countess’s eyebrows rose. “I see. But that is nothing more than speculation.”
“I’m afraid so. Nonetheless…” I bit my lip, casting my gaze toward the ceiling. “I do not recall whether any breeding grounds have been discovered in the local ruins. My husband would know. Though of course a great deal depends on what we mean by ‘local’—as we do not know where in the Mrtyahaima the specimen was found.”
My intellectual enthusiasm had begun to run away with me once more. Lady Astonby brought me back to earth with a pointed question. “Other than greater scientific knowledge, what gain is there for Scirland in extending the hand of friendship to these revolutionaries?”
It was clear that my plea had made no impression, and was unlikely to do so. Still, I could not give up yet. “They oppose the Taisên,” I said lamely.
“And if their rebellion were going well, that might be of use to us. Of course, if it were going well, they would not need our aid. So we are asked to gamble upon the possibility that they might succeed in overthrowing the Taisên.”
Such a result would be beneficial to us in the long run, as it would remove an unfriendly dynasty and replace it with one that had reason to view us as friends. In the short term, however, it would require us to lay out resources and manpower, with no certainty of return. The mathematics of it made my head ache: this was why I stayed away from politics whenever I could. I was comfortable with risking my own life, but not those of our nation’s soldiers.
Lady Astonby’s gaze became curious. “Let us lay aside for the moment the question of the revolutionaries’ chances, and the logistics of their rebellion. And let us also lay aside this dragon specimen of which you are so enamoured. Speaking only of the personal level—or the moral, if you will—do you truly support this alliance?”
When people asked my political opinion, their true question was usually whether I would support their pet cause or not. If Lady Astonby had any such purpose in mind, though, I could not discern it; and so I gave her question due thought, sitting silently for a long minute.
Finally I said, “There is a degree of hypocrisy in our opposition to the Taisên. Our two nations detest one another because we are too much alike: both of us are grabbing for territory and resources. We condemn them for their rapacity, and I would not be surprised to learn they condemn us for the same reason. But I do not believe we will ever find peace with the Taisên, and a continuation of the Aerial War will not be good for anyone—least of all the people whose lands we fight over. If the Khiam Siu take power, we might at least end that conflict. So yes, I support it.” Then I permitted myself a small, deprecating smile. “But if you ask me to swear that my own self-interest plays no role in that statement, I’m afraid I shall have to decline.”
Lady Astonby nodded, as if she had reached a decision. “So Lady Trent supports the Khiam Siu. We can use that.”
I had cause to regret my words in the weeks that followed. Use me they did, in ways I should have predicted, were I not so determinedly naive in the realm of politics. Lady Trent extending the hand of friendship to the Yelangese made a noteworthy symbol, given my history of hostility with that people: they arranged for me to do so not just metaphorically but literally, during a diplomatic meeting with representatives from both the Khiam rebellion (including their would-be emperor, Giat Jip-hau) and members of the Synedrion. And that, of course, was only the beginning. I sat through endless state dinners, smiled and made small talk with Yelangese men and women who were as single-minded in pursuit of their cause as I was in pursuit of dragons. We had very little in common, and I found myself recalling, almost with longing, my perilous experiences in other parts of the world. At least there, I felt I was equal to the challenge.
In the end, however, I cannot complain too much. Thu Phim-lat obtained his alliance, and I obtained access to his notes.
“Is this all?” I said, gesturing at the small notebook on the table in my study.
Mr. Thu shrugged apologetically. “There was only the one specimen, Lady Trent, and only a few scraps of it at that. How much could I record?”
He had a point, but I had irrationally hoped for more. With Suhail leaning in at my left shoulder and Tom at my right, I opened the notebook and found myself looking at a pencil sketch of a decomposing dragon.
Pieces of one, at least. Mr. Thu had not been exaggerating the scantiness of his material. We were fortunate that he found most of the head; his theory was that it had been the last part to emerge from the snow and ice, and therefore the least damaged by the warmer temperatures and passing scavengers. Apart from this, there were a few scraps of flesh, one of which might have been part of a leg, and a piece of wing, so thoroughly separated from the rest of the body that it must have been torn off by an animal. “Or by the avalanche,” Mr. Thu added. “Either before or after it died.”
I shuddered to think of such annihilating force. I had taken up mountain climbing in recent years, partly as a hobby, but more to toughen myself for future expeditions. I had only rarely climbed above the snow line—almost every instance taking place the previous summer, when my son Jake persuaded me to take him on a holiday with the mountain pioneers Mr. and Mrs. Winstow to the southern Netsja Mountains—and had narrowly escaped what our Bulskoi guides assured me was a very small avalanche. A collapse strong enough to separate wing from body was harrowing even to think of.
“This can’t possibly be the normal shape of its muzzle,” Tom said. “Even allowing for the collapse of the bone within.”
“The flesh is very—” Mr. Thu paused, searching for the word. “Dry, and thin.”
“Desiccated,” I said.
He nodded. “By the ice. And I think the weight of the snow crushed it over time, pushed it out of shape.”
“That often happens with frozen bodies,” Suhail agreed. “Like the pair found in the Netsjas thirty years ago. Without bone to provide support, I imagine the effect would be even stronger.”
With Suhail’s assistance, Thu translated the notes scribbled below and around the images. The head was approximately forty centimeters from back to front, and thirty centimeters from base to crown. Many of the teeth had fallen out, making dentition uncertain. There were sketches of the remaining teeth on the following page: a few incisors, one surprisingly small cuspid or “canine tooth,” which Mr. Thu had tentatively identified as mandibular. A broken piece of what might have been a carnassial. We were lucky to have even that many, without bone to anchor them in place. The neck was set low on the skull, suggesting a head carried more high than forward. Mr. Thu could only guess at its intact length, but thought it was possibly quite short.
“Not surprising,” Tom said. “In a cold climate like that, a long neck is only a way to lose vital heat.”
Indeed, the neck of a rock-wyrm is much shorter and stouter than that of a desert drake—and the Vystrani Mountains are mere foothills in comparison with the Mrtyahaima. “What of the hide?” I asked.
In reply, Mr. Thu delved within his pocket and brought out a small silk bag. With great care, he opened its drawstrings and slid the contents onto the table.
It was a pair of… scales, I thought, but they were unlike any I’d seen before. One was long and thin: sized, I thought, to a beast much larger than that head would suggest. The other was a good deal smaller, and irregularly shaped. They were exceedingly pale and bluish in tone, but not the same colour; the larger one was mottled with darker grey spots. When I picked it up and tapped my fingernail against it, the sound was dull and heavy, though the scale itself was light.