Page 79 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

He knew that a pack of dragons from the west had returned with a broom and a cape, though he didn’t know where this bounty had come from. Liir, of all places! Trism knew about the scrapings of the missionary maunts, among, it turned out, several dozen others.

“Scrapings,” said Liir wi

th a shudder. Candle had mentioned such a thing. “I hardly know what it means…”

The claws are sharp as razors, oppositional pinchers like a human thumb and forefinger, Trism explained. A human can build a miniature ship in an empty jeroboam, and a dragon can remove a face with as few as nine incisions.

Trism was curt. “Don’t ask me for the rationale. I know one thing: the dragons only go after the young. They’re trained that way.” He squared his shoulders. “I trained them that way. The theory is that when the young are brought down in their prime, it is more—alarming—useful—than if some old codger or crone is bumped off.”

Why hadn’t the dragons scraped Liir’s face? He was young enough. Maybe they thought the broom and cape were all the trove they needed. Or maybe they saw something in Liir that stopped them.

“But maunts!” Liir said. “Young women devoting their lives to the service of the Unnamed God? It doesn’t figure.”

Trism explained that the old maunteries, with their traditions of independence, didn’t suit the leadership style of the Emperor. The Apostle of the Unnamed God—

“What’s all this about the Apostle?”

“That’s what the Emperor calls himself. The humblest of the humble has been exalted by the Unnamed God. So the Apostle feels obliged to exercise the authority granted him.” It seemed that some of the maunteries about Oz were led by older women raised in an archaic scholastic tradition. Some superiors were becoming dangerously out of touch with the needs of the common folk, and fell to asking bothersome questions about the spiritual authority of the Emperor. Such foment could only erode the confidence of the nation.

“Is that it?” asked Liir. “Is this a moment of foment?”

“I’m not privy to the thinking. Information’s meted out on a need-to-know basis. But I’ve heard the western tribes were close to uniting by treaty, to defend against City interests in their land. The dragon attacks could confound the tribes, cause them to mistrust one another, if they didn’t know who was behind the attacks.

“The faces of those young missionaries you mention,” Trism concluded, working to maintain his composure. “They’ve been cured and stored. They’re going to be taken out at the next Holy Affairs Day and exhibited. A point is going to be made.”

There was worse still. The dragons—there were several dozen of them—were fed on the corpses of freshly killed humans. That bloody diet helped stoke the dragons with the strength needed to fly the hundreds of miles to the west. The cadavers were imported directly from a killing chamber in Southstairs, where a fresh supply was always available, thanks to the culling campaigns of the Under-mayor.

“Chyde,” intoned Liir. “The guy with the rings.”

Trism was nonplussed. “Is Shell the spy, or is it you?”

“I get around. Find the company I deserve. Go on.”

“Well, with all that folderdoodle, human corpses freshly bled and rendered into cutlets, do you wonder I am a wreck? The dragons weren’t my idea, but I was elevated to the position, and now they’re under my supervision.”

“Whose idea were they? Shell’s not that clever.”

Trism cast Liir a dark look. “Who can believe anyone anymore? But I met Shell again—as Emperor I mean, of course—a while ago. I had a private audience, not long after his Elevation to the Imperialcy.”

Liir folded his arms and leaned against a parapet. They’d walked on, climbing out of the Lower Quarter as the streets climbed. The lights of the alleys of the Burntpork district burned below the escarpment. “Do tell.”

“He was humility personified, Liir. Make that face if you like. You distrust everything. He’s a little thicker about the waist, very quick of wit and…almost tender, I guess. His Awakening has given him a largesse and a zeal. He talked about it. Why shouldn’t he lead? ‘Choosing the lowliest among us,’ he said, indicating himself. ‘A fornicator and a sot.’ He seemed pretty shocked. ‘What am I but a shell—waiting to be filled with the spirit of the Unnamed God?’”

“What form did his Awakening take, I wonder? I thought people who heard voices were generally considered lunatics.”

“Who knows. He grew up in the thick of it, though, didn’t he? He’d had those two powerful sisters; next to them he must always have felt like shredded cabbage.”

“Are we talking about the same Shell? Come on!”

“Come on yourself. Suppose everyone in your family was thought to be wicked. Even were called Wicked, almost as a title—”

But they were, thought Liir; it was my family, too, or as good as.

“—what would you have done in Shell’s place—as…alleviation? Compensation? Damage control? Shoot, he may have believed the next flying house or flying bucket of water was meant for him. You’d sign on with a Higher Authority if you were he, wouldn’t you?”

“Shell was about the last one I’d have fingered for a low self-image. Surprise, surprise. Now he works out his inferiority at the helm of the nation…”

“He sees it as destiny. He showed me a page torn out of a book of magic. The Scarecrow found it in the Wizardic apartments after the abdication. It was in an indecipherable script, but it had been laboriously translated. I suppose by the Wizard. ‘On the Administration of Dragons’ it said.”

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