Page 123 of Dragon Outcast (Age of Fire 3)

Harf, Rhea, and Fourfang even had their own room just off his, with a thick curtain so it was warm and cozy. Naturally they set to squabbling when Harf started pawing at Rhea and trying to mate with her. The Copper sent Rhea to see about some fresh clothing for herself and Fourfang, for the journey had tattered their simple tunics, and put Harf to work scrubbing a noisome corner the previous tenant had left. Why couldn’t dragons be bothered to use the waste pits?

“Fourfang, you know about these things. If she’s not ready to mate, she shouldn’t, right?”

Fourfang probed his ears, perhaps prodding his brains into activity. “Not know humans of many. Not want babies for sell?”

“I’m not sure she’s even mature enough for that. Don’t they get those suckle points when they’re ready for children? Bigger is better, no?”

Fourfang thought that funny.

“Well, if he starts pawing at her again, stop him. Or tell her she can sleep in here, but there’s a draft from that crack, I’m afraid.”

The bats were happy to probe his scales for juicy ticks and fleas that had come along for the journey, and they told him of what they saw and heard while he was gone. Uninteresting bat gossip, mostly involving the movement of herds or sickly, deep-sleeping dragons. Old Thernadad, blinder than ever but still with some hearing, relayed some details of a good fight in the Drakwatch caves. The Copper decided that when he returned to the surface he’d take a few bats along, just to keep the vermin out of his hide.

The bats stirred at some motion in the outer passage. The Copper smelled rich perfumed oils.

“So you do keep bats,” Tighlia said, thrusting her head in.

The bats flapped back up into their holes.

She sniffed at the bat crack and clamped her nostrils. “I thought it was just gossip. Scale and tail, as my granddam used to say, it’s cramped in here, and the bats are making my eyes water. I want to talk to you, Rugaard. I don’t believe I can fit without squashing you. Perhaps you’d better come out into the passage.”

The coins rolling around in his innards had left him in a contented mood, and he followed her fleshless hips out into the tunnel. She looked around, and though there was nothing but a sleeping thrall on a mat in front of a passage, waiting for her dragon to return, Tighlia still followed the sound of falling water to the cascade. She made a pretense of wetting her face.

“Now, my ill-favored little adoptive granddrake, I thought we should have a talk before you returned to Bant.”

“Yes, Granddam. I’m honored by—”

“Of course. That’s the only thing I can stand about you. You’re polite rather than wheedling or sycophantic or challenging. For all your faults, it seems you have a good memory. I want you to send my compliments to my brother. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, Granddam.”

“With one piece of advice. This is imperative. If he’s going to win a war in Bant, he needs to inspire the hominids. They’re not thralls; he can’t just threaten and bluster and drive to get what he wants. He has to handle them. Make them want the war.”

She paused, so the Copper guessed she expected a reply. “Handle them so they want the war.”

“Yes. Aren’t you wondering how?”

“Doesn’t he know?”

“You’ve no intellectual curiosity at all, have you? Don’t answer; you’re tiresome enough when silent. My brother’s much the same. The trick to getting hominids worked up for a war is to fixate them.”

“Fixate them, Granddam?” the Copper said.

“Yes. Find some old wrong the Ghi men have done to them and get them talking of nothing else. Make sure it’s something long enough ago so the memory’s clouded about exactly what happened. Then tell them all their difficulties spring from that source, like a salted well slowly poisoning the land around. Fixate! If their sheep are dying, it’s because of the Ghi men. If the rain causes a mudslide, it’s because the Ghi men cut down their trees. That kind of thing. Their brains can’t hold more than three ideas at once, and my brother must make sure at least one of the ideas is useful to him.”

If the hominids are so dull, why must we hide from them in the Lower World?

“Fixate them so they blame the Ghi men for everything. Yes.”

“He should call an assembly of their king and shamans or witch doctors or whatever they have and put the idea into their heads.”

“Thank you, Granddam.”

“For what?”

“For bending your thoughts to the crisis. The Lavadome is lucky to have such wisdom.”

She let out what in another dragon might have been a prrum, but it was strangled deep in her throat and emerged as just a sort of gargle. “You’re almost a credit to my mate’s wisdom, Rugaard. Now get back to my brother, before he flings his dragons against towers and war machines. The Bant think it’s their country; they should be the ones dying for it.”

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