Page 190 of Dragon Strike (Age of Fire 4)

Wistala did not know these lands, and the Lavadome’s maps were old and inaccurate. She had to trust to hope that they would reach the southern provinces, where she’d traveled with Ragwrist’s circus a score or more years ago.

At least the hunting was good. The savannah, broken by empty seasonal watercourses in what looked to be the dying part of the year, had herds of antelope and half-horse following the rains north. A few primitive bands of blighters and humans followed the herds, skirmishing with each other as they went.

Of course the Firemaids wanted to gossip about old wounds between her and their Tyr. She admitted only that both she and her brother had been greatly altered by their experiences.

Luckily, the herds were moving in the right direction.

Sooner or later, the stars must turn familiar, if she just flew north long enough so that the flying dragon of the southern skies disappeared and the bowing dragon rose.

They passed into rich grasslands and she recognized the distant spine of the southern tips of the Red Mountains. And with that she was back in familiar lands, the southern provinces of Hypatia. She’d once searched this far south looking for dragons, but had decided that the empty plains beyond didn’t look promising. Perhaps, had she just gone south as long as land held, she would have come to the range holding the Lavadome—though only griffaran showed themselves above the dragon mountains.

She took her Firemaids to the coast of the Inland Ocean, and they dined on fresh fish, crabs, and sea turtles. They passed over the ruins of the old elven sea-city—she’d seen Krakenoor in its glory, sadly, before the race war of the dragon-riders that she’d missed while hunting AuRon in the east.

When they reached the coastal marshes she knew they were less than three horizons from Hypat. The marshes had been settled and then abandoned long ago, but roads and paths still crisscrossed the wet mass.

There was food and game to be found, if you didn’t mind crayfish, smelly water-rats, and raccoons.

She’d once been told that the gods smiled on the foundations of Hypat.

She knew the air on this part of the coast well. Ragwrist’s circus rested here, so that old talent could be paid off in changing-house funds and new talent hired and trained from those drawn to the marble city from across half a world.

From above, the city reminded her of a jawbone of some big herbivore. The long, toothy side hugged the river creeping into the Green Tidetwist of the Inland Ocean, with the great thick bulge of the city on somewhat higher ground overlooking some marshes that provided nutritious mud for the city’s gardens—even the most impoverished resident could scratch a living hauling wet mud—

By some trick of river, ocean, wind, and sun the city saw sunshine almost every day of the year—bright, cool sun that burned off the fogs that rolled in off the Inland Ocean and into the famous vineyards. A half-day flight to the north and you cursed the fogs and the cold wet that bypassed your skin entirely and settled in around your bones; a half-day flight to the south and the air was humid and the black-bark forests smelled like rot filled with rain-slicked squirrels and torpid turtles. Only the ants hurried anywhere.

But the pocket of dry air and sun surrounding Hypat seemed ordered by nature herself; she’d decided that whoever dwelt along these brief horizons should enjoy cool nights and afternoon sunshine just warm enough for napping. Wistala had been told they paid for it with wild storms roaring in off the Inland Ocean at the equinoxes, but even those were brief.

Her first duty would be to pay a call on the librarians at the keeper’s school. Though Hypat was not as great a center as the giant archive at Thallia, the librarians there would be better acquainted with whatever trials faced Hypatia, for they educated the sons and daughters of the prominent families and advised the directors.

She wished she’d paid more attention to her old mentor Rainfall when he spoke of the Hypatian Directory.

The keeper’s school lay to the south of the city, on grounds ringed by homes piled atop each other on the remains of a rock-slide. Connected gardens and courtyards formed green squiggles between the homes. Colorful awnings shaded rooftops or the street fronts.

Her descent and landing caused a stir. Everyone from fire wardens to fruit vendors fought their way through the streets to get a view over the library walls.

After identifying herself, she waited in the garden behind the school. She listened to the clatter of shutters being opened and passed time by counting young faces in the windows.

The head librarian himself came to speak to her. He knew her by sight. She’d met him years ago but couldn’t remember his face. According to him, half the city was anxious about war with Ghioz. They’d taken two thanedoms in the southern reaches of the Red Mountains and demanded gold from four others so that a new set of trading posts might be built for the benefit of both empires.

There was much talk of war ruining the spring rites and the traditional revelries of blessing the new plantings.

He summoned two officials of the Directory—optimates, in the Hypatian tongue, but where they ranked in the complex hierarchy of the Directory Wistala couldn’t remember. There were twenty-seven different titles. They had long names that would do a dragon credit and wore a variety of robes and decorative sashes. The stouter one, Ansab, walked so that his belly rode high—just under his chin, it seemed to Wistala—and the other, called Paffle, was aged and always rubbing his hands in anxiety.

When they learned she was ranked as a librarian they gave her brief tips of the head, so she guessed they stood somewhere above librarians.

“A half-council is already in session and the agenda is full,” stamped Ansab.

“But she is an ambassador.”

“Ah, but not from an acknowledged state! Remember what happened when that churl arrived claiming to represent the Moon King of Gaiyai!”

“Pleasant fellow,” Paffle said. “Well spoken. Always made me laugh.”

“Ate in half the Directory’s houses and borrowed money from the other half, then fsssst!” Ansab’s meaty arm shot out and up.

“I’ve no intention of committing a fsssst,” Wistala said.

“Oh, no no no!” Paffle said, shrinking like a worm caught in the sun. “We never meant to suggest—well. I do apologize, librarian. Oh, dear.”

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