Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) by Marc Secchia Page B

saw one of them, once, passing by in a corridor. Then there was the wealthy group, the sons and daughters of privilege, who ordered hundred summer-old vintages by the Dragonship-full and threw extravagant parties in their rooms. Several had live-in mistresses. Aranya might have won a kind of acceptance among them because of her looks–that much was lewdly made clear to her, early on. She declined with thinly-veiled disgust. The last group hailed from a couple of dozen Islands scattered to the four points of the compass, from dark warlike Westerners to herself, a pale Northerner, to the small, lithe denizens of the southern Islands, like the Princess of Remoy.
    Aranya developed a feud with Zuziana. Matters only progressed downhill after their disastrous first meeting. She did not want to feud, but soon realised that many of the petty squabbles or liaisons between the exiles developed out of boredom. Zip turned the core of the third group against her, leaving Aranya to find company among misfits like herself.
    Brooding over this, she stoked her inner fires. Aranya took out her anger in paintings of rajals and Cloudland storms and a wild, fire-breathing Dragon, which, Beri declared, was so realistic that the canvas practically smoked at the edges.
    It was also illegal.
    A month after her arrival, on a day of rainfall so heavy she could hear the thundering torrents even within the Tower of Sylakia, Beri brought her to Nelthion’s office. Between its great racks of scrolls and musty logbooks and purchasing records, his desk was spotlessly clean. Nelthion rose on his crutch, greeting her cordially.
    “I ha ve a favour to ask,” she said, after exchanging greetings with him. “I’ve made a gift for the First War-Hammer Ignathion. Could you arrange to have it sent to him?”
    “A painting?” asked Nelthion. “I heard you’ve been busy. May I see it?”
    Aranya unwrapped the heavy sacking, uncovering a fine cheesecloth bag within. She loosened the drawstring, pushed back the cloth and tilted the framed painting toward the lamps in Nelthion’s office.
    He stared at it for so long that Aranya began to wonder if she had committed an unforgivable breach of protocol.
    “Well,” he said, finally. “I will comply, on one condition. Two conditions.”
    Beri said, “Nelthion, you promised.”
    “Don’t start with me, woman,” he growled. “By the five moons, you’ve turned me into a greybeard overnight. Two conditions, Princess. One, you paint me a teensy something to brighten this office. Two–my brother owns an art gallery in Sylakia Town. Would you be willing to have him display a few of your works, if there are others?”
    “Great mounds,” said Beri.
    Aranya shot her a withering glare. “This is my finest, Nelthion.”
    “I’m no judge of art,” he said. “But my brother is. This would sell for a princely sum, I daresay. As you may know, your home Island Immadia suffers under the tax burden levied on Sylakia’s newest demesne. We like to make Islands pay for their wars. Your King Beran was a legend, Princess. I believe he turned the word ‘Immadia’ into a swear word in the Commander’s presence.”
    With a swift sideways glance, Aranya caught the slightest of smirks on Beri’s face as the maidservant straightened her lips.
    Ha! A plan unmasked!
    “So I’ll contribute a hailstone in a thunderstorm to Immadia’s aid?”
    “Do you see any other of my merry inmates doing as much?” asked Nelthion, his voice dripping with disapproval. “This came from Immadia today.”
    Aranya accepted the message scroll. “Nelthion–how can I ever thank you?”
    “That space between the shelves. Fill it with a windroc. And keep your maidservant from turning me into a greybeard.”
    She laughed.
    On the way back, Aranya said to Beri, “You’re in trouble, you despicable plotter.”
    “Even a woman of eighty-one summers has her wiles, Princess. Why don’t you join the others for dinner? It’ll be served very