Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso Page B

she fled.
    The twins were not disturbed. They escorted us from hall to guest reception room to our living place, oversaw the deposit of saddlebags, the doffing of helmet and turban, the disposal of chairs, with silent unwinking scrutiny. I was on tenterhooks over their reaction to his scar, not to mention the rest, but there was no hope of banishing them. Not that night.
    Seeming unconcerned, my guest scanned the big room under the hanging lamp, the floor strewn with boys’ debris and Tasmarn rugs, the medley of old and new furniture, Callissa’s sewing spread over a table and three chairs, my account-desk neck deep opposite. “So this is a house,” he said. “I never had one myself.”
    â€œA palace,” he expanded as my jaw dropped. “But you inherit that. Then I shared with Fengthira.” For a moment it could have been envy. “Not like this.”
    I sought for cover. “Will you drink something before we eat? Not Everran wine, but they make a barley-spirit in Morrya. . . .” Retiring on the tall dresser that housed our alcohol I was just in time to hear a small, clear, uncompromising voice enquire, “What happened to your face?”
    I spun round. Zem, I think, was planted before his chair, Zam usefully posted on the right flank. Aghast, I wondered if it would be worse to call them off or let them go. But my guest had already responded, perfectly assured.
    â€œIt got burnt.”
    I cringed. Sure enough, the interrogation began.
    â€œHow did it get burnt?”
    He scrubbed at his hair. “You see, there was a dragon. They spit fire, you know? I came too close, and it spat on me.”
    â€œA dragon?” The flank force discarded tactics, the frontal assault goggled as wildly as its sire. “A real dragon? With wings and claws and everything?”
    â€œAnd everything,” he agreed. At which the flank guard elbowed past the van, scaled his closer knee and ensconced itself as with me, perched on the chair-arm with both feet on his thigh, to announce in a fair copy of my defaulters’ voice, “You’d best tell us all about it. From the start.”
    Over their heads his eyes met mine, green chips of mirth. “We should,” he suggested blandly, “ask permission first.”
    I levered my mouth shut. “Not at all—please don’t—only if they don’t bother you—”
    His laughter brightened. “Don’t you,” he suggested demurely, “want to hear it too?”
    â€œFemaere,” I said, and brought over the drinks.
    He sipped, choked, and still half-smiling, began. “Once upon a time”—they wriggled ecstatically—“there was a kingdom called Everran, and I was its king. One day a dragon came. Its name was Hawge, and it had every intention of eating everything in Everran that was eatable.” They nodded. It was orthodox dragonry. “But I had no wish to see my kingdom eaten, so I declared war. No, I didn’t send a herald. The dragon would have eaten him too. I mustered troops—three hundred troops. Not cavalry, horses don’t like dragons.” A shadow crossed his face. “They wore leather because the dragon fire would have made steel armor too hot, and,” with a chuckle, “they didn’t much care for it. We marched off on the dragon’s trail, burnt houses and eaten cattle and—other things—” That memory held no mirth at all. “We found it near two farms it had just burnt, and we attacked. Yes, with a battle-order. Hollow square of spearmen, archers inside. To shoot at its eyes.” More knowledgeable nods. “Hawge woke and saw us, and up it flew.
    First it tried to break the spears, but they were too sharp for its liking, so it spat fire instead. The troops were very good. They stood fast, just as your father’s would.” He was smiling, but I could see the memory’s grief. “Four times it spat