Page 456

BINGTOWN NEGOTIATIONS

T HE ROOF ON the Traders’ Concourse was gone.

The Chalcedeans had finished what the New Traders had begun.

Ronica picked her way past the sooty remains of the roof that had collapsed on the Concourse floor.

It had continued to burn after it fell, streaking the stone walls with soot and smoke.

Tapestries and banners that had once decorated the hall hung in charred fragments.

Above, a few beams remained, burned to black points.

The afternoon sky threatened rain as it looked greyly down on the gathering inside the roofless building, yet the Bingtown Traders had stubbornly insisted on meeting in a structure that could no longer shelter them.

That, Ronica thought, spoke volumes about the legendary tenacity of the Traders.

The fallen timbers had been pushed to one side.

Folk stepped over and through the rest of the rubble.

Cinders crunched underfoot and the smell of damp ash rose as the crowd milled.

The fire that had taken the roof had claimed most of the tables and benches as well.

Some scorched chairs remained, but Ronica did not trust any of them enough to sit on them.

And there was a strange equality to standing shoulder to shoulder with the others gathered here. Bingtown Traders, New Traders, tattooed slaves and brawny fisherfolk, tradesmen, and servants all stood with their friends and kin.

They filled the hall. Outside, the overflow sat on the steps and clustered in groups on the grounds.

Despite their differing origins, there was an odd sameness to the folk.

All faces bore the shock and grief of the Chalcedean invasion and the havoc it had wrought.

Battle and fire had treated them equally, from wealthy Bingtown Trader to humble kitchen slave.

Their clothes were stained with soot or blood and sometimes both.

Most looked unkempt. Children huddled near parents or neighbours.

Weapons were carried openly. The talk was muttered and low, and most had to do with the dragon.

‘She breathed on them, and they just melted away like candles in a flame.’

‘Smashed the whole hull with one blow of her tail.’

‘Not even Chalcedeans deserve to die like that.’

‘Don’t they? They deserve to die however we can manage it.’

‘The dragon is a blessing from Sa, sent to save us. We should prepare thanksgiving offerings.’

Many folk stood silent, eyes fixed on the raised stone dais that had survived to elevate the chosen leaders from each group.

Serilla was there, representing Jamaillia, with Roed Caern glowering beside her.

The sight of him on the dais made Ronica clench her teeth but she forced herself not to stare at him.

She had hoped that Serilla had broken off with Roed following his ill-advised attack upon the New Traders.

How could she be so foolish? The Companion stood, eyes cast down as if in deep thought.

She was dressed far more elegantly than anyone else on the dais, in a long, soft, white robe, decorated with crossing ropes of cloth-of-gold.

Ashes and soot had marred the hem of it.

Despite the garment’s long sleeves and the thick woollen cloak she wore, the Companion stood with her arms crossed as if chilled.

Sparse Kelter was also on the dais, and the blood on his rough fisherman’s smock was not fish blood today.

A heavy-boned woman with tattoos sprawling across her cheek and onto her neck flanked him.

Dujia, leader of the Tattooed, wore ragged trousers and a patched tunic.

Her bare feet were dirty. A rough bandage around her upper arm showed that she had been in the thick of the fighting.

Traders Devouchet, Conry and Drur represented the Bingtown Council. Ronica did not know if they were the only surviving Council heads, or the only ones bold enough to dare displeasing Caern and his cohorts. They stood well away from Serilla and Roed. At least that separation had been established.

Mingsley was there for the New Traders. His richly-embroidered vest showed several days of hard wear. He stood at the opposite side of the dais from the slave woman and avoided her gaze. Ronica had heard that Dujia had not led an easy life as his slave, and that he had good reason to fear her.

Sitting on the edge of the dais, feet dangling, oddly calm, was her grandson, Selden. His eyes wandered over the crowd below him with an air of preoccupation. Only Mingsley had dared question his right to be there. Selden had met his gaze squarely.

‘I will speak for us all when the dragon comes,’ he had assured the man. ‘And, if needed, I will speak for the dragon to you. I must be here so she can see me above the crowd.’

‘What makes you think she will come here?’ Mingsley had demanded.

Selden had smiled an otherworldly smile.

‘Oh, she will come. Never fear,’ he had replied.

He blinked his eyes slowly. ‘She sleeps now. Her belly is full.’ When her grandson smiled, the silvery scaling across his cheeks rippled and shone.

Mingsley had stared, and then stepped back from the boy.

Ronica feared that she could already detect a blue shimmer to Selden’s lips beneath the chapping.

How could he have changed so much, so swiftly?

As baffling, perhaps, was the inordinate pleasure he took in the changes.

Jani Khuprus, representing the Rain Wilds, stood protectively behind Selden.

Ronica was glad she was there, but wondered at her intent.

Would she claim the last heir to the Vestrit family and carry him off to Trehaug?

Yet, if she did not, what place would there be for him in Bingtown?

Keffria stood so close to the dais that she could have reached out and touched her boy.

But she didn’t. Ronica’s daughter had been silent since Reyn had brought Selden to them.

She had looked at the silvery path of scales across the tops of her son’s cheeks, but she had not touched them.

Selden had joyously told her that Malta was alive, for the dragon said so.

When Keffria had said nothing in response to his news, he had seized her arm, as if to waken her from sleep.

‘Mother. Put your grief aside. Tintaglia can bring Malta back to us. I know she can.’

‘I will wait for that,’ Keffria had said faintly. No more than that. Now she looked up at her son as if he were a ghost, as if a tracery of scales had removed him from her world.

Just beyond Keffria stood Reyn Khuprus. He, like Jani, went unveiled now.

From time to time, Ronica saw folk turn their heads and stare at the Rain Wilders, but both were too preoccupied to be offended.

Reyn was in deep conversation with Grag Tenira.

There seemed to be a difference of opinion, one that was civil but intense.

She hoped it would not cause discord between them tonight.

Bingtown needed every semblance of unity it could muster.

Ronica’s eyes travelled across the assembled folk in all their variety.

She smiled grimly to herself. Selden was still her grandson; despite his scales, he was still a Vestrit.

Perhaps the changes on Selden’s face would be no more of a stigma than the tattoos that others would wear unashamedly in the new Bingtown.

One of the ships that the dragon had dismasted had been filled with Bingtown captives.

Many had already been forcibly tattooed, their faces marked with the sigils of their captors so that each raider would receive his profit when they were sold in Chalced.

The Chalcedeans had abandoned the dismasted ship and attempted to escape in galleys, but Ronica did not think any had been successful.

Bingtown folk had poled out on a makeshift raft to the listing vessel to rescue their kin, while the dragon pursued Chalcedean prey.

Many who had never expected to wear a slave tattoo now did, including some New Traders.

She suspected they might shift their politics in response.

Anxiety shifted the gathered folk endlessly.

When the dragon had returned from hunting Chalcedeans, she had ordered their leaders to assemble, saying that she would treat with them soon.

The sun had been high then. Now night threatened and still she had not returned.

Ronica returned her gaze to the dais. It would be interesting to see who would try to call this gathering to order, and whom the crowd would follow.

Ronica was expecting Serilla to use her claim of the Satrap’s authority, but Trader Devouchet stepped to the front of the dais. He lifted his arms high and the crowd hushed.

‘We have gathered here in the Bingtown Traders’ Concourse. Since Trader Dwicker has been murdered, I step up to the position of head of the Bingtown Traders’ Council. I claim the right to speak first.’ He looked over the assembled folk expecting some dissent, but for now, all was silent.

Devouchet proceeded to state the obvious. ‘We are gathered here, all the folk of Bingtown, to discuss what we will do about the dragon that has descended upon us.’

That, Ronica thought to herself, was inspired. Devouchet mentioned nothing of the differences that had set the town to battling in the first place. He focused all of them, as a single entity, on the problem of the dragon. Devouchet spoke on.

‘She has driven the Chalcedean fleet from our harbour and hunted down several roving bands of raiders. For now, she has disappeared from our skies, but she said she would soon return. Before she does, we must decide how to deal with her. She has freed our harbour. What are we prepared to offer her in exchange?’

He paused for breath. That was his mistake, for a hundred voices filled in, with a hundred different answers.