Scales

Epilogue

Dear Kayt

Well, here we are in Irmway at last. We would have made it a whole lot sooner if Rarg! hadn't kept getting distracted along the way by castles and mansions or, as he puts it, 'sites of historical and/or architectural interest'. They also happened to look a lot like the kind of places that have treasure vaults and gold-stuffed strongrooms and stuff like that, but he tends to get quite defensive if I point this out. He claims to be over the loss of his hoard, but I have to wonder. I suspect old habits die hard.

We also got lost a few times, but once we hit the Erinoquo River we just followed it all the way to Quollo (which is the capital city), and that's where we are now. Well, strictly speaking, we're on the outskirts of Quollo. Okay, strictly, strictly speaking, we're on a farm a few leagues outside of Quollo. Hiding in a stable.

I told you old habits die hard.

You know, riding a dragon to a different kingdom has a lot to be said for it—no ticket required, the views are pretty amazing, there's barbecue for dinner every night, etc—but there are drawbacks, too. Namely, that people's reaction to having a whacking great fire-breathing beast arrive in their neighbourhood tends to be...mixed. And, given it's not exactly an inconspicuous way to get around, we've gotten to experience plenty of those reactions. So much so that we try to keep a bit of a low profile these days. As much as that's possible, anyway, when you're iridescent, weigh a few tons and have a wingspan the width of...well, of a dragon.

I don't know how Irmway is stacked for knights or princes or other assorted potential heroes of the dragon-slaying ilk, but I figure it's probably best not to take too many chances. Particularly now that we're so close to starting our quest. So, the big guy will hole up here tomorrow while I hitch a ride into Quollo and pick up some supplies. I don't know much about the Outlands (and it seems nobody else does either) but I feel pretty confident in asserting that pie-carts and corner-stores will be thin on the ground. Rarg! can catch and flame-grill a critter with the best of them, and he's perfectly happy on the 100% Barbecue Diet, but my humble human digestion needs a bit more variety.

Anyway, it's been a big day, and I still need to read Rarg! his story (don't ask), so I'd better wrap this up. I expect mailboxes will also be in short supply in the Outlands, so I don't know when I'll next be able to write, but I'll do my best to stay in touch. Say hi to Kobe and Flax and Chenson and Dave, and all the best with your exams. I'll be expecting some serious tips and tutoring when I get back.

Take care

Alyx

****

Just like the last half-dozen she'd received from him, Kayt screwed Alyx's letter up and, with pinpoint precision, tossed it into the wastepaper-basket on the other side of her room. And, five minutes later, just as she had done with those other half-dozen, she went and retrieved it, carefully straightened it out on her desk, re-read it, and then placed it neatly on top of the stack in her bottom drawer.

Expression neutral, ignoring the open textbooks spread before her, she gazed out of her window and over the university's great court, several stories below.

Just who did he think he was? Gallivanting off halfway around the world on some mad quest, with barely a moment's notice. Venturing into untamed wilds and facing unknown dangers. Putting at risk a potentially productive career in the apothecarial arts.

And, most galling of all, acting as if he hadn't even noticed the unmistakable signals she was putting out that night. The unforgettable night of the dragon and the gryphon, the night of the ice-giant—the night before the biggest collective hangover in university history.

How dare he?

Yes, the signals might have been subtle, but it wasn't like he was an idiot. Or, at least, so she'd thought. Frankly, she was beginning to wonder. Because not only had the infuriating fellow managed to save the day with nothing but pub supplies and innuendo—now he was riding the only known dragon in the world into the planet's last wilderness, purely in the faint hope they might be able to find said dragon a friend, like he was some kind of ridiculous storybook adventurer or something.

And he didn't even realise how infuriatingly irresistible that made him!

It would serve him right if she didn't wait for him. In the continued absence, however, of any other moderately cute, ice-giant-slaying dragonriders who'd managed to become heroes without even noticing, she would. He just better be a bit bloody quicker on the uptake next time around.

Otherwise the worst the Outlands had to offer would be the least of his problems.

****

Shifting and all-too-rare sunlight played over the keep of Tally's former master. Glad for the respite for her freshly knitted ribs, she rode the resultant thermals high above the dark-walled structure, glorying in the freedom—the true, absolute freedom—of unrestricted flight and hard-won free-will and, most of all, the future of the convocation.

And also, even all these weeks later, the fierce satisfaction of seeing justice done.

When, on that fateful night, she had at last awoken, battered and broken and barely able to breathe, she had feared the worst. That her killing stoop had failed, the Count still lived, and all was lost.

But, no. First she had seen the slush. Then the shards of ice, scattered and broken. And at last she had realised the truth. The welcome, delirious, glorious truth. The tyrant—the betrayer—was defeated and dead, strewn across the stable yard like so much snowdrift.

Yes, yes, the humans and the wretched dragon had gone on and on with some nonsense about bottles and taunts and boxes and salt and so on, as if such fripperies could possibly be of any use against a giant of ice. But Tally knew the truth.

She had won.

Won not only the life of the foolish knight but also her own freedom—and that of the convocation.

For even with the Count's stunning revelation that he had facilitated the theft of his own treasure—that he himself had been responsible for the breaking of the contract that bound them to him—a cold, hard, unavoidable fact remained. The contract still stood. The circumstances of its breaking did not matter, only that it was broken. And that therefore, as long as the Count still lived, the bondage remained.

Fortunately, while gryphons were far from the most skilled of legal scholars, even Tally had been able to spot the loophole in that little clause.

Circling lower, she noted with amusement the remainder of the convocation perched around the high walls of the keep's courtyard, observing with intense interest the flurry of activity underway within.

Armour glinting in the broken sunlight, the diminutive figure of Sir Crispin stood atop a stack of chests, directing a stream of Malfeazy's former lackeys who, with backs bent under the strain, were ferrying an endless stream of yet more chests and sacks and other assorted treasure-containing vessels up from the keep's labyrinthine vaults.

She shook her head in resigned tolerance. He meant to return it—to return every single jewel and every last piece of gold to their rightful owners. Despite the handicap of it having been stolen (at least) twice, from who-knew-where and who-knew-when, regardless of the lack of receipts, heedless of the complete and utter absence of any provenance whatsoever, irrespective of the likely not-in-a-fit-state-to-have-stuff-returned-to-them condition of many of the erstwhile owners, he was determined to do his absolute damndest to see justice done.

It was stupid. It was probably pointless. And it was seriously noble.

How could she not help him?