The Dragonbone Petticoat

Chapter Sixteen

The Grand Exhibition flowered at dawn, its tent flaps thrown wide like petals in a multitude of colors drowning the thoroughfare in a perpetual twilight, their murky interiors speckling the daylight

with sparking science and glinting magic. Only the carriages followed the sliver of sunlight that ran like a golden stream through the concourse, while the hooded and hatted tourists and students clung to the shadowy sides, haggling over meat-on-a-stick, lemon ices, magic baubles, enchanted trinkets, and mad science doo-dads.

A slim figure in trim brown robes moseyed down the displays, purchasing nothing, but marveling at each commodity. With his hood drawn tight, he was so nondescript that he might have been the baseline model for every tourist--in terms of height, build, and grace, he was average, aside from being a few pounds lighter than he ought to be.

Those who drew closer recoiled from his face. Not that it was ugly or disfigured; far from it--it might have been commonplace, were it not for his fanning beard dyed bright red. And if he was disfigured in the technical sense, his colorful markings were both intended and beautiful, a tattoo designed and needled by a noted Klyrnish master.

The face had become canvas for the skin artist, who depicted a black dragon descending, its scales so iridescent that the man's face shimmered; its open jaws, flush with the upper lip, merged his mouth with its fangs; and, his fiery beard became the artist's prop, a fanning flame spouting from the dragon's mouth.

Even after ordering them to enjoy themselves, his guards persisted in tailing him through the crowd. Though both a head and an apple shorter than the tourists around him, Toromal thought the boy's shirt and breeches, only a size too large, a perfect disguise. The others, having clustered to a distillery exhibition, were quaffing an abundance of samples, no doubt in the name of science. If they truly enjoyed themselves, good for them; but if this public inebriation was their idea of duty, he would have them re-assigned. He couldn't bear fools and heroes in his entourage. The Emperor valued prudence over bonhomie or courage, as generous boons made the worthy his friends, empty promises quickened the greedy, and his authority could stiffen anyone's resolve.

Then there was his other shadow. While he didn't recognize this follower, whenever he turned his head, so that a silver of their profile came in view, it fluttered aside. The rich, green robe seemed strangely familiar, but he didn't know anyone who wore that color. Once, his eyes flashed left just quick enough to see them in full, and they darted into the passing crowd with an ungainly grace, reminding him of a too-tall ballerina.

***

Roric awoke with two equally irritating pains in his back: one, from being wedged in a corner between cold cobblestones and a low brick wall; and two, from the bricks prodding and abrading his back, even through his thick overcoat.

As his bleary eyes cleared, they squinted from the harsh, glinting sunlight, and he raised himself to his hands and knees. Not cobblestones, but shingles, he realized numbly, then stood, staggered to the roof's edge, gripped the half-wall in white-knuckled hands, swayed as he looked down, then scooted in such a quick backpedal that he nearly tumbled over the other side.

As he reeled from the monstrous sight, the past day came back to him, and even as this flood of memories clarified things, it drowned his confusion in a flood of fear.

He had to get away from it.

He simply had to get as far away from the griffin as possible.

He glumly realized that would be difficult, as he shuffled away on one boot, still clasped by one of Dranwen's Firewalking Shoes, while his other foot plodded along in a sock goopy from the rain-slick rooftop. Having always been sensitive about his mediocre height, he preferred two inch heels, and was now suffering for it, limping along like a three-legged dog.