Little girls clapped their hands over their eyes when they first saw her, but once they got over their initial shyness stepped across the line into overfamiliarity, even outrage, for they liked nothing better than to set wildflowers in her scales and fringe until she looked as though she was sprouting like a young elf.
“That’s women for you,” Rainfall said, plucking a red blossom from the fold in her skin where she tucked up her griff. “Always improving on nature.”
And then it was time for Rainfall’s granddaughter to return.
Because of the elf’s wounds, the high judge attended Rainfall personally. He came with a dozen attendants and counted out the coin Rainfall owed in back taxes, then sealed Rainfall’s petition to have his granddaughter restored to him with a great deal of melted wax and ribbon. Wistala thought the high judge an odd-looking fellow made mostly of wrinkles and sags, with a dismal attire all of black deep as cave-dark, though it made the polished gold star on his collar flap and the golden tips of his boots look all the brighter.
The judge and his men ate vast meals before they left, leaving the Widow Lessup clucking that the whole household would be eating roots and apples for the next week.
The next day music woke her.
She stretched and followed the lilting tune until she found Rainfall in the music room playing his bell-pipe. This time she couldn’t dance with him, but she could chase her tail and caper until Widow Lessup stormed in with shrieks about what Wistala’s claws were doing to the polished floors.
“I admire your good humor,” Wistala said as she left. “You look fully recovered.”
“Fully?”
“Your eyes sparkle, and your hair is thickly leaved. Such colors!” The willow-leaf locks in his hair had gone red and gold and orange.
“I am happy. I’ve had a letter. Lada comes home today.”
“Do you mind if I ask a question?”
Rainfall’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve chosen a good day to crave a handful of silver to eat. I’m in no mood to deny anything.”
“I should like that. But those tablets with the engraved writing. You held them close all the way back to Mossbell. I’m curious, did you find an old family relic in the ruins?”
Rainfall sat straight upright. “Our legends say dragons sniff out a weak spot the way dogs find bones. There must be some truth in it.”
“If it’s painful to you—”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Closer to shame, perhaps. I think I told you that Hesstur was one of Eight Sister Cities who founded Hypatia, yes?”
“Yes,” Wistala said.
“Let me sit on you, and you can take us into my library.”
Rainfall put away his bell-pipe and got on Wistala. When he patted her side, she stalked off toward the library, and they soon arrived. The lectern that had once stood under the window was gone, probably sold, but a pair of old chairs filled its place with a velvet-covered object like a small tabletop upon one.
Rainfall seated himself beside it. “Such humble accommodations for history so important.
“When it became evident that the city would fall to the barbarians, those inside did their best to hide their valuables. I’m sure some priest had charge of these tablets and sealed them in one of the lower crypts before all entrances were sealed. She—I say she, for the clues were voiced in the feminine—made some signs in the old law-tongue, the father of the Hypatian high-tongue and the grandfather of Parl, though only judges and librarians read it much now. If the fires and collapses left the chamber intact, earthquake or grave-robbers later opened it again, though I expect the only ones to benefit were the rats.”
“This doesn’t tell me what the object is.”
“An idea, more than anything,” Rainfall said, removing the velvet. “When the eight sisters joined, they formed the King’s Council. The tyrant Masmodon did away with the King’s Council when he broke the Imperial Staves, but after the Reformation, the Directory modeled itself—”
You could never get a simple answer out of Rainfall when he fell into history. “What does that have to do with the tablets?”“These tablets are laws that applied to the Kings on the original Council. It was quite a remarkable idea, kings subject to law. Each of the sister cities were afraid of bad rule, or the assumption of a tyrant like Masmodon, so as a condition of their confederation—”
Wistala wasn’t sure what that last word was but dreaded interrupting now that he was getting to the point.
“—made eight laws, one for each city, that the Kings on the Council would have to obey. The idea that laws applied to kings was the work of the dwarf-philosopher Doomzeg, though some say he was inspired by the practice of Royal Responsibilities in the ancient Blighter Uldam Empire. It doesn’t do to mention those sorts of theories, especially around the priesthood.”
“Naturally,” Wistala said, lost again.
“Not that Blighter Civilization is established. It’s still much debated in the—” Rainfall cocked his head, and his hair-leaves rustled. “You jest with me. But let me illustrate from the tablets: ‘No ruler shall kill, maim, imprison, or exile without trial by judge.’ That’s an important one. ‘No ruler shall make law that applies but to all.’ Oh, I fear I’ve translated that badly, but in essence it prevents a king from issuing an edict preventing, say, one shipmaster from transporting wine if other shipmasters are allowed to. Specific laws were the ruination of many in the days of the despots. ‘No ruler shall accept or give divination’—another old practice that might be used to get around the other laws, declaring yourself or a family member a god so that one’s word becomes religion rather than law. ‘No ruler shall confiscate—’ ”
Wistala stopped him before he could read through all eight and closely examined the tablets. “Why does the ownership distress you, then?”
“When I found them, I swore to myself that I would make the journey to the Imperial Library at Thallia. Oh, I could lose myself there like a drunkard in a brewery! But I find I can’t bear to part with them, even if I had the use of my legs. I’ve spent much time cleaning the inlay. Now they shine like a mariner’s guiding star in these dark times. Is it wrong for me to keep them here?”
“Why in the Two Worlds would you ask me?”
“While your judgment is not yet developed, your heart is usually in the right place.”
Wistala didn’t correct him that a dragon had several hearts. He continued: “You tell me you are not yet two years of age, yet your mind is so far developed.”
“We learn from our parents while still in the egg.”
“Fascinating. But what surprises me—”
The tolling of Mossbell’s signal interrupted his thought. “It must be Lada,” he said. “I asked Forstrel to ring as soon as any riders appeared. Wistala, bear me to the front gallery window!”
The front stairwell had a landing with an arched window in it looking out on the balcony between the two trees, made of glass so fine, there were hardly any distortions when peering through. He worked the latches and forced open the frame.
“Odd that she does not ride,” Rainfall said. “She used to love ponies. Yet—it was cool this morning, good of the thane to provide her with more comfortable transport.”
A two-wheeled cart—very like but a little more elaborate than that of the wandering dwarf with the ponies Wistala had met on the road—moved up the lane with a rider behind.
“Perhaps you should remain inside, Wistala.” Forstrel, all hair and limbs, was still ringing the bell as though the barn was going up in flames.
“Young Lessup!” Rainfall called. “Yes, Forstrel, up here, please. I should like to meet my granddaughter on my steps.”
One of the Widow Lessup’s daughters had the sense to put out a chair for Rainfall, and Wistala saw that he was installed before the rig had even turned around in front of the house.
The escort, only a little mud-splattered in the blue livery of Thane Hammar, didn’t descend from his horse. Wistala could tell from Rainfall’s stiff manner that he didn’t care for this discourtesy.
“Here’s your spawn back, and more besides!” the escort said as the rig-driver stepped down and lowered a support for the cart. When that was locked in place, he opened the doors at the back of the cart, and Lada stepped down.
“Phew, she’s tossed all over the inside,” the driver said.
Lada, a little stained about the neck, was helped out of the cart. Her eyes were wide and wet, and she shot an accusing look at Rainfall.
“Rah-ya, Lada, my moppet,” he said, extending his hands. Wistala saw a little skirt behind and decided that some of the Lessup household were standing behind their master. “I’m sorry for the rough journey.”
“Monster! Demon! You’ve ruined everything! Everything!” she said in so loud a voice, her words cracked. She fled into the house, dodging around Rainfall as he reached for her.
“And you’re welcome to her,” the thane’s liveryman laughed. He reached into a bag on his saddle and drew out the doll Wistala had brought. “Here’s her mystery doll, Rainfall. You should be more careful in your plotting than to leave such tokens lying about.”