What a Dragon Should Know
Page 30
He pulled the door open and pushed her in. She immediately saw her father at the big table that took up most of the room. As usual it was covered in maps and missives from troops who were stationed at key points throughout the countryside.
On the opposite side of the table was Gwenvael. As soon as the door opened, he turned around with a huge grin and exclaimed, “Eymund!” Then he saw her and his expression crumbled. “Oh. Hello, Lady Dagmar.”
“Lord Gwenvael. Valdís, would you have a servant bring me—” But her brothers were long gone, the door slamming behind them. Shaking her head, she walked over to the table. “You asked for me, Father?”
“Aye. Uh … Lord Gwenvael here needs that information you’ve got.”
“No.”
Her father pointed a finger at her. “Look—”
“I said I was sorry,” Gwenvael cut in, expertly rolling his eyes like a small child.
“That’s very big of you. And yet I am in no mood to be forgiving.”
Her father slammed his hands against the table and stood.
Dagmar motioned him to the door. “May I talk to you outside for a moment, Father?”
She walked out into the hallway, her brothers—all twelve of them—nowhere to be found.
Waiting until her father stepped outside, she closed the door and faced him. “What is going on?”
“He needs to go.”
“Why? He’s been utterly polite and—”
“I don’t want to make a big thing of this, girl, but he needs to go. Today. So just tell him what he wants to know.”
Now it had begun, and she had only one chance to make this work with all involved. First—her father.
“And lose out on a perfect opportunity?” she asked, her heart beating fast, although she knew her face showed her father nothing.
“What opportunity? What you think you’ll get from him?”
“Father,” she said, making sure to add a note of impatience, “if you’re simply going to hand the information over to him anyway, give me ten minutes to see what I can get on my own. Where’s the harm?”
“I don’t know—”
“At the very least let Eymund try,” she offered innocently. “Lord Gwenvael seems to like him.”
“No!” Her father took a breath, fought for calm. She made sure to look appropriately bewildered, hours in front of her mirror practicing finally paying off. He motioned her toward the door. “Go. Talk to him. You got until I get myself a pint to get something out of him. After that you tell him everything and get him out of here.”
“Yes, Father.” She pushed open the door, walked in, and quietly shut it.
She sat in her father’s chair on the other side of the table. The dragon, in chain mail and a surcoat, had his boot-shod feet up on the table.
He smiled at her. “Well?”
“We’ve got ten minutes.”
“All right.” He dropped his feet to the floor and placed his hands on top of the wood. They stared at each other across the distance. “So what do you want?”
“Five legions.”
“Five?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”
“No. You want to save that precious queen of yours, don’t you?”
“Ten army units. That seems fair.”
“Don’t insult me, Lord Gwenvael. Four legions.”
“How do I know your information is worth even one army unit, much less four full legions?”
“It is.”
He sat back in his chair. “If what you have to tell me is solid … perhaps one legion.”
“One?”
“That’s fifty-two-hundred men, Lady Dagmar.”
Dagmar let out a sigh, tapped her fingers against the table until grudgingly answering, “Fine.”
“Good. Now tell me what you know.”
“Someone wants your queen dead.”
Dagmar jumped when Gwenvael’s head hit the table, his arms flying out at his sides. “Is that the best you have to tell me?” Reason help her, he did have a love of the dramatic.
His head lifted from the table, and he speared her with his glare. “I know this already. Everybody wants her dead. They’ve wanted her dead for years! Tell me I haven’t wasted my time here!”
“Are you done? Because I’m not.”
“Thank the gods for that.” He impatiently gestured for her to continue.
“It’s my understanding that a party from the Ice Lands is making its way south, toward Dark Plains.”
“The Ice Lands? I didn’t know anyone even lived there.”
“They do. You think this terrain is harsh? It’s nothing compared to there. The people there are strong, hearty, and very unfriendly. And the bigger problem for you is that most travel underground.”
“Whatever for?”
“There are sudden, deadly ice storms that hit at any moment of any day in the Ice Lands—hence the name.” He snorted, and she continued. “So the dwarves began digging tunnels. First just leading from mine to mine, clan to clan. But they quickly realized they could make money offering ways in and out of the territory for those other than dwarves.”
“You’re telling me someone’s sent assassins underground? That’s worth about twenty army units, my lady.”
“They’re not assassins. There are hundreds of cults in the Ice Lands. They live to serve the gods who, in my opinion, deserted them long ago. The ones coming for your queen worshipped Arzhela. In honor of her they want your queen’s babes. They want their blood. As you well know, my lord, those hired to fight are vastly different from those who believe in a cause. They’ll stop at nothing. Absolutely nothing to kill your queen and her unborn offspring.”
On the opposite side of the table was Gwenvael. As soon as the door opened, he turned around with a huge grin and exclaimed, “Eymund!” Then he saw her and his expression crumbled. “Oh. Hello, Lady Dagmar.”
“Lord Gwenvael. Valdís, would you have a servant bring me—” But her brothers were long gone, the door slamming behind them. Shaking her head, she walked over to the table. “You asked for me, Father?”
“Aye. Uh … Lord Gwenvael here needs that information you’ve got.”
“No.”
Her father pointed a finger at her. “Look—”
“I said I was sorry,” Gwenvael cut in, expertly rolling his eyes like a small child.
“That’s very big of you. And yet I am in no mood to be forgiving.”
Her father slammed his hands against the table and stood.
Dagmar motioned him to the door. “May I talk to you outside for a moment, Father?”
She walked out into the hallway, her brothers—all twelve of them—nowhere to be found.
Waiting until her father stepped outside, she closed the door and faced him. “What is going on?”
“He needs to go.”
“Why? He’s been utterly polite and—”
“I don’t want to make a big thing of this, girl, but he needs to go. Today. So just tell him what he wants to know.”
Now it had begun, and she had only one chance to make this work with all involved. First—her father.
“And lose out on a perfect opportunity?” she asked, her heart beating fast, although she knew her face showed her father nothing.
“What opportunity? What you think you’ll get from him?”
“Father,” she said, making sure to add a note of impatience, “if you’re simply going to hand the information over to him anyway, give me ten minutes to see what I can get on my own. Where’s the harm?”
“I don’t know—”
“At the very least let Eymund try,” she offered innocently. “Lord Gwenvael seems to like him.”
“No!” Her father took a breath, fought for calm. She made sure to look appropriately bewildered, hours in front of her mirror practicing finally paying off. He motioned her toward the door. “Go. Talk to him. You got until I get myself a pint to get something out of him. After that you tell him everything and get him out of here.”
“Yes, Father.” She pushed open the door, walked in, and quietly shut it.
She sat in her father’s chair on the other side of the table. The dragon, in chain mail and a surcoat, had his boot-shod feet up on the table.
He smiled at her. “Well?”
“We’ve got ten minutes.”
“All right.” He dropped his feet to the floor and placed his hands on top of the wood. They stared at each other across the distance. “So what do you want?”
“Five legions.”
“Five?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”
“No. You want to save that precious queen of yours, don’t you?”
“Ten army units. That seems fair.”
“Don’t insult me, Lord Gwenvael. Four legions.”
“How do I know your information is worth even one army unit, much less four full legions?”
“It is.”
He sat back in his chair. “If what you have to tell me is solid … perhaps one legion.”
“One?”
“That’s fifty-two-hundred men, Lady Dagmar.”
Dagmar let out a sigh, tapped her fingers against the table until grudgingly answering, “Fine.”
“Good. Now tell me what you know.”
“Someone wants your queen dead.”
Dagmar jumped when Gwenvael’s head hit the table, his arms flying out at his sides. “Is that the best you have to tell me?” Reason help her, he did have a love of the dramatic.
His head lifted from the table, and he speared her with his glare. “I know this already. Everybody wants her dead. They’ve wanted her dead for years! Tell me I haven’t wasted my time here!”
“Are you done? Because I’m not.”
“Thank the gods for that.” He impatiently gestured for her to continue.
“It’s my understanding that a party from the Ice Lands is making its way south, toward Dark Plains.”
“The Ice Lands? I didn’t know anyone even lived there.”
“They do. You think this terrain is harsh? It’s nothing compared to there. The people there are strong, hearty, and very unfriendly. And the bigger problem for you is that most travel underground.”
“Whatever for?”
“There are sudden, deadly ice storms that hit at any moment of any day in the Ice Lands—hence the name.” He snorted, and she continued. “So the dwarves began digging tunnels. First just leading from mine to mine, clan to clan. But they quickly realized they could make money offering ways in and out of the territory for those other than dwarves.”
“You’re telling me someone’s sent assassins underground? That’s worth about twenty army units, my lady.”
“They’re not assassins. There are hundreds of cults in the Ice Lands. They live to serve the gods who, in my opinion, deserted them long ago. The ones coming for your queen worshipped Arzhela. In honor of her they want your queen’s babes. They want their blood. As you well know, my lord, those hired to fight are vastly different from those who believe in a cause. They’ll stop at nothing. Absolutely nothing to kill your queen and her unborn offspring.”
