Screams rose from the vicinity of the harbor. All around them, men scrabbled for vantage points. Reyn had no desire to do so. Chalcedeans or not, they were his own kind that the dragon was slaying. He heard the crack of massive timbers giving way. Another ship dismasted, no doubt.

“Too late for those bastards to flee now!” a nearby warrior exulted savagely.

Close by, others took up his spirit. “Look at her soar. Truly, she is queen of the skies!”

“She will cleanse our shores of those foul Chalcedeans!”

“Ah! She has smashed the hull with one swipe of her tail!”

Beside him, Grag suddenly lifted his sword. His weariness seemed to have left him. “To me, Bingtown! Let us see that any who reach the beach alive do not long remain so.” He set off at a jogging run, and the men who had earlier cowered in the ruins hastened after him, until Reyn and Selden alone remained standing in the ruined plaza.

Selden sighed. “You should go quickly, to gather folk from all of Bingtown’s groups. It is best that when we treat with the dragon, we speak with one voice.”

“I imagine you are right,” Reyn replied distractedly. He was remembering the strange dreams of his own youth. He had dreamed the buried city, alive with light and music and folk, and the dragon had spoken to him. Such dreams came, sometimes, to those who spent too much time down there. But surely, such dreams were the province of the Rain Wild Traders only.

Wistfully, Reyn reached down to rub a thumb across the boy’s dust-smeared cheek. Then he stared, wordless, at the fan of silver scaling he had revealed on Selden’s cheekbone.

Liveship Traders 3 - Ship of Destiny

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Bingtown Negotiations

THE 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 grayly 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 neighbors. 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 woolen cloak she wore, the Companion stood with her arms crossed as if chilled.