Darkness Descending

He waved to the dragonfliers of his wing, who’d flown back to Trapani with him, then pointed down toward the dragon farm on the outskirts of the capital. In good weather, with no enemies close by, he didn’t bother using the crystal he carried. Hand signals were plenty good, as they had been back in his great-grandfather’s days when men first began to master the art of flying dragons.

Down spiraled the wing. One after another, the dragons settled to earth. Ground crewmen ran up to chain the fierce and stupid beasts to their mooring stakes. That would keep them from fighting one another for food (foolish, for they all got plenty) or for no reason at all (even more foolish, but then they were dragons).

Sabrino undid his harness and dismounted. His dragon was too busy screaming at the ground crewmen to pay him any attention. Ground felt good under his feet. Being home felt good, too, even if only for a little while. The sunlight, the color of the sky, the green of the new grass that was beginning to sprout--all seemed right to him at a level far below thought. So did the smell of the air, even if one part of the smell was the rank reek of dragonshit.

Captain Domiziano came up to Sabrino. Saluting, the squadron commander said, “Good to get away from the front for a little while, and I’d be the last to deny it. Still and all, I wish we were going back soon. Powers above know the footsoldiers need the help of every dragon they can get in the sky above ‘em.”

“We have different orders,” Sabrino said, and said no more about that: he liked those orders no better than Domiziano did. Instead, he went on, “Almost two and a half years since we flew our dragons out of here to fight the Forthwegians. I stood in the square below the palace balcony listening to the king declare war, then hurried down here fast as I could go. Some way, things have hardly changed since then. Others . . .”

“Aye.” Domiziano’s head bobbed up and down. Pride lit his handsome features. “Then we were the oppressed, the victims of the greed of the Kaunian kingdoms. Now we’re the masters of Derlavai.”

That wasn’t what Sabrino had meant, but it wasn’t wrong, either. He didn’t explain what he had meant; he didn’t feel like wasting time talking about it. “I’m going into the city,” he said. “I want to freshen up--I smell like a stinking dragon--and pay some calls. We don’t fly out of here till three days from now. Things shouldn’t fall apart without me around till then.”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Domiziano, who, as senior surviving squadron leader, would command the wing till Sabrino returned.

“Good.” Sabrino slapped him on the back, then headed for the stables to commandeer a carriage to take him to a ley-line caravan stop: the dragon farm didn’t lie on a ley line. That could occasionally be a nuisance. Now, though, Sabrino enjoyed the chance to relax as he headed toward town.

He was tempted to go to his mistress’ flat and freshen up there. Fronesia would be glad to see him. Since he paid for the flat and gave her lavish presents besides, it was her duty to be glad to see him. But he had duties of his own. If he called on Fronesia before he saw his wife, Gismonda would be furious when she found out, and how could he blame her? She would know he’d go see Fronesia later, but that would be later. He didn’t want to hurt her pride, and so, with an inward sigh, decided to keep up appearances after all.

Trapani, set as it was on a broad, swampy plain in central Algarve, had never belonged to the Kaunian Empire. No one could have guessed that by the public buildings, though. Many of them were in the classical style, most with the marble painted, some left cool and white in the more modern mode. In days gone by, the Algarvians had envied and imitated their Kaunian neighbors. No more. The sharp verticals and extravagant ornamentation of native Algarvian architecture seemed far more natural to Sabrino than anything the blonds had ever built.

He hadn’t sent a message ahead to let his household know he was coming. He hadn’t known he was coming till he got the order to bring his wing east and had had as few stops as he could manage since then. He chuckled as he walked up to his own front door. If the household couldn’t stand a surprise every now and then, too bad. He grabbed the bellpull and yanked with all his might.

“My lord Count!” exclaimed the maidservant who let him in. “My lord Count!” exclaimed one of the kitchen wenches, who, fortunately, didn’t drop the tray she was carrying toward the stairs. “My lord Count!” exclaimed the butler, who, with Gismonda, ran the household when Sabrino was away. Over and over, Sabrino kept agreeing that he was who he was.

“My lord Count!” Gismonda said when he went upstairs with the kitchen wench. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”