idea what steps Breque had taken to protect himself), but he would have surprise on his side and a sufficiency of funds (salted away for just such an emergency). Within a matter of days he could hire assassins and organize their assignments; then he could sit back and orchestrate events. He’d operate out of Martita’s tavern. Should things go awry, he believed he could depend on her to hide him—her dog-loyalty to him had been evident.
A faint noise interrupted the flow of his thoughts and he saw a lanky figure clambering down Griaule’s side: Arthur. The giant had removed his jacket and his white silk shirt rippled with light. He had wrapped a vine about his waist, using his left hand to control his rate of descent and holding his pistol in the right. He stopped about fifty feet above and scanned the area beneath him. Holstering the pistol, he began traversing the dragon, heading in the general direction of the shoulder joint. There was nothing for Rosacher to do except pray and pray he did, initially to a nameless presence, but as Arthur drew nearer the prayers evolved into fervent pleas to Griaule, begging the dragon to distract the giant, to lead him away or cause the vine to snap. Once he had negotiated slightly more than half the distance between them, Arthur drew his pistol and fired two shots into the shadows beneath the joint, both going wide of Rosacher.
“Show yourself!” Arthur called. “I promise to end things quickly!”
Rosacher tried desperately to think of something he could do or say that might extricate him from this situation, unearthing and discarding old strategies. Suddenly he grew weary and sat plucking at the vines that constrained him. It was as if light and energy were emptying from his mind.
“If you force me to chase after you,” Arthur shouted, “I promise you’ll regret it!” A pause. “Do you hear?”
Rosacher suspected that Arthur might be afraid of the dark space in which he had hidden; but this did no more than give his spirits a momentary boost.
Cursing, Arthur descended a few feet and planted a boot on what Rosacher had presumed to be the shattered scale, knocking loose several of the broken pieces—against all expectation they did not fall but hovered beside Arthur, fluttering as though weightless and borne aloft on an updraft. The remainder of the pieces also fluttered up about the giant, laying bare an undamaged scale beneath. They swarmed about him like a leaf storm, almost obscuring him from sight. He screamed; his pistol discharged and he screamed a second time, his legs poking out from the mass of golden fragments that sheathed his upper body, kicking madly, presenting an image that might have been engendered by the brain of a drug-addled artist. Whatever their nature—be they insects or something more obscure—they settled on his hands, neck and face, affixing themselves to the bare skin, so that he came to resemble a man with huge golden mittens and a misshapen golden head thrice normal size that changed shape subtly, now shrinking, now growing distended. Spasms racked his body, yet he screamed no more. He hung there for a second, some reflex permitting him to maintain a grip on the vine that supported him, and then he tumbled away, spinning down against the lights of the town. The insects (Rosacher had determined they were such) came scattering back up from the falling corpse and formed into a cloud that drifted off around the curve of the dragon’s ribs—once again Rosacher entertained the conceit that he was looking off along the curve of a golden planet and observing the curious astronomical object that orbited it.
Silence and stillness closed in around him and he realized he was trembling. His breath came quick and shallow, and though the night was fairly warm he felt chilled to the bone. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to control his body, and heard a thin keening, like a teakettle beginning to boil. Curious, he opened his eyes. An insect like
A faint noise interrupted the flow of his thoughts and he saw a lanky figure clambering down Griaule’s side: Arthur. The giant had removed his jacket and his white silk shirt rippled with light. He had wrapped a vine about his waist, using his left hand to control his rate of descent and holding his pistol in the right. He stopped about fifty feet above and scanned the area beneath him. Holstering the pistol, he began traversing the dragon, heading in the general direction of the shoulder joint. There was nothing for Rosacher to do except pray and pray he did, initially to a nameless presence, but as Arthur drew nearer the prayers evolved into fervent pleas to Griaule, begging the dragon to distract the giant, to lead him away or cause the vine to snap. Once he had negotiated slightly more than half the distance between them, Arthur drew his pistol and fired two shots into the shadows beneath the joint, both going wide of Rosacher.
“Show yourself!” Arthur called. “I promise to end things quickly!”
Rosacher tried desperately to think of something he could do or say that might extricate him from this situation, unearthing and discarding old strategies. Suddenly he grew weary and sat plucking at the vines that constrained him. It was as if light and energy were emptying from his mind.
“If you force me to chase after you,” Arthur shouted, “I promise you’ll regret it!” A pause. “Do you hear?”
Rosacher suspected that Arthur might be afraid of the dark space in which he had hidden; but this did no more than give his spirits a momentary boost.
Cursing, Arthur descended a few feet and planted a boot on what Rosacher had presumed to be the shattered scale, knocking loose several of the broken pieces—against all expectation they did not fall but hovered beside Arthur, fluttering as though weightless and borne aloft on an updraft. The remainder of the pieces also fluttered up about the giant, laying bare an undamaged scale beneath. They swarmed about him like a leaf storm, almost obscuring him from sight. He screamed; his pistol discharged and he screamed a second time, his legs poking out from the mass of golden fragments that sheathed his upper body, kicking madly, presenting an image that might have been engendered by the brain of a drug-addled artist. Whatever their nature—be they insects or something more obscure—they settled on his hands, neck and face, affixing themselves to the bare skin, so that he came to resemble a man with huge golden mittens and a misshapen golden head thrice normal size that changed shape subtly, now shrinking, now growing distended. Spasms racked his body, yet he screamed no more. He hung there for a second, some reflex permitting him to maintain a grip on the vine that supported him, and then he tumbled away, spinning down against the lights of the town. The insects (Rosacher had determined they were such) came scattering back up from the falling corpse and formed into a cloud that drifted off around the curve of the dragon’s ribs—once again Rosacher entertained the conceit that he was looking off along the curve of a golden planet and observing the curious astronomical object that orbited it.
Silence and stillness closed in around him and he realized he was trembling. His breath came quick and shallow, and though the night was fairly warm he felt chilled to the bone. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to control his body, and heard a thin keening, like a teakettle beginning to boil. Curious, he opened his eyes. An insect like
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