The Spymaster Arban’s fingers pressed against the wall to provide orientation in the nearly complete darkness of the shadow he was trying to blend with. A torch flickering at a junction further down the tunnel shown only a bare ray of light against the floor before disappearing into the darkness. He had already navigated successfully past the light, and now, directly across the tunnel from him was a sleeping sand dragon and its rider. The light had been difficult enough, but getting past the dragon seemed nearly impossible. He thought to his lessons at the Princes Academy for the Spymaster students. Moving through the dark catacombs under the Imperial University had been difficult, but this was a dragon with enhanced hearing and vision. The slightest rustle of cloth might wake the dragon – His instructors had never prepared him for a situation like this. Deya thought Arban was a master of the night, but Arban knew better. It would take years to become as good as his father, the Senior Spymaster of the Tasj Kingdom. Sure, he’d snuck into a Dragonmaster’s quarters and placed the poison that killed the foul man, but he probably could have marched into the guy’s bedroom banging on a drum and not roused the Dragonmaster from his drug-induced sleep. The Dragonmasters had no real connection to dragons, or special abilities, they had weaseled their way into the Imperial court and gained political power. They were as foul a group of imposters as one could find. Arban’s breath froze in his chest as the rider lying curled against the dragon rolled over and whispered something. Arban’s hand dropped to his dagger as the dragon swung its head around to let out a warm breath on the rider, but didn’t open its eyes in doing so. He could feel the warm breath of the dragon across the space of the tunnel. He released his grip on the dagger and wondered how the dragon couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. He took shallow slow breaths to calm himself and waited a full ten minutes before taking another step. The initial heavy breath of the dragon over the rider had slowed. Arban didn’t think he needed to worry about the rider, the warmth had probably sent him into a deep sleep. He took a step, and then another, using all the skills he’d learned in his training – shifting his weight in a roll on the outside of his foot from heel to toe, keeping his legs slightly bowed to prevent the rustle of cloth, a shallow breath, slow and deep, and a very light pressure of his fingertips against the wall to maintain perfect balance, but not dragging the fingertips. Ten steps and twenty minutes later, Arban was beyond the most immediate danger, but as long as he was exposed in a tunnel with a dragon, there was a risk of being caught. He increased from a two-minute per step pace to 1-minute, then 30 seconds, and finally to 15-second steps – almost sprinting in the world of a Spymaster traversing the shadows. His fingers pressing against the wall was the anchor point for each step, ensuring he was always balanced and didn’t attempt too long of a stride. At the end of each step when his foot was firmly positioned on the ground, he’d carefully move his hand forward to the next anchor point. Arban reached a hand out for the next position, and found nothing. The wall wasn’t where it should be, it was an open space. This was the reason for the strict rules of ‘anchor a foot, move a hand, anchor a hand, move a foot’, and on and on in an endless repetition. If he had been moving too fast and not anchoring each movement, the sudden absence of the wall could have set him off-balance and he could have possibly fallen in the dark, scraped a foot against the floor, or become disoriented in the open space of an intersection. He moved his hand back slowly and found the corner. It could be an alcove, a turn in the tunnel, or an intersection. A noise directly ahead of him made the decision for him what to do – he followed around the corner. And in the first step his foot encountered an obstacle. He bent down carefully to feel what the object was. They’d played this game at the Spymaster school many times, and this was an easy one, it was a crate. His hands continued to explore over the surface of the crate. The Spymaster instructors would often put something on top of the object that could roll off and make a noise if you weren’t careful. His hands gently moved over the top of the crate, and… Arban rolled his eyes. He’d been tripped up once by a similar object at school when he’d knocked it on the ground. He’d earned a demerit for the blunder that had taken two weeks of extra duty to work off. The object had been an orange, but this wasn’t an orange, it was an apple. If he hadn’t been slow and cautious, this simple apple could have given him away. He made sure to leave the object exactly as it was, there were plenty of people that would notice if their snack had been moved, especially if it was someone that had brothers prone to pranks. He moved around to the other side of the crate and knelt down, he’d been moving too much and needed to pause and listen before going further. He had no more than crouched behind the crate when someone started shouting in the Wyra tongue. Only the disciplined training his Spymaster instructors had pounded into him kept him from bolting in panic. The shouting was followed by grumbles and the shuffling of bodies getting up from the ground. A dim green light from dragons opening their eyes came next. First from the left where he’d just been, then to the right where he’d been going, and even directly in front of him in a tunnel opposite him. The grumblings increased as bedrolls were rolled up and gear returned to the storage bags fixed behind the rider’s saddles. Realization dawned on him. He didn’t need to know the language to know what was happening, he knew what was going on from his own experiences. He’d heard this before during the two years he’d trained as a soldier – all Spymasters had to have two years with the army. The dragons and riders were being roused for guard duty, or perhaps it was their turn for a patrol. This had been their sleep time, and now they were grumbling because their officer was waking them for duty. He was in the middle of an entire nest of sand dragons. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a dim green light flashed on not four feet to his side. He managed to remain still, but he could see a dragon rousing from sleep… a very small dragon, and next to the dragon was a sleeping boy of perhaps seven years of age. It was a juvenile dragon and his young rider that had been sleeping in the alcove he was now hiding. Arban didn’t move, didn’t reach for his dagger, or even dare to take a breath. The dragon stood, stretched, then wrapped a claw around his boy, lifting him up, and draping him across the small saddle. It was going to take a bit more than some shouting to wake a seven-year old. But, the dragon never turned its head to look at Arban. Once the boy was draped over the saddle, the dragon stepped out into the tunnel and turned left to follow his elders. He paused for a moment as one of the older men reached down and lifted the boy up to reorient him properly in the saddle. Had the dragon been too young, sleepy, and oblivious to Arban crouching behind the crate? Just before the little dragon disappeared around the corner, he paused and very purposely flicked the apple off the crate with the tip of his tail to bounce on Arban’s head. The apple rolled away into the dark. Arban tensed. The small dragon had known he was here, but why hadn’t he sounded the alarm? Arban thought about it for a moment… because of the boy. It would have been irresponsible to sound the alarm with the boy between Arban and the dragon. As the older dragons came to respond to an alarm, the boy could have been trampled, or worse if Arban chose to fight, the boy could have been hurt. The apple was a warning. The small dragon was going to sound the alarm, he had to, it was his duty, but his greater duty was to protect his boy first. How much time did he have before the small dragon sounded the alarm? Arban counted the dragons as they walked past. A patrol normally consisted of twelve dragons, but only eleven had passed. Did the small dragon count as one of their patrol? Perhaps. Arban had begun going out on missions with his father when he was younger than the dragon boy was. He took a chance and moved around the crate to peek out into the tunnel. The dragons were marching off in the direction he’d come from, not the direction he needed to go. He made a decision. A good spymaster had to know when to hide, and when to run like heck. The dragons were still in the tunnel, but as long as none of the dragons or riders turned around, he had a clear path. He took off at a full sprint. This was no longer a time for caution, he had to put as much distance between the dragons and where he’d been before the small dragon sounded the alarm. He knew the way, mostly… a left, a right, past two intersections, another left. The sound of a young dragon trumpeting an alarm echoed through the tunnels. He slowed to a walk and looked back at the way he’d come. It didn’t make sense. Why would the little dragon bother trumpeting an alarm, all he had to do was tell the dragon walking next to him what had happened. Trumpeting an alarm was only… warning him! Arban saw the little dragon’s plan as clear as if he’d told him in person. Arban could have, but didn’t hurt the boy, or grab him to use as a shield to escape. The little dragon was repaying Arban for allowing him to take his boy safely away from a potentially lethal battle, but without crossing the line of disloyalty to his own people. But, the little dragon wasn’t just warning Arban that he was now telling the older dragons that he’d seen him, but also clearing the way for Arban to make it back safely. He glanced around wildly and saw what he needed – another alcove filled with supplies. He ran into the alcove, leapt over the storage crates until he found a spot just wide enough to flatten himself on the ground. Moments later dragons began thundering past the alcove and towards the sound of the trumpeting alarm. He waited until there was no more sounds of dragons in the tunnel, or at least hoped there were no more dragons. He got up and crawled out to the tunnel. He could hear dragons running towards the sound of the alarm, but nothing between him and his destination. He jumped back into the tunnel and ran. It wouldn’t take long for the dragons to realize they’d gone to the wrong place and needed to backtrack. He saw the entrance just ahead to the cavern where Deya, Tarkan, Ka, and Aerethel were waiting. The guard dragon wasn’t at the entrance as he’d expected. He ran to the campfire and slid to a stop next to his bedroll. He’d used his boots and a stack of clothes everyone had donated to make a dummy under his blanket. He pulled the blanket back, threw the clothing back to whom it belonged, then pulled the boots on and laid down. The boots were key to making this work. The guards had seen the boots sticking out from under the blankets and assumed Arban was sleeping in his boots. If he didn’t have them on now, they would know something was wrong. They didn’t pretend to be sleeping, that would also give them away. The trumpeting alarm and sound of dragons running through the tunnels would have woke the dead. They sat up and watched for the guard to return. And it wasn’t two minutes later before a dragon stormed into the chamber and came directly to the campfire. The dragon and his rider glared down at the five sitting on their bedrolls and looking very innocent. “Is everything okay,” asked Aerethel in the Wyra tongue. The dragon sniffed at the air, then poked its head directly in Arban’s face. “He wants to know why you’re sweating,” said Aerethel translating. “I was cold when I laid down and put too many blankets on,” replied Arban. “Anyway, I always sweat when I sleep.” Aerethel translated and added. “That’s true, he smells like a goat when he wakes up. He’s always holding up breakfast because he has to take a bath first.” The dragon glared for a few moments before turning away and going back to the entrance where several other dragons were now waiting. Deya turned to Arban. “Did you find out anything?” “Yes, I was on the way back when a young dragon spotted me, but I don’t think he got a good look at my face,” replied Arban. “Did he have a rider?” asked Ka. Arban nodded. “Yes, a boy no more than seven-years old.” “Okay, then he probably hasn’t had his rider for more than two or three years,” said Ka. “Young dragons are extremely protective when the rider is still that young, chances are they’ll think he just saw shadows and it spooked him. Balanath used to freak out every time I’d fall down.” “No way you’ve ever fallen down,” said Deya. “You’re the most graceful person I know.” “Most riders are given to a dragon when they’re four or five years-old,” said Ka dropping his head slightly, the grief of losing his dragon still plainly etched on his face. “I was only two weeks old when I was given to Balanath. He had to teach me to walk, and everything else. I fell down plenty.” Deya turned back to Arban, he didn’t want Ka to dwell on Balanath, he’d made too much progress in the last six months for something like this to send him back into depression. “What did you learn?” “There’s a chamber, much larger than this one, and with a larger lagoon,” said Arban. “And, they’re building a dais.” “How many steps?” asked Deya. “Three.” Deya nodded. “A dais with one step is for a mayor or governor, two steps for a prince, three steps for a king, and four for an Emperor.” “We don’t do it like that,” said Ka. “We have ledges everyone sits on in the arena by rank. Our king sits on the top ledge with all the clan leaders. I think they’re using your customs to make it more familiar.” “Or more intimidating,” replied Deya. “But, now we know who I’m meeting with tomorrow.” Arban nodded. “The King of Dragons, King Gethadar. They didn’t want you to know who it was so you’d be unprepared and make mistakes.” “Okay, I need everyone to give me a full rundown on King Gethadar. I need his history, habits, possible goals, both economic and military, and why he thought it necessary to kidnap a Buzaj prince. I’ll also need the Wyra customs, courtesies, and taboo subjects when speaking to a Wyra Dragon King. There’s never been a meeting like this before. Oh, and Ka, you said riders hold the same rank as their dragon. How do I address his rider, Keladar?” Ka pushed another switchgrass log onto the fire. “He’s the Chief of all the Wyra tribes, and all the Wyra Riders. We usually say, Chief, or Sir, and he has the same authority as King Gethadar. But, the normal rider will almost never have something big enough to go to either of them. All issues go to the Marshal Dragons and their riders first.” “So, you have two Kings.” Deya pressed his brows together thinking. “Your society is a marshal diarchy.” Ka shrugged. “If you say so.” Deya grinned and looked back to Arban. “You did really good. Okay, let’s get started, we have a lot to go over.”