Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd Read Free Book Online

left, and locked myself in my room for days.
    Youngest Son is moving. As though dragged against his will, he climbs stiffly from his horse. A groom rushes forward to seize the bridle. Everyone in the square is alert.
    He brushes the dust from his clothes, then steps towards me. Now is the test. I sense Wudi shifting behind me. My breath catches.
    Youngest Son lowers himself stiffly, first one leg, then both, until he is on his knees, paying homage to his father, as is only natural and fitting. Yet it is a feeble homage, as all must observe, for he does not bow, his back straight as a rampart. It is enough. For now the village is safe. I risk a glance at his men. They have visibly relaxed, and some dare to yawn. Perhaps they are disappointed. But their captain honouring his father changes them from con-querors to guests.
    ‘Father,’ he says. ‘I have returned.’
    ‘Youngest Son, are you thirsty?’
    He nods. There are tears in his eyes, for I have acknowledged him as my child.
    ‘Wudi,’ I say, gently.
    He knows what to do. Pouring out a cup of wine, he advances, and offers it.
    Youngest Son gulps it in one. Emotion makes it hard for him to swallow.
    ‘Ah!’ he says, at last grinning his old, mischievous grin.
    ‘Ah! I was thirsty, Father.’
    ‘Then take another cup,’ I say.
    He drinks this solemnly.
    ‘Are your officers dry?’ I ask.
    As far as I can judge, they seem a rough pair. One of them has the extravagant, bushy beard of a vain man. The other makes no effort to hide a sneer which, I suspect, is habitual.
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Let them drink, too.’
    At this Youngest Son bridles. I must take care with him.
    ‘If that is your will,’ I add.
    The two officers dismount and Wudi brings their wine.
    We stand awkwardly together. The officers bow in a per-functory way. A breeze is picking up in Wei Valley, making the awning flap. The leaves of the mulberry trees shimmer and murmur. Birds twitter and sing.
    The wine has refreshed Youngest Son in more ways than one. His bearing carries authority. He strokes his fine, curling sideburns and beard in a way designed to draw attention. Yet I am not a susceptible lady. To me, his whiskers seem absurd and common, far from the clean-shaven dignity of an examined scholar.
    ‘You are evidently here on an important mission,’ I say.
    ‘If it is within your discretion, perhaps you could share its purpose with me, so I may be of assistance.’
    Youngest Son raises an eyebrow. I can read his thought.
    Father still speaks in the same flowery, annoying way .
    ‘I have been sent by His Highness to hunt rebels. That is all you need to know, Father.’
    His Highness! General An-Shu is aiming higher than I expected. I refrain from correcting his confusion of titles.
    ‘Ah,’ I say.
    The soldiers in the square are looking round. It takes no great wisdom to guess their thoughts.
    ‘I have here an inventory of all the available grain in the village,’ I say. ‘Naturally, we expect your men will require feeding.’
    One of the officers snorts. Youngest Son quells him with a glance.
    ‘We shall only take what is needed,’ he announces in a loud voice. ‘Any who transgress this shall answer to me.
    General An-Shu protects the welfare of all obedient subjects.’
    Subjects now! So the peasants are to be robbed of their food. Even Youngest Son looks uncomfortable. After all, he knows half the villagers by name, and is aware of their poverty. There’s no helping it, for either of us.
    ‘The General’s kindness is well-known,’ I say. ‘We are grateful.’
    Youngest Son is beginning to flush round the cheeks, always a dangerous sign with him. I have extracted what promises I can.
    ‘Father should retire to Three-Step-House,’ says Youngest Son. ‘He will understand I must arrange bivouacs for my men.’
    I nod.
    ‘Perhaps Honoured Father needs a jar of wine after his exertions?’ he asks, smiling slyly. ‘I’m sure he does.’
    Already the boy grows impudent. His