Free Dragon Flight by Jessica Day George Page B

up, but I thought he might be as large as Shardas, who was the biggest dragon in Feravel.
    This dragon, however, was as white as bone.
    It opened its eyes, which were black and flat like a snake’s, and looked at us. Marta made that noise again, and I dropped my end of the basket, unnerved by the cold malice of the dragon’s gaze.
    “Mehel? Mehel rioho?” A shrill voice cut the air and a figure climbed out of the coils of the dragon’s tail.
    It was a man, roughly thirty years old, and wearing fine, brightly coloured silks. On his head was an ornamental silver helmet with three enormous plumes on top; a large gold sunburst set with an egg-sized ruby adorned the front. The helmet was slightly askew, showing curly white-blond hair that reminded me of a sheep’s fleece.
    “You’re not Citatian? Are you Roulaini? You’re not Feravelan, are you? Why did you wake me?” He rubbed his eyes and then straightened his helmet. He straightened his whole body, in fact, quite suddenly. His expression changed from confusion to disdain and he glared at us instead of blinking sleepily. “What is your business here?”
    I curtsied deeply, which felt odd in the trousers I was wearing. “We’re here to fit your new suit, Your Majesty,” I said in Citatian. It was another of the useful phrases that Luka had taught me.
    “Oh.” He frowned. “I don’t recall ordering a new suit, and certainly not from
Feravelan
tailors.” To my relief he spoke in Feravelan. I was reaching the limit of my Citatian vocabulary.
    Giving a sigh of false regret, I bowed my head and Marta did the same. “Your Majesty is too clever by half,” I said mournfully. “We had hoped that your Effulgence would be so caught up in affairs of state that youwould not see through our ruse. We humbly wish to be your royal tailors, Your Majesty, and so we have sneaked into the palace that we might present this gift to you.”
    With a flourish we took the lid off the basket and lifted out the suit of clothing. I held the coat with real pride: I had cut up my favourite riding dress to make it. It was scarlet satin, embroidered with a pattern of gold and orange and blue flames. I had added lapels and cuffs of the mirrored silk in bands of colour to complement the embroidery. The shirt and trousers were of straw yellow and blue, respectively, and the seams were stitched with scarlet thread for contrast.
    “It’s so gaudy,” the king said in an uncertain tone. “And what’s this pattern?” He fingered the flame design on the coat.
    “Dragonfire,” I said, almost feeling jealous as he touched it. I hadn’t had a chance to wear this riding dress myself before hacking it to pieces to give to Nason. I’d been waiting for a good opportunity to show it off in front of Shardas … and maybe Luka.
    “A ruler of Your Majesty’s great presence should step forth, bold and proud, in all the colours of the rainbow, sire,” Marta said, when I failed to elaborate.
    I raised my eyebrows at this, trying not to let out a slightly hysterical giggle. We had used this same pitch on a very large and forceful dowager duchess not too many weeks ago. The woman had a dozen grandchildren and was shaped like the prow of a ship, yet persisted inwearing demure, girlish pastels. This argument had persuaded her to purchase a gown of plum satin more flattering than anything she had worn in at least twenty years.
    My heart in my throat, I held the coat out at shoulder height. “May I, Your Majesty?” I had expected to be thrown out long before now.
    The dragon behind the throne hissed, and his tail flexed and coiled with a dry sound. The black eyes had never left us, but now they seemed more fixed. It had a collar, a wide band of gold and jewels, but for the first time I felt no pity, no outrage. I was glad this dragon was collared and under control. Even so, it seemed dangerous.
    “Please try on the coat, sire,” Marta wheedled. “It must be properly tailored for the full glorious