Mary Brown - Dragonne's Egg

Dragonne's Eg

Table of Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

BOOK TWO

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

BOOK THREE

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

DRAGONNE'S EG

MARY BROWN

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57810-3

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

First printing, June 1999

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

This is for you,

Sam,

with my special love!

Acknowledgments

My thanks as usual to my husband Peter, whose patience appears to increase as mine decreases!

Thanks also for the support of the "Baen Family" always there if needed.

Last, but not least, as a reward for his persistent interest, I shall dedicate this book to Sam,

my own "Beau Thai". . . .

DRAGONS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR

The unicorn-like creature heard the roar from where he lay in the mid-morning shadows among the

bonsai trees. Ky-Lin sprang upright, thinking for a moment that the Blue Mountain had erupted again, but

recognised immediately that the noise came from the harsh, cacophonous voices of the dragons. They

were clearly upset.

He did a quick transformation, desk-ornament size to pony size and trotted along in the afternoon heat,

his hooves throwing up little puffs of dust.

As he neared the Blue Mountain, he heard a sudden clatter of leathery wings above. Claws seized his

shoulders and he was borne upwards into the air with a whoosh! and a sinking lurch in his stomach. He

saw the plain beneath him disappear with alarming speed.

One of the dragons had pounced on him and was carrying him higher and higher towards the northeast,

but to what purpose? Was he to be dropped from a great height, to be smashed to smithereens? Made

into a snack for the dragons' dinner? But perhaps they had something less violent in mind.

The next moment they started to drop like stones. Beneath them the black maw of the mountain rose up

with frightening speed: a dark blot, an inky puddle, an ebony lake—the mouth of Hell itself!

The dragon braked sharply at the last moment, then did a neat landing in the middle of a circle of six

scaly others, dropping Ky-Lin unceremoniously to the ground.

All the dragons were hissing. They were not amused. . . .

BAEN BOOKS by MARY BROWN

The Unlikely Ones

Pigs Don't Fly

Master of Many Treasures

Strange Deliverance

Dragonne's Eg

BOOK ONE

"Where there's a Will there's a Way"

—William Hazlitt

Chapter One

Birthday Girl

"Please, Miss! Ern's 'avin' a fit again . . ."

Birthdays shouldn't be like this, I thought savagely as I squeezed along the narrow row between the

desks to where Ernest was jerking uncontrollably. I held him tight for a moment, glad to see that he

hadn't bitten his tongue; as his spasms lessened and he started to snore I scooped him up in my arms and

carried him out of the class, down the corridor and into the kitchen, where there was a pallet in a corner

for emergencies. I stripped off his soiled pants, chucked them into a bucket and rinsed them out, my nose

wrinkling as I draped them over a fireguard to dry.

Ellen turned from the stove, where she was stirring the soup.

" 'Im again? Just cover 'im up, I'll keep an eye on 'im." The smell of the soup made my mouth water. On

the table the bread was already sliced. Ellen saw my face.

"All counted out, miss—but come 'ere . . ." She took a knob of crust from the side and dipped it into the

soup. "Careful, it's 'ot!"

And absolutely delicious. I crammed it into my mouth all at once, in danger of choking.

"Thanks, Ellen. Only an hour to go . . ."

"Thank God it's Sat'day!"

"Amen to that!"

As I made my way back to the classroom, making sure no crumbs would betray my scrounging and

wiping my mouth on one of my second-best handkerchiefs, one used to mop up childish tears, snot or

blood from cuts and grazes, I reflected that I should have a full two hours extra this afternoon to

celebrate my twenty-first birthday.

School was from eight in the morning till six at night, Mondays to Friday, but on Saturday we broke two

hours earlier. Fine in summer, but in winter it made little difference, the nights closing in early. Just two

hours longer shut away in my room, a smoky little fire in the grate; just two more hours mending or

trimming or studying. Once a week I would call at the local lending library, but I read so fast and so

voraciously that I had to ration my pleasure to an hour a day. One penny a week was all I could afford,

this being the going rate for borrowing.

I preferred to save a penny or two here and there and browse through one of the second-hand

bookshops. This way I had built up my own little library: by now I had some of the novels of Mr.

Dickens, Miss Austen, the Misses Brontë, Mrs. Gaskell and Mr. Thackeray, a Treasury of Poetry, the

collected Histories of Mr. Shakespeare andThe Commonplace Cook . This latter I could not really put

to the test, as the fire in my room would only hold one pan at best and cooking in one's room was

discouraged, but if some day I had a home of my own I should, theoretically, have knowledge enough to

produce good, nourishing meals.

In the meantime I, like pupils and teachers alike at the Reverend Ezekiel Moffat's Charity School, lived

on just that: the posthumous generosity of our founder. Founded sixty years ago in the early 1820s, the

worthy minister had envisaged saving the souls of London's poorest children with his four "R's": Religion,

Reading, 'Riting and 'Rithmetic. His daughters, who now ran the school, had added another "R":

Refreshments.

For many of these children of the streets the food they received at school was their only sustenance. On

arrival each child was given a slice of bread and dripping and a drink of milk and water. At lunchtime

there was a bowl of Ellen's soup and another slice of bread and at hometime a slice of bread and scrape

and another drink of milk and water. We teachers shared the same diet, which made the twenty-six

pounds a year we received go a little further. It meant I only had to buy supper during the week, and

could spoil myself on Saturday nights and Sundays.

Still, ten shillings a week didn't go far. Four shillings a week for rent, plus a penny for hot water. One

penny a day for the emptying of my slop bucket. This last was definitely worth it, not having to tramp

down two flights of stairs to use the revolting, fly-infested privy in the backyard. That made five shillings

and four-pence. Three-pence for laundry, a penny for the library, which left four shillings and four-pence

for everything else, which included clothes, coals, sewing materials and ribbons, soap and, of course,

food.

At present I was managing to save one shilling a week towards the cost of material for a winter dress

and new boots, and another shilling went into the Co-operative Bank. Then there was the collection at

church on Sundays and a penny for the Missionary Fund, which left me two-pence a night for a meat pie

or a couple of sausages. This week I had bought wool to knit mittens and a muffler for the winter, but I

had the princely sum of nine-pence left with which to indulge myself tomorrow.

In the fine weather I would make a packed lunch and take it out into one of the parks, but when it was

wet or cold on Saturday nights I would visit the butcher for a couple of chops, then the greengrocer for

potatoes and some apples or an orange, plus a loaf from the baker and perhaps a chunk of cheese from

the grocer. Saturday night was cheapest too, as all was closed for the Sabbath, and the later you went,

the better the bargain.

Back in the classroom my pupils were in disarray. Obviously those who could had scratched their

versions of "Cat, Rat, Mat, Hat, Sat" onto their slates, and were now teasing one another, throwing things

or fast asleep. I hurried over, apologising to Miss Hardacre and Miss Hepzibah Moffat for the possible

disruption of their Middle and Senior classes, clapped my hands for order, tapped a few heads with my

ruler and hurriedly wiped the blackboard with a damp cloth and substituted "Dog, Log, Hog, Bog, Fog"

for the earlier words. I then moved down the aisle, praising where I could, as blame was no use with

these deprived children.

Some of them were patently ineducable, others would never get further than adding the simplest of

numbers and writing their own names, but there were exceptions, like Jude and June, half-caste brother

and sister who held the glimmerings of something better. These two now presented me with "The Cat sat

on the Mat" and "The Cat in the Hat" respectively. Next term I would recommend them to Miss

Hardcastle's Middle Class, who were now monotonously reciting their seven times table.

Having all three classes in the same room was difficult at the best of times, but usually two were either

writing or listening so we teachers didn't have the added strain of shouting above each other.

Of course there were always more girls than boys. As soon as they were old enough the latter were out

on the streets for their parents, thieving, running errands or, if they were lucky, 'prenticed out to coal

merchants, chimney sweeps, dockers, lightermen or costers. The girls, if they were presentable, usually

ended up on the streets at puberty or helping out in laundries or cookshops. We did have some

successes: some of the children had been properly placed, boys to printing presses and the retail trade,

even one to the Christian Church; the girls out as milliners, seamstresses, nursery governesses or placed

in respectable households. But these alas, were few and far between.

I had been here in London for three years now. My parents had died within a week of each other of a

low fever while I was still at boarding school. We had never been well-off—it was said my mother had

married beneath her to a humble watch-maker and repairer—but they hadn't stinted on my education,

more than they could have afforded; but once all debts had been paid and most of the furniture sold from

our rented cottage, I found all I had was enough to keep myself for six months, a few sticks of furniture

and fond memories of a pretty, merry mother who was a hopeless housewife, and a gentle, retiring father

who waited for work rather than seeking it out.

So, Miss Sophronisbe Lee would have to find a situation, fast, but for an unattached girl of nineteen with

no special skills and only the recommendation of her headmistress to back her applications it wasn't easy.

At first I was picky, answering only those advertisements that appealed to me, but as time passed I grew

more desperate as most of my applications were either unanswered or were curt rejections, the general

consensus being that I was both too young and too inexperienced.

So I no longer applied to those advertisements for a "genteel children's governess," or "Lady F. requires

experienced ladies-maid," rather was I driven to replying to seekers of companions for the elderly, or

housekeeper in a "large and boisterous household." These came to nothing as well, if you discount an

interview I actually undertook with hope concerning a "disabled gentleman" requiring a young lady for

reading aloud, writing letters and other "light duties." Unfortunately he was not too disabled to chase me

all over his study and he made it very clear what the "light duties" would entail. . . .

This went on for nearly three months until I had almost decided to apply for a straightforward domestic

post, when I had an unexpected bonus. One of our neighbours had paid a visit to an aunt in London, and

brought back a morning paper which contained ten suitable posts. Although the paper was a few days

old I answered all the advertisements eagerly, then sat back and waited. And waited.

Of the ten, four never answered, and I had five replies turning me down, but the last letter was different.

This was from the headmistress of a Charity School offering a teaching post. "Young person, male or

female, to teach class of five- to eight-year-olds in poor district. Wages: twenty-six pounds per year.

Some food supplied. Only serious and dedicated applicants need apply." Her advertisement had been

last on my list because of the low wage, but somehow the tone of the letter I received fired me with an

uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

"I note that your qualifications are more than adequate for our Junior Class, but you must realise

that the possession of knowledge is not, in itself, the only requirement in a good teacher. It also

involves patience, a liking for your pupils and, above all, the art of communication.

"You are young, but that cannot be held against you: you will not have had time to form bad

habits or hard opinions. I note from your headmistress's recommendation that you have a mind of

your own and are not afraid to express your views: I prefer this attitude to that of a milksop-miss.

"If you decide to take the post you must be prepared to live in an insalubrious district and deal

with children who are poor, ill-clad, unwashed and often apathetic. The position is not an easy

one, but it might well prove rewarding if you manage to improve the lot of only one of these

deprived children."

So, my youth and inexperience didn't matter! Even my assertiveness was accepted as a sort of virtue.

Was I patient? I thought so. Could I like the unlikeable? Probably—after all, children were children the

world over. Could I communicate? Definitely!

And so, a fortnight later, the remaining sticks of furniture sold, apart from my father's comfortable

wing-chair, my mother's writing desk and embroidered footstool and a mantel-clock that I had had in my

bedroom since I was a child, I took the stage to London and a new life.

And here I still was, nearly three years later.

Perhaps if I had had the faintest idea of just how tough those years were to be I would not have come,

but, perversely, I was glad I had. Financially I was badly off; I lived in squalid conditions and probably

didn't eat enough healthy food, and the teaching was mind-blowingly monotonous and unrewarding. It

seemed my nostrils were always full of the smell of unwashed bodies, urine, chalk, smoke and fog.

Against all those was the plus of living in London itself. It was a wondrous, vibrant city, full of museums,

galleries, ancient monuments, theatres, parks and beautiful churches, all of which fed the hunger for

beauty and learning which I hadn't realised had lain dormant in me for so long. The fantastic wonders of

the Crystal Palace, the military bands, the Palace with its changing of the guard, the gaily dressed people,

the shops crammed with goodies—

Of course there was the other side as well. London was like a beautifully dressed woman with dirty

underwear. Horrendous slums, depraved and deprived lower-classes, running sewers, a pall of choking

smoke most of the year; the blind, the crippled, the lame begging on every street corner and the prisons

full of debtors, thieves and worse.

But these three years had toughened me. I was now far more self-reliant, realising just how sheltered,

pampered and protected I had been as a child. Now I believed I knew far better how to extract the best

from the simplest of pleasures. I also realised how our little school shone out like a bunch of bright weeds

against the dull poverty around us.

Only one in ten of our little charges really benefitted from the education we offered, but at least they

were off the streets, were fed, warm and, if necessary, clothed. Miss Moffat and her sister were adept at

visiting some of the better neighbourhoods, especially if a child in the household had died, and begging for

charitable cast-offs. Most of the bereaved were only too glad to be rid of unpleasant reminders.

Otherwise we took advantage of any scraps of cloth we managed to gather and cobbled together what

we could. Every Christmas and Easter each child was presented with a bright new penny, (birthdays

being out because few of the children knew their birthdate), and at the New Year there was a bag of

sweet biscuits.

The headmistress and her sister were as unalike in appearance as could be. Miss Moffat was tall, slim

and severe-looking; Miss Hepzibah was small, round, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and sighed a great

deal: Ellen told me she had been disappointed in love. There was one other member of their household:

Madeleine, a remarkably quiet and composed young lady of about nineteen who filled in as a teacher

when necessary, and was apparently adopted by the Misses Moffat as a baby. When I expressed to

Ellen my admiration for their generosity, she shrugged her shoulders.

"There's some as would say they didn't have much choice," she said, and left me to work it out for

myself. I guessed Madeleine must be at least a distant relation, for she bore a remarkable resemblance to

a younger Miss Hepzibah. . . . * * *

There was a bustle at the back of the classroom and every childish head turned to where Ellen was

carrying in the cauldron of lunchtime soup. She was followed by Madeleine with a tray of bread and a

bundle of spoons. Next came the enamel bowls and a bucket of soapy water and a rag, for every child

had its face and hands washed before eating. I slipped out to the kitchen to check on little epileptic

Ernest, and found him already seated at the kitchen table with soup and bread. On the way back I

passed Miss Moffat, who gave me a nod before striking the brass gong outside the classroom to signal

luncheon, a sound quickly drowned by the scrapes of chairs and stools, excited squeals and the rush of

feet as the children formed into class lines. As usual there was much pushing and shoving, seeming that

every second without food was life-threatening, but the routine was well established, and as soon as Miss

Moffat entered the room and called for order she gained it within a half-minute.

Madeleine wiped hands and faces, I handed out bowl and spoon, Ellen ladled out into the former and

Miss Hepzibah and Miss Hardcastle doled out the bread. The children went back to their desks to eat,

before returning their bowls, having their hands and faces wiped clean again and escaping to the yard at

the back for a half-hour, to play tag, leapfrog, Fairy Footsteps or Hopscotch and visit the privy.

Then, and only then did we teachers repair to the kitchen to eat our luncheon and toast our toes, with the

added bonus of a cup of hot, strong tea to follow. This was also the time when we discussed any especial

problems with the children; those who needed extra clothes, who appeared to be sickening for something

or who showed signs of maltreatment or abuse.

This half-hour always whizzed by, and today the children were even more difficult to control, but this

was usual on a Saturday. My class were supposed to be doing the simplest of simple arithmetic, but even

the effort of adding one and one together seemed beyond them, let alone two and two. At least three of

them were fast asleep, heads on desks, and the rest of them were either yawning or wanting to pick a

fight.

The classroom seemed to be getting darker and darker, although it was only the first of October.

Glancing up at the long windows, so high up they had to be opened (rarely) and shut by a hooked pole,

my heart sank. So far autumn had been bright and fairly sunny, but now the first yellow wraiths of fog

were rubbing against the grubby panes. It seemed I shouldn't be spending my afternoon tomorrow after

church strolling in the park. At least I had a good book to read: I had re-borrowed Miss Anne Brontë's

Agnes Grey from the library. A failed governess maybe, but in the end she had gained her man.

Of course I had to enjoy her final success vicariously, for I had never had even the sniff of a proper

suitor. One couldn't count the boisterous schoolboy who had tried to steal a kiss on my fourteenth

birthday, nor yet the young curate with the sticky-out ears who was always begging me to come and see

his pressed-flower collection. In London the pattern had been the same. I discouraged the approach of

strangers, and the only man of my acquaintance had been the student on the floor above at my lodgings.

According to my landlady he originated from Dublin, in Ireland, and he certainly had the gift of the charm

and volubility of his race, and he insisted on writing me reams of doggerel which he shoved under my

door nearly every day. I ignored his knockings—no visitors after six o'clock, no gentlemen in ladies'

rooms and vice versa—and either returned the "poems" the same way they had come or, if I was feeling

particularly vicious, they were useful for laying the fire.

But this was not the limit of his attentions. Although he never did nor said anything improper, and hardly

spoke at all except for the conventional greeting now and again, he seemed to shadow me everywhere.

He peered over my shoulder at the baker's, the grocer's shop and the butcher's; he was in the seat

behind me at church; he checked on my choice in the library; he was behind me in the park, at museums

and galleries, and he even peered through the railings when I was ushering the children in and out.

Then, after some three months he disappeared, owing my landlady for the last two . . .

I jerked awake. Goodness, I was succumbing like my pupils to a Saturday afternoon lethargy! I looked

around to see what had disturbed me and saw that the door to Miss Moffat's private apartment was

open, and Miss Moffat was beckoning Toby (one of our successes: it was he, the youngest member of

our laundress's family, who usually escorted me home) from his place in the top class. Of course

everyone stopped whatever they were doing to listen to the exchange, although the actual words were

inaudible.

I tapped my ruler on the desk. "Come, children: anyone who has finished please bring your slate to me .

. ."

I looked up. Twelve- or thirteen-year-old Toby was threading his way through the desks, heading

straight for me! What could he possibly want? What dread rule had I broken that the headmistress

needed to see me urgently at three o'clock on a foggy Saturday afternoon?

"Miss Sophy?"

My throat was suddenly dry and I swallowed convulsively. "Yes, Toby?"

"Miss Moffat asks that you 'tend her in her office, most partickler. Seems there's a gennulman to see you

. . ."

Chapter Two

The Bequest

How often do the most innocent among us imagine themselves guilty! During that long walk from my

desk, through the crowded classroom and down the corridor to Miss Moffat's study-cum-sitting-room I

felt I was experiencing all the terrors of Mr. Sidney Carton on his way to the guillotine, the voices of the

children, the chant of the mob—

Yet what could I have done? My thoughts rushed around like a rat in a maze, seeking some explanation

and finding none. And who was the gentleman who wanted to see me? Was he from the police? Had

someone I knew done something dreadful? Could it be a forgotten creditor of Papa's?

I could feel my heart beginning to race, my whole body to tremble, and it was only when I raised my

hand to knock on Miss Moffat's door that I remembered to discard the half-sleeves I wore to protect me

from chalk-dust and pat my hair into some sort of order, though as I had inherited Mama's unruly curls it

was merely a case of tucking them hastily into my snood.

I could no longer put it off; whatever lay on the other side of that door I would face with my head held

high—so high, I fact, that when I knocked briskly and walked in, not waiting for an answer, I

remembered too late the tatty rug that lay just inside the door, a trip-trap for the unwary.

Miss Moffat rose from behind her desk. "Watch where you put your feet, child! And please straighten

your collar."

I rose from my knees, smoothing down my skirt, cursing under my breath at my clumsiness.

"Sit here, beside me."

It wasn't only the chill in the room that had me clasping my hands tightly in my lap—there was a perfectly

adequate fireplace, but to Miss Moffat winter only began with the first snows—no, it wasn't the cold, it

was the figure lurking in the shadows whose face I couldn't see that had me trembling.

Miss Moffat addressed the shadow. "Please be seated, Mr. Swallow," indicating the Windsor chair

across from her. She turned to me. "This gentleman is from the firm of Goldstone, Crutch and Swallow of

Lincoln's Inn. He has a legal matter to discuss with you." She half-rose from her chair. "If you wish I shall

leave you to—"

"Oh, no, please!" I clutched unthinkingly at her sleeve. "I should much prefer you to stay." This although

the ogre of the shadow proved to be only a slight, middle-aged man with a bald head and half-glasses.

He sat down, laid a bundle of papers on the desk and cleared his throat.

"This is she?"

Miss Moffat leaned back in her chair, patting my arm reassuringly. "Yes."

He coughed, rearranged his papers. "Well, Miss Laye—"

"Lee," I corrected automatically.

"Of course, of course . . . Miss Lee. I am here to reveal some of the terms of our client's Last Will and

Testament. I say `some,' because a part is left for you to discover." He shuffled the papers again. "I must

say it has taken some time for us to discover your whereabouts, as the private detective who was hired

to trace you is—was—behind bars. A matter of a small debt which we were obliged to disburse, as the

gentleman was a trifle obdurate in the matter of your address until we had—ah!—freed him."

Client? Will? Private detective? Prison? It sounded as though I was caught up in some travesty of a

novel, a combination of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Conan Doyle. Miss Moffat saw my bewilderment and

patted my arm.

Mary Brown - Dragonne's Egg

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