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He
also
wondered
what
the
other
task
was
.
The
palace
guards
said
nothing
,
but
stared
straight
ahead
and
marched
him
down
,
across
the
ruined
hall
,
and
through
the
wreckage
of
another
corridor
to
an
ominous
door
.
They
opened
it
,
threw
him
in
,
and
marched
away
.
And
no
-
one
,
absolutely
no
-
one
,
noticed
the
thin
,
leaf
-
like
thing
that
floated
gently
down
from
the
shadows
of
the
roof
,
tumbling
over
and
over
in
the
air
like
a
sycamore
seed
,
before
landing
in
the
tangled
gewgaws
of
the
hoard
.
It
was
a
peanut
shell
.
It
was
the
silence
that
awoke
Lady
Ramkin
.
Her
bedroom
looked
out
over
the
dragon
pens
,
and
she
was
used
to
sleeping
to
the
susurration
of
rustling
scales
,
the
occasional
roar
of
a
dragon
flaming
in
its
sleep
,
and
the
keening
of
the
gravid
females
.
Absence
of
any
sound
at
all
was
like
an
alarm
clock
.
She
had
cried
a
bit
before
going
to
sleep
,
but
not
much
,
because
it
was
no
use
being
soppy
and
letting
the
side
down
.
She
lit
the
lamp
,
pulled
on
her
rubber
boots
,
grabbed
the
stick
which
might
be
all
that
stood
between
her
and
theoretical
loss
of
virtue
,
and
hurried
down
through
the
shadowy
house
.
As
she
crossed
the
damp
lawn
to
the
kennels
she
was
vaguely
aware
that
something
was
happening
down
in
the
city
,
but
dismissed
it
as
not
currently
worth
thinking
about
.
Dragons
were
more
important
.
She
pushed
open
the
door
.
Well
,
they
were
still
there
.
The
familiar
stink
of
swamp
dragons
,
half
pond
mud
and
half
chemical
explosion
,
gusted
out
into
the
night
.
Each
dragon
was
balancing
on
its
hind
legs
in
the
centre
of
its
pen
,
neck
arched
,
staring
with
ferocious
intensity
at
the
roof
.
