Rook

some sort of tailored robe with a hood, which was drawn back. Sir Henry looked at him with an amiable smile that deepened when Bittner made a deep bow. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I had to acknowledge that we all made habitual obeisances before the heads of the Checquy. Though we didn’t generally clap our fists to our chests and sink to one knee.
    “So this is the young man who has unearthed both the history of the egg and the egg itself,” said Sir Henry in approval. I saw Pawn Cahill stiffen, but she kept her mouth shut.
    “Actually, Sir Henry, Pawn Cahill oversaw the excavation,” I said discreetly, and Bittner shot me a dirty look.
    “Ah, of course,” said Sir Henry benevolently, clasping her hand and giving it a hearty shake. “Damn impressed with the setup here. Rook Thomas sent along the reports, and I gather it was a first-rate operation.” She brightened while Bittner looked on sourly.
    “Noel,” I said, “this is Bishop Alrich,” and the little snot stepped back slightly. He’d been drawn to the power of Sir Henry, but Alrich intimidated him. Enough so that he didn’t correct me for not using his self-bestowed title. He bowed, another choreographed affair but one that was a little less prostrating. Alrich, to my amusement, said nothing and merely gave a small nod. Bittner rose uncertainly before checking his watch.
    “Sir Henry, it’s almost time for the egg to hatch,” he said. “If you will excuse me?” Sir Henry nodded, and Bittner strode off. He slid open a door leading into the courtyard where the egg stood, and I flinched as the wind blew in.
    I’d taken the opportunity to inspect the egg earlier in the day. Dark blue, with a faintly pebbled surface and centuries’ worth of dirt ground in, it was twice as tall as me and would have taken four or five of me holding hands to encircle it. It was still, a little snow piled up on top of it, and it made me very uncomfortable. Bittner invited me to touch it, but, wary of any possible activation of my powers, I put my hands behind my back and declined. He responded with a contemptuous smirk.
    Now the egg was illuminated by spotlights, and the drifts of snow around it had melted. A wooden walkway stretched up to it, and it was along this that Noel Bittner walked, his robe flapping in the wind. In the viewing galleries surrounding the egg, technicians, biologists, historians, and a camera crew were all watching intently. On the roof, a ring of Checquy troops were armed with a variety of weapons. The historical texts were hazy about how to kill a dragon, since no one in recorded history had ever managed it. In our section, we settled back in vast armchairs and accepted beverages from a butler. The lights dimmed overhead, but the lights on the courtyard brightened, so we could see everything clearly.
    Bittner was rigged with a hands-free radio so that his every reaction and observation could be recorded for posterity. He was breathing deeply. I suspectit was on purpose. His stance was, to my eye, overly dramatic—he’d spread his arms, and his thin robe flapped in the wind. I suppose he had thought this would appear striking in the icy cold, but after Alrich’s entrance, anything short of actual nudity was unimpressive. Besides, I’ve never had any patience for posers.
    “It’s warm under my hands” came Bittner’s breathless report through the intercom. “I’d say we have two minutes.”
    One of the scientists’ voices came through next. “All observers, don your protective eyewear and sporrans.” The butler came around with a tray full of glasses that looked like old motorists’ goggles. There were also little lead-filled aprony things that we draped over our laps.
    “One minute,” said Bittner. I smoothed my skirt anxiously and then replaced the lead sporran. Around me, the other observers were tense, and Alrich, as always, was utterly still, no breath stirring his body. All of us were staring at Bittner’s white hands on the egg and listening to his voice over the intercom.
    “It’s stirring. I can feel its movements. Its muscles are flexing within the shell.” He was milking the occasion for all it was worth. And why not? After all, this was the sort of thing that could make a career in the Checquy.
    Besides, now I could feel it too.
    It was there, faintly itching on the edges of my perception. I looked around to see if the others could sense it, but they were all intent on the adolescent prodigy communing with the