Read At the Queen's Command for Free Online

another scale, but it held firmly. A third had a moderate amount of give.
    “Have you discovered it, Captain?”
    Owen moved back to where he could see the Prince. Vlad leaned against Mugwump’s muzzle, his elbows and forearms resting there as if the wurm were just a piece of furniture. He paid no apparent attention to the golden-eyed stare. Or his proximity to a mouth full of razor-sharp ivory.
    Owen frowned. “It was loose, Highness. Scales do fall out from time to time. I don’t see any Green Bloom on him. He seems warm. If he is eating well…”
    “No sign of molt, Captain?”
    Owen shook his head. Wurms periodically shed their scales and spun cocoons of dragon silk. Very strong, it would be harvested and spun into wonderfully tough and lightweight garments. All of the Regiment’s Wurmriders had combat uniforms cut from it. The cocoon was a harbinger of a molt, and cutting a wurm prematurely from the cocoon was vital because no wurm survived chrysalis.
    When freed from their cocoon, they remained asleep for weeks. Some even slept for months. They sloughed off their skin, which had to be cut away. Men highly prized the outer layer of flesh. The Wurmriders all had boots and gauntlets of wurmleather. Once freed of their old skin, the wurms woke up and within a month had grown new scales. Those trained to war took to the their old duties without requiring additional drills.
    “I did not feel any silk, and he has too many scales yet.”
    Vlad stroked a hand over his chin, smearing mud. “Your observations concur with mine and those of my wurmwright, Mr. Baker. My concern is that the loose scales are distributed over Mugwump in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern.”
    Owen frowned. “But it can’t be a molt since he has not spun.”
    “Do we know that cocoons are necessary for a molt?” The Prince held his hands up. “I don’t mean for you to answer that. It’s a question of some minor debate between me and some of my Auropean correspondents. I find the pattern intriguing because birds, to maintain stability in flight, molt in a bilaterally symmetrical pattern. If the ancient stories are true, and dragons could fly, perhaps this loosening of scales presages something more?”
    “Highness, that’s not a question I can answer.”
    Prince Vlad laughed. “It takes a wise man to admit ignorance. There can be other explanations, of course. Mugwump has been in the royal stables for centuries, but he’s not been fought in the last fifty years. Being as how he’s the only wurm in Mystria, there has been no reason to bring him to combat.”
    “It could be, Highness, that he’s about to shed armor he’s not using.” Owen frowned. “I do have to say, he’s the biggest wurm I’ve seen, and…” Owen traced a finger along some scarlet and gold striping running up the muzzle. “I’ve never seen markings like these before.”
    “Nor have I. The Truscian painter, Giarimo, did his portrait just over a century ago. No sign of the markings then.” The Prince patted Mugwump on the muzzle. “If only you could talk, my friend, you could tell me. Is it your peaceful life, or it is something else? Your reaction to this land, perhaps, as Mister Baker believes?”
    The wurm lifted his head and brought it, dripping, over Owen and back toward the puddle. His thick, black tongue swept out, dragging that branch into his maw, then his mouth closed. Mugwump eyed them for a second, then twisted and rolled down into the center of his wallow. He writhed there, grinding his back into the mud, his four legs reflexively clawing toward the roof. His mouth opened again, his tongue lolled out, and his eyes closed.
    The Prince sighed. “Things would be much easier if he shared my love of science and discovery. And forgive me boring you with my inquiries.”
    Owen held his hands up. “Please, Highness, it was an honor.”
    Prince Vlad pointed at the gold band on Owen’s left hand. “Did you bring your wife with you?”
    “No,