Page 205 of Nine-Tenths
"But it wasnotwide-open, Dragon's Own," says the queen.
"No, Ma'am. It wasn't," I agree, turning back to her. "You were desperate to be the dragon sleeping on the biggest pile, so you—England, Spain, France, The Netherlands, Germany, Russia—you made like Rome. But we know what happened to Rome, right?"
Simcoe scoffs. "The Roman Empire failed because of the weakness of lesser dragons than Julius Cesar."
"The Roman Empire failed because it couldn'tservethe territories it seized, which caused infighting," I retort. "I mean, also, the lead pipes helped. But you get me, right?"
One of Simcoe's still-loyal backbenchers sneers. "You believe we should withdraw, despite all we've done to develop the colonies?"
The sound of frustration I make is distinctly dragonish.
I hope Dav is proud.
"It doesn't matter who can manage the Territory 'better'," I say, with finger quotes. "That's the same damn excuse you used to steal it in the first place. It's a matter of what serves both the people and the land itself best, and that's not The Great Confidence."
"So you would have us walk among the people?" a dragon calls down from the gallery. "Labor for them?"
"Exactly!" I shout back up. "Dragons are happiest when their treasures are within reach—but you spend all your time shut away in castles. Doesn't it feelunnatural? Don’t you secretly hate it?"
A murmur of agreement ripples like a swelling tide.
"It's shameful," I add. "You owe it to the dragons you displaced, youmurdered, to dobetterthan this. All of us Settlers do, not just the governments, not just the dragons! You have all this power to help. Instead you sit on it, squander it, hoard it, and for what? You'll still be wealthy when you give away a fraction of what you have, and it will make the world an immeasurably better place." I point to the briefcase. "If you would onlyreadwhat Pedra and her colleagues—"
"The childish ramblings of a student?" Simcoe jeers.
"First, I'm not a student, I graduated with a degree in this shit! And so did everyone else who worked on this—they're professionals. And second, despite your middle name, I need you to literally choke and die right now, okay?"
"Colin!" Dav, yelps. "Manners!"
"Whatabout my name—" Simcoe starts but I don't give him the satisfaction of getting out the rest.
"Sorry, it was FrancisAlibbedGwilliam Simcoe, wasn't it?" I seethe. Dragons and humans already in the know rustle as if settling uncomfortable scales, whispering to one another.
"Colin—" Dav tries to caution, but I'm too angry now.
"How apt would you say it is?" I sneer. "You gave DavGeorge. Famous slayer of dragons, meant to remind him of the one mistake he's ever made. " I hold up a finger, righteous, rigid. Then I tilt it down to aim it directly between Simcoe's eyes. "Do you know what I did when I learned that? I looked up yours. Alibbed? Isn't that IOld English? ForSurvivor?"
"I survived a battle that should have been my end!"
"Oh, I read about that," I say, theatrically indolent. "In Spain, right? Your father sent you away to fight under Wellington, and you think he should have kept you by his side. He didn’t pick you as his second in command because you weren'tgood enough, Frankie. Dav was top of his class. So Dav was the one who marched dear-old-dad's forces all the way to Washington, and Dav was the match that burned their Presidential Mansion to the ground.Davwas the one who was rewarded with territory, with glory in battle, with your father's respect. Whileyoubarely escaped with your life. And you've spent the rest of it wondering if daddywantedyou gone.If maybe he gifted Dav a vital march because he didn'ttrustyou with it. If maybe Dav was the son he always wanted. And doesn't that justeat you alive."
Dav grabs a fistful of my blazer, right at the small of my back. It's a warning. It's not necessary.
I know I'm on thin ice.
I've just decided I don't care.
"You let yourwhorespeak for you?" Simcoe says. Laura's expression crumples in horror at the slur. "Is your allegiance to your own kind—"
"I owe you nothing," Dav rumbles. "Least of all when Colin's right."
"Upper Canada ismine. I inherited it, andyoucontinue to hold territory within its bounds atmypleasure. You serve underme,"Simcoe snarls. His tongue is suddenly long and lashing, tail thrashing behind him, face slowly growing longer with every word. It's terrifying, this uncanny version of him.
And then he does theunthinkable.
Five things happen at once.
One: Simcoe leaps across the room and grabs me by the neck. Skin on skin.
