Dewan nodded. There had been far more than gold in it, but he doubted that Gemmel meant silks or costly perfumes or any of the other things he, Dewan ar Korentin, would have thought worth guarding.
“Then you’ll know that anyone not sent there with instructions would steal whatever took their fancy.”
He got another nod. Dewan could remember his own hands, and those of Tehal Kyrin, reaching out to touch, to hold, to lift, perhaps to take. Only Aldric’s warning cry had stopped them, and what happened later to the pirate Skawmour and his crew showed the consequences of attempted theft. He didn’t ask how or why Ymareth the dragon was made; he would neither understand nor want to. Dewan had heard enough already.
“What can a person do,” Gemmel said, half to himself, “about a thing where the mere thought of it in the wrong hands is a nightmare?”
“Keep it secret?”
“Few things stay secret for long. And throughout history, the greatest secrets have been weapons. Ways to kill, not ways to cure.” Gemmel gazed for a long time into the dance of flames, as if reading that history in the shift of embers and the crawl of sparks. Then he looked up again. “The Albans place great store by honour. You’re not Alban, not even by marriage, so what I say to you I could never say to Aldric. Having a strong sense of honour is gives power to keep something secure, whether it’s of great value like an oath, a promise, or just a piece of gossip confided in trust. That power can be turned outwards, and can become a potential for skill in the Art Magic. Yet to the Albans, magic is no part of an honourable character…”
“So that’s why he could use your magic against Duergar,” muttered Dewan. “And why he was sent to play this dirty game with the Empire. His status can get no lower, while Rynert stands off to one side and keeps his own hands clean.”
“Yes. Aldric’s ability is because of what Rynert calls honour, not because he has a lack of it.”
“And Ymareth recognises that.” Dewan said, then regretted it.
“Yes,” the wizard said. All the old bitterness was back. “The intelligence I placed in Ymareth is one that values honour more than authority. Not me as Maker, but what I was then. Not now.”
“At least you can still laugh.” Dewan left the rest of the proverb incomplete. No one should laugh until they know how to cry. And he had caught how Gemmel’s eyes glittered in the firelight.
“Yes,” said Gemmel, “I know how to laugh. But far too often it’s at the foolishness of humankind.” Dewan felt a little shiver inside him at that odd choice of words. “Or at my own cleverness. I was so very clever, so cunning, to use the king’s desires for my own ends. Remember those messages I locked into Aldric’s head before he left Cerdor for the Empire? Support, and aid, and all the other things. Well, they weren’t alone. I put something there for myself.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be telling me this,” Dewan said nervously.
“Maybe I should. Call it practice for when I summon up the courage to tell Aldric. You saw the Grand Warlord when you served with the Bodyguard in Drakkesborg, yes?”
“Yes, many times.”
“Close enough to see him well?”
“Yes, but what has that to do with—?”
“Patience. Listen. Learn. He wears different uniforms for different purposes, but one thing never changes – a single piece of regalia he keeps closer than an Alban keeps his tsepan.”
“En-Veyaltan Woydachul…” The Drusalan words came out on an exhalation of breath, seen as much as heard.
“The Warlord’s Jewel. Where does Etzel wear it?”
“At his throat, as centrepiece for whatever collar of office he wears. But why ask? You’ve seen it yourself.” Dewan stared harder. “Haven’t you?”
“Not for a long time, and never as a piece of jewellery. But I’ll describe it, you can tell me if I’m right, and then I’ll tell you what it really is.”
“What it really is?” Dewan’s voice was oddly calm. After what Gemmel had said about Ymareth, learning that the Warlord’s Jewel had a secret came as no surprise.
“Oh yes. Because it’s not a gemstone, and never was. It’s a million times more valuable than that. At least to me.” Gemmel’s hands sketched a quick outline on the air. “Oblong, a palm’s length and width and a finger’s thickness. Crystal clear, tinted by the green block at its core and the golden webs surrounding it. Three edges encrusted with gold studs like sunken beads. And cold enough to take the skin off an unwary hand.”
“Gemmel, you must have seen it. That’s exactly what the Jewel looks like. But you forgot the frame.”
“Frame?”
“Gold filigree with embedded emeralds. The Jewel’s mounted in it.”
“Of course. It would have to be, because of the cold.”
“But you say it’s not a gemstone at all. Then what is it?”
“It’s…” Gemmel hesitated, reluctant to take the final step. “It’s what Ernol was carrying. What I lost when he died. And what Aldric will try to steal for me.”
“Steal the Jewel?”
“That was the last message I locked into his mind, because I thought he would be in no real danger. Then everything went wrong at Seghar, and the killing started. Even after that I thought he would have been all right, because he would come back to Alba rather than take further risks with a venture gone sour.”
“Until Rynert handed him over.”
“To prove support for the Emperor against the Warlord. What better way than giving up an important vassal? They weren’t to know Rynert placed no value on Clan-Lord Talvalin, but because we knew it he sent a troop of cavalry to silence us. And now if my message comes out with the others, my son will be killed all over again!”
“Not if we can reach him first. That’s why we came here, Gemmel. But you said you would tell me the Jewel’s real function, and you haven’t yet. What does it do?”
“It’s a control mechanism. A key to a gateway which will let me… It’s my road home.”
“Home?”
“You know, or at least you guess. Aldric does, and you’ve spoken to him. Because when I confirmed my hold under the mountains, you said ‘beneath Thunderpeak.’ I hadn’t mentioned that name, Dewan, not even once. Meneth Taran has had something of a reputation for years now, and Aldric must have told you what he saw there. Didn’t he?”
“He said the mountain was hollow, yet filled with lights. And he could sense so much power that the air sang with it. But there was something else.” Dewan’s voice faded into silence, and he stared at the fire as though hoping for inspiration before raising his eyes to Gemmel’s face. The old man’s expression hadn’t altered by even the flicker of a muscle. It remained as neutral as an unwritten page, not prompting, not pressing for a reply, just waiting.
“Aldric said he believed the thing beneath the mountain was a fortress tower at first. Now he’s not so sure. He said… He thinks it’s a ship.”
“He’s right. It is a ship, one which long ago could sail the cold dark seas between the stars. You heard what I told the dragon, Dewan. When Ernol died I was left alone. I’m still alone. And very far from home.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aldric stopped smiling as the taproom door closed behind him. He didn’t feel like smiling at all and when he raised his right hand and held it in front of his nose, he could see a tremor in the fingertips. It was stupid to provoke a man like Voord, but just as stupid to let him believe everyone was ignorant of his private dealings. Sinking that pin had been satisfying, but it had brought on a reaction as bad as any in these past few tense days. What days they had been, with a burning building, an abduction halfway between seduction and rape, a killing, a kidnapping and a meeting with a firedrake. Yet he could sense a corruption about Voord that made him worst of all…
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door; not to eavesdrop, though the conversation he had primed and left behind him would be well worth hearing, but to let the hammer of his heart drop to something like its normal rate.
There would be no eavesdropping through that door anyway. It was oak planking three fingers thick, and hadn’t even shifted in its frame under his full weight.
He glanced at the long black and silver rank-robe draped across his arm. Bruda was right; it was too creased for wear by anyone of presumed high rank and self-esteem. Not that Aldric cared about the self-esteem of the Imperial military, but if looking slovenly gave the lie to his pretence, it was better to follow orders. He stopped off at the doorway to the servants’ hall and handed the garment over with a few terse words of instruction, then went to his own room for something far more useful.
Ymareth had called it the Eye of the Dragon, he knew it as the Stone of Echainon, but wrapped in its covering of fine white buckskin it was a blindfolded eye. Aldric bounced the spellstone once or twice on his palm. Voord would have searched his gear or seen a detailed inventory of its contents, so he wondered why the crook-handed bastard hadn’t made a comment about it or just stolen it outright.
Then he pulled the buckskin away and realised that the stone wouldn’t have drawn notice from Voord any more than it had from Kathur the Vixen. Without the flaring luminescence at its heart it was no more than polished glass, rock-crystal if the viewer was generous, set in loops of polished steel as a luck-piece for the back of its owner’s hand. Elegant perhaps, inexpensive definitely, but sorcerous…? Never.
The smile returned to his mouth. He wanted to do more, to grin, to chuckle aloud, to shout with relieved laughter. But he did nothing of the sort, knowing it would provoke all the questions the stone’s innocent appearance had left unasked. As he fitted it to his left wrist and pulled up the cuff of a glove to cover it, Aldric glimpsed a single twisting thread of azure fire at the crystal’s core. It was as minute as a human hair, yet bright enough for that one instant to throw his shadow harsh and black behind him on the wall and ceiling.
Then everything was dark again, a darkness held at bay only by the shuttered oil-lamp hanging from its chains above his bed. But now it was a comfortable darkness, more comfortable than it had been this long, long time.
*
The snow was no longer falling when he stepped outside, and the sky had cleared enough for a faint scattering of stars to show, but the air had grown icy. Aldric wasn’t concerned. He wore boots, gloves and jerkin, and even the Drusalan overrobe was winter-weight with a hood and quilted lining. Dressed that way he could appreciate and almost enjoy the bite of crisp, clean cold. Even had it been damp and dismal he would barely have noticed at first, and after the first five minutes not at all, for that short time was enough for his brisk stride to take him from the tavern to Tower Square, and to the festival.
He had no interest in the eaters of fire or the eaters of swords, or the singers of songs and players of instruments; not even the jugglers and acrobats, though he gave them a thoughtful stare as he wondered once again which of them might be tulathin in disguise. It was the storymakers who drew him like a moth to a candle-flame. Aldric eased through the crowds towards them, and eased was right, for it involved no effort. The slightest pressure of his hand on arm or shoulder drew an immediate backward glance, and his rank-marked clothing did the rest.
He listened, fascinated, regretting he could spend so little time with each but hearing intriguing snippets as he moved to and fro, munching on a wheaten bannock stuffed with chopped grilled meat, raw onions, a mouth-puckering layer of pickled vegetables and a brick-red relish pungent enough to make his nose tingle. It tasted good and cost only a few coppers, yet the vendor’s ill-concealed surprise at getting any payment from a man in uniform had spoiled Aldric’s appetite until the first bite. After the second he realised he had better remove his gloves before relish, grease and gravy got all over them, and he kept a wary eye on the Echainon spellstone as he did so. But it remained clear crystal with a blemish inside it that caught the light when turned the right way, a male adornment that let its wearer claim his only flaw was there for all to see.
Each storymaker had a raised seat fronted with a semicircle of benches for their audience, and every bench was full. Beyond them stood the fringe of casual listeners, who had to concentrate if they wanted to hear every nuance of the story through competing phrases from half-a-dozen others. Only paying audiences sat near enough to avoid distraction.
“…though Dragons love gold they respect honour, because it can’t be alloyed or debased. It can be only true or false, so if your honour’s true then you’ll be safe…”
Aldric’s head jerked around, his smile vanishing. That seemed more than accident, more than a tale, because it was far too close to what Ymareth the firedrake had told him.
The speaker was easy to spot. She was a striking woman with a high-cheekboned face too severe for beauty, and she stood taller than Aldric. Since he lacked the typical Talvalin height that wasn’t such an achievement. Silver-white hair hung over her shoulder in a single braid wrapped about at intervals with ribbon and, though she wore everyday clothes, over them was a high-collared gown in wine-red velvet with elaborated patterns embroidered in copper wire. She was as dark as an Elherran and what with height, dress and demeanour, there was enough authority about her to command any of their merchant-ships.
Such as En Sohra in Master Barrankal’s absence, thought Aldric. A hint of smile returned. Or even in his presence, if he knows what’s good for him.
She had the voice for it too, ranging from loud and fierce to soft and tender, low and dramatic to high and humorous. Once in a while she consulted the book on her lap, but she told her tale instead of reading it and her audience heeded every word and even every pause from that remarkable voice.
“…‘But take warning from me, Farmer Kolvin. If this is a tale to make us all think well of you, beware, for the Dragon won’t be fooled. Are you a good husband to your wife, and a good master to your servants and your beasts, or do you beat and curse them?’
‘I would never do a thing like that!’ declared Kolvin, ‘and I defy anyone to say I would!’
‘When you go to market, do you give and take fair price for goods, or do you cheat and lie for your advantage?’
‘No one could trade like that for long in these parts,’ said Kolvin, ‘and if you keep talking this way, my friend, then wizard or not we’ll soon have an exchange of words you might not like.’
‘What would you take out of a burning house? Answer quickly!’
‘My family,’ said Kolvin at once, ‘for they’re the only wealth I can’t recover by hard work. But if I could, I’d take the fire out first.’
‘Well done, Farmer Kolvin,’ said the wizard. ‘You’ve got more true honour than our noble Prince, and more good sense than his whole council.’
‘If I had any good sense at all, I wouldn’t go talking to Dragons!’ said Kolvin and he laughed, though it was the laugh men laugh at the foot of the scaffold steps. ‘But if a thing needs done, be it harvesting or milking or something worse, then better do it soon than late. I’ll go to Dragon Castle right away.’ And off he went at a great pace, like a man trying to outrun his second thoughts, while all the others watched and wondered if they would ever see him alive again.
Kolvin was only halfway up the hill to Dragon Castle when three men in the Prince’s colours rode up to his farm. Their swords were drawn, and their eyes were fierce, and they said…”
The woman smiled and closed her book.
“Be here tomorrow at the hour of noon, and I’ll tell you what they said, and what happened once Farmer Kolvin met the Dragon, and all the things that followed after. Until then, my friends, good night.”
When the story ended like that, with new peril and drama unresolved, Aldric expected cries of outraged impatience. Instead there was a collective sigh of many held breaths released together, and applause as loud as any in feast-hall or theatre.
What he had first heard was a chance conjunction of her words and his mood, but as Aldric sent another thoughtful glance towards the storymaker he met her staring straight back. The bl
ack and silver rank-robe, like her own festival gown, wasn’t a garment to go unnoticed. With that he was committed to a conversation, however brief. Simply walking away after showing such interest would make her wonder why. He paid a nearby drink merchant for two redware mugs of the pale, frothy local beer and took them to the woman who spoke with such authority of dragons.
“Your mouth must be dry, lady,” he said in careful Drusalan, holding out one mug of beer. He got a moment’s scrutiny that examined him, his rank-robe and his gift, then with the merest ghost of a shrug she accepted the drink and took a healthy swallow. After a second or two she smiled.
“You’re right. Drier than usual.” The woman didn’t need to say that his uniform was the most likely cause. She bowed politely and Aldric almost echoed it before remembering his supposed character and snapping a half-salute instead. “Thank you, Commander…?”
“Dirac. En-Hanalth Dirac.” The Drusalan form of his name was common enough, but Aldric wasn’t about to give the Alban original to one whose business was remembering names, events and the stories that accompanied them.
“Ayan ker Trahan.” She raised the mug to him. “Thanks once again.”
They made an unlikely pair, a storymaker and an Imperial officer drinking beer together in a busy city square which might have been deserted for all the notice either gave the crowds. Aldric did most of the talking, edging his way between one topic and another like a cat on eggshells, keeping each question as vague as he could manage and still expect a useful answer. About dragons, about honour and, with rather more caution, about the forbidden Art Magic.
Ayan watched him every time he spoke, and the dusk-dilated stare from beneath her brows was far too shrewd for his peace of mind. Those steady eyes reminded him of Gemmel, and like Gemmel she seemed able to read beyond the outward meaning of his words and to study the unvoiced truths within.
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