The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And right now, that seemed unlikely.

  Everything seemed to be going wrong for him of late. He had had an extraordinary run of good fortune for a time, from the moment he saved Bloody Hand's life until the moment he slew the dragon that Enziet had become; he had risen from being a slave to being one of the wealthiest men in the world, and had found and defeated most of his foes. He had learned secrets that had been kept for centuries. Oh, there had certainly been setbacks and tragedies along the way, but in general, all had gone well for him. He had known what he wanted, and had worked steadily toward achieving it.

  Since his return to Manfort, though, events had slid out of his control. He had not expected Drisheen's assassin, had not anticipated Nail's death, had misjudged Wither's intentions, and now it appeared he had perhaps condemned himself to death by issuing a challenge he was unprepared to back up.

  If Fate had indeed abandoned him, and he was about to die, there were matters he did not want to leave unattended.

  "Listen," he said as he toweled the sweat from his neck, "you know I've named you my heir. I trust you to handle everything properly and see that the women are all treated well if I die today. However, I'd also like to be sure you will make at least some attempt to carry on my work, and make sure that the dragons' secrets do not remain secret, and that any attempt to restore their rule is resisted. I have told the Dragon Society what I know, but I am not convinced any of them have the stomach to carry on in my place. If the dragons come, I want the Duke's men to have obsidian weapons available. I do not want the Dragon Society to make some costly peace for the sake of their own lives. I do not want more dragons to be born and survive. I think you can trust Rime, and perhaps Shatter and Hardior and Door, but Lady Pulzera would rather see you dead and the dragons triumphant than give up any of her own privileges."

  "Are you asking me to take over your madness?"

  Arlian smiled crookedly.

  "I know better than that," he said. "You're far too sensible to waste your life in such a fashion. I'm merely asking you to stay alert, and to always know which side you're on—the side of humanity. The dragons may make promises, they may even fulfill some of them, but they remain a blot upon the face of the world, a blot that should be expunged."

  "I'm hardly likely to forget that," Black replied.

  "Of course," Arlian said. "But you may forget that appearances notwithstanding, the members of the Dragon Society, and anyone else with the heart of the dragon, are not truly human. They're part dragon, and they cannot be trusted in any conflict between human and dragon. Remember that. Don't be swayed by their words."

  "I'll remember," Black said quietly, with a sideways glance at Arlian.

  They ate a light luncheon, then separated. Arlian dressed quickly, choosing a blouse with loose shoulders that would not impede his arms, and wrapping a silk scarf around his throat despite the day's warmth, in hopes it might turn a thrust.

  When he arrived at the gate, sword and sword belt in hand, he found Black waiting beside the coach—and Brook and Kitten waiting inside. When he saw the women he glanced at Black.

  "Stammer is already walking down to the gate,"

  Black said, "and I believe a few of the other servants, as well. Hasty chose to stay behind with Vanniari—a baby has no business at such an affair. Lily wanted to come, but Musk couldn't bear the thought of possibly seeing you die and begged Lily to stay behind with her. Cricket couldn't make up her mind, and finally I told her there wouldn't be room in the coach."

  "Oh," Arlian said.

  He had not thought about how any of this might affect the others in his household; he had been far too concerned with himself and his own plans. Naturally, though, the women would take an interest in a threat to their host's life.

  Arlian looked at the two faces peering out the coach window at him, Kitten openly worried and Brook's expression unreadable. Riding down to the gate with those two sitting across from him was not an appealing prospect, but he had little choice; they could hardly be expected to walk, and he had no intention of tiring himself by walking, and to order them back into the Old Palace would be unkind.

  He sighed, climbed into the coach, and settled onto the bench with his sword across his lap. Black closed the door, and climbed up to the driver's seat.

  "Are you going to kill him this time?" Kitten asked, as the coach began to move.

  "I certainly hope so," Arlian said. "The alternative would be for him to kill me, and I can scarcely consider that a desirable outcome."

  "You can't just leave one another wounded?"

  "I don't think so," Arlian said. "I doubt Belly would stand for it I think it's time to settle the matter."

  Kitten nodded.

  "Just how good a swordsman is Lord Belly?" Brook asked. "The subject never came up during the time he owned me."

  Arlian hesitated. He could reassure them with false bravado, but would that be a kindness? Wouldn't it be better to tell them the truth and begin to prepare them for what was likely to happen?

  "Better than I," he said, 'though not by much."

  "You beat him once," Brook said. "In Cork Tree."

  "In the dark, taking advantage of his missing eye,"

  Arlian said. "He chose midday for a reason."

  "Then how do you expect to win?"

  Arlian shrugged, and Kitten glanced from him to Brook and back, her expression going from worried to frightened.

  "He wasn't particularly unkind to Cricket and me,"

  Brook said. "Couldn't you settle this short of death?"

  "He was one of the six who owned the House of Carnal Society," Arlian said, as much to himself as to Brook. "He let you all be maimed. He let Rose and Silk and Amber and Velvet be murdered. He helped Enziet flee." He wanted to work himself into a rage, to get his heart pumping, to give him the strength and speed and determination he would need.

  "But he didn't kill or maim anyone himself. He let Enziet tell him what to do, that's all—he's weak-willed, not evil. And you say he's a better swordsman than you—is it worth risking your life against him?"

  Arlian tried not to glare at her—she was undoing his efforts to prepare himself. "I think so," he said. "I tried to make peace once, and he refused. It's my life to risk, and I swore to avenge Rose and the others."

  Even now, years later, he remembered how he had last seen Rose—sprawled lifelessly across her bed, her throat cut at Enziet's command, in a room rapidly filling with smoke. Silk had lain on the floor a few rooms away, where she had been dropped in a pool of her own blood. He hadn't found Amber or Velvet, though they had died at the same time; the flame and smoke had been too thick to look further.

  He had sworn to avenge them, and rescue as many of the others as he could—which hadn't been enough.

  Enziet had later killed Dove, simply for his amusement, and had poisoned Sweet—and he was dead now, though whether it was truly Arlian who had killed him was debatable.

  Horim had killed Daub and Sandalwood when he grew bored with them, and Arlian had killed Horim.

  That had been fitting.

  Drisheen had hanged Sparkle and Ferret to spite Arlian, and Arlian had killed Drisheen, not in a duel, but simply murdering him in an inn in Cork Tree; that, too, had been fitting.

  Kuruvan hadn't harmed Hasty or Kitten, but Arlian had fought him anyway, wounding him in a duel; he had died of his wounds.

  Stiam had freed Lily and Musk when asked, and Arlian had allowed him to live out his few remaining days.

  That left just Toribor, who had freed Brook and Cricket only at swordpoint, and had opposed Arlian at every turn. He was not a monster on the order of Drisheen, but it was time to finish the matter, and today's combat would do that. Arlian hoped that if he survived this duel he would never again see that image of Rose's corpse.

  Apparently his expression, as he considered the matter, was forbidding; Brook looked at his face, then turned away and made no further argument.

  None of the party in the coach
spoke again for the remainder of the journey down through the

  winding city streets, and as they neared the gates Arlian rose and thrust his head out the window, ostensi-bly to study the situation but partly to forestall any renewed conversation.

  The gates were wide open, as always, and half a dozen of the Duke's guards were watching the coach's approach. The center of the plaza beyond the gate was clear, but the sides were lined with spectators, as they had been when he fought Lord Horim a year before.

  Most of these observers were strangers, merely people who had heard that two great lords were staging a duel, but Arlian spotted Stammer and Wolt and a few other familiar faces in the crowd.

  Several members of the Dragon Society were there, as well. As the coach passed through the gate Arlian noticed Zaner close by, leaning against a wall; Flute and Shatter were near him, while Spider and Shard stood together on the far side of the plaza.

  Neither Lady Rime nor Lord Hardior was anywhere in sight, which disappointed Arlian, He had hoped that Ae Duke's right-hand man would take an interest in this unpleasant business, and Rime . .. well, he had thought Rime would take an interest in his own fate.

  He wondered what business had kept her away.

  He was fighting this duel largely in an attempt to unify the Dragon Society, so that the dragonhearts would act together against the dragons; it did not bode well that two of the Society's most influential members were not present.

  Of course, Lady Pulzera's words might be a more significant wedge than his own dispute with Toribor.

  He wondered what more had been said in the Society's hall after he left the night before; had Pulzera been silenced, her ideas rejected?

  Arlian hoped so; otherwise, this entire duel might well be a waste of his time, and perhaps his life.

  Arlian tried to push that possibility out of his head as he looked around at the crowd, and saw that Toribor was already there, waiting; Arlian had not noticed him at first, but now the big bald man stepped out of the crowd into the open plaza.

  He had removed his eyepatch, revealing the ruined socket where his left eye had been burned out by dragon venom centuries before; he wore a blouse of a sort Arlian had never seen before except in old pictures, with sleeves that narrowed just above the elbow and stayed almost skintight from elbow to wrist.

  Those sleeves were clearly designed for dueling—a blade would never catch in those tight cuffs, but the looser upper portion would allow free arm movement, and the shoulders appeared to be padded, for added protection.

  The coach stopped, and Arlian opened the door before Black could reach the latch. He sprang out, pulled his sword and swordbreaker from their sheaths, then tossed the belt aside—he did not expect to have any use for it until this fight was over and done, and it would merely be in the way.

  He turned, both blades ready, and faced his opponent across the plaza.

  Toribor stood, waiting.

  Without taking his eyes off his foe, Arlian asked Black, "Any last-minute advice?"

  "Don't get killed," Black said.

  "I had worked that much out for myself," Arlian said.

  "He's still blind on his left side, then. Maybe you can use that."

  Arlian nodded.

  "Ari, one more thing..."

  Arlian waited, expecting some parting sentiment—

  gratitude or affection, perhaps. Instead, Black said,

  "There are archers on the ramparts."

  Startled, Arlian risked a glance at the city walls, and quickly saw that Black was right—there were half a dozen archers in the Duke of Manfort's livery posted atop the battlements, their weapons held ready but not aimed at anything in particular.

  "What are they up there for?" Arlian muttered.

  It occurred to him that these might be another of Drisheen's relics, but surely Drisheen had only had time to hire the two brothers, not this half-dozen—and would Drisheen's assassins dare to wear the Duke's uniforms? Men entitled to those uniforms might perhaps be hired as assassins, Arlian supposed, but would Drisheen have done that?

  Of course, there were other people who might hire assassins. Arlian had not thought anyone still lived who would resort to such measures to kill him, but perhaps he had misjudged Lady Opal, or Lord Zaner, or Lord Ticker, or some other person.

  Surely not Toribor, though. Arlian would never expect such treachery from Toribor.

  But the Duke's livery ... they were probably not assassins. The Duke would surely disapprove of his men acting in the pay of others while in his uniform, especially in so public a fashion.

  Of course, the Duke himself had the authority to order the death of anyone he chose—but what the Duke did not have, in Arlian's opinion, was the wit to involve himself in this affair. Perhaps Lord Hardior, as the Duke's chief adviser, had decided to take an interest in the outcome of the duel and given these men orders—but what orders, and what interest, and why?

  Who were the archers intended to kill, and under what circumstances? Why wasn't Lord Hardior anywhere to be seen?

  What had happened in the hall of the Dragon Society yesterday after Arlian left?

  He realized that he was letting his sword fall out of line, and decided he really didn't need this sort of distraction right now. He forced himself to ignore the archers and focus on his opponent.

  Toribor was still standing in the plaza, waiting. Arlian stepped forward warily, away from the coach.

  Toribor raised his sword to guard position, and Arlian brought his own blades up. The two men were still more than twenty feet apart, but Arlian knew they could close that distance in a heartbeat. He kept his gaze focused tightly on Toribor—but he couldn't help wondering who, if anyone, the archers were aiming at.

  Toribor had stayed at the meeting hall the day before, and presumably heard the entire discussion. He might know what Hardior was up to, and what had become of Lady Pulzera's obscene suggestions.

  "Satisfy my curiosity, my lord," Arlian said, as he stepped forward and to his right. He was now closer to Toribor than to any of the audience, and thought he could converse with his opponent without being overheard. "What did our comrades decide after my departure yesterday?"

  "Nothing," Toribor said, his tone disgusted, as he turned to keep his good eye toward Arlian. "They argue endlessly and get nothing done. They can't agree on anything. They have no leaders, thanks to you!"

  "You were there," Arlian said.

  "I have never claimed to be a leader, and I am scarcely senior enough to matter. I merely listened.

  Now, are we going to talk, or fight?"

  "Why not both?" Arlian asked, as he made a sudden feint to the left. Toribor scarcely bothered to react; his swordbreaker came up in a halfhearted block, but he had clearly recognized the feint for what it was.

  "What about Shatter?" Arlian asked, moving closer

  "He's senior."

  "Can't make up his mind."

  "And Hardior? I noticed the archers." He jerked his head toward the ramparts.

  "Archers?" Toribor's gaze did not waver. "Are there archers on the walls?"

  "In the Duke's livery," Arlian said.

  Toribor made a quick thrust, which Arlian easily turned aside.

  "I assume Hardior sent them," Arlian said after the blades had disengaged. "Would you know why?"

  "Hardior didn't say much after you left," Toribor said. "I have no idea what he has planned."

  "Then who did speak?" Arlian asked, lunging.

  Steel clashed, and for a moment both men were far too busy to say anything as they thrust and cut at one another. Toribor's sword blade slashed through Arlian's right sleeve, but no blood had been drawn when they separated again.

  "Pulzera spoke," Toribor said. "And Ticker wouldn't shut up. Rime and Spider—everyone had a few words, it seemed, but most of them might as well have saved their breath."

  "And nothing was decided?" The mention of Pulzera wait not encouraeine

  "Not by the time I left," Toribor replied.
"They were still chattering, but I needed my sleep before facing you." He made a quick little attack that Arlian took for a feint until it was almost too late; the tip of Toribor's sword missed his cheek by no more than an inch before Arlian's swordbreaker turned it aside. Arlian countered, but Toribor's swordbreaker was ready, and Arlian barely escaped seeing that shorter blade live up to its name.

  He was allowing himself to be distracted, Arlian thought. Talking was not a good idea after all; he could satisfy his curiosity later, if he lived through this. Even with Toribor dead, surely Rime would be able to tell him what had happened. He could attend to that later.

  First he had to live through the duel.

  Although the duel had only just begun it was already clear to both participants that despite his missing eye, despite the outcome of their previous nighttime meeting, Toribor in daylight was the more experienced, better-trained swordsman. Furthermore, he had kept up his skills better than had Arlian, which compensated for his heavier frame and greater age, factors that might have been expected to slow his responses. His reach was slightly less than Arlian's, but his sword slightly longer, so that there was no advantage to be had there.

  Arlian would need to find some stratagem, some device that would give him an edge, if he was to win this fight.

  There were no shadows to exploit, and Toribor had no old wounds other than his missing eye. There was nothing irregular about his style save the way he kept his bead turned to make up for his limited vision.

  While heavy and far from young, be was not weak or sick. Arlian had not noticed any weaknesses in his swordsmanship.

  He had to find something, though. Arlian ducked Toribor'

  and triesd thig

  a loh wit

  w h that approach

  attack—in Cork . Tree he had cut open

  This time he had his sword knocked roughly out of line by the swordbreaker, while Toribor's own sword came overhand for a slash at Arlian's shoulder, drawing the first blood.