He could not think who might have done so; he had not spoken freely of his intentions. Some of the servants might know, but he knew how rarely the lords and ladies of the Dragon Society listened to their household employees.
He had told Toribor that the caravan sought dragon-fighting magic—had Belly told the wrong person, perhaps?
It was possible. Anything was possible. He would probably never know whether Cork Tree had been deliberately targeted with the caravan in mind.
He would know, sooner or later, whether the caravan had survived, though.
Just then someone knocked on the door of the salon.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened and Black stepped in.
Arlian leapt up from his chair, his despondency vanished, a grin stretching from ear to ear. "Beron!" he said. "You've returned safely!"
"Ari," Black acknowledged, somewhat less enthusi-astically. "Yes, I'm home."
Arlian embraced him, then stepped back, studying his face. Blade's expression was weary and somber, his beard untrimmed, a few strands of hair escaping the tight knot at the back of his neck.
"Was it very bad?" Arlian asked.
"Bad enough," Black replied. "And my homecom-ing hasn't been what I might have hoped for."
Arlian glanced at the shutters, just as a heavy object thumped against them—mud, by the sound of it, rather than a stone.
"They blame me for the dragons' depredations," Arlian said. "Lady Pulzera and Lady Opal and Lord Hardior have been spreading lies."
"Hm," Black said noncommittally.
"Did any of them trouble you?" Arlian asked, concerned.
"I came in the postern, and they took me for a servant," Black explained. "No one troubles servants over such matters—except, of course, that someone has to repair the damage and clean off the stains, and it's not the lord and master who dirties his hands."
"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better welcome,"
Arlian said. "Have you eaten? Have you had anything to drink?" He reached for the doorknob.
"I had a bite when I came in," Black said. "And I left my charges in the kitchens, eating."
"Survivors? The two fishermen?" Arlian opened the door wide, and the two men left the salon and turned their steps toward the kitchens.
"Five fisherfolk," Black said. 'Two from Kirial's Rocks and three from Tiapol."
"And are they ..."
"Dragonhearts?" Black said. "Three of the five, I believe." He glanced sideways at Arlian. "Do you intend to kill them? I could have done that easily, if that's what you had in mind."
Arlian shook his head. "No," he said. "Primarily, I want to know who and where they are. I want to talk to them, help them find new lives—and let them know what awaits them. Perhaps eventually it will become necessary to kill them, but I am in no hurry to put more innocent blood on my hands, and I can still hope to find some alternative in the coming centuries."
"Centuries," Black said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
Arlian thought better of replying, and the two men said no more before reaching the kitchens.
There Black introduced Lord Obsidian to his new guests—Splash and his father, Rope, of Kirial's Rocks, and from Hapol a man called Shell-Edge, his wife, Demdva, and her brother Dinan. All were tired and dirty, wearing clothes little better than rags; they had lost most of their possessions when their homes were destroyed, and Arlian had not thought to provide Black with sufficient funds to compensate for that.
Rope, Demdva, and Dinan believed they had swallowed Wood and venom in the chaos of sinking, burning boats; Splash and Shell-Edge had not. That certain something, that forcefulness that was the heart of the dragon, was not really discernable yet in any of them, but after all, they had only drunk the elixir a few weeks ago, Arlian thought, and it took time for the contagion to do its work.
Demdva had lost her right hand, trapped and crushed in twisting debris as her family's boat came apart around her, smashed beneath a dragon's claws—
but the stump had healed quickly, without infection.
That loss had provided the blood necessary for the elixir, spurting on herself and her brother; Shell-Edge had been at the far end of the boat, trying to keep the little craft steady, and he was still whole. Demdva and Dinan both bore half-healed venom burns on their faces and arms—burns that Arlian knew would never heal completely, any more than would the scar on his own cheek.
Splash had lost the skin of one hand when a rope tore from his grasp, an injury that might well have healed cleanly if not for the venom that later fell in the torn flesh. His father had already fallen overboard by then, clear of the fray, and it was when Splash followed and put an arm around Rope's neck to help him to shore that the older man swallowed the blood and venom from his son's wound.
"I told them you would pay well for their story,"
Black said.
"As I shall," Arlian promptly agreed. "Enough to make a fresh start, in Manfort or on the coast, as they choose."
His guests were visibly relieved by these words, and Demdva, emboldened, asked, "My lord, why were those people outside shouting and throwing things?"
She spoke with a broad accent Arlian did not recall hearing before.
"They believe I am responsible for the dragons' attacks," Arlian explained.
The five exchanged glances, and Rope asked, "Are your
"I don't think so," Arlian said. "And if I did in some measure contribute inadvertently, still, is it not the dragons themselves that deserve whatever blame there may be? They chose to destroy your homes; I certainly did not desire anything of the sort."
"Are we safe here?" Shell-Edge asked. "What if that mob outside sets this place aflame?"
Arlian started to say that Manfort had been built to withstand flame, but then he remembered what Rime had said, and looked around at the room in which they sat. The great hearth and ovens were of stone, with black iron fittings, but the doors and doorposts were of wood, and elsewhere much of the Old Palace and its furnishings were wood and plaster and cloth.
"If it worries you," he said, "I have another house you can use, a stone one."
"The Grey House still hasn't sold?" Black asked.
Arlian gestured at the window. "I suspect the potential buyers are hoping to acquire it more cheaply at an estate auction. I hope to disappoint them." He turned back to his guests. "In the meantime, though, surely you can risk one night here, to tell me of your adventures?"
They agreed to one night, and Arlian listened intently to everything they could remember of the dragons' actions. He took careful note of how low the dragons flew when attacking, how they sometimes landed and approached on foot to strike more easily at walls and doors, rather than rooftops—that would clearly be the time to strike at diem, as they strode toward their targets.
He said as much to Black, after their guests had retired for the night. "That's the sort of thing I wanted to know when I sent you east."
"Killing a dragon with a spear still does not strike me as an easy task," Black remarked. "It requires getting much too close for comfort."
Well unless the Aritheians find some suitable magic, I can't very well hope to kill them from a distance," Arlian said. "An arrow, even one with an obsidian head, would never reach a dragon's heart."
"Not unless it was a very big arrow," Black said, smiling wryly.
Arlian laughed, but then stopped.
A very big arrow, as big as a spear, or even larger... why not? An ordinary archer could never loose an arrow long enough to pierce a dragon to the heart, but perhaps something could be constructed. An ordinary man could never lift a bucket the size of the ore hopper in the mine, but with pulleys and ropes and mules that hopper was lifted twice every day—or at least, it had been until he freed the slaves who filled it.
Aiming such a giant arrow-throwing device would be difficult, of course, and it wouldn't be something he could take with him into the dragon's caves, but still...
He foun
d himself wondering why he had not thought of this sooner.
In the morning Arlian escorted the fisherfolk to the Grey House and saw them settled comfortably into their new residence. He arranged for some of Enziet's furnishings to be returned to their former places, and took the opportunity to talk with Ferrezin about various matters, as well.
It was late evening when he finally returned to the Old Palace to find that the front gate had been smashed down. The crowd that had haunted the street for weeks was gone, the entire vicinity apparently deserted.
Horrified, he ran to the door and knocked loudly.
When the door did not open at once he feared the worst, but after a moment Venlin admitted him, his face ashen—and a spear in his hand, the long obsidian head gleaming in the lamplight. The shutters had hidden the light, so that Arlian had not seen it before the door opened.
He had also not seen that the door's lock was broken, the door and frame splintered several places; to open it Venlin had had to remove a hastily erected barricade.
"My lord," the footman said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Arlian said. "What happened?"
"Word of another village destroyed," Venlin said.
"The mob went mad when they heard, and broke through the gates and stormed the house. I had feared the worst and armed the staff, so that when they broke in the door we were ready. They might have fought us, even so, but we told them you were not at home, and they turned aside."
"Where did they go?" Arlian asked. "They didn't come to the Grey House."
"No," Venlin said. "But I'm afraid they found the garden. I'm surprised they didn't break in die windows there—we couldn't have held them all off if they had."
"The garden?" Arlian turned his steps toward the gallery.
A few moments later he made his way carefully through the wreckage, Venlin at his side with the lamp held high.
The mob had torn up the vines, trampled the herb garden into the dirt, and snapped die branches of a dozen carefully cultivated trees. Flowers had been ripped apart and scattered everywhere. The paths were Arlian looked around in silent astonishment. Why would anyone have done this?
"Was anyone hurt?" he asked.
"I don't think so," Venlin said.
Just then Arlian came to the gravesite, where Sweet and Dove had been buried side by side, their graves marked by white stones at the corners. Arlian had never known their true names, so the stones were blank save for one that bore Sweet's epitaph, "She was loved."
That stone was gone, and a hole had been dug in the center of Sweet's grave, a hole a foot or so deep and two feet across. Clearly, the marauders had deliberately defiled the site.
The hole was not empty, and the image of someone squatting there on Sweet's grave, breeches pulled down, laughing, came unbidden into Arlian's mind. He stared down at the foul mess and said, "I'm sorry, Sweet."
Then he could no longer speak, and he turned away.
The bright side to the whole affair—though it was no brighter than the overcast skies of the hideously prolonged dragon weather—was that the mob had apparently spent its wrath, and no more stones were thrown, no more attacks made, for the next few weeks.
During this period of peace Arlian had the damage to the Old Palace repaired, and also began preparing plans and conducting experiments in his pursuit of a device that could fling a spear into a dragon's heart.
And during that time the long drought finally broke—cold rain drenched the streets and buildings of Manfort, washing away the traces of mud that had not already been cleaned from the walls and paths. The summer, the dragon weather, and the dragons' attacks were ail at an end for the year.
Ail in all, the dragons had destroyed five towns—
Kirial's Rocks, Tiapol, Cork Tree, Shardin, and Black-water. Almost a thousand innocents had perished.
It all appeared to be done, though, and Arlian thought the winter would be a time of healing, a time when he might reconcile Manfort to his presence, when the city's people might realize that he was not responsible for what the dragons did.
Then he made the mistake of not merely replacing a broken window, but leaving the shutters open, and again a stone flew.
As he and Black inspected the damage, feeling the cool autumn breeze blowing through the broken glass, Arlian said, "I wish there were a single foe I could strike down, rather than this great nameless mob."
"There are names," Black said.
"Oh, of course there are," Arlian said, "but I can no longer be certain which name belongs on which side.
Consider Lord Toribor, whom I swore to kill—he and I are now in agreement on everything of any importance. And Lord Hardior, whom I once thought my best ally against the dragons, conspires to see me discredited or dead. I don't know who my enemies are."
"Well, those fools throwing stones are clearly not your friends. Lady Opal incites them; you could deal with her."
"And that would give Lord Hardior an excuse to send the Duke's guards to fetch me to trial," Arlian said. "And Lady Pulzera would use it as proof of my perfidy. If I strike at one human enemy, it will only strengthen the others. I need to destroy the roots from which this tree grows."
"And what roots are those?"
"The dragons, of course. I need to kill the dragons.
If I could kill even one, it would prove me to most of the city."
Black stared at him silently for a moment, then turned away without another word.
The winter was cold and hard. Stores were low because of the extended drought. No one was inclined to wander the streets unnecessarily.
This undoubtedly saved the Old Palace from further indignities.
The fisherfolk lived in the Grey House, but were not happy; the city was strange to them, a harsh and alien environment where they never felt welcome, despite Arlian's best efforts. The first snow had not yet fallen when Arlian reluctantly agreed to send them back to the coast and buy them two fine new fishing boats in exchange for their promise to remain always where he could find them.
Snow had not fallen, but the weather was unsettled, and the journey east a long one. It was decided that they should wait until spring before departing.
While they waited Arlian found work for them, using their knowledge of nets and rigging and boatbuild-ing to help guide the construction of his experimental weapons, the spear-throwing devices he hoped to turn against the dragons.
He let them know that their experience with the dragons might have changed them forever, but he did not call them dragonhearts, nor did he tell them that the Dragon Society existed, or that they might be eligi-ble to join such an organization.
For his own part, Arlian discovered, well after the Society's decision had been made, that he was no longer welcome in the Dragon Society's hall; when he did finally venture thither he was turned away by Lord Door.
"The rules have changed," Door said. "You have no place here, by command of Lord Shatter."
Startled, he spoke to Rime and Toribor—and found that they, too, had been shut out. The Dragon Society no longer welcomed every dragonheart.
This seemed a fundamental change in the Society's very reason for existence. Curious, Arlian attempted to contact Lord Voriam, to learn whether he, too, had been banned, and instead learned, some four days after the fact, that Lord Voriam had hanged himself.
The Dragon Society, it appeared, had re-formed itself around the leadership of Shatter, Hardior, and Pulzera.
Re-formed itself to what purpose, Arlian was not sure—but he feared it was to serve the dragons, rather than oppose them.
He still had a few friends among the dragonhearts—
Rime and Toribor, and oddly, Spider and Shard; he had scarcely known Spider and Shard before the breaking of the Society, but now he encountered them every so often in the streets, or when visiting Rime, and spoke warmly with them.
By the time the weather began to warm again, and the snow on the palace roof began to melt, Arlian realized that this new fr
iendship was because the five of them were the only dragonhearts still excluded from the Society. Voriam's death had destroyed the little faction that had believed Arlian was fated to lead them in defeating the dragons, and the survivors had fled back to the larger group. Toribor's party, which continued to oppose any peace with the dragons but held no special place for Arlian, had dwindled down to just three members: Spider, Shard, and Toribor.
All the others, some thirty-two dragonhearts, had eventually acquiesced to Pulzera's arguments that their own survival meant siding with the dragons in the current conflict.
Arlian was disgusted, but he took little time to concern himself with the matter; he was instead spending as much time as he could spare from the everyday matters of household and business to work on his machines.
Since the scale of these devices made it impossible to keep his activities hidden, Arlian was careful never to use any obsidian in any of his tests; the obsidian weapons stayed safely out of sight, and his various machines were all tested with simple wooden poles.
The Duke had never forbidden him the making of weapons, after all—only obsidian weapons. If His Grace had any objection to these new devices, Arlian was sure he would hear of it soon enough, and until he did hear, he intended to continue his experimentation.
The most promising approach seemed to be to use massive counterweights to swing a long wooden arm, which would then slam against a padded crossbar, releasing a spear—or several spears, as Rope pointed out that fishermen often used more than one line when trawling, and Black pointed out that the vagaries of aiming arrows over a distance were traditionally compensated by using a volley, rather than a single shaft—
from the arm's outer end. Such a mechanism could fling half a dozen eight-foot spears for several hundred yards with very satisfactory force.
Unfortunately, the first working model was huge, lowering some three stories high. Arlian could not see any practical way to transport it swiftly from one place to another to meet an attacking dragon. He had it mounted on wheels, but it would require a large team of oxen to move it from Manfort to whatever town might be threatened, and the journey would take several days.
The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 35