No one had heard, so far as he could see.
Arlian struggled against the crowd—people were backing away in fear and confusion as Madam Ril lay motionless and bleeding on the street and wisps of smoke began to trickle from the brothel doorway.
The coach started moving, and Arlian stared, torn.
He had to stop the coach and get at Lord Dragon, he had to rescue Sweet and Dove, he had to avenge his family and all the other innocents, and even Madam Ril—monster though she was, how could Lord Dragon cut her down in broad daylight, before a hundred witnesses, and expect to get away with it?
But he had to get into the brothel, he had to find the other women.
By the time he fought free of the crowd’s press the coach was fifty yards away and picking up speed, and smoke was bleeding from the brothel in a dozen places. The town guard who had helped start the fire was standing in the doorway, his short sword drawn.
Arlian hurried up to him and then stopped dead as the guardsman raised his ugly blade.
“Where do you think you’re going, my lord?” he demanded.
“I … I thought there might be someone still inside,” he said. “I thought I heard voices.”
“You didn’t hear voices, my lord, and we’ll have no looting here. You did hear the owner ordered it burned.”
“But really, I thought … you’re sure there’s no one inside?”
“No one alive,” the guard replied. “There are four dead slaves, with their throats cut, just like this one.” He gestured at Madam Ril.
“Oh,” Arlian said, stepping back.
The coach was too far away to catch now—and if he had caught it, what would he do? He was alone and unarmed, and Lord Dragon and the guard had swords and clearly weren’t afraid to use them. Sweet and Dove might help, but …
No, it was hopeless.
But there would come another time, he swore to himself—he and Lord Dragon would meet a third time, and Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes.
For now, though—could the guard be sure the other four women were dead?
“Excuse me,” Arlian said, pushing his way back out through the crowd.
A few minutes later he had slipped into the stableyard, just as he had months before.
This time, though, smoke was billowing from the eaves and the windows were blackened, showing occasional flickers of bright orange where the glass was not yet completely obscured. Arlian dropped his bundle, then found a cast-off horseshoe and heaved it at a window.
The glass shattered and flame puffed out.
Arlian broke another, and this time only a swirl of thin gray smoke emerged; he positioned the barrel beneath that one, ran, and jumped. A moment later he was inside, holding his blouse over his mouth as he struggled to see through the smoke.
The room he had entered had been partially stripped—bedcurtains gone, furniture overturned. Smoke was a thick haze, but no flames were visible.
The corridor beyond was like a glimpse into the crater—smoke rolling across the ceiling, flames licking the walls and spilling under the doors, horribly reminiscent of the scene in the pantry of his childhood home as the dragons burned Obsidian. Pushing the memories aside and crouching to stay below the smoke, Arlian hurried to check each bedroom.
He found the first corpse in the second room he checked—Silk, one of the oldest of the women. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear, and she lay in a dried circle of her own blackened blood.
The third room was empty, and he could go no farther down the passage; the rest of the second floor was awash in flame. He turned and made a quick dash up the stairs to the third, where he found one more body.
Rose lay across her bed, naked head flung back, hair dragging on the floor, blood still trickling down her chin.
And the smoke and flame were thickening rapidly; he fled down the stairs and escaped, climbing back out the window and dropping to the barrelhead. The other two were surely beyond hope, as well.
Coughing and weeping, he jumped to the ground, found his bundle and stumbled away, bound for the Blood of the Grape.
15
At the Caravansary
Arlian frowned as he looked down at himself. He had put on his fine silk-faced coat, as the day had turned chilly, and that looked as elegant as he might ask, but underneath the coat his blouse was soaked in sweat and streaked with smoke, and his breeches were no better. His new slippers were scuffed. The canvas wrapping on his bundle of possessions, which he had not taken into the burning building, was cleaner than most of his garments, despite having been smeared with mud when he first fled.
He needed to take better care of his clothes, obviously.
He also needed to get more of them. This whorehouse finery was all very well, but not really suited to an active life, and he seemed destined to lead an active life.
He really did need to find employment—or some other source of money. He wished that amethysts really were precious—months ago he had shown one of his larger ones to Sparkle, the brothel’s resident self-taught expert on gemstones, who had declared it lovely but worthless.
At least in the Lands of Man; in distant, possibly mythical Arithei, who could say?
Lord Kuruvan’s gold, on the other hand, would be good anywhere, and Arlian no longer had any compunctions about taking it. Lord Kuruvan had been one of the owners of the House of Carnal Society; that undoubtedly meant he had been in one those coaches, and had carried away two of the women …
But not Rose. He had left Rose lying there with her throat cut.
Perhaps he had had her killed because he had told her where his money was hidden; perhaps he had simply tired of her, or liked the other two better.
Or perhaps Rose had been killed because she had hidden Arlian in the attic above her room, and Kuruvan had had no say in it.
It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, Rose was dead, and Lord Kuruvan was an accomplice in her murder.
Arlian intended to collect a blood-price, if he could—if Lord Kuruvan had not thought better of his hiding place and moved the money elsewhere. Taking that money would be a start on avenging Rose.
And there were a dozen women to be rescued, as well—Sweet among them. Arlian was determined to find and free them all—someday. He had no idea where they had been taken; the coaches had left no trails he could see. They were still alive somewhere, though, most probably in Manfort, and in time he would find them and rescue them. The thought of Sweet in Lord Dragon’s possession, forced to obey his every whim, haunted Arlian; somehow the idea of a single master abusing her was even worse than the casual mistreatment she had received from so many in Westguard.
Kuruvan’s gold might be enough to buy the women free. If possible, Arlian promised himself, he would do that, and see them all safe, before he pursued his revenge.
He would have revenge, though.
The dragons that had destroyed Obsidian needed to be punished, but they had been acting within their own nature; looting the ruins was simple greed, and understandable, if reprehensible; but Lord Dragon, Lord Kuruvan, and the others had killed those five women and destroyed the House of Carnal Society on little more than a whim, so far as Arlian could see. Such callousness was beyond his comprehension, and he could not permit it to go unchallenged. The mere thought of it set him trembling. Anything he could do to avenge that crime, anything, he would do. Stealing Lord Kuruvan’s gold, and perhaps using it to buy the women if he could find them, was all he could see a way to accomplish as yet, but he swore the day would come when he would do more, when he would see each of those six lords suffer for their evil.
If Lord Kuruvan’s gold financed that revenge, so much the better. Arlian just wished he had some clearer notion of how that revenge might be brought about. As he neared Manfort he grew ever more aware of the size of the place, and the difficulties he might face in locating and destroying his enemies there; he seemed to see guardsmen everywhere as he drew closer to the city, and was uncomfortably aware that even in his dete
riorating disguise as a lord he was still unarmed and untrained, with nothing to support him but his own wits and the guidance the women of the House of Carnal Society had given him.
That hardly seemed enough.
He looked up again as he rounded a bend in the road. Manfort was an immense presence ahead of him now—it was built on a hill, and he could see walls within walls rising up the slopes, a maze of buildings and fortifications, towers thrusting up here and there. A thousand plumes of smoke trailed up into the blue springtime sky, and he could make out, directly ahead of him but still a mile or two away, the tops of the great gray gates.
Closer at hand, though, was a square, a place where the road widened into a broad plaza paved with stone—and that plaza was crowded with a variety of wagons, men, women, and oxen. A babble of voices reached him.
He frowned. Who were all these people? What was this place?
Then between two of the taller wagons he caught sight of a sign at one side of the square—a board on which two crudely sketched green leaves, a black line for a stem, and a score of overlapping red circles represented a bunch of grapes, with red drops dripping from them.
The Blood of the Grape. This was the inn where Rose had said Lord Kuruvan hid his gold. The wagons and oxen were presumably owned by patrons of the inn.
Arlian tucked his bundle securely under one arm, raised his head, and marched forward.
The crowd seethed around him; surely it couldn’t always be like this here! Something special must be going on. He tried to catch the words of those he passed.
A driver was telling a woman to make sure their daughter stayed clear of certain individuals; two men lifting boxes from one open wagon to another were complaining about the weight of their burdens.
Here was a man in a black leather tunic seated in the driver’s place on one of the simplest of the closed-in wagons, talking to a guardsman who stood by the wheel; Arlian slowed his pace and strained to hear.
“… no, really! Do you want to spend the rest of your life rousting pickpockets and helping drunkards home and never get farther than Southwark or Westguard?”
“Well, if I spend my life that way it’s likely to be a good bit longer than yours,” the guardsman retorted. “Sooner or later you’ll get a bandit’s arrow in the neck, or bad water in your gut, or some ghastly foreign disease in your heart, and I’ll be safe at home by my own hearth while you cough out your life in some stinking desert.”
“Oh, I won’t deny there are a few hazards on the road,” the man in the wagon said, “but how many of your comrades have gotten a knife in the back while breaking up a brawl? Life’s a risk anywhere, man! Your own wife might go mad and slit your throat while you sleep.”
The guardsman snorted. “You’ll have to find your men somewhere else,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“So I see,” the man on the wagon said. “Well, if you know anyone with a soul more adventurous than your own, send them to me—I’ll feel better with a few more blades along.”
Arlian stopped dead and listened as the two men said farewells, and the guardsman ambled away.
This leather-clad person, whoever he was, was hiring men. Arlian might well need an income; he couldn’t be sure Kuruvan’s gold was still there. He hesitated, then turned and stepped up to the side of the wagon.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The man in black leather had been scanning the crowd, but now he turned around and looked Arlian in the eye. “Yes?” he said.
Arlian frowned, trying to phrase his question; the man in black leather mistook the reason for the frown and added, in a tone a real lord might have considered insolent, “My lord.”
Arlian heard the insolence, but he was hardly about to quarrel with it; he was no lord, not really, and this man was not someone he cared to antagonize. The eyes gazing at him were a cold gray-blue, set in a weathered, scarred face between hair pulled back in a tight knot and a beard trimmed unfashionably short. One of the man’s hands rested on the hilt of a sword that lay on the seat beside him; the other gripped the hilt of a dagger sheathed on his belt. The fellow appeared ready for anything—but those cold eyes were somehow not hostile; he was looking at Arlian with fair consideration. The youth had the impression that this was a man who really saw what he looked at and listened to what he heard, rather than perceiving what he expected to see and hear.
“I couldn’t help overhearing part of what you said to that guardsman,” Arlian said.
“My sympathies on your inability,” the man said, raising one corner of his mouth sardonically. “I sometimes think the gods erred in not providing a means to close our ears, as we close our eyes.”
Arlian managed a weak smile in return. “Am I correct in believing you are hiring men?”
The grip on the dagger-hilt loosened visibly.
“Not precisely,” the man said. “I am aware of someone who is, however.”
“Ah,” Arlian said. “And who would that be? I’d be grateful for whatever you might tell me of this matter.”
“Would you, indeed, my lord?”
Arlian nodded. “I’m a stranger here,” he said.
The man in black considered Arlian for a moment. “It is my understanding,” he said at last, “that the caravan master has budgeted for a dozen guards for this trip, and as yet has hired only eight, myself included. For my part, I don’t think a dozen any more than adequate and I’d be glad if he found more.”
At the word “caravan” understanding dawned upon Arlian; the confusion around him suddenly made sense, and old childhood dreams burst into renewed life. He remembered Grandsir’s tales of travel, and his own desire to emulate the old man.
“A caravan!” he said “Of course. And where does it go? What goods does it bear?”
“We go east, to the port city of Lorigol,” the man said. “As for what we carry, we carry whatever the investors choose to send—but I’d assume you’ll find bolts of cloth, jars of herbs, and the like in these wagons.” He took his hand off his dagger and waved in a gesture that took in most of the plaza.
Arlian nodded. “And you need more guards?”
“I’d say so,” the man said dryly.
“And … well…” Arlian wasn’t sure what to ask next, and the guard took pity on him.
“You’re thinking of signing on, then? Seeking adventure in the wide world?”
“Yes, exactly!” Arlian said, smiling. He had intended to go on into Manfort in pursuit of his vengeance and Sweet’s rescue, but now he suddenly found himself with an attractive alternative. He was still determined to free the surviving whores, still determined to find some way to strike at the dragons that had destroyed Obsidian, but he was young, he had time, and the world was large and he had seen so little of it. From his mountainside village he had seen the land spread out before him, but most of what he had seen since had been stone walls or a stuffy attic. To get away from his past for a time, to breathe fresh air and see new lands … that would be good for him, he knew it.
And he would make some money, learn more of life as a free man, give himself more of a grounding before he flung himself at his foes in his pursuit of vengeance.
Of course, it meant that the women would remain in captivity somewhat longer—but he had no way to find them, nor means to free them, in any event. Perhaps a few weeks with a caravan would give him time to plan and prepare.
“You’d be willing to serve as a mere guard?” the man in black asked, interrupting Arlian’s thoughts. “It’s hardly suitable work for a lord.”
“My holdings are greatly diminished,” Arlian improvised. “I must take what I can find.”
“Can you fight?”
“I can learn,” Arlian replied promptly.
“Have you your sword? We leave tomorrow at dawn, or as close as we can manage with this many wagons—there’s no time to fetch your great-grandfather’s blade from the family vaults in Blackwater, or wherever it might be.”
“I have no sword,” Ar
lian admitted.
“Ah. Then you aren’t fully a lord yet?”
“No.” Arlian could scarcely argue with that. His disguise, as he had feared, had a fatal flaw.
“Have you any armor, perhaps?”
“No,” Arlian said, seeing his dreams fleeing back into childhood fantasy. “Not so much as a penknife.”
The man did not dismiss him, as Arlian had expected; instead he stared at Arlian with those intense blue eyes for a moment. “Could you use a sword if you had one?” he asked.
Perhaps there was hope after all. “I could learn,” Arlian insisted.
“My lord,” the man said, “If you want to learn swordsmanship, there are schools and tutors—signing on as a caravan guard is not the easiest way. Hasn’t your father offered to have you taught?”
“My father is long dead,” Arlian said.
“He left you no sword?”
Arlian shook his head. “It’s lost.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead as well—and my brother with her.” That much was true—and if the man assumed that the family’s sword had been lost in the same catastrophe, Arlian would not disabuse him of the idea.
“And the family business?”
“Gone as well.”
“I begin to understand,” the man in black said. “Nothing left but your pride, eh, my lord?” The mockery that had been in his voice whenever he spoke the title before had been replaced by pity.
“A little more than that,” Arlian said defensively, remembering Kuruvan’s cache. “I believe I can buy a sword and armor—and pay you to teach me their use.”
“What makes you think I know enough to teach anyone?”
“You didn’t get those scars on your face from a woman’s fingernails,” Arlian said.
The man in black laughed. “No, those scars are on my back,” he agreed.
“And I heard what you told that townsman,” Arlian continued. “If you have so little fear of bandits, then you must have confidence in your own skill, and you don’t look like someone easily deluded, even by himself.”
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