Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Arlian noticed that the interpreter did not mention the House of Slihar by name, but he did not doubt that she was referring to them. Although he knew almost nothing of Aritheian society, it was easy enough to guess that the House of Slihar and the House of Deri had competed for control of trade with the Lands of Man, that the Slihar had been responsible for Hathet’s abduction, and that his disappearance had allowed them to dominate—for a time.

  “I merely did what seemed right,” Arlian said. “Hathet was kind to me when I needed kindness.”

  The tall woman said something without waiting for the translation—obviously, while she preferred to use the interpreter, she knew something of Arlian’s language.

  “Yet you came to Arithei to bring us this,” the interpreter said, gesturing at the amethysts.

  “I also came to Arithei to sell swords,” Arlian said. “And to buy goods to sell in the north. I have silver to pay.”

  The interpreter and the tall woman stared at him.

  “Swords?” Hathet’s sister said.

  “Silver?” the interpreter said.

  “That’s right,” Arlian said.

  “Silver cannot pass Tirikindaro,” the interpreter said.

  “No one stopped me,” Arlian said. “Tirikindaro was quiet when I passed.”

  “But…” The interpreter groped for words, then began again, speaking slowly. “Our ancestors fled from the dragons long ago and came to Arithei,” she said, “but later they found that they were trapped here by the magic that surrounds this place. We have remained here ever since. We live confined by the dreams, the wizards, the creatures that live in the mountains, unable to leave this one safe valley because we lack protections from the magic in the hills. We found iron, all the iron we needed, to build our ward-fences, but none of us had the knowledge of making steel for swords, and iron alone is not sufficient against the creatures in the mountains. We have found no silver anywhere, though we have looked. We had a few amethysts our ancestors had brought from the north; these were carried by our traders and ambassadors, but they have gradually been lost over time as their bearers fell to the other hazards around us—Hathet carried the last stone our House possessed, and no doubt some bandit gave it to his children to play with. The House of Slihar had three or four more stones that allowed them to send their ambassador, and their traders, for a few years after Hathet disappeared, but those, too, have now been lost. We were confined here, without hope.”

  She sighed, then said, “The people of the lands beyond the mountains did nothing to help us, but we do not fault them for this. We dared not tell them the secret of using amethysts to cross the Dreaming Mountains for fear of invasion, and they knew we had a secret we would not share. Mistrusting us in return, they would not sell us steel or silver.” She made a gesture of dismissal. “We do not blame them; we gave them no reason to trust us.”

  Arlian started to protest, then thought better of it. The interpreter continued, “For centuries we have resigned ourselves to living in isolation here, behind our iron walls, and of late we have even resigned ourselves to having no contact with the outside at all—and now you come here, unbidden, with all these precious things, and offer us the world!”

  The effusive gratitude that concluded the explanation made Arlian uncomfortable. “I owed Hathet a debt,” he said.

  Hathet’s sister reached out and put a hand on Arlian’s shoulder.

  “My friend,” she said slowly, “your words, and these stones, paid that debt many times over. If you have brought us silver and steel as well, you will be very rich.”

  27

  The Trade Delegation

  Black looked at his empty mug, debating whether to order another cup of wine. They watered it here, of course—these southerners always did—but even when he knew he was paying for as much water as wine, it was still far cheaper than decent beer in Sweetwater.

  He was tired of watered wine. He was tired of constant sunlight. He was tired of Sweetwater. He had been stranded here for months, and he was quite thoroughly tired of everything about it and eager to be moving again. He was completely recovered, his wounds healed and the infection long gone, but two of the caravans weren’t yet returned, and Lord Drens wasn’t about to head north until they were back.

  He could hardly cross the Desolation by himself, but he very much wished that those other two caravans would hurry up and arrive.

  The door of the inn opened, and Black turned at the sound—any interruption at all of the usual dull routine would be welcome.

  A figure was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun—a tall man in a broad-brimmed hat. He stepped in, and Black recognized him.

  “Ari!” he said.

  “Hello, Black,” Arlian said, smiling broadly. “Lord Drens said I’d find you here.”

  “Ari, it’s you!” Black repeated, as he got to his feet and started toward the new arrival.

  “I may not want to use that name anymore,” Arlian said. “I haven’t decided, but I think something more elegant may be appropriate.” Then he fell silent for a moment as the two men embraced. He clapped Black on the back as they separated.

  “They told me you’d headed across the Dreaming Mountains, bound for Arithei,” Black said.

  “I did,” Arlian said.

  “Alone, they said,” Black said.

  “That’s right.” Arlian grinned at him.

  Black grinned back. “You do realize the contradiction between this and your current presence here, still alive, don’t you?”

  Arlian smiled. “I made it to Arithei alone,” he said. “There’s no contradiction; I had protection you didn’t know about.” The smile twisted awry. “For that matter, I didn’t know about it, either.”

  “I see,” Black said. “And this mysterious protection also saw you safely back to Sweetwater? Or am I to understand otherwise from your phrasing?”

  “Oh, I had other protection on the way back,” Arlian said. He gestured toward the door.

  Black peered out into the sunlight and saw a dozen men and women, all dressed in strange, bright costumes, all wearing broad leather sword belts that looked out of place on the garish robes, and with glittering silver medallions on chains about their necks.

  “The Aritheian trade mission,” Arlian explained. “They escorted me back.”

  Black was well aware that there had been no trade with Arithei in a decade or so, but he had no reason to doubt Arlian. He had never seen an Aritheian, but he had no reason to think these strangers were anything else.

  “Of course,” he said. He stepped up to the door and looked out.

  Arlian’s familiar, battered wagon stood in the town square, just behind the Aritheians, but four more exotic wagons stood beyond it, each open-sided and roofed with red-dyed canvas stretched over a wooden frame, each drawn by a pair of fine horses. Another horse, a big black gelding, stood nearby, tied to a palm tree.

  All five wagons seemed somehow indistinct, and a trifle brighter and more colorful than they should be. Black had been in the Borderlands long enough to know what that meant.

  “Magic,” he said.

  “Quite a bit of it, yes,” Arlian said. “It’s what the Aritheians do best, and I think they were quite generous with me.”

  Black nodded. “You found a market for your weapons, then. Good for you, my lord.”

  “And a market for the silver, too. I brought the metal that made those pendants.”

  Black studied the nearest Aritheian’s necklace. A purple stone was set in it, he noticed. “Excellent.”

  Arlian glanced at the wagons. “Let me introduce you,” he said.

  “If you like,” Black said, as he followed Arlian out into the sun.

  The Aritheian names were strange, and Black doubted he would remember them all. The head of the Aritheian delegation was a thin, eagle-eyed man called Thirif, but a plump, smiling woman named Hlur was to serve as the new ambassador to Manfort.

  “I wasn’t aware a new ambas
sador was needed,” Black remarked.

  “Sahasin is…” Arlian began. He hesitated, then said, “Well, let us just say that I think a new ambassador will be needed.”

  Black did not ask for further explanation; he continued with the introductions. It became clear that only about half the Aritheians had even a smattering of Man’s Tongue, but all of them smiled and nodded and seemed pleased to be in the Lands of Man, and pleased to meet Black.

  The wagons were so full of magic that even standing near them made Black’s skin prickle; he could not resist looking in the open side of one at the bundles and boxes.

  Arlian noticed his glance.

  “That’s all prepared enchantments,” he said. “Thousands of them. Powders and potions and gems, decoctions of herbs and dreams in iron cages—all of them things unknown in the Lands of Man. I’ll have something to sell at every town on the road north, from Stonebreak to Benth-in-Tara, and should still have most of it left when we reach Manfort.”

  “Indeed,” Black said in a noncommittal tone.

  “The Aritheians tell me that even the greatest magician can’t make magic from nothing in Manfort,” Arlian said. “There’s something lacking in the air or earth. But they can bring these prepared magicks there to sell.”

  “Sorcerers seem to manage,” Black pointed out.

  Arlian waved that away. “The Aritheians don’t seem to consider our sorcery to be true magic,” he said. “They tell me that these are all spells that sorcerers can’t make.”

  “What sort of spells?”

  “Oh, any number of different ones,” Arlian said, as the two man strolled around the wagon, looking in at its contents. “Poisons and protections and aphrodisiacs, love philtres and enthrallments, illusions and glamours—I don’t know all of them myself. The House of Deri had been stockpiling them for twenty years against the day they found a way to reopen trade.”

  “And are all these yours to sell, then?”

  “Most of them,” Arlian admitted. “My old wagon and two of the others are mine; the other two belong to the House of Deri. Allies of mine.”

  “And these Aritheians who came with you?”

  “Well, Shibiel and Isein and Qulu work for me,” Arlian said. “The others are merely traveling with us. Thirif and Hlur and one or two of the others plan to join the caravan and accompany us to Manfort—after all, an ambassador would hardly be any use anywhere else. The rest have already had enough of adventure in getting this far, and prefer not to cross the Desolation—I can scarcely blame them for that! They’ll be staying here in the Borderlands, trading for the things Arithei lacks.”

  Black nodded. “Those first three you mentioned are your slaves, then? You bought them?”

  Arlian stopped dead, shocked. He turned to stare at Black.

  “No,” he said. “I would never own slaves. I have been a slave, and lived among slaves—I won’t hold another in bondage. These are free people in my employ.”

  “Employees?” Black said. “Then you are truly a lord now, and not merely playing the part.”

  “Yes,” Arlian agreed. “I am a lord. And I think,” he said, “that at last I’m ready.”

  Black looked at him inquiringly.

  “I’m a grown man now,” Arlian said. “I’m strong and whole, and have, you say, the heart of the dragon. I’ve learned the manners of a lord, and found the money to establish my claim to the title beyond question. You’ve taught me the basics of swordsmanship, and on the roads I’ve killed a man and a dozen monsters. The Aritheians have provided me with more magic than almost anyone else in Manfort could possess. I believe that in wits, courage, and capabilities I’m a match for most men.” He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  “The time has come,” he continued, “to return to Manfort and find Lord Dragon and his looters, and punish them for their wrongs. No more delays. The time has come to find Sweet and free her, and any of the other women who aided me who may yet survive, and to punish all the owners of the House of Carnal Society for their wrongs. And when that is all done it will be time to seek out the dragons in their caverns beneath the earth, the beasts who slew my family, and destroy them.”

  “Oh, is that all,” Black said. “Overthrow a dozen lords and wipe out the dragons—child’s play!”

  Arlian grinned at him.

  Black glowered back.

  For a moment the two of them stood silently by the wagon; Black turned to look over the boxes and bundles once more.

  He knew that even a simple love philtre was worth a dozen times its weight in gold, and here Arlian had three wagonloads of magic. The boy was not merely a lord, but a very wealthy lord indeed.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough. He turned back to his friend.

  “Have you ever considered giving up your career in the caravan trade?” Arlian asked.

  “Why?” Black asked warily.

  “Because a proper lord must have a household, of course, and I’ll need a bodyguard and steward. I value your counsel and your friendship, Black—I’d be pleased if you’d take the job.”

  Black stared at him silently for a moment.

  “You must think I’m a fool,” he said at last.

  “I’ll pay time and a fifth your present contract,” Arlian said.

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  “In gold?”

  “Of course.”

  “In that case, my lord,” Black said with a bow, “I am a fool. The moment my current contract is completed, I will be entirely at your service.”

  BOOK III

  Lord Obsidian

  28

  Rumors

  Coin looked up as the door flew open and the spring rain blew in. The man in the doorway was of moderate height, dark-haired, and clad in black leather.

  She closed the ledger and asked, “May I be of service?”

  “I understand you manage certain properties in the upper city,” the man in black said.

  “I do,” Coin acknowledged.

  “I represent Lord Obsidian,” the stranger said. “He has sent me ahead while he tends to certain other business in Westguard. He seeks suitable accommodations for an extended stay in Manfort.”

  “I might have a suite of rooms…” Coin began.

  The man in black smiled crookedly. “No, no,” he said. “Suitable accommodations for Lord Obsidian. We require a house and garden, at the very least.”

  “And at the most?”

  The man’s smile broadened. “I doubt very much that anything you have could be more than we can use. Or more than Lord Obsidian can afford.”

  Coin snorted. “As it happens, I have charge of the old ducal palace—the one abandoned by the grandfather of the present Duke of Manfort when the Citadel was completed. I scarcely think…”

  “That would suit us perfectly,” the man in black interrupted. “If I might see it? Immediately?”

  Coin stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether the man was a fool, or deranged, or joking, or simply unaware of what such an establishment would cost. She had never heard of any Lord Obsidian, so far as she could recall, and surely she would have heard of anyone who could afford the Old Palace.

  But then, “Obsidian” might be an alias—perhaps for Lord Enziet, or another of the city’s elite, who had grown bored with more modest accommodations. She rose.

  “I’ll get the keys,” she said.

  * * *

  The watchman thought the stranger staring at the New Inn looked familiar, but could not place him. His yellow silk shirt and lush wool coat, the sharply trimmed hair laid bare when he doffed his plumed hat, the fine sword on his belt, and a dozen other details marked him as a wealthy man, but his black boots were scuffed and showing wear, the hair just slightly wrong for the current fashion.

  Curious, the watchman ambled over. It was a quiet day, and he had nothing in particular he should be doing other than simply remaining visible on the street, so no one could object if he offered
the young man a bit of advice, and maybe asked a few questions.

  The stranger did not look around as the watchman approached; instead he continued to study the New Inn, as if trying to identify the individual stone blocks of the façade. His coat flapped in the chill wind, and the hat under his arm struggled to escape.

  “They’ve not chosen a name yet, or put up their sign, but it’s an inn, my lord, if you’re seeking lodging,” the watchman offered.

  The young man turned. “An inn?” he asked. “Just an inn?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I had been told that a rather different establishment might be found here.”

  “Ah,” the watchman said. Matters were becoming clearer. “Well, there was one, until about two years ago—the House of the Six Lords, some of us called it. It’s gone, burned down.”

  “Oh? Burned? How did that happen?”

  “One of the six lords had it done.”

  The stranger frowned. “Really? That’s hardly usual, is it, to deliberately burn down a building in the middle of town?”

  “Not usual at all, my lord,” the watchman agreed. “And we might have protested, but he had come with a letter from the Duke of Manfort, granting him full authority to do as he pleased, and ordering all of us in the guard to obey him.”

  “Indeed! Now, that’s not usual either, is it?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Could it have been a forgery, do you suppose?”

  “He had the Duke’s seal on it, and one of the Duke’s own guards with him, my lord.”

  “Who was this man, then, that had so much of the Duke’s favor?” The question was perhaps a trifle more eagerly asked than might have been expected.

  “I don’t know, my lord; he gave no name.”

  Arlian tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh, but surely someone must have recognized him!”

  “Not to my knowledge, my lord.”