“Was he masked, then?”
“No, he was not—but really, my lord, who here in Westguard would know all the lords of Manfort by sight?”
“Are you telling me you didn’t know who any of these six lords were?”
“Not a one of them, my lord. After all, the tradesmen and housewives of Westguard are hardly likely to attend the palace balls in Manfort. I couldn’t put a name to more than a dozen lords—why, I’d scarcely know the Duke himself if he were to walk by! For example, you’ve a familiar air about you, but I can’t pin it down…”
Arlian smiled. “I’m no one you’d know,” he said.
He turned and walked away, clapping his hat back on his head and holding it against the wind.
The watchman hesitated, but did not pursue. Prying into the affairs of the wealthy was no part of what was expected of him—on the contrary, it could be very unwise.
And really, the handsome young lord was probably just reluctant to have it known that he had come seeking an infamous brothel.
* * *
Word of the mysterious Lord Obsidian’s impending arrival spread quickly through Manfort. The city’s tradesmen watched as men and wagons arrived, both local and foreign, and the work of restoring the Old Palace to habitable condition began. Several of these tradesmen found their way to the postern to inquire whether the household might need their services.
The steward, a formidable man who called himself Black, was cautious in making his choices; grocers, butchers, chandlers, stablemen, and the like were questioned about their terms, and then about who they might recommend in trades other than their own, and were then sent away with polite but noncommittal replies.
The one exception was a slave trader who came to the postern. He introduced himself, then began, “Naturally, while I don’t know Lord Obsidian’s particular desires, we can provide almost anything he might require—all ages, both sexes…”
“Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” the steward replied disdainfully. “All our staff will be free.”
“Ah, but surely there are certain roles…” the slaver wheedled.
The steward did not allow him to complete the sentence. “Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” he repeated.
The slaver frowned and suggested, “Then perhaps you might be interested yourself…”
“No.”
“Lord Obsidian need not know.”
“I said no.”
“If I might have a word…”
“That’s enough,” the steward barked, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword—a nobleman’s sword, the slave master noticed, hardly appropriate for a steward. “Get out!”
The slaver hesitated, but then shrugged and left without further protest.
Later he mentioned the incident to a few friends. Word spread, and others, curious, began to ask discreet questions of the steward.
“Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” Black told them. “Nor do I. That’s all. It is his choice, and mine.”
Interest in Lord Obsidian, widespread ever since Coin first reported that she had found a buyer for the Old Palace, heightened as this odd quirk became known. Obviously, Obsidian was not one of the established elite of the city, since none of them had ever had any compunctions about slavery—he was a stranger, an outsider.
Some inhabitants of Manfort joined Obsidian’s staff, and the rumors grew …
Obsidian himself had reportedly not yet arrived at the palace, but in addition to the steward and the people hired locally there were half a dozen foreigners in residence—people not merely from outside the city walls, but from somewhere beyond the Lands of Man entirely, four men and two women. They spoke among themselves in some unknown tongue, and spoke Man’s Tongue haltingly or not at all, and often dressed in bizarre, outlandish robes.
The wagons that brought supplies to the palace were heavily guarded, and some of them carried freight that was promptly hidden away in locked storerooms.
The steward was said to be asking questions about more than where he might find the best suppliers of fresh produce or clean lamp oil; he was rumored to be interested in sorcery, and in volcanic glass—presumably Lord Obsidian’s choice of name had something to do with that. He reportedly inquired after those knowledgeable about dragons, as well, and about all the lords of Manfort.
But all this was hearsay. All that reached the streets was rumor and gossip, no hard facts, and the people of Manfort waited for Lord Obsidian’s arrival with great anticipation.
Black could hardly be unaware of this, and one evening, as he stood gazing out the window in one of the upper rooms, he remarked, “The whole city is curious about you.”
Arlian answered, “That was the idea.”
Arlian was seated comfortably in a velvet-upholstered chair, a glass of good red wine on the table at his side. He had arrived a few days ago, along with those of the Aritheians who had chosen to come to Manfort. Arlian had driven his own wagon, and now wore the garb of a coachman, rather than a lord—anonymity had its uses, and a coachman’s broad-brimmed black hat kept his face shaded, so that later, when Lord Obsidian had made his grand appearance, the facial similarity would not be too obvious. Ari the teamster would get a very different reaction than Lord Obsidian among the shopkeepers of Manfort, and Arlian thought both might be useful.
“I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea,” Black replied.
“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Arlian asked. “Search the city street by street in hopes of spotting Lord Dragon or one of his henchmen? In Westguard I couldn’t find anyone who would admit to knowing anything about him. I heard a few rumors, got some support for my suspicions as to the names of the others among the six lords, but nothing more about Lord Dragon—and I can’t be sure of any of those names. Rose told me one of them, but he could have lied to her. No, if I’m to find those I seek, I’ve got to make them come to me.”
“So you’re asking about dragons,” Black said. “What if your Lord Dragon never used that name again? Suppose he took it entirely at random, just that once, or if not at random, simply because he was intent on looting a dragon-ravaged village? Then who would come to you with word of him?”
“No one,” Arlian replied, “but as you said yourself, I have time. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try something else. I’ve already tried something else, and I’ll try more. Several somethings, in fact.”
Black glanced at his employer. “Like the obsidian.”
“Yes.”
“It’s been almost ten years since the obsidian was stolen, Ari, and so far we haven’t seen a single piece you could say for certain came from your village—do you really think any of it can be traced back to the looters?”
“Why not? We’ve hardly tried yet. Once we start buying pieces, and asking where they came from, why would anyone fail to tell us?”
“Perhaps because he doesn’t know. A piece could have changed hands a dozen times by now.”
“How often does a physician’s knife or a piece of frippery change hands?” Arlian asked.
“How long does a physician remember where he bought each of his tools?” Black countered.
“How often does a woman forget where she obtained each of her baubles?”
“So you learn that Lady Whatever bought her pendant from a particular shop in the Street of the Jewelers—what if the shop is five years gone, or six?”
“What if it is? I’ll keep searching.”
Black sighed, and changed tack. “And this gala you’re planning—I assume you’ll leave the old Aritheian ambassador to the Aritheians, but suppose Lord Dragon does attend, and he recognizes you? Might he not decide to kill you before you can confront him? Might he not flee?”
“How would he recognize me?” Arlian laughed bitterly. “I was a boy of eleven when we first met, and he probably thinks I’m still hacking away at stone walls in Deep Delving. I doubt he even saw me in Westguard two years ago, nor would he know me to be anything more than a gawking passerby if he d
id.”
“You’re assuming he’s an ordinary man.”
Arlian took his time in answering, “No. How could an ordinary man have known that dragons would destroy Obsidian, and leave it open for looting? And in Westguard he had the Duke of Manfort’s grant of unlimited authority, apparently legitimately. I have no doubt that Lord Dragon, whoever he may actually be, has access to knowledge beyond the commonplace. He may well be a sorcerer. But he’s still a man, not a god, nor even a dragon; I do not think him infallible, and the Aritheians have taught me that sorcery has limits, and rather narrow ones. I assume Lord Dragon, whoever and whatever he is, has as much curiosity as anyone. I think he’ll attend the festivities, and I do not think he’ll know me.” He shrugged. “If I’m wrong—well, then Fate is unkind, and I’m wrong.”
“And if you’re wrong you may well wind up dead.”
“True enough. And while it’s kind of you to be concerned, that’s really my business, isn’t it? Why are you so determined to talk me out of risking it?”
“Partly just my natural perversity, but also because I think you’re being a fool, throwing away a wonderful life. You’re young, handsome, rich—yes, you were wronged as a child, you were sold as a slave, but you’re free now, and you have so much. Why risk everything in pursuit of some abstract justice? It seems foolish to me. When a man has wronged me, I don’t seek him out; I avoid him, and go on about my business.”
“I can’t do that,” Arlian said. “You and I are different in that, Black. I can’t ignore what was done to me.”
“Not even for a year or two, until you know the city better?”
“Black, every day I think about Lord Dragon and his gang, and about the dragons. Every day I’m alive I remember that dragon’s face. I can’t wait a year.”
“So you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Perhaps.”
“I can’t say I like the idea. If you wind up dead, I won’t get paid.”
“Assuming you don’t wind up dead beside me.”
“Exactly. Not that I intend to allow anything of the sort to happen.”
Arlian smiled crookedly. “I have no heir, Black; if I die, and you live, all I have here is yours.”
Black blinked at that.
“Oh,” he said.
Arlian’s grin broadened. “And now I suppose I need to watch my back around you.”
Black snorted. “Hardly. As long as you pay me enough, I’ll be content to play steward—given the popularity of dueling and assassination I suspect stewards usually live longer than lords around here. And furthermore, I don’t think I would care to be hanged as a murderer.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Arlian sipped wine. “And how are the preparations going?”
Black sighed, and began an accounting of everything that was being done to ready the once-elegant old palace for the planned debut of Lord Obsidian in Manfort’s high society.
Arlian listened carefully.
He was aware that Black’s criticisms of his plan might have some truth in them, but he could think of no better way to locate those members of Manfort’s elite whom he intended to destroy—as well as Lord Dragon, there were the other five lords who had owned the brothel. He only knew one name, that of Lord Kuruvan; he knew that Lords Inthior, Drisheen, Salisna, and Jerial had been patrons, and might have been owners, and he intended to get a good look at each of them. He also wanted to know about any others who had been involved in the creation and destruction of the House of Carnal Society. That might well be a significant portion of the city’s elite.
An unrelated member of the elite who Arian thought deserved attention, as Black had mentioned, was Sahasin of the House of Slihar, the Aritheian ambassador whose faction had almost certainly been responsible for Hathet’s enslavement. Locating the ambassador and dealing with him was no problem—the Aritheians who had accompanied Arlian and Black to Manfort would tend to him, and there was no reason for any natives of the Lands of Man to involve themselves.
Black, at Arlian’s order, had sent a direct invitation to Sahasin, urging him to attend the upcoming festivities. He doubted the man would refuse.
The rest were not so simple. If Arlian attempted to hunt those six lords who had owned the brothel down individually, to find and free Sweet and the rest of those poor crippled whores and to avenge their four dead comrades, he could scarcely expect to deal with more than one or two of the lords before the others realized what was happening and fled or joined forces against him. They might use the women as hostages against him, or hire assassins to deal with him, once they knew he was in pursuit. That would, at the very least, endanger the women and make his vengeance more difficult.
What better way to gather them together, so that he could confront all of them, than to throw a party they could not resist? With any luck he would be able to identify them simply by asking a few questions, and once that was done he could meet them, speak with them, judge their weaknesses, all on his own ground, on his own terms, and then take action swiftly and appropriately.
And as for the six looters who had worked with Lord Dragon—Shamble, Hide, Stonehand, Cover, Dagger, and Tooth—how else could he find them, other than by tracing the goods they had stolen?
If he had simply tried to track those people down by name, by inquiring after their present whereabouts, word would surely have gotten back to them. They might hide, or flee, when they knew someone was looking for them.
Besides, Arlian suspected that half the would-be assassins in the city called themselves Dagger. Even though most of them would be male, where he was after a female, that would not make matters any simpler.
Sooner or later, though, Arlian promised himself, he would find them all. He would locate each of the looters, each of the six lords who had owned a share in the House, and he would see that each of them received what he or she deserved. He would rescue as many of the dozen women as he could. He would let Hathet’s own clan deal with the usurper ambassador, but the others were his.
And if he lived long enough, and the opportunity arose, there were other old enemies he might want to find. Lampspiller might deserve some attention eventually, and the Old Man, too—using slaves to work a mine was no crime by the standards of the Lands of Man, but the Old Man was a little too careless in how he acquired his workers—neither Arlian nor Hathet should have been there—and Lampspiller was far more brutal than necessary.
And when all that was done, he would seek out the dragons in their deep caverns—and probably throw away his life in doing so, but still, he felt that he had to do it.
He had asked the Aritheians if they knew of any way to kill a dragon, of any magic that would work against the great beasts, but they knew no more of dragons than he did—perhaps less. He would be on his own in finding the caverns and destroying their occupants, but he could not rest until he had done so.
And after that …
Well, there probably wouldn’t be any “after that.” If there were, he would worry about it when it arrived.
29
Stammer
Black opened the door only a few inches, trying to keep the rain and the wind outside. Spring was well advanced, but the weather was still unseasonably cool and raw. “Yes?” he asked.
The woman huddled on the postern doorstep looked up at him. “Your … your pardon, my lord,” she stammered.
“I’m not your lord,” Black said, as he glanced around in the wet gloom of gathering twilight. The woman was far too ragged to be pursuing any honest trade, and he saw no cart or companion; she might be a beggar, or she might be bait.
He saw no one lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce when the door was opened—but an attacker might just be well hidden. And even if the woman were not part of a gang of thieves intent on looting the palace, a would-be burglar might happen along at any moment and seize the opportunity if Black stood there with the door open on such a miserable, dark day as this.
“I’m so … I’m sorry,” she said, ducki
ng her head and spilling water from the hood of her cloak onto Black’s boot.
“Get in here,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and yanking her inside.
He slammed and barred the door, then turned to her, half expecting to see a drawn blade in her hand.
Instead she had fallen to her knees and was cowering on the stone floor of the entryway, clutching her cloak about her.
Black frowned.
Beggars were rare in Manfort—very rare. Just about anyone who slept unguarded in the streets or missed enough rent payments, no matter how decrepit, was likely to be taken by the slavers and sold. Still, this woman probably was a beggar, he decided, one the slavers hadn’t caught yet, drawn to the Old Palace by the local gossip, looking for somewhere to get out of the rain and get a bite to eat. Anything else was just his morbid imagination, driven by the miserable weather and the uncertainties of his present situation. The announced date of Lord Obsidian’s “arrival” and reception was approaching rapidly, and it was getting on his nerves.
The woman was almost certainly harmless. Her obvious terror was probably because she expected him to sell her into slavery, despite the rumors, not the result of nervousness about her involvement in some dire scheme.
“Get up,” he said.
She hesitated. He reached down and snatched away her cowl, revealing short-cut hair and a bony, half-starved face that might have been attractive if better fed. It was hard to judge, given her condition, but he guessed she was perhaps thirty, no more than forty.
She cringed.
“Get up, I said.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright.
She stood unsteadily, looking up at him.
“Now, what did you want?” he asked. “Food? A drink?”
She shook her head, and fumbled with the inside of her cloak. “I heard…” she began. “I heard that you … that Lord Ob … Obsidian would pay…”
And her hand emerged from a hidden pocket clutching something. She held it out, and opened her hand.
It was a brooch, an oval of carved and polished obsidian set in elaborately worked gold, all of archaic design. A black velvet backing that would keep it from chafing appeared to have been added later.
Dragon Weather Page 26