“Um … not if it were like the Aritheian dreams, no. But couldn’t he have found some sorcerous method to produce reliable prophecies?”
Rime and Wither looked at one another.
“It shouldn’t be possible,” Rime said, “but if anyone could make it work, it would be Enziet.”
“If he has,” Wither said, “then he’s honor-bound to share it with the rest of us.”
“He’s had nine years to do so, and he hasn’t said a word of this,” Rime said.
“Maybe that’s why he wants me dead,” Arlian suggested. “So you won’t find out that he’s kept it secret. It could be very useful in controlling the Duke and the rest of Manfort, couldn’t it?”
“It certainly could,” Wither growled.
“But if that’s what he’s up to, then wouldn’t he have seen that you were a danger to him much sooner, through these very prophecies you think him capable of, and killed you long ago?” Rime asked.
Arlian shrugged. “Maybe it’s not that reliable.”
Rime grabbed her cane and pushed back her chair. “I want to meet this witness of yours,” she said.
“As do I,” Wither agreed, rising.
“Gladly,” Arlian said, getting to his feet. “He calls himself Seek now, and has a shop on the Street of the Jewelers.”
“Lead the way, boy,” Wither said.
Arlian led the way—but even before they turned the corner onto the Street of the Jewelers he began to fear that something had gone wrong; he smelled smoke more strongly than usual. This was not merely Manfort’s perpetual background odor, but something sharp and fresh. He broke into a trot; Wither accompanied him, but Rime, hobbling along, could not.
“You go ahead,” she called, with a wave of her cane.
Arlian broke into a run when he saw the billowing smoke lit orange from beneath, and heard the crackle of flame. A crowd had gathered, blocking the street, and buckets were being passed, so that he had to stop and could only stare helplessly as Seek’s shop burned.
“Did Seek escape?” he asked a man in the crowd.
The man turned and glanced up at Arlian.
“No,” he said. “He’s dead on the floor in there. Someone said his heart gave out, and he knocked over a lamp when he fell.”
Arlian stared helplessly at the flames. The buckets of water being flung upon the blaze were having an effect; Arlian could hear the hissing as the fire was fought back. Through the smoke and the shattered remains of the storefront he could make out a dark lump on the floor.
That was undoubtedly Seek; the fire might soon be under control, but it would be too late for him.
Wither came up beside Arlian and asked, “That’s your witness?”
“I’m afraid so,” Arlian admitted.
“Quite a coincidence, his death.”
“It’s no coincidence,” Arlian said. “Lord Enziet killed him, I’m sure of it. He must have overheard somehow—more sorcery…”
“More likely, if it’s as you say, he had men spying on you, boy, and saw you talking to this merchant. Wouldn’t need sorcery for that.”
“Oh,” Arlian said, swallowing.
In a way, then, he had himself killed Hide after all, even after deciding not to.
He should have thought of the possibility that he was being spied upon, Arlian told himself. He bit his lower lip in angry frustration as he watched the flames. He had failed Seek and himself.
His eyes began to tear—from the smoke, Arlian told himself.
“That’s assuming, of course, that you’re telling the truth,” Wither said, interrupting Arlian’s thoughts. “And that you didn’t kill him yourself before you came to fetch us. It wouldn’t have been much of a trick to spill a lamp and set a candle in the puddle as a fuse.”
“What?” Arlian whirled to stare at Wither.
“Well, you said yourself that this was one of the looters you wanted revenge on,” Wither said conversationally. “And we have nothing but your word, now, that Lord Enziet’s done anything out of line, and we all know you want vengeance on him. So why should we take your word that it’s he, and not yourself, behind it all?”
“But … but why would I kill my witness?”
“Why, because he wasn’t your witness,” Wither said. “Supposing that it’s you, and not Enziet, who’s plotting and planning here, then this man Seek might have called you the liar you are, and thrown your whole scheme awry. Now you needn’t worry about that; a dead witness can’t change his tale. And if we believe you, then we condemn Lord Enziet as a murderer trying to cover his tracks, and cast him out of the Society when he won’t reveal the secret of sorcerous prophecy—a secret that, assuming this is all the true situation, has never existed. Then you’ve broken his power and freed yourself of your oath not to kill him, and can pursue your revenge further.”
“But that’s not what happened!” Arlian protested, as Rime hobbled up to join them.
“What’s not what happened?” she asked.
“I was just pointing out to the boy,” Wither said, “that with his witness dead, there’s no proof of his story. It might be Lord Enziet covering up treachery, or it might be Lord Obsidian casting blame on Lord Enziet where none should be.”
“His man’s dead, then?” Rime asked.
“Apparently,” Wither said.
“That’s bad,” Rime said. She looked at Arlian. “Did you kill him?”
“No!” Arlian said. “Enziet did, I’m sure of it!”
“It couldn’t have been an accident?”
Arlian, feeling very beset, was suddenly uncertain. “Maybe it could have been,” he said.
That would relieve him of any guilt in Seek’s death—but it would also be an amazingly cruel trick for Fate to have played upon him. It was far easier to believe that Enziet or his underlings had murdered Seek and set the shop ablaze.
“It might be best all around if we find out just what did happen,” Rime suggested.
“And be careful about your accusations, boy,” Wither said. “I’ve known Enziet since the dragons ruled, and I’ve known you since last week. Enziet’s a cold bastard, I’ll give you that, but if I had to trust one of you, I think I’d take his side all the same.”
“But…!” Arlian began.
Rime cut him off with a raised hand. “For what it’s worth, I’d probably choose you over Enziet,” she said, “but I can understand Wither’s position. You’re a stranger here, and you’re trying to tell us that a man we’ve known for centuries, the most powerful man in Manfort, has been deceiving to us, lying to us, all these years. We’re going to need something more than your word; are there any other witnesses? Ones that you might bring to us while they’re still alive?”
“I can’t bring them to the hall,” Arlian protested. “Outsiders aren’t permitted.”
“Then there are other witnesses?” Wither asked.
“Four of them,” Arlian said. “If they’re still alive, and if I can find them.”
“Then you find them, and take them to the Old Palace, and keep them there, well guarded, and send a messenger,” Rime said. “Don’t come yourself; don’t leave them with anyone else.”
Arlian frowned. “Lord Enziet could kill the messenger,” he said.
Rime’s mouth twisted into a wry half smile. “I suppose he could,” she said. “You’ll just have to be careful.” She reached up and patted Arlian’s cheek. Wither snorted.
“If you’re telling the truth,” Wither said, “you find another witness. And be more careful than you were with this one!” He turned and stamped away.
Rime smiled encouragingly, then she, too, turned away.
Arlian watched them go, then turned back to face the fire again.
Cover and Hide were dead, which left four witnesses, as he had said—but Dagger and Tooth had both vanished years ago. That meant there were really only two he had any hope of locating. Stonehand was in the Duke’s guards; somehow Arlian did not think he would be quite so cooperative as Seek ha
d been, and threatening a guardsman to force a confession would be dangerous, perhaps suicidal.
Shamble, though, had still worked for Lord Dragon at last report. Arlian remembered him as big and stupid and vicious, and in his experiences in Deep Delving and with the caravan those traits often went along with cowardice; perhaps Shamble could be intimidated into testifying to Lord Dragon’s perfidy.
And as someone who still worked for Lord Enziet Shamble might know other useful secrets, as well. And he might know Sweet’s present circumstances—Arlian was constantly haunted by the knowledge that she was still in Enziet’s possession, and ever since learning what Horim had done to Daub and her anonymous companion he had feared that Sweet and Dove might be long dead.
But then, Enziet had made threats about the lives of innocents that Arlian had assumed were directed at Sweet and Dove. Enziet might have lied, but Arlian hoped the implications were true.
There were many things he wanted to know about Enziet. He could hardly expect Enziet to tell him anything, but Shamble would be an ideal informant, if Arlian could get him to cooperate.
The first part of dealing with Shamble would be to find him and capture him; getting him to cooperate, once captured, would probably be relatively easy. After all, Arlian was a lord, with the heart of the dragon, and Shamble was to all appearances a mere brute.
But Arlian would need to get inside Lord Enziet’s estate to have any chance at capturing him.
Well, then, he told himself, he would have to get inside Lord Enziet’s estate. Now, how could he do that?
Lord Enziet was rich, powerful, and well versed in sorcery.
He was, from all Rime and Wither had said of him, a cautious, patient man, not given to taking careless risks. His home would undoubtedly be well guarded, and kidnapping someone out of it would require something special.
It would call for magic, Arlian was certain—Aritheian magic. He had more of that than anyone else in all the Lands of Man, and this was the time to use it.
He turned away from the dying flames and set out at a trot for the Old Palace.
46
Into the Lion’s Den
Arlian walked past the ruins of Seek’s shop on a dank, misty morning in early autumn, and paused for a moment to study the remains.
The place had been stripped of everything of value even before the fire was completely extinguished, he knew; the members of the bucket brigade had taken Seek’s treasures as payment for their services. Arlian had sent Black to the Street of the Jewelers after the fire to make sure that the body was given a proper burial, and had attended the brief graveside ceremony himself. Seek was undeniably dead and gone, and all that remained of the shop now was stone and wood and water-stained bits of cloth.
Eventually someone would claim the site and build anew, but as yet no one had. The wreckage still lay untouched.
All the same, that was past and done, Arlian told himself. He had no time to grieve over Seek—and after all, Hide had been a scoundrel, a looter, a thief. His crimes had caught up with him, after a fashion.
That fashion had not been what Arlian intended, of course; it had been one more of Lord Enziet’s crimes.
And Arlian was determined to see that Lord Enziet’s crimes were also paid for.
At that moment, Arlian knew, Lord Enziet was on his way to meet with the Duke of Manfort for a detailed review of various matters of state. After numerous delays Lord Obsidian had finally met with the Duke himself two days earlier for an informal luncheon—purely a social call, of course, as Obsidian was not one of the Duke’s advisers, nor did he seek to be. He had, however, talked with the Duke about various subjects, including the workings of the city’s governance, and he had managed to learn the date and time of the next policy conference with Lord Enziet.
It had taken much longer than Arlian liked to obtain this meeting, and he had lived in fear that Enziet would act against him—that he would wake up one morning to find an assassin at his bedside, or that a messenger had delivered one of Sweet’s fingers as a fresh warning to leave Manfort. He had kept the wards around the Old Palace in place, and so far they had been undisturbed.
Sweet was probably still alive—at any rate, Enziet had not admitted otherwise. The thought of the poor woman in Enziet’s hands was a constant nagging pain for Arlian, but there was little he could do about it.
And Enziet had made no further attempt to use Sweet or Dove to blackmail Arlian. He was biding his time, as Rime had said he might. By killing Seek in such a way that made he and Arlian equally plausible murderers Enziet had created a fresh stalemate—anything Arlian could say was suspect now that his supposed witness was dead. With the stalemate in place, Enziet could afford to wait and see what developed.
But that couldn’t last forever; sooner or later one of them would find a way to gainsay the other, and Arlian intended to do it by capturing Shamble. When he had finally been able to arrange the luncheon at the Citadel he had jumped at the chance. That fool of a Duke had thought he was merely making idle conversation, answering Obsidian’s casual curiosity about how the Duke conducted his business.
The curiosity he had satisfied, which was far from casual, had been about Lord Enziet’s schedule. If he was at the Citadel, then Enziet would not be at home, and if he was, as Arlian believed, the only sorcerer resident in his mansion, that meant the sorcerous wards that protected his estate could not readily be renewed if they were once broken. Replacing them could only be done once Enziet returned home.
Thirif had felt those wards and informed Arlian of their existence; now he had instructions to break them by any means possible, so that Arlian could enter the house while Enziet was busy at the Citadel.
Even Enziet could not simply walk out on a council with the Duke of Manfort when he felt the wards broken; Arlian would have some time. Not much, perhaps, but some.
Shibiel, one of the other Aritheians, had provided Arlian with a glamour—not the sort that simply made a person more attractive and harder to refuse, but a magical disguise. To outward appearances he was no longer Lord Obsidian at all, but a thinner, darker man with a long nose and narrow jaw. If he were seen while trespassing no witnesses would recognize him, and while Enziet would certainly suspect the truth he would have no proof.
Arlian need merely allow Thirif enough time to work, and Lord Enziet enough time to become irretrievably caught up in affairs of state, and he could then slip into Enziet’s home in search of Shamble.
Of course, he would still need to get past whatever walls and guards there might be, but he thought he could handle that.
At the end of the Street of the Jewelers he turned right and marched up the slope, toward the modest mansion behind the Citadel.
The thought of simply walking in the front gate occurred to him, but there were guards posted, and he had no desire to harm them; instead he made his way around to the back.
Enziet’s home was small and old by the standards of Manfort’s elite, but taller than the norm. It stood three stories high, built of smoke-blackened stone, with slit windows in a style that had not been fashionable for at least a century. The house itself was surrounded by a narrow paved yard, which was in turn surrounded by a high stone wall; Enziet did not bother with such niceties as a garden, statuary, ornamental ironwork, or terraces.
Arlian made his way to the alley behind the house, ignoring the locked and barred postern, and strolled slowly along the wall, studying the approaches.
The wall was about eight feet tall, of rough-cut blocks of granite, with no openings of any kind save the two gates; it occurred to Arlian that this would mean the view from any room on the ground floor would be rather drab and limited. The faint lingering morning mist made it hard to distinguish any details, so he gave up any idea of choosing one climbing spot over another on the basis of finding a good hold; instead he found the section he judged to be least likely to be observed by Enziet’s servants, as far away from the stables, kitchens, gate, and postern as he could manage.
He pulled on his heavy leather gloves, took an Aritheian opal from his pocket, and waited, watching casually for anyone who might happen into the alley.
No one did, and after a moment the opal flared white—Thirif’s signal. Arlian tucked the stone back in his pocket, gathered himself, then charged at the wall at an angle, leaping at the last moment and flinging his hands over the top.
As he had expected, jagged edges cut into the leather gloves, but not deeply enough to do any real damage; he pulled himself up, and a moment later crouched atop the wall.
Serrated iron blades had been set into the stone, edge-up—just the sort of precaution Arlian had anticipated. And, as he had also anticipated, no one had tended to the blades in decades, and their edges were blunted by rust and wind and rain, sparing him serious injury.
The mist was thickening into drizzle, and he blinked away moisture as he peered across the pavement at the house. He was above the ground-floor windows, and below the second floor, but visible from any level if he stayed where he was, so he moved quickly, turning and lowering himself down the inside of the wall, then letting go and dropping the last foot or so. He landed with a slight splash, one booted foot in a small puddle.
The yard was no more than twenty feet across, a drab expanse of bare stone; directly ahead of him stood the main house, while off to his right, at the far end, were the stables and carriage house. The postern and kitchens were also to his right—he doubted anyone had set foot on this particular stretch of pavement in years, unless Enziet was sufficiently wary that he had the entire yard patrolled.
Which, of course, might well be the case, and with that in mind Arlian hurried across to the house and began looking for a means of entrance.
The slit windows were not wide enough for him to squeeze through, even if he knocked out the lead frames as well as the glass—which was probably the whole intent behind their design. All the doors into the house would almost certainly be guarded. He frowned.
If he couldn’t go through the walls, he had to go either over or under them, and he didn’t have time to tunnel. Even a house this size would presumably still have a courtyard, or at least an atrium, and while the slit windows were too narrow to enter through, they provided fine footholds.
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