Arlian had made his hospitality dependent upon certain conditions, however; foremost among these was an insistence that a portion of the old garden, and the graves therein, remain undisturbed. So far that require-ment had been met, but he still wanted to check while he was in town , and make certain that all was well. Finding Kerzia and Amberdine provided a perfect justification for undertaking this inspection immediately.
They rounded the corner and came in sight of the old gateposts.
The gate itself was gone, but the gateposts and most of the wall still stood.
The soot had washed away after all these years of rain, but the stone gateposts were still lightly stained, streaked with dark gray where dragonfire had struck them.
Arlian took off his hat and paused to kneel by one post; this was where Lord Toribor had died, luring the dragon into position to be killed by the first of Arlian's catapults. For most of the time Arlian had known Toribor the two men were enemies; Arlian had sworn to kill the older dragonheart, and had twice faced him in duels. Nonetheless, when the dragon came, Toribor had worked closely with Arlian to defeat it.
"If your spirit lingers, Belly," Arlian murmured, "I want you to know that I have not forgotten—without your aid all would have been lost. I would be long dead, and eighty-some dragons would still live.
Thank you."
Then he got to his feet and brushed mud from his breeches before turning to look into the refugee camp.
The houses had improved since his last visit; in fact, some showed every sign of being permanent. The floor of his great mirrored gallery, where once the nobility of Manfort had danced, was now serving as a street, and the structures on either side, while eccentric, seemed quite substantial.
He would, he supposed, want to start collecting rents on them—
these were no longer a refugee camp, but cottages. He would keep the rents minimal, but if he did not assert his claim to the land beneath he might eventually lose it.
No children were immediately in evidence; he marched across what had been his forecourt, past the spot where he had first slain an adult dragon and where its bones had long lain exposed, to the guardhouse that stood where his cloakroom once was.
"Ho!" he called.
A young guard in the Duke's livery appeared at the door, obsidian-tipped spear in hand. He peered at Arlian's face, clearly not recognizing it, and said, "This is private property, my lord."
Black snorted. "We're aware of that, boy," he said.
"Black?" The soldier started, then straightened.
"And this is Lord Obsidian, the owner of this private property,"
Black replied, gesturing at Arlian.
"Your pardon, my lord," the guard said, bowing.
Arlian acknowledged the bow with a nod of his head, but he studied the young man for a moment before he spoke. Greeting a wealthy stranger with a warning about trespassing seemed a peculiar thing to do, and Arlian tried to guess why the soldier had done it.
No obvious explanation occurred to him, and in the end he simply asked, "Alight I inquire, sir, why you felt it necessary to assert that this is private property?"
The soldier flushed slightly. "Slavers, my lord. We have had some difficulties with the slavers. Refugees rarely have any money or family, after all, and sometimes the temptation is too great, despite your orders.
Slavers slip in at night, when the guards are dozing, or climb over the wall in areas out of our sight."
"Surely, you did not mistake me for such a slaver."
"No, certainly not, but on occasion lords like yourself have come here to have a look at potential victims before sending in their hirelings."
" N o t lords like myself," Arlian said. "I own no slaves, and have no truck with slavers."
"Of course not, my lord," the guard said, flushing more deeply and bowing again. "And you show your face—the slave takers are usually masked. But the brim of your hat hid your features at first, and . . . "
" N o need to say more," Arlian interrupted. "I understand, and you acted rightly. N o w that we have that out of the way, however, perhaps you could direct us to where we might find children at play? My steward's daughters are reported to be in this vicinity."
"Oh, back that way, in the gardens, my lord." He pointed. "I saw them come in this morning, and I believe they've been there ever since."
"Thank you." Arlian nodded, and led the way.
He did not speak as they walked through what had once been his home; he was deep in thought.
No one had ever mentioned slavers defying the ban to him before, and he wondered whether this was a recent development. He could have asked the guard—but he did not want to question the man as if he were judge and jury determining his fate; the young fellow was doing his job well enough, but seemed a trifle unsure of himself, and Arlian had no wish to add to that uncertainty.
Besides, he did not really want to speak of these matters aloud-—or not yet, at any rate. He wanted to think.
He hated slavers and slavery. He had spent seven years as a mine slave, and slavery was what he loathed most in all the world after the dragons.
Perhaps, if by some miracle he were to succeed in exterminating the dragons and survive the experience, he would then turn his attention to eliminating slavery entirely—though that would be a far more difficult task, in truth. Slavers were not venom-spitting monsters, easily recognizable by their size and scales, but instead hid in the skins of men and women, pretending to humanity. Many people believed that slavery was a natural part of the world's order, that some men and women were destined, by the weakness of their minds and spirits, to serve the whims of others, and that this was as it should be, that those weaklings would otherwise starve in the streets at great detriment to public sanitation. Lord Toribor had thought as much and considered slavery just, until Arlian had convinced him to listen to the tales some slaves told of their lives.
That had planted seeds of doubt, but Belly had died before they grew into a conviction that slavery was inherently wrong.
T h e dragons were, however magical they might be, tangible and finite; they could be destroyed, and the destruction seen to be certain.
Slavery was an idea, hidden and mutable, something that might lurk in any soul, might spread from one to another overnight, might lie dormant for years or decades only to spring forth anew.
Still, an idea could be countered, could be fought, and Arlian could think of nothing better to do with his life should he somehow survive the last dragon and the last dragonheart.
T h a t slavers were intruding on bis land, preying on bis guests, in defiance of the law, was disturbing.
And they came wearing masks. T h a t damnable fashion had arisen years ago, and Arlian hated it. Its advocates excused it on several grounds, including history—supposedly in the latter days of the old Man-Dragon Wars, those brave men and women w h o resisted the dragons' rule and defied the human servants who oversaw the dragons' empire had sometimes gone masked so that their identities would not be reported to the dragons, and their families would not be harmed in retaliation. T h e present-day masks were alleged to be worn in tribute to those heroes of old, as a reminder that humanity was once again openly at war with its ancient foe.
Those rebellious forefathers had also used false names to disguise their identities and protect their kin. That custom had survived all the intervening centuries, down to Beron being known to all and sundry as Black, and Arlian's own use of the name Obsidian, but the masks had been cast aside when the dragons retreated to their caves.
Now the masks were back—but Arlian suspected that this time they were not protecting the dragons' foes, but their allies. Someone who knew the signs could tell a dragonheart from an ordinary mortal merely by a good look at the eyes, the face, the movements—and masks hid the face and eyes, enabling dragonhearts, at least in theory, to move freely among the people of Manfort despite the Duke's edict requiring them to undergo the Aritheian cleansing. Magical disguises known as g
lamours could accomplish the same thing, but a simple mask was far cheaper, and much easier to maintain.
Unfortunately, Arlian had, so far, been unable to convince the arbiters of style of the significance of this point. New fads and fashions were notoriously difficult to discourage, and masks, with their air of intrigue and mystery, were simply so much fun for many people that Arlian's protests were as useless as steel against dragonhide.
The two men rounded the final hut, following the sounds of squeal-ing, and found half a dozen girls chasing each other madly across an area of plowed ground that would probably be someone's vegetable patch in a few weeks.
"Kerzia!" Black bellowed, in a voice he usually reserved for issuing orders to armed men.
One of the taller girls stopped dead, and whirled on one foot; another smaller one stumbled, then also stopped and turned, somewhat less abruptly. Then the two of them shrieked in unison, "Daddy!" and began running toward Black.
Arlian watched silently as the pair jumped the low fence and sprang into their father's waiting arms. He stood, waiting, as they babbled cheerfully and Black listened intently.
The other girls paused long enough to acknowledge that their play-mates were departing, then continued their game, whooping wildly as they charged around the old ash tree and headed for the gallery-floor street.
Kerzia, the older girl, finally calmed down enough to notice that her father had not come alone; she stepped back, out of Black's embrace, brushed her pinafore down into position, then essayed a quick curtsy.
Then she glanced at her father, clearly awaiting an introduction.
Black threw a smile over his shoulder at Arlian, then said, "My lord Obsidian, allow me to present my daughters. That young lady is Kerzia, my firstborn, and this squirming nuisance here is Amberdine."
"Daddy!" Amberdine protested, as Kerzia's eyes grew wide.
"Lord Obsidian," she said, curtsying again. "It is a great honor."
"It is a pleasure for me, mistress," Arlian said, with a bow. "We have met before, as you may recall."
"Oh, but it's been years!"
"Indeed it has. You were not much older then than your sister is now."
Amberdine had finally realized the situation and untangled herself to stand beside her sister. "Have we met, my lord?" she asked.
"We last spoke when you were not yet three years old, I believe,"
Arlian replied.
"I don't remember," Amberdine admitted.
Arlian smiled. "I would scarcely expect a person of your charms to remember every man who admired her."
Amberdine had no idea how to reply to that, and glanced at Kerzia, who giggled.
"Time to go home," Black said. "Your mother is waiting for all of us."
"Will you tell us all about slaying dragons?" Amberdine asked.
"I haven't been slaying dragons," Black said, "but Lord Obsidian has. Perhaps he can tell you about it."
"Perhaps I can," Arlian agreed. "If you would, mistress?" He held a hand out to Kerzia.
She accepted it, and together the two of them marched toward the gate, while Black and Amberdine walked at their heels.
9
9
Lady Rime at Home
Lady Rime at Home
Although his duty as warlord required Arlian to call upon the Duke at the first opportunity, Arlian had come to Manfort to rest, to restore himself, and to renew old acquaintances, as much as to report to his superior. At present he found himself not concerned as much with the next step in the campaign against the dragons as he was with what would become of him when the campaign had ended.
The remaining forty-six dragons, or whatever the actual number was, would undoubtedly take several years to find and slay, but there seemed little doubt that they would, in time, perish. The twenty-six lords and ladies of the Dragon Society would also in their turn die or be restored to normalcy.
And what would become of Arlian when that was accomplished? He would have served out the destiny Fate had apparently assigned him; was he to have any life beyond that?
This was not a question to discuss with the Duke of Manfort; instead, Arlian intended to visit Lady Rime, one of the handful of dragonhearts who had been cleansed by the Aritheian magicians and returned to mere humanity. She, more than anyone else in the world, could appreciate his situation, his uncertainty about his future.
He had thought that would need to wait until after he had conducted his official business with the Duke before calling on her; indeed, he had expected to find guardsmen at the Grey House, waiting to escort him to the Citadel, when he and Black arrived. After all. Lord Rolinor had undoubtedly returned to the Citadel and told the Duke that Lord Obsidian was on his way, unescorted by the soldiers he had left in Ethinior.
That no such guards had materialized led Arlian to suspect that the Duke, for one reason or another, was in no great hurry for this appointment. If the Duke saw no great urgency in it, then Arlian was not inclined to argue; he preferred to attend to more personal concerns.
Therefore, on the day after his arrival in the city, rather than going in person, Arlian dispatched a messenger to the Citadel to inform the Duke of his arrival and assure His Grace that Lord Obsidian awaited his pleasure.
That done, and immediate household matters having been dealt
with, he strolled down the street to Lady Rime's estate, leaving Black to deal with any replies that might arrive.
Upon his arrival Arlian found that the interior of Lady Rime's mansion was not as he remembered it. When he had last visited, several years before, the halls and chambers had been lushly furnished, tidv and well kept, as quiet as a cellar, and inhabited only by Rime and half a dozen servants.
Now the servant who admitted him had something purple and
sticky in his hair, and the minute Arlian set foot inside he heard children laughing. The coatrack by the door held a dozen garments in assorted small sizes, and the mirror beside it was freshly cracked.
Arlian looked about, startled, as he handed the footman his hat and coat.
Then the head of a girl, almost a young woman, a little older than Kerzia, appeared around a doorframe. "Hello," she said, smiling. "Are you here to see Grandmother Rime?" Then the smile vanished, and she stared at him. "I know you, don't I?"
Arlian bowed. "Lord Obsidian, here to see Lady Rime," he said.
"And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"Lord Obsidian? Uncle Triv?" Her eyes widened. "Is it really you?"
For a moment neither spoke, as Arlian realized that the girl's face was indeed familiar, and there was only one girl her age who would call him Triv. Still, it was the footman who, having disposed of Arlian's outer garments, broke the silence.
"My lord Obsidian," he said, "allow me to present Lady Rime's adopted granddaughter, Vanniari."
Vanniari stepped through the door and curtsied, and Arlian bowed again in acknowledgment.
"My lord Obsidian," Vanniari said. "It has been a long time."
"Five years, I believe," Arlian agreed. "Pardon me for not recognizing you at once, Vanniari, but you have grown wonderfully—and please, forgive my long absence, and do call me Ari."
"Of course, Uncle Triv," Vanniari said, grinning. "Call me Vanni."
Arlian smiled despite himself. No one had called him Triv since he had last seen Vanniari's mother, Hasty, almost five years before. He glanced at the footman. "Do you know, Vanni, I had forgotten you live here? When last I saw you you were still my guest at the Grey House."
"That was years ago!" She shuddered. "That gloomy place. I didn't mind living there when I was little, but every time I go back to visit Kerzia and Amberdine, or Isein and Lilsinir, it seems darker and colder and nastier."
"It's not a good place," Arlian agreed. "I had intended to sell it when you were a baby ..
" . . . but the dragon burned up your other house. I know, Uncle Triv."
"And since then I've simply been too busy," Arlian agreed.
; "You could just tell old Ferrezin to sell it for you, and you could move your things and all the Aritheians to the Citadel. Or here."
"But I prefer not to do that," Arlian said. "It seems wise not to become too dependent on the Duke's goodwill, and I have already imposed on Lady Rime's goodwill far too much. Besides, I have just this morning begun arrangements for Ferrezin to retire—I would need to ask someone else to handle the transaction."
It was at that point that he noticed there were now more faces peering around the doorframe, several of them, all of them younger than Vanni's fifteen years.
"Vanni?" a young boy said, noticing Arlian's gaze.
Vanniari turned, beckoned to the others, then asked Arlian, "Shall I introduce you, my lord?"
"Please," Arlian said with a bow. "I believe I recognize your brother Kuron?"
"Kuron, this is Lord Obsidian."
Kuron, age eleven, the boy who had spoken his sister's name,
stepped through the door and bowed.
"And our brother Bekerin, my lord."
Bekerin nodded an acknowledgment, but stayed where he was.
Arlian did a quick calculation and decided that Bekerin was eight; it seemed very unlikely the boy had any firsthand memories of their previous meetings.
"And this is Rose."
T h e girl named waved shyly from the door, but did not approach.
Arlian had never previously met her; she had not yet been born when he last set foot in Manfort. He had been informed of her arrival four years ago, and at the time he had wondered what her true name was. Knowing her mother, though, he suspected that Rose was her true name, in defiance of all custom—and in honor of a woman murdered by Enziet's men seventeen years ago, a woman both Hasty and Arlian had considered a friend, a woman who happened to have been Lady Rime's several-times-great granddaughter.
"And this is Halori," Vanniari continued, tugging at the arm of a boy of ten or so. Arlian knew this was Musk's son, not one of Hasty's children; Vanniari had completed the roster of her own half-siblings.
Vanniari never mentioned that she did not share both parents with her mother's other children, but Arlian had killed Vanniari's own father in a duel some seven months before her birth, and the girl certainly knew it.
Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) Page 8