It didn’t matter. The fighting was over, and the long search, nearly so. In another hour, she’d deliver The Black Bouquet to Master Heldeion, then she could return to Ilmater’s house for healing and the use of a bed.
With his wounded arm and head, Aeron would benefit from the priests’ attentions as well. She turned to tell him so, then gaped in horror. The rogue was no longer walking at her side.
She spun around. Except for herself, the narrow, trash-choked alley, foul with the stink of rotting fish and produce, was deserted. Aeron hadn’t simply lagged a step or two behind. Somehow, he’d slipped away.
She cursed herself for a dunce. Once Nicos was safe, and Sefris dead, she should have known better than to take her eyes off Aeron for so much as an instant. But it was her nature to trust a comrade with whom she’d faced so much peril, and thanks to that gullibility, she’d probably lost the formulary forever.
She snatched an arrow from her quiver to hold ready in her hand, then started to run back the way they’d come. She knew how unlikely it was that she’d spot the liar skulking through the dark, but she had to try.
He called out to her, “Hold on.”
She whirled back around, and Aeron stepped from the shadows.
“I’m right here,” he said, “and so is this.” He hefted a heavy, black-bound volume. “I kept it behind some loose bricks in a wall down thataway.”
She peered at him quizzically and asked, “If you meant to give it to me, why did you disappear?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a smile. “A joke? Maybe I wanted you to know I’m turning it over because I want to, not because I’m afraid of your bow and sword. That I do keep my promises to the right people.”
He placed the book in her hands.
When she opened the cover, a sweet scent wafted up. Holding the book close to her face, squinting against the gloom, she was just able to make out Courynn Dulsaer’s handwriting. It was the real Bouquet, not simply another decoy. Aeron chuckled to see her check the book.
“I said you were learning to think like one of us Oeblar,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “For the Bouquet, not that remark. It’s still an insult.”
He smiled a crooked smile and said, “From that retort, I take it you’re still eager to go back to the woods. I’ll miss you … at least a little.”
It seemed the perfect opening for Miri to propose the notion she’d been mulling over.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “You could come along. I’d sponsor you for membership in the Red Hart Guild, and train you, too.”
“Now you’re playing a joke on me.”
“No. I’ve seen the better side of your nature, and you’re too good a man to live out your days as a sneak thief in this wretched place.”
“This wretched place is about to reform, or so I’m told.”
“Over the course of years, maybe, if everything goes according to Master Heldeion’s plan,” Miri replied. “I’m offering you the certainty of a new life, a useful, honorable one, right here and now.”
“I can’t abandon my father.”
“He can come, too. The guild provides a home for those of our kin who can’t take care of themselves.”
He stood mute for several heartbeats, seemingly pondering the offer.
At last he said, “Thank you. I’m flattered you asked, but no. I just don’t see myself sleeping on the ground.”
Though it was the response she’d expected, it disappointed her nonetheless.
“So be it, then,” said the ranger. “I guess you’ll have to settle for a bag of Master Heldeion’s gold as a reward.”
“For recovering The Black Bouquet?” Aeron said with a snort. “Not likely. Remember who lifted it in the first place, triggering disturbances across the city that even left some Gray Blades dead. You may have a high opinion of Heldeion, but I don’t know him, and I don’t trust him not to string me up. He’s a merchant and one of the city fathers, in other words, an outlaw’s natural enemy.”
“Well, as you pointed out yourself, he doesn’t ever have to see you or know your name. I promised you gold when we sealed our pact, and I’ll fetch it to you.”
“Again, thanks, but no. I only asked for a reward to persuade you to trust me. I took the same tack when I talked to Kesk in Slarvyn’s Sword. People are usually inclined to believe you’re speaking honestly when you say you want coin.
“The truth is, I don’t take rewards from fat burghers for returning what’s rightfully theirs. That’s not my trade. If Heldeion gives you a bonus, keep it for yourself.”
“Then you come out of this with nothing.”
“I’ve got my father back, that’s what matters, and these lightning gloves are worth having as well. Come on, I’ll walk you to Heldeion’s house before we go our separate ways. You may find it difficult to believe, but some people think the streets of Oeble are unsafe.”
When the servant opened the door for him, Oriseus Forar stepped out onto the porch of his mansion, took a breath of crisp morning air, and tried to take pleasure in the start of a new day.
The gods knew, he had sufficient excuse for a glum mood. After his panicky flight from Laskalar’s Square, his alliance with the Red Axes was surely at an end even if Kesk had survived his confrontation with Dark Sister Sefris. Oriseus still didn’t have The Black Bouquet in his possession, and he doubted he ever would.
Yet the situation wasn’t entirely bleak. As far as Oriseus knew, Dorn Heldeion didn’t have the book, either, which meant the fool still faced ruin. Oriseus simply had to call in the debts his proxies had bought up. Even more importantly, neither Dorn nor anyone else of importance knew of Oriseus’s criminal and treasonous designs. He’d emerged from the Bouquet debacle with his reputation unblemished, free to continue enjoying all the wealth and luxuries his station afforded while pursuing his clandestine efforts to bring the entire city under his sway.
Or so he assumed. But as he descended the marble steps toward his litter, a handsome, crimson-lacquered conveyance with appointments of real gold, he spied the Gray Blades. They’d apparently been waiting in the street, inconspicuous among the scurrying crowds, for Oriseus to emerge. Their expressions hard, they advanced on him, and Miri Buckman strode along with them.
Oriseus didn’t know how it had happened, but he had no doubt the Faceless Master had ordered his arrest. He was equally certain of the grim fate awaiting him if he allowed himself to be taken. Struggling against terror, he told himself it needn’t come to that. His magic would enable him to escape.
He began reciting a spell, lifted a hand to sketch an arcane symbol in the air, and a fierce pain stabbed into his palm. His arm jerked, spoiling the pass. Amazed, he turned his head to discover the source of his distress. He had an arrow sticking through his flesh, the bloody, razor-edged head protruding several inches beyond his knuckles. If only he’d worn his green cloak with its enchantment against missiles! Unfortunately, he’d been worried that people had noticed a suspicious character clad in such a garment fleeing the scene of the battle the night before, and accordingly had left it in his armoire.
He started conjuring with the other hand. Smiling, Miri shot an arrow through that one, too. He tried to finish the magic anyway, but fumbled. The Gray Blades grabbed him.
Once the lawmen laid hands on Oriseus Forar, Aeron decided he and Nicos had seen enough. Muffled in their cloaks and hoods, they turned away, then squirmed and dodged their way through the mass of gawkers who had, as if by magic, assembled to watch the wealthy and prominent—and accordingly, envied and despised—merchant’s downfall.
Aeron’s belly felt as hollow as a whore’s flattery, and he was sure that after his ordeal, Nicos could use a hearty breakfast to rebuild his strength. He led the old man to an open-air food stand under a sagging, dilapidated awning. Behind the bar, eggs, battered bread, trout, and perch smoked and sizzled in cast iron frying pans, filling the air with appetizing aromas.
“I don’t know why Miri didn’t j
ust shoot Forar in the vitals,” Aeron said as they claimed a pair of stools. “I doubt either the Faceless Master or Dorn Heldeion would have minded.”
Nicos smirked and replied, “She figured you were watching from somewhere close at hand, so she was showing off for you.”
“I knew it had to happen sooner or later,” said Aeron, shaking his head. “You’re finally going senile.”
“You could do worse than a lass like that.”
“Right, a woman who likes to sleep out in the rain and snow and thinks the point of life is to risk your neck serving others. Plainly, she and I are a match decreed by the Morninglord himself.”
“Well, when you put it that way….”
A serving maid came to take their orders. After she finished, Aeron turned the conversation to more practical matters.
“What items do you need,” he asked, “to undertake a journey?”
“A fresh supply of my medicines would be nice. Why, are we going somewhere?”
“Away. I don’t care how many oaths Kesk swears. I’ve twisted his snout too many times, and if I linger within his reach, eventually he’ll put an end to me.”
“You don’t seem too upset about needing to flee.”
Aeron shrugged and asked, “What is there to hold me here? All my best friends have either died or betrayed me, and anyway, this whole town is nothing more than a black bouquet.”
“What in the name of Baator does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to finding out. Lately it’s occurred to me that the world’s a lot bigger than this one town. I’ve never even seen the Lake of Steam, and it’s just over the next hill. Well, so to speak.”
“Do we have the funds to pay for a journey?”
“We will once I lift a few purses. Afterward, we’ll wander until we find a city that suits us. Someplace I can go back to thieving as a regular thing if I take a mind to.”
“If you take a mind to …” Nicos chuckled. “If we want to eat, you may not have a choice.”
“Well, as to that….”
Aeron stealthily opened his tunic just long enough for his father to glimpse the old, brown sheets of parchment he carried inside, then fastened it up again.
Nicos lowered his rasping voice to a whisper and asked, “Pages from the formulary?”
“Slit neatly from the center. Dorn Heldeion has plenty of recipes left. He’ll never miss these few. But if the whole book is worth a vast fortune, then even a piece of it should sell for a small one, once we get it authenticated. So you see, unless we develop a yen for golden ruby-studded chamber pots and similar extravagances, we’re set for a long time to come.”
Nicos grinned and said, “I always hoped to steer you toward an honest, upright manner of living. I’m starting to be glad it didn’t work.”
A Major
Event!
The Year of Rogue
Dragons Book I
The Rage
RICHARD LEE BYERS
An Excerpt
They shrugged off their packs and bedrolls—they didn’t want the gear weighing them down in combat. Then they drank the elixirs intended to protect them from the acidic secretion slathering the dragon’s hide. After that it was time for Pavel, brandishing his sun-shaped pendant, to work magic.
From past experience, Dorn knew the first prayer was a blessing to brace and invigorate the four of them. It cleansed the fleshly part of him of the aches and heaviness of fatigue even as it cleared and sharpened his mind. The second invocation engendered no such sensations, but in some subtle fashion he didn’t pretend to understand, it would make it more difficult for the wyrm to strike them.
The third spell was for Dorn alone. The world fell utterly silent as Pavel shrouded him in stillness. In theory, the rest of his comrades might have benefited from the same treatment. But Will was too vain of his thief-craft to admit the magic might be of use to him, and neither Pavel nor Raryn wanted to dispense with their voices and thus their ability to recite incantations. The latter possessed his own store of cantrips, wilderness lore handed down from ranger to ranger, not as formidable or versatile as the cleric’s divinely granted powers, but useful enough in certain situations.
After that, they were ready. Dorn nodded, signaling it was time to go.
They crept in single file, Will in the lead, Raryn second, Dorn third, and Pavel, the noisiest as well as the least adept with mundane weapons, bringing up the rear. Each kept several yards back from the hunter in front of him. Even if a dragon had no breath weapon—and if they were right about its species, the one they were stalking didn’t—it was good tactics not to bunch up. That way, the creature couldn’t rear up and fling itself down on the whole hunting party, pinning and crushing everyone with a single hop.
As he drew nearer to the quarry, Dorn’s eyes started to water and sting. It hardly inspired confidence in the efficacy of the potion he’d just consumed. He wondered if old Firefingers had brewed up a weak batch.
He caught his first glimpse of the wyrm, hunkered down among the trees. They’d been correct, it was one of the bog-dwelling creatures called ooze drakes. Smeared with a vile-looking whitish slime, its dull green body was lanky and serpentine, and even the idiots who claimed to consider other breeds of dragon beautiful would have found nothing fair or graceful in its proportions. Its claws were gray, and Dorn knew that when he saw them, its fangs would be the same.
As usual, the sight of the thing gave him a pang of dread, but he reminded himself why he hated them, and he was all right. He knew his friends would be, too, for in all their years together, none of them had ever let him down.
The ooze drake jerked, and a stone rebounded from its flank, leaving a bloody pock behind. It seemed a miracle that such a small missile could penetrate the creature’s scales. But Will was a master of the warsling, knew the spots where the dragon’s hide was thinnest, and had hurled an enchanted missile. All in all, it was sufficient to give the beast a sting.
Far more quickly than such a huge creature ought to be able to move, the drake whirled in the direction of its attacker. Pale yellow eyes blazing, it opened its jaws. Roaring, surely, though Dorn couldn’t hear it. Another stone caught it on the end of its snout, and it charged.
Dorn hastily drew back his composite longbow and sent an arrow streaking through the trees. He too knew where to aim, and the shaft plunged deep into the base of the dragon’s neck. It stumbled, its sweeping tail obliterating a stand of blue-spotted mushrooms. The wyrm lurched around in the archer’s direction. Will immediately hit it in the shoulder with another stone.
The ooze drake spread its batlike wings. If it took to the air, that might well give it a crucial advantage, even against foes who took care to remain beneath the sheltering trees. Or, if it was feeling timid, it could simply soar away and leave its attackers far behind. It was Raryn’s job to keep that from happening. He scrambled out from behind a stand of brush and threw his harpoon. Trailing rope behind it, the lance drove into the wyrm’s belly.
Most dragons were at least as intelligent as men. The ooze drake clearly had the wit to surmise that the white-bearded dwarf had knotted the other end of the line to a tree. Perhaps it even realized the harpoon was barbed, and that if it simply yanked it out, it risked giving itself a far more serious wound than it had taken hitherto. In any case, it made the right move. Twisting its neck, it reached to bite the rope.
If Dorn was lucky, he could prevent that, but not by sniping away with his bow. He dropped the missile weapon, gripped his bastard sword, and charged out into the open. Had it been possible, he would have shouted a war cry to attract the ooze drake’s attention
Not that he needed to. The reptile could hardly miss such a hulk of a man, body half made of iron and long, straight blade in hand, sprinting to engage it. And it obviously realized that if it simply ignored him, he was likely to drive the sword into its eye while it chewed at the rope. The dragon swung around and pounced.
Dorn sprang aside
, just avoiding the scaly foot and talons that would otherwise have eviscerated him. He cut at its foreleg, trying to cripple it, but scarcely nicked it. The creature spun around to face him.
When Dorn had nightmares, they were about dragons, and conducted in utter silence as it was, the duel that now commenced had something of the same eerie quality. Certainly, seen up close, the ooze drake was nightmare incarnate. Its gnashing, slate-colored teeth were like swords, while the citrine, slit-pupiled eyes shone with demonic rage. Its body, as long as a tree and as big as a house, coiled and struck with appalling speed. The wounds it had taken weren’t slowing it at all.
Dorn fought as he generally did, the almost indestructible iron portion of his body forward to parry—or, when unavoidable, bear an enemy’s attacks—and the soft, human half behind. The ooze drake caught his metal arm in its fangs, bore down, realized it couldn’t bite through, and settled for whipping him up and down like a terrier breaking the back of a rat. Dorn was slammed to the ground.
The reptile raked at him. Dorn thrust, and the point of his sword drove into the flesh between two of the creature’s claws. The wyrm snatched its foot back, away from the pain, and for an instant, the pressure of its jaws slackened. Fortunately, Dorn’s artificial limbs had sensation of a sort, though it wasn’t like a normal human’s sense of touch. His master had seen no reason to make a tool meant purely for killing susceptible to pain. The halfgolem felt the loosening and wrenched his grotesquely oversized fist free. The knuckle-spikes caught on one of the drake’s lower fangs and ripped it from the gum. He heaved himself to his feet, and the reptile lunged at him once more.
As they fought, drops of the drake’s corrosive slime, flung free by its exertions or his own strokes, spattered him. They stung his face, and he wondered again how well the potion was protecting him. Smoking and smoldering, the pasty stuff burned holes in his brigandine and even pitted the blade of the hand-and-a-half sword, enchanted though it was. Only the iron parts of him proved entirely resistant.
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