by Andre Norton
I did not snore! Keman exclaimed indignantly.
You did, Shana told him firmly. Most of the night. Loudly.
He snorted, and ignored her, examining those straps of his harness that he could reach himself with ostentatious care.
Now, at the top of that leap, Shana continued, as if she had not been interrupted—another sign of her nervous tension— he's going to suddenly snap open his wings and start a series of very powerful wingbeats to gain altitude. They're just like the leap; a series of surges. You're going to be thrown backward with every wingbeat, and if you don't hold on and hunch yourself over like this— she crouched down, demonstrating the position —you're going to feel as if your head is going to snap off the end of your spine.
Lorryn nodded, and his sister sighed. This sounds worse than riding the worst-gaited horse in the universe!
It is, Shana assured her. In fact, it's worse than riding a pack-grel. All right, at some point he's going to reach the height he needs, and that's where the discomfort really begins. These folks don't fly in a straight line. They swoop, like this— She made an arcing motion with her hand. Wing-beat, swoop, wingbeat. Your poor stomach is going to think you're falling during part of each swoop. That's where you'll get flight-sick, if it happens at all, and if you have to—well—just tell Kalamadea; he'll bank to one side so that you can—ah—straight down. And Ancestors help whatever is below you.
Keman listened with real interest; although he had carried passengers before this, he'd never heard any of them explain what it felt like to them. Of course, flying felt perfectly natural and right to him, but evidently that was not how it felt to those who rode his back.
There's also turbulence up there; Keman has done sideslips, been bounced as if he was trying to buck me off, and dropped halfway to the ground, and even turned upside down by winds. I don't get sick, and I hope you won't, but I won't promise anything. She shrugged at their expressions of dismay. No matter what, make sure that every strap is tight, every buckle fastened. Check them while you're flying. They are all that is keeping you on his back, and believe me, you need every one of them.
Mero came up as she said that, and nodded solemnly. If we have to fly through a storm, you're going to wish you had more straps than you do, he added.
But—the stories all made it seem as if flying was so easy, Rena said plaintively. As if—you just got on, and off you went!
Keman laughed. Well, do remember that it was Myre telling you those tales, right? For us, flying is easy. And anyway, she wouldn't have wanted to discourage your romantic image of dragons. He thought for a moment, men added, I can at least promise you this—it's easier flying with Kalamadea man with me. I have to take more wingbeats to stay aloft man he does, because he's bigger. Have you ever watched birds?
At Rena's nod, he went on.
You've probably seen the way small birds fly; it's very jerky, and it takes a lot of wingbeats. But a big hawk, now—he can glide quite a bit, and when he does take a wing-beat, it's slower because his wings are larger. That's the difference between Kalamadea and me, and you two will be riding Kalamadea, because you're less experienced.
Shana was testing every strap; the leatherworkers had worked all night on the harnesses, and Kalamadea rather approved of them. They certainly fit better than anything he'd had rigged up before.
Ah—here's something else, Shana said as she came around from the other side. Rena, Lorryn, see the pad here, that's like a saddle? Don't let your legs slip off it and don't ever be tempted to wear cloth breeches instead of leather. Dragonscales are very abrasive and they'll scrape you to the bone in a few wingbeats. She had them slide their hands the wrong way along Keman's shoulder, and nodded when they winced. That's why I asked the leatherworkers to make more than two sets of harnesses and lots of extra straps, so that if some of this gets sliced up, we can just discard the pieces instead of wasting time trying to mend it.
Would one of those extra harnesses happen to fit me?
Keman looked up, as startled as everyone else, as a shadow slid over them all. A moment later, Dora landed in a flurry of wingbeats that kicked up dust and sent it flying in every direction.
I saw the double-saddle on Kalamadea, but Keman is much smaller than the Elder One, and I thought you might need an extra mount, Dora said, shyly and turned to Keman. You were right, she said, simply, and his heart soared.
:And thank you for not—not using emotions to convince me,: she added, for his benefit only.
Kalamadea was the first one to recover, and he did so with considerable aplomb. Keman? he said, quietly. Would you care to introduce us to your—friend?
:And is this where you've been vanishing at night, when we all thought you were hunting, you young rascal? Or were you hunting after all? Fairer game than plains deer?: he added.
Ah—this is Dora, he said lamely, suddenly tongue-tied. She's from a Lair very far south, where the Iron Clans all live, and she's been watching this Clan the way we used to watch the elven lords. She didn't know there were any other dragons except the ones in her Lair until she saw my shadow.
Really? was all Kalamadea said, then he turned to Dora, every talon-length the gallant. Welcome to our group, Dora. We are very pleased to have your help, and very grateful as well.
She ducked her head, her nostrils flushing.
Now, if I may take command of this situation, Kalamadea continued, looking over his shoulder at the sun, I believe we should get another harness onto our new friend Dora, and make all speed while we can. Explanations can wait until we are airborne. Lorryn, since you are riding double with your sister, who is the only one of us who cannot speak and hear thoughts, you can simply tell -her what is being said. At the least, it will enliven the journey no end.
He clapped his wings sharply, by way of emphasis.
Come along, my friends! he finished. The elven lords are sharpening their talons for our necks! It is time, and more than time, that we were in the air!
Chapter 10
LORRYN NURSED A cup of thick, too sweet red wine in one of the many taverns he'd been frequenting since he began this part of the plan. This one was in Whitegates, a trade-city administered by Lord Ordrevel—or more correctly, by Lord Ordrevel's underlings. It didn't matter where he was, really; each of the five trade-cities looked pretty much like the next one, and all these taverns were alike.
He should know. He'd been in every trade-city on the continent, and most of the taverns.
The taverns were all luxuriously appointed—or so it seemed. If you looked closely, though, you saw that most of the luxury was only where it could be seen. Leather upholstery extended only to the side of the cushion that showed; satin wallpaper gave way to bare wall where the wall was covered by furniture or something else. Velvet drapes proved on touching to be soft, flocked paper, cheap and disposable.
These taverns all had dark rooms in the upper levels where human slaves waited to give whatever pleasuring was required, but the rooms were so dark that neither the slaves nor the surroundings were readily visible. They all served very cheap wine, spiced and honeyed to a fair-thee-well to disguise how cheap it really was.
And they all played host to elves who were too low in rank and status to have estates, manor houses, and concubines of their own—or young elves, leashed and collared by their lord fathers, who likewise had nothing of the sort as their own. This—and the taverns like it, in this city and the other four trade-cities—was where the legacies, the supervisors, the seneschals and trainers, came to forget the petty insults heaped upon them by their liege lords. This was where the extra sons and the disregarded heirs came, to forget that there was nothing that they would ever see or touch that was truly theirs.
This was where the former concubines, or young girls and boys too delicate to serve in the fields, but not comely enough to grace a harem or work as house slaves, also came. It was difficult to imagine a worse life than that of a field hand, but surely this was it. Especially for the traumatized, abu
sed creatures waiting in those upper rooms. Lorryn tried not to think too hard about them; he was already doing what he could to change their fates.
Lorryn provided a sympathetic ear, and more important, a ready purse. (Many of them were kept on meager allowances by those so-careful lord fathers, generally an amount that was less than the cost of a good dog or a field hand.) He offered his wine and murmurs of understanding. That was common enough; they all shared their grievances, those who came here. What was uncommon was that he also provided a remedy.
Word of that remedy was spreading.
He had learned something fascinating during the hours he had spent in these places, where the air was scented with perfume to cover the odor of spilled wine, and the light was dim to hide the stains on the velvets and satins of the upholstery, the serving girls, and the clientele. His worst fear had been that one or more of the seemingly disgruntled would prove to be an informant, and that the game would be uncovered be fore it began. And surely one or more had been an informant—
But whether they informed out of fear or out of greed, when he actually gave them a way to even the odds with the Great Lords, when he showed them how ineffective magic was against his talismanic jewelry, they all turned. Each and every one of them turned against the lord they had been working for, passed over the gold, hid the necklace, headband, and armbands in the breast of his tunic, and walked out without a word.
Except, perhaps, to inform to someone else who had a lord as cruel, as indifferent, as sadistic as his own.
He had always known that the Great Lords were cruel to their underlings, but he had never, in all of his planning, guessed that they were so cruel that their liegemen would turn against them at the first opportunity. He had seen the gilded facade of their world, as he walked through it as Lord Tylar's son and heir. Beneath the languid manners, the pretty magics, the idle games, was a cruelty that was all the darker for being so completely casual, a cruelty that used up and disposed of humans and elves alike as if they were toys meant only to amuse an idle hour.
He sipped his wine, and sat in his back-corner booth, and waited for them to find him.
There had been a young lord—he must be a younger son, for he did not wear livery, and his clothing was of too high a quality to be an underling—sitting at a table nearby, drinking steadily, and watching him for the past hour. Now, finally, he rose to his feet, wove his way through the tables with surprising grace (considering the quantity of drink he'd been putting away), and settled himself onto the bench across from Lorryn, empty cup still in hand. He helped himself to the wine in Lorryn's pitcher without a by-your-leave, which further argued for a high position.
Lorryn simply nodded, and pushed the pitcher of wine closer to his new drinking companion.
The stranger took that as an open invitation, downed his cup in a single gulp, and poured it full afresh.
Fathers, he said at last, sneering, and making the word a curse. 'Tell you how important you are from the time you can walk, give you ev-everything you ask for right up until you co-come of age. Then what?
You tell me, Lorryn said blandly.
Nothing, that's what! The stranger emptied the cup again; this time Lorryn refilled it. You come of age, and nothing changes! You're still 'the boy,' still have to come and go as you're bid! You want to ha-have a little fun, bring in some friends, and next thing you know, he's got you hauled up in front of him like you were stealing from his money chest!
Ah, Lorryn replied wisely. I know. You want to have a little manor of your own, a few slave-girls, you ask for it, and hoy! He acts like you'd spit on the names of your Ancestors!
Oh, aye! the stranger agreed. And just try and walk off the path, just a bit, just for a lark! He's on you, he's using his power on you as if you were his slave, his property! Bad enough he crushes you down to the ground, worse that he lays the Will-Lash on you! Next thing you know, he's threatening the Change on you, to make you mind!
'To unmake your mind, you mean, Lorryn said, in a grim voice. Ah, so that's what's set this one off. Not that I blame him, not after what Rena told me. Make you into some kind of puppet, dancing to his tune!
That's ex-exactly what he said! the young elven lord said in surprise. 'You dance to my tune, boy, with the Change or without it, so put your mind to it! And next thing I know, he's got me betrothed to some whining, milk-faced girl who can't walk across a room without having vapors, who can't say three sensible words in a row, who—Ancestors, help me!—faints whenever she sees a man with his shirt off! What's she going to do when she sees more than that? And I'm stuck with her!
And if you choose to leave her in the bower, and find some fun elsewhere? Lorryn prompted.
The young lord snarled. It'll be the Change for me, my lad. I'm to do my duty by her, like a proper er-Lord, that's what! He poured another cup of wine, but this time he didn't drink it. Instead he leaned over the table and said, in a far different tone, But I've heard there's a remedy for that situation.
Lorryn made patterns on the tabletop with his finger and a bit of spilled wine. Filigree patterns. There might be—so I've heard, he said casually.
I've heard there's a bit of jewelry that can keep someone from—having magic worked on him against his will. The er-Lord looked up through his long, pale eyelashes expectantly—and a little desperately.
There might be. I've heard that. Lorryn completed his lacy pattern. I've also heard there's something of a craze for patterned silver necklaces, armbands, headbands. Very popular among the young lords these days, I'm told. You might begin to wonder if the cure for your troubles is in that jewelry, eh?
The stranger nodded eagerly. You wouldn't know where I could find a dealer for some of that—would you? A man's got to keep up with the fashions.
Lorryn pretended to think about it. You know, I might have a bit of that with me now, he replied. I'd bought it for a friend, but I could let you have it right now for the same price. I can go find the maker again, easily enough, but he's a hard man for a stranger to find.
And what would that price be? Now the er-Lord was leaning forward so eagerly that Lorryn almost spoiled the entire deal by laughing out loud. He named the price, and the stranger pulled a purse off his belt and shoved it across the table.
There's twice that in gold there, he said, his fingers twitching, as if he could not wait to get his hands on the jewelry. Take it, take it all! The desperation in his eyes overwhelmed the wine. Then again, who wouldn't be desperate, threatened with the Change?
Lorryn did not touch the purse; he carefully took a purse of his own from his belt, one containing silk-wrapped, silver plated ironwork from the hands of Diric's people, and slid it across the table. The er-Lord snatched it up, hiding it in the breast of his tunic, and only then did Lorryn take the purse of gold.
You'll want to test it, of course—for its quality and workmanship, he said. There'll be a party three nights from now in the private room above the Silver Rose. If you show up there, wearing that, someone who's an expert in jewelry will look it over for you, and you might hear something more that's likely to interest you. And keep it in the silk until you need to use it, hey? You know how things—give themselves away. You give the game away, and you'll hurt more than yourself.
The er-Lord nodded, obviously impatient to be gone. Lorryn suppressed a smile. He was able to hear this one's thoughts as clearly as if he were shouting, which, in a sense, he was. That was how Lorryn knew who the would-be informants were—and knew when he had persuaded them to his side.
This young man could hardly wait to get his prizes home. He planned to wear them constantly, as so many of his friends were, hidden beneath the silk of his clothing as like as not. And he would be at that party, another set of willing hands to aid the revolt that Lorryn was planting the seeds of. Lorryn would not even be there—
He didn't have to. The ringleader of the revolt, at least in this city, was Lord Gweriliath's seneschal, a man who had seen his precious daughter sent away as a br
ide to another powerful lord more than old enough to be her great-grandsire, and all to pay one of Lord Gweriliath's gambling debts. Lorryn only needed to coordinate the revolt; the ringleaders sprang up of their own accord as soon as word of the power of the jewelry began to spread.
And Lorryn had hardly been able to restrain himself when he saw, this very morning, copies of the filigree jewelry showing up in shops—but in gold, of course, and with none of the detail and intricacy of the genuine article. Before long, the er-Lords themselves might just start plating the silver with gold, and no one would ever be able to tell the difference between the genuine article and the copies.
Except by the effect—or lack of it.
I wish you well, sir, he said gravely, giving the young er-Lord the signal that the interview was over. And do enjoy the party.
I shall, trust me, I shall. And with that, the young elven lord was out of his seat and striding out of the room with no sign whatsoever that he had put away enough wine to knock out a cart-horse.
Lorryn waited a little longer, but the hour was late, and it appeared that this was going to be his final customer of the evening. He paid the tavern-keeper—and paid him generously. The tavern-keeper was a human, and under his livery tunic he wore a much simplified version of the filigree-work torque, a cross between the women's jewels and the warriors' torques. These were being turned out by the clever hands of human slaves, craftsmen bought with the gold the lords were paying for the prettier styles.
They were very popular with the slaves, although Lorryn was being very careful whom he sold—or gave—these little baubles to. It had to be to someone who had a strong grievance against his current or past masters—and yet someone who was unlikely to be on the receiving end of his current master's power. Shopkeepers were good prospects; tavern-keepers, some overseers, a concubine or two. These, Lorryn tested himself, heart and soul.