Dragon Weather (33 page)

“Of course,” he said. He stepped up to the door and looked out.

Arlian's familiar, battered wagon stood in the town square, just behind the Aritheians, but four more exotic wagons stood beyond it, each open-sided and roofed with red-dyed canvas stretched over a wooden frame, each drawn by a pair of fine horses. Another horse, a big black gelding, stood nearby, tied to a palm tree.

All five wagons seemed somehow indistinct, and a trifle brighter and more colorful than they should be. Black had been in the Borderlands long enough to know what that meant.

“Magic,” he said.

“Quite a bit of it, yes,” Arlian said. “It's what the Aritheians do best, and I think they were quite generous with me.”

Black nodded. “You found a market for your weapons, then. Good for you, my lord.”

“And a market for the silver, too. I brought the metal that made those pendants.”

Black studied the nearest Aritheian's necklace. A purple stone was set in it, he noticed. “Excellent.”

Arlian glanced at the wagons. “Let me introduce you,” he said.

“If you like,” Black said, as he followed Arlian out into the sun.

The Aritheian names were strange, and Black doubted he would remember them all. The head of the Aritheian delegation was a thin, eagle-eyed man called Thirif, but a plump, smiling woman named Hlur was to serve as the new ambassador to Manfort.

“I wasn't aware a new ambassador was needed,” Black remarked.

“Sahasin is…” Arlian began. He hesitated, then said, “Well, let us just say that I think a new ambassador
will
be needed.”

Black did not ask for further explanation; he continued with the introductions. It became clear that only about half the Aritheians had even a smattering of Man's Tongue, but all of them smiled and nodded and seemed pleased to be in the Lands of Man, and pleased to meet Black.

The wagons were so full of magic that even standing near them made Black's skin prickle; he could not resist looking in the open side of one at the bundles and boxes.

Arlian noticed his glance.

“That's all prepared enchantments,” he said. “Thousands of them. Powders and potions and gems, decoctions of herbs and dreams in iron cages—all of them things unknown in the Lands of Man. I'll have something to sell at every town on the road north, from Stonebreak to Benth-in-Tara, and should still have most of it left when we reach Manfort.”

“Indeed,” Black said in a noncommittal tone.

“The Aritheians tell me that even the greatest magician can't make magic from nothing in Manfort,” Arlian said. “There's something lacking in the air or earth. But they can bring these prepared magicks there to sell.”

“Sorcerers seem to manage,” Black pointed out.

Arlian waved that away. “The Aritheians don't seem to consider our sorcery to be true magic,” he said. “They tell me that these are all spells that sorcerers can't make.”

“What sort of spells?”

“Oh, any number of different ones,” Arlian said, as the two man strolled around the wagon, looking in at its contents. “Poisons and protections and aphrodisiacs, love philtres and enthrallments, illusions and glamours—I don't know all of them myself. The House of Deri had been stockpiling them for twenty years against the day they found a way to reopen trade.”

“And are all these yours to sell, then?”

“Most of them,” Arlian admitted. “My old wagon and two of the others are mine; the other two belong to the House of Deri. Allies of mine.”

“And these Aritheians who came with you?”

“Well, Shibiel and Isein and Qulu work for me,” Arlian said. “The others are merely traveling with us. Thirif and Hlur and one or two of the others plan to join the caravan and accompany us to Manfort—after all, an ambassador would hardly be any use anywhere else. The rest have already had enough of adventure in getting this far, and prefer not to cross the Desolation—I can scarcely blame them for that! They'll be staying here in the Borderlands, trading for the things Arithei lacks.”

Black nodded. “Those first three you mentioned are your slaves, then? You bought them?”

Arlian stopped dead, shocked. He turned to stare at Black.

“No,” he said. “I would never own slaves. I have
been
a slave, and lived among slaves—I won't hold another in bondage. These are free people in my employ.”

“Employees?” Black said. “Then you are truly a lord now, and not merely playing the part.”

“Yes,” Arlian agreed. “I am a lord. And I think,” he said, “that at last I'm ready.”

Black looked at him inquiringly.

“I'm a grown man now,” Arlian said. “I'm strong and whole, and have, you say, the heart of the dragon. I've learned the manners of a lord, and found the money to establish my claim to the title beyond question. You've taught me the basics of swordsmanship, and on the roads I've killed a man and a dozen monsters. The Aritheians have provided me with more magic than almost anyone else in Manfort could possess. I believe that in wits, courage, and capabilities I'm a match for most men.” He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“The time has come,” he continued, “to return to Manfort and find Lord Dragon and his looters, and punish them for their wrongs. No more delays. The time has come to find Sweet and free her, and any of the other women who aided me who may yet survive, and to punish all the owners of the House of Carnal Society for
their
wrongs. And when that is all done it will be time to seek out the dragons in their caverns beneath the earth, the beasts who slew my family, and destroy them.”

“Oh, is
that
all,” Black said. “Overthrow a dozen lords and wipe out the dragons—child's play!”

Arlian grinned at him.

Black glowered back.

For a moment the two of them stood silently by the wagon; Black turned to look over the boxes and bundles once more.

He knew that even a simple love philtre was worth a dozen times its weight in gold, and here Arlian had three wagonloads of magic. The boy was not merely a lord, but a very wealthy lord indeed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough. He turned back to his friend.

“Have you ever considered giving up your career in the caravan trade?” Arlian asked.

“Why?” Black asked warily.

“Because a proper lord must have a household, of course, and I'll need a bodyguard and steward. I value your counsel and your friendship, Black—I'd be pleased if you'd take the job.”

Black stared at him silently for a moment.

“You must think I'm a fool,” he said at last.

“I'll pay time and a fifth your present contract,” Arlian said.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“In gold?”

“Of course.”

“In that case, my lord,” Black said with a bow, “I
am
a fool. The moment my current contract is completed, I will be entirely at your service.”

BOOK
III

Lord Obsidian

28

Rumors

Coin looked up as the door flew open and the spring rain blew in. The man in the doorway was of moderate height, dark-haired, and clad in black leather.

She closed the ledger and asked, “May I be of service?”

“I understand you manage certain properties in the upper city,” the man in black said.

“I do,” Coin acknowledged.

“I represent Lord Obsidian,” the stranger said. “He has sent me ahead while he tends to certain other business in Westguard. He seeks suitable accommodations for an extended stay in Manfort.”

“I might have a suite of rooms…” Coin began.

The man in black smiled crookedly. “No, no,” he said. “Suitable accommodations for
Lord Obsidian.
We require a house and garden, at the very least.”

“And at the most?”

The man's smile broadened. “I doubt very much that anything you have could be more than we can use. Or more than Lord Obsidian can afford.”

Coin snorted. “As it happens, I have charge of the old ducal palace—the one abandoned by the grandfather of the present Duke of Manfort when the Citadel was completed. I scarcely think…”

“That would suit us perfectly,” the man in black interrupted. “If I might see it? Immediately?”

Coin stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether the man was a fool, or deranged, or joking, or simply unaware of what such an establishment would cost. She had never heard of any Lord Obsidian, so far as she could recall, and surely she would have heard of anyone who could afford the Old Palace.

But then, “Obsidian” might be an alias—perhaps for Lord Enziet, or another of the city's elite, who had grown bored with more modest accommodations. She rose.

“I'll get the keys,” she said.

*   *   *

The watchman thought the stranger staring at the New Inn looked familiar, but could not place him. His yellow silk shirt and lush wool coat, the sharply trimmed hair laid bare when he doffed his plumed hat, the fine sword on his belt, and a dozen other details marked him as a wealthy man, but his black boots were scuffed and showing wear, the hair just slightly wrong for the current fashion.

Curious, the watchman ambled over. It was a quiet day, and he had nothing in particular he should be doing other than simply remaining visible on the street, so no one could object if he offered the young man a bit of advice, and maybe asked a few questions.

The stranger did not look around as the watchman approached; instead he continued to study the New Inn, as if trying to identify the individual stone blocks of the façade. His coat flapped in the chill wind, and the hat under his arm struggled to escape.

“They've not chosen a name yet, or put up their sign, but it's an inn, my lord, if you're seeking lodging,” the watchman offered.

The young man turned. “An inn?” he asked. “Just an inn?”

“That's right.”

“I had been told that a rather different establishment might be found here.”

“Ah,” the watchman said. Matters were becoming clearer. “Well, there was one, until about two years ago—the House of the Six Lords, some of us called it. It's gone, burned down.”

“Oh? Burned? How did that happen?”

“One of the six lords had it done.”

The stranger frowned. “Really? That's hardly usual, is it, to deliberately burn down a building in the middle of town?”

“Not usual at all, my lord,” the watchman agreed. “And we might have protested, but he had come with a letter from the Duke of Manfort, granting him full authority to do as he pleased, and ordering all of us in the guard to obey him.”

“Indeed! Now,
that's
not usual either, is it?”

“No, my lord.”

“Could it have been a forgery, do you suppose?”

“He had the Duke's seal on it, and one of the Duke's own guards with him, my lord.”

“Who was this man, then, that had so much of the Duke's favor?” The question was perhaps a trifle more eagerly asked than might have been expected.

“I don't know, my lord; he gave no name.”

Arlian tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh, but surely someone must have recognized him!”

“Not to my knowledge, my lord.”

“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!”