Dragon Weather (63 page)

“I'm sorry,” Arlian said.

“You knew the last of them, I think,” Rime said. “I believe she was called Rose, and was the Rose you knew.”

Arlian sat in stunned silence for a moment, then swallowed. “Oh,” he said.

“I don't even remember how many generations lay between us,” Rime said. “In truth, I don't suppose she shared any more of my blood than any of a thousand others, and the ties have grown weak over the long years—whether by nature or because the taint in my blood has turned my heart cold, I can't say. Still, I had looked after my family as best I could for a very long time, and from the time I came to Manfort until Enziet's actions, none of them had ever known any real want or serious hardship that wealth or influence might spare them.”

“Oh,” Arlian said again.

“I'd be glad to see Lord Enziet taught a lesson in arrogance and humility,” she said. “I had not thought I would ever be fortunate enough to see it.”

“Well, it hasn't happened yet,” Arlian said.

“It's begun,” Rime insisted. “That he is making his way into the Desolation in pursuit of dragon venom, rather than sitting safely at home plotting the governance of Manfort, is a beginning. You've uncovered his secrets, or at least a taste of them.”

“Well, we know that he knows more about the dragons than he's told the Society,” Arlian agreed, “but we don't know
what
he knows.”

“He can apparently speak to a dragon,” Rime said. “We know
that
much. And a black dragon, at that.”

“Is there some significance to its color?” Arlian asked.

“Don't you know?” She looked startled. “The black dragons are the eldest, the wisest and most powerful. A dragon's color darkens with age. The youngest ever seen by men were said to be golden, though those were mere striplings by dragon standards, and never ventured out into the open air—they were reported by people who had been down into the caverns in the old days, when the dragons ruled the world. No one has seen one in … well, in a thousand years or more, I would say. The mature dragons are green—it's said the green color appears first at the spine and then spreads until the entire beast is bright green. But then the color continues to darken, until at last the ancients of the dragon realm are utterly black, as black as their monstrous hearts.”

“The three who destroyed Obsidian were black,” Arlian said. “One still showed a trace of green, I think, but they were black.”

“Then they were old,” Rime said. She frowned. “That's curious, you know,” she added. “The one that destroyed
my
home was very dark, as well, though some green still showed. In all the old tales, though, the beasts that ravaged the countryside or fought against the liberators of humanity were green, and the black ones were said to lurk deep beneath the earth, directing their younger kin from afar.”

“Perhaps there
are
no more green dragons,” Arlian suggested. “Perhaps only the black ones survive, down there in the dark, and that's why they wearied of the fight and left the surface world to us.”

“But what would have become of the young ones?” She shook her head. “I doubt it's anything so simple as that.”

“I suppose not.” Arlian lapsed into silence, having finally exhausted his urge to babble, and having found things to think about other than the impending ambush.

Just then Black called quietly, “They're in the grove ahead of us, on both sides of the road.”

Arlian and Rime exchanged glances; then Arlian turned and clambered toward the front of the wagon, so that he could see out the door.

A big man had just stepped out into the roadway and was holding up his hands, signaling Black to stop. Black reined in the oxen.

“That's Shamble!” Arlian whispered, as he recognized that ugly face.

“Shut up,” Rime hissed back.

“What do you want?” Black demanded. “Why are you stopping us?”

“We just want to see who you've got in there,” Shamble replied, in his rumbling growl of a voice. As he spoke two other men stepped out of the trees, swords drawn and ready—one of them was Lord Toribor, and the other looked familiar as well.

The two Aritheians, their disguises intact, ambled up beside the oxen, as well—the road was becoming almost crowded.

“We want to get to Cork Tree before dark,” Thirif said.

“Then let us look, and we'll let you go,” Shamble said.

“Look for what?” Black asked.

“A sorcerer,” said the unidentified man, and the voice was the clue Arlian needed—he recognized him now as Stonehand. Three of his enemies stood here before him!

He resisted the temptation to say anything.

“An outlaw sorcerer, fleeing from Manfort,” Stonehand elaborated. “He's said to be heading this way. Have you seen him? He looks like a young man, fairly tall and strongly built; he's probably on horseback.”

Two more swordsmen had appeared now, but these two were strangers. Arlian could also see archers still more or less in hiding.

“Haven't seen anyone like that,” Black said. He asked Thirif, “You seen anyone like that?”

Thirif shook his head.

“Mind if we take a look in your wagon?” Shamble growled.

Black looked at the four drawn swords and shrugged. “I can't stop you,” he said.

At that, three of the swordsmen approached the wagon. Shamble stayed where he was, though, and Toribor came more slowly, hanging back behind the others.

Black slid aside to let the three climb aboard.

“Good afternoon,” Arlian said, tipping his cap to the first guardsman.

“Anyone else in here?” the intruder demanded, waving the blade of his weapon back and forth across the wagon's interior.

“Just the two of us,” Arlian said. “So who is this sorcerer? What did he do?”

“Killed a man,” Stonehand said, as he squeezed inside and looked about. “He calls himself Lanair, but he may use other names, as well.”

“Who did he kill?” Arlian asked. “Anyone important?”

Stonehand shrugged. “Important enough. A man called Lord Iron. He had the concession to supply equipment and training for the Duke's guards.”

“The
Duke
is involved?” Arlian said, trying hard to look impressed.

As they spoke the first swordsman was pawing through the supplies, moving the bundles and boxes about to be sure no one was hiding among them. Now he turned and said, “There's no one here.”

Stonehand frowned, and looked at Arlian and Rime. “If you two would be so kind as to step outside, where Lord Belly can have a look at you?”

Arlian glanced at Rime, then shrugged. “Why not?”

Actually, as he climbed out of the wagon he realized why not. If Toribor, who knew at least a little sorcery and knew both Arlian and Rime, stared at them closely enough with his one good eye he might penetrate their disguises.

Arlian couldn't see any way to avoid that risk, however. He dropped to the ground and waited.

Toribor approached cautiously and looked at Arlian and Rime.

“Know them?” Stonehand asked from the wagon door.

Toribor shook his head. “The woman might be a bit familiar,” he said, “but it's probably a chance resemblance. Certainly neither of them is Lord Obsidian.”

“Who?” Arlian asked—and he immediately regretted it, because the timing of his question had been just slightly too slow, not quite natural.

No one else seemed to notice his slip, however.

“The man we're looking for,” Toribor said. “It's none of your concern.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Get back in your wagon and go on.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Arlian said, doffing his cap and bowing.

A moment later they were rolling again, with Thirif and Shibiel back in the wagon along with Arlian and Rime, while Toribor, Shamble, and the others had stamped back into the trees, out of sight.

No one in the wagon dared speak at first, but when they had put a hundred yards or more between themselves and their enemies Arlian said, “I wonder where Drisheen was?”

“In the trees to the left, I think,” Rime replied. “I thought I could sense him. I just hope he couldn't sense
us
—if he felt the presence of sorcery he'd suspect something.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Arlian said. He frowned worriedly.

“What could you have done if you
had
thought of it?” Rime asked.

Arlian had no answer for that.

“Should I remove the glamour?” Thirif asked.

“No!” Arlian said. “No, no. We'll need it. After all, we're staying in Cork Tree tonight—and I'm sure
they
are, too.”

“Once they give up waiting for Lord Lanair,” Rime agreed. She smiled. “This could be very interesting.”

53

The Inn at Cork Tree

There were no rooms at the inn in Cork Tree; Lord Enziet's party had taken them all. Arlian and his companions were allowed to park their wagon in the stableyard, however, and to purchase the ordinary supper. The five travelers had eaten and drunk their fill when the disgruntled ambushers finally came straggling in.

“… sorcery, I tell you,” one man in Enziet's livery was saying as he entered.

“It probably was,” Lord Toribor agreed wearily. “He probably knew we were there and went around us, and is well on his way to Stonebreak by now.”

Arlian turned to look at the new arrivals.

“Shall we go after him?” Stonehand asked.

“I don't know,” Toribor said. “I'll need to talk it over with Drisheen. For now, though—innkeeper!”

The innkeeper appeared, a tray ready in his hands. “The ale's still cold,” he said, “and I've kept your supper warm, but it may be the worse for the wait.”

Arlian looked at his own empty mug. The ale was not exactly
cold
—the innkeeper presumably stored it in a deep cellar, so it was reasonably cool, but it was clear no magic was used, nor even a proper icehouse. It was not cold. It was good enough ale, but it would have been better were it somewhat colder.

Arlian remembered wryly that less than three years ago he had never tasted ale, yet here he was casually passing judgment on the stuff. He thumped the mug down on the table and looked around.

The dining room, which had been mostly empty moments before, was suddenly almost full. Most of the available chairs were occupied. Toribor and Stonehand were side by side at one table; Shamble was at the next. The inn's entire staff—the innkeeper, his wife, and three young people who might have been either his children or hired help—was busily serving out mugs of beer and plates of gravy-soaked ham.

Black belched contentedly, as if the sight of all that ham reminded him of the portion he had eaten himself. He leaned over and said quietly, “I count eleven.”

“Not all fighters, though,” Arlian muttered in reply—he could see a young boy among the others, and two women who looked too frail to be warriors of any sort. “Where's Drisheen?”

“I don't see him,” Rime said.

“Blast it!” Arlian replied. “Where is he, then?”

Just then the door opened again and a guardsman entered, followed by an elaborately dressed lord, a feathered hat in his hand.

“
There
he is,” Rime said.

Drisheen paused in the doorway, nose in the air, and surveyed the room. Then he flourished his hat as if waving away an unpleasant odor and stepped inside.

A faint scent reached Arlian, a sweet, cloying scent that was oddly familiar. He frowned, trying to place it.

Then it came back to him, in a sudden wave of memory—falling in through Sweet's window, tumbling onto the floor of a room that stank of perfume, where he had abruptly gone from the cold and empty outside world to the comforting warmth of a woman's arms.

Sweet had opened the window to air out the room, to get rid of the stench of Lord Drisheen's perfume—and Lord Drisheen.

He had smelled it again in Manfort, once or twice—most recently, very faintly, when he had seen Sparkle and Ferret hanging in Drisheen's library.

And that same smell was present now. In Westguard it had been diluted by the scent of powder and cloth and oil and of course Sweet herself, while here it was mixed with beer and bread and smoke and meat and sweat, but it was unmistakably the same smell.

The memory of Sweet's smiling face and cheerful giggle hung there for a moment, then gave way to the sight of her lying pale and still in the bed beside him, eyes closed but mouth slack and open.

He felt his teeth clench, a growl rising in his throat as his eyes followed Drisheen's progress across the room.

“Hush!” Rime hissed.

Arlian caught himself. “Sorry,” he said.

Drisheen had reached the table where Toribor and Stonehand sat, and was standing there as they turned to look up at him. Arlian strained to hear what was said.

Thirif, across the table, crushed a tiny blue vial in his hand, and suddenly Arlian's hearing sharpened.

“I have placed wards on the road, on the trees, and on the entire town,” Drisheen said. “If any dragonheart enters this place, we will know it.”

Arlian glanced at Rime, who mouthed, “We're already here.”

“Good,” Toribor said. “Have a seat, my lord, and eat something.” He gestured at an empty chair.

“In good time. I would hear, first, whether you have any explanation for the failure of our trap. Do you think your men were so clumsy that he saw us before we saw him, and turned aside therefore?”

Toribor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think he's just cagy. He guessed that we might have set traps upon the high road, and found another route.”

Drisheen frowned as he tucked his hat under his arm. “And what do you propose to do about this?”

“I don't know what we
can
do,” Toribor said with a shrug. “If you have suggestions I will be delighted to hear and consider them, but left to my own devices I'd say we've missed him, that he chose to bypass us and he's now Enziet's problem.”