The Bandits Strike

The caravan finally began moving again around the middle of the afternoon, inching forward cautiously. People who had previously walked alongside, chatting easily with one another, now huddled in their wagons; the two remaining horsemen did not continue their regular trots up and down the caravan’s length, but instead dodged about, scouting for sinkholes or other hazards and staying much farther from the wagons than the norm.

Everyone knew now that they had lost the first round of the gamble every caravan faced. Bandits had found them. They were walking into an ambush—but what choice did they have? They couldn’t turn back. To the west lay mile upon mile of empty, lifeless sand; to the east the terrain grew ever more rocky and broken until it ended in immense cliffs above the Ocean Sea, where waves twice the height of a man smashed relentlessly against the jagged stone.

Bows were strung, oilcloth bundles of arrows unwrapped, swords polished, swordbreakers readied, helmets and breastplates donned, and maces brandished.

Arlian was annoyed to discover that his hat would not fit over his helmet, and the helmet provided no shade for his eyes. After some debate he settled on wearing the helmet.

As the others readied themselves, poor Knobs lay on his bedding in the masters’ wagon; his mare followed wretchedly behind, at the end of a long tether. Every trace of the previous evening’s jubilation was gone.

They trudged on much later than usual as the sunlight faded in the west, in an attempt to make up for lost time; there would be no chance to practice swordsmanship unless Black wanted to see what his pupil could do by firelight.

Arlian scanned the horizon, shading his eyes with his hand, when the call to stop was finally passed forward from the masters. “Where do you think that tunnel comes out?” he asked Quickhand.

The guard looked at him blankly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Does it have to come out somewhere?”

“Well, of course…” Arlian began.

Then he stopped. What if it didn ‘t come out anywhere? What if it were just long enough for the archer to hide in? They might have trapped him, had they known.

But no—that made no sense. Who would have built such a trap?

But where could the tunnel go? Not the southern slopes, surely; the bandits couldn’t have burrowed under ten or fifteen miles of stone. The archer must have come out somewhere not far from the caravan—yet they had seen no sign of him.

Arian frowned. He didn’t like any of this. These bandits were being altogether too clever.

He slept in his own wagon that night, despite the heat; no one was inclined to risk bedding down on the stone. It took him an unusually long time to doze off.

He was awakened in darkness by a shout and the bellow of a wounded bull; he knew instantly that dawn had not yet come, yet he heard voices calling. He climbed to his feet and made his way out of the wagon by touch.

The moon had risen while he slept, and its light was eerily bright on the sand to the west; to the east the occasional patches of drifted sand shone palely against the dark stone, and shapes were distorted and hard to recognize in the maze of light and shadow, but he could see someone running.

Then the running figure vanished, just as two more figures appeared, pursuing the first.

Arlian leaped down, sword in hand.

The two figures slowed to a walk, moving forward cautiously; Arlian could see that they, too, held drawn swords. They came to a stop near the point where the first had vanished and conferred inaudibly, then turned and headed back toward the caravan.

“What happened?” Arlian called quietly.

One figure veered toward him, and he recognized Black.

“The bastard picked off two of our oxen,” the head guard said in disgust. “The sooner we get off this plateau and out of these rocks and meet these blackguards openly, the better I’ll like it.”

“Another tunnel?” Arlian asked, pointing toward the spot where the fleeing figure had disappeared.

“So it seems,” Black said. Then he realized who he was addressing. “Go back to bed, my lord,” he said. “We should reach the southern slopes tomorrow afternoon, and that’s when we can expect to face something more than a few arrows. You’ll want to be rested.”

Arlan looked at the colorless landscape, at the black emptiness where the bandit had vanished. There was nothing useful he could do; reluctantly, he obeyed Black’s command.

He awoke at dawn, as usual, and the caravan was rolling again before the sun had cleared the horizon. One ox was bandaged but mobile; another was dead, and was unceremoniously dumped atop the opening where the archer had vanished.

The ground was sloping downward now, and treetops were visible in the distance—but trees unlike any Arlian had ever seen before, with long, slender trunks supporting clusters of immense fronds. They grew steadily nearer as the day wore on.

The rough stone turned gradually into something resembling a real road as the morning progressed—they were moving down a gravel-bedded wash between two stony ridges. The sand was no longer visible to the west.

Around midday a man appeared, strangely dressed in a flowing robe, strolling easily across the gravel toward them; Black beckoned for a horseman to go meet this new arrival and report back.

The rider conferred briefly with the stranger, then rode back to report. Arlian handed the reins to Quickhand, jumped down from his own wagon, and ran forward to hear what was said—not merely for his own information, but so he could pass the word to the other merchants while the rider reported directly to the masters.

“He’s offering us safe passage,” the horseman explained. “For one-fourth of everything we carry.”

Black nodded. “Go tell the masters,” he said. The rider saluted and rode off.

“One-fourth?” Arlian exclaimed, shocked, still walking alongside the guard wagon.

“That’s the point of those archers,” Black replied. “If we’d come this far unmolested we would have just laughed at such a demand. Now at least some of us will want to consider it.”

“I won’t,” Arlian said.

“And of course that settles it,” Black said. “I hadn’t realized you were the caravan master; when did that happen?”

Arlian flushed, and said nothing more. Instead he turned and began walking back, calling out the news to each wagon as he passed.

At last he came to the masters’ wagon; the side shutters were open, and the masters were arguing in the center. Knobs lay abed at the rear; two guards were on the rear platform, and two—one of them driving the oxen—on the front bench.

“I’ve passed the word,” Arlian said.

Lord Sandal turned to look at him. “And what are the sentiments of our fellow merchants?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “I didn’t take time to ask.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t want to give in to extortion.”

“That’s one,” Lady Thassa said.

“Out of forty-two,” Lord Drens said. “It proves nothing.”

“Are you proposing we take a vote?” Sandal demanded.

“No, of course not,” Drens said. “But it would do no harm to know what the merchants think.”

“Might I remind my lords,” Arlian said, “that my cargo is primarily fine weaponry. Turning one-fourth of it over to outlaws does not strike me as wise.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have allowed him to bring those things!” Drens exclaimed.

“Sometimes,” Thassa said angrily to Drens, “I wonder why we brought you.”

“As the voice of caution, as I recall,” Sandal said wryly.

“A role I do my best to fill,” Drens retorted, “since neither of you seems to have any sense of self-preservation!”

Sandal sighed. “I had hoped we would be able to preserve the appearance of unity,” he said, “and present everyone with a unanimous decision. I take it, however, that this isn’t going to be possible.”

“Not unless the two of you suddenly regain your sanity,” Drens said. “One-fourth of our goods is not worth my life.”

“You put little faith in Black and his men,” Sandal said dryly. “Not to mention our own capabilities with missile and blade.”

“I know my own abilities,” Drens said. “And one of those abilities is the ability to die if struck through the heart by one of those arrows!” He gestured at Knobs.

“And you seem far more able than I to trust these bandits to keep their word,” Thassa replied. “Why should they settle for a fourth, when by a simple betrayal they can have all? These are men who have already fired upon us from ambush, after all. I vote to refuse.”

“As do I,” Sandal agreed.

“Shall I tell Black?” Arlian asked.

“That’s my job,” called a horseman. He urged his mount forward.

By the time Arlian reached his own wagon Black and the other guards in the lead vehicle were in their full armor, helmets, breastplates, and mail, their weapons at ready. Out ahead of them the bandits’ representative was walking, pacing the advancing caravan at long bowshot.

“Give him our reply,” Black ordered, pointing.

Half a dozen men raised bows, and half a dozen arrows flew.

“But he’s unarmed!” Arlian protested—too late. The outlaw fell, screaming, with an arrow in his thigh.

“By all the dead gods!” Black exclaimed. “You hit him! Good shooting!”

Arlian ran up alongside the lead wagon. “But he was just a messenger!” he called.

“He’s a bandit,” Black said. “Besides, I just thought we’d scare him away—I didn’t expect a hit at this range!” He marveled again at the sight of the wounded bandit lying on the gravel, clutching his leg.

“He can’t take our response back to the bandits now,” Arlian said.

Black turned to stare at him. “And you think that’s bad?” he said. “You want them to be warned?”

Arlian opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stopped walking, letting the wagon pull away.

Black turned to the horseman, ignoring Arlian. “Go see if he wants to surrender,” Black ordered. “And kill him if he doesn’t.”

“Should I retrieve the arrows, if I see them?”

Black shook his head. “You’d have to dismount. We’ll get them when the caravan reaches them.”

Arlian’s own wagon came alongside him, and he jumped aboard. He hesitated, and then instead of seating himself next to Quickhand he ducked inside and found his helmet and mail.

The, bandit surrendered and was lifted aboard the lead wagon, where Black questioned him intently—but quietly; Arlian could not overhear anything of the discussion.

Word was passed, though.

“They’ll attack tomorrow,” Stabber told Arlian and Quickhand. “He swears he doesn’t know exactly when, but Black says it’ll probably be right after dawn, before we get out of this defile into open country. They’ve got plans to trap us and disable the wagons, but this boy didn’t know any details.”

Arlian nodded, and Stabber moved on to the next wagon in line.

Quickhand sighed with relief. “Tomorrow,” he said. “That gives us time to prepare a little.”

Arlian nodded—but frowned.

When the messenger didn’t return, wouldn’t the bandits realize their man might have been captured alive? Would they really expect him to have kept his mouth shut?

Arlian knew that had he been the bandit leader he would have had an alternate plan. He would attack tonight.

But Black and the others must surely have thought of that.

For the next half hour they rode on in silence, but the thought that they were riding into a trap nagged relentlessly at Arlian, and finally he could stand it no more. He dropped to the ground and ran forward to catch Black’s wagon.

Black listened calmly to Arlian’s concerns, then nodded.

“You may be right,” he said. “But if they’re planning to trap us, then they must have set it up well beforehand, and I doubt it could readily be moved. Still, we’ll want to be very careful tonight.”

That did very little to allay Arlian’s worries, but he reluctantly returned to his own wagon. He couldn’t tolerate doing nothing, though, so despite the sweltering heat he again donned his mail shirt and helmet.

It was less than an hour later, while the sun still hung high above the western ridge, that the trap was sprung.

The gravel road had turned into the bed of a steep-sided canyon, sloping steeply downward between jagged, uneven stone walls; even with brakes set the wagons tended to slide forward on the loose gravel, and the oxen were holding the wagons back as much as pulling them, squalling unhappily about it. The animals could undoubtedly be heard for a mile in either direction, Arlian thought—and perhaps that had been what allowed the bandits to carry out their attack with such perfect timing.

Arlian had been watching his own oxen struggling to keep their footing, and keeping an eye on his wagon to make sure it wasn’t going to slide out of control, when he happened to catch sight of a rock on the canyon wall that appeared to be moving under its own power.

He started to say something, to call a warning or a question, but then the rock tumbled free and a rope sprang up from beneath it, snapping taut.

More rocks tumbled, and more ropes appeared, and the gravel ahead of Arlian’s oxen suddenly showered upward as an immense net burst up from concealment—between Arlian and the lead wagon.

Even as the oxen struggled to turn aside before plunging into this unexpected barrier, and the wagon slewed sideways on the gravel, Arlian saw what the bandits had done. Heavy ropes had been run up either side of the canyon, hidden behind outcroppings, stuffed down into crevices, or covered with loose stone, and on cue these ropes had been pulled, hard, snapping them up out of their hiding places.

And these cables supported a gigantic rope mesh extending the entire width of the canyon; when the ropes were pulled the top of the net sprang up to a height of ten or twelve feet, while the base remained hidden in the gravel. This net had been completely buried under the loose stone of the road, impossible to detect until it was too late.

On the other side of the net most of the guards had leaped from their wagon, which Black was struggling to stop; now they ran up to the net, blades naked in their hands.

But on the north side, where Arlian was, bandits had appeared along the ridgetops, arrows nocked, bows raised and ready—at least a score of them, all in those flowing red-and-white robes.

“Get down!” Quickhand barked, ducking back into the wagon. Arlian barely heard him over the lowing of frightened oxen and the shouting of angry men.

One of the bandits was making his way carefully down the slope toward the caravan; he appeared to be shouting something, but Arlian couldn’t distinguish his voice over the din.

On the other side of the net Black was standing in the open-shuttered and now halted guard wagon, holding the wounded captive upright by the front of his shirt.

“You lied to us, you little bastard!” Black bellowed, in a voice that somehow carried clearly to Arlian over the chaos.

The prisoner said something in reply, but Arlian couldn’t hear it.

The other guards were hacking at the huge net, but making little progress; the ropes were as thick as a man’s forearm and tarred with something that stuck to sword blades. That, and the springiness, made it almost impossible to cut through.

Arlian jumped to the ground, sword ready. He refused to hide in his wagon.

Someone farther back in the line was shouting for quiet, and the voices, both human and ox, were dying away as the caravan came to a full stop, the situation became clear, and the confusion began to fade.

“Surrender!” the bandit on the slope called. “We’ll take half your goods as toll, and then you’re free to go!”

“Half?” Arlian wasn’t the only one to shout that back angrily.

“You have until I count ten, and then my archers will loose!” the bandit spokesman cried down.

Arlian ignored him, and turned to the net.

Trapping seven of the guards on the other side was clever—but not that clever. “Climb over!” Arlian shouted. “Two of you hold it steady for the others, then two steady it from this side for the last two!”

“Do as he says!” Black called.

“Five!” the bandit shouted.

“Quickly!” Arlian screamed. “And dive for cover when you’re over! Under the wagons!”

“Eight!”

Arlian suddenly realized that he should take his own advice—but if he ducked inside his wagon he would be trapped there, pinned down.

He would take his chances, he resolved. Perhaps whatever Fate had propelled him this far from Obsidian and Deep Delving would protect him—Fate, and the armor he wore.

“Ten! Loose!” the bandit cried—diving to the ground himself as he did. Bowstrings snapped, and a hail of arrows soared down into the canyon—but none fell near Arlian.

That made sense, he realized as he watched the shafts rattle off wood and stone; there were perhaps thirty archers, at most, shooting at forty-five wagons—forty-four, if the lead wagon wasn’t included.

The guards were still struggling with the net—climbing it was apparently far more difficult than Arlian had realized, since men on the ground could not steady the top few feet. “Up the slope!” Arlian called, waving frantically. “It’s not as high up there!”

The bandits, having fired, were advancing down the slope as they drew fresh arrows from the quivers on their backs; each took two or three steps before nocking the next shaft, and then two or three more before drawing. At that rate they would reach the caravan after another half dozen volleys—which was undoubtedly the idea.

“If we have to come down there and fight,” the bandit spokesman called, “we’ll show no mercy!”

A bowstring snapped, and an arrow sailed past the spokesman, missing by several feet. Someone intended to resist, at any rate.

Arlian thought his own bow was still somewhere in his wagon; he had no idea how to use it and knew it, so he had no intention of going back for it. Instead he intended to use his sword—if he could get close enough to the bandits.

They were moving down the slopes on either side, but they were also converging toward the center of the caravan, several wagons back from Arlian’s own position; he began to run and dodge up the sloping road, changing his direction sharply whenever he heard a bowstring.

An ox bellowed as an arrow struck meat.

The bandit strategy was becoming clearer; they were using the arrows to keep the merchants cowering in their wagons while they were collecting into a group that would attack the central wagons one by one. The guards, isolated at either end of the line, might be unable to reach them in time.

Arlian wasn’t about to allow them to attack unhindered, though; he might be just one man, but he could do something.

And he saw now that he wasn’t alone—at least two of the guards from the masters’ wagon were on the ground and moving down the road to meet the bandits, and one of the horsemen was charging, sword drawn, up the canyon side toward the approaching marauders.

The bandits shouted to one another, and the next ragged volley of arrows was concentrated on the horseman; his mount suddenly stumbled and went down, a shaft projecting from its neck.

One of the faster-moving bandits had reached the side of the caravan; he dropped his bow and pulled a heavy mallet from beneath his robe and ran up to the nearest wagon’s rear wheel, mallet swinging.

Arlian understood that tactic well enough; the bandits wanted to cripple some of the wagons so badly that the caravan would abandon them, trade goods still aboard. With a wordless yell, Arlian ran at the hammer-wielding southerner with his sword raised in an overhand attack.

At the last instant the man dropped his mallet and turned; at the last instant the horror of what he was doing suddenly registered in Arlian’s mind; but it was too late. His sword plunged forward and down, into the unprotected hollow at the base of the bandit’s throat. His forward motion pushed the blade deep and thrust Arlian up against the bandit, so close he could smell the man’s stinking breath.

The bandit’s eyes flew wide, his mouth sprang open as if to vomit, but nothing came forth but a sort of choking gasp.

Then Arlian heard a sound behind him; he whipped his blade free and turned, and the bandit tumbled forward, blood spurting, to land at his killer’s feet. One hand slapped limply against Arlian’s shin.

But another bandit was upon him, this one with a wooden spear in hand, and Arlian was too busy to think about the man at his feet.

It was only later that he realized that for the first time, he had killed a man.

He could kill if he had to. When the time came, he could strike Lord Dragon down.

Somehow, that knowledge failed to cheer him.

23

Aftermath

The fight was long and bloody; the caravan guards were outnumbered, but better armed and better trained. The merchants for the most part proved to be useless as fighters; most were unable even to defend themselves.

Arlian was the exception; he fought side by side with the guards, doing his part to even the odds. In the chaos of wielding sword and swordbreaker against spears and clubs, so completely different from the one-on-one sword fights of his practice bouts, he was unsure whether he killed anyone after that first assault. He knew that he drew blood many times, but beyond that he could not be certain just what effect his blows had.

He shouted for the merchants and their families and hirelings to come out and fight, did everything he could to urge them to join in their own defense, but to no avail. Most remained huddled in their wagons and were completely useless even there.

This was demonstrated several times by one of the bandits’ favorite tactics, which was for half a dozen men to charge into a wagon with clubs and spears and slaughter everyone aboard, then to use the wagon as a miniature fortress against the guards. The guards, outnumbered as they were, could not defend the entire long line of wagons at once and were unable to prevent these captures.

It was Black who came up with the counter—station a man at each end of the captured wagon with orders to kill anyone who set foot outside. Two men could bottle up half a dozen bandits this way, and in fact roughly one-third of the entire raiding party was trapped in this fashion.

Another third was killed or incapacitated.

And the final third, realizing that their attack was a failure, fled up the slopes into the gathering night, dragging those of their wounded who were unable to walk.

Some of the wounded bandits who were not dragged were barely able to limp away, and could easily have been caught and killed, but Black called out to let them go. “Let them be a burden to the others!”

Three guards had been slain outright, as well, and two more seriously wounded. Black took a gash on the side, but insisted it wasn’t serious and refused to relinquish his command of the caravan’s defenders. One horse was killed by a spear, and several oxen received minor injuries.

Five merchants and their families had been butchered in their wagons.

When the fight was over the guards turned their attention to the three wagons still occupied by bandits. Black stood, holding one hand to his injured side while his sword dangled from the other, staring at the first of the wagons.

Lord Drens came up, a lantern in his hand, looking worried. He had already set merchants and drivers to repairing broken wagons and smashed wheels, Arlian noted with approval, and was now coming to attend to the remaining bandits. “I think we had best…” he began.

“Shut up,” Black barked at him. “This is my business still, not yours.”

Drens stopped in his tracks, shocked; he looked at the blood seeping through Black’s fingers, at the guards standing around him spattered with blood and dirt, their swords still in their hands, and decided against making any protest. “As you say,” he agreed.

“What are you going to do with us?” a bandit called from the wagon.

“You might as well let us go,” another added. “We won’t bother you again.”

“And if you don’t, we’ll wreck everything in here!” a third called.

“What do I care if you spoil someone else’s property?” Black bellowed in reply. “You already killed the owner, you murdering bastards!”

“You can’t kill us in cold blood!” the first voice said.

Several of the guards muttered in reply to that, and Arlian knew all of them were thinking the same thing he was: Why not?

But his gorge rose at the thought. He didn’t want any more deaths.

“Who said anything about killing you?” Black called back. “We aren’t going to kill you if you come out peacefully, with empty hands raised above your heads.”

“You’ll let us go?”

“I didn’t say that, either—but I’ll release you, most of you, under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“No, no,” Black said. “You don’t hear the conditions until after you surrender.”

Utter silence fell for a moment as the bandits considered that; then one called, “Go feed the dragons!”

“Maybe someday I will,” Black retorted, “but I assure you we won’t feed you.”

“But there’s plenty of food stored in there,” Arlian whispered to Stabber, who stood nearby.

“They may not know that,” Stabber whispered back.

They could all hear what happened next—the bandits argued quietly among themselves, and then came the sound of a blow, and a body falling.

“I surrender!” called a voice, and the first bandit came out, hands up.

A moment later the entire wagon was empty of bandits; at Black’s direction each was securely bound.

A similar scene was then played out at each of the other two disputed wagons, until ten bandits huddled on the ground, hands and feet tied, surrounded by the caravan’s guards.

“Now,” Black said, “we will let you go, one by one—but first we’ll make sure none of you can draw a bow against peaceful merchants ever again.” He pulled the first bandit up, and with four other guards holding the man securely in place and using a wagon’s end platform as a chopping block, he used an ax to amputate the man’s left hand.

The other bandits—and Arlian—stared in horror as the crippled marauder screamed and the guards struggled to bandage the bleeding stump.

“I hope you weren’t left-handed,” Black said. He raised his voice and called to the others, “Are any of you left-handed?”

One man, weeping with terror, barely able to get the words out past his tears, said that he was. Black took him next, so as not to risk forgetting, and removed his right hand.

Then the others, one by one, were dragged to the improvised chopping block.

Black chased away any member of the caravan who came to either watch or protest, insisting that they should attend to their own affairs—including getting the caravan ready to move. He also sent four guards up the canyon walls to cut the ropes holding the net.

When each bandit had been dealt with and each fresh stump had been bandaged, that man was given a push and sent scrambling as best he could up the side of the canyon; most collapsed, moaning or screaming, a few yards away.

When the last had been shoved away Black turned to the ashen-faced Lord Drens and announced, “The threat has been dealt with, my lord, and we’ll have that inconvenience”—he gestured at the net—“out of your way shortly. Might I suggest that despite the darkness, we press on for another mile or so?”

Arlian stared at the two men in the lamplight and realized that both of them were unnaturally pale. Drens was uninjured, so his color was surely just from his reaction to the attack and its aftermath, but Arlian feared Black’s pallor was due to loss of blood.

“As you say,” Lord Drens agreed.

It took another twenty minutes to straighten out the mess and finish minimal repairs. The bodies of the dead members of the caravan were hastily wrapped in sheets and loaded aboard wagons; the bodies of dead bandits were flung out on the roadside. Guards took charge of the five wagons that no longer had living drivers.

By the time they began rolling, with lantern-bearers on foot walking ahead to light the way, Black had collapsed into the lead wagon, slumped against one side, while a volunteer from one of the merchant families set about cleaning and bandaging the gash in his side.

By the time they reached the mouth of the canyon, less than a mile from the site of the ambush, Black was unconscious. Stabber took charge and chose their campsite, on a level, sandy area by a stand of those strange southern trees.

Arlian slept late the next morning—but so did almost everyone. He arose and climbed out of his wagon to see a new and wondrous landscape spread out before him.

They had camped atop a long slope, below the broken cliffs that marked the southern edge of the Desolation. Now Arlian had a clear view down that slope, past groves of unfamiliar trees—not the tall ones bare for most of their height, but almost normal ones, low, spreading trees bearing orange fruit—to a town of yellow brick and red tile, gleaming in the sunshine. Green leaves and bright flowers were everywhere, and the air was thick with the sweet smell of ripe fruit.

After the stark and ugly terrain of the Desolation, this lush display of beauty and color was overwhelming. Arlian stared wordlessly for a long moment, drinking it in.

“The Borderlands,” Quickhand said, appearing beside him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Arlian nodded. “Where are we?” he asked. “What town is that?”

Quickhand squinted, then shaded his eyes with his hand and peered at the collection of buildings at the foot of the slope. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The Eastern Road shifts somewhat with the sands, and we could have come down any of at least three different canyons. That might be Sweetwater.”

“The name’s in our tongue?”

“Oh, yes,” Quickhand said. “We’re still in the Lands of Man. The border is at least three days farther south.” He pointed at the southern sky. “Look at the clouds.”

Arlian looked, then closed his eyes. He rubbed them, then opened them again.

It didn’t help; the clouds above the distant horizon were still impossible to see clearly. Arlian glimpsed purple and a sort of pinkish gold moving through gray masses, but he could not make out details, and after a second could no longer be sure he had seen what he had thought he saw.

There were things flying through those clouds—not birds, nor even dragons, but vast dark shapes and flashes of bright color, all somehow indistinct, more so than mere distance could explain.

“It’s magic,” Quickhand said. “You don’t want to study it too closely.”

Arlian remembered how Grandsir, long ago, had told him that in the Borderlands one could see wild magic flash across the sky. He had not realized just how literally the old man had meant it.

“Is it always like that?” he asked.

“No,” Quickhand told him. “Sometimes it’s worse, but usually there are just clouds.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s never entirely clear, though.” He pointed to the spot where the clouds were thickest. “I’m told there’s something down there that doesn’t like the sun, and has the power to do something about it.”

Arlian glanced to the east, at the golden southern sun, and asked, “If it doesn’t like the sun, why does it live here, instead of in the north?”

“Because the dragons drove it from the north, thousands of years ago,” Quickhand replied.

“But the dragons are gone,” Arlan said. He grimaced. “Mostly,” he added.

Quickhand said, “Maybe it hasn’t noticed that yet.”

“What is it?” Arlian asked.

Quickhand shrugged. “I don’t know. It lives in Tirikindaro, and the people there are its slaves—and now you know as much about it is as I do.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Not that anyone dares speak aloud—unless its name is Tirikindaro. Really, my lord, that’s all I know.”

Arlian nodded, and after staring a moment longer turned his attention back to the town. “And that’s Sweetwater? We should be there by midday, I think.”

“It might be Sweetwater,” Quickhand corrected him. “I’m not sure. But yes, I’d say we can be there by midday.”

Arlian leaned to the side and peered back at the other wagons. “Is there a market?” he asked.

“If it’s Sweetwater or Orange River there is.”

“So we’ve reached our destination? We’ll be trading everything here?”

Quickhand shook his head. “No, my lord. It’s just another way station, like Stonebreak or Cork Tree.” He pointed at the horizon. “It’s down there, at the border or beyond, that the real money is made. Around here… well, we’re still in the Lands of Man, even if we are past the Desolation.”

Arlian considered that.

Quickhand hesitated, then added, “By the way, my lord—don’t be surprised if you see some one-handed farmers in the orange groves, or if you meet one-handed townspeople with the bandages still fresh.”

Arlian turned to stare at him.

“Well, where did you think those bandits came from? You can’t really make a living off banditry,” Quickhand said. “Not the sort you’d rely on to keep a family. It’s a sideline, a risky way for the rowdy young men in the area to take a chance on maybe getting rich.”

“But they’d come openly into the town while we’re still there?”

“Why not? What are we going to do? If we try to accuse them, who do you think the locals will side with—the rich strangers, or their own friends and neighbors?”

“But… but how can we trust anyone here, then?”

Quickhand shrugged. “We can’t, really. But they don’t want to drive us off entirely; they don’t want the caravans to stop coming, and they don’t want to anger the lords in Manfort enough to send an army down here. They won’t bother us in the towns or on the main roads; it’s only in the badlands that they’ll try to steal everything we have.”

“But last night we were fighting them,” Arlian protested, trying to grasp the situation. “We were fighting to the death! I killed one of them!”

“I wouldn’t say anything about that in town if I were you. You might be talking to one of his relatives.”

Arlian blinked in amazement. “It’s insane!”

“It’s the way it is.” Quickhand hesitated, then added, “I did have another reason for mentioning this.”

“My cargo,” Arlian said.

Quickhand nodded. “This wouldn’t be the best place to sell it,” he said.

Arlian looked at the open-sided wagon ahead where Black lay, still unconscious. Sell swords and daggers to the men who had wounded him, the men who had killed three of the guards and slaughtered five merchants?

In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he wanted to sell those blades anywhere in the Borderlands. He wished the masters had brought this up back in Manfort, when they had tried to convince him to carry a more conventional cargo.

“I agree,” he said. “I agree entirely.”

24

The Borderlands

The town was indeed Sweetwater. While most of the merchants traded with the townsfolk, the three masters debated what route to take from here.

With Black in no condition to move, let alone fight, Arlian was concerned that the masters might be excessively timid—or might do something foolish. Leaving his own wagon securely closed, locked, and guarded, Arlian tried to eavesdrop on the masters’ conversation, but with limited success. The shutters of their wagon were closed, and guards were posted, so that he could not put his ear right to the side.

But their words were audible through the cracks, all the same. Arlian had always had good ears, and now he put them to use.

“Tirikindaro does not appear safe at present,” Lord Sandal admitted, even before Lord Drens could bring up the question. “We might wait it out, or we might head east to Pon Ashti.”

“The Blue Mage is said to be unusally quiet just now, though,” Lady Thassa pointed out. “If the other powers are quiet as well, there are any number of possibilities. Even the road to Arithei might be open.”

Arlian, who had been slouched comfortably against one of the strange trees he now knew were called “palms,” jerked upright at that. His hand fell to the pouch he still carried on his belt, the pouch that held Hathet’s purple stones. He had thought of the possibility that the caravan might try for Arithei, but had decided it was too much to hope for.

The next thing he heard confirmed that.

“Arithei?” Lord Drens protested. “Are you mad?”

“Optimistic, perhaps, but scarcely mad,” Thassa replied. “Travelers have made the passage sometimes—I met the Aritheian ambassador at one of the Duke’s banquets a few years back, and he assured me the hazards are exaggerated—real, but exaggerated. He seemed eager for trade.”

“The old road is closed,” Drens said. “The native guides no longer venture into the Borderlands. Sahasin came through before that happened, and I doubt he’s been home since—he’s as much an exile as an ambassador.”

“That wasn’t my impression,” Thassa said. Before Drens could argue further, she admitted, “But it was years ago that we spoke.”

“Arithei lies beyond the Dreaming Mountains,” Drens said, “and I have no intention of crossing that range without a known route and a magician as escort. You may not be mad now, but you most likely would be by the time you returned thence.”

“Arithei is too risky for me,” Lord Sandal agreed.

“Why do we need to cross the border at all?” Drens asked, his tone wheedling. “Why not simply work our way along the border towns, and leave the realms beyond alone?”

“Because beyond the border is where the real wealth lies,” Sandal replied. “You know that as well as we do— beyond the border we can trade for magic, real magic, magic you can’t get anywhere in the Lands of Man. Why else come here?”

“For the exotic fruits and strange wines and rare woods, the sapphires and emeralds, the bright dyes,” Drens replied. “We have our own sorceries back in Manfort; why should we meddle with the unnatural forces beyond the border?”

Sandal and Thassa exchanged glances. “Our little sorceries are hardly the same as southern magic,” Thassa said.

“Perhaps we should split up,” Sandal suggested. “I have no wish to drag Lord Drens places he’d rather not go.”

“Divide the caravan?” Drens said, shocked.

“Only temporarily,” Sandal assured him. “We would regroup here in Sweetwater in, say, two months’ time, and head north together. I’ve no more desire to go up that canyon into the Desolation without sufficient numbers than you do—maybe those men can’t draw bows anymore, but they probably have cousins eager for revenge.”

“What would we do for wagons?” Drens asked. “We share this one.”

“We have six left unmanned,” Sandal pointed out. “By contract those are ours, to dispose of as we see fit, once the goods within have been dealt with.”

Drens nodded thoughtfully.

“Is it safe enough even here in the Borderlands?” Thassa asked. “After all, we’ve lost almost half our guards, either dead or wounded.”

“I’d say so,” Sandal said. “After all, divided even three ways, if we each take a different route, we’d still have more than a dozen wagons apiece. We can hire locals as guards.”

“I wouldn’t trust locals as guards,” Drens said. “But I don’t expect any trouble so long as I stay in the border towns.” He nodded. “If you two are determined to cross the border, and the merchants are willing, then we’ll split up.”

Thus it was settled, and the word was passed to the merchants. That evening the destinations were announced— Lord Drens would proceed to the southwest and visit the border towns from Redgate to Skok’s Fall; Lord Sandal would head east to Pon Ashti, then return— by way of Tirikindaro, conditions permitting. The wounded and ill, or those too timid to venture further, could stay in Sweetwater; accommodations were being arranged.

And Lady Thassa would venture south, to the foothills of the Dreaming Mountains, choosing her exact course only when she knew more of the situation beyond the border.

“To Arithei?” Arlian called.

Lady Thassa shook her head. “No,” she said. “Without a full complement of guards, or a hired magician, that’s too dangerous.”

Arlian did not argue—but he also did not give up. After overhearing the masters’ plans he had spent the rest of the day talking to the townspeople, inquiring about Arithei. He had no way of knowing how much was exaggeration, how much outright lies, but there were certain points of universal agreement.

Arithei lay to the southeast, but to reach it one first had to head southwest, as the only road circled around the west of Tirikindaro before turning eastward across the Dreaming Mountains. The hazards along the way were trivial— the road avoided the various magical demesnes—until reaching the mountains.

The Dreaming Mountains, however, were haunted, awash in magic—not the feeble controlled and regulated magic of the northern sorcerers, or the limited spells of the human magicians to the south, or the personal power of the godlings and spirits like the one that ruled Tirikindaro, but feral, chaotic magic.There were things dwelling in those mountains, things both tangible and intangible. Most people who dared climb those slopes simply vanished; a few returned safely, usually with tales of narrow escapes and horrendous nightmares. A handful came back dazed or insane, either babbling wildly or unable to speak, and of these, about half eventually returned to their senses.

All of them, if they could speak at all, talked about dreams.

Arlian did not fear dreams. As for monsters and ghosts and magic, he had his sword, and magical things were said to fear cold iron; he had silver, and the dead were said to fear silver.

He stared at the southern horizon, thinking.

Hathet had said that Arithei was a land of magicians, that the people there had to use magic simply to survive in that land.

Magic was precious and rare in the Lands of Man, as Arlian had overheard Sandal say. If he wanted to trade his swords and daggers for something that would be valuable back in Manfort, he could scarcely do better than to go to Arithei and buy magic with them.

He didn’t know enough about magic to guess what form that magic might take, but there would be time for that in Arithei—if he got there.

Magic would bring him wealth and power back in Manfort. It would help even the balance between Lord Dragon and himself. It might even provide a means to strike at the dragons themselves; after all, while the dragons had kept the wild southern magic out of the Lands of Man, the wild southern magic seemed to have kept the dragons out of Arithei, as well.

And Hathet—if he had told the truth, then his family was somewhere in Arithei, unaware of what had befallen him.

Arlian still had the bag of amethysts—one hundred and sixty-eight of them. If Hathet had told the truth, and they had some protective magic, those might be worth more in Arithei than the swords were!

Arlian had doubted that Arithei existed; it did. He had doubted that there was any Aritheian ambassador to the Lands of Man, but Lady Thassa and Lord Drens had met one. He had doubted that the southern lands were as magical as Hathet said, but he could see the magic in the southern skies for himself. Perhaps everything Hathet had said was true, no matter how absurd it had sounded.

Arlian owed that old man a debt, and he wanted to pay it. Here was an opportunity to do that. If Hathet had told the truth about his origins, then Arlian could go to Arithei and tell Hathet’s family what had become of him, and give them the amethysts. The stones were theirs, by right, as Hathet’s own blood, and not his.

Lady Thassa was heading in the right direction, but would not cross the Dreaming Mountains. Arlian could not stand the idea of coming so very close, and then turning back. He owed it to Hathet at least to try to reach Arithei.

The road had been closed for years, too dangerous for passage—everyone agreed on that. But had they tried it?

Arlian resolved to head for Arithei—on his own, if he had to. Aside from his debt to Hathet, he wanted to sell his weapons where they would not fall into bandits’ hands.

“Only a madman would attempt it without a guide and magicians and guards,” Lady Thassa told him when he asked her to reconsider.

“I’m going, whether with you or alone,” Arlian said.

She shrugged. “Then you’re mad, and I’ll have no part of it. But you’re free to do as you choose.”

When she had gone Arlian sat thoughtfully for some time, considering the situation.

Thassa wouldn’t attempt the Dreaming Mountains without a full complement of guards, but Arlian thought he would do better traveling alone; he might be able to hide from the worst dangers, and what good would guards be against magic?

He talked to Quickhand about his plans, as the two of them inspected his wagon for any damage that might need attention.

The guardsman looked troubled. “I don’t want to go to Arithei,” he said. “I’ve no business there.”

“I’m not asking you to accompany me if you don’t want to,” Arlian said. “I can drive and tend oxen well enough now.”

“The masters pay me to guard the caravan, my lord; if you leave the caravan, you leave me.”

“Fair enough,” Arlian said.

Quickhand hesitated, then said, “I think you’re making a mistake, Lord Ari.”

“I’m sure you do,” Arlian said. “And maybe I am—but I have business in Arithei.” Hathet had made his early years in the mines bearable, had taught him so much—the best he could do toward repaying the old man was to go to Arithei.

And the possibility that he might turn his wagonload of weapons into a fortune did nothing to discourage him.

“I wish you’d talk to Black before you go.”

“He’s ill,” Arlian said. “I won’t trouble him.”

More accurately, he feared that if anyone could talk him out of going, it would be Black, and he didn’t want to risk it. Instead he devoted himself to preparing for the journey.

He had only three oxen left to draw his wagon, which left too small a margin of error; he hastily used a part of his share from the six dead merchants to buy a fourth.

The following day at dawn, as the three masters sorted out the wagons, Arlian set his four oxen, new and old together, on the road south. He rode alone; Quickhand was traveling with Lord Sandal.

The journey was uneventful at first, but Arlian knew, four days later, that he had crossed the border and left the Lands of Man behind; the wind, which had been blowing hard from the west for more than a day, no longer howled but laughed. The sky above was streaked with orange even at midday. He glimpsed things from the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look at them they were gone.

It was strange and unsettling, but he saw no real danger in any of it, and pressed on.

The worst part, at that point, was the tedium of traveling alone. The oxen moved so slowly that the scenery did not change quickly enough to be interesting, and he had no one to speak to. He met travelers on the road occasionally, and for the first few days he often passed farms and villages, but he made camp alone each night, sleeping in the wagon, rather than finding lodging; he did not trust these people.

When he did speak to someone—at wells or village markets, when he stopped for provisions—the conversations were hardly satisfying; the southerners spoke with strange accents that made it hard to follow their words, and seemed wary of him.

That was hardly surprising; they were brown-skinned and dressed in loose multicolored robes, while his skin, even after his travels, remained relatively pale, and he wore a white shirt, tight blue breeches, and a broad-brimmed black hat.

They gave him directions when asked, though, and assured him that he was still on the right road. Since he had seen no other routes he had been fairly sure of this, but confirmation was welcome.

The road was overgrown in places, clearly used little, if at all, in recent years, but he was able to follow it well enough.

A week after he crossed the border, one foggy evening when he was onto the lower slopes of the central ridge of the Dreaming Mountains and had not seen another human face for two days, the first attack came. He was making camp for the night when something black and shapeless leaped at him out of the darkness.

He saw it coming from the corner of his eye, and dodged, diving to one side. He drew his sword as it wheeled and came at him again; he never saw it clearly in the mist and gathering gloom, but had a vague impression of great smothering arms, gleaming fangs, and a black, furry chest. He thrust, plunging his blade into it.

It burst and melted away at the touch of steel, leaving nothing but a wet smell and a damp smear on the ground.

Arlian stared into the night, astonished at the ease with which he had defeated the thing.

“That can’t be the sort of monster that everyone’s scared of,” he said aloud.

The wind laughed derisively overhead, and he looked around uncomfortably. The monster had been absurdly easy to destroy—if it was really destroyed—but he had been awake, with his sword on his belt. What if another attacked while he slept? He had no one to stand guard; the best he could hope for would be that the oxen would be disturbed and awaken him with their bellowing.

He didn’t have much choice at this point, though.

He slept in the wagon with his sword by his hand, and was awakened from uneasy dreams once that night—not by the oxen, but by a slithering sound close by. He slashed at it, but didn’t hit anything so far as he could tell.

For the rest of his journey he never had a good night’s sleep. The nightmares he had anticipated never came; his dreams were never worse than vaguely disturbing. Strange sounds and sudden attacks became commonplace, though, and not all monsters were as readily defeated as that first one. Cold steel did indeed repel some, or destroy them by its mere touch, but others had to be fought and butchered as if they were common beasts, rather than magical horrors.

That they were magical horrors Arlian had little doubt, given that many changed shape or vanished when slain. The worst in that regard was the poisonous spider-creature that became a girl of twelve or thirteen when he beheaded it; Arlian was ill after that, and wept intermittently for the next few days whenever her dead face returned to his thoughts.

The hardest to kill were the venomous black rat-things, simply because of their size and numbers; they left only glowing bones that dissolved when the sun rose.

He considered turning back—but he had already come so far! He decided to keep going.

The condition of the road continued to deteriorate; now and then he had to stop and hack down a sapling that had sprung up between the two faint ruts, and the oxen grew accustomed to simply trampling anything smaller.

On the eighteenth night after leaving Sweetwater something got one of the oxen. Arlian never saw it, nor heard it, nor knew what it was, but when he arose the next morning he found nothing but the ox’s empty skin wrapped around dry bones; the flesh and blood had been sucked out through half a dozen gashes.

The three remaining oxen were terrified but unharmed, and Arlian pressed on; he was now descending the southern slopes of the Dreaming Mountains, far past the point where turning back would make any sense.

That was the last serious threat, however; the following two nights were troubled only by sounds, fleeting apparitions, and something large that moved invisibly but audibly through his camp, extinguishing the fire and tarnishing the brass wagon fittings as it passed. The quality of the road seemed to be improving again, as well—he no longer had occasion to stop and poke through the underbrush to find the faded traces when the way was unclear, but could simply follow the obvious path.

Two days later his wagon rolled through black iron gates into the first Aritheian village, where the natives greeted his arrival with astonishment and delight. Children ran shrieking and pointing alongside; adults gaped openly as he passed.

He had developed a very definite set of priorities in his travels; he ignored the attention until he had stopped at the trough in the village square and watered his surviving oxen. The villagers kept a respectful distance as they stood and stared at him, whispering to one another.

Once the oxen were drinking, Arlian turned to look at his new hosts.

They were dressed strangely, all of them, men, women, and children in short, loose gowns dyed in bright colors— not the flowing pale robes of the Borderlands, but abbreviated garments in much more intense hues. Their legs were bare, their feet sandalled. He realized that his white blouse, blue breeches, and broad-brimmed black hat must look as peculiar to them as their garb did to him; no wonder they stared! Had someone walked into Obsidian robed, in scarlet, yellow, and parrot green when he was a boy, he would have stared just as rudely—and in fact, except for staring, these people were being quite polite. No one had shouted at him or tried to touch him, his wagon, or his oxen.

That was promising.

He could not make out a word anyone said, however, which was not quite so encouraging. “Excuse me,” he called. “Does anyone speak my language?”

No one replied. A few of the villagers exchanged unintelligible words among themselves; two or three men slipped away, presumably tiring of the spectacle.

He shrugged, and returned to tending his oxen.

Half an hour later the interpreter arrived.

25

Arithei

Arithei, the interpreter, was a young man—older than Arlian himself, by at least a year or two, but far less sure of himself. Although he appeared to speak Arlian’s native tongue fluently it took some time before Arlian was able to make his intentions clear.

“I have come to Arithei to find the family of a man named Hathet,” Arlian repeated, as the two of them stood by the trough where Arlian’s oxen were placidly drinking.

“I know of no one named Hathet in the House of Slihar,” the interpreter said.

That was an improvement over his first two replies, but still not very satisfactory. Did that mean that Hathet had been lying after all, and had not come from Arithei? Or did it mean that this interpreter was too young to remember the old man? Or did it merely mean that there was still some sort of confusion about what Arlian wanted?

Arlian sighed and looked around at the crowd surrounding them, wishing somebody else here could speak Man’s Tongue. Evidently no one else did, and he had to make do with what he had. “What is the House of Slihar?” he asked. “Is that the name of this town?”

“No, no,” the interpreter said. “This town is Ilusali. Slihar is a House. A… a family of families.”

“And there are other Houses?”

“Yes, yes. Eleven Houses. Slihar and ten more.” The interpreter tapped his orange-robed chest. “I am Meriei, of the House of Slihar.”

“Then perhaps Hathet belonged to one of the other Houses,” Arlian suggested. “Or to no House at all—does everyone belong to a House?”

“Everyone belongs to a House,” the interpreter agreed. “It is the House of Slihar that traded with the lands beyond the mountains. This is why I know your tongue.”

“And no other House has ever sent anyone to Manfort?”

Meriei was clearly struggling with the unfamiliar language—he knew it, but Arlian suspected he had had little use for it until now. “It is the House of Slihar that traded with the lands beyond the mountains,” the interpreter repeated.

“Hathet was not a trader,” Arlian said.

The interpreter merely looked more confused than ever.

Arlian could stand it no longer. “Take me to someone from another House,” he said. “I’ve come to find Hathet’s family, whether it’s Slihar or not.”

“It is the House of Slihar that trades with people from beyond the mountains!” Meriei insisted.

“I am not trading!” Arlian shouted. “I’m looking for Hathet’s family!” Meriei looked at the wagon. He said nothing, but his expression was plain enough.

“Trade later,” Arlian said. “After I find Hathet’s family, and not until then!”

“You do not trade with Hathet?”

Arlian started to explain that Hathet was dead, but then bit the sentence off before the first word was out of his mouth. “I do not trade with Hathet,” he agreed. “I seek Hathet’s family, but not to trade.”

“When you are done, you trade with the House of Slihar?”

“Maybe,” Arlian said.

The interpreter hesitated, then shrugged. “We must go to Theyani to find all eleven Houses,” he said. “Only six Houses are in Ilusali.”

Arlian frowned—why not start with those six? “What is Theyani?” he asked.

“It is…” The interpreter struggled, obviously looking for the right word. “It is the chief city. The center of Arithei.”

“Ah!” That sounded promising; after all, if Hathet had been sent as an ambassador for all of Arithei, he had presumably come from the capital. “Yes,” Arlian said. “Take me to Theyani.”

The interpreter looked at the sky; the sun was brushing the mountaintops to the west. “Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” Arlian agreed.

The interpreter smiled. “Can we both ride?” he asked, pointing at Arlian’s wagon.

“Of course.”

“And tonight…”

“Tonight I’ll stay right here,” Arlian said.

The interpreter bowed deeply in acknowledgment. “I will see you in the morning,” he said.

Arlian bowed in response, and the interpreter turned away.

Arlian clambered back into his wagon, and settled himself comfortably. The village of Ilusali might well have an inn, but if it did he had not recognized it, and attempting to deal with an innkeeper without speaking his language was more than Arlian cared to handle—he was exhausted from his journey over the mountains and his awkward conversation with Meriei. Sleeping in his familiar wagon would be fine.

At least here he wouldn’t need to worry about magical monsters. The worst he would expect here would be human thieves, and even those seemed unlikely. He looked out at the villagers who stood on all sides, staring.

If they stayed there he wouldn’t need to worry about thieves at all, since he’d have half a hundred witnesses to any attempted depredations. He sighed, and leaned back against one side of the wagon, thinking and planning.

Some of the villagers were still gawking when, hours later, he blew out his lamp and retired for the night.

The village square was deserted when he awoke the next morning—apparently even the most determined gawkers had eventually grown bored— but it filled quickly as the sun climbed the eastern sky, and he and Meriei had an audience of dozens when the wagon finally rolled southward, out another iron gate onto the road to Theyani.

The entire length of that road was lined with iron posts—not an actual fence, but isolated posts, one every hundred feet or so, each one the height of a man and as thick as Arlian’s forearm. Each shaft was plain, but the top of each post was wrought into fantastical shapes—bizarre faces, wings, talons, or blossoms, seemingly at random. Arlian pointed one out to Meriei and asked, “What are those?”

“Ditiae,” Meriei replied. “They keep away evil magic.”

Arlian looked around at the surrounding countryside. The air overhead rippled with strange colors; to either side of the highway shadows moved in impossible ways. Orange trees bent and twisted in various directions, as if they were struggling beasts. He could hear whisperings and rustlings that did not sound like wind blowing through leaves or grass, no matter how much he wished they would, and strange smells, like hot metal one moment and heavy perfume the next, reached his nose. This land wasn’t as fierce or wild as what he had seen in the mountains, but it was still a hostile, unnatural place.

Keeping away magic seemed like a very good idea, and the iron posts seemed to work. The bare yellow dirt of the road stayed in place, retained its natural color, and produced no sounds except the occasional crunch of hooves or wheels on pebbles.

He tried to converse with Meriei after that, to pass the time and to distract them both from their eerie surroundings, but every attempt to discuss anything more complex than the weather quickly broke down in confusion. Eventually Arlian gave up, and they rode in silence.

At each human habitation they passed people stopped what they were doing and stared at the strange wagon and its foreign driver. It was quite obvious that regardless of what the House of Slihar might claim, no one had traded with the north for some time—or at least, Arlian corrected himself, no foreigners had come to Arithei; Aritheians might have ventured into the outside world.

Arlian had expected the journey from Ilusali to Theyani to take several days; accustomed to his vastly more spacious homeland, he had badly misjudged the size of the crowded little land of Arithei. They arrived at the ornately worked gates of the capital while the sun was still high in the west.

These gates were iron, of course, and part of a black iron wall surrounding the city. At a shout from Meriei the gates swung open, and Arlian’s oxen plodded unhindered onto the pavement beyond.

The city was tiny compared to Manfort, but still larger than any other town Arlian had seen, with several large, fine buildings, most of them constructed of white or yellow stone with black iron fittings—iron gutters, iron shutters, and so on. Long streaks of rust stained most of the walls. The streets were of brown brick, but so covered in yellow dust as to almost appear unpaved. The entire place smelled of heat and dust.

Arlian had no idea where to go once they were inside the walls, and looked to Meriei for guidance.

“That way,” the interpreter directed, pointing across, a broad plaza to a white stone building.

A few moments later, while the oxen waited placidly outside, Arlian found himself standing more or less ignored in a large, elegant room while a dozen Aritheians argued with Meriei and each other. Every so often another person would enter the room, take one long, surprised look at Arlian, and then plunge into the ongoing discussion.

Arlian admired the room—it was largely open on two sides, with broad blue awnings providing shade while admitting every breeze, and the rich scent of a garden wafted in from somewhere. The furnishings were suitable for a dining hall or conference chamber, built all of thick dark wood, simple but not in the least primitive. The brown tile floor had half a dozen small, brightly colored rugs scattered across it, giving it a festive touch to counter the heavy appearance of the massive wooded table and chairs. The whole place was unlike anything Arlian had ever seen before, but it seemed practical and comfortable.

Every so often as he stood there looking about Arlian heard the name “Hathet” spoken by one of the Aritheians. Other than that he could understand nothing at all of what was said, and could do nothing but wait.

Finally one tall old man stepped out of the crowd, and the others fell silent.

“I am Hirofa, of the House of Slihar,” the old man said in flawless, almost unaccented speech far better than Meriei’s command of Arlian’s tongue. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“I am Lord Ari of Manfort,” Arlian said, bowing.

Hirofa bowed in acknowledgment. “And why have you come to Arithei?”

“I have come to pay a debt to a man named Hathet, who befriended me when I was a child,” Arlian replied.

“Hathet is a name from the House of Deri,” Hirofa said. “The House of Deri does not trade with Manfort. How did you come to meet this man?”

Arlian hesitated. He had had some time to think, and had remembered that Hathet had claimed his enslavement was the work of his political enemies.

The House of Slihar might well be those enemies. To tell the whole truth might be unwise.

“I nursed him when he was dying of fever,” Arlian said. “He wanted his family to know that he would not return. He was too ill to tell me their names, or how he came to be in Deep Delving, where I met him, but I promised to find them, and to tell them how he died.”

“He told you no names?”

“None,” Arlian said.

Actually, Hathet might have named names, but if so, none of the other miners had paid any attention, and Arlian didn’t remember them.

Hirofa turned away and conferred briefly with the others, then turned back to Arlian.

“To refuse a deathbed promise would dishonor our House,” he said. “I will tell Hathet’s family of his death.”

Arlian frowned. “I promised I would tell them myself,” he said.

“You do not speak Aritheian.”

“I will need an interpreter,” Arlian agreed, “but I want to see them with my own eyes, and hold their hands to share their grief.”

“Very well,” Hirofa said. “I will take you to the House of Deri.”

Several of the others protested—apparently others besides Meriei and Hirofa knew Man’s Tongue. Hirofa turned and spoke a single sharp sentence, and the protests stopped. Then he beckoned to Arlian.

“Come,” he said.

Arlian obeyed, and the two men made their way back out onto the plaza. Hirofa started to lead the way down a nearby street, but Arlian stopped by his wagon.

“You can leave that where it is,” Hirofa said.

Arlian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am a stranger here, and you must forgive me my customs. I will bring my wagon with me.”

Hirofa obviously didn’t like the decision, but made no further objection as Arlian led the oxen alongside.

By the time they reached the rust-streaked golden palace Hirofa indicated as the House of Deri a crowd of curiosity-seekers was following them, staring at every motion Arlian and his oxen made.

Hirofa led Arlian up to a central archway and turned a handle set in the red-and-gold-enameled door; somewhere inside a bell rang, barely audible.

A moment later the doors swung open, and an Aritheian in an all-red gown stepped out. He and Hirofa exchanged a few words—but Arlian did not hear the name “Hathet.”

“I’m here about Hathet,” he called.

The man in red glanced at him, startled.

“Hathet,” Arlian repeated.

Hirofa turned and glowered at him briefly, but said nothing.

The man in red glanced back and forth between Arlian and Hirofa, then at the crowd of onlookers. He said something, beckoning to Arlian—Arlian didn’t understand the words, but the message was clear enough.

Arlian pointed at his wagon. “Can someone guard this?”

The man in red understood the question, even if he didn’t recognize the words; he held up a hand to indicate that Arlian should wait, then turned and shouted to someone inside.

A moment later three men emerged, clad not in the customary short robes of ordinary Aritheians, but in brown leather with strips of black iron across their chests—armor, of a sort. They had no swords, but carried wooden staves, each almost six feet long. They took up positions around the wagon and oxen.

Satisfied, Arlian turned and looked questioningly at the man in red, who beckoned him inside.

He followed.

Hirofa also started to follow, and the red-clad steward, if that was what he was, looked questioningly at Arlian.

Arlian shrugged, and the steward held up a hand to prevent Hirofa’s entrance.

Hirofa protested, and the two men argued loudly for several minutes before Hirofa turned away in disgust. With that settled, Arlian followed the steward through an elegant antechamber, down a long stone passage, and into a lushly appointed room.

There a woman in a blue-and-green robe was sprawled comfortably on a rattan settee. She looked up at Arlian’s arrival and sat up straight.

The steward spoke to her for a moment, while Arlian waited; then the woman rose and addressed the foreigner directly, in his own tongue. Her speech was clear, if not as free of accent as Hirofa’s.

“You are from the Lands of Man?” she asked.

“Yes,” Arlian said.

“You have news of Hathet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must see Grandmother. I am to prepare you.”

“Good,” Arlian said.

26

The House of Deri

A dais at one end of the reception chamber held three chairs, all of them occupied; a handful of other people, all of them well fed and handsome, stood to either side.

This room was larger than the one where he had met Hirofa, and only open on one side, but similar in design. The awnings were green instead of blue, and the chairs were all pushed back against one wall, but the floor tiles were the same shade of brown, and the furniture made in the same style. Presumably this was the norm for Arithei—or at least for the headquarters of the great Houses.

As instructed, when he had crossed the room Arlian knelt before the three people on the dais—two women, one young and one old, and an old man—and made the gesture of respect the interpreter had taught him—hands pressed together palm-to-palm before his face, head tilted back.

The old man spoke, in Aritheian.

“They welcome you to the House of Deri,” the interpreter explained.

“Please tell them that I am Lord Ari of Manfort, and I am honored to be here,” Arlian said.

The interpreter relayed the message, heard the reply, and told Arlian, “They ask your business here.”

Arlian looked up at the old couple. He asked, “You are the family of Hathet, who was sent as ambassador to Manfort many years ago?”

His interpreter quickly translated the question into Aritheian, and the tall, white-haired woman replied with a few brief words.

“They acknowledge the relationship,” the interpreter said. She gestured at the tall woman. “Grandmother Iriol was Hathet’s sister.”

“Then I regret to say I bring sad news,” Arlian said. “Lady Iriol, your brother Hathet is dead. I was present when he died, and held him in my arms.”

The interpreter relayed this, and received another question from the tall woman in response while the half dozen others in the room whispered excitedly to one another.

“How did he die?” she asked.

“Of a fever,” Arlian said. “I tended him in his illness, and did all I could for him—he had been kind to me.”

When the interpreter had translated this several of the Aritheians spoke at once, though the tall woman remained thoughtfully silent; the interpreter looked lost as she tried to decide whom to listen to.

“What are they saying?” Arlian asked her.

“They want to know where it happened, whether you are a northern physician or perhaps a sorcerer, when this happened… everything.”

Arlian waved for the family’s attention, then began his story, pausing after each sentence so that the interpreter could do her job.

“As a boy, I was captured by slavers,” he said. “I was sold and sent to a mine in Deep Delving, and I met Hathet there. He befriended me, protected me and taught me. He said that he had been sent from Arithei as your ambassador, but no one believed him, not even I. He said he had been waylaid by bandits on the journey north—he had made it safely into the Lands of Man, but was taken captive in the Desolation, the wasteland between the Borderlands and Manfort. He believed this capture was the doing of his political enemies, because he was not held for ransom, as he expected, but was instead sold as a slave and taken to the mine where I met him.”

Several people muttered as this was translated. Arlian hesitated, then admitted, “We did not believe this story— we had never heard of Arithei, and we could not see why bandits would neither kill nor ransom him. At any rate, he lived out the rest of his days working in the mine; he caught the fever there, weakened, and in time died.” He reached into the waistband of his breeches and pulled out the crude little pouch he had carried for so long. “He had collected these in the mine— in the Lands of Man they’re worthless, nothing but pretty stones, but he said they were precious here. When he died I took them to remember him by, not knowing I would ever find Arithei, but now that I am here I believe you should have them.” He opened the pouch, still kneeling, then poured the purple stones out onto the dais.

A sudden hush fell; the whispering that had gone on while he spoke ceased completely, and it seemed the Aritheians had even stopped breathing as they stared.

“Amethystoi,” someone said at last.

“Amethysts,” Arlian agreed, looking around at the stunned observers. Obviously, Hathet had not exaggerated the value of his prizes.

The interpreter had been staring at the jewels as intently as anyone; now she looked up at Arlian. “I begin to understand how you got here,” she said.

Arlian made no attempt to hide his puzzlement. “What?”

“The dreams have been strong lately, and the wizards careless; no one had dared cross the Dreaming Mountains for years, not even those of the House of Slihar, until you arrived. When we saw you we all wondered how you managed to reach Arithei alive—some of us suspected you were a wizard, or a demon, or a homunculus, rather than a true human.” She gestured at the dais. “Now I see.”

“See what?”

“The amethysts—don’t you know why they’re precious?”

“No,” Arlian said. “Hathet said they could be used for some sort of protective magic, and I thought they were prized for their rarity and beauty, but that’s all I know.”

The interpreter made a curious jerk of the head that Arlian was beginning to realize indicated denial in Arithei. “They are not merely used in magic,” she said. “They are magic, in themselves. An amethyst placed in a cup and a simple spoken word will cure drunkenness. They resist madness of any kind, and they keep bad dreams away.” She gestured toward the direction whence Arlian had come. “In the mountains, bad dreams can kill. These kept you safe.”

“Those, and my own sword, perhaps,” Arlian said. “I encountered certain difficulties on the way.”

“Yes, your sword,” the interpreter agreed. “Cold iron. We use iron for protection here.” She looked at the hilt on Arlian’s belt and added, “And silver?”

Arlian looked down at the silver filigree of his sword’s pommel. “Silver and steel, yes,” he said.

“The creatures of darkness fear silver,” the interpreter said. “The creatures of air cannot abide cold iron. And the creatures of dream cannot pass near amethyst. You are protected as few ever are.”

Arlian thought back to the things he had seen and fought on the road across the mountains, to what had remained of his fourth ox, and shuddered—if that was what it was like when he carried magical protection, what would have happened had he been without such defenses?

Obviously, he would have died. No wonder so little traffic passed between Arithei and the Lands of Man! And no wonder the Aritheians had placed iron fences around every town, and those strange posts along their roads.

And he had just given away all his amethysts; the journey back north might well be his last. He could scarcely reclaim them now, though…

The tall woman spoke.

“She’s asking if this is all Hathet gave you,” the interpreter reported.

“Yes,” Arlian said. “That’s all.”

The tall woman then stooped and chose the largest of the purple stones, one as large as the top joint of Arlian’s thumb. “Then keep this,” she said, speaking slowly in Arlian’s own tongue. “For nursing my brother in his illness.”

Arlian hesitated, trying to decide whether he should argue or not, but the memory of those things in the mountains decided him. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the stone.

“Wear it around your throat,” she said. “More effective that way.”

Arlian bowed in acknowledgment of this advice.

The tall woman then addressed the interpreter in Aritheian.

The interpreter listened carefully and asked questions before finally turning back to Arlian.

“She says you have the protection of the House of Deri any time you may need it, and she wishes to know whether Hathet ever mentioned any names, anyone he thought might have been involved in the plotting against him.”

“No,” Arlian said. “He never mentioned any names.”

“Then she wishes me to tell you that nonetheless, from events after Hathet’s departure, and the events surrounding your arrival, she has a fairly strong suspicion of who was involved, and how. Your arrival has brought not merely news, but wealth…” She gestured at the gem-strewn dais. “… and the prospect of vengeance and a restoration of the former prominence of the House of Deri. You managed to bring this to us, to Hathet’s House, despite the interference of those you first encountered. You came here even though you had met others who surely did not wish you to. For this, the House is greatly in your debt.”

Arlian noticed that the interpreter did not mention the House of Slihar by name, but he did not doubt that she was referring to them. Although he knew almost nothing of Aritheian society, it was easy enough to guess that the House of Slihar and the House of Deri had competed for control of trade with the Lands of Man, that the Slihar had been responsible for Hathet’s abduction, and that his disappearance had allowed them to dominate—for a time.

“I merely did what seemed right,” Arlian said. “Hathet was kind to me when I needed kindness.”

The tall woman said something without waiting for the translation—obviously, while she preferred to use the interpreter, she knew something of Arlian’s language.

“Yet you came to Arithei to bring us this,” the interpreter said, gesturing at the amethysts.

“I also came to Arithei to sell swords,” Arlian said. “And to buy goods to sell in the north. I have silver to pay.”

The interpreter and the tall woman stared at him.

“Swords?” Hathet’s sister said.

“Silver?” the interpreter said.

“That’s right,” Arlian said.

“Silver cannot pass Tirikindaro,” the interpreter said.

“No one stopped me,” Arlian said. “Tirikindaro was quiet when I passed.”

“But…” The interpreter groped for words, then began again, speaking slowly. “Our ancestors fled from the dragons long ago and came to Arithei,” she said, “but later they found that they were trapped here by the magic that surrounds this place. We have remained here ever since. We live confined by the dreams, the wizards, the creatures that live in the mountains, unable to leave this one safe valley because we lack protections from the magic in the hills. We found iron, all the iron we needed, to build our ward-fences, but none of us had the knowledge of making steel for swords, and iron alone is not sufficient against the creatures in the mountains. We have found no silver anywhere, though we have looked. We had a few amethysts our ancestors had brought from the north; these were carried by our traders and ambassadors, but they have gradually been lost over time as their bearers fell to the other hazards around us—Hathet carried the last stone our House possessed, and no doubt some bandit gave it to his children to play with. The House of Slihar had three or four more stones that allowed them to send their ambassador, and their traders, for a few years after Hathet disappeared, but those, too, have now been lost. We were confined here, without hope.”

She sighed, then said, “The people of the lands beyond the mountains did nothing to help us, but we do not fault them for this. We dared not tell them the secret of using amethysts to cross the Dreaming Mountains for fear of invasion, and they knew we had a secret we would not share. Mistrusting us in return, they would not sell us steel or silver.” She made a gesture of dismissal. “We do not blame them; we gave them no reason to trust us.”

Arlian started to protest, then thought better of it. The interpreter continued, “For centuries we have resigned ourselves to living in isolation here, behind our iron walls, and of late we have even resigned ourselves to having no contact with the outside at all—and now you come here, unbidden, with all these precious things, and offer us the world!”

The effusive gratitude that concluded the explanation made Arlian uncomfortable. “I owed Hathet a debt,” he said.

Hathet’s sister reached out and put a hand on Arlian’s shoulder.

“My friend,” she said slowly, “your words, and these stones, paid that debt many times over. If you have brought us silver and steel as well, you will be very rich.”

27

The Trade Delegation

Black looked at his empty mug, debating whether to order another cup of wine. They watered it here, of course—these southerners always did—but even when he knew he was paying for as much water as wine, it was still far cheaper than decent beer in Sweetwater.

He was tired of watered wine. He was tired of constant sunlight. He was tired of Sweetwater. He had been stranded here for months, and he was quite thoroughly tired of everything about it and eager to be moving again. He was completely recovered, his wounds healed and the infection long gone, but two of the caravans weren’t yet returned, and Lord Drens wasn’t about to head north until they were back.

He could hardly cross the Desolation by himself, but he very much wished that those other two caravans would hurry up and arrive.

The door of the inn opened, and Black turned at the sound—any interruption at all of the usual dull routine would be welcome.

A figure was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun—a tall man in a broad-brimmed hat. He stepped in, and Black recognized him.

“Ari!” he said.

“Hello, Black,” Arlian said, smiling broadly. “Lord Drens said I’d find you here.”

“Ari, it’s you!” Black repeated, as he got to his feet and started toward the new arrival.

“I may not want to use that name anymore,” Arlian said. “I haven’t decided, but I think something more elegant may be appropriate.” Then he fell silent for a moment as the two men embraced. He clapped Black on the back as they separated.

“They told me you’d headed across the Dreaming Mountains, bound for Arithei,” Black said.

“I did,” Arlian said.

“Alone, they said,” Black said.

“That’s right.” Arlian grinned at him.

Black grinned back. “You do realize the contradiction between this and your current presence here, still alive, don’t you?”

Arlian smiled. “I made it to Arithei alone,” he said. “There’s no contradiction; I had protection you didn’t know about.” The smile twisted awry. “For that matter, I didn’t know about it, either.”

“I see,” Black said. “And this mysterious protection also saw you safely back to Sweetwater? Or am I to understand otherwise from your phrasing?”

“Oh, I had other protection on the way back,” Arlian said. He gestured toward the door.

Black peered out into the sunlight and saw a dozen men and women, all dressed in strange, bright costumes, all wearing broad leather sword belts that looked out of place on the garish robes, and with glittering silver medallions on chains about their necks.

“The Aritheian trade mission,” Arlian explained. “They escorted me back.”

Black was well aware that there had been no trade with Arithei in a decade or so, but he had no reason to doubt Arlian. He had never seen an Aritheian, but he had no reason to think these strangers were anything else.

“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 facade. 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!”

The slaver hesitated, but then shrugged and left without further protest.

Later he mentioned the incident to a few friends. Word spread, and others, curious, began to ask discreet questions of the steward.

“Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” Black told them. “Nor do I. That’s all. It is his choice, and mine.”

Interest in Lord Obsidian, widespread ever since Coin first reported that she had found a buyer for the Old Palace, heightened as this odd quirk became known. Obviously, Obsidian was not one of the established elite of the city, since none of them had ever had any compunctions about slavery—he was a stranger, an outsider.

Some inhabitants of Manfort joined Obsidian’s staff, and the rumors grew…

Obsidian himself had reportedly not yet arrived at the palace, but in addition to the steward and the people hired locally there were half a dozen foreigners in residence— people not merely from outside the city walls, but from somewhere beyond the Lands of Man entirely, four men and two women. They spoke among themselves in some unknown tongue, and spoke Man’s Tongue haltingly or not at all, and often dressed in bizarre, outlandish robes.

The wagons that brought supplies to the palace were heavily guarded, and some of them carried freight that was promptly hidden away in locked storerooms.

The steward was said to be asking questions about more than where he might find the best suppliers of fresh produce or clean lamp oil; he was rumored to be interested in sorcery, and in volcanic glass—presumably Lord Obsidian’s choice of name had something to do with that. He reportedly inquired after those knowledgeable about dragons, as well, and about all the lords of Manfort.

But all this was hearsay. All that reached the streets was rumor and gossip, no hard facts, and the people of Manfort waited for Lord Obsidian’s arrival with great anticipation.

Black could hardly be unaware of this, and one evening, as he stood gazing out the window in one of the upper rooms, he remarked, “The whole city is curious about you.”

Arlian answered, “That was the idea.”

Arlian was seated comfortably in a velvet-upholstered chair, a glass of good red wine on the table at his side. He had arrived a few days ago, along with those of the Aritheians who had chosen to come to Manfort. Arlian had driven his own wagon, and now wore the garb of a coachman, rather than a lord—anonymity had its uses, and a coachman’s broad-brimmed black hat kept his face shaded, so that later, when Lord Obsidian had made his grand appearance, the facial similarity would not be too obvious. Ari the teamster would get a very different reaction than Lord Obsidian among the shopkeepers of Manfort, and Arlian thought both might be useful.

“I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea,” Black replied.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Arlian asked. “Search the city street by street in hopes of spotting Lord Dragon or one of his henchmen? In Westguard I couldn’t find anyone who would admit to knowing anything about him. I heard a few rumors, got some support for my suspicions as to the names of the others among the six lords, but nothing more about Lord Dragon—and I can’t be sure of any of those names. Rose told me one of them, but he could have lied to her. No, if I’m to find those I seek, I’ve got to make them come to me.”

“So you’re asking about dragons,” Black said? “What if your Lord Dragon never used that name again? Suppose he took it entirely at random, just that once, or if not at random, simply because he was intent on looting a dragon-ravaged village? Then who would come to you with word of him?”

“No one,” Arlian replied, “but as you said yourself, I have time. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try something else. I’ve already tried something else, and I’ll try more. Several somethings, in fact.”

Black glanced at his employer. “Like the obsidian.”

“Yes.”

“It’s been almost ten years since the obsidian was stolen, Ari, and so far we haven’t seen a single piece you could say for certain came from your village—do you really think any of it can be traced back to the looters?”

“Why not? We’ve hardly tried yet. Once we start buying pieces, and asking where they came from, why would anyone fail to tell us?”

“Perhaps because he doesn’t know. A piece could have changed hands a dozen times by now.”

“How often does a physician’s knife or a piece of frippery change hands?” Arlian asked.

“How long does a physician remember where he bought each of his tools?” Black countered.

“How often does a woman forget where she obtained each of her baubles?”

“So you learn that Lady Whatever bought her pendant from a particular shop in the Street of the Jewelers—what if the shop is five years gone, or six?”

“What if it is? I’ll keep searching.”

Black sighed, and changed tack. “And this gala you’re planning— I assume you’ll leave the old Aritheian ambassador to the Aritheians, but suppose Lord Dragon does attend, and he recognizes you? Might he not decide to kill you before you can confront him? Might he not flee?”

“How would he recognize me?” Arlian laughed bitterly. “I was a boy of eleven when we first met, and he probably thinks I’m still hacking away at stone walls in Deep Delving. I doubt he even saw me in Westguard two years ago, nor would he know me to be anything more than a gawking passerby if he did.”

“You’re assuming he’s an ordinary man.”

Arlian took his time in answering, “No. How could an ordinary man have known that dragons would destroy Obsidian, and leave it open for looting? And in Westguard he had the Duke of Manfort’s grant of unlimited authority, apparently legitimately. I have no doubt that Lord Dragon, whoever he may actually be, has access to knowledge beyond the commonplace. He may well be a sorcerer. But he’s still a man, not a god; nor even a dragon; I do not think him infallible, and the Aritheians have taught me that sorcery has limits, and rather narrow ones. I assume Lord Dragon, whoever and whatever he is, has as much curiosity as anyone. I think he’ll attend the festivities, and I do not think he’ll know me.” He shrugged. “If I’m wrong—well, then Fate is unkind, and I’m wrong.”

“And if you’re wrong you may well wind up dead.”

“True enough. And while it’s kind of you to be concerned, that’s really my business, isn’t it? Why are you so determined to talk me out of risking it?”

“Partly just my natural perversity, but also because I think you’re being a fool, throwing away a wonderful life. You’re young, handsome, rich—yes, you were wronged as a child, you were sold as a slave, but you’re free now, and you have so much. Why risk everything in pursuit of some abstract justice? It seems foolish to me. When a man has wronged me, I don’t seek him out; I avoid him, and go on about my business.”

“I can’t do that,” Arlian said. “You and I are different in that, Black. I can’t ignore what was done to me.”

“Not even for a year or two, until you know the city better?”

“Black, every day I think about Lord Dragon and his gang, and about the dragons. Every day I’m alive I remember that dragon’s face. I can’t wait a year.”

“So you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Perhaps.”

“I can’t say I like the idea. If you wind up dead, I won’t get paid.”

“Assuming you don’t wind up dead beside me.”

“Exactly. Not that I intend to allow anything of the sort to happen.”

Arlian smiled crookedly. “I have no heir, Black; if I die, and you live, all I have here is yours.”

Black blinked at that.

“Oh,” he said.

Arlian’s grin broadened. “And now I suppose I need to watch my back around you.”

Black snorted. “Hardly. As long as you pay me enough, I’ll be content to play steward—given the popularity of dueling and assassination I suspect stewards usually live longer than lords around here. And furthermore, I don’t think I would care to be hanged as a murderer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Arlian sipped wine. “And how are the preparations going?”

Black sighed, and began an accounting of everything that was being done to ready the once-elegant old palace for the planned debut of Lord Obsidian in Manfort’s high society.

Arlian listened carefully.

He was aware that Black’s criticisms of his plan might have some truth in them, but he could think of no better way to locate those members of Manfort’s elite whom he intended to destroy—as well as Lord Dragon, there were the other five lords who had owned the brothel. He only knew one name, that of Lord Kuruvan; he knew that Lords Inthior, Drisheen, Salisna, and Jerial had been patrons, and might have been owners, and he intended to get a good look at each of them. He also wanted to know about any others who had been involved in the creation and destruction of the House of Carnal Society. That might well be a significant portion of the city’s elite.

An unrelated member of the elite who Arian thought deserved attention, as Black had mentioned, was Sahasin of the House of Slihar, the Aritheian ambassador whose faction had almost certainly been responsible for Hathet’s enslavement. Locating the ambassador and dealing with him was no problem—the Aritheians who had accompanied Arlian and Black to Manfort would tend to him, and there was no reason for any natives of the Lands of Man to involve themselves.

Black, at Arlian’s order, had sent a direct invitation to Sahasin, urging him to attend the upcoming festivities. He doubted the man would refuse.

The rest were not so simple. If Arlian attempted to hunt those six lords who had owned the brothel down individually, to find and free Sweet and the rest of those poor crippled whores and to avenge their four dead comrades, he could scarcely expect to deal with more than one or two of the lords before the others realized what was happening and fled or joined forces against him. They might use the women as hostages against him, or hire assassins to deal with him, once they knew he was in pursuit. That would, at the very least, endanger the women and make his vengeance more difficult.

What better way to gather them together, so that he could confront all of them, than to throw a party they could not resist? With any luck he would be able to identify them simply by asking a few questions, and once that was done he could meet them, speak with them, judge their weaknesses, all on his own ground, on his own terms, and then take action swiftly and appropriately.

And as for the six looters who had worked with Lord Dragon—Shamble, Hide, Stonehand, Cover, Dagger, and Tooth—how else could he find them, other than by tracing the goods they had stolen?

If he had simply tried to track those people down by name, by inquiring after their present whereabouts, word would surely have gotten back to them. They might hide, or flee, when they knew someone was looking for them.

Besides, Arlian suspected that half the would-be assassins in the city called themselves Dagger. Even though most of them would be male, where he was after a female, that would not make matters any simpler.

Sooner or later, though, Arlian promised himself, he would find them all. He would locate each of the looters, each of the six lords who had owned a share in the House, and he would see that each of them received what he or she deserved. He would rescue as many of the dozen women as he could. He would let Hathet’s own clan deal with the usurper ambassador, but the others were his.

And if he lived long enough, and the opportunity arose, there were other old enemies he might want to find. Lampspiller might deserve some attention eventually, and the Old Man, too—using slaves to work a mine was no crime by the standards of the Lands of Man, but the Old Man was a little too careless in how he acquired his workers— neither Arlian nor Hathet should have been there—and Lampspiller was far more brutal than necessary.

And when all that was done, he would seek out the dragons in their deep caverns—and probably throw away his life in doing so, but still, he felt that he had to do it.

He had asked the Aritheians if they knew of any way to kill a dragon, of any magic that would work against the great beasts, but they knew no more of dragons than he did—perhaps less. He would be on his own in finding the caverns and destroying their occupants, but he could not rest until he had done so.

And after that…

Well, there probably wouldn’t be any “after that.” If there were, he would worry about it when it arrived.

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