Stammer

Black opened the door only a few inches, trying to keep the rain and the wind outside. Spring was well advanced, but the weather was still unseasonably cool and raw. “Yes?” he asked.

The woman huddled on the postern doorstep looked up at him. “Your… your pardon, my lord,” she stammered.

“I’m not your lord,” Black said, as he glanced around in the wet gloom of gathering twilight. The woman was far too ragged to be pursuing any honest trade, and he saw no cart or companion; she might be a beggar, or she might be bait.

He saw no one lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce when the door was opened—but an attacker might just be well hidden. And even if the woman were not part of a gang of thieves intent on looting the palace, a would-be burglar might happen along at any moment and seize the opportunity if Black stood there with the door open on such a miserable, dark day as this.

“I’m so… I’m sorry,” she said, ducking her head and spilling water from the hood of her cloak onto Black’s boot.

“Get in here,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and yanking her inside.

He slammed and barred the door, then turned to her, half expecting to see a drawn blade in her hand.

Instead she had fallen to her knees and was cowering on the stone floor of the entryway, clutching her cloak about her.

Black frowned.

Beggars were rare in Manfort—very rare. Just about anyone who slept unguarded in the streets or missed enough rent payments, no matter how decrepit, was likely to be taken by the slavers and sold. Still, this woman probably was a beggar, he decided, one the slavers hadn’t caught yet, drawn to the Old Palace by the local gossip, looking for somewhere to get out of the rain and get a bite to eat. Anything else was just his morbid imagination, driven by the miserable weather and the uncertainties of his present situation. The announced date of Lord Obsidian’s “arrival” and reception was approaching rapidly, and it was getting on his nerves.

The woman was almost certainly harmless. Her obvious terror was probably because she expected him to sell her into slavery, despite the rumors, not the result of nervousness about her involvement in some dire scheme.

“Get up,” he said.

She hesitated. He reached down and snatched away her cowl, revealing short-cut hair and a bony, half-starved face that might have been attractive if better fed. It was hard to judge, given her condition, but he guessed she was perhaps thirty, no more than forty.

She cringed.

“Get up, I said.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright.

She stood unsteadily, looking up at him.

“Now, what did you want?” he asked. “Food? A drink?”

She shook her head, and fumbled with the inside of her cloak. “I heard…” she began. “I heard that you… that Lord Ob… Obsidian would pay…”

And her hand emerged from a hidden pocket clutching something. She held it out, and opened her hand.

It was a brooch, an oval of carved and polished obsidian set in elaborately worked gold, all of archaic design. A black velvet backing that would keep it from chafing appeared to have been added later.

It was almost certainly stolen, Black thought—the woman’s cloak was ancient, stained and ragged, and what he could see of the dress beneath was no better. This woman could hardly have come by so fine an item honestly. It was probably a family heirloom she had snatched from an unguarded room somewhere.

Still, it was obsidian, and perhaps she could be convinced to say where she had stolen it. He and Arlian had looked at two dozen pieces already, brought to the door by jewelers, merchants, and people of less obvious employment, and had noted down half a dozen names for further investigation; one more would do no harm, and chasing the poor creature back out into the rain seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me get you something to eat, and you can sit by the fire while I see if Lord Obsidian’s jeweler is available.”

He settled her on a stool beside the kitchen hearth, with a heel of bread and a cup of tea to dunk it in—he hadn’t gotten a look at her teeth, but they were probably in bad shape.

If she opened the door before he got back and let in a horde of thieves, it would serve him right for being too soft-hearted, Black thought as he hastened up the stairs to fetch Arlian. If the palace had had a full-time staff in place he would have put a guard on her, but so far only he, Arlian, and the six Aritheians who had made the long journey to Manfort slept there; for now the locally hired servants all worked days, and returned to their homes at night. That made it easier to maintain the fiction that Lord Obsidian had not yet arrived.

Black looked forward to the day after the grand gala— once that was over and done with he could hire a proper household staff.

A few minutes later, when Black and Arlian returned to the kitchen, the woman was still there, huddled on her stool, her cloak steaming in the warmth of the fire. Black hurried past her to check on the postern, and found the door still securely barred.

“Let me see the brooch,” Arlian said, holding out his hand. He wore coachman’s livery in black piped with white—the colors he had chosen for himself, representing the black of obsidian and the white of justice. He doubted this woman would recognize his attire as inappropriate for a jeweler.

She set down her empty teacup and fished out the brooch. “I… It’s all we have left,” the woman said as she held it out. “It was my betrothal gift.”

Black was just reentering the kitchen when Arlian accepted the brooch and got his first good look at it. Black saw the young lord’s jaw drop, his eyes snap wide open; he saw Arlian’s body tense, his back arching as if he had been struck.

“Sorcery!” Black said, his sword in his hand; suddenly he was at the woman’s side, the blade at her throat.

“No!” Arlian said, holding up a hand. “No—no, I’m fine.” His voice was rough; he blinked away tears.

“Then what…”

“The brooch,” Arlian said, holding it up. The gold sparkled redly in the firelight.

Black did not lower his sword, but kept it at the woman’s throat, his left hand on the back of her neck. He could feel that she was rigid with terror. “What about it?” he demanded.

“It’s my mother’s,” Arlian said.

The woman gasped, then let out a low, sobbing moan.

Black was not yet entirely convinced there was no sorcery involved; his hands did not move. “You’re certain of that?” he asked.

“See for yourself,” Arlian said, turning the bauble over and peeling away the velvet backing.

“Don’t… !” the woman said, starting to snatch at the brooch—but Black’s sword held her in place.

Arlian held up the golden surface thus revealed and pointed at an inscription. “It’s hard to read, with the glue on it,” he said, “so look for yourself, and tell me whether it says, ‘To Sharbeth, with all my love.’” He looked at the woman. “Sharbeth was my mother.”

“He st… but…”

Black released his hold on the woman’s neck and accepted the brooch. He had to squint to make out any of the inscription, as it was clogged not just with glue but with dirt and ash and bits of black velvet, but the lengths of the words were right, and the longest word did look like “Sharbeth.”

“So it’s your mother’s brooch,” Black said. “It would seem I may have been overly pessimistic regarding your plans—but now what?”

“Where did you get it?” Arlian demanded, staring the woman in the eye.

She turned an imploring gaze on Black. “The… the sword,” she said.

“Sheathe it,” Arlian said.

Black frowned, but obeyed. It would seem no sorcery was involved after all, and in that case two strong men should be able to handle one beggar woman. He slid the blade into its sheath, but kept his hand on the hilt.

“Now,” Arlian said, stepping forward and stooping to look the woman in the eye, “where did you get that brooch?”

“My husband,” she said. “It was my betrothal gift. We… we didn’t know it was stolen, I swear! The velvet was… it was there…”

“Who is your husband?” Arlian demanded. “Where is he? Still alive?”

“He… he’s sick. Very sick. That’s why I needed money. He didn’t want… all these years…” She stared at the brooch in Arlian’s hand.

“What’s your husband’s name?” Arlian demanded. “Where is he?”

“His name is Yorvalin, but everyone calls him Cover,” she said. “He’s in our room on Broom Street.”

“Cover?” Arlian straightened, and he and Black stared at each other over the woman’s head.

“It can’t be that easy,” Black said.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Arlian agreed, “but sometimes Fate is kind, as I know better than almost anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” the woman asked, looking from one man to the other. “What is easy?”

“What’s your name?” Arlian asked.

“I’m… I’m called Stammer,” she said, flushing.

“Of course,” Arlian said, with audible distaste. ‘Sometimes he didn’t think much of the cognomens people bestowed upon one another. “Well, Stammer,” he said, looking down at her, “I want to talk to your husband.”

She hesitated, clearly wishing she hadn’t said as much as $he already had. “You won’t hurt him?”

Arlian sighed. “I can’t promise that,” he said.

“I won’t… then I won’t take you.”

Black raised his sword hilt an inch or two from the scabbard, but Arlian gestured for him to put it back.

“Stammer,” he said, kneeling and looking up into her eyes, “do you know just how bad your position is? You’ve come here uninvited and tried to sell me stolen merchandise. From the look of you it’s obvious you have no money, no family, no patron—and here you are in Lord Obsidian’s home, arguing with his staff. Black could kill you, and claim he caught you stealing from us, and no one would ever doubt it. We could call a slaver in and sell you—and you’re still young and pretty enough that there’s no telling where you’d wind up as a slave. Now, we don’t want to do anything like that—we don’t want to harm you at all—but we do want to find your husband. You’ve already said he’s in your room on Broom Street—we’ll find him eventually, no matter what you do. You can save us the trouble of searching. And it’s your home—if we released you we would follow you, and sooner or later, wouldn’t you go back to your husband?” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a gold ducat. “I’ll pay you for your trouble, if you like—or not, if you think that would be too much like selling him.”

She stared down at the coin. “I… I’ll sell you the brooch,” she said.

“The brooch is mine by right,” Arlian said coldly. “It’s not yours to sell. Your services as a guide, though, are your own.”

She looked from Arlian to Black, but found no support there—Black’s expression showed only detached interest, Arlian’s intense determination.

“Give me the money,” she said, snatching the gleaming coin.

Arlian let her take it. “Now take us to Cover,” he said.

Stammer nodded. She got to her feet, and Arlian straightened up to follow.

Black raised a hand to halt him. “It’s raining,” he said. “Perhaps you should change your clothes, or at least put on a hat.”

Arlian looked down at himself, and agreed.

An hour later Arlian saw the first of the intended targets of his revenge, stretched out before him in the wretched dwelling he now inhabited, close up under the roof of a crumbling, narrow tenement.

There was no bed; Cover lay on a pile of rags on the bare planks that served as a floor. The entire room had clearly been improvised—the planks lay loose across the tie beams, creating a little wooden island seven feet above the attic’s true floor, accessible only by a rickety ladder. There were no windows or other means of ventilation, and the air was chokingly thick, stifling hot, and horribly still, full of the scents of wood and mildew and sweat. Light came from a single candle on a table below, and from the lantern Black held.

Most of the family that lived in the attic proper watched silently as Arlian, now clad in nondescript traveling garb rather than his coachman’s livery, climbed up to Cover’s niche, his hat in one hand; Black, in his customary leather and carrying a drawn sword in his right hand with the lantern in his left, stood guard at the foot of the ladder. Stammer watched nervously from one side.

The mother of the attic family sat in one corner with her youngest at her breast, ignoring the entire affair, and two of the other children were too busy squabbling to pay attention, but Arlian still had half a dozen pairs of eyes focused on him. In consequence he moved more slowly, and with greater caution, than he might otherwise have. He was eager, very eager, to see whether this was in fact the Cover he had met all those years ago in the ruins, the man who had lifted him up out of the cellar where Arlian’s grandfather had lain dead.

The man on the rag pile did not look at Arlian as he rose into view—or at anything else. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his breath rasping feebly. His skin was mottled with patches of unhealthy red, plainly visible even in the dim, uneven light.

Arlian swung himself off the ladder, stooping under the rafters, and stepped across the platform so that he leaned over the sick man.

“Cover,” Arlian said.

The man licked his lips, but otherwise did not move.

“Look at me, Cover,” Arlian demanded.

The sunken eyes opened, and the head turned, and Arlian knew that this was, indeed, the same man. He had lost weight, a great deal of weight—his flesh was stretched tight over his bones, and Arlian could count his ribs through the filthy, frayed shirt that covered his chest—but it was Cover.

Despite the heat of the stuffy attic, Arlian shivered. For years he had intended to punish this man for his crimes, for robbing the innocent dead of the village on the Smoking Mountain and for allowing Lord Dragon to sell Arlian into slavery—but what could he do to punish this pitiful creature who lay before him?

“How did you come to this?” Arlian asked. “When last I saw you you were well and strong, working for Lord Dragon.”

Cover stared at him for a long moment, then spoke. “It’s you?” he asked, his voice faint and breathy. “The boy from the cellar?”

“You recognize me?” Arlian asked, startled.

“Dreamed of you,” Cover said. “I’m so sorry.”

Arlian stared at him silently. He had not expected contrition. And the dreams… were they simply reflections of Cover’s own concerns, or did the man have the gift of prophecy? After his experiences in Arithei Arlian no longer doubted that some dreams were more than just the sleeping mind at play.

Had someone sent the dreams?

Had Cover really dreamed of him at all? Perhaps the man was delirious.

“How did you find me?” Cover asked after a moment, when Arlian still had not spoken.

“Your wife tried to sell me my mother’s brooch,” Arlian replied, forgetting about the dreams.

“Her brooch? She shouldn’t have done that. I told her she must never sell it. I gave it to her…” He coughed, cutting off his speech.

“She had nothing else left to sell,” Arlian said.

“But it wasn’t ours, not really. I never told her, but I knew you’d come for it someday. I gave it to her for our betrothal so she would never part with it.”

“How could you know I would come?” Arlian demanded, suddenly angry. “Why didn’t you tell her it was stolen?”

“I couldn’t,” Cover said. “I’m a coward. Couldn’t stop thinking of you, and your village. I wouldn’t work for Lord Dragon after that—that was my first job, and I couldn’t stand it. Saw your face everywhere after that—I knew sooner or later justice would catch up with me, that I’d be punished for what we did.”

That explained why Cover remembered Arlian so clearly—if he had never again joined in looting or raiding, the one event would stand out.

“What did you do, then?”

“I looked for other work:—but I didn’t know a trade. And I couldn’t get work from any of the lords after that, once I had told Lord Dragon no—the Dragon Society cast me out, marked me as unclean.”

“The Dragon Society?”

“Lord Dragon’s friends. The other lords. They wouldn’t help anyone he frowned upon.”

“You didn’t beg for forgiveness? You never went back to work for him again?”

“Couldn’t find him. And I didn’t want to.” Tears began to well up in Cover’s sunken eyes. “I married Stammer, and did what work I could find, but it was never much. We stayed one step ahead of the slavers—and then last year I got sick.”

“And you never tried to find me, in all those years, to make amends?” Arlian asked. “You never came to the mine to buy me free? You never tried to return the brooch or any of the rest of it?”

“No,” Cover said weakly. “I didn’t dare. And I needed my share of the money to live on.” He held out a trembling hand. “I’m sorry.”

Arlian stepped back toward the ladder and did not reach for the hand.

“So am I,” he said. He gripped the hilt of his sword—but he hesitated, and did not draw the blade.

He could not punish this man—Cover had already punished himself far more effectively than Arlian could. Killing him would be no worse than letting him live.

Arlian was wealthy; if he chose he could take Cover in, feed him, give him a home—the illness might well be caused as much by malnutrition as anything else. Furthermore, the Aritheians knew a great deal of magic, and while they said magic could not heal everything, some diseases could be treated with their herbs and amulets. Perhaps they could cure the wasting disease that was eating Cover alive…

But why should Arlian help? Cover had never done anything to atone for his crimes. He had never sought out Arlian; by his own admission he had never even tried.

No, Arlian owed Cover nothing—neither vengeance nor succor.

But that didn’t mean he had no further business here.

“Are you going to kill me?” Cover asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“No,” Arlian said. “I am going to leave you here, unharmed—and unaided. I am going to take my mother’s brooch, which is rightfully mine, but there may be something else you can sell me—if not for your own benefit, for your wife’s.”

“What is it?”

“I want to find the rest of your party of looters,” Arlian said. “Shamble, and Dagger, and Hide, and Tooth, and Stonehand. And I want to know everything you can tell me about Lord Dragon—is that how he’s generally known?”

“I can’t… I…”

“I will pay one ducat for each of your former comrades I locate through your information,” Arlian interrupted. “And I will pay five ducats for Lord Dragon’s true name.”

“I don’t know his true name!” Cover gasped desperately. “I don’t know where they all are anymore—I haven’t seen any of them in years.”

“Tell me what you can, then,” Arlian said. “Tell me what you can, and it may be enough.”

30

Cover

Cover had been an eager, if foolish, young man when he hired on with Lord Dragon. The younger son of a farmer of no great wealth, he had sold his birthright to his elder brother and come to Manfort seeking his fortune.

He had, instead, found taverns and gaming and bad companions—and one good one, the girl Stammer, whom he had befriended when others mocked her.

But then the money had run low, and his friend and drinking companion Hide had offered him employment with Lord Dragon. He took the job gladly, and he and the others had followed Lord Dragon out of Manfort to the south and west, and up the slopes of the Smoking Mountain.

The sight of the burned-out ruins and the scattered bodies had changed Cover. The horror of it had settled into his heart. He had looked upon the devastation the dragons had left behind, and at the other looters, and he had realized that his companions were blind to the evil he saw there; they saw only unguarded valuables waiting to be taken.

When he and the others had pulled Arlian from the cellar, Cover had seen it at first as a sign that they were not simply thieves desecrating the dead—they had saved a boy, they had done something good, something to redeem themselves and to balance what they stole.

And then Lord Dragon had sold the boy as a slave, and Cover’s hopes of redemption were dashed.

Later, when they were almost back to Manfort, Lord Dragon had told them he had another job for them, in the east—and Cover had refused. He had demanded his share of the profits and returned to his old haunts in the city.

At first everything had been fine—but then the others had completed whatever task they had had in the east and come back to Manfort, and word had begun to spread. Cover never learned just what was said, but he found that his credit had been cut off at the taverns, the odd jobs he had done for spending money were no longer offered, and he was not welcome among people who had been his friends. One of those former friends mentioned that Shamble had spoken a few words of warning; others would not give even that much reason.

Stammer had stayed with him, though. Throughout it all she had remained loyal and true. He had married her, giving her his only remaining thing of value—Sharbeth’s brooch—as a betrothal gift.

“Why did you stay in Manfort, if you could find no work here?” Arlian asked.

“Where else would I go?” Cover replied.

Arlian had seen enough of the world that he could easily have listed a dozen places, but he did not bother. “Go on,” he said.

That was really all there was to it. Cover and Stammer had survived as best they could, finding whatever work was available. They had had a daughter, their only child, who had died of a fever when she was three.

And then Cover had begun to sicken, and the last of their money had run out.

The last Cover had heard of Shamble had been four years ago; Shamble had continued to work for Lord Dragon or his wealthy friends, doing whatever unpleasant tasks might need doing.

Stonehand had joined the Duke’s personal guard some six years past, and for all Cover knew was still there.

Tooth had disappeared long ago; there had been rumors about involvement with a sorcerer.

Dagger had killed a well-connected man two years after the destruction of Obsidian, and had fled from Manfort. Cover had heard nothing of her since.

And Hide… Hide had saved up proceeds from his work for Lord Dragon, and had opened a fashionable little shop in the Upper City, dealing in baubles and curiosities. Cover and Stammer had never spent much time in the Upper City, and ragged and ill-fed as they were they had not dared venture there in years, but Cover believed the shop was still there. “And Lord Dragon?” Arlian asked. “You want his real name,” Cover whispered. “I don’t know it.”

“Do you know where I can find him?” Cover shook his head, which triggered a coughing fit; when he had recovered and taken his hand from his mouth Arlian saw bright blood smeared across the fingers.

“No,” Cover said. “I only knew of him through Hide. I know he goes by several names, and that he’s important, very rich—he has the Duke’s ear, I think, and knows something of sorcery. It’s said he’s a master in one of the secret societies—maybe there really is a Dragon Society. I meant it as just a turn of phrase, to describe those around him, but perhaps it’s the truth.”

Arlian frowned. He had known, from his stop in Westguard, that Lord Dragon had more than casual contact with the Duke of Manfort; this confirmed it. As for the rest… “Secret societies?”

Cover waved a hand helplessly. “Rumors. There are said to be secret societies throughout the Lands of Man, but most particularly here in Manfort. Societies of lords, societies of sorcerers…” He began coughing again.

“A society of whores,” Arlian muttered under his breath. He suddenly understood that the name of the House of Carnal Society might be a joke of sorts, a cruel parody of these supposed secret societies. “And in which society did Lord Dragon claim membership?” Cover, still coughing, shook his head helplessly.

He didn’t know. All he could provide was rumors; Arlian saw that now. “I will pay for Stonehand and Hide,” he said. “Two ducats. The others—we’ll see.”

Cover managed to speak again through a foam of bloody spittle. “Thank you,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“Perhaps in time I will,” Arlian said. “For now I will merely withhold judgment.”

He turned and climbed carefully down the ladder.

At the bottom he tucked his hat under one arm as he opened his purse and drew out two ducats, which he handed to Stammer.

“You earned the first that I gave you before,” he said. “Your husband earned these others.”

She stammered, and he held up his hand.

“Go to him,” Arlian said. “He’s very ill; I don’t think he has much longer.”

She gasped, and hurried to the ladder.

Arlian did not watch her climb; instead he beckoned to Black, and the two men started down the stairs.

“He’s dying?” Black asked as they descended. He walked a pace behind, holding the lantern high; the stairwell had no other light.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Arlian said. “I never saw a man do that for long and live. Oh, a few drops from a scratched throat, perhaps, but this blood was bright and red…” He shook his head.

“I take it you feel no need to hasten his end, under the circumstances.”

“None whatsoever,” Arlian agreed.

They had reached the third floor landing; they wheeled onto the next flight down, and continued in silence. They had just started down from the second floor to the first when Black spoke again.

“I take it you feel no need to make any attempts at healing him, either.”

Arlian did not answer immediately; in fact, they were on the front stoop, just a step from the street, when he replied.

“I thought about it,” he said, clapping his hat on his. head and tugging his collar up to keep out the drizzling rain. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Black grimaced. “And if you did heal him, would you then slay him?”

“No,” Arlian said immediately. “I’m not so vindictive as that. He robbed the dead of my village, but he’s been punished for it ever since, by his own conscience, and he has not otherwise wronged me—nor anyone, to my knowledge.” He stepped out into the street and turned toward the Upper City.

“Ah—he’s repented?”

“Maybe. He may know what’s in his heart; I don’t.” Black looked at the younger man’s face. “And do you know what’s in yours, my lord? You seem troubled—isn’t it an easing of your burden to know that you’ve found this man, and he has suffered for the wrongs he committed? While you toiled away in the mine and drove your wagon across the Desolation and fought through the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei, he was not making merry with his ill-gotten gains, but was instead suffering as well. And now, when you are free and rich and able to do as you please, he lies dying on a heap of rags in a Manfort attic. This would seem to me to be a fine display of justice, of Fate working out matters as we would choose, rather than in the perverse and unfair fashion it so often prefers.”

“I suppose,” Arlian agreed unhappily, as they ambled up the sloping street toward the Old Palace. A scavenging dog hurried out of their way, unnoticed.

“Then why do I see you with a face more suited to a merchant assessing losses than one counting profits?”

Arlian stopped walking and turned to look at his companion.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps I am assessing losses.”

“Is revenge so sweet, then, that you regret the missed opportunity?”

“No,” Arlian said, resuming his pace. “No, that’s not it. I am thinking, rather, of Stammer’s loss—she had no part in any wrongdoing that I know of.”

“And she’s free to leave Cover, should she choose to,” Black pointed out.

“But she loves him. I’m almost tempted to try to help him, just for her sake—but I swore vengeance…”

“A family is a risk, my lord; we all suffer when those we love suffer, whether through their own fault or not, and the entanglements of concern and affection weave everywhere. There’s no scheme of justice in all the world so complex that it might untangle all the strands that bind the innocent to the guilty, the wronged to the blessed.”

“There should be,” Arlian said.

“But there isn’t—unless Fate and the gods are subtler than we know. I’ve learned to live with that; you should, too.”

Arlian shook his head. “It’s all so complicated,” he said. “I could show mercy, have the Aritheians look at Cover— perhaps they could heal him, or perhaps not. But what would come of it?”

Black shrugged. “We never know what’s to come, my lord; we can only make our best guess.”

“And that’s often wrong. When I saved Bloody Hand’s life, it brought me hatred—and my freedom. I still haven’t decided whether I was right or wrong, or whether he was right or wrong.” He sighed. “I had thought my vengeance would be simpler. Looting Obsidian in the dragons’ wake was an evil thing—I don’t think any could question that. Selling me as a slave, rather than letting me make my own way as best I could, was wrong. I had thought that the people who did those things, when I found them, would be evil, that by killing them I would be ridding the world of a continuing threat to the well-being of innocents—and instead I find Cover a sick, harmless beggar who seems to have hurt no one in years, who is clearly loved by his wife. What if the others are the same?”

“What if they are?” Black responded. “Does that wipe out the wrongs they did?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian said quietly.

“Ah,” Black said. For half a dozen paces neither man spoke; then Black suggested, “Perhaps, if you’re still determined upon your vengeance, you should concentrate on those six lords, then. The mutilation of sixteen young women, and the murder of four, is surely harder to forgive than a mere looting and enslavement.”

“Five women murdered, not four,” Arlian said. “Lord Dragon slew Madam Ril with his own hand.”

“Ah, indeed, five it is—though she was herself a party to crimes against the others, was she not?”

“Yes,” Arlian said. “And if I had killed her, for those crimes… but Lord Dragon cut her throat for failing him, not for abusing her charges.” He bit his lower lip. “She would be just as dead in either case; does it really matter who killed her, or why?”

“Not to me,” Black said. “You are, of course, free to form your own opinion, but I say that dead is dead. And whether she deserved to die or not, there were still the other four.”

“It’s so very tangled,” Arlian muttered.

“Indeed,” Black agreed. “Life generally is.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Arlian’s shoulders hunched against the rain.

31

Lord Obsidian’s Debut

Arlian made no attempt to locate Hide or Stonehand over the course of the next few days; instead he threw himself into the preparations for the feast and dance that he was to host, as Lord Obsidian, to celebrate his arrival in Manfort.

He put some effort into his own appearance, even considering asking his Aritheian employees to throw a glamour on him, though in the end he settled for the more natural methods he had learned during his stay in Westguard.

He did, however, teach the Aritheians an elaborate code of signals that he would use, should he have any need of their services during the gala. He taught Black the same cues.

“Do you think,” Black asked, after a final review, “that perhaps you’ve taken rather too much upon yourself?”

Arlian frowned. “How do you mean that?”

“I mean that you are one man—a strong and clever man, with the heart of the dragon, but a single man—yet you’re determined to take on at least seven enemies.”

“I’m not alone,” Arlian protested. “I have you, and Thirif and Qulu and Shibiel and Isein.”

“And the lords will undoubtedly have their own hirelings and allies.”

Arlian shrugged. “The six lords and Ambassador Sahasin and the looters and the mine’s overseers may or may not be too much for me; we’ll see. But they’re just the start.”

“You speak of the dragons.”

Arlian nodded. “The world is not safe for anyone so long as those monsters still live.”

“You stand no chance against any dragon, Arlian,” Black said resignedly. He had told Arlian this before, many times. “No man has ever slain a dragon. It’s not even known whether they can die.”

“I know,” Arlian said. “So I’ll probably die horribly in some cave somewhere.” He waved it aside. “We all die sometime, and if no one ever tries, we’ll never know whether there is a way to kill dragons.”

“You’re mad, you realize.”

Arlian grimaced. “Quite possibly. Seeing one’s family slaughtered, spending much of one’s life as a mine slave, crossing the Dreaming Mountains, drinking human blood and dragon venom—I’d suppose that to be enough to drive a man mad.”

“You didn’t see them killed, save your grandfather,” Black corrected.

Arlian smiled wryly. “Literalist. It was close enough.” He clapped Black on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get on with it—I want this party to be perfect.”

The first coach arrived at midday. A handful of early arrivals, people who had come on foot but who had been milling about the gates, reluctant to be first to enter, took this as their cue.

Black greeted the arrivals at the great front door, ushering them through the entry hall into a long mirrored gallery some hundred feet long and two stories in height. The servants were waiting with wine and sweetmeats amid a vast display of fine tapestries, elaborate drapery, and artful arrangements of flowers. Perfume had been added to the water in the vases, to enhance the flowers’ own scents, and a lutenist played unobtrusively on a central balcony.

Arlian stood out of sight behind the draperies of another balcony, listening to his guests; he intended to withhold his grand entrance for some time yet. From this post he caught only snatches of conversation, but he found them informative.

“… place cleaned up nicely…”

“… finally have a chance to meet the mysterious…”

“… from the south somewhere. I understand his people have been selling…”

“… probably hasn’t been in here since his father…”

“Eccentric, definitely. I wonder how long he’ll last in Manfort?”

“Dead or fleeing in a month, I would…”

“I don’t remember that picture on the ceiling—was it there before?”

“I would assume, from the name, that he’s dark…”

“You know your mother would never…”

Arlian noted that at least some of his guests had been in the Old Palace before—that was hardly surprising. Speculation about their host was also to be expected. He had hoped for more gossip about the other guests, and remained in place, listening. Perhaps when they had had a bit more time to exhaust the most obvious subjects he would hear more.

He knew more coaches were arriving; the crowd below was growing steadily.

Then there was a stir, and normal conversation died away in a rush of whispering. Arlian risked leaning out for a quick glimpse.

A white-haired man attired in a fine blue coat and white shirt was entering, attended by half a dozen guards in white livery. The crowd backed away, making room for this new arrival.

From the response and the whispers he caught, Arlian realized that this was the Duke of Manfort himself—the hereditary warlord, the only lord whose position bore no relationship to his wealth or business, the person nominally in charge only of the city’s defenses but in practice the closest thing to a ruler the Lands of Man possessed.

The Duke waved to the other guests and looked around.

“And where is our host?” he asked.

Arlian backed away from the draperies, tugged his sleeves straight, then turned and hurried for the stairs. He had not expected the Duke to appear—certainly not so early! It would be very bad form to keep the warlord waiting any longer than absolutely necessary.

On the way across the landing he signaled to a waiting servant, and as he descended the stairs he signed to Isein, the Aritheian woman who was waiting near the bottom. Both hurried away to prepare his entrance.

A moment later Arlian stood ready at the corner just beyond the end of the long gallery. The lutenist ended his piece with a flourish, and four trumpeters stepped out on the other balconies and began a brief fanfare.

The skin at the back of Arlian’s neck tingled, and he knew the Aritheians were invoking the spells he had asked them to ready. He stepped forward, striding into the gallery.

Sure enough, images of brightly colored birds were dancing in great swirling patterns overhead; Arlian had seen such birds in the Dreaming Mountains and knew the species really existed, but to anyone who had never ventured south of the Desolation he guessed they would appear the exotic creation of fevered dreams, with their vivid green and red and yellow feathers and their long, curling tails.

Tiny lights, like fireflies, flickered from nowhere in the air above the heads of his guests. The scent of roses filled the hall. The fanfare ended in an arpeggio of crystalline tones that Arlian was quite sure never came from any mere piece of brass.

And then the birds and lights froze, the music stopped, and silence fell. Arlian paused in the archway entrance to the gallery, raised his hands, and bowed elaborately. “My friends, new and old,” he called, “I am Lord Obsidian. Welcome to my home!”

Someone laughed nervously, and somewhere the delicate clap of a woman’s hands sounded. Speech returned in a rush amid scattered applause, and men and women in multicolored finery pressed forward to meet their host. The lutenist strummed a chord and began a new air.

Arlian accepted a woman’s hand and kissed her fingers, then said, “Your pardon, my lady, but I believe I must attend another.” He gestured.

The crowd’s eyes followed his wave and saw the Duke of Manfort approaching at a brisk pace, three guards on either side; the throng parted swiftly for him. Overhead the “fireflies” faded away and the bight birds vanished.

“Lord Obsidian!” the Duke called, as he approached. “A pleasure to meet you at last!”

Arlian bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.”

The Duke let out a bark of laughter. “I’m sure! Well, let us enjoy ourselves, then—tell me about yourself.” He held out a hand for Arlian to clasp. “Where did you get the disappearing birds?”

Arlian took the Duke’s hand and looked at him.

He had had a wild notion that perhaps the Duke of Manfort himself was Lord Dragon, but any such thought was plainly absurd. This man was shorter than Lord Dragon— shorter than Arlian himself—with short-cut white hair and a square, smooth face paler than Lord Dragon’s could ever be. His cheek was unscarred, and his watery blue eyes nothing like Lord Dragon’s dark ones. His hand was soft and damp, his smile broad and slightly foolish.

The possibility of an illusion had occurred to Arlian, and he glanced up at Thirif, the Aritheian who now stood on one of the balconies.

Thirif gave the hand sign for “no magic in use.”

“In Arithei, Your Grace,” Arlian said.

“You’ve been to Arithei? Yourself? By the dead gods, my boy, how very remarkable!”

“My business is trading in magicks and sorcery, Your Grace; Arithei is the very foundation of my fortune.”

The Duke looked disconcerted. “Indeed,” he said.

Arlian hid a smile. It was not done, to speak openly of magic or sorcery in Manfort.

“Arithei is not so distant or strange as all that, Your Grace,” Arlian said, as if misunderstanding the Duke’s reaction. “I understand that the Aritheians sent an ambassador to Manfort some years back.”

“Yes, of course! Sahasin—a fine fellow! I think I saw him as I entered.” He gestured vaguely at the crowd behind him. “But I don’t believe he’s been home to Arithei in a decade or more. It’s not a safe journey.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, for most it is not,” Arlian agreed. “I have been very fortunate.”

“Ha! Indeed, you must have been, to be able to afford this old pile! You know, one reason my grandfather moved into the Citadel was that it was simply a nuisance, trying to keep this place from falling down around his ears, and yet you’ve made it look quite splendid.”

“Your Grace is too generous.” Arlian bowed again, with a flourish.

The Duke stared at Arlian for a moment, then waved in dismissal. “Well, it has been a pleasure, my lord, but you have your other guests to attend to—I mustn’t monopolize your time!” He turned away, immediately turning his attentions to a buxom young lady in lavender velvet.

Arlian bowed one last time, and when his head came up again found himself looking at the back of the Duke’s close-cropped head and blue silk collar. He kept his face expressionless as he turned to his other guests.

How, he wondered, did that insipid twit manage to keep order in Manfort? Was he really the fool he appeared to be, or was it a carefully cultivated act?

That someone had managed to get a letter out of the old fool giving him freedom to do anything he pleased in Westguard no longer seemed quite so surprising. Instead it seemed surprising that the entire city of Manfort had not devolved into anarchy.

But the Duke had advisers, of course, and presumably they were the ones who actually maintained order. Arlian had heard a few of their names during his stay in Manfort—Lord Enziet, Lady Rime, Lord Drisheen.

Arlian had almost met Drisheen on occasion in Westguard, two years before; certainly he had smelled the man’s perfume. Rime and Enziet were unknown to him beyond their names and association, with the Duke, however. He wondered whether any of those advisers were present.

Well, there was one person he wanted to meet who almost certainly was present; it was just a matter of finding him. Arlian noticed a worried-looking young man, roughly his own age and dressed in gaudy red-and-gold velvets, whose attention seemed to be focused on the Duke. He tapped this man on the shoulder, then bowed—a restrained little bow, not the grand production he had performed for the Duke. “Excuse me, my lord,” Arlian said. “I am Lord Obsidian; I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Ah,” the young man said. “Of course. I’m Lord Rademi, and I’m delighted to meet you, Lord Obsidian.” He bowed sketchily, but was clearly still trying to get the Duke’s attention.

“The Duke mentioned the Aritheian ambassador,” Arlian said. “Sahasin, I believe the name was?”

“Yes, what about him?” Rademi replied.

“Why, having visited his homeland, I’d like to meet him,” Arlian explained. “Could you point him out to me? I don’t see anyone in Aritheian attire…”

“No, he’s dressed like anyone else,” Rademi said. He pointed. “Over there.”

“Thank you,” Arlian said. Now that his attention was directed properly he could see that the indicated individual did indeed have the darker complexion and rounded features of an Aritheian.

He had deliberately chosen the distracted youth to avoid being drawn into a long conversation, and Rademi was ready enough to let him go, but not everyone was so cooperative; as he made his way across the gallery to the man Rademi had pointed out Arlian found himself accosted by various lords and ladies eager to make his acquaintance.

One woman introduced herself and her husband as Lady Joy and Lord Jerial; Arlian immediately recognized the latter name and took a closer look at the fellow.

Yes, this was indeed the man who had abused Sweet while Arlian watched from the closet. Arlian suddenly contrived to sneeze, thereby, avoiding the customary handclasp as his right hand was instead employed in dabbing his nose with a lace handkerchief.

“Your pardon, Lord Jerial,” he said, as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Lady Joy, a pleasure to meet you.”

Lady Joy was a plump little woman who could no longer honestly be called young, and who had probably never been beautiful; she appeared to be a little older than her husband, and Arlian wondered why Jerial had married her.

For money, probably. His activities in Westguard had made it plain that he was not particularly devoted to her; perhaps he restricted his violent tendencies to other women so as not to antagonize a source of funds.

“I have heard so much about you,” Arlian continued, addressing Lady Joy. He lifted one of her hands in his own. “I really do hope we can become better acquainted— perhaps we might dine together one night?”

Joy blushed with pleasure. “I would be delighted,” she said. “We really must make some arrangement at the first opportunity!”

“The pleasure will be all mine,” Arlian said, touching her fingers to his lips. “If you’ll forgive me, though, I have other guests I must attend to just now. I do hope we’ll have a chance to speak again soon.” He released her hand and swept on.

And finally, he reached the man who had been pointed out as the Aritheian ambassador. He was a gray-haired man of sixty or more, of medium height, running to fat.

“Lord Sahasin?” Arlian inquired.

“Just Sahasin,” the other corrected him, as he turned to face his host. “I own no enterprises, make no investments.”

“Oh, but surely, as the representative of your homeland, you are entitled to be addressed honorably!” Arlian protested.

“If my lord pleases,” Sahasin said with a smile. “You know me?”

“I have heard of you,” Arlian replied.

“And how have you heard of me, then? The rumors say that you dabble in sorcery and the buying and selling of magicks—are your from the Borderlands, perhaps?”

Arlian said, “Rather, I trade with Arithei.”

The ambassador’s smile faded somewhat. “Oh?”

“Indeed. I was there just last year.”

The smile vanished completely. “But the road has been closed…”

“It is closed no longer,” Arlian interrupted.

“Are you sure? Why have I received no word?”

“I am quite certain—and I have brought word with me.”

He raised his left hand, fingers spread in one of his prearranged signals.

The ambassador looked up at Arlian’s hand, then past it, at one of the balconies—where an Aritheian was just disappearing through the draperies. He paled.

“What sort of word?” Sahasin asked. “Who are you?”

“I am a friend of Hathet,” Arlian said. “As for what word, his family and the House of Deri would like to discuss that with you.”

“What… is this a threat?”

Arlian shook his head. “I make no threats,” he said. “However, there are six representatives of the House of Deri, six of Hathet’s kinsmen, who wish to speak to you regarding certain suspicions they hold regarding the House of Slihar—your House. If you satisfy them, then I am satisfied. If you do not, well… they will have the opportunity to deal with you first. If that does not end the matter—are you familiar with our custom of dueling?”

“This is ridiculous,” Sahasin said. “Hathet was killed by bandits in the Desolation! I had nothing to do with it!”

“Your house profited from it, or you would not be here,” Arlian pointed out.

“Yes, of course,” Sahasin said, “but there’s no crime in that! Someone had to take his place, and I was available, and my House had the means to send me, as the Deri did not!”

“And if that’s all there was to it, then you have nothing to fear,” Arlian told him. “You need merely convince six Deri magicians that you are telling the truth.”

Sahasin looked up at him, terror-stricken, then turned, saying, “I won’t have it! I’m innocent!” and began making his way toward the door.

Arlian made no move to stop him; at least four of the six Aritheians would be waiting for him at the entrance, and as Arlian had said, as Hathet’s family their claim to vengeance took precedence over his own.

And it might well be that Sahasin was telling the truth after all, that he was merely an innocent beneficiary, in which case the others would do him no real harm. They had brought the necessary magic to interrogate him quite thoroughly.

Several people had overheard all or part of this conversation; others noticed Sahasin’s indecorous flight. For a moment a pall of silence fell over the crowd; then a renewed chatter burst out.

That was one matter dealt with, Arlian thought. First Cover, now the ambassador—he was making progress.

He wished he could find Lord Dragon, though. He looked out at the crowd but could see no one who might be the tall, scarred lord.

Well, there were still others to deal with.

“Your pardon, my lady,” he said to a nearby woman. “By any chance would you know whether Lord Kuruvan is here?”

32

The festivities Continue

Lord Kuruvan was there—a tall, thin man with thick black hair and a nervous smile, elegantly clad in maroon and buff and smelling ever so faintly of musk. As with Jerial, Arlian managed to avoid shaking his hand or making the usual polite proclamations of pleasure while still establishing friendly relations and insisting that they must meet again.

“I believe I heard your name mentioned in Westguard,” Arlian said. “Something about a building you owned there having burned down?”

“I don’t know what that would be about,” Kuruvan said, but his expression, while remaining nervous, ceased to be a smile. “I own an inn outside the city walls, but it isn’t in Westguard.”

“Oh, this wasn’t an inn, and was definitely in Westguard,” Arlian said. “Perhaps you only owned a share in it?”

Kuruvan turned up his hands. “I’ve invested in a good many ventures,” he said.

“Ah! Well, perhaps we might compare notes one day,” Arlian said. “I might know of a few enterprises where another partner would be welcome—if not yourself, then perhaps one of your friends.”

“Perhaps,” Kuruvan said uneasily. “I can’t speak for them.”

“Of course,” Arlian agreed. He studied the man’s face, trying not to be obvious about it.

Lord Kuruvan was by no means the vapid fool the Duke appeared to be, but he scarcely seemed a mastermind, either. He had been clever enough to buy that inn, clever enough to put aside a keg of gold coins against some future emergency—and careless or stupid enough to tell a slave who hated him where that money was hidden. Surely, there was some way to get the names of the other five owners of the House of Carnal Society out of him.

Not here, though, amid the crowd and the festivities.

Arlian leaned close. “Seriously, my lord,” he said, “there is a matter I would discuss with you in private, a matter concerning a mutual acquaintance and a large sum of money. Might I perhaps call on you at your home—soon?”

Kuruvan frowned. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “Impossible—and surely, you’ll scarcely want to conduct business the day after hosting such an affair as this!”

Arlian laughed. “A very good point, my lord. When would you be available, then?”

Kuruvan studied Arlian’s face just as Arlian had studied his, then shrugged. “Not tomorrow, but the day after I will be home—in the afternoon, of course, not the morning.”

“Then I will do my best to see you then,” Arlian said. “Ah… but I am new to Manfort, and as yet unfamiliar with the Upper City; could you perhaps see that my steward knows where your home is to be found?” He beckoned to Black, who had been standing unobtrusively nearby.

Kuruvan glanced at Black and his drab black livery with distaste: “My coachman is outside,” he said. “He wears maroon and gold.”

Black bowed, and hurried away.

“You are kindness itself, my lord,” Arlian said. “I look forward to spending more time with you.”

Kuruvan frowned again. “I hope you do not mistake me, Lord Obsidian,” he said. “I am an ordinary man.”

“Oh, surely more than merely ordinary! But perhaps you mean rather that whatever your virtues, you do not stray too far from the natural pursuits of mankind? Wine, women, and the clink of gold coins?”

“Exactly,” Kuruvan said, visibly relieved, and Arlian realized that the references to the brothel and other secrets had worried the man. Perhaps he had thought Arlian intended to blackmail him by accusing him of perversion—or that Arlian was himself a pervert, seeking a partner in vice.

And perhaps Kuruvan was a pervert, though Rose had not mentioned any actions on his part that were out of the ordinary for her clients. That might explain his caution.

Arlian had no very clear idea just what the debauched lords of Manfort might consider a perversion, though. He snatched a wineglass from a nearby tray and handed it to Kuruvan. “I can provide you with wine readily enough,” he said, “and we’ll speak of gold another day, but I’m afraid that you’ll have to find your own women.” He gestured at the crowd. “There are certainly beauties here—is there any that takes your fancy? Are you married?”

“I’m not,” Kuruvan replied. “I’ve never found a woman who suited me for long. And yourself? You must realize that half of Manfort is wondering about you.”

Arlian’s teeth clenched—no, Rose hadn’t suited him for long, and he had left her lying there with her throat cut. At least when he killed Kuruvan he would not leave behind a grieving widow.

And if Kuruvan was, as Arlian believed, one of the erstwhile owners of the House of Carnal Society, what had become of the two women he had carried off when that establishment was destroyed? He hadn’t married either of them, obviously—were they still alive?

Arlian forced a smile. “No, I have not yet found a wife,” he said. “I’m still young, and I have generally devoted myself to business to the exclusion of all else.”

The business of survival and revenge, he added silently.

“Then perhaps I might introduce you to someone,” Kuruvan said. He turned and indicated one of the handful of people who had gathered around him as he and Arlian spoke. “This is Lady Fiala…”

“Fan-Fan,” the woman—scarcely more than a girl really—said eagerly, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Call me Fan-Fan. Everyone does.”

Arlian bowed and kissed the girl’s fingers. She smiled delightedly and curtseyed in return, then said, “I understand you are a great traveler, my lord.”

“I have traveled,” Arlian admitted.

“Oh! I have scarcely been outside the city gates. Tell me where you’ve been.”

A moment later Arlian found himself describing Arithei to a growing and appreciative audience—an audience that did not include Lord Kuruvan. After that he fell into a discussion of the Desolation, and the best routes and methods for crossing it, with a Lady Irmir.

The presence of beautiful women eager to know him better was distracting, but Arlian had had to learn to resist such distractions in order to survive his stay in the House of Carnal Society. He reminded himself that he was not here to enjoy himself, but to pursue his revenge against those who had wronged innocents—the memory of Sweet’s face as he had last seen it from a distance, as she sat terrified in Lord Dragon’s coach, insulated him from the charms of these other faces. In time he tore himself away from the little knot of listeners and made his way through the throng, meeting more of the city’s nobility, and always looking for some sign of Lord Dragon.

A buffet supper was served in the two dining halls— there were too many guests for a seated meal—and the party spilled from the gallery into those rooms. Thence it spread to the ballroom, where pipes, drums, a virginal, and a shawm provided music for dancing. Wine flowed freely. Whenever spirits showed signs of sagging Arlian signaled to one of the remaining Aritheian magicians, and some new display would be forthcoming—a rain of flowers, a forest growing up the walls and then vanishing, rainbows playing across the room. Each was greeted with applause and laughter.

The final display, launched at midnight, was one that Black had counseled him to drop, but Arlian had insisted— the image of a great black dragon appeared in the air above the heads of the crowd, flew the length of the gallery, then vanished.

There was no laughter that time, and only halfhearted applause. Arlian knew that Black had been right—the image of a dragon was in poor taste. He had hoped, though, that it might stir a reaction from someone, that something in the crowd’s response might give him a hint about Lord Dragon.

His hopes were dashed; no one seemed to associate the image with anything but mankind’s traditional enemy and ancient overlords, the dragons themselves.

After that the party began to break up; in ones and two the revelers drifted away, out to waiting carriages or the city streets. When the Duke of Manfort took his leave the trickle became a flood, and within an hour Arlian and Black were standing alone in the gallery.

Arlian had been introduced to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the city’s elite, including several tall scarred men—but he had seen no sign of Lord Dragon. He had not identified anyone else associated with the House of Carnal Society except Kuruvan and Jerial. Lords Inthior, Drisheen, and Salisna had not made their presence known, if they had been there at all, nor had Arlian learned whether any of them had in truth owned shares in the House of the Six Lords.

He had made a date with Lord Kuruvan, though, and Sahasin, the Slihar ambassador, had been dealt with.

He stood for a moment, thinking over the evening, then asked Black, “Is the Duke as great a fool as he appears?”

Black hesitated, considering, then said, “He has been accused of wisdom to his face, but behind his back? Never.”

“Then why is he still seen as the master of Manfort? Why has no one usurped his position?”

“Who says no one has?” Black asked. “The Duke remains the Duke because he makes a useful figurehead, but I’ve no doubt the real power lies elsewhere.”

“Where?” Arlian asked. “Who was here tonight who wields real power?”

Black shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are the secret societies—I suspect they do more to determine what actually gets done than the Duke. And of course, the Duke has his advisers—fool or not, he’s smart enough to take their advice. If he did not he might wake up one morning with his throat cut, or find some interesting toxin in his wineglass.”

“Who are his advisers, then?”

“My lord, what does this have to do with your revenge?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “But I’m convinced that Lord Dragon must be a very powerful man, one close to the Duke—who better than one of his advisers?”

Black sighed. “I don’t know who all his advisers are. I’ve heard a few names mentioned, just as I’m sure you have—Lord Hardior, Lord Enziet, Lady Rime—but whether those are all of them, or what their positions really are, I couldn’t say.”

“I met Lord Hardior tonight,” Arlian said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t known he was one of the Duke’s advisers. I didn’t meet anyone called Enziet or Rime—I did know those names, and I would have remembered.”

“I don’t know whether they were here at all, but if they were you might have met Rime under her true name, or Enziet under some other cognomen,” Black said.

Arlian stroked his beard. “I might have, at that.” He tried to remember how many men he had met who had not given their true names. One would hardly give a false name at an affair of this sort, but plenty of people had been introduced only by nickname.

Manfort was very fond of nicknames, more so than almost anywhere else Arlian had visited—a relic of the long struggle against the dragons, when the human resistance to draconic authority dared not give true names for fear of reprisals. Ordinarily this was a pleasant and harmless habit, one Arlian had taken advantage of himself, but there were times when it could be confusing or inconvenient.

Arlian began pacing the length of the gallery—but then Black’s outstretched arm caught him across the chest. He looked up, startled.

“Ari, it’s late,” Black said. “Rest. Sleep. You can look for Lord Dragon in the morning.”

Arlian stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced out the gallery’s tall windows at the night sky. Thick clouds hid the stars; a thin crescent of moon shone dimly through the overcast.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “You’re quite right. To bed. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

Black smiled at him.

33

Lord Wither

Arlian, unsurprisingly, slept late. By the time he arose and broke his fast the sun was approaching its zenith.

When he had eaten he ambled down the great gallery, noting the debris that the servants had not yet cleared away and the sour smell of spilled wine that still lingered, and spotted Thirif in one of the side-chambers. He paused, and then, momentarily overcome with curiosity, he asked, “What did you do with Sahasin?”

The Aritheian looked up. “You do not want to know,” Thirif replied.

Arlian hesitated, and decided that Thirif was right—at least for now he did not want to know. It was enough that the House of Deri, Hathet’s family, was satisfied.

He still had plenty of others to concern himself with. He would see Lord Kuruvan tomorrow, and that would be his chance to get the names of the other lords—including Lord Dragon! And once he had dealt with the six of them, once Sweet was free and Rose avenged, he could track down Stonehand and Hide and the rest.

He started to turn away, but Thirif called after him. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. “A man was here this morning with a question that may interest you.”

Arlian turned back. “Oh?”

“He spoke to me, as he came to buy magic and the others were not yet available,” Thirif said. “He wanted to buy dragon venom.”

Arlian smiled. “Did he, indeed?” There were any number of reasons a person might want dragon venom—as a poison, or as a drug, or as an elixir of life. This inquiry might mean nothing—or it might lead back to Lord Dragon. Kuruvan would probably give him all the names he needed, but it would do no harm to have a second path to the information he sought—and even if this failed to provide any such link, it might well teach him more about dragons, and give him information that would be useful when he sought out the monsters in their caverns. “Who was he?”

“A servant. He wore homespun, not livery, and would not name his employer.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I could not sell dragon venom without consulting you, and that you would undoubtedly prefer to deal with his master. He is to return later today.”

“Excellent! When he comes, I want to speak with him.”

Thirif bowed. “As you say. Thank you, my lord.”

Arlian walked on, feeling cheered. Things were starting to happen. He had put events into motion. At long last he was pursuing his vengeance. There might still be distractions and side paths along the way, but he was headed the right direction. The day when Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes and Sweet would be free was drawing nearer.

Either that, or the day Arlian would die at the hands of one of his foes was approaching. The chances of punishing all his enemies, human and draconic, and surviving it all, were still slim.

Odd, Arlian thought, that even knowing he might be on the way to his death failed to counteract the pleasure he felt in knowing he was closer to his goal.

Death or justice—he was nearing one, but he had no way of knowing which.

He spent the next few hours on housekeeping and business—his agents, Aritheian and otherwise, were continuing to invest his assets, both financial and thaumaturgical, and Black and his subordinates were finally employing a proper full-time staff for the Old Palace.

Those little magicks he had brought from Arithei and used so freely at the previous night’s festivities brought fantastic prices, Arlian knew, but just how fantastic still surprised him. He was seated in his study, totting up his profits in frank amazement, when a servant knocked at the door.

“A caller, my lord.”

Arlian looked up and smiled to himself. This would be the person seeking dragon venom. Arlian and the Aritheians had no dragon venom to sell, of course—the magic they sold all came from Arithei, where no dragon had ever breathed. There was no need to admit this, though.

“Show him in,” he said. He turned to face the door, but did not rise; as a lord he had no need to stand when greeting a messenger.

When the door opened, however, Arlian got to his feet, startled. The man who stood there was clearly no mere messenger.

Lord Obsidian’s guest was slightly below average height, and somewhat stooped. His face was thin and wrinkled, and seemed shrunken, almost buried beneath a great mop of gray hair that was pulled loosely back into a thick ponytail—neither the traditional workman’s braid nor the nobility’s usual custom of unbound and stylishly cut hair. His physical appearance, while hardly impressive, was not that of a messenger.

His attire was impressive; he was dressed in green silk embroidered in spun gold, trimmed at throat and cuffs with lace and pearls. A belt of black leather set with emeralds supported a beaded scabbard; his sword hilt, hung for a left-handed draw, was chased with silver and adorned with pearl and diamond. This was clearly a nobleman’s sword.

Gorgeous as the visitor’s clothing was, Arlian hardly gave it a glance; instead he found himself caught by his guest’s green eyes, deep-set but unnaturally bright, staring at him with an intensity Arlian had rarely seen.

“Lord Wither,” the footman holding the door announced.

Arlian had been so focused on the stranger that he had forgotten the servant was there. Thus reminded, he started to wave for the man to go, then paused.

Lord Wither should not be wearing his sword in another lord’s home—not when Arlian’s own sword was elsewhere. He should have surrendered it, and the servants should have kept it by the door, to be returned when Wither departed.

On the other hand, meeting those eyes, Arlian suspected that it would take a brave man to demand anything of Lord Wither that Lord Wither did not care to give. Arlian was not paying footmen for their courage.

He waved, and the footman left.

“Welcome, Lord Wither,” Arlian said, holding out a hand.

“Lord Obsidian,” Wither said, in a deeper voice than seemed appropriate to his size. He ignored the hand, and for the first time Arlian realized that the man’s right arm was crooked, misshapen and shorter than it should be; the loose silk sleeves and drooping lace cuffs hid this deficiency well, and had presumably been designed to do so.

That explained the name, the left-handed sword, and perhaps more—buckling and unbuckling a sword belt one-handed was perhaps more than courtesy could ask, and unsheathing the sword under a host’s roof would hardly be suitable.

Arlian lowered his hand and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Did you attend last night’s festivities? I do not recall…”

“I wasn’t there,” Wither said. “I’m too old for that sort of nonsense.” He spoke sharply, biting off his words.

“As you say,” Arlian said. “Nonetheless, I am pleased to meet you now. How can I be of service to you?”

“You sell magic,” Wither said. “Sorcerous baubles, spells, potions.”

“Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed. He gestured to a chair. “Would you care to sit down?”

“I’ll stand. It’s simple enough. I want to obtain a small amount of fresh dragon venom—a thimbleful would suffice. Can you oblige me?”

“I would need to know the use you propose for this substance,” Arlian said. “Forgive me, my lord, but dragon’s venom is a most potent fluid, as I’m sure you know. It’s said that’a single drop can, if properly administered, enthrall a man, or kill a dozen. It can reportedly shatter locks, corrode the will, intoxicate even the mad.”

“It can extend life, as well as end it,” Wither replied.

“Ah! You wish to extend your life? Certainly a reasonable…”

“Not mine,” Wither interrupted. “My mistress.”

Arlian stopped, bemused, as he considered that. Wither was an old man; how old could his mistress be; that he was concerned with her longevity? A man of his obvious wealth could surely have any number of young women at his beck and call; who was the woman he sought to preserve?

Did he think dragon venom could preserve or restore a woman’s youth? If so, was he right? Arlian had no idea just what the stuff could do—he had only rumors, legends, and hearsay to rely upon.

“Do you have it or don’t you?” Wither demanded.

“I don’t have any on hand,” Arlian admitted slowly. “I may have a source where I can obtain it. May I ask, perhaps, who the intended recipient is, and how you intend to apply it?”

“She’s called Opal; you haven’t met her. I intend to mix it with human blood and let her drink it,” Wither said impatiently. “That’s the only way it works, so far as I know.”

Arlian nodded. “And the blood…”

“Anyone’s. It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay someone to donate it. That part’s easy.”

“And you don’t want enough for both of you?”

Wither snorted. “I’ve had mine, Obsidian. Long ago, probably before your grandfather’s grandfather was born. I was one of the founders of the Dragon Society, back when Manfort was all we had and Duke Roioch was still alive. Look into my eyes and tell me you can’t see it for yourself.”

Arlian started at the mention of the Dragon Society— Cover had spoken of it, but had not known one really existed. Then Arlian caught Wither’s eyes, as instructed, and stared.

He knew the name for what he saw there. “The heart of the dragon,” he said, more to himself than to Wither.

“Of course. You’ve got it yourself, don’t you?”

Arlian, without thinking, nodded.

“I’d scarcely believe you could have the venom if you didn’t,” Wither said. “Now, do you have any venom, or can you get it?”

Arlian held up a hand and turned away, forcing himself to look away from those fearsome green eyes. “A moment, please,” he said. He fixed his gaze on the floor, trying to clear his thoughts.

Those eyes had a power to them, a ferocity—and Wither said that was the dragon’s heart that Black had spoken of, that he had it himself.

And he said it came from drinking dragon’s venom and human blood. He said it as if he knew, beyond question, that it was so.

Was that why Black had agreed to teach Arlian the sword, and become his companion? Was that why Sweet had invited him in and taught him so much? Was that why Bloody Hand had set him free? Had those accomplishments been bought with his grandfather’s life?

Arlian could hardly doubt it; looking into Wither’s eyes he could hardly deny anything the old man said. And that ferocity—was his own gaze as fierce as Wither’s?

He could not imagine that it was—yet Wither saw the heart of the dragon in him. Perhaps not as strong, as he was so much younger, but that same power lay within him, fallen there in his parents’ cellar all those years ago.

And it surely lay within Lord Dragon as well. Even after nine years Arlian could remember the intensity of those dark eyes.

Wither and Cover had both mentioned the Dragon Society, as well—that was another mystery that must be explained.

“My lord,” Arlian said, not meeting Wither’s glance, “bear with me. I have only recently come to Manfort from Arithei, and while I know much of matters you would consider arcane, I know little of your homeland. Would you be kind enough to answer a few questions from me, before I answer yours?”

“If that’s what it takes to get the truth from you,” Wither said. “What do you want to know?”

“Several things,” Arlian said. “Let me take it one step at a time. Am I to understand that long ago, you chanced to imbibe a mixture of dragon’s venom and human blood?”

“Of course I did, you idiot,” Wither said. “Didn’t I just tell you that? It was in one of the early defenses of Manfort, when the dragons had not yet resolved to abandon the fight for the city. One of them bit into my shoulder, and then made the mistake of flinging me into a pit where it couldn’t reach me. I wiped the blood from my wound with my hand, then licked my hand before I lost consciousness, and the deed was done. My arm was withered and my shoulder ruined forever, but I recovered from my fever and lived.”

“That was centuries ago.”

“Yes, of course. Eight hundred years, more or less.”

Arlian nodded, still not meeting Wither’s eyes.

“I had heard that this mixture could prolong life, but not that anyone who had actually drunk it still lived.”

Wither snorted. “Of course we do! Oh, it’s rare that anyone survives a meeting with a dragon, but it does happen, and those of us who have tasted venom and blood don’t die. Naturally, then, some of us are still around.”

“And you believe that I, too, have drunk this elixir?”

“Of course. I don’t know when or how, but I can see it in your face. You have that air of authority, of certainty. I’ve never seen it in anyone who hadn’t tasted the venom.”

Arlian stroked a finger across his cheek as he thought this over. “And now you ask me to give this same gift to someone else?” he asked.

“Marasa,” Wither said. “She calls herself Lady Opal.”

“You love her?”

Wither frowned. “I don’t want her to die,” he said. “I’m tired of watching my women grow old and die. I’ve had a dozen wives and a score of mistresses, and I don’t want to ever see another wither away while I watch.”

“I can see that,” Arlian said. The image of Rose sprawled across her bed with her throat cut came suddenly to mind. “I can understand that quite well.”

“I’ve tried before,” Wither said. “I’ve tried spells and potions. I tried feeding Vorina my own blood, in hopes it would carry the magic, and instead it poisoned her—she died writhing in agony.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “That was unpleasant—worse than unpleasant; when she died I felt as if I should now be the one writhing in agony. I had never imagined, in all those centuries, that my own blood could be toxic.”

Arlian blinked and looked down at his own hand, at the veins faintly visible beneath the skin. Was his blood similarly tainted?

“It’s been years—decades—since Vorina died,” Wither continued. “I had said I would do without the love of women, rather than see another person I cared for die, and resolved to restrict my attentions to the purely physical, but then I met Marasa, and I was lost.

“I won’t risk killing her. No more experiments. The only thing I know will work safely is the same mixture that worked for me, and for all the others in the Dragon Society. Blood and venom.”

“Blood and venom,” Arlian said. “The Dragon Society—you mentioned that before. What is it?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Wither replied. “Those of us who have drunk the venom aren’t hard to recognize, not once you’ve met a few of us, and long ago we formed a society, a place where we could gather privately with our own kind, and need no longer pretend to be ordinary mortals, need no longer be, willingly or no, the dominant figure in any gathering by virtue of the power in our blood. A place where no one would stare at—or so obviously avoid looking at—our deformities, for of course most of us bear the scars inflicted upon us by our draconic benefactors. You’re fortunate, in that your face and hands are unmarked—are there scars elsewhere, perhaps? Or did you in truth find some way to obtain venom without a fight? It was when I heard you carried the dragon’s heart yet bore no obvious scars that I thought to seek you out, in hopes of preserving my Marasa.”

Arlian remembered Cover’s belief that Lord Dragon was the master of the Dragon Society, and that his secret society controlled much of what went on in Manfort. “This society,” Arlian asked, “is there a person who calls himself Lord Dragon?”

Wither shrugged. “I have heard several of us use that name, now and again. I do not attach it to any one person. Now, boy, I’ve answered enough questions—can you help me, or not? Did you find a way to get the venom without facing a dragon’s wrath? How did you drink it yet remain unscarred?” His voice shook with eagerness.

Arlian shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “I drank my grandfather’s blood as I lay trapped beneath his corpse. I will not deceive you further—I have no venom, nor the means to obtain it, at present.” He cleared his throat. “I do have the services of half a dozen Aritheian magicians, and I will set them to seeking what you want, if you like.”

Wither stared at him for a moment, then growled, “May the dragons blast you for leading me on!” His left hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

“My apologies, my lord,” Arlian said, standing up straight. He recognized, with a sudden thrill of excitement and horror, that he was facing a challenge—his first since attaining sufficient status to be entitled by tradition to duel. “I am unarmed; if you wish to avenge this slight upon my flesh, I pray you let me fetch my blade.”

“No,” Wither said in disgust, his hand dropping. “The fault is not worthy of such a cost, and further, I might well be violating my oath by slaying you here.”

Arlian frowned, relieved to know he was not going to be forced to fight this fearsome old man, but also puzzled. “How is that, my lord? What oath do you speak of?”

“The oath of the Dragon Society, required of each member upon joining, is that none of us shall attempt to slay another member within Manfort’s walls,” Wither explained. “With more than a score of us gathered in one place for centuries duels would be inevitable, without that restriction—and what a waste to cut off a life that might, for all we know, last millennia! And so few new members ever appear that in time we would destroy ourselves, I’m sure.”

“I am not a member, though,” Arlian pointed out. He very much wanted to be one, though, now that he knew the Dragon Society really existed, for surely the man he knew as Lord Dragon was a part of it, even if not the master Cover had believed him.

“Oh, you are a member in all but name,” Wither said with a wave of his good hand. “I don’t concern myself with needless formalities. You can merely present yourself, undergo our little initiation, and swear to the oath, and you’ll be as much a member as I. The only difficult requirement is the first, the elixir that renders one suitable, and the mark of your eligibility is plain.”

Arlian considered that. “I was going to ask that the price of setting my magicians to searching be your sponsoring my application to join,” he said.

Wither shook his head. “You needn’t bother. You can join at any time simply by answering the ritual questions and swearing the oath.”

“Yet I owe you for the honest answers you’ve given me,” Arlian said. “I will set my magicians their task—though I cannot promise any result.”

“A kind gesture, sir,” Wither said. “Thank you.” He bent his head briefly in acknowledgment.

“Ah, thank you!” Arlian replied. “I have but one last request.”

“Ask it, then, and I’ll be on my way.”

“How am I to find this Dragon Society, should I choose to join?”

“Simple enough. Go to the intersection of Citadel Street and the Street of the Black Spire, and walk down the Street of the Black Spire toward the city gates until you come to a black door with a red bar across it. That is the Society’s hall; knock, and when the doorkeeper sees your face you’ll be admitted, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you.” Arlian bowed.

A moment later Lord Wither was gone, and Arlian settled into his chair, thinking hard.

This was his chance, surely—this Dragon Society could be the key to everything he sought. Everything was going as well as he could have hoped, as if fate itself was on his side.

Only belatedly did it occur to him that he had not inquired whether Wither had owned a share of the brothel in Westguard, but he shrugged that aside. There would be plenty of time to ask the old man later.

Arlian did see at least one potential problem ahead, however.

If he joined the Dragon Society and swore the oath, and found that Lord Dragon and the others he sought were members, then he could not try to kill them—at least, not within the city walls. Would he ever have a chance to meet Lord Dragon outside Manfort?

There were other questions remaining, as well—questions of timing, of strategy…

And the questions of preparation. Was he truly ready to meet Lord Dragon in combat?

He would know soon enough, he told himself. One way or another, now that he knew of the Dragon Society, he would find Lord Dragon. When he saw that hated face he would know whether or not he was ready to act.

34

Lord Kuruvan

As Arlian climbed into the coach the next afternoon he had still not decided how and when he should approach the Dragon Society. He had spent the previous evening running various plans and schedules through his mind, until at last he had made his way to bed having decided only that the meeting with Lord Kuruvan would come first.

For one thing, the possibility had occurred to him that Kuruvan might be a member of the Society himself, and he wanted to satisfy himself on that account before proceeding further.

He arrived at the gate of Kuruvan’s palace without incident and clambered from the coach, throwing Black, his driver, a quick salute. He was greeted by a pair of footmen, and escorted into a salon paneled in unfamiliar reddish wood. He surrendered his hat and sword to a maroon-robed slave girl, silver chains jingling on her wrists as she carried them away.

Before he could take a seat a handsome, gray-haired man in a more elaborate version of Kuruvan’s maroon-and-gold livery appeared and bowed. “If you would accompany me, my lord?”

Arlian had assumed the meeting would be in the salon, but he made no protest as the steward showed him down a passageway and into a smaller, more cluttered room where Lord Kuruvan was waiting.

“Lord Obsidian,” Kuruvan said, rising from his chair. “A pleasure to see you again!”

Arlian bowed in acknowledgment, forestalling any offered hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he said.

Kuruvan gestured toward a chair, and a moment later the two men were seated facing one another. Arlian studied his foe, looking for some sign of the intensity Black and Wither called the dragon’s heart, but found none.

“Now, my lord,” Kuruvan said, “I believe you said you wished to discuss a private matter?”

“Indeed,” Arlian agreed. “Before I explain myself further, however, I really must ask for the names of your five partners in the House of Carnal Society in Westguard. I believe this matter concerns them, as well, though in a lesser degree.”

He tried to appear calm, but this was a decisive moment for Arlian. He had Rose’s word that Kuruvan had claimed to be one of the six lords who owned the House, but while he trusted Rose, Kuruvan might have lied to her. His reaction now would show Arlian whether or not Rose had been deceived, whether or not he had found one of her killers.

Kuruvan sat back and stared at Arlian; his fingers fidgeted on the arms of the chair. He laughed nervously. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “You obviously know something about me, while I am in utter ignorance of your own history and connections. I don’t know your true name…”

“I deal in magic,” Arlian interrupted. “I dare not give my true name.” He did not let his relief show, but Kuruvan’s response removed any doubts—this was one of the men Arlian had sworn to kill.

Kuruvan nodded an acknowledgment. “Fair enough. Can you tell me nothing about yourself, though?”

“I will trade you, fact for fact, if you like,” Arlian suggested, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “To begin the exchange, I will tell you that while I was born and raised in the Lands of Man, I never set foot in Manfort until two years ago. Now, tell me the name of one of your partners— by preference, the dark-haired man with the scarred cheek who cut down Madam Ril and carried a letter from the Duke granting him immunity from the consequences of that act.”

Kuruvan, his hands now motionless, stared at him. “You know the oddest details,” he said. “You know about Ril, and the letter, but you don’t know Lord Enziet’s name?”

“I do now,” Arlian said, his blood pounding. “I had heard the name, but did not know him by sight, and had not made the connection.”

Now he had, though, and pieces began to drop into place. Lord Enziet, chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort, was Lord Dragon. He was certainly a member of the Dragon Society, as well, scarred as most of the members of the Dragon Society were scarred, with that dragon’s gaze that let him command others as he had commanded the looters so long ago in Obsidian—and that undoubtedly let him command the Duke and many of the other lords of Manfort.

That he had not told the looters his identity, nor revealed his true name in connection with the ownership of a brothel, now made perfect sense—someone so highly placed would naturally want to keep his distance from anything so sordid. And that no one in Westguard had recognized him also became understandable—Lord Enziet was known to be reclusive; he spoke with the Duke and the Duke’s other advisers in private and was rarely seen in public.

Killing Lord Enziet would not be easy. He was said to keep largely to himself, staying within his own manse just to the east of the Citadel, behind dozens of guards, but he was no coward, no helpless fop—he just didn’t want to be disturbed. He was said to have fought a dozen duels, invariably killing his opponent. He was rumored to be a sorcerer, as well. He was famous for his cold brilliance and ruthless efficiency, both in his advice to the Duke and his own affairs. He had no known family, and few real friends.

This, Arlian thought, would be a worthy challenge. “It is, I would say, your turn to ask a question,” he said.

Kuruvan considered him. “And I take it that I am not yet entitled to an explanation of this private matter you came to discuss?”

“Not until I have the other four names,” Arlian said. “True names, if possible, not just nicknames.”

“I have little patience for these games, O mysterious guest; I’ll give you the names, and you’ll tell me what this is about, and then you’ll owe me three further answers on subjects of my choice.”

“Good enough,” Arlian said. “Though I have another question of my own, I’ll want to ask, in time. The names?”

“Drisheen, Toribor, Stiam, and Horim.”

Arlian was disappointed to realize he knew only one of them by name—Lord Drisheen had visited the House on occasion during Arlian’s residence in the attic, and was reputed to be a sorcerer and an adviser to the Duke, though one of the lesser ones. Except for an overindulgence in scents Drisheen had not been extravagantly unpleasant in his treatment of the women in Westguard, nor had he otherwise made the thought of killing him easier to handle— but the six lords were all enslavers and murderers, and Arlian would kill them all if he possibly could. He had sworn as much.

“Thank you,” he said.

“And the matter you wished to discuss?” Kuruvan demanded impatiently.

“Ah,” Arlian said. He considered asking his other important question, but decided he really did need to give something in return before he could expect a reply. “You own an inn called the Blood of the Grape, I believe.”

“Yes,” Kuruvan agreed. “What of it?”

“You stored a keg of gold there, long ago, against the eventuality that you might someday wish to flee Manfort.”

Kuruvan sat bolt upright. “Who told you that?”

“Someone who is now dead,” Arlian said. “You need not worry that any of your other secrets might escape.”

“You owe me three more answers, Obsidian, and that must be one of them—who told you that?”

“Rose,” Arlian said. He found himself trembling as he said her name, though he could not say whether he shook with grief or fury or something else entirely. “A crippled whore called Rose.”

“She’s the mutual acquaintance you mentioned?” Kuruvan rose from his chair.

Arlian nodded.

Kuruvan took a step toward Arlian, fists clenched. “What else did she tell you?”

Arlian looked up at him and struggled to remain calm in the face of Kuruvan’s rage. “I spent a considerable amount of time in Rose’s company, and we spoke a great deal. Could you be more specific?”

“What else did she tell you about me?”

“That you were one of the owners of the House of the Six Lords,” Arlian said. “That you can’t hold your liquor. That you had promised to take her with you if you ever fled Manfort.” He shrugged—which took a real effort in his tense condition; his shoulders were more inclined to shake than to rise and fall. “That’s all, really. No more secrets.”

“And my gold?”

“It’s gone,” Arlian said. “Taken by the youth who called himself Lord Lanair.”

“Him! The one at the inn down the street?” Kuruvan started to turn away, to pace the floor, then stopped. He turned back. “You’re Lanair, aren’t you? You made yourself rich with my gold?”

“I was Lanair,” Arlian agreed. “And I invested your gold in a caravan to Arithei, which was one element in how I became wealthy enough to be here, your fellow lord, today.”

“Have you come to pay it back, then, as if I’d made you a loan? Or are you here to taunt me for my foolishness in telling that faithless bitch where I hid it?”

Arlian rose and faced Kuruvan from mere inches away, looking up into Kuruvan’s bright brown eyes.

“I am here to avenge her death, Kuruvan,” he said. “I needed the names of the other owners, and you’ve been kind enough to provide that; now, will you tell me where the two women you took from the House are, or will I need to search for them after I’ve killed you?”

“You mean to kill me?” Kuruvan stared. “Over a whore? A slave?”

“Over a woman you wronged, and for a dozen other crimes.”

“You, a thief, call me a criminal?”

“And you, who had women enslaved for your pleasure, and mutilated and murdered them at whim, dare deny it?”

“Of course I deny it! Those women were bought openly, and what we did with them was entirely within our legal rights!” Both men were shouting now, standing nose to nose, Arlian’s head tipped up and Kuruvan’s tipped down.

“Within your power, perhaps, but no law can make it right,” Arlian replied.

“You think you’re above the law, then?”

“I think you have abused the very concept of law!”

Kuruvan stepped back, making a visible effort to calm himself. Holding his voice to a normal conversational level he asked, “And you intend to kill me? Have you a knife tucked in your boot, then, or were you planning to use your Borderlands magic?”

Arlian lowered his own voice to match Kuruvan’s. “I intend to meet you fairly, sword in hand, at a time and place of your choosing, and convenient to us both.”

“A duel?” Kuruvan sneered. “You think yourself a nobleman, and not a mere assassin?”

“I am no assassin,” Arlian replied. “I own businesses that are run for me by others—does that not entitle me to the rank I claim?”

“You bought them with stolen money!”

“Nonetheless, I own them. Choose where and when we shall meet, Lord Kuruvan, and I’ll take my leave until the appointed time.”

“You’re an unarmed thief, here in my home—why should I meet you honorably? Why should I not have you slain on the spot?”

Arlian smiled a tight little smile. “I see at least two reasons,” he said. “Firstly, if we do meet fairly, I will bring with me a keg of gold equal to what I took from you at Rose’s behest—and in return I ask that you bring the two women, the survivor to claim all.”

“And…?”

“And secondly, I have friends and retainers awaiting my safe return, including half a dozen of Arithei’s most powerful magicians, who do not consider me a thief; do you really want to risk their vengeance?”

Kuruvan stared at him.

“Were I the assassin you think me, you would already be dead,” Arlian said. “You may have heard what happened to Sahasin.”

Kuruvan considered that before replying slowly. “You intend to fight me fairly? And you think you can kill me?”

“Indeed I do,” Arlian said.

“I’m twice your age. I have trained with the sword since I was a beardless child.”

“Then perhaps you will kill me,” Arlian said. “Either way, my need for vengeance will be at an end, either satisfied or destroyed.”

“You must be mad,” Kuruvan said. “You seek me out, confess to robbing me, then challenge me to fight to the death over a dead slave. You boast of complicity in the assassination of the Aritheian ambassador…”

Arlian interrupted. “On the contrary, I do not even know whether Sahasin is truly dead. Otherwise, yes, you’ve stated the case accurately—and perhaps I am mad. You’re not the first to suggest it.”

Kuruvan stared at him a moment longer, then said, “Very well, I will face you. Tomorrow, at my own gate at midday.”

Arlian smiled broadly and bowed. “I will be there,” he promised.

Then he turned and marched out.

35

A Meeting at Swordpoint

“Remember, you’ll have raw speed and strength on your side,” Black said, leaning down from the driver’s seat of the coach, “but he’s far more experienced than you are, as he said. He’ll probably react faster simply because he won’t need to think about it.”

Arlian nodded, then opened the door of the coach. He felt cold and stiff, as if the blood were cooling and thickening in his veins. He had fought before, and he had killed beasts, monsters, and even a man—creatures in the Dreaming Mountains had perished on his sword, and the bandit on the southernmost edge of the Desolation had died at his feet.

But despite all his plans and dreams of vengeance, he had never before deliberately set himself in front of another human being with the intention of killing him in cold blood. It felt different. It felt wrong.

He glanced at Thirif, who sat silently in the coach, but the Aritheian said nothing.

“He’s taller than you,” Black said, as he climbed down. “He’ll have a longer reach. Don’t let him use it; stay in close or get clear, don’t fight at full extension.”

“You told me that,” Arlian said.

“I know I did—I want you to remember it!” Black retorted. “I want you to live through this.”

Arlian didn’t answer as he stepped out of the coach. He stretched, straightened his jacket, straightened his sword belt, and faced his enemy’s home.

The air was warmer than it had been in days, but still cool and redolent of spring; vines twined up the gateposts, and blue flowers bloomed splendidly on one side, catching the bright light of midday. The gate of Lord Kuruvan’s mansion was closed, as it had not been when Arlian arrived the day before; guards wearing the maroon and gold of Kuruvan’s household, including gold-trimmed breastplates, stood on either side outside the fence. They held pikes.

There was no sign of Lord Kuruvan, or of the two women he had carried away from the brothel in Westguard. Arlian glanced up; the sun was straight overhead, so far as he could tell.

Had he put too much faith in Kuruvan’s honor and respect for tradition? Had the man perhaps fled, rather than face him? After all, Kuruvan had once made preparations to flee Manfort on short notice.

The guards were still there, though. Why would they stay if Kuruvan had fled?

Then the grand front door swung open, and Kuruvan’s gray-haired steward emerged. He strode to the gate with smooth assurance, then bowed, his head almost scraping the black iron bars.

“Lord Obsidian,” he said.

“Sir,” Arlian replied. He stepped forward and stopped a yard from the gate. “I believe I have an appointment with your employer.”

“Indeed,” the steward said, straightening. “However, Lord Kuruvan has asked me to speak with you briefly first.”

“Has he? Why?” Arlian placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, not so much as a threat as simply to indicate his impatience.

“In hopes, my lord, of preventing unnecessary bloodshed. While he has no fear for his own safety, he hesitates to deprive Manfort of a man of your own obvious intelligence and courage, and therefore hopes that this quarrel can be composed by more peaceful means.”

“And has he some proposal for atoning for his crimes?”

“Indeed,” the steward said. “He proposes to give you the two slaves you sought, in exchange for the gold you took from him. He will lay no claim to any interest or profit upon the stolen funds.”

“And what about the four women he helped murder— Rose, and Silk, and the others? What about mutilating a dozen women for the sake of pleasure and profit?”

The Stewart frowned. “I know nothing of that, nor do my instructions cover it. Lord Kuruvan assures me that he broke no law in the matters you accuse him of.”

“The women were slaves—but they were still women, not beasts.” Arlian hesitated. He did not want to kill anyone, not really—but Kuruvan was a murderer. Slaves were human beings, and no one, owner or not, had the right to maim and kill them with impunity.

Still, if he could be made to pay some other way…

“I propose a counter-offer,” Arlian said. “If Lord Kuruvan frees every slave in his possession, and swears never again to hold a person in bondage, I will consider our quarrel settled and justice done. He cannot give those four women back their lives, nor the others their feet, but if he grants life and freedom to others, perhaps the scales will be balanced.”

The steward hesitated. “I must consult with my lord,” he said. He bowed and turned.

Arlian watched him go. Black stepped up beside the younger man.

“Thirif says he senses no magic anywhere nearby,” Black whispered. “And if I were you, I’d have taken the deal he offered.”

Arlian shook his head. “And leave him free to torment and kill others who had the mischance to be taken by slavers? I don’t think so.”

Black shrugged. “Please yourself.”

“Get the gold ready,” Arlian told him.

A moment later the door of the mansion opened and Lord Kuruvan stepped out and strode across the small paved yard. He wore a sleeveless tunic of thick oiled leather and a nondescript pair of leather breeches, not at all like the finery Arlian had seen him in before—these were serious fighting clothes, and the sword and swordbreaker on his belt were plainly meant for use, not show. Arlian reached for the clasp of his own cloak.

“Not yet,” Black advised. “Give him a moment. He may yield yet.”

“And if I give up my right to own slaves,” Kuruvan shouted without preamble, well before he reached the gate, “what then? Will you carry this insane crusade of yours on to my friends and associates? Do you mean to stamp out the entire institution of slavery, so that the poor will starve in the gutter while vital work goes untended?”

“I would like to, yes,” Arlian called back. “I doubt I shall live long enough, but indeed, an end to slavery would suit me very well.”

“If I make peace with you, you’ll go on to pursue this mad vengeance of yours? You’ll challenge Drisheen and Enziet and the others?”

“Yes, I will,” Arlian said.

“You are mad, then,” Kuruvan said, “and I cannot in good conscience accept your proposal. I can’t trust a madman to keep his word, or not to come up with some other wild scheme, some other imaginary crime that must be avenged. You, sir, are a menace to society, and it is my duty to remove you.”

“Or die in the attempt,” Arlian said, hoping that Kuruvan would back down. His own nerves were raw with anticipation.

“Ha!” Kuruvan signaled to the guards, then drew his sword and swordbreaker as the gate began to swing open.

“Wait!” Arlian said, his voice cracking. “Where are the women?”

Kuruvan called over his shoulder, “Bring them out.” The door of the mansion swung wide, and two footmen appeared, each carrying a naked woman—Hasty and Kitten. They blinked in the bright sunlight.

Kuruvan pointed, and the footmen seated the women side by side on a stone bench beside the arched doorway. They looked about in obvious confusion. Kitten tried to tuck her ankles under the bench, to hide the fact that she had no feet; Hasty made no such effort. Although the outside air was cool, neither seemed troubled by her lack of clothing—though Arlian was. He tried not to stare. He remembered how accustomed he had become to casual nudity during his stay in the House of Carnal Society and tried to recall that indifference—but it had been two years.

The two women had been little altered by the intervening time, though. Both wore their hair differently, and Hasty’s belly was somewhat more convex than Arlian remembered, but those were no great changes. Their faces were as lovely as ever.

The sight of them brought back a flood of memories, and Arlian’s heart ached. He suddenly wished he were fighting Lord Enziet, rather than Lord Kuruvan, so that he could see Sweet again, rather than these two.

But he was here, and they were here, and Sweet would have to wait just a little longer. This pair seemed almost untouched by the passage of two years; Arlian could only hope that Sweet was likewise unharmed.

Then Hasty spotted Arlian. “Triv?” she said. “Kitten, it’s Triv!” She pointed.

Kitten turned and saw Arlian. Her jaw dropped. “Triv?”

“It appears they do, in fact, know you,” Kuruvan remarked. “Interesting. Now, I believe you have something of mine?”

Arlian signaled to Black, and Black brought out a keg, deliberately made as much like the one in the cellars beneath the Blood of the Grape as Arlian had been able to contrive, even to having the words “sour wine” chalked on it. He set the keg on the ground.

Arlian doffed his cloak and handed it to Black; then he drew his own blades and moved forward.

Kuruvan stepped back. “Come in,” he said. “Let us duel like the nobles we are, not brawl in the street like ruffians.”

Arlian nodded and stepped warily through the gate onto the paved courtyard, his sword held ready.

The guards backed away; the footmen who had brought out the women vanished. Only the two swordsmen stood in the square of pavement between gate and door.

“Take your first stroke, if you will,” Kuruvan said, moving his sword into a guard position.

Arlian was not fooled; he knew better than to charge in directly against a foe with arms and blade longer than his own. He waited, his own sword raised, swordbreaker poised at his waist.

As he stood he found himself wondering if he was being a fool. He was risking his life—he knew he was a good swordsman, but how could he be sure Kuruvan wasn’t a better one? Certainly, Kuruvan’s leather showed a greater sense of self-preservation than his own black silk. He had dressed for elegance and freedom of movement, and given no thought at all to turning his foe’s blade.

And he had been offered a chance to free Hasty and Kitten without bloodshed—what right did he have to turn it down and pursue some abstract concept of justice?

Might he not just as well have simply tried to buy free the dozen surviving women? He glanced at the two of them, sitting naked there on the bench…

And saw the stumps of Hasty’s ankles at the same instant that Lord Kuruvan, seeing his opponent distracted, lunged forward.

Arlian dodged, parried, but missed the riposte completely. He staggered slightly as he moved to the right, away from Kuruvan’s blade—and then that blade was withdrawn, shifted, thrust again, before Arlian had fully recovered. His parry was awkward, almost slapping away Kuruvan’s sword rather than turning it with any grace or skill. Kuruvan smiled thinly and pressed his advantage.

Arlian started to retreat, then realized that the iron fence was less than a yard behind him—he had no room to retreat without being cornered. He ducked and ran to the side instead.

Kuruvan whirled and took a step forward, but not quickly enough to maintain contact; the two men once again stood apart at twice a sword’s length, facing each other. No blood had yet been drawn.

“You are a fool, as well as a madman,” Kuruvan said. “Not half the swordsman you thought yourself, eh?”

Arlian made no answer, but he was silently cursing himself. He could not afford doubt or hesitation; however it had come about, and whatever the wisdom or foolishness in bringing himself to this, he was fighting for his life.

And for justice. The image of Hasty’s ruined legs dangling from the bench was fresh in his mind, reminding him of the injustice to be avenged. The image of Rose, lying naked on her bed beneath a thickening cloud of smoke, throat cut and eyes staring blindly at nothing, returned to him as well.

“There’s still time to end this peacefully,” Kuruvan said, as the tip of his sword moved threateningly. “I’ll still trade those two for the gold, and your oath to trouble me no more. I think you may have learned a lesson here—and let me assure you, Lord Obsidian, or Triv, if that’s your name, that I am by no means the best swordsman of the six you’ve chosen as enemies.”

He might have intended to say more, but midway through the word “enemies” Arlian strode forward, ducking, trying to get his blade under Kuruvan’s guard.

Kuruvan was not caught off guard that easily; he caught Arlian’s blade on his own and turned it aside. His swordbreaker came up, but not in time, as Arlian withdrew.

But he did not withdraw fully; instead he thrust again, this time aiming for Kuruvan’s right thigh and stepping in closer.

Again, steel clashed on steel as the swords crossed; Arlian’s left hand whipped out, and the tip of his swordbreaker slashed across the leg of Kuruvan’s breeches, scarring but not piercing the leather. This time it was Kuruvan who retreated a quick two steps, breaking contact.

Arlian, suspecting a trap, did not pursue immediately; he stepped back as well and began to circle to the left.

As he did, one part of his mind considered Kuruvan’s words. In fact, it was quite likely that some of the other lords were better swordsmen than Kuruvan. Enziet, in particular, with his dragon’s heart and fearsome reputation, might well be more formidable.

For that matter, some or all of the other four might also be members of the Dragon Society. Whether that would really matter Arlian didn’t know. Certainly his own supposed draconic gifts didn’t seem to have intimidated Kuruvan.

And he needed to intimidate Kuruvan. It was too late now to do anything but kill or be killed, and Arlian had no intention of dying.

Arlian suddenly stopped his leftward circling and charged to the right, lunging, trying to catch Kuruvan unaware, evade his sword and strike at his left side.

Kuruvan’s swordbreaker swept up, but Arlian dodged it. His blade slashed across the bare skin of Kuruvan’s left arm midway between shoulder and elbow—not the truly damaging blow he had hoped for, but first blood, all the same.

And Kuruvan’s own sword was sweeping in from Arlian’s own left, high and wide, headed for his ear; Arlian’s left hand snapped up, swordbreaker ready, as he ducked his head.

Kuruvan’s blade cut through Arlian’s hair, and a sudden warmth on his scalp told Arlian that he had been wounded, but then he heard the click of steel as his swordbreaker slid around Kuruvan’s weapon.

Arlian smiled, and twisted—and Kuruvan’s blade slipped free, apparently undamaged.

And Kuruvan’s own swordbreaker was coming up toward Arlian’s heart; in his stooped position, escaping the sword, he could see the approaching dagger blade clearly.

Already aslant, Arlian threw himself back and further to the right, right knee bent and left leg straight, and the swordbreaker slashed up across his left shoulder, ruining fine black silk but drawing no blood. Arlian’s sword swept up, behind Kuruvan’s swordbreaker, aimed at Kuruvan’s throat.

Kuruvan flung himself backward, and the two men staggered apart.

Kuruvan’s left arm was bleeding steadily, Arlian saw, and while his sword was not broken, it was very slightly bent.

Arlian’s own weapons were undamaged, but his left shoulder felt bruised and the cut-open shirt was sliding down onto his left arm in a most distracting fashion. He knew he was bleeding from his scalp, as well, but that was well back on the left, too far back for the blood to get in his face and interfere with his vision, so he ignored it.

Arlian thought that all things considered, he had gotten the better of that exchange. He wondered if Kuruvan knew his sword was bent; swordsmen were trained to watch their opponents‘ swords, not their own. If he hadn’t noticed, Arlian might be able to use that.

But he would only be able to use it once before Kuruvan discovered it, and the sooner the better. Arlian launched into a direct attack, turning his body to present a smaller target as he thrust his blade forward.

This was the sort of attack that Black had warned him against, the sort where Kuruvan’s greater reach was an advantage, and sure enough Kuruvan’s sword met his own in what should have been a deadly parry and riposte—but slid harmlessly aside, across Arlian’s chest, as Kuruvan misjudged where his bent blade would go. Arlian stepped forward, inside Kuruvan’s guard, his own sword arm pulling back for a lethal thrust— but Kuruvan’s swordbreaker came up, catching the tip of Arlian’s sword.

Arlian twisted, swinging his sword free, and stepped forward again. Now Kuruvan’s right arm was outstretched across Arlian’s chest, and his left pinned by Arlian’s right; there was nothing to stop Arlian’s left arm as he rammed the point of his swordbreaker through oiled leather into Kuruvan’s belly.

Arlian had thought that was a killing blow, and that the duel was over; he expected Kuruvan to gasp and crumple, as that bandit in the Desolation had.

But Kuruvan pulled away, still upright, still fighting, and slashed with his sword, drawing a bloody line across Arlian’s left arm and chest, slicing through black silk into flesh.

Arlian stabbed again with his swordbreaker, but this time the two were angled differently and not quite so close, and the thick leather turned the blow. Kuruvan’s swordbreaker cut across Arlian’s right arm as the two men pulled apart.

And then Arlian’s shorter arms worked in his favor; as they drew back, his sword came free, and he was able to thrust it forward and down into Kuruvan’s side. It was not a deep cut, but it was another telling blow.

Kuruvan gasped and staggered, but broke free and brought his sword up to guard.

“Stop it!” someone shrieked—Hasty, Arlian realized. “Stop it, both of you!”

Neither man paid any attention. They were intent on one another.

Kuruvan was apparently no longer interested in speaking, or in attacking; he appeared to be having difficulty breathing, though his weapons did not sag nor his movements falter. He was bleeding several places, and his face was unnaturally pale.

Arlian was bleeding as well, but was convinced his own wounds were all superficial, while at least two of Kuruvan’s were not. That meant time was on Arlian’s side; Kuruvan would weaken with every passing moment, every drop of blood he lost.

The two men stood facing each other, neither one ready to attack, for what felt like hours; then Kuruvan’s eyes rolled back in his head, his weapons fell from his hands, and he collapsed upon the pavement.

Arlian started to move forward, to attack; he had been awaiting an opportunity so long that it took him a few seconds to realize that any other action was possible. Then he caught himself and stopped, his sword almost at Kuruvan’s throat.

There was no honor in killing an unconscious man; in fact, to strike now would be murder under the dueling laws. Arlian stepped back, and realized he was panting and trembling.

Footmen in maroon and gold were hurrying forward to attend to their master; Arlian stepped back again, giving them room. He glanced down at himself, at his own bloody chest and arms; he tugged at the tatters of his silk blouse with his thumb, then noticed the blood on his sword. He blinked.

Dazed. He was dazed, he realized. The duel had only lasted a few minutes, and hadn’t really been so very strenuous, but still, he knew he was not thinking clearly anymore.

“Black!” he called, starting to tremble uncontrollably.

And then his steward, his friend, was there, handing him a cloth. Arlian dropped his swordbreaker to accept it, then wiped his sword carefully, struggling to keep his hands steady enough for the task. He sheathed the sword, then retrieved the swordbreaker and cleaned and sheathed that, as well.

Then he stood, still shaking, his mind momentarily a blank.

“I’m glad to see you have your priorities straight,” Black said, putting one arm around Arlian, “but we’ll need to get you cleaned up, too.”

Arlian nodded. His thoughts were beginning to clear. “The women,” he said. “Get them in the coach. And the gold.”

“And you,” Black said. “Come on, now.”

Arlian allowed himself to be led away.

As he sat in the coach, still trembling, waiting for Hasty and Kitten to be carried over from the bench, he saw Kuruvan being carried inside. The gray-haired steward gave Arlian one last hate-filled look; then the mansion door slammed shut.

Arlian stared at that closed door, trying to think whether he hoped Kuruvan would live or die, and utterly unable to decide.

36

Tending to Wounds

Despite his battered condition, Arlian later remembered every detail of the ride home—the two naked women staring at him, Thirif sitting silently beside him, the worry in Black’s voice as he called to the horses, the stinging when a cut on one arm brushed against the upholstery. He had wanted to speak to the women, to reassure them, but the shifting expressions on Hasty’s face deterred him—she seemed angry as much as frightened, and as scared of him as of anything else. He couldn’t find the words to speak to her over the creaking of the coach, the rattle of harness, the beating of the horses’ hooves, and his own weary confusion.

Kitten’s expression was closed and unreadable.

Arlian had never known Kitten well to begin with, but Hasty had been his friend, and her antagonism worried him.

The ride was a short one, in any case, and when they pulled up at the door of the Old Palace Arlian had still not said a thing.

He opened the coach door and climbed out before Black could dismount, then turned, with the idea of carrying one woman inside while Black fetched the other.

Thirif looked meaningfully at his chest, and pointed at the blood on his arms, and Arlian thought better of carrying anyone. Instead he stood aside as Thirif and Black brought Hasty and Kitten into the small salon.

“Where are we?” Kitten asked, craning her neck to look at the gilding, tapestries, and fretwork.

“Home,” Arlian said. “Welcome home!”

Hasty stared at him. “Triv, are you insane?”

Arlian, very much aware of his injuries, was in no mood to argue with anyone. He frowned at her. “Why do people keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re acting like a madman!” Hasty squeaked. “What’s going to happen to us when the owner of this place comes back?”

“I am the owner of this place,” Arlian said patiently. He gestured at Black and Thirif. “Ask them.”

“If he’s mad, it’s nothing as obvious as that,” Black Said. “He’s the true Lord Obsidian, all right, and he does own this palace.”

“But he’s just Triv!” Hasty protested. “He’s an… he’s nobody!”

“Not anymore,” Black told her. He glanced at Arlian. “Someday you’ll have to tell me why they call you Triv.”

Arlian shrugged. “It’s not important.” He smiled to himself at this answer.

“I’ll agree with that,” Black said. “What’s important is cleaning and dressing those wounds before any of them turn poisonous.”

Arlian glanced down at himself.

“Black speaks wisely,” Thirif said.

Arlian yielded. “Get these two some clothes,” he told Thirif. “And food. Whatever they want.”

The Aritheian nodded, and Arlian allowed himself to be led away.

An hour later, heavily bandaged and attired in fresh new clothes, Arlian returned to the salon.

Hasty and Kitten were seated on two settees; Kitten wore a black silk tunic that reached just below her knees, while Hasty was wrapped in a velvet robe.

“We have no women’s clothing on hand, my lord,” a footman explained before Arlian could remark on this garb.

“That’s fine,” Arlian said. He crossed the room and stooped to kiss Hasty on the forehead. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and he smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you again!” he said.

“It’s good to see you, too, Triv,” Hasty said, looking up at him, “but why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Arlian asked.

“Fight that horrible duel! You could have been killed! You might have killed Vanni!”

Arlian stared at her, a puzzled frown upon his face. “He was holding you prisoner,” he said.

“Vanni? Oh, he was sweet,” Hasty protested. “He’s a poor silly boy!”

“Lord Kuruvan, you mean,” Arlian said, baffled.

“Yes, Lord Kuruvan. Vanni.”

“Lord Kuruvan is a poor silly boy? He must be forty years old.”

Hasty shrugged. “He’s still a boy,” she said.

“He was holding you in bondage,” Arlian pointed out.

“Well, but he wasn’t hurting us!” Hasty replied.

“He was one of the owners of the House of Carnal Society,” Arlian said. “He was one of the six men who put you there and had your feet cut off.”

“But the House is gone!” Hasty protested. “That’s all over!”

“It is now,” Arlian said grimly. “For you two, at any rate.”

“But it was over years ago! For two years we haven’t had to please anyone but poor Vanni. And he was hardly ever rough, and when he was he’d feel bad afterward and give us candy and wine to apologize.”

Arlian stared silently at her for a moment. Hasty had always been prone to confusion and thoughtlessness—that was where her name had come from, after all—but this seemed more than Arlian could deal with.

“Hasty,” he said, “he ordered your feet chopped off! He agreed to have Rose and Silk murdered! He had to be punished for those crimes.”

Now it was Hasty’s turn to stare in incomprehension.

“Murdered?” Kitten said. “Rose and Silk are dead?”

“When the House was closed,” Arlian told her. “Each of the six lords took two women, and then the guards cut the throats of the other four and burned down the house.”

Hasty’s confusion turned to shock. For a moment she and Kitten sat motionless, staring at Arlian. “We didn’t know,” Kitten said. “And Kuruvan didn’t abuse us. We… it wasn’t a bad life there, really.”

“You were slaves,” Arlian said.

“Well, of course,” Kitten replied. “We always have been. We still are.”

“No, you aren’t,” Arlian said. “Lord Kuruvan wagered your freedom on that duel. You’re free.”

Hasty’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. “But we can’t be!” she wailed. “What will I do if I’m free? I’m a cripple, with no feet! I may be carrying Vanni’s child, and I’m not married! I need to be a slave. I’ve never been free, I never asked to be free! I don’t know how!” She flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around Arlian’s waist and burying her face against his belly.

Arlian tried to comfort her, and looked at the other, woman for guidance.

Kitten’s expression was somber. “I’m glad to be free, Triv,” she said, “but Hasty has a good point. What will become of us? Neither of us knows a trade, and who would marry a cripple?”

“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you please,” Arlian said, as he patted Hasty comfortingly. “I made my fortune with money Rose gave me, money she said should have belonged to the women in that brothel—to me, that means that one-twelfth of my wealth is at your disposal, each of you. I took that money to avenge the injustices you and the others suffered.”

“So we’ll be parasites instead of slaves?” Kitten asked.

The day’s accumulated stresses finally broke Arlian’s calm. “Would you rather be dog food when your Lord Kuruvan tired of you?” he demanded. “You earned that money! You paid for it by giving up the ability to walk! And if you don’t think so, then go ahead and learn a trade—a seamstress doesn’t need to walk, does she?”

Hasty snuffled miserably.

“You’re right, Triv,” Kitten said. “I’m sorry. This was so unexpected! We had settled into our lives with Kuruvan, and we were comfortable there—though you’re right that it probably wouldn’t have lasted long. You meant well.”

Arlian stared at her for a moment.

Meant well?

He had risked his life to see that justice was done for these women. He had fought down his fears and misgivings and had crossed blades with an experienced swordsman, he had shed his own blood, and still faced the very real possibility of wound fever. The duel with Kuruvan had been no elegant display of skill, but an ugly, awkward, messy brawl that ended not in a clean death for one that left the other unscathed, but in numerous wounds and great pain on both sides. Arlian had gone through all that not for himself, but to have justice for these women, and he had carried away Hasty and Kitten, not to keep them, but to give them their freedom.

He had thought they would be grateful.

He hadn’t fought for their gratitude; he had fought because it was the right thing to do, because it would serve the cause of justice. Still, Hasty and Kitten were the immediate beneficiaries, and he had thought they would be grateful.

He hadn’t expected to be told he had meant well.

He should have known better, he told himself. He remembered Bloody Hand, back in the mine, shouting at him for having dared to save him from the falling ore.

He had done what was right. He had saved Bloody Hand’s life—and he had tried to take Kuruvan’s. He had tried to make a little justice in the world.

He frowned as he stroked Hasty’s hair. Why was it right to save Bloody Hand, and to kill Kuruvan?

Because it was. Bloody Hand had killed Dinian, yes, but by accident. He had not been a sadist like Lampspiller. He had been trying to survive as best he could, to do the job he had been given.

Kuruvan had maimed and killed women because he wanted to, because it was convenient and profitable.

That was wrong. No matter how pleasant he had been to Kitten and Hasty afterward, it was wrong, and Kuruvan had done nothing to make amends.

Perhaps now he would—assuming he survived his wounds. Arlian resolved to check on Lord Kuruvan, if he recovered, to see whether he still considered himself free to kill slaves.

But first, there were five more lords to deal with— Stiam, Horim, Toribor, Drisheen…

And Lord Dragon. Lord Enziet. The man who had looted Arlian’s home and sold Arlian into slavery, the man who had killed Madam Ril and ordered the House of Carnal Society burned, the man who had carried Sweet and Dove away with him.

Arlian would deal with them all, including Lord Dragon, and would rescue Sweet and the other women— and from now on he would not expect gratitude.

He disentangled himself from Hasty and set her back on the settee. “I’ll have someone show you your rooms,” he said. “If you want anything, my servants will get it for you.”

Then he turned and headed for his own chambers, to rest—and to plan. He knew now who all his enemies were—the six lords, the looters, the dragons. He had wounded Kuruvan, forgiven Cover…

He paused on the stairs. Was he finished with Kuruvan, then? Should he go back and finish him off?

And that offer he had made, to let Kuruvan go unscathed if he forswore all future connection with slavery—where had that come from? Was that truly what he sought? Did he think that the institution of slavery was something that must be abolished? That was not any task he had consciously set himself. He had been seeking justice; was slavery then inherently unjust? Was it any more unjust than the rest of the world?

Would Hasty be happier free than she had been as Kuruvan’s slave? Certainly he was happier free. And Rose would still be alive had she been free.

He was not ready to say that slavery was always wrong. He was convinced that it was abused, that Lord Dragon— Lord Enziet!—had been wrong to sell him to the mine, that the six lords had been wrong to maim their whores and kill four of them.

They had demonstrated that they could not be trusted with slaves—that was why he had made his offer to Lord Kuruvan. The question of whether anyone could be trusted with slaves he would leave open for now.

That decided, he continued up the steps.

As for whether Kuruvan had paid sufficiently for the evil he had done—well, perhaps he should leave that to Fate. If Kuruvan recovered from his wounds, and committed no more atrocities, then Arlian would let him live.

After all, he had the others to deal with.

Lord Enziet would be next, of course. He was the one Arlian was most determined to see punished, now that he knew who Lord Dragon was; the others could wait. Enziet was also the one who held Sweet. Arlian dared not risk getting himself killed fighting one of the others, leaving Lord Dragon untouched and Sweet still in his possession.

He would have Black visit Enziet’s mansion and arrange a meeting, and when he was sufficiently recovered from his own injuries he would pay Lord Dragon a visit.

And he wouldn’t leave Enziet alive, as he had Kuruvan.

He would question him about his knowledge of dragons, how he had known that Obsidian would be available for looting—and for that matter, why the village had been worth looting in person, for surely a man of Enziet’s prominence could have sent an employee to attend to it.

He would learn everything Lord Dragon could tell him, he would finally know why his family and childhood had been snatched away, why his life had been twisted into an obsessive quest for revenge—and then he would kill him.

That settled, Arlian tumbled onto his bed, exhausted— but elated, as well.

He was making progress. Cover and Kuruvan were done, and Lord Dragon was next! At last, after all these years, Lord Dragon was next!

37

Approaches to Lord Dragon

Black marched in the doorway of Arlian’s study and crossed to the writing table where Arlian sat. “He won’t see you,” he said without preamble.

Arlian put down his quill and blinked up at his steward. “What do you mean, he won’t see me?”

“I mean he won’t see you,” Black repeated. “I delivered your message, and I recited it myself, just to be sure, as well as handing over the written copy—‘Lord Obsidian wishes to call upon Lord Enziet at Lord Enziet’s convenience about a matter of some importance to them both, and would appreciate a word as to when that might be possible.’ They told me to wait at the gate, and a footman brought me back the reply—that Lord Enziet has no intention of seeing Lord Obsidian at any time, and that henceforth I am not to inflict my presence further upon any member of his household, at any time.”

“You protested?”

“Of course I protested. Loudly. And I was told to wait again, and someone fetched this.” He handed Arlian a folded sheet of paper.

Arlian accepted it and opened it, and read, “Lord Enziet busies himself with the Duke’s business and his own concerns, and has no time to waste on social niceties. Let Lord Obsidian amuse himself elsewhere.”

“This verges on deliberate insult,” Arlian said, looking up from the little square of paper.

“I’d say so,” Black agreed.

“Do you think Enziet knows why I want to see him?” Arlian asked.

“It’s entirely possible,” Black said. “After all, Lord Kuruvan had time to talk at some length before the fever set in.”

Arlian frowned at the reminder.

That Kuruvan’s wounds had festered and brought on a fever was hardly surprising, but Arlian was not happy about it. His own injuries had healed well, but they had been far more superficial. Kuruvan had been stabbed in the belly, and while to Arlian’s surprise the wound itself had not been fatal, it had turned foul; the reports that had reached the Old Palace said that Kuruvan was now bedridden and delirious, burning up with fever, his abdomen as swollen and red as an overripe peach. He was not expected to live much longer.

It was a slow, nasty way to die. Arlian had wanted Kuruvan dead, but would have preferred a quick death—he wasn’t interested in inflicting suffering upon the guilty so much as in removing a menace from the world.

But that was in regard to Kuruvan; Arlian would be pleased to see Lord Dragon suffer. He had hoped to bring that suffering about.

Instead, Enziet was insulting him, defying him.

And of course, why shouldn’t he? Lord Obsidian was nobody—rich, yes, but with no serious commercial ties in Manfort, no known family, no powerful friends.

That still did not entitle Lord Enziet to be openly rude to a fellow nobleman, and perhaps that was all the excuse Arlian needed. He opened a desk drawer and found a sheet of paper. He took up his quill, dipped it, and wrote, “I find the tone of your message inappropriate, and must ask that you apologize. It is essential that I speak with you.”

He signed it “Obsidian,” with a flourish, then blotted it, folded it, and handed it to Black.

Black had read it over his shoulder. “It may not do any better,” he said.

“You’re welcome to make suggestions.”

“You’re the lord here,” Black said with a shrug. “Anything else?”

“Check on Kuruvan,” Arlian said. “See if you can find out, without being obvious, whether he did communicate with Enziet.” A thought struck him. “And check on Cover, too. Perhaps he knows something useful—where did he meet Lord Dragon, all those years ago? Did he have any way to send Lord Dragon or any of the others a message?”

Black nodded and tucked the note inside his tunic.

Arlian watched him go.

It seemed clear what had happened. The duel with Lord Kuruvan had hardly been secret—duels couldn’t very well be kept secret. The reason for the duel would surely have become known, as well—Kuruvan would have had no reason not to speak of it. That meant that the other proprietors of the House of the Six Lords all knew that Lord Obsidian meant them ill. Furthermore, the fact that Kuruvan, a very respectable swordsman, had lost his duel meant that they would probably not be eager to face Arlian openly. He would be unlikely to catch any of them off guard, and luring each of them into a duel might well be impossible.

But perhaps he could still bully them into fighting. Demanding that Lord Enziet apologize was a first step in that direction; by the code of honor the lords of Manfort observed, if Enziet refused to apologize Arlian could escalate the conflict until Enziet had no choice but to fight.

And if he did apologize, well, Arlian could insist the apology be made in person, and matters could proceed from there. He was not yet stymied.

He might be in danger himself, though. Lord Dragon had had no hesitation about killing Madam Ril when she displeased him. While Ril had been a mere employee, not a fellow lord, might he not attempt to kill Arlian by some method less open than dueling? Assassination was not legal, but if happened. Arlian had no idea how one went about hiring an assassin, but he was sure Enziet did.

And that didn’t even consider the fact that Enziet was reputed to know something of sorcery. Arlian frowned and rose from his desk; he left the study and trotted down the stairs to the office where Thirif conducted his business.

The Aritheian was seated cross-legged on a mat in one corner, meditating. He looked up as Arlian entered.

Arlian quickly explained the situation—that he had intended to visit Lord Enziet and challenge him to a duel, but that his polite request for an audience had been met with an insulting refusal.

“I believe my enemies may be aware of my intentions,” he concluded. “I also suspect they may attempt to take action against me by dishonorable means.”

Thirif asked, “Do you mean assassins?”

“Or sorcery,” Arlian said.

Thirif nodded. “Do you want me to place wards?”

“I’m not sure,” Arlian said. “I’ve heard the word, but could you explain what you mean?”

“A ward is…” Thirif frowned. “I know no other word for it in your tongue. It is a device or magic that surrounds a place and turns aside malign influences. The iron fences in Arithei serve as wards against wild magic, but would not stop any mortal, nor a properly made spell; for that we have magical wards. Any who try to enter a magically warded place while wishing the inhabitants harm will feel a compulsion to turn aside—a strong will may resist this compulsion, though. Hostile magic cannot enter a warded place unless it is stronger than the ward. If an enemy enters despite the ward, the magician who placed the ward will feel it and know what has happened. If the ward is broken by stronger magic, that, too, will be felt.”

“That sounds ideal,” Arlian said. “Can you do that here?”

“Of course. We brought many wardings with us, and they have not sold well—your northern sorcerers can create wards of their own. It is one of the few things that sorcery can do well—had we known that, we would not have brought them.”

“But you did bring them?”

“Yes.”

“Then by all means, place wards around the palace immediately. Strong ones.”

“As you wish.” Thirif unfolded his legs and rose from his mat.

“Thank you,” Arlian said.

Thirif bowed an acknowledgment, then departed.

Arlian stood gazing thoughtfully after the Aritheian for a moment. There was so much he didn’t know about magic! Wards were clearly a basic spell, yet he had needed an explanation.

And there was so much he still didn’t know about Manfort, and about the city’s lords.

And so much he didn’t know about dragons, about Lord Dragon, about the connections between Enziet and the dragons. Maybe Lord Enziet had not been told anything by Lord Kuruvan, but had known Arlian meant him harm by other means. How had Lord Dragon known that the dragons would destroy Obsidian, and that he could loot it?

Enziet was a mystery. Was Sweet safe in his hands? Lord Dragon had taken her—what had he done with her, and with Dove? Were Sweet and Dove still alive? Hasty and Kitten were safe and well, but Lord Dragon was not Lord Kuruvan.

At that, Arlian’s thoughts turned to his two houseguests. Kitten seemed to be settling in reasonably well—she had not yet taken up learning any sort of skills, but she professed to be thinking about it, and she had discovered the library. Arlian had not had time to use it himself, but the Old Palace had a library, and it had been furnished with a modest collection of books when he bought the place. These were presumably the books not considered worth the trouble of moving to the Citadel, but Kitten apparently found them interesting enough. She spent much of her time there.

Hasty, on the other hand, had no interest in books— Arlian was not sure she knew how to read. Instead, during the several days Arlian had spent recovering from his wounds, she seemed to have devoted herself to harassing Arlian’s servants, demanding to be carried hither and yon for no reason, deliberately seducing and then abandoning one young man after another.

He supposed she would get over it—especially if she was correct in suspecting that she was pregnant with Kuruvan’s child.

As for himself, he had kept busy through his convalescence with his household and business. He had now sold off, through his agents, a significant fraction of the magical artifacts he had brought north from Arithei, and his income from those was augmented by investments he had made with the money thus generated. Keeping track of those hundreds of thousands of ducats was a considerable task, and working at it kept his mind off his plans for revenge, plans that could only circle endlessly and pointlessly in his head until he was again fit to fight.

Now, while Thirif set wards and Arlian waited for Black’s return from the errands Arlian had assigned him, Arlian returned to his study to go over the latest business records once again. Until he had more information there was little else he could do.

He had closed the account books and eaten supper, and was sitting in the salon, glass in hand, when Black returned. Arlian looked up from his wine expectantly as the steward stood over him.

“Cover is dead,” Black said. “Five days ago.”

That was not really a surprise—if anything, he had lived somewhat longer than Arlian had expected. “And Stammer?”

Black shrugged.

“If she can find nothing better, offer her a job here,” Arlian said.

Black sighed. “As you say,” he said.

“And Enziet?”

Black hesitated.

“Lord Enziet,” he said, “spoke to me at some length. To be specific, at sword’s length.”

“What?” Arlian put down his glass.

Black sighed again.

“Sit down,” Arlian said, “and tell me all about it.” He gestured at the decanter and an empty glass.

Black sat and poured himself a drink. He downed it in a gulp, then poured another.

“I was kept waiting for some time after I gave your note to a footman,” Black said, “but at last Lord Enziet himself came to speak to me.” He grimaced. “Not alone; he had half a dozen guards with him, and his own sword ready in his hand.”

“What did he say?”

“I remember his very words,” Black said. “He told me, ‘Your master has nerve, demanding an apology from a man he intends to murder.’”

“Oh,” Arlian said.

“He went on at some length, as I told you,” Black said. “He is aware that you consider yourself wronged by the proprietors of the House of Carnal Society; he has no interest in the truth of such accusations, or for that matter in any sort of justice, fairness, or revenge. Instead he wants me to warn you that if you harass or harm him or any of his surviving partners further, or attempt to enter his home, he will kill you—and not in anything so formal as a duel. If I return, he will kill me. If you send any other messenger, he will kill the messenger. He is not concerned with rules or custom, and is confident that his hold over the Duke is more than enough to ensure he won’t suffer any legal consequences for any of these deaths should he choose to bring them about. He strongly advises you to leave Manfort and go back wherever you came from. That he hasn’t already killed you, he says, is only because he does not care to antagonize your Aritheian allies—but having now warned you, that won’t stop him if you persist. He assumes that once you’re dead the Aritheians can be made to see reason. Furthermore, if by some chance you do kill him, he has made arrangements to ensure that you will be killed in return.”

Arlian swallowed.

“He also says to tell you that the wards won’t stop him. I don’t know what that means, but I assume you do.”

“Yes,” Arlian said.

“Ari,” Black said, “I had never met Lord Enziet before. Remember not long after we met, I told you you had the heart of the dragon in you? Well, Enziet has the heart, soul, liver, and lights of the dragon. I don’t doubt for a minute that he means exactly what he says, and can do it.”

“I don’t doubt it, either,” Arlian agreed. He picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of his wine. The heart of the dragon, he thought. Credentials for membership in the Dragon Society. Lord Enziet was undoubtedly a member.

“He may decide to go ahead and kill you even if you don’t harass anyone,” Black said. “I think maybe you should go home. Or back to the Borderlands.”

“No!” Arlian flung his glass away; it shattered against the wall as Arlian got to his feet. “This is my home! Dragons destroyed my first home; Lord Dragon burned the next; this is my home now, and they won’t take it away from me!” He grabbed Black by his shirt. “I will kill that bastard somehow! If he won’t let me do it openly and honorably in a duel, I will find another way!”

“If he doesn’t kill you first,” Black said, locking his hands around Arlian’s wrists. “It would seem to me that you ought to concern yourself with staying alive before you worry about killing someone else. I’d point out that even if you do somehow get Enziet, that leaves at least four others who’ll want you dead—not even counting the Duke, once he’s deprived of the man who tells him what to do.”

Arlian released Black’s shirt and stepped back. He looked thoughtfully at his friend. Staying alive was indeed a prerequisite for any planned revenge, and Lord Enziet was clearly a powerful man—Arlian remembered the casual way Lord Dragon had slashed Madam Ril’s throat with a single sweep of his sword, how he had paid no attention to the bright blood that had spurted from the wound, how no one had dared to step forward and oppose him or hinder him in any way.

A man who could kill like that, a man who had all Manfort’s resources at his disposal… Arlian knew that if Lord Dragon were to decide Arlian must die, then Arlian would die, unless he took drastic measures to protect himself.

Bodyguards, soldiers—he could afford them, but could he trust them? Did he want to live surrounded by them?

He could flee the city, as Enziet suggested, but that would be defeat; it would mean giving up any chance at vengeance, and on a much less exalted level it would mean losing a significant portion of his fortune, since he could not hope to sell the Old Palace readily. He had paid far more than he should have to buy it and restore it, in the interests of impressing and intriguing the city’s nobility and advancing his planned revenge.

And it would mean leaving Sweet and Dove in Lord Dragon’s clutches.

What other means of protection could he find, then? Enziet had already discovered the wards Thirif had placed and dismissed them as inadequate, and Arlian did not think he was boasting. From what he had seen and heard, Lord Dragon had never struck him as boastful. Was there other, stronger magic he could employ?

He could think of none. He was no magician. He would talk to Thirif, but he doubted that salvation lay in that direction. Both the Aritheians and his own people had told him that magic was deceitful and untrustworthy stuff, as likely to destroy you as preserve you.

The best solution would be somehow to change Enziet’s mind, to convince him that killing Arlian would be a bad idea—and there might, Arlian realized, be a way to do that.

“You spoke with him,” Arlian said. “Do you think he’s a man of honor?”

“No,” Black said promptly. “But he may think he is.”

“Would he break an oath?”

“Probably. It would depend on the consequences.”

The obvious next question, not spoken aloud, was whether he, Arlian, Lord Obsidian, would break an oath, given sufficient incentive.

He wasn’t sure of the answer.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to. Perhaps he could find a way around it.

But regardless of the oath, the time had come to walk down the Street of the Black Spire to a black door with a red bar. It was too late now, but come morning, he would go there.

That was where he could find Lord Dragon and confront him without need for any invitation into anyone’s home. And that was where he could at least make it expensive for Lord Dragon to kill him, make him an outcast and oath breaker if he carried out his threats. If Arlian joined the Dragon Society, Lord Dragon would be sworn not to kill him within Manfort’s walls.

That Arlian would be required to swear in return not to kill Lord Dragon was a matter he would deal with later.