38

Behind the Black Door

“Wait here,” he told Black.

The other man nodded and leaned back comfortably against a gray sun-warmed stone wall.

Arlian stepped up to the black door. It was riveted iron, blackened, unpainted save for a broad red stripe across it. The handle was cast in the shape of a beast of some sort, but so worn that Arlian could not be sure just what it was meant to represent. It might have been a dragon.

The building around it was gray stone, like so much of Manfort, but larger than most. There were few windows, and those there were were tall and narrow and horizontally barred with black iron.

He reached out and touched the metal door; it was cold and slightly damp, rough with a thin layer of rust, and felt very solid. He pressed a palm against it, then made a fist and rapped.

The resulting sound was so faint he was sure it couldn’t be heard inside the building. He looked around for a bell pull or knocker, but found none; he tried the latch, but it did not yield. Seeing, no alternative, he shrugged, then pounded on the iron door with his fist.

This time it rang, a deep, dull sound.

Arlian waited, and a moment later the latch rattled and the door swung open, revealing a small, dim antechamber. A heavily built man dressed in dark green finery stepped around the door and looked Arlian in the eye.

“Yes?”

Arlian bowed. “I am Lord Obsidian,” he said. “Lord Wither tells me that I might be welcome here.”

The man in green stared at him, studying Arlian’s face in a way that would ordinarily have been objectionably rude; Arlian stared back. For a moment the two men stood, eye to eye.

“You’re very young for this place,” the man in green said at last, “but the mark does seem to be there.”

Arlian snorted. “Lord Wither had no doubt of it, and he didn’t have to count my eyelashes.”

And for that matter, Arlian had not needed to stare as long as he had to recognize the dragon’s mark on the man in green—the doorkeeper was presumably a member, not merely a servant or slave. That explained his attire, which was far richer than any servant would wear.

“Lord Wither is an exceptional man,” the doorkeeper said. “I don’t have a tenth his experience. And I must be sure before I let you pass the inner door.”

“Are you sure, then?”

“I believe I am. You wish to join the Dragon Society, then?”

Arlian took a deep breath. “I do,” he said.

“If you enter, you must join,” the man in green warned him. “Once inside you cannot change your mind; you join or you die.”

Arlian hesitated. He had not expected that. Lord Wither had said it was easy, though, for one with the heart of the dragon.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” the doorkeeper said, in reassuring tones.

“No,” Arlian said. “I’ve come this far. I’ll join.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain enough.”

“Enter, then.” The man stepped back, ushering Arlian inside.

“I have my steward…” Arlian began.

“No,” the man in green said firmly. “Only members and applicants pass through this door.”

Arlian shrugged; he waved a farewell to Black, then stepped inside. The doorkeeper closed the heavy iron door behind him, shutting out the sunlight.

For a moment he was in utter darkness and near-total silence, broken only by the scuffling of the doorkeeper, and he feared that his enemies had arranged a trap, that Lord Enziet had foreseen an attempt to join the Dragon Society and arranged to prevent it; then the inner door opened.

The room beyond was vast, rich and strange, and brightly lit—not by sunlight, though it was a cheerful cloudless morning outside, but by dozens of assorted candles, perched on tables and shelves or mounted in wall sconces and candelabra. Thick carpets covered the floor, and where not hidden by shelves or cabinetry the walls were polished wood panels; the high ceiling was coffered and gilded. Chairs, sofas, and tables, all heavy and elaborately carved, were so numerous as to make the chamber seem cluttered and mazelike, despite its size; perhaps a dozen of the chairs were occupied. Most of those occupants were busy with their own concerns and did not look up at the new arrival. The air smelled of dust and candle smoke.

The room’s truly strange features were neither the people nor the furnishings nor the unnatural lighting, but the knicknacks and curiosities that filled the cabinets and shelves and stood on several of the tables. Most of them seemed to have been collected and arranged without rhyme or reason. A row of human skulls adorned one ornate cabinet; a mummified hand lay upon a nearby table, ignored by the woman who sat at that table, reading an old leather-bound book. The complete skeleton of what appeared to be a large lizard, held together with bits of silver wire, stood on a shelf. Odd and unfamiliar devices of wood, wire, and glass glittered from various niches.

The majority of the trinkets, however, were carvings or sculptures—wood, stone, metal, and glass, crude or sophisticated, all scattered about with no order that Arlian could see. A rough-hewn wooden phallus lay beside a golden eagle; a nude woman in white marble stood with her back to a jade monster; a glass dragon loomed over an architect’s model of a palace.

And dragons, not usually depicted in the Lands of Man, were the most common subject for the carvings and other illustrations—paintings here and there, a small tapestry, embroidered upholstery, etchings, bas relief, and more. The dragons varied from stylized symbols to statuettes so detailed and realistic that Arlian felt uneasy merely looking at them. He was not entirely free of the common superstition that representations of dragons were bad luck, and this place was full of them.

The doorkeeper picked up a brass bell from a shelf by the door and rang it. The people in the room looked up, startled.

“We have an applicant for membership in this august body,” the man in green announced.

“Who is it, Door?” a dark-haired woman asked.

“Lord Obsidian,” the doorkeeper replied.

One man, a thin white-bearded fellow, smothered an oath; another, a barrel-chested bald man in an eyepatch, leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He drew his sword and stood at guard, facing Arlian.

“Is Obsidian his true name, then?” another, older woman asked.

“Who cares what his true name is?” the man with the sword demanded. “He’s the one who wants to kill me!”

“And your name, my lord?” Arlian called, his hand on the hilt of his own sword.

“Toribor,” the swordsman said. “That’s what Kuruvan told you, isn’t it?”

“Then yes, I’m sworn to kill you,” Arlian acknowledged. “Would you care to attend to it immediately?”

“Oh, stop it,” the first woman said, obviously disgusted. “Belly, if he joins, he can’t kill you—and you can’t kill him. And if he doesn’t join, well, he’s already dead. Put your sword away.”

Toribor frowned; his sword lowered, but he hesitated.

“A moment,” Arlian said. “As I understand it, if I join your Society as I intend, I must indeed swear to make no attempt to kill any of my fellow members inside Manfort’s walls—am I not correct in believing that nothing is said about what might happen outside those walls?”

“Oh, I like this,” the second woman said. “You’re sworn to kill Belly—that is, Toribor? But you’re willing to swear not to harm him in the city?”

“Exactly,” Arlian confirmed.

The woman laughed, and for a moment no one spoke.

“That’s insane,” someone muttered at last.

“Delightfully so,” the woman agreed. “I think I may enjoy this. Yes, Door, by all means, let’s have him join!”

Toribor’s sword wavered.

“I came here intending to join this Society,” Arlian said, “and that is still my intention. If Lord Toribor would prefer to fight me to settle the matter between us before I continue, I have no objection.”

“If you won, you’d still need to join,” a man said.

“Yes, of course,” Arlian agreed.

“And if you lost, you’d die—even if Belly did not kill you cleanly,” the man continued. “You can’t leave this room alive unless you join, and you could not join were you too injured to continue a fight, nor would we provide medical attention. We would instead finish you off.”

Toribor looked around. “You’re all standing about discussing this as if it were nothing!” He focused on the thin white-haired man. “Nail, aren’t you going to say anything?”

For a second or two the others, including the man addressed as Nail, simply stared at Toribor; then the older woman said, “You’d need to fight right here, you know— young Lord Obsidian can’t leave this room except as a full member of the Dragon Society.”

Arlian said nothing, but he couldn’t help glancing around at the maze of furniture and the clutter everywhere. A duel in here would be absurd; he and Toribor would be stumbling over everything.

“Well, I’m not cleaning up the mess if they fight here,” someone said.

“The survivor would clean it up,” the woman replied.

“There’d be breakage,” another woman said.

“Something valuable might be smashed,” a man remarked.

“Oh, may the gods rot you all,” Toribor said in disgust, sheathing his sword. “I won’t fight him here. Can’t we just kill him as an intruder?”

“He’s eligible for membership,” Door said.

“And I want him to join,” the older woman said. “He amuses me.”

“He deserves the same rights as any other newcomer,” a man said.

“He has stated his intention of killing five of us,” the man called Nail said in a whispery, unhealthy voice.

“What of it?” the woman demanded. “That’s what the oath is for.”

Toribor looked around and found no support for his suggestion. He growled, then said, “Fine, then. Go ahead and initiate him. If he swears the oath, that makes my life that much easier. But don’t expect me to shake his hand and laugh with him over the wine.” He turned away. “Nail? I’m going—are you going to stay and watch this travesty?”

“I believe I am,” Nail replied.

“Then may the dead gods spit on you, too,” Toribor said. He pushed past his neighbors’ chairs and stamped out; Arlian stepped warily aside to let him past.

Toribor glowered at him but said nothing more, and did not touch him nor draw a weapon. A moment later he was gone, and Arlian turned back to face the others.

“Now,” Door said, “welcome, Lord Obsidian, to the Dragon Society. You have come here as a stranger, but after today you will be a stranger to us no more—you will be one of us, or one of the dead. Which of those options we choose will be determined by how you answer questions put to you. You must answer truthfully and completely, to the best of your ability. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Arlian replied. “Am I permitted to ask questions, as well?”

“You are permitted to ask, but we are not required to answer,” the older woman said.

“And many of your questions will probably be answered in the initiation process, in any case,” a man said.

“Come in and take a seat,” Door said, “This may take some time.” He gestured for Arlian to step forward.

Arlian moved warily into the room and found an unoccupied chair. He seated himself, being careful to keep his sword and swordbreaker from becoming entangled in the legs of the furniture.

No one had asked him to remove them, nor had Toribor removed his; what’s more, looking around, Arlian saw that most of the men in the room wore swords. Even one woman had a knife on her belt long enough that it might generously be considered a sword.

As he watched, the members of the Society came and seated themselves in a semicircle facing him, and Arlian looked them over.

He counted fourteen—eight men and six women. All were significantly older than he was, but only Nail was white-haired. All wore expensive clothes, supple leathers or fine fabrics, but not all wore them well—several garments were visibly frayed, faded, or wrinkled.

Many of the members were maimed or visibly damaged in some way—no fewer than three, counting the departed Toribor, wore patches over ruined eyes; one man lacked a right hand, and one older woman’s left leg from the knee down had been replaced with a wooden peg, while several merely had masses of scar tissue one place or another.

All of them, despite their disfigurements, had strong faces and piercing eyes, and being the focus of their attention was unsettling. Arlian found himself remembering that long-ago moment in his parents’ pantry when he had looked into the face of a dragon; these faces might be human, yet the resemblance was plain.

The experience was far less intense, though. “The heart of the dragon” was not a wholly inappropriate name, but these faces did not show the heart so much as a faint, pale reflection of a dragon’s eyes.

“Who wants to begin?” Door asked, as he took a place for himself to Arlian’s right.

“I will,” the older woman said. She had taken a place at the center of the semicircle, directly in front of Arlian. Her hair was black streaked with gray, pulled back tightly into a long ponytail; her skin was rough and brown, but her face unscarred. Her eyes were dark and intense, but she was smiling. As she leaned forward over an oaken table she held an elaborately carved ebony cane in one hand, and a polished white bone in the other.

The cane made a connection for Arlian, and he realized that this woman was the one missing half a leg.

Door bowed. “Lady Rime,” he said. “You may begin, then.”

39

Initiation Rites

The woman nodded an acknowledgment to Door, then met Arlian’s gaze across the table. “You have been permitted in this room,” she said, “because we believe you possess the trait we all share, the trait that sets us apart from the rest of humanity. Do you know what that trait is?”

“I assume you refer to what my steward calls ‘the heart of the dragon,’” Arlian said.

“And can you tell us how you acquired this trait?”

“Not with certainty,” Arlian said. “My steward believed some people are simply born with it. On the other hand, Lord Wither said that it came from drinking human blood mixed with dragon’s venom.”

“And have you drunk human blood mixed with dragon’s venom?”

“I have.”

“Tell us how that happened.”

Arlian hesitated. He was not eager to share those memories with these strangers—and with Nail, in particular, who was presumably either one of the six lords himself or a close friend to some of them, and who might find a way to use any information about Arlian’s origins against him.

But he had promised to answer fully. He drew a deep breath and began.

“Dragons destroyed my home village,” he said. “At least three of them. They came nine years ago, during a long spell of dragon weather. I was in the family cellar, taking inventory to see how much we needed to add before winter, when they attacked. My grandfather was killed by a blast of venom that failed to ignite, and he fell down the cellar ladder onto me as he died; his blood, and the venom, spilled into my mouth as I lay stunned beneath his corpse.”

Rime asked, “Have you any witnesses?”

“Of course not,” Arlian said. “I was the only survivor.”

“Have you any scars left by the experience?”

“Only on my heart, from my family’s death,” Arlian said. “The dragon’s venom itself did not touch me.”

“Then can you provide any proof, any evidence at all, that you are telling us the truth?”

“I will give you my word,” Arlian said. “Beyond that, how can I? Lord Wither said he could see it in my face; if that isn’t enough, what more can I do?”

Rime nodded. “Good enough. Those are my questions, as required; now let me give you the first instruction. The Dragon Society takes its name from our origins, of course—all of us have drunk blood and venom, and received the dragon’s heart thereby—but also from its purpose. We are not questioning you merely for our amusement, but because the Society exists in part to study the ways of dragons, to learn everything about them that we can, so that someday, if we choose, we might destroy them, and free the world forever from their vile presence. It is because of this that we may ask you, over and over, to tell us every detail of your encounter with those dragons you say destroyed your village.” That said, Rime used the bone in her right hand to prod the man next to her. “I’ve had my turn, then—you’re next, Shatter.”

The left side of Shatter’s head was a hairless, shapeless ruin, a mass of scar tissue, but he still had both his eyes, and he stared intently at Arlian.

“What’s your true name?” he asked.

“Arlian,” Arlian said.

“And your village, that you say was destroyed?”

“Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain.” A few heads nodded at that; they had heard of the incident.

“You call yourself Obsidian—why?”

“After my home village.”

“Have you used other names?”

“Yes.”

“What were they?”

“I can’t be sure I remember them all,” Arlian warned. “I called myself Lanair a few times, I traveled with a caravan under the name Lord Ari, and there were several people who called me Triv for a time.”

“Why did you use those other names?”

Arlian shrugged. “It was convenient to do so.”

“Had you a reason to refrain from using your true name?”

Arlian frowned. “Yes. Need I explain it?”

“Does it concern dragons?”

“No.”

“Then you need not.” Shatter leaned back in his chair. “My true name is Illis,” he said. “The custom of using false names is an old one, and most people don’t remember its origins, but some of us here were among those who first instituted it, in the ancient days when the dragons ruled over us. This is your second instruction—that we gave false names to one another so that if we were caught by the dragon’s human servants we could not reveal the true identities of our companions in the struggle for our freedom. Those servants are gone now, long dead, and so we all reveal our true names here, so that we know we can trust one another—but the dragons still live, beneath the earth, and we keep the custom alive in case they ever return, and we must once again organize ourselves to oppose them.” He gestured to the next man in the circle.

Nail.

“Do you know who I am?” the old man asked, in that thin, harsh voice.

“No,” Arlian said warily. “I heard you addressed as Nail.”

“My name is Stiam; I believe you have announced your intention of killing me.”

“I haven’t exactly announced it,” Arlian corrected him. “I revealed it to Lord Kuluvan.”

“Whom you mortally wounded.”

“I beat him in an honorable duel. I do not know whether his wound was mortal.”

“And there were others you listed as your foes?”

“Yes. Lord Enziet…”

He paused as two or three of the members gasped at the name, but then collected himself and continued, “… Lord Toribor, Lord Drisheen, Lord Horim, and yourself.”

Nail leaned forward across the table. “Are you aware that all of us save Kuruvan are members of the Dragon Society?”

“Uh… no. I knew some of you were, and particularly Lord Enziet; I was not aware all of you were.”

“Then you did not join the Society to find us?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why are you here, then?” Nail stared at him intently.

Arlian looked around the circle, partly to escape that basilisk stare and partly to judge the mood of the others, then sighed. He did not dare try to lie to these people. “I recently tried to arrange a meeting with Lord Enziet—I admit I did so to further my plans to destroy him, but I merely asked to meet with him. He not only refused this reasonable request, but threatened to kill me if I ever troubled him again. I have seen him kill a woman for failing in a commission he gave her, and I know he killed four others merely for being inconvenient; I did not doubt that he meant what he said. I also believed, from a conversation with Lord Wither, that he is a member of this Society, and that no member of the Society may kill another within the city’s walls, and furthermore that I, too, am eligible for membership. I therefore came to join to protect myself from Lord Enziet—while he is a ruthless man, I believe even he would hesitate to break your oath.”

“Then you’re abandoning your grudge against us, whatever it was?”

“Oh, by no means!” Arlian said. “I have every intention of eventually meeting each of you outside the city walls, when I can do so on even terms.”

Nail stared at him for a moment longer, then blinked, straightened up, and said, “I’m not sure whether you’re a coward or a fool or something else entirely. You come here fleeing Lord Enziet, yet you fought Kuruvan and offered to fight Toribor. You openly admit to my face that you still intend to kill me if you can.”

“I do not believe I’m a coward,” Arlian said. “Is not Enziet a powerful and dangerous man who does not hesitate to act as much from expedience as honor? Is he incapable of hiring assassins, or using dire sorcery? To defy him openly seems not courage, but foolhardiness. I will be glad to meet him, or any of the six of you, openly and fairly; I do not care to be waylaid on the street by Enziet’s guards, and left dying in an alley somewhere.”

“You accuse him of such treachery?” Nail leaned forward again.

“I certainly believe him capable of it. His warning to me did nothing to convince me otherwise.”

“And you don’t hesitate to say so?”

“I am required to answer all the questions put to me here honestly and completely, am I not?”

“You are a fool, then,” Nail said, slumping back into his chair. “Or at any rate, a very young man who has not yet learned when to hide the truth in sarcasm, or pretty words, or circumlocutions. I think Belly—Lord Toribor—was hasty, and having you here in the Dragon Society may be a good thing after all—the day may come when we meet outside the walls, but I’m in no hurry, and the longer we have to study each other, the more entertaining that day may eventually be.” He stared at Arlian for a moment, then sat up.

“My instruction,” Nail said, “is this: The Dragon Society’s purpose, is in part as Rime stated it, to study our draconic foes; however, the original impetus was simply loneliness. You’re still very young, and you haven’t yet learned this, but we truly are a people apart from the rest of humanity. We are all tainted, we are all marked, we are all blessed and cursed. We have the power to influence others to some extent, to bend them to our will—but that sets us apart; the shepherd, however beloved by his sheep, is not a part of the flock. We live long lives, and are free of disease; we can walk unscathed through streets heaped with plague-ridden corpses—and this means that those around us age and sicken and die as we watch, and we can do nothing to prevent it. When Wither and I first met, centuries ago, and recognized one another as kindred beings, it meant an end to decades of loneliness, for we now had each other as companions—no matter what his failings, a fellow shepherd must surely be better company than the finest of sheep. And when Enziet found us, and Rehirian, and Sharrae, we gathered them to us gladly, and the Dragon Society was begun. We created the oath, and had this place built for us, and bethought ourselves as to what goals we might set the Society. Others have found us over the centuries, and joined for their own reasons, just as you have—but in time, each one has come to see that whatever other purposes we may have, the simple need for the companionship of our peers is reason enough for the Society’s existence. In time you, too, will come to prize all of us, and if we have indeed wronged you you may find it in you to forgive us. When this initiation is done, let us speak, you and I, and see if we can work this out amicably, shall we?”

Arlian hesitated. “Maybe,” he said.

Nail nodded. “I can wait—and so can you, child.” He turned to the woman beside him. “Ask your questions, Flute.”

Flute was tall and thin, with a long nose and a scar across the right side of her jaw; even unmarked, her face would have been far from beautiful.

“What do you know of sorcery?” she asked, in a cool, distant voice.

“Almost nothing,” Arlian said. “I have crossed the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei and back, so I have seen magic in many forms, and I have spent a great deal of time with Aritheian magicians, but I have not studied the arts myself. I deal in magical devices, potions, and other such things, but I am only the merchant, not the manufacturer, and besides, I do not believe this magic is properly considered sorcery—I brought my goods and my magicians from Arithei, and they dismiss our northern sorcery as a different and lesser sort of magic than their own. Like the rest of you, I am a nobleman—I own a business, I do not dirty my own hands with the labor of running it. I am therefore familiar with what Aritheian magic can do, and what the wild magic beyond the Borderlands looks like, but that’s all.”

“You learned nothing from your village elders or the local sorcerer as a child?”

“Nothing at all. We had a sorcerer in Obsidian, but he and I rarely spoke, and even more rarely of his specialty. My grandfather told me a few tales, but nothing more.”

“Do you know what I mean by sorcery, as opposed to mere magic?”

“No.”

Flute sighed.

“Then my instruction, Obsidian, must be very rudimentary, for you haven’t the knowledge for more, and it may sound like mere nonsense. Long ago, very long ago, the legends tell us, the dragons dwelt amid chaos and were displeased by it. They drove the chaos back and imposed order; they drove it southward, for the most part, out of the lands they had chosen for themselves. Or another version has it that the gods accomplished this, and the dragons later usurped their place, but the point is unchanged: Chaos is at the very root of magic—instability, change, and deception, these are the core of magic, and the dragons dispelled them from the Lands of Man.

“It may be that the dragons are themselves creatures of magic, and did not want competition. It may be that the dragons are somehow the opposite of magic. We don’t know. We do know that in the lands where the dragons once ruled, the lands that are now the Lands of Man, magic is a dry well, while south of the Borderlands it’s a flood. Perhaps the dragons drank the magic; perhaps they swept it away; perhaps they are this land’s magic. Whatever the reasons, beyond the Lands of Man magic runs rampant, and anyone with a little skill can learn to manipulate it— but no one can truly control it, for it’s too powerful, too wild.

“And here, in Manfort, magic is so weak, so feeble, that it must either be brought in from outside, as you are doing, in which case it’s strong and easy but flawed and fades over time, or it must be coaxed and teased out in tiny threads, and the skills to do this are so arcane, so difficult, that it takes a lifetime to master them.

“These skills, the ability to use the thin traces of magic native to this land, are sorcery; what the Aritheians do is not, but is mere crude thaumaturgy. Sorcery is subtle and strong and lasting; thaumaturgy is bright and impressive, but unstable and untrustworthy.

“And because sorcery takes so long to master—well, who do you suppose is best suited to study it?” She waved at the gathering around her. “We are, we who can devote centuries to the task. Members of the Dragon Society are expected to learn at least the rudiments of sorcery— though there’s no need to hurry. You’ll have all the time you need.”

“If Enziet doesn’t kill you,” a woman further around the circle muttered.

“My lady, are you implying that our own Enziet might break his oath?” Door asked.

“No,” the woman replied, “I’m suggesting that someday young Arlian may set foot outside Manfort’s gate.”

Door could hardly argue with that, and it was not his time to speak; he subsided, and the man to Flute’s right asked, “Is it my turn? I don’t recall anything else essential, so I’ll ask what I’m sure we’re all wondering—why in the world are you determined to kill Enziet and the others in the first place?”

Arlian had expected this. “He kidnapped me and sold me into slavery when I was a child,” he said. “And he and the others killed four women I cared for.”

“Did he! Well, then, you must tell us all about it!”

Arlian sighed. He collected his wits for a moment, then began, “I was in the cellars with my grandfather when we heard screaming…”

40

Contemplating Eternity

The iron door swung open and Arlian stepped out into the street. He was not surprised to find it dark; after all, he had just come from a candlelit chamber where he had lost all track of time.

He was somewhat surprised to find Black still waiting for him, and said so.

“This street’s as good a place as any to wait,” Black replied. “I had a chance to chat with Lord Toribor, for example.”

“Did he say anything of interest?”

“He thinks you’re completely mad; is that of interest?”

Arlian grimaced. “It seems to be the consensus.” He clapped Black on the shoulder. “Come on; let’s go home.”

The two men set out toward the Old Palace, making their way through the badly lit cobblestone streets; the moonlight was sufficient to see them through those areas where no torches, lanterns, or illuminated windows served.

“If you’d brought a lantern…”Arlian began as he stubbed his toe on an uneven cobble.

“If I’d brought a lantern I’d have been demonstrating a truly remarkable prescience,” Black retorted. “We came here at midmorning, remember? I hadn’t expected to stay all day. Had you not emerged soon I might well have given up and gone home.”

“As I thought you would have,” Arlian replied penitently. “Thank you for waiting, and forgive my unreasonableness.”

Black waved that away.

They walked on for a moment longer, and Arlian glanced sideways at his companion.

Why had Black stayed? What had Arlian done to inspire such loyalty? He wasn’t paying Black for this sort of attention.

But Black was his friend—whether because of the dragon’s heart Arlian possessed, or because of some more natural human magic. That was a gift Arlian appreciated, but sometimes, he thought, not enough.

He thought over what he had heard in the Dragon Society’s hall. The questioning and instruction had dragged on and on; new members, beyond the original fourteen, had wandered in now and then, and had joined in, sometimes repeating things that had already been said—Arlian had not kept count, but thought he had met and spoken to perhaps a score in all. He was, he had been told, the forty-third living member whose current whereabouts were known.

The eight skulls on that one shelf were some of the deceased members, all eight of whom had died violently at various points over the past seven centuries, in duels, accidents, assassinations, or other mishaps; a few others had died in such fashion that their bones were not recovered. The whereabouts of some members were not known, nor whether they were living or dead.

There was no requirement that every member speak to him; only that those present at the time each question him, and each offer some instruction in exchange. They had done that.

Arlian had told them every detail he could remember of the destruction of Obsidian on the Smoking Mountain; he had admitted to being an escaped slave, and had described something of his stay in Deep Delving. That had not caught anyone’s fancy very strongly, though; the passage through the Dreaming Mountains, and his visit to Arithei, had gotten much more attention. He had also admitted his residence in Westguard.

And in exchange he had heard a great deal of the Dragon Society’s history, how it had been part of the resistance against the dragons in the final days of their rule, how its members had been among Manfort’s rulers, how the traditions of secret societies, false names, and noble privilege had been established or preserved by the Dragon Society for the benefit of its members, the better to hide their strangeness from ordinary mortals.

He knew now that the governance of Manfort was manipulated by the Society as a whole, most directly by Lord Enziet and the other advisers such as Rime and Drisheen but also by other means, for their own ends. The Duke of Manfort was not a member, might not even be aware the group existed, but most of his advisers belonged to the Society and were as interested in its welfare as that of the city as a whole.

Chief among those advisers was Lord Enziet, of course—the man Arlian had known for years as Lord Dragon. Arlian had learned a little about Enziet, but not much; he had made no attempt to press, since the others were clearly reluctant to gossip about one of their senior members.

Lady Rime had been present, but had said nothing of her own work with the Duke, and Arlian had no special interest in her. Lord Drisheen, another adviser who was also on the list of six lords Arlian meant to destroy, had not appeared, and Arlian had learned no more about him than about Enziet.

Arlian had heard a great deal about what the blood-and-venom elixir actually did, though. He knew now that he would probably never sire children—no member of the Dragon Society had ever produced offspring after joining, although a few had descendants from before their draconic encounters, and it was assumed that this lack was due to induced sterility, since there had been no shortage of opportunities for procreation.

He knew that he need never fear disease or infection— that he had had even a mild case of fever in the mines startled the others, and he was assured that that could only have happened in his very earliest years after drinking the elixir. He had been assured that he could expect every wound that did not actually kill him to heal quickly and cleanly—only the injuries inflicted by dragons left scars.

And he knew that he could expect to live for centuries— but probably not forever. The very oldest of those who had drunk the elixir were gone, and presumed dead—although each had left Manfort willingly, under his or her own power, they had never returned. Wither, Nail, and Enziet were the three oldest survivors, each approaching a thousand years of age.

Wither had turned up briefly at one point, and had questioned Arlian viciously about whether he really knew where venom might be obtained.

Enziet had not come, which was probably just as well— but it was also disappointing. It would have been satisfying for Arlian finally to see him face to face again, after all these years, and to see his reaction upon learning who Obsidian was, and to knowing for certain that he was bound by the same oath Arlian had sworn.

“By whatever gods may hear, be they living or dead,” he had recited when the questioning was done, “I swear that I shall abide by the covenant of this society, to share whatever knowledge I may have of our common foes, the dragons. I swear to make no attempt to do mortal harm to any other member while we are within the walls of this city, nor to aid or abet another in any effort to do such harm to any member.”

That oath might prove inconvenient—but at the same time, it had given Arlian an opportunity to speak freely with Nail, and that had been worthwhile.

Nail claimed that he had taken a share in the House of Carnal Society at Enziet’s urging, not on his own impulse; further, he was willing to set Lily and Musk free in Arlian’s care. “I tired of them long since,” he had said. “They’ve been working in my kitchens.”

He had taken an interest in Arlian’s own humanitarian impulses and views on justice, but he hardly subscribed to them. “You’ll outgrow that, I fear,” he had said.

Nail had seemed quite certain that Arlian would outgrow a great many things, that in time he would become more like Nail himself, more like most of the others—cool, cynical, unconcerned with the lives of people he would outlive anyway.

Arlian hoped he was wrong, and noted Toribor’s anger and Wither’s devotion to his mistress Marasa as signs that neither great age nor dragon venom need quench all passions.

But a general detachment from the rest of humanity seemed to have affected all the members, and Arlian wondered whether in time he too would grow cold.

He studied Black as they walked.

Would he eventually come to think of Black as his inferior, rather than his equal? As a thing to be used, rather than an adviser and companion?

He could not easily imagine it—but then he remembered Lord Dragon’s face and voice telling him that he was nothing but plunder to be sold, remembered Lord Dragon’s sword cutting Madam Ril’s throat. A natural man could not be so cold.

He hoped that he would never become a creature like that. He thought he would almost prefer to die in one of the duels he intended to fight outside the city walls.

But no one in the Dragon Society had seemed the least bit surprised or dismayed by his explanation of why he had sworn vengeance against Lord Dragon; they had all accepted Enziet’s actions as normal, if unpleasant.

“He didn’t know you’d drunk the venom,” Nail had said.

“And if he had, would it have made any difference?” Rime had asked, and the consensus was no, not for Enziet; he’d have done the same in any case.

So Enziet was probably the worst, but all of them had something of the same cold detachment and ruthlessness.

And presumably, in time, so would Arlian—if he didn’t already. He remembered how he had insisted on fighting Kuruvan.

But he also remembered how he had felt when the duel was almost upon him, how he’d felt sick and scared and doubting; that had not been anything he would expect from a member of the Society.

Maybe he was different. Maybe he would always be different. And maybe, if he did start to turn cold, he would notice the change and do something about it.

But Black would probably be long dead by then.

Black would be dead, and he would be living on, untouched by age. Maybe that was what turned the Society’s members cold—not the venom, but watching their friends and family age and fade and die.

Then a thought struck him, and he smiled to himself.

He was being absurd. He wasn’t going to live long enough to turn cold. He had sworn an oath, after all; once he had disposed of Lord Enziet and the others he would hunt down the dragons themselves, and try to kill them.

He wouldn’t need to commit suicide to keep from turning heartless; the dragons would undoubtedly kill him if Lord Enziet didn’t.

He needed to find some way to get Enziet and the others outside the city, and away from their friends and guards, where he could meet them on even terms.

With that, his thoughts began to slip back into older, more familiar paths, and concerns about his own nature faded away.

He still had his vengeance to carry out. He had not yet met Lord Enziet, Lord Drisheen, or Lord Horim at the Dragon Society hall; Lord Nail was an old man who didn’t seem to be inclined to cause trouble, and Lord Toribor was a hothead who could probably be lured out easily.

But there was no need to hurry, was there? He would have centuries in which to realize his plans.

Centuries. That was a hard concept to accept.

He was back to those new ideas, the new information about the Dragon Society and his own strange circumstances.

There were still things he didn’t know, though. No one had explained how Lord Enziet had known that a village on the Smoking Mountain was going to be destroyed, or why a man as rich and powerful as Enziet would bother looting a ruined village or investing in a brothel. He had told them all what had happened to Obsidian, but no one had said anything about that.

At some point he would have to ask someone about those points. They might be important. He would go back to the Society’s hall tomorrow or the day after and see if anyone there could tell him.

They were at the gate of the Old Palace now, and there were more immediate matters to attend to.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked Black.

“No. Have you?”

“Not really. So we’ll go to the kitchens—it’s too late for a proper meal.”

Black nodded, and the mention of the kitchens reminded Arlian of something.

“By the way,” he said, “we’ll want to have some rooms prepared—Lord Nail… that is, Lord Stiam will be turning two more women, Musk and Lily, over to our care.”

Black glanced at him, startled. “That’s good,” he said. “How did you manage that?”

Arlian thought for a minute, then said, “I’m not entirely sure.”

Then the doorkeeper opened the great front door, and they stepped into the familiar foyer of the Old Palace.

The following day found Arlian and Nail chatting again, as they had after Arlian’s initiation, but this time in the Old Palace rather than the Society Hall.

“Why did the six of you establish the House of Carnal Society in the first place?” Arlian asked, as he poured wine. Musk and Lily were getting comfortably settled in their new home, none the worse for their two-year stay in Nail’s mansion; Nail had overseen their delivery personally, and at Arlian’s invitation had stayed for a drink. The two men were comfortably settled on the blue silk couches in the small salon, sharing a bottle of good red wine from Kan Parakor, in the western hills. “Surely you could have found better investments.”

Lord Nail pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know that we could have,” he said. “Oh, financially, perhaps— though in fact it was quite profitable—but there were other uses.”

Arlian’s own lips tightened. “You took your own pleasures there, I suppose?”

Nail snorted. “I? No, I did not. Kuruvan did, certainly, and I believe Drisheen as well, and perhaps Toribor or Horim on occasion, but not I, nor Enziet.”

“Then what uses do you refer to?”

“Political uses, my boy,” Nail explained. “There are those in Manfort we find it expedient to control, one way or another, and inviting them to Westguard, as one hot-blooded nobleman to another, provided a means to accomplish that.”

“Ah…” Arlian hesitated, but then asked his question bluntly—despite calling Arlian a young fool for his honesty, Nail did not seem to believe in wasting time with euphemism or indirection himself. “Bribery or blackmail?”

“Both,” Nail said. “Sometimes at the same time, men being the odd creatures they are. Intimidation, as well. And other things—some men, after such an experience, find themselves saying things they would not ordinarily reveal.”

Arlian could hardly doubt that, given what Rose had told him about Lord Kuruvan—whose death had been reported that morning; his wounds had indeed been mortal.

And Arlian had killed him—an idea that was uncomfortable, frightening and satisfying at the same time. He wasn’t the first man Arlian had killed; that had been that bandit on the southern slopes of the Desolation. Kuruvan, however, was the first Arlian had deliberately hunted down, fought, and slain.

He had surely deserved it, despite what Hasty said; the image of Rose lying dead was always lurking in the back of Arlian’s thoughts, troubling his dreams. Still, it was odd to know that he was a killer himself, even a justified one.

It was also odd to be sitting here calmly drinking wine with another of the men responsible for Rose’s death, both of them knowing that Arlian had not forgiven the crime and still meant to someday avenge it.

“We put the House in Westguard for several reasons,” Nail said. “One was so that our guests would not be seen by their neighbors or family; another was so that there would be time, on the ride back to Manfort, for loosened lips to spill secrets.” He sighed. “And of course, that’s why it had to be destroyed,” he said. “We had too many people who could not tolerate the thought that they might be spied on there, or might have been spied on there. When we found out you’d been hiding there… well, it was safest to destroy it.”

“Was it necessary to kill four of the women, though?”

“No, I suppose not,” Nail said. “One gets out of the habit of thinking of slaves as human, though—or at least, I have. And their lives are so short and pointless anyway that… well, it doesn’t seem to matter if they die.”

“It matters to them,” Arlian said. “Because they have so little, you feel free to take what they have? There’s no justice in that.”

“No, there isn’t, is there?” Nail gazed into Arlian’s eyes. “You do have the dragon’s heart, but you haven’t yet lost your own. I’m not sure I can say the same anymore.”

Arlian shifted uncomfortably.

“You still want to kill me, to punish me for what I did to those girls, don’t you?” Nail asked quietly.

“You saw them, being carried in here,” Arlian said angrily. “None of them will ever walk again. And I don’t suppose you saw the others lying dead in the smoke, but I did—lying there with their throats cut as the flames spread…” He shuddered. “You did that. It’s only right that you pay for it.”

“I suppose it is,” Nail mused, his face turning aside for a moment. He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I suppose it is, at that.” He looked at Arlian again. “You’ll understand, though, that I’m in no hurry to do so. I’ve lived well over nine hundred years now, and while I do grow weary, I am not eager to end it. I’ve seen little justice in all those years; the good perish and the evil thrive—sometimes, at any rate. Other times the evil die and the good live, and throughout it all most people are neither good nor evil, but merely human.” He put down his glass. “I’ll tell you what, Lord Obsidian—I will meet you outside the gate, on even terms, my sword against yours, for a fair fight to the death, once you have dealt with my four surviving partners. I sincerely feel that my fault in this is less than theirs, for I was brought in out of friendship for Enziet, Drisheen, and Horim, not because I had any great interest in the benefits that might accrue. I have all the wealth I need, and little interest in power, but I do try to oblige my friends. You’ve seen I didn’t harm the two women I took; I doubt my partners can all say the same. And though I can’t prove it, I voted against the destruction of the brothel and the murder of those four. So I will meet you, but only when you have first met the others.”

“And if I die fighting one of them, then you’ll go unpunished,” Arlian said.

Nail smiled and shrugged. “You understand me too well,” he said. He picked up his glass again. “Life is not fair, my young friend, and justice is not always done.” Then he raised the glass in salute and finished the wine in a gulp.

He stirred, evidently about to rise; he had clearly meant that as his parting shot. Arlian, however, had more to say.

“And will you help me coax the others out of the city?” he asked.

Nail hesitated. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I will not. Whatever love I may have for justice, I have more for my friends and myself. I do not deny we did wrong, but I find myself able to forgive and pardon our crimes. That you do not is certainly understandable, but I trust this is one failing on my part you will find equally understandable.”

“Of course,” Arlian said. He stood as Nail stood, and watched as the old man departed. Then he turned to find Black standing in the other doorway, observing him.

“You’re getting to like the old bastard, aren’t you?” Black asked.

“After a fashion,” Arlian said.

“But you still plan to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “I think so.”

“Those two women, Musk and Lily, have nothing against him,” Black said. “After the first month they barely saw him.”

Arlian shrugged. “That’s not the point,” he said.

“Oh? You’re not in this for the sake of rescuing pretty women from horrible fates?”

“Not really,” Arlian said. “I certainly don’t want any innocents to suffer horrible fates, but that’s not what I’m after. I’m trying to see that evil does not go unpunished, so that the world might be that much better to live in.”

“And a man like Lord Nail does such evil that you’re sure the world would be a better place without him?”

Arlian hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not a god, able to see past and future and look into people’s hearts. I only know that Lord Nail and the others did do wrong. They committed a hideous crime, and that crime calls out for vengeance, and I am the only one who might avenge it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the gods who still live, if there truly are any and they see us at all, will intervene, and make sure that justice prevails; perhaps they’ll show me a vision, or see that I learn something that will make me forgive my enemies. Perhaps the workings of Fate will ensure that I never touch a hair on Nail’s head. Left to my own devices, though, I intend to continue as I have. It’s not as if I’m murdering any of them in their beds, as they murdered Rose and Silk; we fought an honest duel, and Kuruvan might have killed me as readily as I killed him.”

“You have the dragon’s heart, as Kuruvan did not.”

“And who else among my foes is so bereft?”

“A good point,” Black acknowledged. “So you’ll trust to Fate, then, to see that you aren’t butchered like a hog when you do coax Horim or Toribor outside the walls? These men have far more experience than you, after all.”

“As you say,” Arlian said. “I’ll trust in Fate, the gods, your training, and my own skills.”

“I don’t particularly like that idea,” Black said. “I’ve never found the gods to be much use.”

Arlian shrugged.

He was unsure whether there were gods guiding his destiny, or whether he was part of some fate working itself out free of divine meddling, or whether the only agents working upon him were natural and mortal, but he could not help but see, in his escape from the destruction of his village, his escape from the mines of Deep Delving, the vast fortune that had fallen into his possession, and his admission to the society of near-immortals, signs that his life had a purpose beyond mere survival. It was plain to him that he was meant to pursue justice and revenge, that he had been spared and given power so that he might right the wrongs done to those around him. If he died in that pursuit, then at the very least he had lived longer than the rest of his townspeople, had tasted freedom before he died, had set an example in Lord Obsidian’s refusal to traffic in slaves, and had achieved at least a partial vengeance for Rose and Silk and the others.

He would much prefer to live, of course, and to enjoy what Fate had given him, but if it meant simply accepting the evils done around him—no, he could not do that.

“I don’t suppose you would be willing to ambush or assassinate the rest of them,” Black said.

Arlian shook his head. “I won’t stoop to that,” he said.

“The odds are that you’ll die before you’ve dealt with all of them,” Black pointed out.

Arlian shrugged again.

“I don’t want to inherit anything from you,” Black said.

Arlian looked at him thoughtfully. Just yesterday he had been contemplating what had seemed the near certainty that he would outlive Black by centuries, yet here he was, facing the prospect of throwing away all those years.

“I do intend to fight them all, and kill them all,” he said slowly, “but there’s no great hurry.” He remembered the duel with Kuruvan, how he had trembled at the outset, how the swordplay had degenerated into clumsy hacking and stabbing. “Would it comfort you if I asked you to continue my training with the blade, and put off any attempt to lure my opponents out of the city in the next few days?”

“It certainly wouldn’t distress me,” Black said.

“Well, then,” Arlian said, “let it be so.”

41

Challenges Made

Arlian was seated comfortably in a corner of the Dragon Society’s main hall, in a velvet-upholstered chair with each arm carved into a dragon’s head, his feet under a round oaken table. Diagonally across from him sat Lady Rime, and the two of them chatted amiably.

“Are any of the members married?” Arlian asked. “I haven’t heard anyone but Lord Wither mention spouses.”

“Lord Spider and Lady Shard are married,” Rime replied, leaning back in her chair, “though I don’t know how much longer it will last. They’ve been together more than a hundred years, and few marriages survive beyond that.”

Arlian had met Lady Shard, but had heard no previous mention of Lord Spider. He had met most of the members now—his own initiation had taken place some four days ago, and he had come here every evening, when Black declared the fading light inadequate for further swordplay.

He still had not encountered Lord Horim, Lord Drisheen, or Lord Enziet, however, save for one brief meeting with Lord Drisheen, a chance encounter on the Street of the Black Spire just outside the Society’s door as Drisheen left and Arlian arrived. Arlian had recognized Drisheen’s perfume first, and then his face, but by then Drisheen was around the corner, and Arlian had thought better of pursuit.

“Lord Spider’s true name isn’t Horim, is it? Or Enziet, or Drisheen?” Arlian asked. He did not like the idea of killing a married man.

Rime shook her head. “No, no. Horim calls himself Lord Iron, and Enziet and Drisheen we simply call Enziet and Drisheen. Enziet has used a dozen other names over the years and we can’t be bothered to remember them, while Drisheen has never used any name but his own. Our Lord Spider’s true name is Dvios, and Lady Shard’s is Alahi.”

“Is Lord Iron married, then?”

“No. Nor is Enziet. Nor Drisheen, nor Nail, nor Belly. You needn’t worry about leaving any grieving widows.”

“That’s just as well,” Arlian said. Then he noticed the curious half smile on Rime’s face, and the way she was watching him as she toyed with the bone she always carried. “Do I amuse you?” he asked.

“In fact, you do, dear Obsidian,” Rime said. “You can’t seem to make up your mind whether you’re a warmhearted fool or a cold-blooded killer.”

“I would prefer to be neither a fool nor cold-blooded,” Arlian said.

“A warmhearted killer is something of an oddity, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“And are we not all oddities here?” Arlian asked, taking in the entirety of the hall with a sweep of his hand. “For example, you say that none of the men I’m sworn to kill are married—surely, that’s rather odd, that none of a group of five men would have a wife?”

“For ordinary men it might be odd,” Rime agreed, “but you’re speaking of five dragonhearts, and furthermore, five who once owned a brothel. Would a man with a wife at home invest in such an enterprise?”

“Why not?” Arlian asked. “Do you think it would offend a wife’s sensibilities?”

“It very well might.”

“Did it offend yours?”

“In fact, it did.”

“Yet you did nothing to stop it.”

“What could I do? They broke no laws, defied no ducal edict.”

“Yet you thought it wrong?”

Rime sighed. “No. I thought it, at worst, inappropriate. It was none of my business, and unlike yourself, I do not generally choose to meddle dangerously in matters that do not concern me.”

Arlian frowned and leaned back, unsatisfied; for a moment the two sat silently, Arlian motionless, Rime holding her bone in one hand and running the fingers of the other along its polished length.

“You call them dragonhearts?” Arlian asked after a moment.

“It’s a useful term,” Rime said. “And I call us all dragonhearts, my lord—you and myself as well as the rest.”

Arlian nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And are Spider and Shard the only married dragonhearts, then?”

“Oh, I believe three or four have mortal partners,” Rime said. “I couldn’t say which; I don’t keep track.”

“Because they die,” Arlian said. He didn’t need to make it a question.

“Yes, because they die. I have lived four hundred years, Obsidian; I can’t be bothered to remember details that may not last a score of years.”

“And have you never married?”

Rime’s fingers stopped their stroking, and the smooth white bone dropped to her lap.

“I was married,” she said. “I had a husband and four children when the miners from our village disturbed a dragon’s rest. I fell into our well, bleeding and aflame, as I fled from its anger, and the water put out the fire and hid me. My husband was not as clumsy as I.”

“I’m sorry,” Arlian said, ashamed that his question had caused her pain.

“The well was poisoned after that,” she said. “Venom, or the dragon’s foul breath, had tainted the water. I tasted it, and knew it was unfit to drink, so when I grew thirsty I sucked the blood from a gash on my hand.” She held out her left hand, and Arlian saw a faint white scar across the palm. “I’d cut myself on the stone as I fell in, you see, and venom must have gotten into it somehow, though I didn’t know that for certain until years after.”

“And your leg—was that from the bad water?”

“That?” She glanced down at the wooden peg below her left knee, then lifted the bone in her hand and studied it for a second. Arlian, who had heretofore considered the bone merely a minor eccentricity, like Black’s insistence on wearing black, suddenly realized that what she held was a human shinbone.

And he had little doubt as to whose.

“No, no,” she said, lowering the bone. “That happened years later, when I was snowbound in the Sawtooth Mountains. I was more or less intact when I climbed from the well and found what was left of my family.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Arlian said.

Rime shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“And you’ve never remarried?”

“Why bother?” she asked bitterly. “I can’t have any more children; what do I need with a husband? I’ve built a fortune simply by living long enough to save and invest, so I don’t need a man’s money. Companionship?” She snorted. “Look around; do you see any of these men who would make a decent husband, knowing that we’ll both live for centuries? Oh, an affair or two, certainly, but a marriage? And as for anyone other than our fellow dragon-hearts, I don’t have any interest in growing to love a man, and then watching him age and die while I can do nothing to prevent it.”

“Oh,” Arlian said.

“And that’s why so few of us are married, Obsidian, because the dragons have made us cold-hearted, self-obsessed, and sterile.”

“But are you all? You still speak with passion,” he protested. “Wither seems devoted to his Marasa, and Nail seems eager to befriend others.”

“They’re struggling against the inevitable,” Rime said. “As I am. The longer we live, the colder we become—like Enziet, who is, I believe, oldest of us all. Wither, and Nail are old, too, but it may be that they’ve lasted as long as they have because of their passions—and Nail, at least, seems to me to be acting more from wistful memory than genuine warmth.”

“But why? Is it just from weariness, from seeing so much suffering and death over the years?”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s long life alone that’s responsible,” she said. “Remember, though, how we became as we are. We have all tasted blood and drunk venom, and whether it pleases us to admit it or not—and most often, it does not—each of us has a bit of dragon in her heart. The human part of us cannot live forever; while our bodies survive, our hearts, with time, grow more like dragons, cold and hard and ruthless, taking as much pleasure from others’ pain as from any more natural delights.”

Arlian frowned. “Do you think, then, that the venom has such an effect?”

Rime laughed at that. “My dear foolish boy, look at us! We cannot bear children—or sire them, in your case. We age at only the tiniest fraction of the normal rate. Our very blood is poisonous—surely Wither told you that? Now, does that sound more like men and women, or like dragons?”

“Like…” Arlian began, but before he could speak a second word he was interrupted by a bellow.

“You!” a deep voice shouted, a horribly familiar voice. “Arlian! Get up!”

Startled, Arlian turned to see three men standing by the door, all still wearing hats and cloaks—and all with their cloaks flung back and their hands on the hilts of their swords. On the left was a short, stocky man he didn’t recognize, clad in brown, with a curious brass sheath on one arm; on the right was Lord Toribor, clad in green and silver—even his eye patch was green; and in the center was Lord Dragon, resplendent in black and gold. His feather-trimmed hat appeared to be the same one Arlian had seen him wear atop the Smoking Mountain, so long ago, and his thin, scarred face was likewise unchanged.

Arlian pushed away from the table and rose. He felt himself starting to tremble at finding himself thus facing his elusive adversary, and fought it down. He looked at that grim face and remembered the smoking ruins of Obsidian, the bright blood spilling from Madam Ril’s throat, Rose’s dead eyes as she lay across her bed amid the flames.

“Lord Enziet,” he said, his voice steady. “We meet again.”

“Indeed,” Enziet replied. “And I am not pleased about it. Why are you here?”

“I am a member in good standing of this society,” Arlian replied.

“Why are you in Manfort?” Enziet demanded.

“Why would I not be? My business is here; my friends are here; and my sworn enemies are here.”

“I advised you to leave,” Lord Dragon said. “I am not accustomed to having my advice ignored.”

“I am not the Duke, nor any other of the fools you bully,” Arlian retorted. “I do as I see fit.”

“You are an annoyance,” Enziet replied, “and I do not intend to tolerate your presence here.”

“You are sworn to do me no mortal harm, I believe,” Arlian said. “How, then, do you intend to remove me?”

“You spoke of your friends and your business,” Enziet said. “I am not sworn to leave them alive. I believe I have lives in my own possession you would prefer not to see snuffed out.”

Arlian had managed to keep himself under control up to this point, but now his veneer of control cracked. “You would make these base threats against innocents?”

“There are no innocents,” Enziet said. “We are all creatures of filth and disgrace, foul and stinking, festering in our cramped little lives and pretending we have some value. I am not deceived, though you may be; we are no more than beasts, and those who have not drunk the blood and venom are even less. Removing a few short-lived nuisances a decade or two before their inevitable demise would occur in any case does not trouble my conscience in the least, and if it will rid me of you, then yes, I will do it.”

Sincerely shocked, Arlian asked, “Have you no honor?”

“I abide by my vows,” Enziet replied. “I recognize no other obligations.”

“And if I heed these threats, what are you asking of me?”

“That you leave this city forthwith. You may take your time in removing your household, but I want you outside the walls by sunset.”

“And if I refuse?”

“One of your precious ‘innocents’ will die for each night you linger.”

“You would not balk at such murders? You fear no retribution?”

“You forget who I am, Arlian.”

“No,” Arlian replied, “I will never forget that. You are a monster in human form, an aberration that must be removed from the face of the earth.”

“I am chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort, and the eldest of the Dragon Society. I do as I please, and none dares defy me.”

“I dare,” Arlian retorted. “And if you harm those I care for, I will return the favor—starting with the Duke himself.”

He heard audible gasps at that, and even Lord Dragon seemed taken aback.

He had answered without really thinking, simply making the first counter-threat he that occurred to him. Having said it he could hardly back down, but he had to struggle to hide his own doubts. The Duke was a harmless old fool; killing him would be wrong. His greatest evil probably lay simply in listening to Enziet, and that was mere weakness, hardly inexcusable in a mortal confronted with the dragon’s heart.

And the Duke would certainly have guards on all sides—but there were ways.

If his threat was to do any good at all, Enziet had to believe it.

“I have magic at my command,” Arlian continued. “Not your fine northern sorcery, but wild southern magic from Arithei and the Dreaming Mountains. I have other weapons as well. Be assured, I can destroy the Duke if I choose. And while you might well ingratiate yourself with his heir, do you really want the inconvenience of doing so? And how would you explain that you cannot order my execution for the crime?”

“You would kill both the Duke and myself in your pursuit of this chimerical justice of yours?” Enziet asked.

“I would,” Arlian replied instantly.

“You would throw all the Lands of Man into confusion simply to satisfy your own lust for vengeance?”

“I would,” Arlian repeated.

Lord Dragon smiled bitterly. “So you care no more for order and authority than I do for innocence and honor.”

“Precisely.”

“There’s a legend that if the Duke’s line dies out, the dragons will return,” Enziet remarked.

“There are many legends,” Arlian said. “I hope that one is untrue, but true or not, it doesn’t matter.”

“You would risk overthrowing humanity’s freedom, then?”

“I have no intention of killing the Duke unless you carry out your own vile threats,” Arlian retorted. “If this legend is genuine, then whatever comes of it will be as much your responsibility as my own.”

“Charming,” Enziet said through clenched teeth. “So you propose to continue our stalemate, then?”

“By no means,” Arlian said. “I would be pleased to meet you outside the walls in a duel, fought fairly and to the death. I would need your word that there will be no treachery, that none of your hirelings will strike me down from hiding…”

“I’ll fight you,” the man in brown interrupted. “An even match, as you say. Better that than listening to you rave!”

“Iron, remember,” Toribor said. “He killed Kuruvan.”

“Kuruvan was a mortal,” the man in brown answered, his eyes locked on Arlian. “He’s a dragonheart—but just a boy, for all that.”

Toribor glanced at Enziet, who stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“That might well solve the entire problem,” Enziet said. “If you want to, Iron, I am not inclined to object.”

“Lord Iron, are you?” Arlian asked. “Also known as Horim?”

“I am,” Horim replied. “Do you dare face me, child?”

Arlian smiled.

“I would be delighted,” he said.

42

Swords Beyond the Gate

The city gates stood open, and Arlian marched steadily down the cobbles toward them. Horim walked in parallel several yards to Arlian’s left. The normal street traffic parted before them, and their assorted companions trailed behind.

Black broke from the little crowd, trotted up behind Arlian, and whispered, “You know this is a trap, don’t you?”

Arlian glanced over his shoulder at Lord Enziet and the rest of the party, coming along to observe.

“No, not them,” Black said. “It’s Lord Iron. How do you think he got that name? He’s killed at least a score of men, and probably a few women as well. He’s one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Lands of Man. I suspect Lord Enziet set this whole thing up to get rid of you.”

Arlian glanced at Enziet again, then at Horim. He saw no sign of fear or even nervousness on either face.

“You’re probably right,” he said. His mouth tightened into a frown, and his stomach knotted at the realization that he was striding boldly to near-certain death. “Then it seems I’m to die with my revenge incomplete,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I trust you to tend to my business and household, and see the women and the Aritheians to safety.”

“You could still turn back,” Black suggested.

Arlian smiled sadly. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

“Idiot,” Black said.

“Maybe I am,” Arlian said. “I’m trusting in Fate, I suppose. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned back now.”

“Ah!” Black threw up his hands in disgust. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned aside, and Arlian marched alone through the city gates.

He was scarcely past the outer edge of the wall when the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard warned him; he spun to find that Horim, also now just past the gates, had already drawn his blades and was charging across the cobbles toward him.

Women screamed and the travelers and tradesmen in the gateyard scattered.

The sword was in Horim’s left hand, swordbreaker in his right—Arlian had less experience against left-handed foes. He noted that detail even as he dodged sideways and unsheathed his own sword, barely in time to parry the attack. He recovered quickly; by Lord Iron’s second lunge Arlian had his own swordbreaker out as well.

Oddly, he was not surprised or unsettled by the attack; in fact, he was relieved. He was committed now. Perhaps Black’s warning was responsible for his calm acceptance. He felt none of the sick uncertainty he had felt in the duel with Kuruvan; Horim had challenged him and was seriously trying to kill him, whereas Kuruvan had been bullied and goaded into fighting.

Horim’s left-handedness was an inconvenience; using the swordbreaker for anything other than parrying Horim’s became problematic. Arlian had practiced this sort of asymmetric swordplay, but not as much as he now wished he had;—he had known Lord Dragon was right-handed, and had not anticipated finding himself in his present position.

Horim knew that, of course, and was trying to take advantage of it, making circular attacks that would have been stupid against a fellow left-hander, but which got handily around Arlian’s guard. Arlian dodged, but felt the sword blade tug at his velvet jacket.

One of the watchers gasped. Arlian was only vaguely aware of the wide ring of people that surrounded the two of them; his attention was entirely on his foe.

He remembered one ruse Black had shown him—parry and lock blades, but unevenly, so that his opponent would have an opportunity to use his swordbreaker in the way that gave it its name. Except while he was doing that, Arlian would be able to plunge his own swordbreaker into Horim’s side or belly, more or less as he had struck Kuruvan.

It was a risky maneuver, but he was at a disadvantage here—he had the greater size and reach, but Horim was strong and quick, with far more experience at cross-handed combat. He made the attempt, deliberately parrying too far along his blade…

Horim laughed aloud; he dropped his swordbreaker to guard even before Arlian moved to strike, and used the deliberately faulty position of Arlian’s sword to force the blade aside and launch an attack of his own. Arlian had to turn and bring his swordbreaker up across his chest to deflect Horim’s sword.

That left him in an awkward, half-twisted position, his swordbreaker locked with Horim’s sword, his own sword turned uselessly off to the right, and Horim’s right hand and swordbreaker free. Lord Iron tried to take advantage of this, plunging the swordbreaker toward Arlian’s side, but Arlian rammed his left elbow down and knocked the blade away, ducking under Horim’s sword. That left his shoulder open to a slash, but that would not kill him, where the point of either the sword or swordbreaker might.

And it gave him a chance to bring his own sword back into position.

That put the two men back on even terms, and too close together to fight effectively; both stepped back, almost simultaneously.

Arlian saw that Horim was grinning; he was obviously enjoying himself.

Arlian was not.

Horim feinted, and Arlian parried. Horim slashed, and Arlian dodged.

He needed a plan, Arlian thought. He needed to do something more than react to Horim’s attacks. His own stunt hadn’t worked at all; Horim seemed to have expected it. He was obviously familiar with the usual tricks used to counter a left-hander’s advantage.

Arlian tried to think through the situation without distracting himself from the fight. He was younger, maybe faster, taller, with a longer reach; Horim was stronger and more skilled.

Horim also wore that peculiar brass tube around his right arm. That puzzled Arlian; if it were meant as armor, shouldn’t it be on his left arm? And why did a man called “Iron” wear brass?

Attack, parry, riposte, counter, feint, parry, in a lightning exchange.

Horim was vastly older than Arlian, and it might be possible to tire him out, wear him down—but he was a dragonheart, so it might not be.

Feint, lunge, parry.

What was that thing on his arm? Arlian could see that it was made in two pieces, hinged together on one side and overlapping in a sort of latch on the other.

The two men circled each other, there on the pavement, in an open area roughly fifteen yards across encircled by the men and women watching the duel.

That damnable brass gadget fascinated Arlian; it gleamed in the sunlight and he almost missed a parry. Angrily, he reversed his grip on his swordbreaker.

Horim’s wolfish smile faded at that, and he looked puzzled. A swordbreaker held point-down was of no use in any normal fight.

Then he shrugged and went into a high attack. Arlian parried it readily enough, but instead of a riposte or disengagement he charged in closer, locking the swords together so that they crossed at face-level.

Horim’s right hand came up to block an attack with the swordbreaker, but Arlian’s short blade was pointing down, not at Horim’s throat or chest, so the block missed, and Arlian was able to ram the point down toward Horim’s arm and into that latch.

He pried, and the brass tube snapped open and fell away with a tearing sound.

Horim’s right hand spasmed, and his swordbreaker dropped from twitching fingers; he screamed, then retreated, tearing away as quickly as he could, giving Arlian a chance to slash the tip of his sword lightly across Horim’s chest as they separated.

Arlian did not pursue immediately; instead he took a good long look at his foe.

Horim had gone pale; he was obviously in pain, unable to control the fingers of his right hand. His right forearm was a thin, sickly-white thing, nothing like the strong, tanned left; it was misshapen, gnarled and twisted.

And Arlian saw why. Half of it was missing, and what was left was largely scar tissue, bearing the badly healed marks of gigantic teeth. Like so many members of the Dragon Society, Horim still bore the signs the dragons had left upon him. He had braced his ruined arm with metal— but that had probably weakened it further in some ways, as the flesh received no air or sunlight and the muscles could not move freely, could not exercise properly, did not support their own weight. With the brace in place he could use it—his grip was probably as strong as ever when his wrist wasn’t spasming—but without the supporting metal he was crippled.

No sensible opponent would ever have bothered to attack the one place Horim was armored, as Arlian had; it had been a mad curiosity, rather than any conscious reason, that had prompted Arlian’s action. Still, it had worked very much to his advantage.

Arlian kicked Horim’s dropped swordbreaker away and advanced.

Horim still fought, but now he was on the defensive, and he was obviously unaccustomed to fighting without a swordbreaker. His right arm twitched and his empty hand flopped up whenever Arlian attacked on that side.

His sword hand was still strong, though, and his skill had not deserted him; he parried attack after attack, retreating across the pavement. The audience retreated as well, pulling away as Horim approached.

Arlian was careful to keep Horim moving away from the gates; he was not about to lose this opportunity for vengeance to his Society oath.

The duel dragged on for what seemed like hours, and both men began to weary. Swords flashed back and forth, darting at throat and chest but always turned aside. Arlian pressed forward on his left, Horim’s right, more than would have been wise ordinarily—but this was no longer an ordinary match, and Horim responded by twitching away.

And then finally Arlian lunged in with his swordbreaker, and Horim brought his sword over to counter, and Arlian’s sword punched up under Horim’s jaw, through the soft flesh beneath his beard and up into his brain.

Horim made an appalling gurgling noise; his eyes flew wide and blood spat from his open mouth, blood that seemed to shine unnaturally in the summer sun. Then he slumped to his knees, his head falling back, and as Arlian withdrew his reddened blade Horim crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Blood ran from his mouth and throat, pooling on the paving stones and shimmering as if blown by a faint breeze.

Arlian felt no breeze; he thought that trace of movement must be from Horim’s fading pulse. He stepped back and waited, arms tingling with fatigue, as Lord Toribor dashed forward into the circle to attend to the fallen Lord Iron.

Arlian could not imagine how even a dragonheart could have survived that thrust, but he did not leave, nor clean and sheathe his blades, until he heard what Toribor found.

For that matter, he could scarcely trust Toribor not to carry on the fight himself so long as they were both outside the gates; he stood with steel still bare in each hand, waiting.

“He’s dead,” Toribor said, kneeling over the body, his hand behind Lord Iron’s ear feeling for a nonexistent pulse. “He’s cooling already; he must have been dead as soon as he hit the ground.”

Arlian let out his breath in a long, wavering sigh. Then he turned and marched toward the city gates, his weapons sagging but unsheathed.

As he did he listened carefully for any hint that Toribor was coming after him, and he scanned the crowd for Lord Dragon. He would not have been at all surprised to find one or both of them attempting to finish off the job Horim had failed at.

No one moved to stop him, and no attack came. When he set foot on the threshold of the gates Arlian let out another sigh and slowed his pace. He sheathed his swordbreaker and groped for a handkerchief as he walked on into the city.

Then Black was there beside him. “Not bad,” he said.

Arlian let his breath out with a shudder and mopped his face with one end of his handkerchief. He sat himself heavily down upon the edge of a stone horse trough, then set to wiping his sword clean with the side of the cloth that was not already moist with sweat.

Black stood beside him, watching the crowd warily. No one came near them; apparently no one wanted to congratulate the victor. Toribor and three others were hauling Horim’s corpse across the plaza and into the city, and the crowd was beginning to disperse; Lord Dragon was nowhere to be seen.

“The women,” Arlian said. “Horim had two of the women. Who are his heirs? We’ll want to buy the women free.”

Black didn’t reply; instead he remarked, “We have company.”

Arlian looked up to see Lady Rime hobbling toward him, cane and peg leg thumping and wobbling on the cobbles. He stood and sheathed his sword.

“My lady,” he said.

“Lord Obsidian,” she said. “My congratulations on your victory. An impressive performance—did you know about Iron’s arm, or was that luck?”

“A guess,” Arlian admitted. “Or an experiment.” He hesitated, then said, “Lord Horim had possession of two of the women from the House of Carnal Society—I want them freed. Who are Horim’s heirs?”

“I doubt he has any,” Rime said, with a crooked smile. “Have you forgotten everything I told you?”.

“You don’t marry,” Arlian said. “And dragonhearts sire no children.”

Rime nodded. “The custom, in fact,” she said, “is for us to leave our worldly goods to the Dragon Society itself. That would make you part owner of those slaves already, and I’m sure the rest of us will be reasonable in selling them to you, or simply freeing them.”

Arlian, exhausted as he was, managed to smile at that. “Good,” he said. Then a thought struck him, and the smile vanished. “I can think of two or three members who may not be reasonable,” he said.

Rime glanced up the street at Toribor and his companions, carrying the body to Horim’s home. “Enziet,” she said. “And Belly, and Nail, and Drisheen?”

“I think Nail will be reasonable,” Arlian said. “But the others, yes.”

“Enziet might surprise you,” Rime said, as she settled herself carefully onto the rim of the trough. “He’s as coldblooded as any of us, usually, and if he decides it’s easier to cooperate with you in some minor matter, he’ll do it.”

Arlian looked doubtful as he sat beside her.

“Why is he so determined to be rid of you, Arlian?” Rime asked. “What secrets have you not told us?” She glanced up at Black, who suddenly took an intense interest in watching the crowd, rather than listening to the two nobles. Rime’s tone turned chiding. “You’re not supposed to keep secrets from the Society,” she said.

“I’m not keeping secrets,” Arlian protested. “I told you, I’ve sworn to kill him for what he did to Rose and Sweet and Dove and the others, and what he did to me when I was just a boy.”

“That’s why you want to kill him,” Rime agreed. “But why does he want to be rid of you?”

He blinked at her, puzzled. “I’m sworn to kill him,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Rime said flatly, shaking her head. “Not for Enziet. I’ve known him for two hundred years—closer to three—and no, it’s not enough at all. You swore not to kill him as long as you were both in Manfort; that removes you as an immediate threat. Enziet is a patient man—or at least, he always has been before. He could easily have waited ten years, or twenty, until you set foot outside the walls on your own, and then ambushed and slain you; that he did not, that he risked Lord Iron’s life to dispose of you sooner, means that there’s something more involved, something urgent, something that meant he needed to be rid of you now.”

Arlian stared at her. “But what could it be?” he asked.

“I don’t know, child,” Rime said wryly. “That’s why I asked you.”

“I don’t know either,” Arlian said, still staring. “I told you everything at the initiation, I swear it.”

Rime rocked back and slapped her thighs, then reached for her cane. “Well, then,” she said, “that’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Arlian agreed, not moving from where he sat. “Yes, it is.”

43

Conversations and Questions

Horim’s steward sneered openly at them as Rime and Arlian stood on the tessellated marble floor of the dead man’s palace foyer. He made no pretense of welcome, or even courtesy, and did not invite them into another room, nor offer them seats, despite Rime’s obvious infirmity. “There are no women here,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“None?” Rime asked mildly. “In all the household, not a scullery maid nor laundress?”

“None,” the steward asserted. “My lord did not choose to keep women around. Certainly no female cripples.”

“He took this pair from Westguard two years ago, in the spring,” Arlian said, resting his left hand on the hilt of his sword—at least partly to keep himself from drawing it with his right. “I saw it myself. If he didn’t bring them here, what happened to them?”

“Two years ago?” the steward said, startled. He raised a hand. “Ah! Now I understand. Those two.”

“Yes, those two,” Arlian said, annoyed and resisting the temptation to grab the man by the throat. “Where are they? Did he sell them?”

“No, he killed them,” the steward said. “Long ago. I think the second one might have lasted as long as a month.”

Arlian’s hand tightened on. the hilt of his sword. “Why?” he demanded. “In the name of the dead gods, why would he kill them?”

“Because he had no use for them,” the steward replied. “Why waste money feeding a slave you don’t want?”

“He could have sold them!” Arlian shouted. “Or set them free!”

The steward shrugged. “They knew something my lord did not want known, I believe.”

“So he simply killed them?” Arlian asked in disbelief.

“Yes.”

Arlian’s right hand balled into a fist, while his left gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles went white. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to turn away—striking the steward would not accomplish anything useful.

“Do you know their names?” Rime asked the steward. “Did they have any family, and were their families informed?”

“I have no idea,” the steward replied.

Without turning back, Arlian said, “Sparkle. Amber. Cricket. Daub. Ferret. Brook. Velvet. Sandalwood. Are any of those names familiar?”

The steward frowned. “Daub might be,” he said. “I’m not sure, though, and I don’t believe I ever heard a name for the other one.”

Arlian’s jaw tightened again. Poor little Daub, dead? Merely because Lord Horim had had no use for her? That bastard probably hadn’t even known she could paint, or that she was expert with cosmetics and had a sly sense of humor. Horim had probably seen her as nothing but a crippled whore, not human at all.

And the steward didn’t think he had ever even heard the other woman’s name! It could have been any of the others. Arlian knew that Sweet and Dove had gone with Lord Dragon, but which of the others still lived, and where, remained a mystery.

“Can you describe her?” Arlian asked through gritted teeth.

“After two years?”

“Did you assist in so many murders that these two don’t stand out?” Arlian growled.

“I took no interest in them,” the steward said defensively. “I did nothing to them.”

Arlian made a wordless noise of disgust. “You said one lived here, in your home, for almost a month!”

“And I saw her only rarely,” the steward insisted. “She was not my concern. Lord Iron kept her locked away, out of my sight.”

“And you didn’t care.”

“Why should I?”

“Lord Obsidian,” Rime said, interrupting before Arlian could say any more, “perhaps it’s time we went elsewhere.”

Arlian stared at her for a moment, then glanced at the steward.

“Yes,” he said. The steward was a hateful, uncaring wretch, in Arlian’s opinion, but the world was full of such people. He couldn’t change them all. He had to concentrate on the most important, most dangerous men—such as Lord Enziet.

“Yes,” he repeated, “let’s go.”

Together they were escorted to the door of the late Lord Iron’s manor, and a moment later they were again on the cobbled streets of Manfort.

There they hesitated; then Arlian suggested, “Come home with me, and we’ll talk.”

Rime nodded, and together they made their way toward the Old Palace. For the most part they walked silently, each lost in his or her own thoughts, but at one point Arlian said, “He killed them.”

“Apparently,” Rime agreed. “Unless they’re hidden away somewhere—but I can’t imagine why that would be so, and I don’t want to give you any false hopes.”

“We should have asked what became of the bodies,” Arlian suggested.

Rime shook her head. “If I judged Lord Iron’s character correctly, I think perhaps we’d be better off not knowing. He was a dragonheart, and no sentimentalist.”

Arlian, remembering what Rose had said so long ago about what became of old whores, did not reply. Instead he said, “If I had come to Manfort at once, instead of going south with the caravan, I might have saved them.”

“Might you?” Rime asked sharply. “How?”

Arlian reluctantly admitted, “I couldn’t have. I had no money then, and no magic, and no sword, and I didn’t know how to use a blade if I’d had one.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself about it,” she said. “Think rather about what you can do. You’ve saved four women, have you not? That’s better than what you’d have accomplished by getting yourself killed two years ago.”

Arlian made no reply, but his teeth ground together in frustration.

At the Old Palace Black welcomed them in from the cold, and the three of them settled themselves in the small salon with wine and a plate of fruit.

When Black had been informed of the results of their visit to Horim’s estate, Arlian turned to Rime and said, “You said that you thought Enziet must have some other motive for wanting to be rid of me.”

“Of course he does,” Rime replied. “He’s certainly had enough other brave young men wish him dead over the years, even if they weren’t dragonhearts, and I’ve never before seen him involved in a scene like that one at the Society’s hall, nor has he ever before sent one of his friends to fight a duel on his behalf.”

“Horim fought on his own behalf,” Arlian pointed out. “I was sworn to kill him, as well as Enziet and the others.”

“Lord Iron did as Enziet asked, never doubt it,” Rime said. “He would never have challenged you if Enziet had not advised him to.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“I knew both men for two hundred years, Lord Obsidian. Yes, I’m sure. In the past Enziet has taken his time, waited for the right moment, let his opponents make mistakes that he could capitalize on; he hasn’t sent them threatening messages or let his companions fight them openly. He urgently wanted you removed, as he never did his previous antagonists. The question is, why? What is there about you that makes you a threat to him?”

Arlian frowned. “I’m not keeping secrets,” he said. “I’m no more than I appear—a man seeking to right the wrongs I’ve seen done to those I care about.”

Rime smiled. “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “I suspect there’s a great deal to you that isn’t obvious—perhaps there’s more to you than even you know.”

“Well, the same could be said of any man,” Arlian protested. “I see nothing that would make me different from anyone else who sought revenge upon Lord Enziet— save perhaps that I am, as you say, a dragonheart.”

“Did Enziet even know that?” Black asked. “Had he met you, and seen the signs?”

“He hadn’t seen my face since I was a boy, there in the ruins of the Smoking Mountain.”

“Someone might have brought him word,” Rime suggested.

“There’s a question,” Black said, “of just when he became determined to remove you. When I spoke to him as your messenger, after you fought Kuruvan, he was not inclined to oblige you, but he did not simply have you murdered, either. He warned you away.”

“That’s true,” Arlian said. “That was why I joined the Dragon Society.”

“Perhaps he had not known you possessed the dragon’s heart until you joined,” Black suggested.

“He could have killed you easily at any time before you joined,” Rime agreed. “That he did not would indicate that the reason to remove you did not yet exist, or at any rate was not urgent, prior to your initiation.”

“Then is it because I joined the Society?”

Rime shook her head. “He has had enemies among us before,” she said. “He still does, though no others who have sworn to kill him. You probably noticed that he was never there when you visited the hall—there’s a reason for that.”

“But what, then?”

Rime thoughtfully tapped her shinbone on the arm of her chair. “Consider the timing,” she said. “He knew you for his enemy when you killed Kuruvan, but he merely warned you to leave him alone. That’s as he has always acted in the past. But then, at some time after your initiation, something changed—he came to the hall in the company of his friends, Belly and Iron, to confront you, to give you a chance to submit your will to his, or to leave the city, or to die. What had changed?”

“I don’t know,” Arlian said. “I swore an oath not to kill him while in Manfort—would that not make it less urgent?”

“Of course it would,” Rime agreed. “In fact, I would have expected that to settle the matter as far as he was concerned—he would have simply ignored you until business drew him out of the city, which might not be for years yet, and would have then arranged to kill you when you pursued him. There would be no need for a duel, no need to risk Lord Iron’s life—though I’m sure he thought it only a small risk, and indeed, it’s a wonder that it’s you who lived, and he who died.”

“Then something else changed, besides the oath,” Black said. “But what?”

“Something became a threat,” Rime said. “Now, what else had changed?”

“I was forced to bide my time, as you say he does,” Arlian said.

“And you came to the hall fairly often as you did it,” Rime pointed out. “You spoke with me, and with Nail, and with others there.”

“Did he fear I would learn some weakness he possesses, that you might know of?”

Rime snorted derisively. “He has no weaknesses I know of,” she said, “and if we knew of any, he would have found ways to remove that danger long ago. I told you he has other enemies among the Society’s membership.”

“Then perhaps he feared that they would learn something from him,” Black suggested. “From Lord Obsidian, I mean.”

“That fits,” Rime said thoughtfully. “He would have learned of this threat, whatever it might be, only when he heard the accounts of your initiation; if he did not know until then that you possess… well, whatever it is you possess…” Her voice trailed off as the bone in her hand tapped rhythmically against the polished wood of her chair.

“What could this threat be, though?” Arlian asked. “You were there; you heard all I said. Did I speak of anything that could pose a greater threat to Lord Enziet’s life than my own sword?”

Rime stopped tapping. “His life?” she asked. “I don’t think we’re speaking of a threat to his life. I doubt that Enziet fears death after all these centuries.”

Puzzled, Arlian asked, “What, then? What else could I threaten?”

“What else does he value?” Black asked. “That’s always the trick in handling an enemy—know what he cares about and what he doesn’t.”

Rime nodded. “That’s very true,” she said.

“But what does Enziet care about?” Arlian asked. “You say he doesn’t fear death, so it’s not his life he values; what, then? His honor? His family?”

“He has no family,” Rime said. “He never has, so far as I’ve seen or heard.”

“And he has no honor, from what I’ve seen,” Arlian said.

“It’s certainly not something he prizes greatly,” Rime agreed, “though I’ve always heard that he keeps his oaths. If he did not, the Dragon Society would probably have long ago come apart in a rain of blood.”

“He’s chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort,” Black said. “Does he care about that?”

“In a way,” Rime said. “I think he values power.”

“But what could threaten his power?” Arlian asked. “The Duke himself is a harmless old fool—a man like Lord Enziet can’t possibly fear him.”

“Of course not,” Rime said. “The Dukes have been the Dragon Society’s puppets for centuries, probably since before the dragons themselves departed.”

Black cleared his throat. “I don’t think I heard that,” he said. “Please don’t repeat it.”

“The dragons,” Arlian said slowly. “Does Enziet fear the dragons?”

“I don’t know,” Rime said. “Certainly many of us fear them. And more of us hate them, as I do, and as I think you do.”

“I do,” Arlian agreed, “but does Enziet?”

“What if he does?” Rime demanded. “Where would that get us? You’re hardly in a position to bring the dragons up out of their caverns to overthrow Manfort.”

“Could that be possible?” Arlian asked. “The Dragon Society has been studying the dragons for centuries, hasn’t it? You must know a great deal about them.”

“Nowhere near enough,” Rime replied, tapping her bone again. “And I’d have said that Enziet knows more about them than any of us. If there’s a way to wake them, he would know it—and he would know that the Society would not want to use it. If you did know a way, that would be no threat to Enziet—he need merely tell us you proposed something so insane, and we would all want you dead.”

“You’re right,” Arlian said. “Not the dragons, then—but what else could threaten his power?”

Black cleared his throat again. “You understand I don’t know anything about any secret societies,” he said, “or anyone who might have had undue influence on the governance of Manfort or the Lands of Man, but if there were such a secret society, working behind the scenes, couldn’t that society pose a threat to Lord Enziet?”

“But he’s a member of the Dragon Society!” Rime said. “The senior member, in fact, and the one most concerned with politics.”

“Does he think there’s some way I could turn the rest of the Society against him?” Arlian asked.

Rime froze, the shinbone suspended at the top of its arc. She stared at Arlian.

“Do you know something that could turn us all against him?” she asked. “Because I can’t think of a more probable threat you could pose.”

Arlian stared back.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It would need to be something mentioned at your initiation,” Rime said. “Something we didn’t notice at the time, but which Enziet spotted.”

“But what?” Arlian asked, baffled.

“I don’t know,” Rime said, turning her chair to face Arlian more directly, “but I intend to learn. Tell me, then, Arlian of the Smoking Mountain, everything you said at your initiation.”

Arlian gathered his thoughts and began speaking.

He reviewed his discovery of the Dragon Society’s existence and his early childhood, and described the long spell of dragon weather that followed his eleventh birthday, culminating in the dragons’ attack on Obsidian. He went through every detail he could recall of the attack, his fall, his grandfather’s death, and how the vile mixture of blood and venom had dripped into his mouth.

He went over waking up, and being rescued from the cellar by Lord Dragon’s men, and his meeting with Lord Dragon.

Every so often Rime interrupted his narrative with questions, trying to elicit more facts, details Arlian had forgotten or seen no significance in. These sometimes jumped back and forth in the story, and in fact Arlian had begun on the unhappy journey down the Smoking Mountain toward Deep Delving when she frowned and asked, “How long were you unconscious, there in the cellar? Several days, I suppose?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Arlian said wearily. He grimaced at the memory. “My grandfather’s body had not yet begun to stink when I awoke, and I was thirsty, but not seriously dehydrated. The ruins were no longer aflame, but still smelled strongly of woodsmoke. The weather had broken and turned cool, but that could happen quickly up on the mountain. I would say that I slept at least several hours, but probably no more than a single day, or two at the most.”

Rime frowned. “But then how could the looters have gotten there? Isn’t the Smoking Mountain at least five days’ ride from Manfort?”

“Oh, more than that,” Arlian said. “Eight or nine, I’d say. I’ve wondered for years how Lord Dragon happened to be there so soon, and have assumed that he somehow knew the attack was coming. I understand he’s an accomplished sorcerer, so I suppose…”

“Sorcery can’t do that,” Rime snapped, cutting him off.

“Maybe he was in the area and saw the attack from a distance, and seized the opportunity,” Black suggested. “After all, why would someone like Lord Enziet bother looting a village?”

“But Cover said that he was hired specifically to loot the village,” Arlian said. “So he must have known it would happen, and he did nothing to stop it. That’s all the more reason to seek revenge for his actions there.”

“Why would he bother looting it?” Rime asked.

Arlian shrugged. “He wanted the obsidian,” he said. “He asked me repeatedly where the workshops were.”

“This is Lord Enziet we speak of,” Rime said. “He could have bought the obsidian, all of it. He could have bought the entire village.”

“Why would he want obsidian, anyway?” Black asked.

“It’s used in sorcery,” Rime said. “It has power against fire and darkness. But it’s not so precious as that!”

Arlian nodded. “We had a sorcerer in the village who worked in it,” he said.

“It doesn’t seem to have protected the village against the dragons,” Black said, “and if they aren’t fire and darkness…”

“They’re a good bit more than fire and darkness,” Rime said, “and sorcery is limited in what it can do.”

“Then why would Enziet bother with this obsidian?” Black asked.

“It’s better than nothing,” Rime said, shrugging. “And I suppose he didn’t buy it because he didn’t really need it, but when he found the village destroyed he decided he might as well take it.”

“But he didn’t simply find the village destroyed,” Arlian protested. “He knew it would be destroyed, before it happened. It wasn’t anything he did, of course—the dragons did it—but he knew it was coming, or he couldn’t have been there so soon.”

“But he couldn’t know,” Rime insisted. “I was assuming that he came there with his hirelings to get the obsidian— to steal it, since he wouldn’t need the others to buy it—and that he found the village destroyed.”

“I’ve always thought he knew the dragons were coming,” Arlian said. “I assumed it was sorcery.”

“Sorcery can’t foresee the future,” Rime said. “If he had known the attack was coming, then going to the village would make sense—he might have sought dragon venom or other traces of their presence, or simply more information about dragon behavior. That’s well within what might be expected of any member of the Dragon Society.”

“But did anyone else go to the village, then?” Arlian asked. “The destruction of Obsidian was no secret.”

“Oh, much later, some of us went for a look, yes,” Rime said. “I wasn’t one of them—I don’t travel easily, with this leg of mine. They didn’t learn much; venom and some of the other traces fade quickly.” She frowned. “Enziet didn’t say he’d been there. No one mentioned that.”

“He was there,” Arlian said.

“Do you think that’s what he’s afraid you’ll learn?” Black asked.

“I don’t know,” Rime said slowly. “It could be. Or maybe it’s something we haven’t gotten to yet—something in the mine at Deep Delving, or the brothel in Westguard. Let’s go back to your story.”

Arlian obliged, resuming his narrative with an explanation of how Hide had pulled him from the cellars. Rime had him provide detailed descriptions of each of the looters who had accompanied Lord Dragon, but nothing in his account caught her attention.

They broke for supper after that, and then returned to the small salon and resumed with an account of Arlian’s years in the mines. He told her everything he knew of Hathet, of Bloody Hand and Lampspiller, and of all his fellow miners. She questioned him at length about the amethysts, and about the possibility that the mine’s tunnels were approaching the caverns where the dragons slept, but none of them could connect these questions to Lord Enziet.

He described his escape, his flight cross-country, and his arrival in Westguard. He described each of the sixteen whores in the House of Carnal Society, as well as the guards and the dreaded Mistress, Madam Ril.

Rime took a special interest in his description of Rose, and coaxed out half-remembered details. Her expression hardened as he spoke.

“Who actually killed her?” Rime asked.

“Who held the knife?” Arlian asked. “I don’t know. She was killed at Lord Dragon’s order, though, I’m certain.”

Rime frowned, her mouth drawn tight. “Go on,” she said.

Arlian continued his tale.

By the time he was done the candles were burned down to stubs, all the servants but Black were long since abed, and every drop was gone from the decanter of wine they had brought.

“We may be missing some key detail,” Rime said thoughtfully. “If we are not, I see two possible areas of concern for Enziet. One is a personal matter, and would mean both that he knows a secret I thought well guarded, and that he deliberately sought to harm me; I doubt that’s the case, and will assume it was mere mischance at work. The other is the mystery of how he came to loot the village on the Smoking Mountain so soon after the dragons struck—and that is a mystery.” She glanced at Arlian. “That best fits what we know. When you were merely Lord Obsidian, or Lanair, seeking vengeance upon the Six Lords, he did not seem overly concerned; when he learned you were Arlian, from the Smoking Mountain, you became an immediate threat. He wouldn’t know what befell you in Deep Delving after he sold you, but he would know what you saw in Obsidian. I’d say that must be what troubles him.”

“But why?” Arlian asked.

“That is, as I said, a mystery,” Rime replied. “And I think it’s one that deserves investigation.”

Arlian, muddled with wine and fatigue, stared blankly at her.

“Go to bed,” she said, reaching for her cane. “Think it over.” She rose, then hesitated.

“Please, Lady Rime,” Arlian said, leaping to his own feet despite his weariness, “be my guest for what remains of the night—I won’t forgive myself if you venture out on the streets at this hour!”

“Thank you,” she said.

Black took his cue. “I’ll show you to your room,” he said, taking Rime’s arm.

The two of them departed, Rime leaning heavily on Black as she hobbled, leaving Arlian standing alone in the dim salon. One of the candles had guttered out, and others were fading.

He looked around, reluctant to retire while so many questions remained unanswered, but he could see nothing more he could do in the salon. He sighed, and set his feet toward the stairs. His thoughts were far from clear as he made his way slowly to his own bed, but he was already planning further investigation.

44

Hide and Seek

The following day Arlian put his plans into effect. If it was true that Lord Enziet desperately wanted to conceal something about his visit to the Smoking Mountain, then obviously Enziet himself wouldn’t say anything about it, and Arlian couldn’t see what it would be himself—but the two of them were not the only people who had been there on that day. There had been six others present.

Cover was dead. The whereabouts of Dagger and Tooth were a mystery, and one or both of them might be dead, as well. Shamble was probably still working for Lord Dragon, and would almost certainly be impossible to approach without alerting Enziet. Stonehand had joined the Duke’s guard, and was therefore also still, at least indirectly, under Lord Dragon’s thumb.

Hide, though, was reputedly a dealer in gemstones and curiosities on the Street of the Jewelers, just a few hundred yards away from Arlian’s front gate. What could be more natural than that Lord Obsidian, known to be a collector of obsidian trinkets, should pay Hide’s establishment a visit?

Accordingly, Arlian put on his best satin blouse, wrapped a fine velvet cloak about himself, clapped on a dashing feather-trimmed hat, and set out for a brisk walk to the Street of the Jewelers. Once there, however, he encountered a delay he had not foreseen, one so obvious that he cursed himself for not expecting it.

He didn’t know which shop it was.

There were signboards, of course, and even names painted on window glass, but he would hardly expect a jeweler to use the name Hide. Jewelry was meant for display, not concealment.

He ambled down the street, glancing in windows, looking for some indication and trying to conjure up Hide’s image in his mind’s eye.

It was still there—that moment when Hide had beckoned to him and said, “Come on, lad. We’ll get you out of here,” was burned into his memory—but it was not as clear as he might have liked. And of course, that was nine years ago—Hide would undoubtedly have changed considerably.

Most of the shops, he noticed, did not make ostentatious display of their contents—but then, what jeweler could afford to keep enough stock on hand to make a grand presentation, and to risk showing it where a bold thief might break in and grab it? The displays Arlian saw were modest—one goldsmith had a single pair of ornate gilt candlesticks in his window, while a nearby jeweler made do with simply the tools of his trade.

A silversmith by the name of Gorian, on the other hand, had an impressive decanter and matching goblets surrounded by lesser works—buckles, brooches, even a silver-trimmed leather slave collar—in his window, behind heavy iron bars.

And just beyond, Arlian saw, was an even gaudier display—crystal, mother-of-pearl, rare woods, onyx and jade, made into boxes and candelabra and statuettes. Arlian stopped and studied this assortment, hoping to catch a sight of the shop’s proprietor.

A plump young woman emerged from the shadowy interior and called through the open door, “Is there something you’d like to see better, my lord?”

“No, thank you,” Arlian said, tipping his hat. He turned away. She might be Hide’s wife, or sister, or even daughter, but she was certainly not Hide…

But she might know where Hide could be found. Arlian turned back.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Perhaps you could help me after all. Someone mentioned that an old acquaintance of mine who went by the name of Hide now has a shop on this street, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the details of how to find it. Might you know? He was a well-built fellow when I knew him, and had a sleeveless leather jacket he was fond of, but I can’t think of his true name at all.”

She smiled charmingly at him. “He doesn’t use his true name,” she said. “And in truth, my lord, I think you’d know his new name when you saw it, even though it’s not Hide.”

“Oh?” Arlian smiled back. “What is it, then?”

“Seek,” she replied.

“Oh,” Arlian said, grinning foolishly.

“He specializes in finding unusual items,” she explained. “He and I have done business on occasion—when I’ve come across something so strange that he’d have an easier time selling it, or when he’s acquired a fine piece that isn’t sufficiently out of the ordinary for his customers.” She pointed down the street. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding him.”

“Thank you, madam,” Arlian said, with an elaborate bow and flourish. “I am in your debt.”

“Then perhaps you’ll pay that debt by sending me some trade, eh?”

“I will, indeed,” Arlian said. “For now, though, I really must find Hide—or rather, Seek.” He made a second, smaller bow, then turned to go.

“It’s on the right!” the woman called after him, and he waved his hat in acknowledgment.

A moment later he reached his goal, and recognized it immediately.

Seek’s shop was small but elegant; the signboard read simply Seek, Curiosities, and the window held nothing but a blue velvet cloth and a white card reading, “The Finest Exotica in Manfort.” The door was equipped with a glass bell that tinkled brightly as Arlian stepped in.

He found himself in a small room furnished with two velvet-upholstered chairs and a counter faced with an unfamiliar wood. The walls were paneled with the same material, and polished to a silky gleam. Whatever the wood was, it had a grain that curled and twisted like nothing Arlian had ever seen before.

There were three small shelves on the right-hand wall, providing the only display of merchandise to be seen. One held a set of four goblets made from inverted human skulls set on claw-shaped silver stems; the next bore a display of gemstones carved into detailed likenesses of various insects and spiders; and on the last sat an elaborate construction of gold wire, crystal rods, and orbs of multicolored glass that Arlian could make no sense of whatsoever.

Arlian was looking at this last, trying to puzzle it out, when the blue velvet drapery behind the counter parted and Seek stepped out.

Arlian turned and studied him.

It was a man of roughly the same size as Hide, and the right build, and the face was familiar, but Arlian was not absolutely sure it was the same man. This person was visibly older, visibly softer and plumper, and far better dressed than the Hide Arlian remembered—the shopkeeper’s hair and beard were trimmed and oiled and flawlessly arranged, his cream-and-gold vest was embroidered silk rather than leather, and his entire appearance generally that of a wealthy, sophisticated man.

“May I help you, my lord?” Seek asked, resting his palms on the counter.

“I hope so,” Arlian said.

“If what you desire can be found, my lord, rest assured, we can find it for you,” Seek said. “It may take a significant amount of time and money, of course.”

“I don’t think much time or money will be needed in my case,” Arlian said. “It may be that all I want will be certain information I suspect you may already possess.”

“Oh? May be?”

“That’s right; I haven’t yet decided whether there might be more I want of you.” He looked Seek in the eye, seeking some sign of recognition, some indication of what sort of man this was, that it was indeed the same Hide he had come looking for.

Seek stared back, unperturbed. “And what would this information be?” he asked.

Arlian hesitated for a second; Seek waited patiently. Finally, Arlian asked, “Nine years ago, when you were still called Hide, why did you go to the village of Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain?”

Seek’s eyes widened, but he showed no other sign of surprise or distress. “I was paid to go,” he replied calmly. “Five ducats, all expenses, and my share of the loot. At the time that was more than sufficient to entice me.” He leaned forward across the counter. “I take it that you are Lord Obsidian? The one who disposed of Sahasin, Lord Kuruvan, and Lord Iron?”

“I am known by that name, yes,” Arlian admitted.

“And have you come here to kill me, too, to avenge the looting of that village?”

“Should I?” Arlian challenged him.

Seek smiled for the first time since he had come through the curtain, a crooked, sardonic smile. “I am, of course, biased,” he said. “But no, I think killing me would be disproportionately harsh. After all, who was harmed by the looting of ruins? Any heirs those villagers might have had would probably be no more than distant cousins, and stealing property they had not earned and might never have thought to claim at all simply doesn’t strike me as an offense deserving death.” He turned his palms up and shrugged. “Of course, your own view may differ, since you seem to have appointed yourself the gods’ avatar of vengeance for various wrongs. As I said, I am biased in my favor.”

“And what of selling into slavery a free-born boy who had just been orphaned?”

The smile vanished.

“That was unfortunate, at the very least,” Seek agreed. “If you wish to make the punishment fit the crime, though, I would still not consider it deserving of death. Death is so very final. Wouldn’t enslavement be more fitting?” Before Arlian could respond, he added, “I compliment you on your sources of information.”

“No compliments are called for,” Arlian replied. “Then you believe yourself deserving of enslavement?”

Seek frowned.

“That depends,” he said. “I concede that on the most basic level of an eye for an eye, a life for a life, and so on, it would seem just that I serve a term of years as a slave in the mines of Deep Delving. I take it, though, that the boy did eventually regain his freedom, and that you know him? He’s alive and well?”

Arlian nodded.

“Then you see that death would be inappropriate—and enslavement would never quite match up properly, since he must have emerged from the mines still a young man with his life ahead of him, while I could not count on anything of the sort. And furthermore, am I really the foolish young man who helped loot that village? I’ve changed since then, my lord—not merely in appearance, but in any number of ways. I would not stand idly by now, as I did then; I would at the very least speak a few words of protest. Is it just to punish the man you see before you, the honest businessman, trusted by his clients and, I flatter myself, respected by his fellows, for crimes committed by a man desperate to find a place for himself, willing to do almost anything to make enough money to ensure he would not find himself in a slaver’s net? Had you apprehended me back then, why yes, enslavement would have been a fitting penalty for my crimes—but now? I am not so certain. Consider also what that boy might have become had we not allowed Lord Dragon to sell him—his family was dead, his home destroyed. We did not know whether he had kinsmen living elsewhere, or whether any such woujd take him in. Had we left him as we found him, might he not have starved to death? Or might he not have found himself in the clutches of other slavers?”

“He might,” Arlian conceded, “but had he—had I no right to take that risk, if I chose?”

“A child’s fate is never his own,” Seek said with a sweeping gesture. “He is always at the mercy of those around him, whether his parents or other adults, as we are all at the mercy of gods, dragons, and Fate.”

“We will never know what might have become of me had you not found me,” Arlian said. “I don’t think, therefore, that that should be weighed in the balance. Airy suppositions cannot be made to support anything.”

“True enough.” Seek tipped his head and eyed Arlian. “So you were that boy? I’d never have recognized you.”

“Oh? Cover did,” Arlian said.

“Did he? Well, his memory must be better than mine. What’s become of Cover?”

“Dead of a fever. He was dying when I found him.”

“He saved you the trouble of punishing him, then.”

“Maybe,” Arlian admitted.

Seek studied him. “And you’re still considering killing me?”

“Maybe,” Arlian repeated.

Seek smiled his crooked, humorless smile again. “As I said, we are all at the mercy of Fate, and clearly Fate has brought you here, out of Deep Delving. Yet we are free to act or not, as we please; we can refuse the opportunities Fate thrusts upon us.”

“You’re suggesting I should let you go unpunished?”

“Well, naturally, I would prefer it,” Seek said with a shrug. “I would offer to pay compensation, but from what I understand, you have become wealthy enough that any payment I could make would be insignificant. I stood by and let Lord Dragon wrong you, and I concede that you are justified in thinking ill of me, but I question whether any penalty you might impose at this late date would be appropriate. If the purpose of punishment is to ensure I never repeat my crime, why, then you need do nothing—I would never again do anything of the sort. I’m content with my lot here in Manfort, and have no intention of gallivanting about with a band of brigands, looting ruins, ever again. If the purpose is to discourage others, consider the possibility that you might merely convince the next man in my situation to kill any potential witnesses outright, lest they come back to haunt him, as you have manifested yourself here. And if the purpose is to ease your own mind and satisfy your own anger, then judge your own emotions carefully.”

“And what if I seek to please the gods by seeing that justice is done?”

Seek shook his head. “Surely whatever gods may yet survive know what justice is better than we mere mortals, and can take care of their own needs in that regard.”

Arlian smiled wryly. “You speak convincingly,” he said.

“I make my living by convincing people they need what I have to sell,” Seek said, with a wave of his hand. “Knowing that my life is at risk here impels me to do my best.”

“By your own admission, though, you wronged me— does that put you in my debt?”

“I will agree that it does,” Seek said. “Indeed, a chance to repay you would be welcome, if the payment is not exorbitant. Was there something I have that you wanted?”

“Information,” Arlian said. “As you say, I have all the wealth I need—but not all the knowledge I need.”

Seek bowed as low as he could while behind the counter. “I am at your service, my lord.”

“Then tell me,” Arlian said, “every detail you remember of your expedition to the Smoking Mountain. How did Lord Dragon recruit you? Did you know his true name? Do you know it now? Did he tell you where you were bound, and what you would find there?”

Seek took a deep breath. “Well,” he said. “Let me see…” He scratched his head thoughtfully.

He had been a boy when he started running errands for a man known as Parcel; the story Hide had heard was that he was called that because he was like several men bundled into a single package, and he had paid Hide a ducat to carry a message. Hide had then asked for more work, and Parcel, amused, had provided it.

It hadn’t all been as harmless as carrying messages; he had thrown a rock through a lord’s window, stolen a lady’s dagger, spilled oil on pavement where a duel was to be fought, all at Parcel’s direction. As he had grown he had been trusted with other jobs, and one day Parcel had told him, “Follow me,” and he had followed, and he had met Lord Dragon, Parcel’s master, for the first time, in a rented room on the Street of the Roses.

“An impressive man,” Seek said. “Even now, and to the lad I was then… well, I was proud just to be there.”

“I can understand that,” Arlian said, remembering how impressive Lord Dragon could be.

“I met Tooth and Shamble that first time,” Seek continued. “They were already in Lord Dragon’s employ. Dagger came later, and I recruited Stonehand myself, to replace Parcel. And I suggested Cover, but he only joined us on that one errand—he seemed a likely candidate, but did not work out.” He grimaced. “I regret that.”

He sounded sincere—but Arlian reserved judgment; as Seek himself had said, he made his living convincing people. “What happened to Parcel,” Arlian asked, “that you were called upon to replace him?”

Seek shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “One day he wasn’t there, and Lord Dragon told me he was dead. I asked how, and Dragon said it was none of my concern, and I didn’t dare press the matter further. He wasn’t the only one to disappear—Tooth vanished later, though in that case Lord Dragon never said whether she was dead or alive, merely that she was gone and I was not to worry myself about it. Nor were those I’ve named so far the only ones I worked with in Lord Dragon’s service; others came and went as the occasion arose.”

Arlian nodded. “Go on,” he said.

Lord Dragon had found plenty of work for Hide and the others, in Manfort and elsewhere. He rarely told them just what was going on, or why they were doing the tasks he had assigned them. Sometimes they were sent as a group, other times alone or in twos or threes; sometimes Lord Dragon would accompany them, and other times he would simply instruct them and leave it to them to carry out those instructions. Often months would pass in which Hide would not see Lord Dragon himself, but would only receive letters.

“Did you know who he was?” Arlian asked.

Seek shook his head. “Not then,” he said. “And he never told us. But I had my suspicions soon enough.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t so very difficult to see who benefited politically from a particular rock through a specific window, or a note passed to a given lady. When I began working for Lord Dragon the Duke was said to be bored with Lord Enziet, and displeased with the counsel he had received of late; not long after that Enziet’s position was stronger than ever, and his rivals exiled, dead, or out of favor. And the descriptions matched—the rumor that Lord Enziet never appeared in public because his face was scarred certainly fit.”

“Tell me about the journey to the Smoking Mountain,” Arlian said.

It was one muggy afternoon late in a long, appallingly hot summer that Lord Dragon had summoned his employees and told them to be ready to travel at dawn the following day. Hide had not bothered to ask where they were going; Dagger, however, had wanted to know, saying she needed to know what provisions to pack, and Lord Dragon had told them they were bound for the Smoking Mountain, and that tools for digging would be appropriate.

“Weapons?” Stonehand had asked.

“I don’t expect to find anyone alive,” Lord Dragon had said, “but please yourself. I suppose there might be hazards on the road.”

Hide had had that in mind later that evening, when he spoke with Cover in a tavern on Gate Street. He hadn’t thought Cover would be much use in a fight, or for anything tricky or dangerous, but he seemed fit for digging— not that Hide had any idea what they would be digging for, or where. Cover had been complaining about his inability to find work, and Hide had suggested he join them at dawn, and see if Lord Dragon would take him on.

Lord Dragon had, and the party had set out for the Smoking Mountain.

The weather had been utterly miserable for most of that summer, and Dagger had complained about it on the road. Seek remembered hearing Lord Dragon’s reply.

“Dragon weather,” he had said. And he had smiled as he spoke, a smile Hide hadn’t liked at all.

Arlian shivered at the words, at the memories they evoked of his grandfather standing on the mountainside and staring at the sky.

When they were within sight of the Smoking Mountain, Seek remembered, they had actually seen dragons in the sky, far in the distance, and then, not long after, they had seen pillars of smoke pouring up from flames on the mountain. Dagger and Cover had wanted to turn back—Dagger had thought the mountain was erupting. “We can’t dig through hot lava!” she had protested.

“You won’t need to,” Lord Dragon had told her.

“I don’t remember his exact words after that,” Seek said, “but he made it clear that we were seeing a burning village, not the mountain’s own flame, and that we would be looting the ruins. ‘And it will be cooler then,’ he said, ‘so the digging won’t be too arduous.’”

Arlian stared. “He knew that?”

“Yes,” Seek said. “He knew.”

For a moment neither man spoke; then Arlian said “Go on.”

The remainder of the tale held no surprises; the weather had broken that night, and in the morning Lord Dragon had led his crew up the mountain, where they had systematically looted the smoldering wreckage of the village, gathering up the meager valuables the townspeople had owned, the cache of obsidian, the sorcerer’s talismans and devices—his papers had burned, which had irked Lord Dragon greatly.

And they had found Arlian, of course, and carried him away.

“He knew,” Arlian said. “He knew the dragons were coming. And he knew about the weather—but how could he?”

Seek shrugged. “Sorcery, I would assume. Lord Enziet is known to dabble in the hermetic arts.”

Arlian started to reply, then stopped. “Of course,” he said.

“And have I earned my life and freedom, my lord?” Seek asked.

“Conditionally,” Arlian said. “I may require that you repeat this tale, under oath, to certain acquaintances of mine.”

“I would have no difficulty in accommodating such a requirement,” Seek said.

“Are you aware that in telling me this, you may have endangered your life anew?” Arlian asked.

Seek cocked his had. “How is that?”

“I suspect you have just told me certain things that Lord Dragon very much wished to remain unrevealed.”

“I have said nothing I undertook to keep secret,” Seek protested. “I swore no oaths, made no promises.”

“I would suppose that Lord Dragon did not feel such artificial restraints to be necessary. Surely, it was understood that certain things were not to be spoken of?”

“Of course! But…” Seek frowned. “I had not thought any of this to be of great significance to Lord Enziet, but perhaps you know more than I of his concerns.”

“Perhaps I do,” Arlian said. “Indeed, I think so.”

“Then I may have forfeited to him what I gained from you?”

“I hope not,” Arlian said. “I sincerely hope not.”

“Fate is fond of these little jokes.”

“Indeed.”

And with that, Arlian took his leave and set out for the hall of the Dragon Society.

45

The Truth in Flames

Arlian found Rime and Wither in conversation in one corner of the Society’s candlelit main hall and joined them there, taking a seat at the table beside Rime, across from Wither, under the gaze of a small stuffed crocodile.

It was a moment before they deigned to notice his presence; Arlian did not rush matters. He did not want to be seen as an overeager youngster, hurrying his elders, so he restrained his impatience.

Eventually Rime turned and greeted him, and he was included in the conversation. Then it took only a few minutes to bring the discussion around to Arlian’s investigations, and after some prefatory comments Arlian said, “I have now learned, beyond doubt, that Lord Enziet knew beforehand that dragons would destroy my village.”

Wither stared at him, frowning. “How could he have known?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Arlian said, “but I have a witness who is willing to swear to the truth of it—one of the people who aided Lord Dragon in looting the ruins.”

Rime and Wither exchanged glances.

“It’s not possible to predict the future,” Wither said.

“Not reliably,” Rime agreed. “Knowledge of the future gives one the power to change it. That puts it outside the realm of sorcery.”

“I’ve heard of prophetic dreams,” Arlian objected. “In Arithei they seemed to be fairly common.”

“But that’s wild magic,” Rime said. “The Aritheians don’t control these dreams, do they?”

“No,” Arlian said. “They just happen, when the winds carry magic down from the Dreaming Mountains.”

“Sorcery’s different,” Wither said.

“Besides, are these dreams always accurate?” Rime asked.

“No,” Arlian admitted. “They’re… well, they’re unpredictable. Sometimes they’re true, sometimes they’re not, and even when they are, they’re sometimes too vague or obscure to be of any use.”

“So even if Enziet had somehow had such a dream, which is scarcely possible in Manfort to begin with, could he rely on it sufficiently to launch his expedition to the Smoking Mountain?” Rime asked.

“Um… not if it were like the Aritheian dreams, no. But couldn’t he have found some sorcerous method to produce reliable prophecies?”

Rime and Wither looked at one another.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Rime said, “but if anyone could make it work, it would be Enziet.”

“If he has,” Wither said, “then he’s honor-bound to share it with the rest of us.”

“He’s had nine years to do so, and he hasn’t said a word of this,” Rime said.

“Maybe that’s why he wants me dead,” Arlian suggested. “So you won’t find out that he’s kept it secret. It could be very useful in controlling the Duke and the rest of Manfort, couldn’t it?”

“It certainly could,” Wither growled.

“But if that’s what he’s up to, then wouldn’t he have seen that you were a danger to him much sooner, through these very prophecies you think him capable of, and killed you long ago?” Rime asked.

Arlian shrugged. “Maybe it’s not that reliable.”

Rime grabbed her cane and pushed back her chair. “I want to meet this witness of yours,” she said.

“As do I,” Wither agreed, rising.

“Gladly,” Arlian said, getting to his feet. “He calls himself Seek now, and has a shop on the Street of the Jewelers.”

“Lead the way, boy,” Wither said.

Arlian led the way—but even before they turned the corner onto the Street of the Jewelers he began to fear that something had gone wrong; he smelled smoke more strongly than usual. This was not merely Manfort’s perpetual background odor, but something sharp and fresh. He broke into a trot; Wither accompanied him, but Rime, hobbling along, could not.

“You go ahead,” she called, with a wave of her cane.

Arlian broke into a run when he saw the billowing smoke lit orange from beneath, and heard the crackle of flame. A crowd had gathered, blocking the street, and buckets were being passed, so that he had to stop and could only stare helplessly as Seek’s shop burned.

“Did Seek escape?” he asked a man in the crowd.

The man turned and glanced up at Arlian.

“No,” he said. “He’s dead on the floor in there. Someone said his heart gave out, and he knocked over a lamp when he fell.”

Arlian stared helplessly at the flames. The buckets of water being flung upon the blaze were having an effect; Arlian could hear the hissing as the fire was fought back. Through the smoke and the shattered remains of the storefront he could make out a dark lump on the floor.

That was undoubtedly Seek; the fire might soon be under control, but it would be too late for him.

Wither came up beside Arlian and asked, “That’s your witness?”

“I’m afraid so,” Arlian admitted.

“Quite a coincidence, his death.”

“It’s no coincidence,” Arlian said. “Lord Enziet killed him, I’m sure of it. He must have overheard somehow— more sorcery…”

“More likely, if it’s as you say, he had men spying on you, boy, and saw you talking to this merchant. Wouldn’t need sorcery for that.”

“Oh,” Arlian said, swallowing.

In a way, then, he had himself killed Hide after all, even after deciding not to.

He should have thought of the possibility that he was being spied upon, Arlian told himself. He bit his lower lip in angry frustration as he watched the flames. He had failed Seek and himself.

His eyes began to tear—from the smoke, Arlian told himself.

“That’s assuming, of course, that you’re telling the truth,” Wither said, interrupting Arlian’s thoughts. “And that you didn’t kill him yourself before you came to fetch us. It wouldn’t have been much of a trick to spill a lamp and set a candle in the puddle as a fuse.”

“What?” Arlian whirled to stare at Wither.

“Well, you said yourself that this was one of the looters you wanted revenge on,” Wither said conversationally. “And we have nothing but your word, now, that Lord Enziet’s done anything out of line, and we all know you want vengeance on him. So why should we take your word that it’s he, and not yourself, behind it all?”

“But… but why would I kill my witness?”

“Why, because he wasn’t your witness,” Wither said. “Supposing that it’s you, and not Enziet, who’s plotting and planning here, then this man Seek might have called you the liar you are, and thrown your whole scheme awry. Now you needn’t worry about that; a dead witness can’t change his tale. And if we believe you, then we condemn Lord Enziet as a murderer trying to cover his tracks, and cast him out of the Society when he won’t reveal the secret of sorcerous prophecy—a secret that, assuming this is all the true situation, has never existed. Then you’ve broken his power and freed yourself of your oath not to kill him, and can pursue your revenge further.”

“But that’s not what happened!” Arlian protested, as Rime hobbled up to join them.

“What’s not what happened?” she asked.

“I was just pointing out to the boy,” Wither said, “that with his witness dead, there’s no proof of his story. It might be Lord Enziet covering up treachery, or it might be Lord Obsidian casting blame on Lord Enziet where none should be.”

“His man’s dead, then?” Rime asked.

“Apparently,” Wither said.

“That’s bad,” Rime said. She looked at Arlian. “Did you kill him?”

“No!” Arlian said. “Enziet did, I’m sure of it!”

“It couldn’t have been an accident?” Arlian, feeling very beset, was suddenly uncertain. “Maybe it could have been,” he said.

That would relieve him of any guilt in Seek’s death—but it would also be an amazingly cruel trick for Fate to have played upon him. It was far easier to believe that Enziet or his underlings had murdered Seek and set the shop ablaze. “It might be best all around if we find out just what did happen,” Rime suggested.

“And be careful about your accusations, boy,” Wither said. “I’ve known Enziet since the dragons ruled, and I’ve known you since last week. Enziet’s a cold bastard, I’ll give you that, but if I had to trust one of you, I think I’d take his side all the same.”

“But… !” Arlian began.

Rime cut him off with a raised hand. “For what it’s worth, I’d probably choose you over Enziet,” she said, “but I can understand Wither’s position. You’re a stranger here, and you’re trying to tell us that a man we’ve known for centuries, the most powerful man in Manfort, has been deceiving to us, lying to us, all these years. We’re going to need something more than your word; are there any other witnesses? Ones that you might bring to us while they’re still alive?”

“I can’t bring them to the hall,” Arlian protested. “Outsiders aren’t permitted.”

“Then there are other witnesses?” Wither asked.

“Four of them,” Arlian said. “If they’re still alive, and if I can find them.”

“Then you find them, and take them to the Old Palace, and keep them there, well guarded, and send a messenger,” Rime said. “Don’t come yourself; don’t leave them with anyone else.”

Arlian frowned. “Lord Enziet could kill the messenger,” he said.

Rime’s mouth twisted into a wry half smile. “I suppose he could,” she said. “You’ll just have to be careful.” She reached up and patted Arlian’s cheek. Wither snorted.

“If you’re telling the truth,” Wither said, “you find another witness. And be more careful than you were with this one!” He turned and stamped away.

Rime smiled encouragingly, then she, too, turned away.

Arlian watched them go, then turned back to face the fire again.

Cover and Hide were dead, which left four witnesses, as he had said—but Dagger and Tooth had both vanished years ago. That meant there were really only two he had any hope of locating. Stonehand was in the Duke’s guards; somehow Arlian did not think he would be quite so cooperative as Seek had been, and threatening a guardsman to force a confession would be dangerous, perhaps suicidal.

Shamble, though, had still worked for Lord Dragon at last report. Arlian remembered him as big and stupid and vicious, and in his experiences in Deep Delving and with the caravan those traits often went along with cowardice; perhaps Shamble could be intimidated into testifying to Lord Dragon’s perfidy.

And as someone who still worked for Lord Enziet Shamble might know other useful secrets, as well. And he might know Sweet’s present circumstances—Arlian was constantly haunted by the knowledge that she was still in Enziet’s possession, and ever since learning what Horim had done to Daub and her anonymous companion he had feared that Sweet and Dove might be long dead.

But then, Enziet had made threats about the lives of innocents that Arlian had assumed were directed at Sweet and Dove. Enziet might have lied, but Arlian hoped the implications were true.

There were many things he wanted to know about Enziet. He could hardly expect Enziet to tell him anything, but Shamble would be an ideal informant, if Arlian could get him to cooperate.

The first part of dealing with Shamble would be to find him and capture him; getting him to cooperate, once captured, would probably be relatively easy. After all, Arlian was a lord, with the heart of the dragon, and Shamble was to all appearances a mere brute.

But Arlian would need to get inside Lord Enziet’s estate to have any chance at capturing him.

Well, then, he told himself, he would have to get inside Lord Enziet’s estate. Now, how could he do that?

Lord Enziet was rich, powerful, and well versed in sorcery.

He was, from all Rime and Wither had said of him, a cautious, patient man, not given to taking careless risks. His home would undoubtedly be well guarded, and kidnapping someone out of it would require something special.

It would call for magic, Arlian was certain—Aritheian magic. He had more of that than anyone else in all the Lands of Man, and this was the time to use it.

He turned away from the dying flames and set out at a trot for the Old Palace.

46