Obsidian Chronicles #02 - The Dragon Society Lawrence Watt Evans

Late one winter night, at an hour when all sensible folk were long abed, a man stood yawning atop the city wall beside the gates of Manfort, leaning against the gate tower and peering every so often into the darkness outside the city. He was wrapped in a thick coat and wore a broad-brimmed black felt hat, but still shivered with the cold, occasionally stamping his feet on the stone battlement.

Then a dull, distant creaking drew his attention. The streets inside the gates and the paved square outside were dark, cold, and empty, but somewhere to the south, far down one of the roads leading out of the plaza, he could see a dim flicker of light. Suddenly alert, he stared at it, shuttering his lantern so that his eyes could adjust more completely to the darkness—and so he would not be seen so easily.

The light drew nearer, and the creaking grew louder, until at last the man on the wall could make out a wagon trundling up the road toward the city. The wagon was large and boxy, drawn by oxen—the sort of wagon used by the caravans that brought goods from all over the Lands of Man. A single lantern dangled from a long iron hook above the driver's seat, providing just enough light to let the tired oxen see where to set their feet.

Caravans did not travel by night, of course—but the man on the wall was not waiting for a caravan. He un-slung the bow on his back and strung it without ever taking his eyes off the approaching vehicle.

The wagon drew steadily nearer, the oxen trudging stolidly up the street toward the plaza, through occasional patches of half-melted slush that had fallen from the roofs on either side; the wheels slipped sideways on the wet cobblestones now and then, but the wagon moved steadily forward.

The two men on the driver's bench sat side by side, huddled against the cold. One, the driver, was a stocky, crop-haired man of indeterminate age clad entirely in black leather he stared into the darkness ahead, as calm and stolid as the oxen pulling the vehicle. Beside him, alternately drowsing and starting into intense alertness, slumped a tall young man wrapped in a black woolen cloak piped with white; a scar marred this man's right cheek. He came alert as the wagon neared the gates and scanned the towers carefully.

The man on the wall beside the tower ducked behind the parapet, out of sight, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his back.

"We should have stopped at an inn," the driver said as the wagon bumped into the plaza. "Dawn can't be more than two hours away. You're exhausted, the oxen are exhausted, I'm tired myself, and we still have to get to the Upper City and get everyone inside."

The young man shook his head sharply. "No," he replied. "I might still have enemies here. If we had arrived by daylight the news of our return would be everywhere in minutes, and they could have had assassins in the crowds on the street before we could get inside the gates, let alone reach the Old Palace."

"They could have assassins on the wall or the rooftops right now, An, and we'd never know it in the dark."

"Only if they knew we were coming," the other said, but he threw a quick glance at the stone parapet, which was little more than a black shape against the starry night sky.

"Lord Toribor is a sorcerer, isn't he?"

The young man snorted. "Lord Belly? Not much of one. He left the sorcery to Enziet and Drisheen."

"You swore to kill Lord Nail, as well as Belly, and surely he knows some sorcery."

"True. I suppose he might know enough to know we were coming."

"Then why don't you think Lord Nail might have archers on the rooftops, waiting for us?"

The younger man sighed. "He might. But he's still sworn not to kill me in Manfort itself, and I think he'll probably keep that oath."

"What about the others, then? Do you think any of them might decide to avenge Enziet or Drisheen?"

"I don't know. I don't know what the rest of the Dragon Society knows, or what they would think of any of it..."

He was interrupted by the slap of a bowstring. The young man was too tired to recognize the sound immediately, but his leather-clad companion reacted instantly, shoving Arlian to one side while he dove to the other. Arlian's hat fell to the pavement.

An arrow whirred between them and embedded itself with a thump in the back of the driver's bench.

"Damn!" Arlian said, fumbling at his belt as if expecting to find a sword there. "Black, where did it come from?"

"There," Black said, pointing at the archer on the wall—who had risen from concealment with another arrow nocked. Arlian tumbled completely out of the wagon, and the arrow smacked into the seat where he had been a moment before.

"If he's smart, he'll shoot the oxen," Black hissed, as he crouched half on and half off the driver's bench.

"Let's hope he's a fool. We can dodge better than they can."

Arlian had gotten to his feet and stepped back beside the still-moving wagon, out of the light. "Thirif!

Shibiel!" he called quietly as he walked alongside.

No one responded.

"Don't wake them," Black said. "They'll stick their heads out, half-asleep, to see what's happening. You could get them killed."

"We could get killed! They might have some magic that would help—maybe an illusion of some sort, like the one they used at the inn in Cork Tree."

"I think we can handle one bowman without magicians, Ari."

"I don't have a sword, Black—it broke back there in the cave, remember? And how do you know there's only one?"

Black didn't reply at first, and Arlian called,

"Black?"

"Hush," Black said. "Listen!"

Arlian listened, and heard creaking wheels, ox hooves slapping on wet pavement...

And something else, farther away. Footsteps. Running footsteps at street level.

"It isn't just one," Black said.

"I sincerely regret being right about that," Arlian said. "Black, I'm completely unarmed."

Another arrow whirred past Arlian's ear, uncomfortably close; apparently he wasn't as well hidden by the wagon as he had hoped.

"Can you use a whip?" Black called.

To drive oxen, yes; to fight, no."

"I'll keep it, then."

A fourth arrow chipped a splinter from the wagon inches from Arlian's nose.

"I notice he's only shooting at me," Arlian said.

"Yes, I know," Black said. "You're the one someone set assassins on."

Arlian noticed that Black's voice seemed to be receding. He risked poking his head forward and looking around.

Black was no longer on the driver's bench. His black leather clothing, black hair, and black beard blended into the darkness, and Arlian could not spot him for several seconds, but finally he made out a low shape moving rapidly forward, bent over and moving with amazing stealth, his drover's whip clutched in one hand. Arlian watched him run a zigzag path across the plaza toward the gates.

He could no longer hear any footsteps; he peered into the darkness, trying to guess where the assassins were. He heard the snap of a bowstring, but did not hear or see the arrow's flight, and the click of a steel point striking stone seemed distant—was this some other bowman at work? The first archer was presumably still on the wall, but those other footsteps had not been...

Someone shouted, and he thought he heard a scuf-fle; he looked for Black, but could not locate him in the darkness.

Then an unfamiliar voice called from some distance, "Lord Obsidian!"

Puzzled, Arlian hesitated, then shouted back, "Who calls?"

"I'm called Horn," came the reply. "I work for Lord Wither."

"Lord Wither sent assassins?" Arlian was startled; while he and Wither had had their disagreements, he had not thought the old man wished him any serious harm.

"No, my lord—we have captured the assassin. I have my knife at his throat. What would you have me do with him?"

This was all far too confusing in Arlian's exhausted condition. "Black?" he called.

There was no reply for a moment; then he heard voices muttering in the distance, too low for him to make out any words. Then Black's voice called, "Wait there, Ari."

Arlian waited, baffled. He glanced up at the battlements just as a light flared, and saw several men, one of them with his hands raised while the others surrounded him. The light came from a lantern in one man's raised hand.

Then the light vanished behind the gate tower, to reappear moments later at the tower's base, where Arlian could see that it was now Black who held the lantern.

There were two others with him, both strangers—but one of them did, as he had said, hold a knife at the other's throat

Arlian had thought there were more people than that in the lantern's glow atop the wall, but there were only the three approaching now. Arlian stood and waited for them.

"Lord Obsidian," the man with the knife said as they drew near the wagon. "This is the assassin."

"And you are Horn?" Arlian asked.

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling me why you are out here in the middle of the night, saving me from assassins?

How did you know who I was?"

"Sorcery, my lord," Horn replied. "Lord Wither grew impatient for your return, and used sorcery to determine when you would arrive—and in so doing, he learned of this ambush, and sent me to ensure your safe arrival."

"That was kind of him," Arlian said. "And is Lord Wither here?"

"No, my lord. He is safely home in bed. He trusted me and my men to deal with matters here."

"Your men?"

"I have others with me. They have remained on the battlements, in case other dangers still lurk."

Arlian nodded. Then he turned his attention to the other stranger, the man with the knife at his throat.

"You meant to kill me?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord." The man's eyes were downcast, staring at the paving stones.

"Why?"

"I was hired to do so, my lord."

"By whom?"

The assassin looked up and met Arlian's gaze.

"My lord, you understand that revealing that would ordinarily put my friends and family at risk, and since you are surely going to kill me in any case..."

"No, I am not," Arlian interrupted.

That seemed to disconcert the assassin; he stammered, then said, "I cannot... I . . . This is a special circumstance, my lord."

"In what way?"

"The man who hired me is dead, my lord. You killed him."

Arlian blinked wearily at him. "Did I? Who was he?'

"Lord Drisheen, my lord."

Arlian nodded. "So I did."

"If he were still alive I would not betray him, but he is dead, and left no family ..."

Arlian snorted at the very idea of Lord Drisheen having a family.

"He paid us half before he left," the assassin continued. "The other half was put in trust, to be delivered when your death was confirmed—if you came back to Manfort; if you died elsewhere, we would not be involved. But we were to kill you outside the gate—he insisted upon that—so my brother and I have been taking turns freezing up on that wall for months. If we had been able to strike in your home ..."

"I'm sure you'd have done better," Arlian said. He noticed that this fellow seemed to have no compunc-tions about betraying his brother's role in the scheme.

"I don't suppose Drisheen told you why I was to be killed?"

The assassin's surprise was plain even by lantern-light. "Revenge, of course. He knew you meant to kill him."

"Of course." Arlian sighed. He looked at the waiting wagon—the oxen had stopped when Black made his dash across the plaza—and at the arrow embedded in the back of the driver's bench.

"Shall I kill him now?" Horn asked.

"No," Arlian said. "Let him go."

"My lord?" Horn said, startled.

"Release him. He's unarmed, of course?"

"Of course," Horn said. "Well, at least we took his sword and knife and bow—he might have other weapons hidden. But surely, my lord, you cannot mean to let him go free?"

"I can and I do. You heard me say I did not mean to kill him, and I don't. Let him go."

Horn hesitated, then lowered the knife and released his hold on the assassin's arm.

"One thing," Arlian said, as the man stood staring stupidly at him. "You are no longer an assassin. If you ever attempt another murder, I will hunt you down and kill you. You heard how Lord Wither's sorcery warned him of your intent—well, I have two Aritheian magicians in this wagon whose magic makes Lord Wither's mightiest sorcery look like a child's game. I have had my fill of vengeance for the nonce, but I am being merciful, not stupid. Do not test me on this; my mercy is limited. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my lord." The assassin bowed deeply.

"You got half your money; enjoy that, and make no further attempt at the rest."

"Yes, my lord."

"Now, go away."

The assassin hesitated, then turned and ran for the gate.

Arlian, Black, and Horn watched him go.

"I had heard, my lord, that you were obsessed with revenge," Horn said. "It would appear I was misinformed."

"You were not misinformed," Arlian said. "My obsession has become more specific than that. I am obsessed with revenge upon the dragons, not upon men."

"In other words, he's mad," Black said cheerfully.

"But he pays well."

Horn grimaced. Arlian studied him.

"So I am under Lord Wither's protection?"

"For the moment, yes," Horn said.

"Why?"

"He says you have something he wants, my lord."

"And has he asked you to collect it for him, or to bring me to him, so that I can pay him for saving my fife?"

"I am not at all sure we did save your life, my lord—

your man here seemed well on his way to settling the matter, had we not done so first. At any rate, we are not to trouble you. Lord Wither will wait upon you in his own good time, when you have had a chance to recover from your journey."

"Will he, indeed?" Arlian had a fairly strong suspicion that Lord Wither's courtesy and consideration was not entirely unselfish. The old man probably thought that a polite approach was more likely to be effective in cozening Arlian. Arlian also had a fairly strong suspicion that he knew what Lord Wither wanted, and that he was not going to get it.

"Thank you for your help, Horn," Arlian said, "and my thanks to Lord Wither for his intervention. Tell him I will be happy to see him in a few days."

Horn bowed.

"Can we go now?" Black asked, gesturing at the wagon.

Horn stepped aside. Arlian retrieved his fallen hat, then hurried to the driver's bench. A moment later he and Black were back in their seats, the arrow embedded in the back of the bench between them had been pulled free and tossed aside, and the oxen were trudging onward as if nothing had happened.

The wagon rolled slowly up the streets of Manfort, toward Arlian's home in the Upper City. "I told you we should have stayed at an inn tonight," Black said. "I don't think he would have attacked us if we had arrived by daylight, with people everywhere."

"Oh, I think he would," Arlian said. "He could have lost himself in the crowds and escaped."

Black clearly didn't believe this, but did not actually say so. Arlian glanced at him, then said, "We had to come through the gate sometime, and I thought our chances were better late at night I may have erred."

"I think you just didn't want to wait any longer than necessary to get home," Black replied. "Not even a few hours."

"That's part of it," Arlian admitted. "After all, Hasty's child is due at any time, if it hasn't come already. But also, I have a reputation to keep up as Lord Obsidian." He caught himself on the edge of the seat as the wagon bumped over a loose paving stone.

"Which do you think is a better entrance—riding in openly at midday, dirty and tired, in a cheap old trader's wagon, or simply reappearing without warning, back in place at the Old Palace?"

"Why do you still care what anyone thinks?" Black demanded, throwing his companion an angry glance.

"Enziet and Drisheen and the others are dead, and Nail and Belly know you for who you are. Who are you trying to impress?"

"Everyone I can. If I intend to hunt down and kill the dragons that destroyed my village, I'm going to need help. I can't do it alone."

Black glanced at him, and saw that his companion's expression was intent, although he was staring into empty darkness. Clearly, Arlian was seeing something other than the street ahead of them, and Black suspected it had something to do with dragons. "You probably can't do it at all, Ari," he said gently.

"I have to try."

Black's manner turned harsher. "And just who do you think could possibly help? Lord Wither? He seems to be eager enough to help you as it is, at least against Drisheen's assassins, but what could he do against a dragon? Who are you trying to impress?"

"The Duke of Manfort, for one," Arlian replied.

"His ancestors led humanity in the wars against the dragons, seven hundred years ago. He might welcome a chance to continue the job."

Black grimaced. "He's more likely to hang you. After all, you hunted down and killed his chief adviser. If he's sufficiently annoyed about that I don't think it will matter whether he finds you in your palace or in the gutter. It's lucky for you that he probably doesn't have the wits to find anything but wine, food, and women without an adviser telling him where to look—and un-lucky for your plans that I don't think he has the nerve to do anything about the dragons."

Arlian shrugged. "If his advisers urge him on, who knows what he might do?"

"Arlian, why would his advisers urge him to do anything as insane as hunting dragons? The only one mad enough to even consider it is sitting beside me on this wagon."

Arlian did not argue with that; instead he asked,

"Who are the Duke's advisers now? The names I knew were Lord Enziet, Lord Drisheen, Lord Hardior, and Lady Rime."

"Well, you've just named the four best known."

Arlian smiled wryly. "And it would seem I've killed two of them."

"So you did," Black acknowledged. "And I believe Lord Hardior fell out of favor last year. That leaves Lady Rime."

"Who sleeps behind us," Arlian said. He glanced over his shoulder at the interior of the wagon. "I'm amazed she didn't wake during our little encounter at the gate."

"She might well have awakened and had the sense to stay quiet."

"So she might," Arlian agreed. He glanced back into the wagon again, but could not make out any of the passengers—the lantern was positioned so that its light did not penetrate far into the interior.

"At any rate, Lady Rime was not here to maintain her position or claim Enziet's," Black said, "and somehow I doubt that void went unfilled. There is undoubtedly some sweet-tongued scoundrel who has wormed his way into the Duke's favor in our absence—Lord Hardior, reclaiming his position, or perhaps some other courtier."

"And we don't know who that might be, nor whether he's kindly disposed toward us, so wouldn't you say it would be best to impress him?"

"Oh, I suppose so," Black muttered.

"One might expect that whoever it is would be grateful to us for removing Enziet and Drisheen and creating an opportunity for advancement in the Duke's favor," Arlian suggested hopefully.

"Gratitude is a virtue that is expected more than practiced," Black remarked dryly.

"I've noticed that," Arlian admitted. He looked around at the deserted streets.

Here and there a torch or lantern cast an orange glow across the gray stone walls and stone-paved streets of Manfort, or the mounds of dirty, melting snow, but for the most part the city was dark. There was no sign of any further ambush, nor any sign of Horn or Lord Wither's other men—but then, why should there be? Drisheen had left the city hurriedly, and had little time to prepare; furthermore, like ail members of the Dragon Society, he had been sworn not to seriously harm another member within the city walls. He had probably only had time to commission the one pair of assassins, and would not have arranged an attack to take place within the city—he had surely expected to return, and to take up his place once more in the Society, so he would not have broken his oath so openly.

And Lord Wither would know that.

Arlian, Wither, Drisheen, Enziet—they were all members of the Dragon Society, all dragonhearts.

Each of them had survived an encounter with a dragon. Each had at some point swallowed a mixture of human blood and dragon venom, and had been transformed thereby. Long ago a few dragonhearts—

Enziet, Wither, and the long-dead Rehirian—had founded the Society with the stated purpose of opposing the dragons however they might, of avenging the attacks they had survived, the attacks that had slain their friends and families. For centimes, every known dragonheart in the Lands of Man had eventually joined And thos

the Society.e dragonhearts were no longer entirely human.

Dragonhearts did not age. They were immune to poisons and disease. They all had, to varying degrees, a supernatural vigor—dragonhearts were a shade stronger and faster than ordinary men, and did not tire as easily. They possessed an unnatural charisma, so that all of them, over the centuries of life the elixir granted them, were able to become wealthy and powerful. Every member of the Society, no matter how lowly born, was now a lord or lady, as the terms were used in the Lands of Man—owners of profitable businesses, with multiple employees they did not oversee directly.

Those were the positive effects of the heart of the dragon. The less pleasant consequences included sterility, toxic blood—and other things, secrets that most of them did not yet know. Further, dragonhearts tended to grow cold and detached from normal society over the years, and had therefore banded together in their own secret society—though even there, their re-lationships were often less than cordial.

Arlian, for example, had vowed to kill five of his fellow members, as well as various other people, in vengeance for certain crimes. He had dealt with three of those five—Horim, Drisheen, and Enziet.

Drisheen, it seemed, had attempted to return the favor. That left Lord Stiam, known as Nail, and Lord Toribor, also called Belly, at least nominally Arlian's sworn foes—but he was certain that neither of them would try to kill him inside the walls, either directly or through hirelings. They took their oaths seriously.

So he was safe, for the moment, and had only to get home to the Old Palace. He peered around in the darkness, trying to recognize where he was. After an absence of more than four months Arlian was not entirely certain he could have found his own way to his estate by night; he had lived in Manfort only briefly.

Black, though, seemed to know every twist and turn of the route. He guided the oxen unhesitatingly up the slope toward the Upper City. It occurred to Arlian that he didn't know whether Black was a native of Manfort, or whether he had come from somewhere else originally. Black was not particularly prone to talk about his own past, beyond a few amusing anecdotes he would sometimes retail when drunk.

Arlian respected that. After all, his own history was not something he wanted widely known. He had told Black and Rime and a few others the entire story, and much of it had been revealed during his initiation into the Dragon Society, but to most of the population of Manfort Lord Obsidian was a figure of mystery, his background unknown.

And since he was an escaped slave, that was a very good thing. Arlian doubted that a runaway mine slave who had stolen and adventured his way into a fortune would get the same respect as someone whose background was entirely unknown.

He had not been born a slave; he had been born Arlian of the Smoking Mountain, a free citizen in the mining village known to outsiders as Obsidian. The natives had never bothered with a name among themselves, since there was only the one village on the Smoking Mountain; Arlian had not known that anyone called it Obsidian until long after the place was destroyed.

He had been a boy of eleven when three dragons swooped down from the overcast sky of a sweltering summer day and burned the village to the ground. He had survived in his family's cellar, where he had been trapped beneath his grandfather's corpse—and where he had swallowed a mixture of his grandfather's blood and a dragon's venom.

It was in the aftermath of that destruction that Arlian had been captured by looters and sold into slavery. He had spent seven years in the mines of Deep Delving before an overseer, grateful that Arlian had saved his life, had helped the young man escape.

Arlian had not dared to use his real name for a time after his escape, and had gone through several other names before finally arriving in Manfort, wealthy from adventures in Westguard and the magic-haunted south, and adopting the identity of Lord Obsidian.

As a boy he had sworn to avenge his home's destruction, and his own enslavement. He had later also sworn to avenge the murder of friends in Westguard, and the abuses suffered by the slaves kept in the brothel there known as the House of Carnal Society and the House of the Six Lords.

A sadistic overseer from the mines in Deep Delving, a young man known as Lampspiller, was also on Arlian's list of people who deserved punishment for their crimes, but he was only a minor concern.

Arlian had made a good start on fulfilling those oaths of vengeance. Most of the looters were dead; the last two, Dagger and Tooth, had long since vanished from Manfort and were perhaps dead as well.

Of the six lords who had been behind the atrocities in Westguard, Arlian had rid the world of four—three dragonhearts, and Lord Kuruvan.

The other two were the least of the lot—Nail had gone so far as to apologize for his actions and turn over the two women he had still held as household slaves, and Arlian had fought and wounded Toribor once already, almost three months ago, in a nighttime duel in the streets of a town called Cork Tree. Toribor's pair of maimed slaves. Cricket and Brook, were now safely in the back of Arlian's wagon, with Lady Rime and two Aritheian magicians, and pursuing their former master did not seem especially urgent. As he had told the assassin, Arlian had had his fill of vengeance, at least for now, and at least against men and women.

But then there were the dragons—not merely the three who had burned Obsidian and slaughtered Arlian's family, but all the dragons that still lived deep beneath the earth, and ventured forth to kill and burn when the whim struck them. Arlian wanted them all dead.

No man, it was said, had ever slain a dragon, in all of human history—not in the old days when the dragons ruled the world, nor in modern times when the dragons had retired to their caverns and left humanity to mind its own affairs.

So it was said—but it wasn't true.

Arlian had killed a dragon.

Admittedly it had been only a newborn dragon, a mere infant, and even so he had almost died fighting it, but he had killed a dragon.

Save for the venom scar on his face, his injuries from that battle were healed now—or at least, the injuries to his flesh; he was not sure just how much damage had been done to his spirit. He had learned things in that conflict that troubled him deeply.

He had also learned secrets that he thought might enable him to someday slay the dragons that had destroyed his home and family, as he had slain the infant—secrets that might eventually allow the complete extermination of dragons—but there were complications, very severe complications.

Arlian wanted to think everything out very carefully before continuing his quest for vengeance—and he definitely intended to continue.

He could do that thinking anywhere, but he preferred to do it in Manfort, heart of the Lands of Man, in his home the Old Palace, a rambling monstrosity that the current Duke of Manfort's grandfather had abandoned as too expensive to maintain, but which Lord Obsidian had bought and restored.

It was in Manfort that Lord Toribor and Lord Nail lived. It was in Manfort that Lord Enziet had served as chief adviser to the Duke. It was in Manfort that the Dragon Society, the sorcerous secret masters of the Lands of Man, met—and it was inside Manfort's walls that the members were sworn not to kill one another. If Arlian stayed elsewhere, his enemies in the Society could send assassins after him, but here, they could not.

It was in Manfort that his potential allies dwelt, as well. If he hoped to wipe out the dragons, he would almost certainly need a great deal of assistance, and the Dragon Society—at least, those members, like Lord Wither or Lady Rime, who had no reason to hate or fear him—seemed a likely source for that aid.

Though there were complications.

And it was in Manfort that he had a household awaiting him—his hired servants, and four of the women he had saved from the House of the Six Lords.

He held no slaves, of course; after his years in the mines Arlian could hardly allow slavery in his own home. His four guests had been brothel slaves for years, their feet amputated to prevent any attempt at flight, but he had freed them.

He had freed those four—but it should have been more. Arlian's gut knotted at the memory of poor Sweet, who had died in his arms; of Sweet's friend Dove, whose bones still lay in Lord Enziet's house; and of Sparkle and Ferret, whom Lord Drisheen had hanged out of spite rather than permit Arlian to rescue them.

There were the two in the wagon, Cricket and Brook, which made six in all, but still, the House of the Six Lords had had sixteen unwilling occupants.

Arlian had been unable to save ten of them.

He sat, silently remembering, as the wagon moved slowly up the street, and then dozed briefly and unhappily, the faces of dead women drifting through fragmented dreams.

He jerked awake again as the wagon bumped across a gutter as it crossed an intersection. He glimpsed the familiar outline of the Old Palace ahead, a black shape barely distinguishable from the black night sky behind it. The windows were dark, and no lantern hung at the gate or in the forecourt.

"We're almost there," he remarked.

"Almost," Black agreed.

"I hope someone's awake to admit us."

"I have the keys," Black said.

Arlian nodded. He should have expected as much, he told himself; Black was always prepared. A man of great foresight; Arlian knew he had been very lucky to stumble into such a companion, and even luckier that Black had stayed with him for so long.

Oh, he paid Black a generous salary, and Black was moderately susceptible to the superhuman charisma of anyone possessing the heart of the dragon, but there was no question that Black had the willpower and common sense to leave if he chose.

That he did not so choose flattered Arlian immensely. He wondered sometimes whether he deserved such an honor.

"I think the postern would be appropriate," Black suggested, breaking into Arlian's thoughts. "Given the hour."

"Of course," Arlian agreed—though if he had been driving in his current weary state he would have taken the wagon directly to the front gate without thinking about it.

Black clucked and pulled at the reins, and the oxen turned in to the alley, bound for the kitchen entrance.

A moment later the wagon creaked to a stop, and Black leapt to the ground. "You wake the others," he said. "I'll unlock the doors and see if there's a fire."

Arlian, who had been poised to jump down after his steward, caught himself. "Of course," he said. He turned and ducked down into the body of the wagon, dodging the arrow that still stood in the floorboards.

The Arithean magicians were curled up on one side, Lady Rime on the other; at the back, sleeping on cushions atop the luggage, were Cricket and Brook.

There was no sense in waking the younger women until someone was available to carry them; Arlian turned to the magicians, Thirif and Shibiel, first. He shook Thirif's shoulder gently. The Arithean stirred and sat up, then awakened his companion while Arlian turned his attention to Lady Rime. Rime came awake instantly and stared up at him.

"We're at the Old Palace," he told her. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, or we can take you to your own home once we have the others safely inside."

Rime shot a glance at the sleeping women, and another at the magicians. "I'll stay here tonight," she said.

"It's almost dawn," Arlian said.

"Then I'll stay the morning," Rime replied. She twisted around, pulled her wooden leg from the corner where she had secured it, and set about strapping it onto the stump of her left leg.

"Good," Arlian said. He turned toward the others, and found Cricket already stirring, her sleep disturbed by their voices.

A moment later Black returned to announce that the postern was open, the kitchen fire burning, and the staff alerted. "Will you want breakfast, my lord?" he asked.

Arlian blinked at him.

"I want sleep," he said. "Have my bed readied, and places found for all of us. Anything else can wait."

"As you will, my lord," Black said.

Arlian stared at him for a moment. Black had slipped easily back into his formal role as steward after months of casual equality on the road; Arlian, in his exhausted condition, could not make the adjustment so readily. "Let us fetch the women," he said, gesturing toward Cricket and Brook.

Black nodded.

Everyone was awake now, and the Aritheans lent a hand in getting Brook and Cricket down from their perch and out of the wagon.

Brook stared at the arrow, but said nothing. The others seemed not to notice it. Arlian suspected that Rime had been awake for at least a portion of their encounter with Drisheen's assassin, and had already seen it.

"We're really here?" Cricket asked sleepily, as Black lifted her and started for the postern. "I'll really see Lily and Kitten and Hasty and Musk?"

"You really will," Black assured her.

She smiled happily. "That's wonderful! What else could I ask for?"

"Feet," Brook said grumpily as Arlian hoisted her in his arms, the stumps of her ankles waving in the air.

And on that note, Lord Obsidian re-entered his home.

Arlian came awake with the odd impression that he had coughed. His throat felt entirely fine, however. He blinked up at the plaster nymphs on the dimly lit ceiling.

"Ahem."

That explained it, he realized. He hadn't coughed; someone else had, to awaken him. He lifted his head.

He saw at once that the light in his chamber was only dim because the curtains were drawn. The narrow gap where one pair failed to close completely allowed a beam of sunlight, like a bright golden screen, to cut across the far end of the room at a steep angle.

From that, Arlian judged it to be roughly midday.

It was good to be home, he thought, where he could sleep away the morning in a real bed, untroubled by innkeepers or the exigencies of travel. He stretched beneath die covers, enjoying the feel and smell of the fine linen sheets, then looked around for the source of the cough.

Old Venlin, Arlian's chief footman, was standing at his bedside, carefully not looking at his lord and master. "Good morning, Venlin," Arlian said. "Assuming, of course, that it is still morning."

"It is, my lord," Venlin said, "though in another hour or so the sun will indeed be past its zenith."

"Then it's time I was up and about my business, wouldn't you say?"

'It's not my place to instruct you, my lord," Venlin said.

"Of course," Arlian said, flinging aside the sheet and counterpane and swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed. "Still, I won't fault you for offering your opinion when asked. And right now, I wouldn't fault you for fetching my robe."

"As you wish, my lord," Venlin said, stepping to the wardrobe. "Might I suggest, if you do indeed welcome my opinion, that you might wish to dress immediately? You have a visitor waiting."

"Ah!" Arlian smiled as he stood, clad only in his shirt. "That's why you're here at my bedside, then. I thought perhaps the kitchen staff had simply become impatient about keeping my breakfast warm. Who is it, then? Lord Wither?" Horn had said Wither would wait until Arlian had had time to recover from his journey, which should have meant at least a day or two, but Arlian supposed Wither might have yielded to impatience.

"No, my lord."

"Oh? Then one of our unfortunate female guests, perhaps?"

"No, my lord—your steward has explained to them that you need to rest after your journey, and they are accordingly restraining their eagerness to see you.

Your visitor is a gentleman who says he represents Lord Enziet."

Arlian's smile and good mood vanished; for one nightmarish instant he thought he had dreamed his long pursuit of his enemies southward along the caravan road, had imagined that horrific final battle with Lord Enziet, most appropriately also known as Lord Dragon...

But he could feel the scar on his cheek, could remember it all far more clearly than any dream, and he knew Enziet was in fact dead.

But the people of Manfort, and of Enziet's household and estates, might not know it yet. And even if they did, they might well still have posthumous mis-sions, as Drisheen's hired assassin had.

He did not think Enziet had hired assassins—he would have left that to Drisheen. Presumably this visitor was some servant of Enziet's, here on some long-delayed business—or to demand any news Arlian might have of Enziet's whereabouts. Whatever he wanted, Arlian could not see how it could be good.

The news of Arlian's return must have spread quickly, even more quickly than he had expected, if someone from Enziet's household had already heard of it and come to call. Perhaps Drisheen's assassin—

Arlian wished he had thought to get the archer's name—had carried the word.

"I'll meet him in the small salon in ten minutes,"

Arlian bowed, and departed.

This meeting with the dead man's representative seemed to demand a certain degree of formality, so it was actually closer to twenty minutes before Arlian strode into the small salon, washed and brushed, re-splendent in his best black velvets, his vest and jacket trimmed with white lace and worn over a white silk blouse.

Just outside the door of the salon he had passed a pair of his servants, a woman called Stammer and a youth named Wolt, obviously planning to eavesdrop; he pretended not to be aware of their presence. He doubted anything would be said that he didn't want them to hear, and he could always chase them away later if it became necessary.

In the salon he found two men waiting for him. One was Black, of course, in the white-piped black livery of the household. The other was a thin, gray-haired man Arlian had seen before, also dressed in black. His coat was trimmed with gold, however, rather than with white.

Arlian knew those colors, and after a second he recognized the face, as well—this was Enziet's own steward. He had been expecting a mere messenger, not the head of Enziet's staff.

Arlian stopped dead.

Enziet's steward bowed, and said, "My lord Obsidian."

"Good day, sir," Arlian said. "I understand you wish to speak to me." He kept his tone formal, but not openly hostile; after all, this man was a mere hireling.

"Indeed, my lord. I am here at the direction of Lord Enziet—who, I am told, is dead." He glanced at Black.

"He is," Arlian said. "I saw him plunge his swordbreaker into his chest and tear out his own heart, in service of dark sorcery."

The steward swallowed. "Ah," he said.

"Did you think I had killed him, then?" Arlian asked mildly. "We fought, yes, but in the end it was his own blade that slew him." This was technically true, but highly misleading; Arlian had no intention of explaining the actual circumstances of Enziet's demise. He did not want to encourage any sort of retribution.

He wished he could have denied killing Lord Drisheen, as well, but alas, there had been several witnesses to that. And of course, Lord Drisheen had arranged his own attempt at retribution.

"I am not unduly concerned with the manner of his death, my lord," Enziet's steward replied. "Merely the certainty that it occurred."

"It did," Arlian said. "In a cave beneath the Desolation. I witnessed it, as I have said, and my man Black saw the body as well, and can attest that the heart had been ripped out and that Lord Enziet is no more."

The steward nodded. "We had reason to believe that my lord Enziet was dead some time ago," he said.

"Through sorcerous means."

"That does not surprise me," Arlian said. "Lord Enziet was a sorcerer of renown."

"Yes." The steward's reply was a flat acceptance of Arlian's statement, with nothing of surprise or flattery or displeasure in it.

"And why does this bring you here?" Arlian asked.

"Did your master leave a message for me, to be delivered upon my return? A threat, perhaps, or a curse?"

It occurred to him that there had been time for a message to be delivered before he left Manfort in pursuit of Lord Enziet; he had not rushed out on the other man's heels, but days later. Whatever brought this man here was something intended to follow Enziet's death.

"A curse? On the contrary," the steward said. "As Lord Enziet was preparing to depart, I asked him when we should expect his return, and he said he did not know, and explained the sorcery that would allow us to determine that he yet lived. I asked what we should do if he never returned, and he said these words: 'If I die and Obsidian lives, then let it be his problem."

Arlian frowned, but before he could speak the steward continued, "I asked him to explain that further, and he did. My lord Obsidian, Lord Enziet has named you his sole heir in all things."

"He ..." Arlian stopped after that single word, and his mouth snapped shut. He stared at the steward.

As he stared, though, he was thinking about what the man had said and realizing that it was very much the sort of thing Enziet might have done. Arlian had been his bitterest foe, certainly—at least, his bitterest human foe—but Enziet had not been inclined to anger or hatred. His passions were colder than that, cold and cunning as a dragon, any human warmth he might once have had long since dead.

Enziet could have had no natural heir, after all. His blood and heart tainted by the venom of a dragon, he had lived for nearly a thousand years; any family he might once have had was long dead. And while the venom bestowed long life and immunity to poison and disease, another effect was sterility—for the past several centuries Enziet had been unable to sire children.

Nor had he had any friends or colleagues he would have trusted to succeed him. The few comrades he viewed as anything near his equals had all been ancient dragonhearts like himself, cold and treacher-ous—his closest companion, Lord Drisheen, had accompanied him on his final journey, and had died on Arlian's blade at an inn in Cork Tree.

Arlian had slain Lord Horim, whom Enziet had used as his proxy in duels, in a duel outside Manfort's gates. Later he had severely wounded Lord Toribor, another of Enziet's sometime companions. Enziet could not have relied upon any of his friends surviving Arlian's thirst for revenge, save perhaps the Duke of Manfort, and Enziet was hardly foolish enough to rely on the Duke for anything at all.

And Arlian could easily imagine that Enziet would consider his killer his only equal. It was very much his way of thinking. Nor would Enziet have thought he was doing anyone any great favor by naming him his heir. He knew Arlian had all the wealth he wanted.

The real question here was just what else Enziet's legacy might contain, besides mere riches. Drisheen's legacy had been an assassin of limited competence; Enziet's, while seemingly far more benevolent, might well prove more troublesome.

"His heir in all things, you say," Arlian said.

"Indeed, my lord," the steward said with a bow.

"Do you know what he meant by that?"

The steward hesitated, then said, "I assumed that he meant precisely what he said, my lord—that you are now the master of all his enterprises, of whatever sort, and that his estates and all their contents are now yours, to do with as you please. It is with that understanding that I place myself at your service, my lord."

"I already have a steward," Arlian said, with a wave at Black. "Tell me, though—do you think Lord Enziet meant me to assume his obligations, as well?"

The steward, discomfited, glanced at Black before replying, "I am not aware that my former master had any significant obligations, my lord."

Arlian's mouth twisted wryly. "Oh, he had obligations, indeed. And vows, and secrets. And I'm not at all sure I know enough of those secrets to keep up with the obligations."

"I don't understand, my lord."

"Of course you don't," Arlian said. "I'm not sure I do." He gestured at the chairs. "Do sit down," he said.

"I need to think, and there's no need for us all to tire our feet while I do it."

Enziet's steward—Arlian realized he had no idea of the man's name—bowed, then obeyed, sinking into a chair of gilded oak and dark leather. Arlian took a seat on one of the blue silk couches for himself, and Black settled on the other.

Black cleared his throat, and Arlian glanced at him.

"My lord," he said, "do you intend to claim this legacy?"

"Of course," Arlian said, leaning back in his chair.

"Has it occurred to you that Lord Enziet might have prepared some elaborate vengeance? A deadfall tripped by entering his private chambers, perhaps, or some subtle poison on his personal papers?"

"An interesting suggestion," Arlian said, glancing at Enziet's steward, "especially in view of certain events last night."

"I can assure you, my lord, that..."

Arlian held up a hand to silence him.

"I am quite sure that you are not aware of any such traps," Arlian said. "Furthermore, I think it very unlikely that any exist. Lord Enziet intended to dispose of me far more directly, and was far too pragmatic to concern himself with any elaborate revenge—at least, any revenge so lacking in subtlety as killing me outright; he was not as simple as Lord Drisheen. I think Enziet might well have taken some aesthetic pleasure in leaving me heir to his own problems, though."

"Ari ..." Black began, but Arlian cut him off.

"There may be traps. There may even be assassins.

We will check for them carefully. However, I think them unlikely. Enziet expected me to die, and himself to live, and disarming such traps or paying off hired killers upon his return would be a nuisance I'm sure he would have preferred to avoid. Furthermore, dear Black, if you'll recall, Lord Enziet left quite hastily; I don't think he would have taken the time to devise and implement such a thing."

"He was in quite a hurry," Enziet's steward confirmed.

Arlian nodded, and for a moment the three men were silent as they contemplated the situation. Then Arlian said, "Tell me, does Lord Enziet's legacy include slaves?"

"Of course," the steward said. "I believe there are eight here in the city, and hundreds on his country estates."

"They're all to be freed immediately."

The steward's mouth opened, then snapped shut.

"As you say," he said.

"Are you one of them?" Black asked.

The steward hesitated, then said, "Lord Enziet gave me my freedom some time ago."

"Ah. You were a slave once," Black said.

"Then perhaps you understand my distaste for that institution," Arlian said.

The steward replied with an ambiguous gesture, not quite a nod, not quite a shrug.

"Whether you understand or not, as Enziet's heir, I am now your employer, am I not?"

"If you'll have me, my lord."

"You wish to remain? You understand that I have a steward in whom I am well pleased, and that you will serve merely as chamberlain of certain properties."

"I do, my lord."

"Then do as I say. Every slave is to be freed immediately. Furthermore, they are to be offered employment as free men and women, but are by no means to be co-erced in their decision to accept or reject that employment. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough."

"As you say, my lord," the steward said, bowing his head.

Arlian did not think the man looked entirely convinced that the order was a good idea, but at least he seemed to accept that Arlian was serious.

"What's your name?" Arlian asked.

"Ferrezin, my lord."

"Good. Once the slaves have been dealt with, I will need an inventory of my legacy."

"I will see to it."

A thought struck Arlian. "When time permits, I wish to know who is heir to Lord Drisheen, as well."

Ferrezin looked up. "Then Lord Drisheen ..."

"... is dead, as well," Arlian concluded. "I slew him myself." There was no point in trying to conceal the fact since there had been several witnesses. "He did not see me as kindly as your late master; we have already met and disposed of an assassin he had hired before his departure."

Ferrezin nodded. "I had heard rumors. I will inquire as to his heirs, my lord."

"Excellent. Is there anything more you wish to tell me, then?"

Ferrezin thought for a moment. "I have no further instructions," he said. "I would ask, though, when we might expect Lord Obsidian to visit his new holdings, in Manfort and elsewhere."

"I will come by Lord Enziet's manor tomorrow afternoon, I believe, by which time I trust a preliminary outline of that inventory will be ready."

"Very good, my lord." Ferrezin rose and bowed.

"Black will see you to the door," Arlian said, rising as well. That would give the two men a chance to exchange any steward-to-steward remarks that were inappropriate for the master's ear—and it would give him time to think.

Ferrezin bowed again, then snapped upright and wheeled on one heel. He and Black left the salon, and Arlian stood, looking after them.

So he was Lord Enziet's heir—and in more ways than Ferrezin could possibly know.

In that cave beneath the Desolation, far south of the walls of Manfort, he had learned a secret that Enziet had guarded for centuries—and other secrets, as well.

That first great secret was a burden and a power, and on the long journey north, as his wounds had healed and he and his companions had made their slow way back to Manfort, he had thought about it often. Now, though, the news that he had become heir to Enziet's goods as well as his knowledge seemed to bring a new clarity.

The secret was simple enough—the method by which the dragons, once rulers of much of the world but now sleeping in their caverns beneath the earth, reproduced themselves.

Enziet had known that secret, and with it he had, centuries ago, compelled the dragons to leave the Lands of Man. He had put an end to the Man-Dragon Wars by exchanging oaths with the dragons—if they departed from the Lands of Man and allowed him to live, then he would permit them to live and breed, and would keep their secret safe.

Enziet had kept his end of the bargain up to the very instant of his death, when all had become clear to Arlian.

Dragons reproduced by contaminating humans with their venom, mixed with human blood. The elixir that bestowed the "heart of the dragon" upon any ordinary mortal who drank it—as Arlian had, when he lay trapped beneath his grandfather's bleeding, venom-drenched corpse—did more than anyone else had known.

Every member of the Dragon Society knew that a dragonheart was immune to disease and lived for centuries—and during that extended lifespan a dragonheart became ever more detached from humanity, ever more like a dragon. A dragonhearts blood was inhuman, toxic to normal humans, and became more so over time. They knew that, too.

What they did not know was that at the end of a thousand years, more or less, that poisoned blood became a dragon, and burst forth from its human shell.

Arlian had seen the dragon that sprang from Enziet's heart, had seen Enziet's mind behind its eyes—

and had slain it, there in the caves beneath the Desolation.

That was the second great secret, the one Enziet had guessed at but never known for certain. All his life Arlian had heard that no man had ever slain a dragon; he did not know whether it had been true before Enziet's death, but it was true no longer. He had done what even Enziet had never managed.

Dragons were an incarnation of fire and darkness, immune to all weapons of wood or steel—but obsidian, the volcanic glass for which Arlian's home had been named, was fire and darkness made stone, and could cut a dragon's flesh. Enziet had made an obsidian dagger, and Arlian had found it and with it killed the dragon Enziet had become.

These were the two great secrets Arlian knew about the dragons—how they were born, and how they could die. These were Enziet's true legacy, far more precious than his house or lands.

When the dragons destroyed the village of Obsidian and slaughtered Arlian's family, he had sworn to destroy the dragons or die in the attempt. For years, everyone who learned of this oath told him he was mad.

Arlian thought it was entirely possible that he was mad—there could be no question that he had lived through experiences that could drive a man mad—but he also saw that thanks to Enziet, he did indeed have a chance to destroy the dragons, once and for all. In theory, he could hunt them down in their caverns, deep beneath the earth, and kill them while they slept—obsidian weapons should, he hoped, be sufficient.

He could not be certain of that until he tried it, but an obsidian blade thrust into its heart had been enough to kill a newborn dragon, and he could only hope that this vulnerability was not something dragons outgrew.

Finding their underground lairs would be a challenge, but he thought it could be done—by following rumors, by using sorcery, somehow he was sure he could find the dragons.

Furthermore, once he found and slew the existing dragons, he could end the entire race of dragons forever, free humanity of any threat of their resurgence, by destroying all the dragonhearts in the Lands of Man.

Of course, he was one of those dragonhearts, as was his friend Rime, as were all the other members of the Dragon Society.

There might be some way to cure them of the draconic taint, by sorcery or other means, to turn them back to mere mortal men and women again so that they would not undergo the hideous transformation Enziet had—but there might not be any such possibility, and if Arlian could not find a cure he would have to kill them all, and then end his campaign by destroying himself, as well.

Slaughtering the entire Society would take careful planning, and probably some treachery, since he was sworn not to kill any of the Society's members inside the walls of Manfort. He would therefore leave that until later; he would start by hunting down the dragons. That would be a daunting challenge in itself, certainly.

If he survived it and completed the hunt, only then, when the dragons were gone, would he turn his attention to the Society. And only when he was certain that he had exterminated all the others would he take his own life.

This would take a very long time, but after all, there was no hurry. He had a thousand years or so.

When Ferrezin had departed, Arlian began the business of restoring the Old Palace to its proper operation. He waited until Black had seen Ferrezin out, then inquired as to the condition of the staff.

As steward, Black was responsible for overseeing the household, and even though Black had, like himself, only just returned from an absence of months, Arlian was certain that he would have arisen earlier and already seen to his business.

Arlian was correct in that assumption.

"I haven't spoken to everyone," he said, "but Stammer assures me the pantries and larders are well stocked and the ovens and cookware all in good condition."

Stammer was a young widow Arlian had hired after her husband's death of a fever; the deceased, Cover, had been one of the looters Lord Enziet had brought to the ruins of Arlian's village, but Arlian did not blame Stammer for her spouse's crimes. She had proven loyal and competent, and now ran the kitchens.

"Venlin reports the formal coach is in good repair and the horses all healthy," Black continued. "The footmen are all well and at their posts."

Arlian nodded.

"Hasty appears to have taken charge of the house-maids. The house appears clean, but beyond that I can't say."

That was no surprise; Hasty was not the sort to give succinct summaries of anything. She was not a servant, but a guest—one of the former inmates of the House of Carnal Society, her feet amputated to prevent any possibility of escape. When the House was burned Hasty and another woman, Kitten, were taken by Lord Kuruvan, the only ordinary mortal among the six proprietors.

Arlian had dueled Lord Kuruvan and won, freeing the two women. Hasty, however, carried the late Lord Kuruvan's unborn child—who surely could not remain unborn much longer. Arlian felt considerable responsibility for the coming child, since he had killed its father.

"Hasty—has her child been born?" Arlian asked.

"Not yet."

"I should visit her."

"Yes, you should," Black agreed. "You should also talk to Qulu and Isein at the first opportunity."

Qulu and Isein were two of the three Aritheian magicians in Arlian's direct employ; the third, Shibiel, had accompanied Arlian into the Desolation, and would have nothing to report.

Qulu and Isein, though, had had charge of the trade in magical devices that was the basis for much of Lord Obsidian's immense fortune. Arlian had been the first person in decades to make the perilous journey across the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei, reopening the trade route between that mysterious realm where wild magic was everywhere, and the Lands of Man, where magic was scarce and expensive. He had brought back three wagonloads of magical devices, but was no magician himself, and had hired Qulu, Isein, and Shibiel to use and sell those devices.

"Of course. Have you seen them?"

"My responsibilities are the household and your person, Ari; your business enterprises are none of my concern."

"Now, does that mean that they wouldn't talk to you, or that you haven't yet found the time to track them down?"

"It means I delegated that to Thirif and Shibiel, whom I saw at breakfast, and Thirif later told me that Qulu and Isein are glad you have returned, and want to discuss matters with you."

"Very good." Arlian smiled. Thirif was not actually in Arlian's employ, but he had nonetheless joined the pursuit of Lord Enziet, and had provided invaluable assistance. "Is Rime still here?"

"Lady Rime left about an hour ago, to attend to her own estates. She said to tell you that she expects to be quite busy for some time, catching up on matters neglected during her absence."

That was no great surprise, although Arlian would have liked a chance to say a farewell and thank Rime for her assistance on the road—and to ask whether she had, in fact, been awake during the events on the plaza outside the gate.

Perhaps, after months spent in close quarters, she had wanted to waste no time in putting a little space between Arlian and herself. If so, he could scarcely blame her. The wagon had been quite crowded.

"And what else?"

The two of them ran quickly through other household matters—not all of which Black had yet investigated. That done, Arlian hesitated. He wanted to see the guests he had left behind—Hasty, Kitten, Lily, and Musk. He also wanted to make sure Cricket and Brook were settling in comfortably.

But business, in the form of Isein and Qulu, beckoned. He left Black to attend to other matters while he turned his own steps toward what had once been the ducal treasury and accounting offices, back when the Old Palace had been the seat of government for the city of Manfort. Arlian had established his own businesses in that wing.

He found Isein and Shibiel talking quietly in their native language in the old tax assessor's hearing chamber; they looked up when he entered, but neither woman spoke immediately—probably because, Arlian thought, neither of them was entirely comfortable speaking Man's Tongue as yet.

Arlian stepped into the room, then bowed.

"My best to you both," he said. "Isein, it is a pleasure to see you again after so long an absence!"

"Welcome home, my lord," Isein said, and Arlian noticed her resisting the temptation to stare at the venom scar on his cheek. "It is good to see you."

"I understand you and Qulu wished to speak to me?"

"Yes." Isein glanced at Shibiel, then faced Arlian once again. "We must return to Arithei," she said.

Arlian frowned, slightly startled. "You wish to leave my employ?"

"No, no." Isein waved a hand in the air helplessly.

"We need to go and come back."

Puzzled, Arlian asked, "Why?"

"Because we have sold it all!" Isein said. "We must get more magic."

Comprehension dawned on Arlian's face.

Encouraged, Isein said, 'Two, maybe three months ago, we ran low. All the best magic was gone then.

Now the rest is gone. Nothing is left. Qulu and I tried to make more, but the ... the air here has so little magic we could do nothing."

"Of course," Arlian said. "So you wish to return to Arithei, and bring back more magic. Excellent. We will assemble a caravan at once."

"Good, good," Isein said. "But Arithei is beyond the mountains."

"A very long way," Arlian agreed. "You should start immediately."

"Yes, but..." Isein looked at Shibiel.

"Amethysts," Shibiel said. "To cross the Dreaming Mountains."

"And silver," Isein added.

"You have your pendants..." Arlian began. He stopped when he saw Isein and Shibiel exchanging glances.

"Caravan " Isein said. "Not just four of us. Four is not enough to be safe. When we came north we were twelve, and had swords and silver and amethysts.

Now we are four, with silver and amethysts, but we have no swords now, and two of us ..." She gestured at herself and Shibiel. 'Two of us are women, not warriors."

Arlian stroked his beard, thereby reminding himself that it needed trimming. Isein had a point—of the dozen Aritheians Arlian had led north, half had scattered across the Borderlands on business of their own. Hlur and her husband had come all the way to Manfort, but Hlur had taken up her post as the Aritheian ambassador here, and would not want to join a trade caravan. That left only the four in the Old Palace—Qulu, Isein, Shibiel, and Thirif. Each of them had a silver necklace with an amethyst pendant—silver kept away some varieties of night-creature that roamed beyond the border, while amethyst, and nothing else, protected the bearer from the mind-destroying nightmares and dream-things that gave the Dreaming Mountains their name.

The Aritheians kept the knowledge of the power of amethysts a secret, so that the Dreaming Mountains would protect them from any outsiders who might seek to exploit or conquer them; no one in the Lands of Man knew, save Arlian and his companions.

Unfortunately, there were no longer any amethysts to be found in Arithei. It was a lack of amethysts that had closed the trade routes, and Arlian's bag of stones, inherited from a dead Aritheian named Hathet, that had reopened them.

And in addition to amethyst and silver, cold steel blades would be needed to handle some of the other monsters along the way — not to mention the bandits who lurked along the southern edge of the Desolation.

Four magicians who had used up their magic would not be much of a caravan, as Isein said, and anyone else who accompanied them would need to carry silver and amethyst to cross the mountains. The silver was no great problem, but amethysts? In the Lands of Man amethysts were considered just pretty rocks, not even fit for cheap jewelry. The Aritheians' secrecy had worked against them in that regard.

"Also," Isein said, "how do we pay for new magic?"

"Silver," Arlian said. That, at least, was simple.

"Your money is all in gold. In Arithei silver is worth more."

"Changing it is no problem. But amethysts ..." Arlian tried to recall whether he had ever seen amethysts in the possession of anyone in the Lands of Man other than himself or the Aritheians.

He didn't remember any.

Arlian had gone to Arithei with one hundred and sixty-eight amethysts; he had returned home with two he had kept for himself, and each of the Aritheians had had one. Now he needed to replace some of the ones he had sold.

Well, he knew where those one hundred and sixty-eight had come from—the mines in Deep Delving, where he and Hathet had been enslaved. He could presumably commission the miners to find him more.

He could inquire of the jewelers in Manfort, as well, but he had little hope of finding much that way.

Returning to the mines ... perhaps it was time he did that. There were old debts to be settled there. There was an overseer called Lampspiller who was on ArIian's list of cruel and abusive people who deserved to be punished, and the old man who had bought Arlian and put him to work in the mines had been a candidate for the list, as well.

Until now Arlian had focused his attention on the people who looted his ruined village, and the six lords who had owned the brothel in Westguard, and of course the dragons, but Lampspiller and the old man might be due for a visit.

Two of the looters had vanished, and the rest were dead. Two of the six lords still lived, here in Manfort, and four were dead. Progress had been made on both those fronts—but the mine was untouched.

And there were two people there, the brothers who had helped him escape, to whom Arlian owed a debt.

He had saved Bloody Hand's life, but Bloody Hand had given him his freedom, which was even more precious. Perhaps it was time to see whether Lord Obsidian could do anything for Enir, called Bloody Hand, and his brother, Linnas.

As for the miners themselves—Arlian frowned. He didn't approve of slavery. He hated the idea that there were still people living out their lives down there in the dark, sleeping in the tunnels, spending their waking hours chiseling lead and silver ore out of the rock. On the other hand, the only slave who might still be alive there who had been anything close to a friend to him was Wark, and Arlian needed someone down there to find the amethysts for him.

Perhaps he could make some arrangement to have the slaves freed after they had provided enough amethysts—

but to do that, he would need to control the mine...

Arlian wondered how much money he actually had.

He had tried, ever since he had first arrived in Manfort as Lord Obsidian, to give the impression that his wealth was infinite, so that he could buy his way into the attention of the six lords he had sworn to find and kill; in fact, his journey to Arithei had made him very, very rich, but he had spent freely, and his magic business had now dried up for lack of goods to sell.

But on the other hand, he had just inherited Lord Enziet's estates. Presumably he was now as rich as ever.

Maybe he could buy the entire mine. He would need to find out who owned it.

It was possible that as Lord Enziet's heir, he already owned it. After all, why had Enziet chosen that particular place to sell a young slave?

But if Enziet had owned it, he wouldn't have needed to sell Arlian at all; he could simply have put him to work.

It would definitely call for further investigation.

"We will get more amethysts," he said. "But it may take some time. I'll need to make arrangements, perhaps travel to Deep Delving. For now, you and Qulu should make whatever preparations you can for a caravan to Arithei to buy more magic—buy silver and wagons and so on, but nothing perishable, and don't hire any guards or drivers yet."

"Yes, my lord," Isein said, with a slight bow.

A thought struck Arlian. "Thirif may still have a few items he took with him to the Desolation. And ... Shibiel? Do you have anything left?"

"A few things," Shibiel admitted. "Not many. Not easy things to sell."

"Then perhaps we should just keep those for an emergency," Arlian said. "Thank you both for bringing this to my attention. And since you cannot devote your full attention to selling magic we no longer have, I hope to see more of the three of you!"

With that, he took his leave, and made his way to the south wing of the palace to see that Cricket and Brook were comfortable.

Arlian found Cricket and Brook, his new guests, in a sitting room with Lily, Musk, Kitten, and Hasty. He had come to see whether they were comfortable, but it was instantly apparent that Hasty was not comfortable. There was little Arlian could do about that—the discomforts of late pregnancy were not something that could be remedied by rearranging furniture.

The six women were talking rapidly when he arrived, their conversation punctuated by frequent laughter, as they brought each other up to date on all that had befallen them since they were carried out of the House of Carnal Society almost three years ago.

Arlian stood unnoticed for a moment in the sitting room doorway, listening to their happy voices and enjoying the scent of their hair and clothing and powders, and decided he did not want to interrupt this cheerful reunion. He was about to turn away when Hasty, shifting in her chair as she tried to find a more comfortable position, noticed him and called, "Triv!

It's Triv!"

All six women turned to look, and all six voices were raised in greetings and invitations. Arlian could hardly refuse, and stepped into the room, where he found himself the target of a barrage of questions and exclamations.

The four who had stayed at the Old Palace during his absence all remarked on the new scar on his cheek; Musk and Kitten gave cries of sympathy, while Lily wanted to know how it happened, and Hasty said, "I think it's very dashing!"

He smiled, but did not explain how he had acquired it, and they were happy to drop the subject and barrage him with other questions, comments, and news.

He tried to leave after a few moments' chatter, pleading the need to attend to household business, but Hasty forestalled that by pointing out that he ought to eat a proper luncheon, and he could do that as well in the sitting room as anywhere. She beckoned to a footman standing quietly to one side, and Arlian found himself compelled to stay and eat with the six women.

This was no great hardship; in truth, he found their company delightful.

The meal was brought, eaten, and cleared away while Arlian was subjected to detailed accounts of all he had missed while traveling, including the progress of Hasty's pregnancy, the romantic misadventures of various servants, the city's gossip about the Duke and his court, various preposterous rumors about Lord Enziet, Lord Drisheen, Lord Hardior, Lady Rime, Lord Belly, and Arlian himself, and a great deal of other trivia. He did not manage to leave the room until late in the afternoon.

He wondered how four women who could not walk, and who presumably never left the palace, had gathered so much news, but did not ask them directly.

Cricket and Brook seemed to be quite happy with their new surroundings, he thought, and happy to be reunited with the other women. Arlian was glad he had been able to give them this; he wished he were able to make others happy more often.

He could not waste any time on happiness for himself, of course, until the dragons were all dead—and then he would die, so that the dragon within him would perish. His life, his strength, and his wealth were committed to that goal. The simple joys of life, of friends and family, were not for him, he knew that, but he took pleasure in seeing others experience them, and tearing himself away required an effort.

The remainder of the day was devoted to re-establishing his own routine, and making sure his servants understood what was expected of them in regard to his wardrobe, his meals, his privacy, and so on.

It was astonishing how many small matters needing his attention had accumulated in his absence—questions about replacing broken crockery, about what to plant in the gardens, now that spring was almost upon them, about what to tell tradesmen and messengers regarding his return. He had scarcely begun on these when he found himself yawning uncontrollably and resolved to go to bed.

He told himself that he would get everything in shape the next day, and then begin planning his attacks on the dragons, recruiting other dragonheads to help him, gathering information ...

The following morning Arlian went over the household accounts, which appeared to be in order. By the time he was able to tear himself away from that it was well past noon, and time to live up to his announced intentions and inspect his unexpected inheritance. He left instructions for what to do if Lord Wither or his representative came by during his absence, then wrapped his cloak around him and walked alone down the familiar streets of damp stone to Enziet's estate.

His arrival was unlike any previous visit. Once he had broken in to this forbidding gray stone house, climbing up to the roof and lowering himself to a balcony overlooking the central courtyard; once he had come to the front door with a knife at the gate-guard's throat. He had never before been made welcome.

This time he was greeted with deference, with bows and courtesies, which he acknowledged politely as he was shown inside. He was not certain, though, that even now he was actually welcome—the servants' faces were carefully blank as they answered his questions.

The estate, he learned, was called the Grey House—

a name that was apt, if unimaginative.

This visit, his first as the owner, was brief. He spoke to a few members of the staff to be sure that Ferrezin had obeyed his order to free the slaves, and then spoke to Ferrezin himself to be sure that the promised inventory of Enziet's holdings had been begun.

Guided by a footman, he found Ferrezin in the counting room behind the kitchens, in a state approaching panic because in fact the inventory, though started, was nowhere near complete. Rather than try to go over this meager beginning, Arlian decided it best to give the man more time to prepare. After all, given his own experiences in trying to manage the Old Palace, he well understood how little things could eat away at one's time.

He did, however, ask Ferrezin about mine holdings in Deep Delving.

Ferrezin frowned. "Lord Enziet did not own any mines there outright," he said, "but he did have a share in several mining operations."

"Look into that first, then," Arlian said. "I want to know what I own there." He pulled a silver pendant from his pocket, and held it out so that the former steward could see the amethyst set into it. "In particular, I want more of these purple stones. This one came from a lead mine in Deep Delving—they sometimes occur in the galena, in the ore that yields lead and silver. I want you to send anyone who is not needed here out and around the city, to see whether any similar stones can be had from any of the jewelers in Manfort—or for that matter, in any of the surrounding towns, though I wouldn't bother with anything much farther than Westguard. And I want to know whether any of the miners in Deep Delving have bothered to collect these stones. I know they're considered worthless, but I have reasons for wanting them."

Ferrezin blinked at the pendant, then looked up at his new master's face.

"Of course," he said. "Ah ... will any purple crystals serve?"

"I need this particular variety," Arlian said. "I will leave you the pendant, for comparison." He tossed the necklace to Ferrezin, who almost dropped it, snagging the chain at the last possible instant.

"I will begin the search as soon as the inventory ..."

Ferrezin began.

"No," Arlian interrupted. "The stones are of the utmost urgency. I want you to send someone intelligent and trustworthy to Deep Delving at once—go yourself, if you cannot think of anyone else suitable. I want a search of the jewelers begun at once. The inventory is second in importance; the purple stones are first. If you need another sample, I may be able to provide one."

Ferrezin nodded. "I see," he said.

"I'll leave you to begin, then," Arlian said.

Ferrezin watched him go, then looked down at the pendant and shook his head. It appeared his new employer was going to be at least as demanding and eccentric as the old.

Three days after his return Arlian had not found time to return to the Grey House a second time, nor had he found an opportunity to visit the hall of the Dragon Society at all, to see for himself what the current situation was among his fellow dragonhearts and what reports of the events in the south had made their way into those chambers. He had not yet called upon Lord Wither, to thank him for Horn's assistance; nor had he had any further contact with Lady Rime, to inquire after her well-being.

He saw no need for haste in these matters. He had attended to the most urgent concerns in his own home and business and in Enziet's, and felt it entirely sensible to take a few days to rest and recover from his journey before launching upon any major new activities. Horn had said Lord Wither would call upon him, rather than expecting a visit at his own estate or a meeting in the Dragon Society's hall on the Street of the Black Spire, so he was under no obligation to speak with his bene-factor.

When he had everything back to normal, though, he promised himself that be would call on Wither and Rime, and visit the Society's hall, and go over his inheritance.

v And when that was done he would begin preparations to kill the dragons—to hunt them down in their lairs and see whether obsidian really would kill them.

Of course, he would need to find more obsidian and shape it into weapons, and even then he couldn't really be sure it would kill full-grown dragons as it had a newborn—he could only hope that it would.

And he would need to find the dragons. He knew where one lair was, beneath the Desolation, and he could try his luck there. If he found them asleep, and killed them, and survived the experience—and manag-ing all three of these did not seem very likely—then he could worry about finding the others.

For that, he would need help, he was syre—he would want to question the other members of the Dragon Society, and go through their archives, for information that might be useful in locating the other caverns.

And that led, obviously, to the rather vexed question of just what he intended to do about the Dragon Society in the long run, and just how much he would want to tell them about his plans. He could not allow any of them to transform into dragons, but he had no desire to harm any of them any sooner than necessary.

And of course, he now had his two great secrets about the dragons, and as a member of the Society he was obligated to share anything he knew of the great beasts—but how could he tell them that they were all doomed?

He was still thinking about this, rather than actually doing anything about it, when Venlin informed him that he had another visitor.

"Lord Wither, my lord," Venlin said.

Arlian, sprawled comfortably on a silk-upholstered couch in the small salon, looked up at the old man, then glanced at the others in the room. Cricket was perched on the oak and leather chair by the hearth, and Lily curled up on the other couch; they had been discussing plans for the women's future when Venlin entered and announced this arrival.

It was not unexpected, of course, and Arlian suspected that he knew what Wither wanted, why the old man had sent Horn to Arlian's aid, and why he had been using his sorcery to track Arlian.

Arlian sighed, and gathered himself up.

"I will speak with him in my study," he said. While he usually preferred to speak with guests in the small salon and keep his study more private, thanks to the late Lord Drisheen's clever idea of amputating feet to keep the brothel slaves from attempting to escape it was far easier for Arlian to move himself and Lord Wither than the two women.

The study seemed somehow appropriate, in any case; that was where he had first met Lord Wither, shortly after Lord Obsidian had first arrived in Manfort It was odd to remember that meeting, Arlian thought as he ambled down the passage to the study.

He had been so young then, and so naive—yet how long ago had it really been? Just a few months, not even a year.

He had not yet fought a duel when he first met with Lord Wither. He had not yet joined the Dragon Society—it had been Lord Wither who first told him how to find the secretive organization.

Oh, he had not been a total innocent—he had already spent years working in the mines and months hidden in a brothel, had already stolen Lord Kuruvan's gold and journeyed across the Desolation to the magic-haunted Borderlands, and beyond the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei. He had survived dragons and slavery and made himself wealthy, and he had burned for revenge against those who had wronged him. He had killed a man in battle.

But he had not been weighed down with secrets. He had not had half a dozen mutilated women dependent upon him, and had not had another die in his arms. He had not seen so much death and horror.

Venlin had gone to fetch Lord Wither, and for a moment Arlian was alone. He stood in the entrance to the study, looking about.

The desk and the cabinets and the bookshelves were all clean and tidy, the varnished wood gleaming in the midday sun that thrust in through the two tall windows. Arlian crossed the room and pulled the draperies across the panes; somehow he didn't think Lord Wither was fond of daylight.

As he did, though, he paused, hands still clutching the maroon velvet, to consider that thought. Why was he so certain that Lord Wither would not care for the sun?

When he realized what his unconscious logic had been his jaw tightened, his teeth pressed hard shut.

Lord Wither had lived for centuries with the heart of the dragon—how many centuries Arlian was not entirely certain, but at least eight hundred years had passed since Lord Wither reached manhood. The venom had festered and grown within him, and now, while his shape was as human as ever, Arlian knew that the toxic ichor of a dragon flowed in his veins where human blood had once been. By now Wither was surely as much dragon as human in many ways—

and dragons did not abide direct sunlight; they dwelt in caverns and emerged only when the skies were darkened with clouds. He still stood, hands on the drapes, when Venlin announced, "Lord Wither."

Arlian's hands dropped, and he turned to face his guest.

Lord Wither was a stooped old man; never tall to begin with, he was shrunk and bent with age, fitting the name he had borne for centuries. The name had originally been applied to him not only because of the ravages of time, but because his right arm was shriveled and almost lifeless, ruined in the draconic encounter that had given him his extended lifespan.

Still, despite his stature and condition, Lord Wither was not a man to be trifled with. Beneath his thick mass of gray hair blazed a pair of fierce, deep-set green eyes, intimidating in their intensity; the heart of the dragon was strong in him.

He was master of more ordinary power as well—political connections, and immense wealth that was reflected In his attire. He wore his hair pulled back in a simple ponytail nothing like the current fashionable styles, but his clothing was in the latest mode, and ex-travagantly well made. His coat was green velvet trimmed with gold, with long white lace cuffs and a collar faced with white silk; the sleeves and cuffs were skillfully tailored to obscure his deformity. The shirt beneath was white as snow, elaborately ruffled, and his breeches were fine black wool.

Over his coat he wore a black leather sword belt set with emeralds, and the left-handed sword hilt protruding from the beaded scabbard was inlaid with silver, pearl, and diamond. Wearing a sword into another lord's home would ordinarily have been a grave breach of etiquette, but an exception was invariably made for Lord Wither; the customary excuse was that it would be unkind to ask a person with but one useful hand to unbuckle and buckle a belt, but Arlian was fairly sure that it was really because no one dared argue with such a man. Those eyes were enough to deter anyone.

Lord Wither stepped into the room, and Venlin quietly closed the door from without, leaving the two lords alone in the study, standing a few feet apart, gazing intently at one another.

"Lord Wither," Arlian said, taking a step away from the window. "How good to see you!" He did not extend a hand; Wither, with his crippled arm, never shook hands.

"Let us dispense with the usual polite lies," Wither replied, looking up at Arlian's face, and more specifically at the scar on Arlian's cheek. Wither's voice was deeper and richer than one would expect from so small a man. "You are not pleased to see me at all, and we both know it."

"You misjudge, my lord," Arlian said. "I will not pretend to take any great pleasure in your company for its own sake, but I am nonetheless glad to see you. I am grateful for your assistance upon my arrival at the city gate; I acknowledge myself in your debt, and I prefer to pay my debts promptly. Further, I am hopeful that we may be able to exchange information or other intangibles to our mutual benefit."

"I'm not here for intangibles," Wither snapped.

"What I want from you is quite real and substantial."

"Indeed," Arlian replied. "And what would that be?"

"Dragon venom," Wither said. "Lord Enziet promised to fetch me venom, and you, I am informed, are Enziet's heir and successor. You pursued him into the Desolation, and saw where he died. You are a dealer in magic, you've made your fortune at it, and you are a dragonheart obsessed with gaining vengeance upon the dragons—you would surely not have passed up a chance to learn more of their secrets. Furthermore, I can see with my own eyes that you have encountered a dragon's venom since last we met, for nothing else could have scarred a dragonheart's face that way. If anyone can provide the venom Enziet promised me, you are that man. If you have it, name your price! You say you are in my debt—well, this is how you can repay me."

"Ah," Arlian said. He leaned back against his desk.

"I feared as much. And this is why you sent your man Horn to protect me?"

"Of course. If Drisheen's hireling had slain you, who knows what would have become of any venom you carried? If you have none in your possession, what would become of the knowledge of its whereabouts? I saw you safely into the city so that we could have this conversation, and you could repay me with venom. If you do not think your life alone to be worth it, I will pay you anything in my power. I must have it!"

Ariian sighed. "I would offer you a seat, my lord, but I suspect this conversation will be brief. It seems to neatly parallel our first, some months ago. Once again, you seek this dragon venom to extend the life of your mistress, yes? And once again, I must confess that I have no venom to sell you."

"You killed Enziet before he could get it? Then what marked your cheek?"

"I have not said that I killed Enziet He thrust the blade into his own chest, my lord—and yes, he did so before entering the cavern where the dragons slept If he had any of die venom in his possession, I am unaware of it"

"But you saw him die. You know where he was going."

"I saw him die," Ariian admitted warily.

"And that scar..."

"... is none of your concern. I must insist on that"

Ariian had already refused to explain the mark several times, to various people; it had, in fact been left by the venom of the dragon Enziet had become, and Ariian was not yet ready to reveal that to anyone—certainly not to Lord Wither.

Wither hesitated, then reluctantly accepted that and continued, "But you saw Enziet die, and you knew where he was going. Then do you know where he intended to find the venom he promised me? Can you obtain it now that I have reminded you that I am determined to have it, and you acknowledge yourself in my debt?"

Arlian paused for a moment before replying.

In fact, while he knew none of their other lairs, he did know the location of that one cavern beneath the Desolation where dragons slept; Lord Enziet had led him to the entrance, and it was there that the two men had fought their final duel. With a little sorcerous aid and the cool air of winter to keep the great beasts asleep, it should be possible to slip in, collect a few drams of venom, and escape safely—but Arlian had no intention of doing so.

He would not do so because drinking the mixture of venom and blood, the elixir that Wither sought, would transform Lady Opal into a dragonheart, which would mean that in a thousand years or so, if she were not slain, her blood would give birth to a dragon. Arlian would not willingly help in the creation of another dragon, even at a distance of a thousand years. This was one magic he had no intention of restocking.

His brief hesitation was not due to any uncertainty about whether or not he would sell Lord Wither the venom; it was instead because he was unsure how much of the truth to tell the old man.

Lord Wither was impulsive, despite his age, and selfish and stubborn, like virtually all those who had tasted a dragon's venom and lived. Indebted or not, Arlian did not feel he could trust him.

"I am sorry, my lord," Arlian said. "I have no venom to sell you, nor will I fetch any. Lady Opal must live out her natural span without any draconic assistance."

The thought struck him as he spoke that perhaps that brief mortal lifetime might yet be enough to outlive Lord Wither. For the most part the dragonhearts thought themselves effectively immortal, since they did not visibly age; Wither probably thought he had another eight or nine centuries of life stretching before him, perhaps even more.

Arlian knew that to be false. He knew, from Lord Enziet, that it took a millennium or so for dragon venom to transform a man's blood into a dragon, and that that marked the span of years Lord Wither could expect to live—but Lord Wither did not know it; it was all part of the complex of secrets that Enziet had hidden from the Society, and that only Arlian now knew.

Wither had lived at least eight hundred years, perhaps more, already. If Lady Opal were to be contaminated. as Wither proposed, she would outlive him by centuries. If Arlian's estimate of Wither's age was low, or if the dragon within him developed somewhat faster than Enziet's had, then Wither might not see out another fifty years. In that case, Opal might survive him even without any unnatural meddling.

Arlian was not about to say as much, though. These were hardly appropriate circumstances to reveal such things. Instead he finished his refusal and explained no further. He stood against his desk and watched a red flush of anger suffuse Wither's features.

"May the dead gods curse you, Obsidian!" Wither shouted, raising his left hand to shake a finger in Arlian's face. "Why do you refuse me this? You say you are in my debt, yet you refuse me the one thing I ask. I know you, know the way you twist your words—you say you will not, not you can not. You know more than you say. Am I to watch another woman grow old and die because you have some secret you wish to keep? Is that it? Or would aiding me somehow interfere in that ridiculous vengeance you still pursue?"

Arlian Wished now he had lied outright, instead of trying to remain in the vicinity of the truth. He raised both his own hands, palms out. "Calm yourself, my lord," be said. "I am not withholding anything for the sake of vengeance, nor is it merely to conceal a secret that I refuse you. I have my reasons for declining to bring you venom, and I think them good—as did Enziet before me, I am sure, for remember, he knew for centuries where venom could be obtained, and knew for years that you sought it, yet he did not offer to fetch it until circumstances drove him to it. I believe I know his reasons, and that they were the same as my own.

The risks involved in such a venture, for myself and Lady Opal both, are so great that I do not care to attempt the feat. I am in your debt, and will gladly perform some other service, or grant you what I may grant—but I cannot give you the venom you seek."

"And is there no way I can convince you otherwise?" Wither demanded. "No price that would be sufficient? Ungrateful wretch! If you fear the dragons, you need not go yourself; merely guide a servant to the proper location, and I will pay you handsomely. Horn would be glad to accompany you and go where you direct him."

Arlian shook his head. "I will not do it, my lord.

Perhaps someday, when your temper has cooled, I will explain my reasons, but for now you must simply accept my decision."

Wither lowered his hand and his gaze met Arlian's.

"Indeed I must," he said, his tone bitter, "for I have sworn not to harm you within Manfort's walls, and I have no way to compel you. But I am patient, my lord Obsidian, and Opal is still young, scarcely thirty. We will wait. We will wait for you to come to your senses, and we will pursue every other avenue open to us, and we will have our way!"

With that, he turned on his heel, snatched open the door, and marched out of the room, brushing past the waiting Venlin in the passage beyond. Venlin, startled, hurried down the corridor after the departing guest Arlian watched them go, and frowned.

Wither was a resourceful man. He might well find a way to obtain venom for Lady Opal—which would add her name to the long list of those Arlian might someday need to kill. Whether Opal herself would, given die option, choose a natural life or an extended one marked with the dragon taint and ending in violent death, Arlian could not guess—he had never met the woman.

He doubted, though, that she would defy Lord Wither's obvious wishes. Wither had the unnatural charm and intensity of the heart of the dragon; ordinary mortals would be hard put to refuse him anything he wanted.

Arlian did not want to kill anyone, really—at least, no one human. Even the deaths of the handful of people he had sworn vengeance upon and had not yet slain, should they come about, would not be something he enjoyed. Lord Enziet's death had been necessary, and satisfying in its way, but it had sated his bioodlust. Any further killing would be an unpleasant duty, required by the need to force justice upon an unjust world, and to keep humanity free from any threat from the dragons.

Unless he could find some miraculous cure for the venom's effects, he would have to kill Wither in time.

He would have to kill Rime and Nail and Toribor and all the rest of the Dragon Society before they could undergo die bloody transformation from human host to newborn dragon. He would have to kill himself before he became sufficiendy draconic to lose sight of the necessity.

He shuddered, then swallowed—not at the prospect of his own death, a prospect he had lived intimately with since he was a boy of eleven, but at the thought that he might misjudge, and allow himself to complete has own eventual transformation.

He would need to kill all the dragonhearts before that change could occur—and he would have to find and kill the dragons themselves, as well.

It was a daunting task, to say the least.

He had perhaps as much as a thousand years or so before he became a dragon, but when would his nature have altered enough to vitiate the drive for vengeance and put an end to the project? That might happen far sooner.

He had been thinking that he was in no hurry, but perhaps there were reasons not to dawdle. The palace was largely restored to its proper order, and the servants could handle any remaining details; it was time to attend to all the other matters that delayed his assault on the dragons. It was time to investigate Enziet's legacy further, and to see what could be done about obtaining amethysts from the mines of Deep Delving and perhaps meting out some overdue justice there. It was time to send a caravan guarded by silver and amethyst to Arithei, so that his fortune could be enlarged and his magical arsenal restocked—he might need both money and magic to carry out an attack on the dragons.

And then, when all that was done, it would be time to begin the extermination of his draconic foes—or to die trying.

Arlian wondered, as he turned the dusty pages of yet another encrypted notebook, whether Enziet had accumulated secrets deliberately, as another man might collect gems or concubines, or whether it was simply a natural consequence of living for so very long.

Ferrezin had completed a rough inventory of Enziet's major holdings, and the list was impressive, but for die most part Arlian had only scanned it briefly. He was not interested in farms or taverns, or mines in the western mountains. Mines in Deep Delving, especially one particular mine, were another matter, but he could not tell from the list whether Enziet had had any finan-cial interest in the Old Man's mine there. There were properties in Deep Delving, some of them clearly related to mining, bat their exact nature was not stated.

Ferrezin had assured him that two trusted men were already on their way to inquire further.

An inn in Westguard was also of some interest, since Arlian knew that it had been built from the burned-out ruins of the House of Carnal Society. It was odd to think that he now owned Enziet's share of the buikhng where he had spent months hidden in the attic.

And Enziet, using the Duke's ancient right to bestow abandoned property upon his retainers, had laid claim to the ruins of the village of Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain, and to the obsidian workings there. No one had contested the claim, so that Arlian now owned what remained of his own childhood home, as well.

In a way it was almost comforting to know that Enziet had at least taken the trouble to keep what he had stolen, rather than casting it aside after looting it. And it was oddly satisfying to know that it had now returned to the village's only survivor and rightful heir.

Those emotional interests aside, Arlian thought that owning the ruined village might be useful, since sooner or later he would need obsidian.

Those properties were all of interest, in their way, and stood out on the long list of holdings, but for the moment Arlian was more concerned with the contents of the Grey House itself—Enziet's walled estate here in Manfort, the ancient fortified home where Arlian now sat at one of Enziet's desks, looking through his dead foe's notebooks, hoping to find further information about just what Enziet's arrangements with the dragons had been.

There were innumerable books, and several sealed chests—Ferrezin had worked with sorcery enough to know better than to open any—and an amazing collection of miscellany. Poor Dove's bones were still in a box on the third floor, and Arlian intended to give those a proper burial eventually.

For now, though, he was going through Enziet's journals and accounts, trying to puzzle out the dead man's systems.

Enziet had had an annoying habit of using ciphers and codes and other tricks, and of course no one had the keys to any of them, but Arlian was able to puzzle out some things, and there were often hastily written entries in plain Man's Tongue scattered among the in-decipherable material.

While most of the writing in the notebooks might not be readily understandable, it was quite clear to Arlian that Enziet had gathered a great many secrets, only a few of which had anything to do with dragons.

Many of them appeared to be related to blackmail or scandal of one sort or another—but then, Enziet had been active in politics, so that was hardly surprising.

Several notebooks appeared to describe die misdeeds of various long-dead courtiers, and Arlian wondered why Enziet had bothered to preserve them.

Enziet had also been a sorcerer, and there were notes on many of his experiments. While Arlian's own knowledge of magic was severely limited, and mostly concerned the wild southern magic rather than the subtle sorcery of the Lands of Man, he was fairly certain that some of the things Enziet's notes described went beyond what the other sorcerers of Manfort knew to be possible.

It had already become clear to Arlian that if he wanted to recapture Enziet's knowledge of the dragons, he would need to study sorcery. And he did want to recapture that knowledge, so that he could use it in exterminating the monsters and eliminating their threat forever. He knew how to destroy their offspring by killing the human hosts, and he knew that weapons of obsidian could pierce the hides of young dragons, but he did not know how to find all the deep caverns where the dragons slept. He did not know just how effective obsidian blades would be against full-grown dragons. An obsidian dagger had slain the beast that emerged from Lord Enziet's corrupt heart, but that dragon had been a mere hatchling, not very much larger than a man, its hide still soft and red, while the three that had destroyed Arlian's birthplace had measured at least fifty feet, and perhaps as much as a hundred, from snout to tail, and had been black and hard and ancient. Arlian did not think a mere dagger, no matter what its substance, could kill such a creature.

A spear might, if thrust directly into the heart...

He reached the last page of the notebook and slapped it shut, stirring a flurry of dust He sneezed, and wiped his nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

He had had enough of poring over these frustrating tomes, at least for the moment, he decided as he slid the notebook back into its place on the shelf. The secrets he needed might be right here in front of him, lost amid the hundreds for which he had no use, hidden by Enziet's codes and ciphers—or they might be somewhere else entirely, or perhaps Enziet had only carried them in his head.

He rose from his seat, brushed dust from his linen blouse, and turned his attention to the row of three trunks that stood against the wainscotting to the left of Enziet's desk. According to the inventory, these chests contained sorcerous apparatus—Ferrezin had not been any more specific than that.

Ferrezin had not dared to open them.

Sorcery did not generally require much in the way of apparatus. Sorcery was subtle. The Lands of Man, all the lands that had been taken from the dragons centuries ago, were poor in magic, and required that subtlety. In the lands beyond the borders, places like Arithei and Tirikindaro and Pon Ashti, magic ran wild, raging across the sky and flowing through the earth, and all the power a mage could want was there for the taking; in fact, Aritheian magicians Arlian had spoken with had explained to him that the hardest part of wielding magic in their homeland was restraining the sheer raw energy that would, if given any leeway, destroy or transform the magician and everything else in the area. Roads and cities in Arithei had to be protected by elaborate networks of wards and cold iron to keep wild magic in check. Silver and iron and certain stones, not just amethysts but a variety of gemstones, were used to contain the wild magic, and spells involved the use of a wide variety of symbols and talismans to bind the mystic energies.

In Manfort, though, and throughout most of the Lands of Man, there was so little magic that most people could not sense or use it at all, and the delicate art of sorcery had developed to exploit the tiny trace that remained Anything that would restrict the flow of magic would be useless in sorcery, and anything that might confine it would be impossible to use with any frequency. Most sorcery relied on the sorcerer's own skill, and a few common objects.

It took a normal man's lifetime to learn to coax any significant effects from so limited a resource—but because dragonhearts lived many times longer than normal men, many of them were adept in the sorcerous arts. Enziet had been very adept indeed. He had used sorcery in this very house to communicate with the dragons in their caverns—but the only visible tool he had used for that, according to the only witness Arlian had heard describe the feat, was a bowl of water. He had maintained spells of warning and protection, but those had required nothing but words, gestures, and the stones of the house and wall to anchor them.

What, then, was in the chests?

Arlian took from his belt the ring of keys that Ferrezin had provided, and knelt before the first chest, eyeing the lock. He lifted an oil lamp down from the desk and turned up the flame to provide more tight.

The lock appeared ordinary enough, but sorcery was usually invisible. Arlian debated sending for Thirif or Shibiel or Isein, or perhaps inviting a local sorcerer to take a look at it, to see whether there might be some sort of sorcerous trap—but that would take too long.

Pawing through dozens of incomprehensible notebooks had left him impatient, and after all, he did have the key, and Enziet was dead. Sorcery was delicate work, so delicate that much of Enziet's lesser magic might well have died with him, and Arlian certainly could not sense anything magical about the lock.

Besides, he simply did not think Enziet would have bothered with traps. It did not seem his style.

Arlian judged the size and shape of the keyhole, then looked at the three dozen keys to find one that would fit.

There were several that looked possible, but Arlian chose one immediately, for a very simple reason—it was black iron banded with silver, where the others were brass or steel. Iron and silver were protections against magic.

Sure enough, the key slid easily into the lock and snugged tightly against the wards; when Arlian turned it he heard a satisfying series of clicks, and the hasp sprang free.

No magic manifested itself; whatever protective sorcery the trunk might have had placed upon it either was gone or had yielded before the key. Smiling, Arlian lifted the lid unhindered, and peered into the chest, holding the lamp high.

For a moment he didn't recognize what he saw; the gleaming black shapes refused to resolve into intelligi-ble forms. He shifted the lamp, and saw its light glitter on sharp, curved edges.

At last, though, he realized what he was seeing.

The chest was full of obsidian.

This was what Lord Dragon had looted from the Smoking Mountain all those years ago. This was what he had been seeking when he found young Arlian, trapped in the cellars of his ruined home—and sold the boy into slavery.

For an instant that long-ago scene came back to Arlian in all its terrifying detail. He remembered the sight of the dragon's face as one of the three monsters looked directly at him. He remembered the horrible warm weight of his grandfather's corpse, and the pressure of the hot stone floor beneath him, as he lay pinned at the foot of the fallen ladder. He remembered the unspeakably hideous taste of blood and venom dripping into his open mouth, and his stomach wrenched at the memory.

And he remembered being pulled from the cellar to see his home in flaming ruins, the entire village destroyed, while Lord Dragon, with his fine clothes and scarred face and cold voice, directed half a dozen looters in stripping away what few valuables remained. He remembered Enziet demanding to know where the workshops were, where the obsidian was.

And he, Arlian, had shown him, to escape a beating, so as not to risk being crippled—because a cripple would never be able to avenge the wrongs done that day.

He stared at the black glass shards in that trunk in Manfort and felt all the cold hatred he had nursed for years rise up afresh in his bosom, all the thirst for justice, all the lust for bloody vengeance.

He had slain Enziet, or at least the dragon Enziet had become. He had let Cover die of a fever, had let Hide be murdered. He had killed Shamble and Stonehand.

Dagger and Tooth might still live; Arlian had been unable to locate them. Dagger had fled from Manfort years ago, and Tooth simply vanished. Tracking them down would probably require sorcery, if it could be done at all, and if they still lived—which Arlian thought unlikely.

The looters, then, had been dealt with; all were dead or gone.

But the dragons still lived.

And here, in this chest, was the material Arlian needed to make weapons that could kill them.

This was a part of what Enziet had left him, part of the legacy—surely a part that Enziet had intended to be used when he named Arlian as his heir. Despite his dealings with them, despite his betrayal of the old Order of the Dragon that had fought them, Arlian knew that Enziet had hated the dragons even as he was becoming one. For centuries, he had sought a way to destroy them.

He had found one—but had never had a chance to use it. Clearly, he had hoped Arlian would do it in his stead.

Arlian grimaced. Lord Obsidian, he called himself.

This volcanic glass was his namesake—and his destiny. He reached down and picked up a piece, and realized that it had already been shaped into a fine long spearhead. Beside it lay a black stone dagger, and a broken shard that appeared to have been intended as a sword-blade—but obsidian did not have the strength to make a sword.

Knives and spears. That would be enough. A good sword was a nobleman's weapon, meant for honest combat—and Arlian did not want to fight dragons. He wanted to slaughter them, as they had slaughtered his family and townsfolk.

He had been thinking that killing Enziet had been enough to satisfy his lust for revenge, and that he would continue his campaign against the dragons simply for the greater good of humanity, but now he realized that it had merely been enough human blood. He still wanted to see the dragons die for what they had done.

And with obsidian weapons and a thousand years, he he might achieve that goal.

He was holding the obsidian spearhead and gazing contemplatively at the chest when a knock sounded on the door. He glanced up.

"Yes?" he asked.

The door opened, and a servant peered in nervously.

Arlian did not know the man's name; he had not yet teamed who everyone in Enziet's household was.

"Your pardon, my lord," the servant said, "but your steward wishes to speak with you."

"Ferrezin, you mean? He's not..."

"Your steward, my lord, not the chamberlain." The reproach in his tone was subtle, but definite.

"Black? Here?"

"Yes, my lord."

"What does he want?"

"He did not say, my lord."

Arlian frowned, puzzled. This did not bode well. "I will be down presently," he said.

"Very good, my lord." The door closed again.

Arlian put the spearhead back in the trunk, looked at the two chests that were still unopened, then at the shelf of notebooks and ledgers.

There would be plenty of time for all that later. He straightened his cuffs and reached for the door. He did not bother locking the chest; who would want to steal obsidian blades?

And who would dare, even now, to steal anything from Lord Enziet's house?

A few moments later he arrived in the gray stone foyer and found Black waiting for him.

"My apologies for any inconvenience, Lord An,"

Black said. "I had thought I could come in and wait until you wandered downstairs on your own, but I'm afraid that the staff here does not tolerate such informality"

Arlian waved away Black's apology, and directed him toward the inner door. "I'll tell them that you are to have the freedom of the house," he said, as he led the way to a small parlor, "but what is it that brings you here? Is there a problem at the Old Palace?"

"Well, I don't believe he's there anymore," Black said, "but he might well have slipped back."

"A problem you call 'he'? Of whom do we speak?"

"Your dear Mend, Lord Wither."

Arlian turned his head to peer sideways at his friend. "Wither? He came to the palace again?"

"Indeed he did."

"Did you direct him here, then?"

"He wasn't looking for you, Ah," Black said, smiling crookedly. "He came to speak to me."

"Indeed?" Arlian settled into an age-blackened oak chair, and gestured for Black to take a seat as well.

"And what did Lord Wither want with you?"

"He made me a business proposition. He believes I have a piece of information for which he offered to pay very generously indeed."

"And what information would this be?" Arlian asked, though he thought he knew.

"The exact location where Lord Enziet died. He wanted me to lead him there."

Arlian nodded. "I suspected as much. Did he say why?"

"He did not." Black eyed his employer. "I take it there is something he believes Lord Enziet had with him when he died, and which Lord Wither wants very much. When he spoke to you the day before yesterday, I suppose he thought you had whatever this mysterious thing might be? I suppose this is why he sent Horn to protect us?"

"He hoped I had it. I didn't And for that matter, Lord Enziet didn't have it yet when he died, either—he was on his way to fetch it, and fell short of his goal."

"Ah." Black sat back in his chair. "I had wondered why Enziet sought out that particular cave in the Desolation. Should I ask what this precious thing was?"

"I think you would be better off if you did not. And when Lord Wither made his offer, what did you tell him?"

"Why, that I would consider it, of course! Am I so foolish that I would casually discard an offer of great wealth?"

Arlian smiled crookedly. "Indeed, Black, you are no fool at all, and well do I know it—though your willing-ness to remain in my service does perhaps cast some doubt upon the matter. Am I to bid for your services in this, then, to see whether I will match Lord Wither's offer?" His tone and smile were openly sardonic, to avoid any possible misunderstanding of his attitude.

"Of course not, Ari! You already know where Enziet died!" Black replied, mirroring that smile. Then his expression turned grave.

"Seriously, Ari," he said, "I really wasn't sure what to make of this. I know something of your history, and I've aided you in your pursuit of vengeance, but you have always kept secrets from me, and more than ever since Enziet's death. There are clearly issues here of which I know nothing; plainly, as plain as that scar on your cheek, events occurred in that cave I do not understand, and it seems reasonable to assume that Lord Wither's ferocious interest in the place, and in you, is somehow connected. When I travel through unfamiliar land I prefer to have a guide, and you would seem to be the only person I know to be familiar with these paths. Would it harm you if I led Wither to the cave, or would it aid you in your schemes? Would it harm met Would it harm Wither? I can't serve your interests effectively when I don't know what they are."

Ariian contemplated his steward for a long moment, then sighed.

"I do wonder sometimes why you put up with me,"

he said.

"You pay well," Black responded immediately, before Arlian could continue.

Arlian smiled wryly. "Not that well—and as you say, I do keep some secrets from you, a great many of them, while burdening you with others. And I'm afraid I intend to continue doing so for some time yet. This one is one I think I can reveal, however, and one that should not prove burdensome. That cave was just an antechamber; what Lord Wither seeks lies below."

"A deeper cavern?"

Arlian nodded.

"One where dragons sleep? Was Enziet trying to wake them?"

"I'm not certain just what Enziet intended," Arlian admitted. "Waking the dragons is one possibility.

What he had told Wither, however, was that he merely intended to fetch back a dragon's venom."

"And that's what Wither wants? Dragon venom?"

"Exactly."

"But why? He already has the heart of a dragon, and all the money he needs. Does the magic eventually need renewal, then?"

Arlian shook his head. "He also has a mistress," he said.

"Lady Marasa, called Opal."

"Exactly."

Black did not reply, and Arlian felt the need to add,

"Wither has seen several women grow old and die, and has developed a distaste for the process."

"Understandably," Black said. "Shall I tell him, then, where to find the cave?"

Arlian frowned. "No. The world needs no more dragonhearts."

Black gazed thoughtfully at his employer for a long moment.

"It occurs to me to wonder, Ari, why you would object to bestowing long life and exceptional health and impressive strength of character upon anyone. It occurs to me to wonder why I, for example, should not seek out this venom for my own use."

Aiiian had feared this might be coming. It would be simpler if he just told Black the truth, but although Arlian trusted Black more than he had trusted any other man he had met since escaping the mines of Deep Delving, he was not yet ready to share these particular secrets. Enziet had kept the knowledge of draconic reproduction hidden for centuries, and Arlian was not so hasty as to casually throw that secrecy away.

At least, not yet

He met his steward's eye. "I have my reasons, my dear Black, and I think them good. I ask you to trust me in this, for now. Perhaps in time I shall bring myself to explain it all to you, and you can decide for yourself. If there comes a time when you can no longer rely on my unsupported word and I still will not explain. I won't stop you—but if the results of your experiment are what I fear, I may well do my best to slay you upon your return. I would really very much prefer not to do that."

Black made a wordless noise.

"And do remember, please, that what you propose is to slip into a cavern where several dragons are sleep-iag—a cavern with no natural light whatsoever. Do you plan to bumble about in the dark, perhaps stumbling over an outstretched talon while groping for the venom-dripping fangs, or do you intend to bring a light"7 I have no idea how soundly dragons sleep, nor hem sensitive they might be to torchlight..."

Black grimaced. "You have a point," he said. "So I am not to seek out the caverns for either myself or Lord Wither and his woman. Shall I lead him hither and yon across the Desolation, then, pretending I've lost my way? It might discourage him."

"No," Arlian said. "I suspect that would merely make him more determined, and we owe him better than such a deception—he did send Horn and his men to our aid, and has not pressed that claim on my service. No, simply refuse his request. Let him find some other way to damn Lady Marasa; we will have no part in it"

He did not mention that he doubted even a man as reliable as Black could resist Wither's superhuman charisma indefinitely. The possibility that the heart of the dragon would be enough to sway Black to Wither's will if the two were to travel together in the Desolation for any length of time was not one Arlian cared to risk.

Black might not appreciate hearing this stated aloud, though.

Arlian was so focused on the question of Black's susceptibility to Wither's authority that he did not think anything of his own words until Black replied,

"Damn her?" Black's eyes widened. "What an interesting turn of phrase. Are you damned, then?"

Arlian's face grew still as he remembered all he had been through in the past ten years—fire, death, and horror; his family, his friends in the mines, the woman he had loved, all dead. He saw his own life, empty of almost everything but an obsessive need for revenge; he saw that he could not trust even his best and most loyal friend, but instead withheld secrets from him and calmly considered the possibility that Black would betray him to Lord Wither—and the possibility that he might someday kill Black.

Arlian looked Black in the eye. "Do you really need to ask?" he said.

Black's gaze fell, and the dialogue was at an end.

For the next several days Lord Wither did not intrude on Arlian's attention—nor did anyone else outside his own households. Instead Arlian concerned himself with his preparations for his eventual war against dragonkind, and seeing to the needs of his guests and staff. Freeing Enziet's slaves had left that house shorthanded, but he hesitated to hire new servants.

He supposed that in time he would dispose of one house or die other, but he had not yet decided which.

The Old Palace was much more comfortable, but far larger than he needed, and far more difficult to maintain. It had stood empty for years before he acquired it because it was simply too big for any ordinary lord.

If he could not obtain more Aritheian magic to sell, and if Enziet's holdings did not yield sufficient in-come, he might not be able to afford to keep the Old Palace; and the Grey House, while lacking in charm, was large enough for himself and the six women.

If money was no object he would prefer to keep the Old Palace and sell the Grey House, but he certainly wasn't going to dispose of anything until he was sure he had dealt appropriately with its contents.

A box of bones and other remains in an upstairs prison chamber of Enziet's house were, Arlian knew, all that was left of a woman named Dove; on his third visit he retrieved that receptacle and began arrangements for a private burial in a garden behind the Old Palace, beside Sweet's grave, where Cricket, Brook, Hasty, Lily, Kitten, and Musk could attend without attracting unwanted attention to their maimed condition—or to Hasty's extremely pregnant condition. The funeral took place without incident on a raw, blustery day. The evening after the burial Hasty went into labor, and Arlian sent for the midwife. Little Vanniari was safely delivered the following morning, and served to usurp much of everyone's attention for some time thereafter.

Arlian did find time to purchase a new sword and swordbreaker to replace the set he had lost in the cave beneath the Desolation, and to make a few experimental obsidian weapons from the supplies Enziet had left.

He received preliminary word from Deep Delving—Lord Enziet's holdings included a one-fifth share in the Old Man's mine, and the other owners would be willing to sell if the price was right.

The mine's manager, whom Arlian and the other miners had known only as the Old Man but whose real name proved to be Lithuil, had agreed to collect amethysts for Lord Obsidian, the exact price to be negotiated later. It was clear that Arlian would eventually want to make a trip to Deep Delving in person to deal with this—but it could wait. He did, however, send word that he would be interested in acquiring the other four shares, and that he wanted silver stockpiled for his use.

He did not visit the Dragon Society's hall on the Street of the Black Spire. He knew that he should, to assess his own reputation there and to inquire as to whether the locations of the dragons' lairs were known, but he could not bring himself to face the other dragonhearts yet. After all, he was seriously considering trying to kill them all eventually. A cure for the dragon's taint would be better, but he could not imagine how one might be found—in all its seven hundred years, the Dragon Society had not found one.

Of course, most of them probably hadn't tried, since it was the dragon's venom in their veins that kept them all alive; even so, he knew that Enziet had delved deep into sorcerous methods of holding the venom's effects at bay, and had only managed to extend his span by a few years—no more than fifty, at most. If that was the best Enziet had done in centuries of work, Arlian did not see how he could hope for much better.

And that meant that the dragonhearts would have to die if the dragons were to be exterminated.

Which also meant that he, Arlian of the Smoking Mountain, would have to kill them all.

Furthermore, as a member of the Society Arlian was sworn to share any information he might acquire about the dragons, and he was not yet ready to reveal the great secrets he had learned from Enziet, any more than Enziet had. Enziet had found it expedient to ignore that part of his own member's oath; Arlian did not like to think himself similar to his late foe, but he could certainly understand why Enziet had held his peace. In time Arlian thought he would find it necessary to reveal the truth, but he hoped it would not be soon; he needed time to think, to plan, to prepare himself and anticipate the actions of the others. Fortunately, the oath did not say that he must reveal what he learned immediately. He would tell them all eventually, if only to explain why he was killing them.

To walk into their hall now and pretend that all was as before, to face their questions about how Enziet had died, to look at them and talk to them in full knowledge that someday he would kill them... Arlian was not ready for that

He did not go to the Society's hall, nor did he invite any of the Society's members to his home—not even Rime—nor did he call on any. Had anyone come to call at the Old Palace he would have admitted his visitor and been as polite as he could contrive, but he could not bring himself to seek out the company of men and women he meant to kill.

He did wonder what was being said among them, whether Nail and Belly were concerned about their fates—they knew he meant to kill them someday, where the others did not. He did not seek them out, but he did listen when his guests or his servants gossiped, and he asked a few questions intended to elicit the latest news about them.

Since the members of the Society were all among the city's wealthy and powerful, gossip did circulate—

Cricket and Stammer seemed to be the best sources, though Arlian could not imagine how Cricket, newly arrived and confined to the palace by her inability to walk, heard as much as she did.

Arlian was interested to learn that Lord Drisheen had named no heir. This was hardly surprising in a man with no family who had intended to live forever, but it was interesting, nonetheless.

Thus neglected, under ancient custom Lord Drisheen's estates had therefore fallen to the Duke of Manfort, and once a decent period was allowed for notice to be circulated, and for the Duke's representatives to sort through and remove anything that they thought the Duke would prefer to keep for himself, the residue was to be auctioned off at the Duke's convenience.

That convenience happened to occur some nineteen days after Arlian's return to Manfort, when the novelty of Vanniari's presence was beginning to wear thin, but before Arlian was ready to return to the tedium of sort-ing through the remainder of Lord Enziet's belongings, or to venture out of the city to visit Deep Delving.

While Drisheen's lack of an heir did not startle Arlian, this date struck him as a pleasant surprise; he had assumed, until learning otherwise, that Drisheen's estates had long since been dealt with, since Lord Toribor and the others had brought word of the man's death back to Manfort long ago. Drisheen's hired assassin had certainly known his employer was dead, so the news was hardly secret.

Arlian supposed he had underestimated the time needed to prepare for the auction, but whatever the reason for the delay, it suited him. The discovery that matters were not settled meant he would have a chance to see whether Drisheen, who had been one of Enziet's closest companions, had left anything relevant to Arlian's own inheritance—perhaps Enziet had used one of his ciphers to send messages to Drisheen, and Drisheen had kept a key; or perhaps Drisheen had a diary recording observations about dragons, or about Enziet.

Enziet had known where at least one nest of dragons lurked; perhaps Drisheen had known others. And Arlian admitted to a certain curiosity regarding any record Drisheen might have left of hiring an assassin.

Accordingly, on the appropriate morning Arlian made his way through the cold gray streets to Drisheen's mansion to attend the first session of the auction; the quantity of goods involved meant that several days would be needed to dispose of everything, with each day's proceedings including a mix of personal effects, furnishings, and business property, and continuing until the auctioneer judged the buyers to be losing interest

Arlian went alone; Black was busy with the household and took no interest in what he called ghoulish proceedings, and Arlian had no one else suitable to accompany him on such an errand. He had had no contact with Lady Rime since returning to Manfort, and his female houseguests could hardly manage an event where people were expected to stand while bidding, and to walk from room to room. Arlian realized he had no other friends in Manfort—a rather depressing discovery—so he walked down the hill to Drisheen's estate alone, his cloak wrapped about him.

The gate and door stood open when he arrived, attended only by one harried footman. Arlian handed this fellow his cloak, and did not wait to be shown to the auction; he found it easily enough by following the sound of the auctioneer's chant. He made his way through the foyer, down a passage walled in white stone, into a good-sized but overcrowded parlor, where at least a dozen potential buyers clustered around the auctioneer.

Other buyers were wandering through the various rooms, Arlian saw, and as he had no interest in parlor furniture he strolled on into a mirror-lined gallery where assorted lords and ladies were scattered, looking over die furnishings. No one acknowledged his presence, and he did not intrude, but studied the attendees.

Most were unfamiliar. He knew all the members of the Dragon Society, and had met a good many of Manfort's wealthiest and most powerful residents at the ball he had held in the Old Palace, but the people here to lad were mostly a little lower on the social scale, looking to acquire cheaply things they could not properly afford.

He moved through the gallery to the door of a salon, and stopped without entering.

The Duke of Manfort was in the salon, chatting with a portion of his court Arlian thought better of intruding, and turned away.

It made sense that the Duke himself would be here, since the auction was for his benefit; presumably he had come to oversee the sales and ensure that adequate prices were paid. It made sense, but Arlian had not really thought about it. He cursed himself for this oversight—this might have been a chance to sound out the Duke's attitude about aiding Arlian's planned war against the dragons. Simply walking in unprepared might well end in disaster if he said the wrong thing...

But he would have time to consider, while the auction continued. Perhaps he could work out a sound approach.

For now, he decided to join the main body of bid-ders. He returned to the parlor, only to find that they were moving on to the drawing room beyond.

Arlian followed, joining the crowd for the next hour, but for the most part he made only a few desul-tory bids, and those only on books and certain personal effects, in hopes of acquiring information about Drisheen's sorcerous pursuits. He had no use for second-hand furnishings, and nothing with any discernable connection to Enziet was offered.

He purchased nothing in the drawing room but a bundle of papers that, upon investigation, proved to be household accounts, all utterly useless.

From there the auctioneer moved on into Lord Drisheen's large and elegant library, and Arlian followed—

but the transition made him acutely uncomfortable. He found his gaze drifting from the auctioneer to the comer where Sparkle and Ferret had been hanged. The bodies had been removed months ago, but to Arlian the image was still painfully clear:

He forced himself to focus on the auctioneer, and a moment later on the Duke's own little party. The Duke said his half dozen courtiers had climbed up a concealed stair to the balcony behind the auctioneer and now stood there, looking out at the crowd, the better to observe the bidding.

That brought the memory of the hanged women back even more forcefully. A lordling in pale green satin, the farthest of the party from the Duke, stood with his elbow not six inches from where the noose that killed Ferret had been looped across the balcony rail. Arlian tried not to think about that as he looked over the Duke's party.

About half of the Duke's companions were dragonhearts, Arlian saw. The crowd of potential buyers on the floor below included a handful more of these. The Dragon Society controlled most of the wealth and power in Manfort, after all; Arlian had suspected at least a few of them would attend.

As in the gallery, none of them acknowledged his presence, even though the dragonhearts, unlike those others, unquestionably knew who he was. He was unsure whether they were caught up in the bidding and had honestly not noticed him, or whether they were deliberately ignoring him. Snubbing the man who had killed four prominent lords, three of them dragonhearts, was not unreasonable, Arlian supposed—but it might be that his presence had truly been unobserved, as he was not making himself obvious and had come without retinue.

In any case, Arlian found himself with an opportunity to observe the dynamics of the city's elite, the Duke's entourage and the Dragon Society, that was probably more use than any chance to buy anything.

What he immediately saw was that Lord Hardior, who had been out of favor not long before, had obviously taken up the role of chief adviser now that both Enziet and Drisheen were gone.

Lady Rime, once also a senior adviser, was not present, and the other courtiers in attendance were clearly not significant. Hardior alone stood at the Duke's side, rather than a respectful step back.

Ariian had first met Lord Hardior at the elaborate ball held to introduce Lord Obsidian to Manfort's rulers, but had not dealt with him much after that. Lord Hardior was a member of the Dragon Society, of course—the Society, working behind the scenes, held almost all real power in Manfort—but had not been present for Ariian's initiation, and had therefore not participated in the ritual questioning there. Ariian thought he might have exchanged a few polite words with Hardior on various other occasions, though.

He remembered that Lord Hardior had reportedly been cast out of the Duke's inner circle a year or two back, and that Lord Enziet had been rumored to be responsible. Now, though, Enziet was dead, and here was Lord Hardior, impeccably dressed in white lace and brown velvet, pressed close up beside the Duke, whispering jokes into the Duke's ear, unobtrusively pointing out the prettiest women in the crowd, while the other advisers maintained a respectful distance and the Duke smiled and chuckled in response; clearly, Lord Hardior had seized on the opportunity presented by Enziet's absence.

At that moment, as the auctioneer droned on about a tedious volume of genealogy, Hardior happened to glance out at the crowd and notice Ariian looking up at him.

Their eyes met, and Hardior smiled.

Ariian wondered what that smile meant; it seemed friendly enough, but he knew better than to trust any dragonheart to be what he appeared. This was not the cold smile of an enemy sighting his prey, or the ironic disdain Ariian had often seen Enziet display ; it seemed a sincere display of warmth.

That warmth could be false, of course, intended to deceive Ariian into thinking he had an ally until the jaws of a trap closed around him. It might well be that Hardior was preparing to arrest Ariian for the murder of Lord Drisheen, and found it ironically satisfying to see Arlian here in Drisheen's home.

If he were to be charged with any crime it would probably be Drisheen's death, since Arlian's other significant killings had all been in fair and honorable combat. He had slain Drisheen in cold blood, Drisheen's sword undrawn, before witnesses; if Hardior wanted to destroy Arlian, that would be the best accusation to bring to bear.

On the other hand, it could be that Lord Hardior did indeed feel some appreciation for Arlian's actions in removing Enziet and Drisheen permanently, and taking Rime out of the city for several months, leaving the Duke virtually unattended by those he trusted.

That could be useful. A political ally might be very helpful indeed in making preparations to destroy the dragons and the Dragon Society. Arlian cocked his head and smiled back.

For a moment the two men stood smiling at one another; then Hardior leaned over and whispered in the Duke's ear. He pointed at Arlian.

The Duke's gaze followed Hardior's finger until it found Arlian, whereupon the Duke smiled and waved.

Arlian made a small bow in response. A few heads turned his direction at this, but no one commented. He thought he saw a few surprised faces among the dragonheads, but any such expression was quickly suppressed.

Then all of them returned their attention to the auction as the genealogy sold for a mere seven ducats, and a volume of Lady Arinia's infamous erotic tales, the cause of much scandal three centuries before, was put up for bid.

The Duke had seemed favorably disposed toward him, and Arlian wondered whether there was any way to take advantage of this—but he was down here, pretending to bid, and the Duke was up on the balcony, watching, and he could not see any way to get close enough to speak without violating the etiquette of the occasion.

Besides, there was no chance of speaking with the Duke here without Lord Hardior being a party to the conversation, and Arlian did not know enough of Hardior's intentions and attitudes to risk that.

He frowned, and tried to politely ignore the men on the balcony—and the unwanted image of Ferret, dangling there...

Not long after that Arlian grew bored, and turned to leave. Nothing of interest was for sale, so far as he could determine, and he had seen what he came to see in other matters—the elite of Manfort seemed to have accepted the loss of Lord Enziet and Lord Drisheen without any great disruption, and it was plain that the Duke of Manfort remained an easily guided fool securely in the grip of die Dragon Society.

And no one had been openly hostile toward him; in fact, Hardior and the Duke had seemed quite friendly.

If anyone intended to avenge the men Arlian had slain, they were not being obvious about it That would make his life easier; there would be no distractions as he prepared his campaign against the dragons. He had half expected to find that Lord Toribor, perhaps with the aid of Lord Nail, had stirred up the Society against him, making him an outcast—but there was no sign of any such thing.

Neither Toribor nor Nail had been present at the auction, however, nor had most of the other dragonhearts.

Arlian reminded himself that he could not allow himself to be too confident of his own safety. They might well still have plans to deal with the man who had sworn to slay them. Wither wanted him alive, but no one else had sent anyone to stop Drisheen's assassin.

He paused in die doorway to pull his cloak about him; the sky outside was leaden gray, as gray as the stone streets beyond the gate, and the air was chill, as the dying winter managed one last gasp. He was about to step out and let the footman close the door when he heard a footstep and a polite cough behind him.

He turned to find Lord Hardior standing at the far side of the little foyer, one arm draped gracefully against the doorframe.

"My lord Hardior," Arlian said. "A pleasure to see you!"

"Lord Obsidian," Hardior said, stepping forward, out of the doorway. "I had hoped to catch you."

Arlian glanced at the waiting footman, and said, "I was just leaving; shall I stay, then?"

"Oh, pray don't let me keep you—but might I walk with you as far as the gate, perhaps? A few words make any journey more pleasant, no matter how brief, don't you think?"

"Indeed," Arlian said. "I would be glad of your company." He bowed slightly, then turned and stepped outside. He took two paces down the path toward the gate, then paused until Lord Hardior appeared at his side.

"Is your coach waiting?" Hardior asked.

"I walked," Arlian said. "And yourself?"

"I rode with His Grace," Hardior replied. "Since I have forgone the pleasure of his company for the remainder of the afternoon, 1, too, am on foot."

Then if you like, our stroll need not end at the gate I take it that if you abandoned His Grace in my favor, there was some fairly urgent matter you wished to speak of With me?" Arlian set out down the path at a leisurely pace as he spoke, and Hardior accompanied him.

This was a perfect opportunity to sound out Lord Hardior, to learn a little of how he was viewed in the Duke's court and in the Dragon Society. Arlian tried not to grin, limiting himself instead to a polite little smile.

Hardior smiled as well. "Perhaps not urgent, my lord, but of some importance, yes."

'Then tell me of it, I pray."

"It's simple enough. I wish to know your intentions."

Arlian glanced sideways at him. This was a more direct approach than he had expected. "My intentions?"

"Indeed. You have deprived His Grace of two trusted advisers, and while he does not doubt your honor or question your justification, he is concerned lest you remove more. He wonders whether perhaps it is your intent to gain power in Manfort by thus removing rivals."

The two had reached the gate, where a gatekeeper stood by watching silently as they passed. He had not been there when Arlian arrived, and Arlian would have preferred it had he not been there now.

Arlian said, "My dear Hardior, I am not interested in gaining power at all, by any means. I know you were not present at my .. . arrival on the Street of the Black Spire, but surely you heard some of what was said there?" He did not think it wise to mention the Dragon Society by name while the gatekeeper was still within earshot, but he was sure Hardior would recognize the reference.

"One hears so many tales, Obsidian, that one scarcely knows what to believe. I would prefer you tell me directly why you came to Manfort, and what you hope to accomplish."

"I came in pursuit of vengeance, my lord," Arlian said. He could see no reason to evade the question; his purposes were hardly secret within the Society, and they were now too far down the street for the gatekeeper to overhear. The street was not utterly deserted, but the other citizens abroad on this gloomy day were few, and all seemed more concerned with getting home out of the damp chill than with listening to the conversation of the two lords. "As a child I was wrongly sold into slavery in the mines of Deep Delving, and I swore to find and slay the seven people who participated in that shameful act. Later I befriended women who were maimed and then murdered at the whim of six lords, and further swore to avenge those poor dead souls, as well as my own enslavement"

Thirteen men, then," Hardior said.

Arlian shook his head. "No," he said. 'Ten men, and two women, for one of the six lords was Lord Enziet, who was also the man who sold me into slavery."

"And have you disposed of them all, then?"

"I have found all the ten men," Arlian said, "and eight of them are dead. Two of the lords, Nail and Belly, still live, and I have been unable to locate the two women—one is thought to have died years ago, and die other fled Manfort and has never returned."

He belatedly remembered Lampspiller—his envoys to Deep Delving had not been instructed to inquire after the overseer, so he had no idea whether Lampspiller still lived.

If he did... well, it was a minor matter compared to the dragons, and he was unsure whether he would pursue it or not He decided not to mention it

"And where does this leave you, then?" Hardior asked. "As a member of the Dragon Society you are sworn not to kill Nail and Belly within the city walls; do you propose to hunt down these two women?"

"I have had enough of vengeance against men and women, my lord. It may well happen someday that I will kill Nail and Belly—Nail has agreed to meet me outside the wall when I have dealt with Belly, and I may take him up on that or I may not. Belly and I have fought before, and I think we have each other's measure; at this point I think it might be possible to let the matter end there, but it may be that we will fight again at some point." The memory of that duel in the night-dark streets of Cork Tree, which had ended with Toribor lying bleeding in the dirt, rushed back, and Arlian found himself thinking that he should pay Lord Toribor a visit, and discuss matters left unresolved between them. He should have done so sooner, in fact, but since his return to Manfort he had been distracted—by Enziet's legacy, by Isein's news about the dearth of magic, by Wither's visit, by Vanniari's birth.

He did not particularly want to kill Lord Toribor anymore, but he had said, there in the streets of Cork Tree, that their dispute was not finished—and of course, he intended to kill all the dragonhearts eventually. It might be wise to find out Toribor's intentions.

Would it be necessary to fight him again, fairly soon?

He remembered that he had made a promise to Toribor, there in Cork Tree—that he would hear Enziet out before killing him. Toribor had believed that Enziet's death would unleash all the dragons upon the Lands of Man, and end the peace between humanity and the dragons that had lasted seven centuries now.

That had actually been a fairly reasonable belief—it had been Enziet's bargain that had ended the old Man-Dragon Wars. Enziet had been dead for months, though, and Arlian had heard no reports that the dragons had emerged from their caves. It would seem that the predicted catastrophe had not come. Arlian wondered what Toribor thought of that.

These were definitely matters to be discussed.

None of them were anything he wished to discuss with Hardior, though. His concerns with Toribor were his own affair, and none of Hardior's business.

"Those two women, if they live, I no longer think worth the trouble of pursuit," he added as an after-thought. "Though if I happen across them, I will deal with them as seems appropriate at that time." Dagger and Tooth had merely been tools of Enziet, of Lord Dragon; with their master gone they were no more than two scoundrels in a world awash with their like.

"Then when you have met and slain Belly and Nail, assuming you do contrive to accomplish this and survive, what will you do?" Hardior asked. "Have you plans beyond this vengeance you've pursued so dili-gently?"

Arlian smiled crookedly. "Indeed I do, my lord, for I have not yet mentioned the greater revenge I seek.

The men are my lesser foes. My family was slain by three dragons when I was a boy, and I have sworn to find and destroy those dragons, or die in the attempt."

He did not mention that he intended to kill all the dragons; that would sound far too grandiose.

"Ah!" Hardior spread his hands. "I had heard this, my lord, but I could scarcely credit that the man who slew Lord Enziet could be so mad."

So much for restraint in declaring his intentions. Arlian threw Hardior a quick, wary glance. "Lord Enziet cut out his own heart," he said. "I have not said I killed him, merely that he is dead."

"I am not seeking to trick a confession from you, Obsidian. There are obviously mysteries here I do not understand—that fact is written on your cheek, for no blade made that mark. I do not ask you to explain. I may never truly know what happened to Lord Enziet, and this does not greatly trouble me. From my own point of view it is enough that be is gone, and that you do not seek to take his place."

"I have no interest in replacing him in the Duke's court," Arlian said. "He did, however, name me heir to his possessions and estates, and I have accepted that role."

"And you are welcome to it. Better to have them in your hands than disputed, or auctioned to fill the Duke's overflowing coffers as Drisheen's are."

Arlian stopped walking and turned to face Hardior.

"My lord," he said, "let us speak plainly. You said you wished to speak to me of a matter of some importance, yet you ask only about my own intentions.

While plainly these are of importance to me, I fail to see their significance to you. Were I truly hoping to usurp your position at court, or subvert your influence in some other way, surely I would not tell you? You would not trouble yourself solely to hear my protesta-tions of innocence—what else could I say? Why, then, are we having this conversation?"

Hardior grinned at him.

"As blunt as Enziet, aren't you?" he said. "Very well, then. Yes, I expected you to deny any aspirations to power here in Manfort, but I thought myself capable of judging your sincerity. Furthermore, since you do indeed appear to be mad, I thought you might voluntarily provide me with a list of whom you still intend to murder, so that I might plan accordingly. You appear to have done so. You have named Nail and Belly and said there are no others, and I believe you.

Nail is of no political consequence whatsoever, having withdrawn from court before the present Duke was even born; Belly is committed to no faction since Enziet's death, and indeed appears to be almost a broken man, one who can be easily dealt with, spending his time practicing swordplay rather than politics. I have hopes, my lord, that you, as Enziet's heir and a very wealthy man in your own right, can be convinced to openly support my position at court—it would strengthen my standing, and in exchange I would ensure that there will be no investigation into Lord Drisheen's death in a Cork Tree tavern."

"Indeed," Arlian said. He had to admit to himself that such a bargain would have its advantages, freeing him of any worries about the Duke's interference in his affairs, but he could not resist adding sarcastically,

"And how do the dragons figure into your calcula-tions?"

"As yet they do not," Hardior said. "While it's true that Belly has babbled about secrets and bargains that Lord Enziet had made, I expect that matters will go on much as they have for centuries—the dragons will stay in their caverns much of the time, emerging once in a while when the weather is right to destroy some unfortunate hamlet, and we will ignore them and go about our business. If you seriously do attempt to destroy them you will, of course, die in the attempt, which will be unfortunate, but the rest of us will continue without you—I only hope that you do not thereby stir them sufficiently to provoke the destruction of a village or two. If, as I rather expect, you find it expedient to spend a good many years in planning and preparation, then we will have the pleasure of your company that much longer "

Arlian stared at him silently for a moment, and Hardior's smile slipped under that gaze.

"There are secrets here you do not know, my lord,"

Arlian said at last. "What Enziet told Belly was, if not lies, at best only part of the truth, but Enziet did spend almost a thousand years researching the nature of dragons, and he named me heir to what he learned. I may be mad, my lord, but I believe I do in fact know a means of killing dragons. If it proves that I am not mad, and I do indeed slay one or more of the monsters, what then?"

Hardior's smile vanished.

"Are you asking what I would do if you killed a dragon?"

"Yes. And let me also ask what you would do if I slew all the dragons."

Hardior hesitated, his expression unreadable, before replying, "Why, you would be the greatest hero in Manfort's history, of course! Anything you asked would be yours."

"Anything? Even the deaths of certain people?"

"Nail and Belly?"

"Perhaps. And perhaps others."

Hardior swallowed, then shook his head. "This is absurd. Your madness is catching, my lord. Let us leave such matters until such time as they move out of the realm of sheerest fantasy."

"As you please, my lord." Arlian turned and began walking.

Hardior hesitated, then turned the other way.

"Good day to you, my lord," he called.

Arlian waved a silent response, and marched on.

That suggestion that he might spend years in planning his assault on the dragons—the implication that he would never, in fact, attempt it—aggravated him.

He would take his time in preparing, since rushing in unprepared would almost certainly get him killed, but he would not put it off indefinitely. The temptation to do so was real, certainly, but it was not a temptation he would yield to. He would demonstrate to Hardior, and to everyone else in Manfort, that he might be mad, but he was neither a fool nor a coward. He would go hunting dragons, and he would do it soon.

Perhaps he and the Aritheians would go to Deep Delving together, settle matters at the mines there, equip a caravan with silver and amethysts for the journey to Arithei, and then head south.

And once in the Desolation the Aritheians would continue on to the Borderlands, while he would turn east, to the cave where Enziet had died, and the dragons' lair beneath it.

Within a year, he promised himself. He would head

Vanniari was a happy baby, plump and healthy, feeding well at her mother's breast. Hasty doted upon her, but was limited in how well she could care for the child by her own maimed condition; Lord Obsidian's other crippled guests, Cricket and Brook and Musk and Lily and Kitten, were of little assistance, and instead the palace servants were called upon to handle the fetching and carrying involved. Stammer took charge of the situation, ensuring that Hasty's daughter had a steady supply of clean clothing and was properly provided with bedding.

Arlian made a point of visiting Hasty and Vanniari at least ooce a day, but he devoted most of his attention to other matters.

One of the first things he did after returning home from his conversation with Lord Hardior was to begin composing a message to Lord Toribor, a message that asked for a meeting.

This composition was difficult; the usual forms, with their expressions of friendship, were clearly impossible when the last contact between the two men had been a duel that had ended with Arlian declaring their dispute unresolved. Furthermore, it would not do to put down in writing exactly what Arlian wanted to discuss, as servants might well read the note. Even reassuring Toribor that his life was still protected by the Dragon Society's oath was difficult, since the very existence of the Dragon Society was at least nominally secret.

At last, though, after a full day's effort, Arlian felt he had achieved a satisfactory phrasing, and dis-patched the message in Black's care.

Two hours later, as Arlian was conferring with the kitchen staff regarding when and where dinner would be served, Black returned with Toribor's reply. He handed it to Arlian without comment.

Arlian opened the note and read, "I had wondered when I would hear from you. For reasons I trust are clear, I will not set foot in the Old Palace, nor in the house that once belonged to Lord Enziet, nor will I allow you in my own home; but I will, if you choose, meet with you tomorrow at an address we both know on the Street of the Black Spire."

Arlian considered this briefly, then handed it to Black. "Fair enough," he said. 'Tell him I will see him tomorrow afternoon." He glanced at the preparations going on a few feet away, and added, "Don't go now, though. After supper will be soon enough."

The following day was bright and warm, a perfect day in early spring, and between the weather and the impending meeting with Lord Belly, Arlian could not concentrate on his schemes of vengeance against the dragons; instead he visited the graves in the garden where Sweet and Dove were interred, and marveled at the green shoots poking up in the flower beds, and the buds on the trees, and the rich smell of the moist earth.

He had not often had the opportunities and time to look at such things. A year ago when the first spring greenery appeared he had been returning to Manfort a wealthy man, and had been too concerned with establishing his household in the Old Palace, establishing his business connections for his dealing in Aritheian magic, and establishing his reputation as one of Manfort's wealthy eccentrics, to pay attention to nature's changes.

The year before that he had been fleeing the House of the Six Lords, and finding refuge with Black in a rented room in the stony streets of Manfort, as the world outside the city turned green.

And for the seven springs before that he had been deep beneath the ground, in the bare rock tunnels of the mines at Deep Delving, where the seasons meant nothing.

Now he stood in the garden, staring at the tiny green points pushing up through the dead leaves on either side of Sweet's grave, unable to decide just what he was feeling. Sweet's death still left a raw wound in his heart, a ragged hole in his soul—but she was at peace, free forever of Lord Enziet, free of her pain and fear and horrific memories, and around her the world was renewing itself, going on without her.

He, too, had to go on without her. He had avenged her, had killed the man who had tormented her for so long, and who had fatally poisoned her. He had as well killed three of the others who had held her in bondage, crippled her, and abused her—only Nail and Belly remained alive. He had done everything he could to repay her for her kindness and love.

It didn't bring her back. It didn't give her the happy life she had deserved. Nothing could; she was dead and gone.

Ariian was not He still lived. He had a home, and wealth, and friends, and he was a dragonheart, immune to poison and disease. The world was a wonderful place that was renewing itself, turning green and lush There was a new baby upstairs with her mother, just starting out on life.

His life should be long and happy. He was free to do anything he chose.

And he intended to commit dozens of murders, cul-minating in his own suicide. That assumed, of course, that he didn't die in his attacks on the dragons.

Over the past ten years any number of people had told him he was mad, and as he looked at Sweet's grave he suspected they were right. He had done as much as anyone could reasonably ask of him; he had destroyed Enziet and Drisheen, and rescued six women from slavery. He had freed all Enziet's slaves, as well.

But it wasn't enough to satisfy him; obviously, he wasn't anyone reasonable.

He was still awash in confusion and uncertainty of the wisdom of his cause when he marched down the Street of the Black Spire to the black iron door with the red bar that guarded the hall of the Dragon Society.

He knew it might not be wise, that it could only end badly, but he never seriously contemplated abandoning his vengeance against the dragons. He merely debated whether or not he was insane to pursue it.

He was thus distracted when he was admitted to the Society's great chamber, and the sudden hush that fell over the room startled him out of his thoughts. He paused, standing just inside the inner door, and looked over the room, where a dozen faces stared silently back at him.

None of the spring sunlight penetrated here; instead the windowless room was lit by a hundred or so assorted candles, their light sparkling dully from the gilding on the coffered ceiling and from the polished wood of the walls and cabinetry, bright on hundreds of carvings and curios. The air was still and heavy with the scent of dust and hot candle wax. The room's occupants were scattered among the dozens of heavy tables and chairs, their footsteps silent on the thick carpets.

But all of them were staring at him.

Arlian, concerned with his own thoughts and his upcoming meeting with Toribor, had not stopped to consider what the effect of his appearance here might be.

Now he realized he should have.

He was the man who had denounced Lord Enziet, the Society's most senior member and one of its founders, as a traitor. He was the man who had pursued Enziet into the Desolation, and presumably driven him to his death. He was the man who had slain Lord Drisheen, another senior member, in a tavern in Cork Tree, and who had survived the assassin Drisheen had loosed upon him. He was the man who had slain the notorious Lord Horim in a duel outside the gates, and who had sworn to kill Lords Stiam and Toribor as well.

And he had not set foot in this room since he set out after Enziet

Furthermore, he was a dragonheart who reportedly had a new scar on his face, and it was the Society's long-held belief that only a dragon could scar a dragonheart. Naturally, the others wanted to look at him, to see what he would do, and whether the scar was really there.

He looked slowly around the room, at the faces amid the statuary and bric-a-brac, and in a far corner he saw the big square face with the eyepatch, the face he was seeking. Wordlessly, he made his way across the room, winding between the tables until he reached Lord Toribor. who sat behind one of the several tables.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed his movements closely

"May I join you?" Arlian asked, gesturing at a chair at Toribor't table.

down," Toribor said. "Let's get on with it."

Arlian took a seat, and for a moment the two men simply looked at one another.

"I take it you're not interested in polite pleasantries," Arlian said at last, speaking quietly.

"You stabbed me in the leg last time we met," Toribor said, a good deal more loudly, "and you've promised to kill me. I find that sufficiently unpleasant to make any sort of social niceties very difficult."

"Of course." Arlian nodded. "Nonetheless, I think there are matters we should discuss. I think you'll recall that when last we spoke, as you lay bleeding pro-fusely, you made me swear an oath—that I would not kill Lord Enziet without hearing him out." His voice remained low.

"I remember it," Toribor said, matching his tones to Arlian's own.

"I listened to what he had to say."

"And..."

Before Toribor could say any more, the two were interrupted by another, a man of medium height, his black hair going grey, who had marched up to the side of the table. Arlian recognized the features, but could not immediately recall the man's name.

"Is Obsidian threatening you?" the new arrival demanded.

Toribor looked up at him. "No," he said.

"We all know he intends to kill you..

"And he's sworn not to attempt it inside the city walls. Thank you for your concern, Lord Zaner, but I can handle this young pup."

Zaner looked from one man to the other, then spread his hands. "I'm trying to help, but if you don't want it . . "I don't," Toribor said, glaring at Arlian. "The offer is appreciated, but we have private business."

"If you change your mind, just let me know."

Zaner hesitated, then turned away, saying, "I just want to help. There's no need for any trouble here."

Toribor and Arlian watched Zaner retreat; when fie was out of earshot, Toribor leaned across the table and said, his voice low but intense, "What did Enziet tell you?"

"A great deal, actually." He remembered that conversation in the utter blackness of an unlit cave, how Enziet had laughed at him, and told him that the dragons had been driven from the Lands of Man all those centuries ago not because the first Duke of Manfort and Ms warriors had fought them so bravely, but because Enziet had blackmailed them, had threatened to destroy their young.

He had no intention of telling Toribor all that, nor of describing how Enziet had died releasing a dragon from his own heart's blood.

"The point I wanted to mention to you," he said, "is that Enziet lied to you. He said that if he died, the dragons would return. Well, look around you—he's been dead for months, and has there been a single report of a dragon awake? He told me, there in the Desolation, that he didn't know what the dragons would do when he died. Yes, he had made a pact with them, and it ended with his death, so the dragons are no longer bound by its terms—but they're old and tired, and they still sleep."

Toribor stared at him for a moment, then said, "Why should I believe you?"

Arlian blinked in surprise.

"Because I have no reason to lie," he said. "I will swear, if you like, by the dead gods or whatever you choose, that Enziet admitted to me that he did not know what the dragons would do when he was dead."

"And why are you telling me this?"

That was a harder question, and Arlian struggled for a moment to compose a response.

"Because this was unresolved between us," be said at last. "When last we spoke, in the streets of Cork Tree, I made you a promise. I wanted you to know that, however it might appear, I kept that promise, and your concern, the concern that seemed more important to you than your life at the time, was baseless."

"You don't know that," Toribor said flatly.

Arlian stared blankly at him. "The dragons have not returned," he said at last.

Toribor snorted. "Of course not," he said. "Look outside, my lord—winter is just now passing away!

You should know, as well as any of us, that this is not dragon weather, that it has been too cold for them since well before you caught up with Enziet."

Arlian stared anew—not at Toribor, not at anything, but blindly, as he realized his own foolishness.

He had not thought of that, obvious as it was. When Black had first assisted him from the cave he had been too concerned with simply staying alive to worry about the possibility that the dragons might emerge from their own deeper caves to reassert their rule over the Lands of Man, and by the time he had recovered sufficiently to worry about other things the everyday business of traveling in an overcrowded ox-drawn wagon had distracted him. When at last he had begun to think of larger matters, enough time had passed that he had simply assumed the dragons were not coming.

He had thought they might not yet know of Enziet's death, or might be planning to negotiate a bargain with Arlian in Enziet's stead. He had considered it most likely, however, that they were simply too old and weary to be bothered with the outside world, despite Enziet's death.

After all, no dragon had been seen in the ten years since three of the creatures had destroyed the village of Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain. According to everything he had heard, all the dragons that yet survived were the black of ancients; none were still the green of a dragon's vigorous prime. The youngest were at least seven hundred years old. Surely, even dragons did not live forever, and even dragons must grow tired and feeble with age. He had hoped to find and kill them while they still slept.

But he had not considered what was obvious to Toribor—that dragons were creatures of heat, and for centuries had only emerged in high summer, when the air was hot and thick and the sky dark with clouds.

Which meant that when summer came, the dragons might well come with it.

Suddenly, his plans to make obsidian weapons and find the dragons' lairs seemed far more urgent. He had assumed that, as Hardior had said, he could take his time in preparation, years or even decades if necessary—though he had never intended to wait that long.

But now he had to consider the possibility that he had only two or three months, that when the cool green of spring gave way to summer's heat the dragons would emerge.

He knew how they reproduced, and could surely, with the help of the rest of the city's population once they were alerted, destroy all their potential offspring by slaughtering the Dragon Society—but that would still leave the dragons themselves unchecked, and while he thought he might be able to drive an obsidian-tipped spear into the heart of a sleeping dragon, killing a dragon when it was awake would be far more difficult.

And it also assumed that anyone believed him when he explained draconic reproduction—it occurred to him that they might not. If he tried to stir up a crusade against the Dragon Society it would probably only serve to confirm the widespread belief that he was insane.

Killing dragons might be far more urgent than he had thought.

"Listen, Belly," he said, leaning forward, his eyes focusing again, "you may be right. I hadn't thought of that, and I feel like a fool that I didn't. And that makes it all the more important that we make common cause now. Yes, I have still sworn to avenge the wrongs you did to the women in the House of Carnal Society, but for now I would put that aside. I defeated you once, and took your two women and a horse, but I let you live; now I would let you live again, for a time, so that we can work together, so that all the Dragon Society can work together if the dragons do come back." '

"And what can we do, then?" Toribor demanded angrily. "We are not the warriors our ancestors were; we don't even know how they fought the dragons, or how they drove the dragons away. No man has ever killed a dragon; how can we even begin to fight them? If they return, we will all be enslaved, as the ancients were..."

"No," Arlian interrupted, "we will not. I told you Enziet told me many things. He had been researching for centuries, and had learned that obsidian blades can pierce a dragon's hide."

It was Toribor's turn to stare, though his expression showed more doubt than surprise.

"Obsidian can cut a dragon?" he said. "As Lord Obsidian slew Lord Dragon?"

"Indeed," Arlian said, a trifle uncomfortable at the comparison. He contemplated denying, once again, that he had killed Enziet, but decided there was no point in distracting the conversation with anything so irrelevant to the matter at hand.

"And you propose to arm us all with obsidian blades, then?"

"As many as possible, yes."

"And the possibility that these black weapons might be ensorcelled, that this might be some scheme of your own, is not supposed to occur to me?"

Arlian sighed.

"I am no sorcerer," he said. "You know that. I'm scarcely into my third decade, and it takes centuries to master sorcery."

"You have magicians in your household," Toribor pointed out. "Aritheian mages. Who knows what they might do with obsidian?"

"Not I," Arlian said. "All / know is that it should be able to kill dragons. I would like to arm the Dragon Society with obsidian."

I think not," Toribor said. "We have all known since you first joined that you're mad, Lord Obsidian; I, for one, do not care to join you in that madness." He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. "I do not think we have anything more to say to one another. I believe you when you say that Enziet did not know what would happen after he died, but beyond that I have no idea what is truth and what a madman's rav-ings. If the dragons do return, I will face them as best I can. If obsidian will indeed cut them, then I will accept a black blade and do what I can. Until then, my lord, I want nothing to do with you. We did not speak all winter; let us see whether we can better that record."

With that, he turned and marched away.

Arlian watched him go, dismayed and confused.

Ensorcelled weapons? The idea had never occurred to him, yet it had seemed obvious to Toribor. Could the Aritheians enchant weapons? Might that help against the dragons?

Could their magic help in any other way? He had not really considered the possibility. There were no dragons in Arithei, so the magicians could have no practical experience with them; he had not thought about whether they might know something of why the dragons did not travel beyond the Borderlands. Sorcery was useless against the dragons, so far as anyone knew, but southern magic was far more powerful than sorcery.

It was an interesting possibility—but not what he had come for. He had hoped to convince Toribor that they were all, as human beings, on the same side, but Toribor was clearly not ready to hear that.

He looked around at the other dragonhearts. Several of them were staring openly at him, and none of those stares were friendly.

Arlian sighed. He had done what he came to do; though the attempt had been an utter failure, it had given him a great deal to think about, and had added considerable urgency to his preparations. There was no point in sitting here, a target for hostile stares; he rose and headed for the door.

After his meeting with Toribor, Arlian put aside most of his other concerns and threw both his households into the business of making obsidian weapons, while he devoted much of his own attention to searching Lord Enziet's books and papers for any sort of map or guidance to the whereabouts of any sleeping dragons other than that one cave.

The possibility of going to the one cave he did know about was obvious, but he put it off—at this point he could not get there much before midsummer and, for all he knew, by the time he reached it the dragons might be out marauding while he searched their empty lair.

He had intended to travel to Deep Delving to buy amethysts and attend to other matters; his agents had acquired three more shares in the Old Man's mine, so he would be able to do as he pleased with it. He had also thought he might perhaps go on from there, but if Manfort was to be attacked that summer he did not feel he could spare the time. A caravan to Arithei could leave later in the year, cross the Desolation in the fall, winter in the warm southern lands, and return in the spring. If the summer had passed safely, he could accompany such a caravan into the Desolation, and di-vert himself from it in the cool of autumn.

But if the dragons were coming to besiege Manfort this summer, he wanted to be here to face them. For now, obsidian seemed more important than amethyst He did not explain to his staff why he wanted obsidian weapons. The very mention of dragons was enough to frighten or upset some people, and the idea of making weapons intended specifically for fighting dragons would probably have thrown a few of the more impressionable servants into fits. Fortunately, his reputation for eccentricity was well established, and allowed him to make this seemingly pointless demand without provoking undue comment.

Except, that is, from Black.

"I don't need to know all your secrets," Black said, in a private meeting in Arlian's study at the Old Palace,

"but this one I really do think calls for an explanation.

I know where this stone came from, but I still don't know why Enziet wanted it in the first place, or why you want it made into weapons. It smacks of sorcery, and that worries me— you aren't a sorcerer, but Enziet and Drisheen were both formidable in the art. For all I know, their spells might have survived them, and if so I don't like it."

"There's no sorcery," Arlian said. "At least, not the sort you mean. It's a discovery Enziet made—obsidian is the one thing that can pierce a dragon's hide."

Black considered that, and looked down at the obsidian dagger he had brought to the discussion. Then he looked back at Arlian. "Have you tested this, or are you taking Enziet's word?"

"I've tested it," Arlian said.

"This is connected with that scar on your cheek, and what happened in the cave, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And you aren't going to tell me the details, are your'

So these weapons are for use against dragons.

"Yes."

"You really do intend to hunt down and kill the dragons who destroyed your home."

"Yes."

Black nodded thoughtfully. "But you don't need dozens of spears to do that. You're just one man; you can't carry all the weapons you're having made."

"I'm aware of that"

Black tapped the black glass dagger against the nails of his left hand as he silently studied Arlian's face.

"Just how bad is it?" he asked at last.

"I don't know," Arlian admitted. "It may be nothing.

But I want to have the weapons ready if the worst comes to pass."

"And what about the men to wield the weapons?"

Arlian sighed. "I can't raise and train a private army," he said. "I am viewed with quite enough suspicion as it is. If the weapons are needed, there will be men who want them—and probably women, too, for that matter."

"That bad?"

"I hope not"

"Do you have enough obsidian?"

"I think so."

"I could inquire after more."

"That might be wise."

"Lord Wither's man Horn has been talking to the staff, you know, hoping someone will tell him where to find the dragons. I believe some of them have been invited to meet Wither himself and discuss the matter."

"I know where the entrance to one cavern is, holding no more than half a dozen of the great beasts; if Lord Wither locates any others, I would be pleased to hear of it"

"I doubt he has any way of finding otters, but what if he learns where that one is?"

"Then presumably he'll attempt to fetch some venom, either in person or by hiring others to make the journey on his behalf. But who on the staff could direct him? You and I were the only ones to set foot in the cave there. I doubt Rime or Shibiel or Thirif could give useful directions; I'm not entirely sure I can find it again without a great deal of effort"

"Cricket and Brook were with us."

"And, being amputees, they cannot walk and therefore never left the wagon; what could they tell him?"

"You may misjudge Brook's abilities."

That struck Arlian as curious, that Black would single out Brook. Arlian remembered Brook as a clever and usually cheerful woman who liked to hum quietly or talk to herself when focused on some task; he remembered that she had been quick to help him out in Coik Tree, when he had rescued her from Toribor's party. On the long ride back from the Desolation to Manfort, Brook had helped tend Arlian's wounds and had been good company for them all.

But Arlian did not remember any indication that she would be any better at navigating the Desolation than anyone else, and how would Black know her any better than he did? Perhaps, since arriving at the Old Palace, the two had spoken when Arlian wasn't present.

Perhaps, it suddenly occurred to Arlian, they had done more than merely speak.

"And if I do misjudge, if Brook could somehow lead Wither to that cave, why would she?"

'For gold, Arlian."

"I give her whatever she needs here."

"But she might prefer to be entirely in command of her own destiny, and not dependent on you. You freed her from slavery, but she may want more freedom than you can give her."

"She may, at that," Arlian acknowledged. "And she has every right to earn her own way however she can.

If you would be so kind as to inform her that I would prefer she not sell that particular bit of information, I would appreciate it—but on the other hand, I will not slop her. If Lord Wither does find that cavern, he does so at his own risk. It's a two-month journey, more or less, and by then die weather will be much warmer, especially in the south; I would not care to venture into a dragon's cave in warm weather. It's not entirely coincidental that Enziet led us there in winter. You might mention that to Lord Wither."

"Indeed I might," Black agreed. "He's a patient man, and he may well decide to wait until autumn."

"By which time the matter may be moot."

Black hesitated, then asked, "And suppose, Ari, that Lord Wither does seek out a dragon's cave, either the one you know or another, and finds what he's after.

What will you do?"

"That depends what use he chooses to make of it,"

Arlian said.

"And would you provide him with some of the weapons you have Ferrezin and the others preparing?"

Arlian leaned back against the desk.

"Now, that is an interesting question," he said. "I think that if asked, I would sell him a few, yes. I have no great dislike for Lord Wither, even though I would prefer he not obtain what he seeks."

"You prefer him to the dragons, at any rate."

"Yes."

"And you're making obsidian weapons because you expect a need for them?"

"Rather, I think a need may arise; to say I expect it is to overstate the case. And I would prefer it if you did not mention any of this to others."

Black snorted. "They would probably think me as mad as you."

And with that, the conversation was at an end.

Days passed, each a little longer and a trifle wanner than the one before, and Arlian accumulated a sizeable arsenal of obsidian weapons—black-tipped spears, black glass daggers, and a few hybrid swords that had pieces of obsidian fitted into steel blades. These last were clumsy and fragile, but Arlian thought they might be useful even so.

He concentrated on spears, some of them of prodi-gious size—after all, dragons were big, and while obsidian could presumably cut them anywhere, it had taken a thrust to the heart to actually kill the one he had fought beneath the Desolation. Some of these spears were of a size that would require a giant, or at least two or three men working together, to wield—but the possibility that they would be needed could not be ignored.

Arlian wished that finding the giants to wield them was as easy as constructing the spears.

While his employees were making weapons Arlian also accumulated a great deal of knowledge about Lord Enziet's past and possessions, but little of it was any use. The enciphered notebooks remained largely mysterious.

And he began the serious study of sorcery, with the occasional assistance of Lady Rime, once she had returned from inspecting her nearer estates. Although she was centuries old, her own knowledge of the magical arts was still limited; Arlian knew it would be decades before he could accomplish anything beyond the most basic level.

At one session, when he had botched a simple ensorcellment, he remarked, "Sometimes I wonder, my lady, why you bother to help me."

She looked at him oddly.

"Sometimes I wonder the same," she said. "After all, you're but a twentieth of my age, and given your habits and obsessions it seems quite unlikely you'll survive your first century. If I become too involved with you, I may well not survive another century. In my saner moments I avoid you, Arlian. I am here today because my inexplicable fascination with you over-came my good sense." Then she turned her attention back to the crystals they had been working with.

"Shall we try it again?"

Arlian wondered, after that, whether or not she had been joking about avoiding him. He could never find a polite way to ask, and he could never decide whether the decreased frequency of their contacts was coincidental or intentional, the result of distractions or deliberation.

Caught up in his weapons and plans and sorcery, he did not take time to visit the hall of the Dragon Society again; he had no interest in another confrontation with Toribor, or perhaps the meddlesome Lord Zaner. There would be time to deal with his enemies there later; the dragons were more urgent. He did keep himself ap-prised of Lord Wither's whereabouts and activities; as yet Wither had not left the city, nor openly sent any hirelings southward, so Arlian did not feel particularly concerned. He also paid close attention to any reports that might indicate draconic activity of any sort, but otherwise did not trouble himself to stay current with the perpetual flow of news and gossip that swirled through Manfort.

He did continue to visit Hasty and Vanniari, and to take meals with his several houseguests and spend some time each evening chatting with them. He paid closer attention to Brook, and concluded that she and Black had indeed gotten to know each other well.

Cricket had taken an interest in cookery, and had taken a liking to Stammer, who was eager to defer to her. As a result Cricket was now unofficially in charge of the kitchen staff.

Kitten was still reading her way through the palace library, and expressed an interest in continuing on to Enziet's bookshelves when the volumes at the Old Palace were exhausted. Lily and Musk had not yet found lasting interests, but seemed content with their lot. The weather grew warm, trees blossomed and tamed green, spring flowers bloomed and faded, but Arlian did not devote much time to appreciating the progress of the seasons; he was too concerned with what a bout of dragon weather might bring.

No dragon sightings were reported. No villages ceased to communicate with their neighbors. But, Arlian told himself, the weather was not yet as hot as it would become. Toribor's dire prediction could still come true.

He heard nothing more from Lord Hardior for some time. At last, however, as spring gave way to summer, the Duke's chief adviser paid a call on Lord Obsidian.

Nominally, this was just a casual visit between friends—but Arlian knew better than to treat it as such.

When he received word that Hardior hoped to find him at home the following day he dropped everything else and began preparations for a proper reception for the Duke's representative.

A year ago he wouldn't have bothered—but a year ago he had seen the Duke and his entourage as irrelevant to his own needs. He had been intent on finding and killing Lord Dragon and other human foes.

Now, though, he was preparing to fight dragons, and then to destroy the entire Dragon Society, and that was, he now realized, not something he could reasonably hope to do single-handed—or even with the help of his comrades, Black and Rime and the Aritheians. At the very least, he did not want to find himself fighting the Duke's guards at the same time as he fought the dragons.

Accordingly, he consulted the kitchen staff to make sure a variety of delicacies were on hand, and Cricket assured him, from the high stool where she directed all matters culinary, that she would personally guarantee a fine table would be set. He arranged with Thirif for a few little illusions to create the proper atmosphere, and Black undertook, on his own initiative, to ensure that the appropriate rooms were spotless and the six palace footmen on their very best behavior.

And then they waited for Lord Hardior to arrive.

It was a good two hours past midday when Lord Hardior's coach rolled to a stop at the gate, timing that clearly meant Hardior did not care to stay for an entire meal—it was very unlikely that Arlian could stretch the visit until suppertime, and of course luncheon was past and done.

That might mean any number of things—that

Hardior was too busy to spare the time, that the Duke wanted him at the Citadel for meals, that he did not yet want to bestow the consequent social status on Arlian that dining with the Duke's chief adviser would bring, or merely that he did not want to impose on Arlian's hospitality. Black suggested that Hardior was probably just wary of being poisoned, and Arlian murmured amused agreement, but in fact he knew better, Lord Hardior possessed the heart of the dragon, and those who had the heart of the dragon were immune to virtually all poisons.

Arlian, in his finest black velvet coat with layers of white lace at throat and cuffs, met Lord Hardior at the front door, and personally ushered him in. A footman stood by, ready to serve, but Hardior had not worn cloak or sword; he was attired in a light brown linen jacket, cut short in the latest fashion, over a fawn-colored silk vest and cream-colored shirt. The warmth of these colors contrasted sharply with the stark black and white of Arlian's own costume, and Obsidian's household livery.

Hardior smelled faintly of powder and perfume; Arlian had never gotten in the habit of using cosmetics, and suspected that any odor he might have was the scent of sweat. Despite the training he had received in the House of the Six Lords, he was still not entirely at home in the role of a wealthy gentleman of Manfort.

The two exchanged polite greetings and inquired after one another's health; Arlian introduced his steward, and told his guest to consider Arlian's home his own.

The formalities thus completed, Arlian showed Hardior to the small salon, where a flurry of illusory butterflies danced in the sunlight before vanishing, and where Cricket's underlings had set out assorted pas-tries and candied fruits. Hardior accepted a few of these, along with a glass of pear wine.

At last, though, Hardior settled into an oak-and-leather armchair, and Arlian closed the doors, leaving the two men alone in the room in apparent privacy.

"While your presence is a delight, my lord," he said, turning his back to the door, "I suspect that there is a purpose behind this visit beyond simple fellowship."

Of course there is," Hardior acknowledged. "And I would be pleased to come directly to the point. A few words should do. You know, I had hoped to catch you somewhere else, so that we might have this conversation without putting you to any trouble, but you have been something of a recluse of late, and given me no opportunity."

"Had I known you were seeking me out, my lord, I would have been a veritable social butterfly. Could you not have invited me to one of the Duke's gatherings, rather than interrupt your busy schedule to attend me personally?"

"The problem with that, Obsidian, is that I could not be certain that you would accept, and further, that I did not know just who you do not care to share a room with. Would it have been graceless to put you in the same party as Lord Belly, for example?"

"It might, my lord, though I think I could behave myself on my host's behalf even so. Whatever the circumstances, the pleasure of your company is now mine, and I pray that you feel free to tell me whatever you sought to tell me."

"I have come not so much to tell you anything, my lord, as to ask a question—and its nature is such as to add further hesitation to any discussion of it less private than this."

"You intrigue me, my lord. Ask your question, then."

" Tis simple enough. Why, my lord, are you stockpiling strange weapons?"

"Ah." Arlian nodded. "I thought that might be it.

You refer to the obsidian blades and spearheads?"

"I do indeed. I understand you have had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these bizarre weapons manufactured and stored."

"I have," Arlian said. "And my intention is to offer them to the Duke's soldiers, should the need for them arise."

Hardior cocked his head to one side. "Indeed," he said. "And what occasion could possibly call for blades of volcanic glass, rather than good steel?"

Arlian seated himself on a silk couch before replying, "You know I am Lord Enziet's heir."

"Indeed I do," Hardior said. "I find that as bizarre as the manufacture of stone knives, but there can be no question that Enziet did name you as such, and had the right to do so. He knew well that you meant to murder him, so a death that might otherwise invalidate his will does not interfere."

"If you will pardon me for saying so, my lord, you do not know how Lord Enziet died, and should be wary of making assumptions about the matter."

"The nature of his death is indeed unknown to me, my lord, and I did not intend to imply otherwise. Pray continue"

"Lord Enziet was the most senior member of a certain society to which we both belong, as you know, and while he did not always comply fully with that society's regulations, he did pursue its primary goal with great effect—he knew more about dragons than anyone else in Manfort. I would think you might have heard rumors—from Lord Toribor, if nowhere else—

that Lord Enziet had made a pact that kept the dragons in their caverns."

"I have heard this, and dismissed it as nonsense. Do you tell me it is not? And even if this is the case, how does obsidian figure into it?"

"I tell you thai I do not know what consequences Enziet's death may bring, but that a sortie by several dragons is not impossible. And Enziet's researches, which I have inherited, indicate that obsidian may be able to pierce a dragon's hide where steel cannot.

While not wishing to alarm anyone, I had thought to have weapons prepared in case dragons do dare to assault die city."

He spoke as clearly and calmly as be could, and when be had finished he met Hardior's gaze openly and directly.

Hardior, for his part, leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin upon that hand. He contemplated Arlian's face for a long moment before replying

"You are obsessed with the dragons, Lord Obsidian," he said at last

"Indeed. I do not deny it"

"When last we spoke you asked what I would do if you killed one; I take it that these stone weapons are the method you meant to employ."

"Exactly."

"You cannot have tested this theory that obsidian will pierce a dragon's hide."

"As you say," Arlian answered. "But Enziet's research was quite thorough. He concluded that dragons are a magical manifestation of fire and darkness, while obsidian is a purely physical manifestation of fire and darkness, and thus the two interact in curious ways."

"And you cannot know that the dragons will come.

They have been gone for seven hundred years; surely, one man's death cannot be that important to them?"

"I cannot know," Arlian agreed. "I choose, however, to be prepared."

"And that's what this is about, then?"

"What else could it be?"

"Oh, any number of things. The assumption has been that the obsidian has some sorcerous power, that perhaps you inherited Enziet's sorcery, or brought unknown magic back from Arithei, and that you plan to equip an army with magical weapons."

"For what purpose?"

'To carry out your mad schemes of vengeance, of course."

"I seek vengeance against the dragons. Surely, no one would object to that?"

"You have also sworn to kill Nail and Belly, have you not?"

Reluctantly, Arlian admitted, "I have." He was in no hurry to carry out that vow, but he could not deny having made it—he intended to kill all the dragonhearts in time.

"And now Nail lies ill, while you tinker with what might be hostile sorcery—surely, it's not unreasonable to suspect a connection ..."

His voice trailed off as he saw Arlian's reaction to his words. The younger man had gone from puzzlement to surprise to extreme agitation in short order, and now leapt to his feet, interrupting Hardior.

"Nail is ill?" Arlian demanded, hesitating as if uncertain whether to grab Lord Hardior or dash for the door.

"Yes, he is," Hardior said. "These past three days.

You hadn't heard?"

"No!" Arlian exclaimed. He stared at Hardior. 'Tell me the nature of this illness."

He had a horrible suspicion that he knew its nature far better than did Hardior. Dragonhearts were never ill; no known disease could be carried in their tainted blood, any more than poison could harm them. But the draconic taint itself...

Lord Stiam, known as Nail, was probably the eldest surviving member of the Dragon Society, almost as ancient as Enziet had been—only Lord Wither might perhaps be his equal, now that Enziet was dead. Nail had lived almost a thousand years—the exact number was unknown.

And now his time was up, Arlian was sure of it For perhaps a thousand years, no dragonheart had survived to the natural end of his life—long ago, before the Dragon Society was formed, another secret society, the Order of the Dragon, had slain all dragonhearts upon discovery, and only Enziet and a handful of others had survived. Enziet had betrayed and destroyed the Order of the Dragon to save his own life, so that for centuries die dragons were able to contaminate mortals to gestate their young, and those infected were no longer slain.

Enziet had been the eldest of those Arlian knew, and Stiam had been either second or third.

Enziet had staved off his own end for a few years by sorcery—but Stiam had no idea what fate awaited him, and had done nothing to delay it.

"He complained of chest pains, as if his heart were swelling within him," Hardior said, hesitantly. "And of a fever in his blood, and weakness in his limbs. And he asked me once whether I heard a voice, when all was still."

That fit all too well. Arlian turned and strode to the door, calling back over his shoulder, "You think me mad—well, come with me now, and we will see whether I am mad or not! I only hope we aren't too late."

Then he swung open the door and bellowed,

"Black! Fetch me a spear at once, and one for yourself! We're going to Nail's estate!"

Behind him, almost forgotten and utterly baffled.

Lord Hardior got to his feet and followed.

They all rode in Lord Hardior's coach—it was still waiting at the gate, still ready, and Lord Hardior, caught up in Arlian's obvious urgency, offered it.

Black, clutching three of the obsidian-tipped spears Arlian's staff had prepared, rode atop, beside the driver, while Arlian and Hardior rode inside.

Ariian could scarcely contain himself, so overcome was he by a tangle of emotions. Anticipation and dread mingled inextricably with one another. He wanted to shout nonsense at Hardior, to tell him that he was about to face horrors and see proof that Arlian was not mad, but he forced himself to stay silent.

Nail was giving birth to a dragon—would Arlian arrive to find a man, or a monster? He had intended to kill die dragonheads to prevent this, but he had apparently left this one until too late.

If die dragon had already emerged, then here was a chance to slay another dragon, in furtherance of his revenge, and at that a dragon burst from the heart of one of the Six Lords-—but he had almost come to like Nail, who was either the most forthright dragonhead Arlian had ever met, or the subtlest.

He had the obsidian spears, but what if the dragon had been born an hour or two before? Would the volcanic glass still pierce its hide, or did that armor strengthen with time? The Enziet dragon had lived for only a few moments before Arlian stabbed it to death; would the Stiam dragon be stronger?

And that assumed the dragon had been born. If Nail were still alive and human when they arrived, what could Arlian do? He had sworn not to harm Nail within Manfort's walls, and that oath still held—

though he did not think anyone would take it to apply to the dragon that Nail would become.

He could wait at Nail's bedside—but what if the wait took days? He had no idea how long a dragonheart's natural labor might be; Enziet had cut open his own chest to free the creature within, and Arlian did not imagine that Nail would do anything of the sort.

Who would be there? Who would see the emergence?

What would this do to Arlian's trove of secret knowledge? For centuries, only Enziet had known how dragons reproduced; before that the Order of the Dragon had closely guarded the information. It had never been common knowledge. Now, though, whoever was in Lord Stiam's bedchamber would see the transformation and would know the truth—servants, guests, physicians, and perhaps others. The secret, like the newborn dragon, would be out.

A dragon, loose within the walls of Manfort—that was something unknown for seven hundred years.

And really, Arlian thought, wouldn't this simplify his task? Everyone would know how dragons began, and how they could be ended; surely, everyone would be eager to aid him in his campaign to exterminate the monsters.

Everyone, that is, but the members of the Dragon Society, who would realize that they, too, had to die.

The coach pulled to a stop at Lord Nail's gate, and Arlian had die door open before Black could leap down to open it for him.

A guard stood at the gate, his hand on the hilt of his sword—a cheap guardsman's cutlass, not a gentleman's rapier, but still an effective weapon.

"We must see Lord Nail at once," Arlian said. "It is of the utmost urgency!"

"Lord Stiam is unwell, my lord," the guard began.

"We know that," Arlian snapped. "Open the gate and stand aside!"

The guard was about to speak again when he realized that Black held a spear to his throat, a spear with a jagged, glassy head. The steward had moved around behind Arlian and approached the guard from the side, unnoticed.

"Open the gate and you live," Black said.

"Open the gate," Lord Hardior said, belatedly stepping up beside Arlian and pushing Black's spear aside.

"I will take full responsibility."

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