"I assume Hardior sent them," Arlian said after the blades had disengaged. "Would you know why?"

"Hardior didn't say much after you left," Toribor said. "I have no idea what he has planned."

"Then who did speak?" Arlian asked, lunging.

Steel clashed, and for a moment both men were far too busy to say anything as they thrust and cut at one another. Toribor's sword blade slashed through Arlian's right sleeve, but no blood had been drawn when they separated again.

"Pulzera spoke," Toribor said. "And Ticker wouldn't shut up. Rime and Spider—everyone had a few words, it seemed, but most of them might as well have saved their breath."

"And nothing was decided?" The mention of Pulzera wait not encouraeine

"Not by the time I left," Toribor replied. "They were still chattering, but I needed my sleep before facing you." He made a quick little attack that Arlian took for a feint until it was almost too late; the tip of Toribor's sword missed his cheek by no more than an inch before Arlian's swordbreaker turned it aside. Arlian countered, but Toribor's swordbreaker was ready, and Arlian barely escaped seeing that shorter blade live up to its name.

He was allowing himself to be distracted, Arlian thought. Talking was not a good idea after all; he could satisfy his curiosity later, if he lived through this. Even with Toribor dead, surely Rime would be able to tell him what had happened. He could attend to that later.

First he had to live through the duel.

Although the duel had only just begun it was already clear to both participants that despite his missing eye, despite the outcome of their previous nighttime meeting, Toribor in daylight was the more experienced, better-trained swordsman. Furthermore, he had kept up his skills better than had Arlian, which compensated for his heavier frame and greater age, factors that might have been expected to slow his responses. His reach was slightly less than Arlian's, but his sword slightly longer, so that there was no advantage to be had there.

Arlian would need to find some stratagem, some device that would give him an edge, if he was to win this fight.

There were no shadows to exploit, and Toribor had no old wounds other than his missing eye. There was nothing irregular about his style save the way he kept his bead turned to make up for his limited vision.

While heavy and far from young, be was not weak or sick. Arlian had not noticed any weaknesses in his swordsmanship.

He had to find something, though. Arlian ducked Toribor'

and triesd thig

a loh wit

w h that approach

attack—in Cork . Tree he had cut open

This time he had his sword knocked roughly out of line by the swordbreaker, while Toribor's own sword came overhand for a slash at Arlian's shoulder, drawing the first blood.

It was only the merest scratch, but it stung—and it was not a good sign. Arlian pivoted back, attempting to disengage, but Toribor pursued him, forcing him backward three steps before he was able to stand his ground once again.

This would not do.

Arlian told himself that he was in the right, that justice demanded Toribor's death; he remembered Rose and Silk and the others, and remembered how Toribor had tried to delay or kill him in Cork Tree ...

And he remembered how even when Toribor was at his mercy, he had begged not for his own life, but for Enziet's, to keep the dragons restrained. The man had courage—and he hated and feared the dragons. He had treated the slaves in the House of Carnal Society as tools rather than people, but he had not been deliberately cruel. Perhaps he had been under Enziet's thumb.

Enziet could be very persuasive.

All the same, he had been one of the Six Lords, and he constantly opposed Arlian. He must die for it. Arlian attacked again, moving first toward Toribor's left, as if to try for his blind side, then abruptly shifting direction and striking at Toribor's right.

That did catch Toribor off-guard—for perhaps half a second. Arlian was able to slash diagonally across his foe's right wrist, drawing a widening line of red blood across the tight white sleeve, but did not manage the crippling blow at the inside of the elbow that he had hoped for.

Toribor countered with a jab at Arlian's chest that speared through the silk scarf tucked into his breast When Arlian brought up his swordbreaker, hoping to snap the sword's blade before Toribor could free it from its silken entanglement, Toribor slashed upward, cutting free of the scarf and drawing a line of blood upward from Arlian's right eyebrow to his hairline.

Neither man could spare a single breath for speech now; they were much too busy with their blades. Steel clashed against steel as both moved in to the attack.

Arlian fought automatically, the long, hard training Black had given him returning now that his life depended on it; he sensed what Toribor intended and reacted before the blows could strike.

Unfortunately, Toribor could do the same, just as effectively.

Around them, the watching crowd cheered and whistled and applauded as the swordsmen fought; each attack, each retreat, elicited gasps and shouted comments and encouragement. Arlian and Toribor ignored it all, and focused only on each other.

The two men maneuvered around one another, and at one point, as Arlian ducked under a high attack and sent his own blade stabbing toward Toribor's sizeable belly, Arlian found himself looking directly over Toribor's shoulder at the archers atop the city wall.

Someone not in uniform was speaking to two of them, and each archer had an arrow in his hand, ready to nock and draw.

But then Toribor turned to dodge Arlian's lunge and brought his own sword down toward Arlian's neck, and Arlian was too busy bringing up his swordbreaker to turn the attack to see any more of whatever might be transpiring on the battlements.

Even in the midst of combat, Arlian found himself wondering once again who had sent the archers there, and why.

Perhaps that distraction was why he misjudged a parry—or perhaps Toribor's greater skill simply caught up with him. Toribor's sword slashed across the inside of Arlian's wrist, and Arlian's hand spasmed slightly—enough to loosen his grip on the hilt of his own sword, and cost him a fraction of a second of control. Toribor reversed his blade's motion abruptly and thrust, and the point jabbed into Arlian's arm.

Arlian's fingers twitched, and Toribor brought his swordbreaker slamming down on Arlian's blade.

The sword did not break, but flew from Arlian's grasp and bounced, ringing, on the stone pavement.

The audience suddenly fell still.

Arlian quickly brought up his swordbreaker and countered Toribor's first thrust, but he knew then that he was doomed. He would die with his vengeance in-complete; the dragons that had slaughtered his family would survive, and breed new dragons in the hearts of unsuspecting humans ...

Or perhaps not so unsuspecting.

"Belly," he said, as Toribor disengaged from the swordbreaker and prepared to strike again, "don't let them side with the dragons."

Toribor paused.

"What?"

"The others. The Society. Don't let them side with the dragons. Don't listen to Pulzera. You can destroy them if you'll just stay together, and use the obsidian weapons."

"Don't talk to me about that!"

"But it's important! You're going to kill me before I can deal with the dragons, so someone else has to do it, and only the Society ,.."

"Shut up!" Toribor bellowed, thrusting the tip of his blade past the swordbreaker and up against Arlian's throat.

"But you mustn't let the dragons win! Don't you see..

"I do see!" Toribor shouted. "You let me live last year in Cork Tree because I was more concerned for Enziet than for myself, so now you're trying to save your own miserable life by pretending you care about the Society!"

"I care about the dragons, and what they may do to mankind if the Society sides with them! I know you're going to kill me..."

"Beg for your life, damn you!"

Arlian blinked at him, startled. "You know me better than that, don't you?"

Toribor's face was purple with rage, and the tip of the sword had pierced Arlian's scarf and dug into the skin of his throat; a drop of red appeared on the white silk. "Damn you, Obsidian!" Toribor said. "If I kill you now, in front of all these people—they know you spared my life last time we fought. If I kill you, you'll be the better man forever!"

Arlian could think of no intelligent reply to that, and stared silently at Toribor.

"I'd almost think you dropped your sword on purpose!"

The corner of Arlian's mouth quirked upward.

"Unless I thought you as good a man as myself, that would simply be suicide," Arlian said. "And if I thought you as good as myself, why would we be fighting?"

"A sword at your throat, and still you chatter and argue and bait me? You're mad, Obsidian!" The sword moved half an inch to the left, cutting the skin of Arlian's throat.

'Then go ahead and rid the world of a madman, Belly, but just remember that mad or not, I do know I'm a man and not yet a dragon or the slave of dragons.

You make certain that the others all know it!"

For a moment Toribor stared silently at him; then he said through gritted teeth, "Pick up your sword."

Arlian stared back.

Toribor was not going to simply kill him. By ancient tradition, Toribor had every right to finish him off here and now—but Toribor was not doing it

Enziet wouldn't have hesitated for an instant He wouldn't have cared what anyone thought of him. Drisheen would have relished every second, and found a way to kill Arlian slowly. But Toribor was giving him another chance.

Arlian was not at all sure whether he would have done as much were the roles reversed. After all, he had killed Drisheen in cold blood, and Shamble—he had had Shamble at swordspoint, as Toribor now had him, and he had cut open the man's throat

But Toribor was not going to kill him. Toribor did not even want to march back into the city and leave matters unsettled—he wanted a resolution.

"If you care so much about your reputation, my lord," Arlian said, "you could withdraw your blade for a moment and then strike me down and say I'd lunged with my swordbreaker. I might even do it I'm not de-fenseless, not unarmed."

'1 care about my honor, Obsidian, not my reputation."

"And if there were no audience here, would you still tell me to pick up my sword?"

Toribor hesitated, his anger fading.

"I hope so," he said at last

"An honest and honorable answer," Arlian said.

'Tell me, then, what will you do if I choose not to retrieve my blade?"

"I don't know. I might yet kill you. Why should you risk it?"

"Because if I do retrieve my weapon, and we resume our duel, one of us will die, and I think the odds better than even that it would be me. If I do not and we speak, either I will die, or neither of us will—and I think I've come to prefer the latter. I tried to make peace with you once before, and you refused—but I wish I had tried again, rather than challenged you.

Now I do try again. Can we not end this without a death?"

"And what of your famous oath, to kill me or die trying?"

"I think the time may have come to withdraw that oath, my lord. I made that vow to myself, and I can therefore release myself from it."

"And you'd do this to save your own life? You think so little of your own promise to die rather than forgo your vengeance?"

"I would do this to spare your life, my lord. You have mine in your hand, and can take it if you choose."

"I will take it honorably, Obsidian, if at all. Pick up your sword. You spared my life, I have spared yours—

we are even. Now let us conclude the matter properly."

"I will oblige you if you insist, but I would be far more willing to conclude our quarrel peaceably. You have shown yourself to be a better man than I thought you."

"And you have ... I don't know what you've done.

Pick up your sword!"

Reluctantly, Arlian stepped back, away from Toribor's sword, and stooped, keeping his eyes always on his opponent's right hand as he groped for his own blade.

The crowd, which had been cheering and chattering so constantly until Arlian lost his sword, watched in utter silence.

Toribor stood back as Arlian picked up his sword; he waited until Arlian was upright once more, sword ready, before he attacked.

Arlian defended himself, but did not attempt a ri-poste; he no longer felt any desire to kill Toribor. He would do it if he had to to defend his own life, but he no longer believed that justice required it.

Toribor had been one of the men who owned the brothel in Westguard; he had allowed the mutilation of the sixteen slaves imprisoned there, and the murder of four of them. He had taken two of the women as his share of the business when Lord Enziet shut it down.

But he had not harmed the two he took. He had not harmed anyone else, so far as Arlian knew. He had allied himself with Enziet and Dri sheen and the others, but he had not instigated their evil.

And he had argued, in Cork Tree, not for his own life but for the greater good of humanity. He had spared Arlian's life here and now. He was prone to anger and thoughtlessness, but he also maintained a sense of honor, something Enziet, Drisheen, and Horim had considered unnecessary.

And he opposed the dragons. That was certainly a point in his favor. At one time Arlian would have taken that for granted, but now he knew better—Lady Pulzera had shown him that much.

Toribor deserved punishment for his crimes, certainly. He owed the surviving maimed women a debt he could never pay. Arlian no longer believed, though, that he deserved death.

Around them the crowd was cheering again, but with less enthusiasm than before; they seemed sub-dued. Steel clashed, and Arlian saw an opening, but he did not strike; instead he stepped back, his blades on guard. It might be that there was no way to end this fight short of death, but Arlian was not yet convinced of that

Of course, Toribor was a dragonhead, his blood toxic, a monster growing in his heart. He might still be human enough for mercy and honor now, but he was centuries younger than Enziet had been. What would he be like in time, if Arlian let him live?

And what would become of that dragon in his heart?

Perhaps it was best if Toribor died, after all. Arlian parried a thrust, and this time he struck back, catching Toribor off-guard and scraping the tip of his sword across Toribor's right shoulder before Toribor could turn the attack.

But there were dragons in so many hearts—thirty-eight, counting Arlian's own.

And killing them would not end the threat; the drag-cms would pollute more, unless the dragons were destroyed first.

And the people best equipped to destroy the dragons were the dragonhearts. Killing Toribor would not help-Killing Toribor would make it that much more likely that the other dragonhearts would distrust Arlian, and would listen to Pulzera and side with the dragons against him.

Toribor made a low, sweeping attack, and Arlian was forced to concentrate on his swordplay. Steel flickered and clashed, the four blades locked together for a moment; then both men sprang back, disengag-ing. They stood, just out of each other's reach, staring warily at one another. The crowd's noise was only a murmur.

Toribor would have to die eventually, but the dragons had to die first.

"Belly," Arlian said, "I would swear a new oath, in your hearing, by all the dead gods and whatever else you ask. I cannot until we end this fight, but if you allow it, I will swear not to kill you, in Manfort or anywhere else, so long as we know a single dragon to survive."

"What?" Toribor stared at him as if he were mad—

and of course, Arlian remembered, Toribor thought he was mad.

"I want the dragons dead far more than I want to harm you," Arlian said. "Can we not end this duel in a truce, and turn our whole attention to destroying the beasts we both agree deserve to die?"

"With what, your stone knives? No one's ever slain a dragon—not a grown one."

"Yes, with obsidian—or whatever else we can find.

And if we never find a way to kill them, then I will never again try to kill you."

"Unless you change your mind again." Toribor made a quick feint.

"I do not change my mind so easily."

"You change your name, Triv, and your appearance, and everything else."

"Not everything. Never everything. I stand by my word."

"Oh, of course you do." Toribor's blade flicked out, and Arlian turned it aside.

Words alone would not end this fight, he saw—but he knew what would He launched a sudden quick attack, a lightning series of jabs, none really meant to kill or seriously injure, but enough to keep Toribor very busy for a moment.

Toribor fell back a step, and as he did Arlian leapt backward himself, out of reach.

And once the two men were too far apart to reach one another with their swords, Arlian flung aside both his sword and swordbreaker. Steel jangled on the pavement, and the murmur of the crowd suddenly stilled again.

"Our quarrel is ended," he said. "Kill me if you must, but I will fight no more."

"Oh, now you're doing it deliberately?" Toribor shouted. "You think because I spared you once, I'll do it again?" He stepped forward and raised his sword, but did not strike.

"Yes," Arlian said, spreading his empty hands. "You have shown me that you're a better man than I had thought, that I was wrong to seek your death. I swear, Lord Toribor, that I will not fight you again today, that I will not try to kill you while a single dragon yet lives.

My vengeance oath was to myself, and I have released myself from it; this oath I give to you"

Toribor hesitated.

"You can still prove me wrong," Arlian said

"Plunge your blade through my heart, and we'll both see that you are less honorable, less worthy, than I thought. I don't think either of us wants that."

Toribor growled, then said, "Confound you, Obsidian!" He lowered his sword.

Then, for the first time since Arlian had stepped out of his coach, Toribor took his eyes off his opponent and looked around at the crowd of spectators. He glanced up at the city wall.

"No archers," he said. "The ruse was hardly a clever one."

Startled, Arlian turned. Sure enough, the archers were gone.

"They were there," he said.

Toribor snorted.

"I never know where I stand with you," he said.

"You lie as easily as most men breathe, and you're loyal to no one but yourself. I would not put it past you to pick up your blades and strike at me, despite your new oath."

Wounded, Arlian said, "The archers were there, and I will not break my oath." He stepped back, away from his discarded weapons.

"You won't resume the fight, and put an end to the matter?"

"You heard my vow. I consider the matter ended."

"And I must accept that?"

"You have your sword, my lord; I am at your mercy."

"No, you aren't. I don't think you even understand the concept. Are you afraid of nothing, Arlian?"

Arlian blinked in surprise. "I am no more fearless than you," he said.

"You lie as easily as others breathe. You claimed to be pursuing sworn vengeance, unappeasable, yet now you say it's over, and that means our quarrel is resolved. Forgive me if I do not immediately agree—let me remind you that while I may have abused women you came to care for, you have slain three of my comrades, two of them men I had known for hundreds of years. Horim and Kuruvan died in honest duels, but you murdered Drisheen. The circumstances of Enziet's death remain unclear, despite your claims, and I might reasonably believe you had slain him as well.

You did not kill Wither, but you encouraged him in his suicide. Am I to simply forget all these, all my friends?

Have I no right to seek vengeance upon their slayer?"

"I am here, unarmed," Arlian said. "If you think Drisheen deserving of such revenge, strike me down—

but remember first what kind of man Drisheen was. Do you know what he did to Ferret and Sparkle? And what Horim did to Daub and Sandalwood?"

"The women? You know all their names? And what became of them?" Toribor sounded genuinely surprised.

"Of course I do," Arlian said, startled. "Did you think I simply wanted an excuse? I loved them all.

They deserved far better than they received. You and Nail and Kuruvan treated the ones you held no worse than any other slaves might be treated, but the others—

do you know what Enziet did to Dove? Did you know he cut Madam Ril's throat in the street? She was a free woman!"

Arlian did not mention Sweet, whom Enziet had poisoned; that particular death was somehow not something to be shared.

"I knew," Toribor said.

For a moment die two stood silently, facing each other; then Toribor said, "You say you will swear not to kill me so long as die dragons live—do you seriously believe you can slay them?"

"Yes," Arlian said simply.

'1 don't," Toribor said. "I believe you are an amazing man, Obsidian, but not that amazing. Killing a soft-skinned infant is not the same as slaying an armored sixty-foot adult."

"I know," Arlian said.

"I am not so foolish and selfish as to listen to Pulzera's nonsense—but I cannot believe yours, either. I find Pulzera's arguments much easier to believe, but I find yours far more appealing. If you really could slay tbe dragons ..."

His voice trailed off; then, suddenly, he jammed his swordbreaker into its sheath.

"Very well, then," he said. "Our fight is ended until you tell me otherwise, but you'll forgive me if I decline to sheathe my other blade, or to turn my back on you until we are safely inside the walls."

Arlian bowed. "I'll have my steward retrieve my own blades, then."

"That would suit me."

Toribor stood where he was on the plaza and watched as Arlian retreated to his coach.

"Where did the archers go?" Arlian whispered to Black as he neared the vehicle.

"They received new orders a few moments ago, and withdrew," Black said. "Is there any point in asking what happened out there?"

"You couldn't hear?"

"Only when Belly shouted."

"I'll tell you later, then." He waved at Brook and Kitten, who were leaning out the coach windows.

"When everyone can hear. For now, would you be so kind as to recover my sword and swordbreaker? Lord Toribor does not trust me with them just yet."

"I don't blame him," Black said. "I don't blame him at all." He strode forward to retrieve the blades.

Arlian turned as he stepped up into the coach's door, and saw that Toribor had finally sheathed his own sword and was walking away, toward the city's gate.

Toribor's final words nagged at Arlian. Toribor did not believe the dragons could be killed?

Toribor was far older than he, and probably had seen more of the dragons—Arlian had been trapped in a cellar during most of the attack on his village. If Toribor believed, even after hearing what had become of the dragons born of Enziet and Stiam, that an adult dragon could not be killed, then how could Arlian be sure he was wrong?

Did the rest of the Society also still believe any attempt to fight the dragons was futile, despite the obsid-you know what he did to Ferret and Sparkle? And what Horim did to Daub and Sandalwood?"

"The women? You know all their names? And what became of them?" Toribor sounded genuinely surprised.

"Of course I do," Arlian said, startled. "Did you think I simply wanted an excuse? I loved them all.

They deserved far better than they received. You and Nail and Kuruvan treated the ones you held no worse than any other slaves might be treated, but the others—

do you know what Enziet did to Dove? Did you know he cut Madam Ril's throat in the street? She was a free woman!"

Arlian did not mention Sweet, whom Enziet had poisoned; that particular death was somehow not something to be shared.

"I knew," Toribor said.

For a moment die two stood silently, facing each other; then Toribor said, "You say you will swear not to kill me so long as die dragons live—do you seriously believe you can slay them?"

"Yes," Arlian said simply.

'1 don't," Toribor said. "I believe you are an amazing man, Obsidian, but not that amazing. Killing a soft-skinned infant is not the same as slaying an armored sixty-foot adult."

"I know," Arlian said.

"I am not so foolish and selfish as to listen to Pulzera's nonsense—but I cannot believe yours, either. I find Pulzera's arguments much easier to believe, but I find yours far more appealing. If you really could slay tbe dragons ..."

His voice trailed off; then, suddenly, he jammed his swordbreaker into its sheath.

"Very well, then," he said. "Our fight is ended until you tell me otherwise, but you'll forgive me if I decline to sheathe my other blade, or to turn my back on you until we are safely inside the walls."

Arlian bowed. "I'll have my steward retrieve my own blades, then."

"That would suit me."

Toribor stood where he was on the plaza and watched as Arlian retreated to his coach.

"Where did the archers go?" Arlian whispered to Black as he neared the vehicle.

"They received new orders a few moments ago, and withdrew," Black said. "Is there any point in asking what happened out there?"

"You couldn't hear?"

"Only when Belly shouted."

"I'll tell you later, then." He waved at Brook and Kitten, who were leaning out the coach windows.

"When everyone can hear. For now, would you be so kind as to recover my sword and swordbreaker? Lord Toribor does not trust me with them just yet."

"I don't blame him," Black said. "I don't blame him at all." He strode forward to retrieve the blades.

Arlian turned as he stepped up into the coach's door, and saw that Toribor had finally sheathed his own sword and was walking away, toward the city's gate.

Toribor's final words nagged at Arlian. Toribor did not believe the dragons could be killed?

Toribor was far older than he, and probably had seen more of the dragons—Arlian had been trapped in a cellar during most of the attack on his village. If Toribor believed, even after hearing what had become of the dragons born of Enziet and Stiam, that an adult dragon could not be killed, then how could Arlian be sure he was wrong?

Did the rest of the Society also still believe any attempt to fight the dragons was futile, despite the obsidian blades? If so, no wonder they had taken Pulzera's words seriously.

Arlian looked thoughtfully out at the plaza.

The crowd that had watched the fight was dissipating, many of them clearly disappointed to see no deaths, no crippling injuries. As Arlian stood in the door of the coach, Lord Zaner pushed forward through the throng, clearly wishing to speak a few words with him.

Perhaps, Arlian thought, Lord Zaner could tell him something more of what had been said yesterday on the Street of die Black Spire.

Stammer had been moving hesitantly toward the coach as well, but when Zaner pushed past her she stopped, frowned, waved, and then turned toward the gate, leaving Arlian and his party to those more important than herself.

Politely, Arlian waited as Zaner approached. Several other spectators turned and fell silent, eagerly waiting to hear what one lord had to say to the other.

Zaner stepped up to stand a few feet from the coach and said, without preamble, "Lord Obsidian, I had not realized you were a coward, to fling down your sword when bested!"

That had not been what Arlian expected. He knew Zaner considered Toribor a friend, and had thought perhaps Zaner intended to thank Arlian for not fighting to the death. Apparently, Zaner did not see anything to be grateful for; presumably he was quite certain that it was Arlian's death, not Toribor's, that had been avoided here. All the same, his remark seemed unreasonable.

"You think it cowardice to stand unarmed before a foeT Arlian asked mildly.

"You knew Belly would not kill you! Had I faced you out there, I wouldn't have killed you, but by the dead gods, I'd have at least slashed that pretty face of yours!"

Arlian dabbed at the blood running down his cheek from the cut above his eye and said calmly, "I will keep that in mind should we ever meet at swordspoint, my lord."

Black had come up behind Zaner as they spoke, and now he pushed past the dragonheart, interrupting Zaner as he was about to say more.

"Your pardon, my lord," he said, as he extended Ar-yan's sword, hilt-first. "You'll want to clean the blood off before you sheathe it," he said.

'Thank you," Arlian said, accepting the weapon. He was gratefiil for both the reminder and the interruption; the exchange with Lord Zaner did not seem to be going anywhere profitable. He pulled out a handkerchief and began ostentatiously wiping Toribor's blood from the steel.

Zaner looked from Arlian to Black and back, then snorted and turned away, to Arlian's relief.

A moment later the blades were clean and back in their scabbards, and Arlian was aboard the coach, the door closed and ready to go. Before he could give the command, though, he heard a woman's voice call,

"Lord Arlian!" He turned and leaned out the window.

The plaza had been transformed from a cleared stone circle surrounded by an audience to its more usual existence as a thoroughfare and meeting place; the duel was definitely over, and its traces fading—at least, those traces outside the coach; Arlian's handkerchief was bloody, his shirt and scarf slashed and bloodied in several places, and the wounds on his arm, shoulder, forehead, and throat all stung.

Making her way through the milling crowd was Lady Rime, stumping along on her wooden leg, bran-dishing the bone she carried everywhere she went.

"Arlian!" she called again.

"My lady," he called back. "Would you care to join me? It's a long walk back to the Upper City."

"Of course I would," she said. "And you can tell me how it happens that you and Belly are both still alive."

Ariian opened the coach door and waited, and a moment later he helped her up, into the coach and onto the seat, where she settled beside Brook, facing Ariian and Kitten. Black watched from the driver's seat, and when the door was closed again he shook the reins, setting the horses in motion.

Kitten was already dabbing at Ariian's wounds with her own delicate little handkerchief, cleaning away blood and fibers.

"Now," Rime said, "I seem to have missed the entire thing, so pray tell me, Ari, just what happened."

"Black wanted to hear, as well," Brook said, before Ariian could reply.

"Indeed he did," Ariian said, "and I'm sure that several others will want to know the details as soon as we're home, so he can hear it all then. For now, rather than keep Lady Rime in suspense, I will say that we fought, and Lord Toribor had the best of me at one point, having knocked the sword from my hand. He declined to slay me on the spot—I believe the parallel to our previous meeting in Cork Tree, when I left him wounded but alive, was responsible for this, as he did not care to be seen as less merciful than myself. Once I had recovered my sword he intended to continue to a fatal conclusion, but I thought better of it. Belly is a braver and more honorable man than I had believed him to be, and I therefore decided to abandon my pursuit of his death; I flung aside my weapons, and offered him a choice between killing me, or ending our quarrel peacefully. I am pleased to say he chose the latter course."

"Lord Zaner called you a coward," Brook remarked. "I thought he meant to challenge you on the spot."

Arlian opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hesitated, then said, "You know, I believe he did."

He had honestly not considered that when speaking to Zaner; he had been tired and bloody and eager to sit down and rest, and had not considered the implications of allowing Zaner to insult him. Zaner had probably expected him to take umbrage, if not at the blunt accusation of cowardice then at the remark about slashing his face, so that the exchange of words would escalate into something irretrievable. He had not risen to the bait, and Black had interrupted before Zaner could try again.

Arlian had simply not thought about the significance of the exchange. He had unjustly been called a coward often enough in the mines of Deep Delving that although he knew it was considered a deadly insult among noblemen, the word carried no special sting for him; he had been a slave in the mines, not a lord, and a slave had no honor to defend from such accusations, so dire insults were often directed at him.

In his days in Manfort he had been called mad often enough that it had become merely tedious, but no one here had ever before called him a coward. After all, he had crossed the Dreaming Mountains to Arithei alone.

He had dueled Lord Kuruvan and Lord Horim, called Iron, men older and more practiced than himself, and had killed them both. He had openly challenged the dreaded Lord Enziet, and had pursued him into the Desolation and fought him to the death. He had faced dragons. While his sanity might be called into question, his bravery had never been.

Until now.

Had Zaner truly thought him a coward, or had he merely intended to provoke him? Did Zaner want him dead? He knew Zaner didn't much like him, but he had thought that was due to the bad blood between himself and Toribor, which would hardly account for a challenge when he and Toribor had just made peace. He had never wronged Zaner, he had scarcely met the man...

"Zaner?" Rime asked. "I wonder, was that Hardior's doing?"

Now Arlian was not merely puzzled, but baffled.

"Hardior?" he asked.

"Yes, Hardior," Rime said.

"He wasn't even here, so far as I could see," Arlian said. "No more than you were."

"And that was because we were both at the Citadel with the Duke, arguing our respective positions. I'm afraid that Lord Hardior may have a bone to pick with me." She tapped her legbone against the windowframe and smiled crookedly. "It's entirely possible I have displaced him, at least for the moment, in the Duke's favor."

"Indeed?" Arlian asked. "Might I ask how?"

"Because the Duke likes you, Arlian, or at least likes hearing about your adventures, and Lord Hardior wanted you killed."

Arlian stroked his beard with his left hand and stared at Rime's unreadable face; Kitten held his right hand as she swabbed at the cuts on his wrist and forearm.

"Why would Lord Hardior want me dead?" he asked.

"I don't know for certain, but I would suppose it is because he understands that if you live, one way or another you'll almost certainly destroy the Dragon Society."

Kitten looked up, startled, and exchanged a glance with Brook. Arlian eyed Rime thoughtfully.

"You phrase that in a way that implies you believe it, too," Arlian said.

"Oh, of course I do," Rime said. "You may say you have not yet decided, but I think I know what your decision must be, given your rightful hatred of dragons, and that in the end you intend to systematically murder us all. Even if you don't, you've certainly divided the Society against itself in a way I find it hard to believe can be mended."

"Have I? I had hoped to rally the Society to action, not divide it."

"Arlian, you've pitted hatred of the dragons against the desire to live. Pulzera is not the only one to choose life—but not all of us can stomach her answer. The Society is split."

"You seem surprisingly untroubled by this," Arlian remarked.

'There are two reasons for this," Rime said. "The first is that I believe the damage has been done, and the rift cannot be mended, regardless of whether you live or die; given that, I'd prefer to have you alive."

The coach jerked suddenly as a wheel bumped over an obstruction, and Arlian grabbed at the windowframe. "Thank you," he said. "And the second?"

"I think you're right to destroy us," Rime replied. "I think we deserve it. We can hardly complain that our deaths would be untimely; I have lived more than four hundred years, five times what any ordinary woman could expect, and at least half the Society is senior to me. If our deaths are necessary to eliminate the threat of the dragons, then let us die. Wither believed that, and acted upon it. I am not so noble as he, and have no intention of taking my own life, but I have another five centuries or so in which to change my mind. If you cut my throat one day, I'll try not to resist."

Arlian stared at her, then smiled crookedly.

"And here I had decided that I could not in good conscience murder the entire Society," Arlian said.

"When I threw down my weapons it was no stratagem to prolong my own life; I genuinely no longer wanted to kill Toribor. And if I cannot bring myself to kill him, how could I slay you, or the others?"

"I had wondered why you did that," she said. "Have you, then, chosen to side with the dragons, after all?

Has Pulzera won you over?"

"No!" Arlian was genuinely shocked at the suggestion. " The dragons must be destroyed—but killing the people who unwillingly bear their young is unjust.

There must be another alternative—keeping a careful watch and killing each new dragon as it's born, perhaps."

"Ah," Rime said. "And who would undertake this task? It will be a thousand years before the last dragonheart—you, that is—will die, and even that assumes the dragons do not contrive to create more. How can you hope to arrange this watch over such a span of time?'

"As the youngest of the dragonhearts, I would say the onus falls upon me."

"So you would devote the rest of your life to this?"

"There are only thirty-eight of us, my lady. Spread that over a thousand years, and it's no great hardship."

"If you have no opposition, perhaps."

Before Arlian could reply he noticed Kitten's expression; she was staring at him with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open, her ministrations to his wounds forgotten. Brook had managed to keep her face under better control, but she, too, was staring, clearly astonished by what she heard.

"I see that neither of us is much concerned with secrecy," he said. "It would seem we've just revealed things to these two that they had not known."

"Indeed," Rime said, glancing at the astonished women. "I had assumed that you had told your entire household all about the situation, and nothing remained to conceal; it would seem I misjudged."

"I have not been profligate in such matters," Arlian said.

"You'll live a thousand yearsT' Kitten asked.

"More or less, if I am not killed," Arlian said.

"And you're four hundred years old?" Brook asked Rime.

"Four hundred and some, yes. I no longer recall the exact number." She met Brook's gaze evenly.

Brook shifted away from Rime on the seat.

"And that brings us back to your meeting with the Duke," Arlian said. "I'm sure that you and Hardior were not as open with His Grace as we have been here."

"Indeed we were not."

"And just what did you tell him? How did Hardior argue for my death, and you for my life?"

"Oh, that was simple," Rime said. "Hardior argued that you had murdered Drisheen and Enziet, that you intended to kill Belly by fair means or foul, and that you had threatened him, Hardior, as well. He accused you of conspiring to remove all the Duke's advisers, and other powerful figures that threatened unspecified plans you had made. This was all nonsense, of course, as I'm sure Hardior knew as well as we do, but he made it quite convincing—Hardior can be persuasive when he chooses. He told the Duke that he had taken the liberty of placing archers on the city wall, and at a signal he would have them remove you, once and for all, and end the threat to the peace and welfare of Manfort."

"Ah," Arlian said. "That explains the archers."

"The Duke hesitated," Rime said. "In fact, I received the distinct impression that he was relieved to have Enziet and Drisheen gone, though of course he would never admit it. I spoke on your behalf, explaining that you were a headstrong young man with a personal grudge against six lords, of whom Toribor was the last survivor, and that you had no mysterious scheme to disrupt the city. The only threat you posed to Hardior, I said, was that he feared you might prove more popular than himself—which was a lie, of course."

"Of course," Arlian agreed.

"I also mentioned what a great benefit you had provided by bringing your Aritheian magicians and all their spells to Manfort I said that if you died, they would almost certainly return to their distant homeland. I carefully did not say what they might do to Manfort before their departure, but I made sure His Grace considered the possibilities."

Arlian had not himself considered those possibilities; now he stroked his beard again as he did. Shibiel, Isein, and Qulu had no magic left to them—but he was unsure what Thirif or Hlur might yet be capable of, and of course the entire Aritheian House of Deri had professed to be in his debt. The magicians might have no magic available in Manfort, but they could always bring more.

"And of course, I pointed out that intervening in an affair of honor was hardly going to help the Duke's own reputation," Rime added.

"But why couldn't the Duke just kill Arlian after the duel?" Brook asked.

"He could," Rime said, "but Lord Hardior could not propose it—that would violate the Society's oath, to arrange the killing of a fellow member that might take place inside the city's walls. And Hardior could not insist that it happen outside the city without telling His Grace things that he did not care to reveal."

"The Duke could still..." Brook began.

"The Duke doesn't want to," Rime interrupted. "He likes Lord Obsidian. He thinks Obsidian is a dashing young rogue who makes Manfort more interesting by his presence. I could argue for sparing Arlian's life, and Lord Hardior, bound by his oath, could not argue for killing him other than during the duel. Quite aside from anything else, that made the Duke's decision easy; with no one arguing otherwise he could do what he wanted, and spare Obsidian's life."

"He didn't seem very impressed with me when we first met," Arlian remarked.

"That was before you fought two spectacular duels and went roaming across the countryside in pursuit of your foes, before there were rumors about strange stone weapons and sorcerous images of dragons.

You're much more interesting now."

"And besides, there really are the magicians to think about," Kitten said, releasing Arlian's arm. "We really don't know what they would do if Triv were killed."

"I should give them instructions," Arlian said. "I hadn't thought about it" He flexed the fingers of his right hand, winced at the resulting pain, then told Kitten, "Thank you."

He was not entirely sure what instructions he should give the Aritheians, though, nor whether they would obey him. He had no hold on them; they had come to Manfort with him freely, for their own benefit. If they once returned home, they might not want to risk coming north again.

And what did he want to happen after his death? He could ask Thirif and the others to avenge him, and one way or another they would probably do as he asked, killing those responsible—but what good would it do?

He would be dead. Did he want to leave a legacy of vengeance, or of mercy?

He wouldn't be around to see it in any case, so he was not at all sure he cared. He preferred to live, rather than leave a legacy—at least, until he had accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish.

And at this point, that meant the destruction of the dragons. He had had enough of revenge against humans, and had rescued everyone he had wanted to rescue. But the dragons still lived, and therefore he wanted to live, too. He might take risks, such as defying the man who held a blade at his throat, but he did not want to die—he simply didn't fear it.

"So you convinced the Duke to spare me," he said.

"Thank you, my lady."

"You're quite welcome, my lord," Rime replied.

"Like the Duke, I find the world more interesting with you still in it. It's a more violent and less predictable place, but there's a certain promise to it. I think it far more likely that we will see the dragons exterminated if you survive."

"You flatter me."

"I speak the truth, no more than that. And to speak further, my lord, I would remind you that while I may have won today's debate with Lord Hardior, my opponent has not given up. He wants you dead, or at least gone. If he can't convince the Duke to eliminate you, he'll probably look for other means—which is why I wonder whether he was behind Zaner's accusation of cowardice."

"Would he have had time to devise that?"

Rime shrugged. "As to that, I can't say. It may be that Lord Zaner acted on his own."

"He really thought Triv was scared of Lord Belly?"

Kitten asked. "But that's silly."

No one had a useful response to that, and the conversation died. A few minutes later they arrived at the gates of the Old Palace; Rime had declined Arlian's offer to deliver her to her own doorstep.

To Arlian's surprise, most of the household was waiting for them—Venlin, several of the cooks and maids and footmen, even Ferrezin and one or two others in Enziet's livery who appeared to have just arrived. Hasty and Lily and Musk and Cricket had been carried out, and now sat on the benches in the forecourt; Vanniari was asleep in Hasty's arms. The Aritheian magicians in his employ, Shibiel and Qulu and Isein, were clustered to one side, watching solemnly; Thirif, who was technically Arlian's guest rather than an employee, was close by the gate.

Stammer and Wolt were not yet back, and a few other faces were missing, but clearly word had run ahead of the coach.

"I see everyone else—where's Hlur?" Rime asked sardonically, as she stepped to the door of the coach.

Black had leapt from the driver's seat and was reaching for the latch.

"Presumably still at the Citadel, where she belongs," Arlian retorted from behind her. Hlur was the Aritheian ambassador to Manfort, and although she and her husband, Kthelik, had originally been brought to the city by Arlian they had long since taken up residence in the Duke's establishment, as befitted Hlur's station.

Arlian waited until Rime, with a little assistance from Black, had climbed down and gotten herself steady on the ground, and then he scooped up Kitten and handed her to Black.

Black promptly passed her along to a waiting footman, and turned back for Brook.

When all three women were out of the coach Arlian was finally able to disembark himself and demand,

"What are all of you doing out here?"

Thirif cleared his throat, but before he could speak Hasty called, "It was my idea, Triv! We wanted to let you know that we're all on your dde."

Arlian stared at her for a second, then turned to Thirif.

"My apologies, my lord," Thirif said, "but she has the gist of it. We felt a show o f . . . community? No, solidarity. We felt a show of solidarity was in order."

Arlian was impressed that Thirif had found the right word in a language other than his own. He stared at the Aritheian for a moment, idly stroking his left hand over the wounds on his right arm as he did, then asked,

"And why is this display in order? Simply because I've survived my duel?"

"No. Because the Duke's guards tried to force their way into the Old Palace, and we drove them away."

"They came to the Grey House, as well," Ferrezin said. "We turned them away, and then came here to report."

"The Duke's guards?" Arlian was still trying to absorb this.

"You're hurt!" Hasty called, seeing the blood on Arlian's sleeve and scarf. Arlian held up a hand to silence her.

"The Duke's guards came here? What did they want?"

"The glass weapons," Thirif said.

Arlian turned to Rime, who shrugged.

"I have no idea what this is about," she said. 'This must have happened after I left."

"Tell me what happened," Arlian said to Thirif.

Thirif nodded, and began. "Chiril was at the gate,"

he explained, gesturing at one of the footmen, "waiting for news of the duel. He saw the guards coming and ran to tell others. I was nearby and heard, and I came out to see."

"The Duke's guards?" Arlian asked. "You're certain?" Chiril was one of his more reliable footmen, but not the brightest of them.

"Yes, the Duke's guards," Thirif said, visibly annoyed at the interruption. "An officer spoke to us and said that they had come to take the obsidian weapons.

He told Chiril and Venlin to bring the weapons, and Venlin said he could not do that without his lord's permission."

Venlin pointedly did not meet Arlian's glance at him. This was Thirif's story.

"The officer said that the Duke had ordered it, and that if we did not give him the weapons he would come in and take them. I said he would not. Then he and his men tried to force their way in, and I used a spell I had saved for an emergency and drove them away."

"It was a big fiery monster, Triv!" Hasty called.

"An illusion," Thirif said with a shrug. "My last."

"We had no magicians at the Grey House," Ferrezin said. "We told the officer we could not admit him without your consent, and barred the door."

Arlian nodded; he could see how that would be sufficient. The Grey House was built like a fortress, with massive stone walls and heavy bars and shutters on the few ground-floor windows.

"I left by the postern and came to fetch you, my lord," Ferrezin continued. "The Duke's men may well still be there."

"This is bizarre," Arlian said. "Why would he try to confiscate those weapons? And why would he do it when he knew I wasn't home?"

"I suspect Hardior's hand in this," Rime said. "Perhaps he doubled back after we left the Citadel."

"It seems to me that the Duke might have intended this as a precaution," Black said. "Suppose you had lost your duel, and died—who would then own those weapons, which are rumored to be magical?"

"You would," Arlian said.

"Does His Grace know that?"

"No." Arlian frowned. "I think it's time I spoke to His Grace myself. And a word with Lord Hardior, as well, might not be amiss."

Speaking with His Grace the Duke of Manfort was not simply a matter of walking up to the Citadel and sending in a message, Arlian knew; he had to petition for an audience. Accordingly, he composed an appropriate note and sent a messenger to deliver it. He did that immediately, while still wearing the slashed, sweaty, and bloody blouse he had fought in; only when the messenger, one of the two men who had accompanied Ferrezin from the Grey House, was on the way did he allow himself to relax and tend to his own needs.

It was plain that Ferrezin wanted instructions, that Black wanted to know what he and Toribor had said to one another, that several people wanted detailed descriptions of the duel, but Arlian did not feel himself ready to deal with any of that. He retired to his chamber, pleading the need to get out of the clothes he had fought in.

When he had removed his ruined clothing and donned a robe he closed the door of his chamber and lay down for a rest, intending merely to close his eyes for a moment before speaking further with his staff and guests.

He was awakened by Venlin's announcement that dinner would be served shortly.

Embarrassed, he dressed, and came downstairs to find that Stammer and the others had returned, and the household had regained the appearance of normality.

The servants were bustling about, preparing for the coming meal; Rime was in the small salon, chatting with Kitten, Brook, and Cricket. Ferrezin and the others in Enziet's livery were nowhere to be seen.

No more soldiers had appeared at the gate, but somehow, Arlian doubted that this appearance of nor-malcy was reliable. The afternoon's events surely could not be dismissed as easily as that.

He greeted Rime and the others, and took Rime into dinner on his arm. As they ate he described the duel in some detail, repeating as much of his conversations with Toribor as he could remember; several of the servants stood close by, much more closely than usual, and Arlian was careful to speak loudly enough that they, as well as all his guests, could hear him.

When the meal was over, and most of the questions answered, Arlian sat back in his chair, a glass of sherry in his hand, and listened to the women arguing about Toribor's motives in not killing him. He had drunk only half the wine when Venlin bent down and whispered, "Your messenger has returned from the Citadel." Arlian looked up, then set his glass aside and rose.

The messenger was waiting in the servants' corridor. He bowed as Arlian approached.

"You delivered my note?" Arlian asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"Who did you give it to?"

"To His Grace's chamberlain," the messenger said.

"Is there a reply? Did he say anything?"

"He asked who it was from, my lord, and when I told him he said, 'Oh, the Duke will want to see this one!' I asked whether there would be a response, and he said to wait, so I waited, but then he came back and told me to go, that the Duke would not read it tonight."

That was reasonably promising, at any rate. "Fine,"

Arlian said. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"No, my lord."

Arlian turned. "Venlin, see that he's well fed before you send him home, would you?" Then he turned back to the messenger. "If there's any trouble at the Grey House, come and tell me at once, and thank you." He clapped the man on the back, then watched as he marched down the corridor to the kitchens.

Venlin hesitated for a moment, then hurried after the messenger. He seemed uncomfortable with the messenger's presence, and Arlian realized that he probably wasn't sure how to treat the man. After all, the messenger worked for the same master, but was not part of the same household, and Venlin was unsure of their relative status. For a man like Venlin that was awkward.

This business of maintaining two households and two separate staffs was absurd, Arlian told himself—

especially if he might need to defend them against the Duke's guards. One would have to go.

And after today's events he knew which he intended to keep. The Grey House was the smaller, the more practical, the more defensible—and that was why he intended to sell it. He had no desire to barricade himself into a fortress, to shut out the outside world; if he were to live in the Grey House it would be all too easy to cut himself off from humanity as Enziet had.

Furthermore, Sweet and Dove were buried in the garden here at the Old Palace. The Grey House had no gardens at all; instead there was the room on the top floor where Dove had been murdered and Sweet held prisoner. Arlian did not care to live in the same building as that ill-omened room.

Arlian stepped back through the door into the dining hall and signaled to Black.

"When you have a moment, could you have a few words with Coin? I think it's time we sold Enziet's house. Also, I'll want all the furnishings—the books, trunks, all of it—transferred here, at least initially.

There should be room in the north wing. I'll want to keep Ferrezin on; we'll determine his exact position later"

Black did not reply at first, but simply stared at Arlian.

Arlian stared back, then realized the situation.

Black wanted an explanation, not just orders. He was no bora servant, like Venlin, but his own man, who stayed in Arlian's employ because he had taken a fancy to Arlian, not because he had ever aspired to be the steward of a great house.

And for months, Arlian had told Black far too little of what was going on. It was time to end that.

"Ah," Arlian said. "The Duke's chamberlain accepted my message, but His Grace was not disposed to read it as yet. Seeing the messenger in Enziet's livery was what reminded me about the house."

Black nodded. "I was beginning to think that keeping secrets had become a habit."

Arlian smiled crookedly. "I believe it has," he said.

"I depend on you to help me break it. If you think I'm concealing something you deserve to know, please do speak up—I don't want to keep secrets from you any longer, Black. I've had enough of secrets. It's time to let them all out."

Black smiled in return. "In that case, I think you should expect a late night tonight—there are several questions I intend to ask."

"As you please—but do send word to Coin first, and to Ferrezin"

Black bowed mockingly.

Arlian returned to his guests, and made polite conversation for another hour or so before seeing Rime to the door and calling the coach for her. Hasty had already gone to put Vanniari to bed, with Wolt carrying Hasty and Stammer carrying the baby, but the other women continued to talk.

Arlian did not join them; when Rime had departed he turned to find Black waiting for him. The two men retired to Arlian's study, where Arlian finally told Black, in detail, what had happened to Enziet beneath the Desolation; what had happened when Arlian washed his hands after Nail's death; what had been said at the hearing in the hall of the Dragon Society.

Black took it all in, then asked, "What happens now?"

"I don't know," Arlian said. "I don't know what the dragons are planning, or what the Dragon Society is planning. I don't know what anyone is planning, not even myself! I don't know whether the dragons will attack this summer, or cower in their caverns. All I know is that sooner or later, the dragons and I will meet-and when we do, I want to be ready."

"So you want those spears."

"Yes."

"Why do you think the Duke tried to take them—so he would have them, or so you or your heir would not?"

"I don't know. That's the major reason I want to speak to him."

Black nodded. "Ari," he asked, "how big is a dragon? A full-grown one, I mean, not like the one we killed in Nail's bedchamber."

"Big," Arlian said. "I couldn't say for certain. I haven't seen one since I was a boy of eleven, and the circumstances at the time did not allow for a very accurate estimate."

"Fifty feet from snout to tail-tip, perhaps?"

"More," Arlian replied. "A dragon's face filled almost the entire pantry door, top to bottom and side to side, and their proportions are roughly those of a winged serpent."

"And to kill one, you need to drive an obsidian blade into its heart"

"Yes."

For a moment both men were silent, but then Black asked die question both of them knew he would ask.

"Ari, your best spears are perhaps eight feet long. If you stood at a dragon's flank and drove one that full eight feet into the beast's flesh, would it reach the creature's heart? And how do you ever expect to get close enough to do anything of the sort?"

"I think it would reach, from the right angle," Arlian said slowly. "Dragons are very long, but slender."

"And how would you get close enough?"

"I don't know," Arlian admitted.

"And you don't even know whether obsidian can kill an adult Belly didn't think so."

"The dragon that spoke to me seemed to think it could."

"Did it say so T

"Would it matter if it did? We can't believe anything the dragons tell us."

"And how many dragons still survive?"

"I don't know. I can't really even guess."

Black said nothing, just looked at him, and Arlian continued, "Although it may well be overtaken by events, my original plan was to creep up on the dragons in their caves and plunge the spears into them while they slept"

"Drive a spear several feet into a monster while it sleeps? While its companions are in the same chamber?"

"There will undoubtedly be difficulties" Arlian said.

Black stared silently at him for a moment. Arlian let out a sigh. "Yes, I'm probably mad," he said. "It may well be impossible."

"It would seem to require rather more than human abilities, yes," Black said dryly.

Arlian blinked.

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" he said. He had somehow managed to not think very much about this until now, much as he had not thought about how he would defeat Toribor before the duel. While he still thought it might be possible to kill sleeping dragons, it now seemed obvious that getting at a dragon while it was awake would take more than human abilities—and he no longer thought it very likely that he could catch the dragons asleep.

Fortunately, more-than-human abilities were available. "I suppose it would take magic," he said.

Black's eyes narrowed.

"Is there magic that could help?"

"I don't know," Arlian admitted. "But I think that it's past time that Isein and the others made a buying trip to Arithei. I put it off because I had thought it might be better to cross the Desolation in cooler weather, but I think now that no more time should be wasted." He frowned. "Tell Isein to start planning what she will need for the journey."

Arlian awoke the next day to news that His Grace the Duke of Manfort would expect him at the Citadel the following day, at two hours past noon.

"I didn't expect it so soon!" he told Black at breakfast. "I had heard that it could take a fortnight to see the Duke."

"It would seem Lady Rime was right," Black said.

"His Grace does like you."

"Or he wants to confront me directly and demand I turn over the obsidian," Arlian said.

"Also a possibility," Black admitted. "Will Lord Hardior be present at your audience?"

"I don't know," Arlian said. He grew thoughtful. "I think I had best pay a call on Lord Hardior today, before I see the Duke, so that I know where I stand."

"1 think it wise, if it can be arranged," Black agreed.

"I'll arrange it," Arlian said. He beckoned to Wolt, who was standing nearby, and told him, "Fetch me pen and ink—I have a letter to write. And when it's ready, you will deliver it forthwith to Lord Hardior's estate, where you will see it delivered either into Hardior's own hand or, if he is not there, his steward's. If neither is there, you will wait, and make yourself obnoxious about it"

"My lord?" Wolt was plainly startled by this last directive.

"I don't want them to be able to ignore you. Don't let yourself be pushed into a comer and forgotten."

"Yes, my lord." Wolt bowed, then turned and left to fetch writing supplies.

A moment later Arlian began composing his note.

He kept it short:

"Inasmuch as I have recently been taken to task for keeping secrets, I think it urgent that we discuss certain matters before I speak to His Grace the Duke tomorrow. I would not care to inconvenience you by remaining silent when I should not, nor by revealing matters you would prefer to keep private. I will be delighted to wait upon you at your earliest convenience."

He signed it "Obsidian," then folded and sealed it, and handed it to Wolt.

"Off with you," he said. Wolt bowed, and turned to go. "And hurry!" Arlian called after him. Wolt hastened his footsteps, though he did not actually run. Arlian watched him go, then sighed and headed for his regular morning visit to Hasty and Vanniari.

Hasty was as cheerful as ever, and Vanniari growing at a healthy pace—she focused on Arlian's face when he bent over her, and when she did she stopped waving her hands about and stared at him in wonder and awe.

Of course, she stared at any human face with that same fascination.

Arlian spoke gently to her, and allowed her to grab an extended finger. He listened to Hasty chatter about the baby, and about how foolish Arlian had been to fight a duel with Lord Belly, and how brave it had been to throw down his sword, and how she didn't believe those people who said Arlian had begged for his life.

Arlian glanced at Hasty. "Who said that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, you know, people who don't know any better. I heard Stammer and Cricket talking about it. They don't believe it, of course, any more than I do."

"Of course." Arlian shook his head, amazed. Beg for his life? Why would he do that?

He had left Hasty and her daughter and was striding along the east gallery on his way to speak to Isein when Wolt came running up to him.

"My lord!" he called, out of breath.

Arlian turned. "Sir," he said. "You delivered my note?"

"He's here!" Wolt gasped.

"Your pardon, Wolt.. "

"Lord Hardior is here, my lord, in the Old Palace,"

Wolt said. "He insisted on coming back with me. He's waiting for you in the foyer."

"Indeed!" Arlian had not expected quite so prompt a response to his threats. 'Take him to the small salon, and I will be there presently."

Wolt bowed, and hurried away.

Arlian watched him go, considering whether there was anything that he should do before meeting Lord Hardior. Nothing came to mind; accordingly, he was already standing in the salon when Wolt showed Hardior in a moment later.

"My lord," Arlian said, holding out a hand. "Welcome to my home, and my thanks for so prompt and unexpected a response to my missive!"

Hardior ignored the outstretched hand. "Unexpected, Obsidian? I doubt that."

"Unexpected in truth, my lord—while I expected you to agree to a meeting, I had thought it would be I who was the guest, and you the host, and that we would meet later in the day."

"1 don't have time for that," Hardior said. He glanced aI Wolt "Might we speak privately?"

"Of course," Arlian said. He gestured to the footman, who quickly left the room, closing the door securely behind him.

"Might I offer you a seat, my lord?" Arlian asked, gesturing at the silk couches.

"I think not," Hardior snapped. "You have an audience with the Duke?"

'Tomorrow afternoon, my lord."

"And just what do you intend to tell him? Are you planning to babble all your supposed secrets?"

Arlian frowned. "My lord, I think your manner is inappropriate. I asked to meet you so that we might avoid any unnecessary conflicts."

"I suppose you mean to make sure that I won't again try to arrange your assassination."

Arlian closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly, then opened them again before speaking.

"Lord Hardior, I am far more interested in learning why you sought my death than in preventing a recurrence. I know I am safe from you as long as I remain within Manfort's walls, so my safety is not a significant concern—but I had thought we were on the same side, and the archers on the ramparts were disturbing.

What is it I have done that prompted you to place them there, and to petition the Duke for permission to have me slain?"

Hardior stared at him for a moment, then said, "I had forgotten—you truly are mad. I had thought it would be plain to you."

"It is not." ,

"You threaten to bring the dragons down on us all."

Arlian blinked. "Threaten? My lord, the mere fact that you know this means that in all probability I have already brought the dragons down upon us, and they wait only for the weather's cooperation before striking. I hardly see what my death will accomplish now."

"It may not be too late to stave them off, Obsidian—

but not if you continue to live, to threaten them, to goad them to action with your profligate revelations of their nature, and your distribution of obsidian weapons, and your plans to slaughter their young. I know you better than to think you will abandon your mad schemes of vengeance while you still draw breath—and therefore, I hoped to stop that breath."

Arlian gazed at him in silence for a moment, then said, I am honestly disappointed, my lord. I had hoped for better from you."

"Better?" I am attempting to shield all the Lands of Man from the consequences of your folly—what else would you have of me?"

"My lord Hardior, you told me not so very long ago that if I could slay a dragon, or better yet, exterminate their entire race, then I would be a great hero. You saw me slay the dragon that rose from Lord Stiam's heart, yet now you seem determined to reward that heroism with death, rather than aiding me in achieving the second. greater goal."

"You slew a newborn thing that was no more a true dragon than a newborn babe is a man. Yes, you killed it, and yes, it would have become a dragon, but you cannot kill a dragon, any more than a babe in arms can kill a trained warrior."

"You seem very certain of that."

1 am certain of that! I have seen the dragons, Obsidian—I have fought the dragons. I was not a boy hiding in a cellar when they destroyed my hometown; I was a grown man, and I saw my sword shatter on a dragon's scales." He drew a shuddering breath, and said, "We thought they were gone, you know—they had not been seen in fifty years, not since my grandfather's day, when the wars mysteriously ended, when the dragons withdrew to their caves. We didn't realize they still lived. And then one day when the skies were hot and dark we saw them coming.

"We had heard the old stories about how warriors defied the dragons on the ramparts of Manfort, and how our weapons would be useless, but the dragons had gone, hadn't they? We thought they must be old and weak, that the weapons had hurt them and they had merely concealed their injuries. So we did not run and hide; instead we gathered, swords in our hands, to face them.

"At the last minute I was sent to chase a few children who had disobeyed their parents and come to watch the battle to what we thought was safety. I had done that, sent them into the guildhall, and had turned to rejoin the others, when the dragons arrived.

"That was how I survived. I saw what they did, saw it all—saw them spit flaming venom at the gathered warriors, then systematically tear apart each and every building and butcher the women and children hiding within. I heard the screams ..."

He shuddered. Arlian said nothing for a moment; then Hardior continued.

"There were four. When the biggest one came to the guildhall I ran at it with my sword, screaming with rage, trying to drive it away. It did not bother to kill me, or even knock me aside—it simply ignored me as it ripped away the roof. I was hit by falling stones and burning thatch, my head was cut and my face covered in blood, but the dragon itself never deigned to touch me as I hacked at it.

"My sword broke, and I picked up stones and flung them, and it looked at me, and a dribble of venom from its jaw struck the stone in my hand and burned my fingers. I dropped the stone and put my fingers in my mouth—which is why I am here today, instead of six hundred years dead.

"And then it turned away again, and set about burning out the interior of the guildhall, making certain it killed each of the children I had sent there, but it did not trouble itself any further with me.

"And now you say you can kill these monsters with your magic glass spears?" Hardior snorted. "I say you are a madman. They can't be killed."

"So you propose to appease them, instead? To serve as a mere incubator? To become one of their servants?"

"I intend to communicate with them, if I can. Blood and water in a bowl is simple enough; you spoke to one, and you're no sorcerer. We will offer them peace—if they continue as they have, then the Society will keep silent about their young. After all, as Pulzera said, they want us to live—and we want to live."

"Pulzera," Arlian said. "You are siding with Pulzera?"

"Because she is right, my lord," Hardior said. "I did not like it at first, either—I remember the screams of my brothers, and those children in the guildhall. I remember the utter disdain on that dragon's face, and the savage cruelty they displayed. I hate the dragons as much as you, my lord—but I know better than to think we can defeat them. If there is war, there will be many, many more screaming children, slaughtered by the great beasts; if we bargain with them ..."

"Then there will be fewer at any one time," Arlian said, "but the dragons will survive forever, preying on our people. If we fight them, and kill them, yes, many will die, but in the end we will win, we will destroy them."

"We will not!" Hardior shouted. "You can't kill them! No one has ever killed a grown dragon, in all the thousands of years that men and dragons have existed."

"No one else ever thought to use obsidian!" Arlian shouted back. "Lord Enziet spent six hundred years studying the dragons and sorcery in order to learn what could harm them, and he succeeded! You have seen me kill a dragon—how can you deny it?"

"I saw you kill an animated cloud of blood,"

Hardior said. "Not a dragon! An ordinary sword could probably have done as well as your silly stone knives."

"No, I tried that," Arlian said. "In the cave beneath the Desolation, where Enziet died. My sword could not cut that newborn dragon any more than you could cut the one you fought. When I ran my blade down its throat, it simply bit it off."

Hardior stared at him.

"You lie," he said at last.

"I do not," Arlian said.

"So obsidian can cut where steel cannot—still, do you think you could kill a grown dragon?"

"Yes!"

"I do not," Hardior said, "and I believe that your schemes are going to enrage them all and bring them down upon us. Further, you have said that you considered killing all the dragonheads in Manfort—should I trust you? You showed what your vows are worth when you threw down your sword fighting Belly—so much for your oath to kill him or die trying! Should I put any more faith in your vows to the Society? You are a madman, and a danger to us all, and I had hoped the Duke would have you killed. He did not, and I cannot try again while you remain in Manfort, but by the dead gods, Obsidian, I will do what I can to keep you from antagonizing the dragons and endangering this city."

"So they are already your masters, even while they lurk in their caverns," Arlian said in disgust. "You will not help me in my campaign to destroy them?"

"Help you? I will do my best to stop you!"

"Then I think we have no more to say to one another, my lord." Arlian gestured toward the door.

"Oh, no," Hardior said. "You brought me here to discuss what you will tell the Duke tomorrow, and we will discuss that before I depart."

"Will we? You have just reminded me that you are sworn not to harm me, so why should I not tell His Grace whatever I please, regardless of your wishes?"

"Two reasons, my lord. First, I doubt you intend to spend your entire life inside the ramparts of Manfort, and while I may not have your obsessive concern with revenge, I can hold a grudge as long as may be necessary. Second, I am not sworn to leave the Duke himself unharmed. The old warlords' blood of Roioch's line has grown very thin in these modern generations, my lord, and it would be little loss to the Lands of Man if the present line died out completely. His Grace has no heir, were he to die there would be an end to the Dukes of Manfort, and a new system of governance would arise—a council of lords, perhaps, as some towns have. And can you doubt who would control such a council? I do not kill the Duke because I prefer not to deal with the consequences, and because I like the old fool—but if I am confronted with the possibility of even worse consequences if I let him live, if he falls under your sway, listens to your tales about weapons that can kill dragons..."

He did not bother to complete the threat.

"Then you would have me keep silent on the manner of draconic reproduction, and on the uses of obsidian," Arlian said.

"Of course. I suppose you will have to discuss your silly spears with him, but I trust you will be discreet as to their actual purpose."

"I will not promise that, my lord."

Hardior sighed. "Obsidian, I probably won't be there tomorrow, but do not think that means I won't know what you say. I have eyes and ears in the Citadel besides my own, and there are sorcerous methods for hearing what is said elsewhere. I cannot prevent you from saying what you will—but I will know what you have said, and 1 will respond accordingly. Do not sign the Duke's death warrant with careless words—nor your own!"

Arlian stared at him for a moment, then said, "I thank you for your advice, Lord Hardior, and I think we have now said all that we need say."

"Indeed, I think we now have," Hardior said. He turned.

Arlian was scarcely in time to open the door for him.

On the morrow, after the midday meal, Arlian dressed in his best clothes and allowed Cricket and Lily to comb and trim his hair. He donned his best white silk shirt and a black linen coat, with a red silk scarf to add a touch of color—and hide the cut Toribor had made on his throat. The slash on his forehead was not so readily concealed, and remained visible.

When his preparations were complete he made his way up to the Citadel. He did not bother with the coach, but walked theone-mile distance and arrived perhaps a quarter-hour before the appointed time.

He used this extra time to look over those portions of the Citadel open to the public. Unlike most visitors, though, he looked not so much at the paintings, tapes-tries, gardens, and statuary, but at the defenses—after all, the original Citadel had once lived up to its name.

That time was long past. The moat had been mostly filled in, becoming a garden and a series of ornamental fishponds. The battlements had been widened into ve-randahs and terraces. Openings clearly originally intended for dumping large objects or hot liquids on unwelcome visitors now had glass-paned doors in them and opened on ornate balconies.

And that was the outer defenses. The inner structure had never been defensible at all.

The original Citadel had been built well after the end of the war against the dragons, during an unsettled period, and had been designed to fend off rioters and re-bellious lords, not dragons. When peace came the Citadel had been abandoned in favor of the Old Palace—then simply the Ducal Palace—but after a century or two the present Duke's grandfather had decided the palace was too much trouble to maintain and had had the ruins of the inner Citadel torn down and a new palace built on the site. The old walls, outerworks, and tunnels provided plenty of space for the bureaucracy necessary to run Manfort, and if that stone-walled space was less pleasant than the plaster and gilt rooms in the Old Palace, that bothered the Dukes not at all.

The new palace, the inner Citadel, was the Duke's home, and it was as luxurious as anyone could ask.

Arlian could not help thinking, though, that if the dragons ever did return the Citadel would be about the most unsafe place in the city. Most of Manfort was built of gray stone, unbroken by trees or gardens; every street and alley was paved. That was so the dragons would have little to burn; flaming venom would simply run harmlessly off the stone.

Of course, draconic talons could break stone if necessary, but at least the solid walls and pavements would slow them down.

The one part of the city that was not built of stone was the Upper City, where several great lords had, over the centuries, built themselves mansions and palaces, complete with broad windows, spacious gardens, and wooden structures as well as stone. For at least five hundred years now no one had thought the dragons would ever return to Manfort, and the architecture reflected that

And as long as Enziet had lived, the dragons would indeed not return—but Enziet was dead, and Arlian estimated that a dragon could reduce most of the Citadel to burning ruins in a matter of minutes.

Of course, his own home in the Old Palace was no better. The Grey House would be safe—but Arlian still intended to sell it If the dragons came he did not want to cower behind stone walls, but to face them openly.

He was standing on a path in what had once been the moat, watching butterflies dance above the flowers, when a footman came hurrying up.

"Lord Obsidian?" he asked.

Arlian turned. "Yes?"

"His Grace will see you now. If you would follow roe?"

Arlian followed.

He discovered, however, that "now" actually meant after roughly a quarter hour of sitting in an antechamber staring at a painting of the present Duke's grand-mother when she was a young woman. Arlian could not decide whether she had been the most vapid-looking woman he had ever seen, or the artist had simply been exceptionally unflattering.

At last, though, he was shown into the Duke's audience chamber, where His Grace sat upon a great red cushion beneath a silken canopy. Arlian went down on one knee, as Black had instructed him, ignoring the half-dozen courtiers and guards standing to either side.

He had seen some of the courtiers before, at the auction of Dnsheen's estate; he was pleased to see that none of those present were dragonhearts.

At least one was probably a spy for Lord Hardior, though.

"Lord Obsidian," the Duke said, smiling. "A pleasure to see you again!" The smile appeared genuine.

"The pleasure and honor is all mine, Your Grace,"

Arlian replied, rising.

"I understand you wanted to see me," the Duke said, still smiling.

"Yes, Your Grace," Arlian said. "I wanted to ask you why your guards attempted to enter my estate the other day. If there's something I have that you need, surely I can find it for you more easily than your soldiers."

"Ah, that!" The smile dimmed somewhat. "Your people must have told you what I'd sent my men for—

to fetch out those sorcerous weapons of yours."

Arlian feigned puzzlement. "So they said, Your Grace, but I have no sorcerous weapons."

"Oh, come now! You don't claim you haven't been making strange weapons, do you?"

The appearance of sudden understanding transformed Arlian's features. "I have been making obsidian weapons, Your Grace," he said. "An affectation to accompany my name." He had devised this he the night before, but he had not decided until this very moment whether he would use it. Now, looking at the Duke, he believed that Lord Hardior would live up to his threats, and he did not see any reason to condemn this harmless old fool to death.

"I assure you," he concluded, "there is nothing sorcerous about them."

"Indeed? I am told one of these spears dispelled a sorcerous illusion when poor Lord Stiam died of a curse someone had put upon him."

Arlian waved the idea away. "Any spear would have done as well against the sorcery there. I brought obsidian merely because I had them on hand."

"That was not the impression Lord Hardior received."

"Oh, now, Your Grace, please don't hold me responsible for Lord Hardior's errors and misinterpretations!

I have enough trouble coping with my own."

The Duke chuckled. "Of course," he said.

For a moment the two men simply looked at one another, then Arlian cleared his throat and said, "Your Grace has not told me why the order to confiscate my weapons was given."

"Oh, well, it was just a precaution," the Duke said, waving a hand dismissively. "When I heard that you had challenged Lord Belly, I was uncertain as to just what you might be planning. The possibility that you might die, and the weapons fall into the wrong hands, had to be considered; likewise the possibility that you had gone mad. Lord Hardior assured me that the spears were sorcerous. I am no sorcerer myself, and it seemed wise to take precautions, as I said."

"And were the archers on the wall another precaution?'

The Duke's smile vanished completely.

"You saw them."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"That was Hardior's doing. I ordered them removed.

[ do not use assassins. I think Lord Enziet did, on my behalf or my father's, but I nev r liked the idea. If I want you removed, my lord, I will have you arrested and properly tried, not shot from ambush."

"I am reassured, Your Grace," Arlian said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

"I'm sure you are," the Duke said. He studied Arlian seriously for a moment, then said, "You're a strange man, Obsidian."

"I do not mean to be," Arlian replied, honestly.

"Yet you are. I don't understand you, and that means I need to be careful. Lord Hardior says you're dangerous, and he may well be right."

Arlian could think of no safe response to this.

"You've killed several of my lords," the Duke continued. "The gossip would have it that you were pursuing some personal vengeance, but all the same, you've cut an impressive swath through Manfort. The Aritheian ambassador, and Lord Enziet, and Lord Drisheen..."

Arlian opened his mouth to protest, but remembered at the last instant that one did not interrupt the Duke of Manfort.

"... Lord Iron and Lord Kuruvan, Lord Stiam, Lord Wither..

The strain of not responding was plainly visible on his face, but Arlian kept his tongue still.

"... and then it appeared you meant to kill Lord Belly, as well. When you had disposed of Enziet I had thought you were finished, but then there were three more, and Hardior said he did not think you would ever stop killing. I can't have that—I need to know that my advisers will live long enough to advise me!"

"Your Grace, I did not kill all those people!" Arlian said, when the Duke finally paused. "I did not kill Stiam or Wither or Enziet, nor the Aritheian ambassador."

"Then do they still live?"

"Ah ... no. I don't know what became of the ambassador; that was an internal matter among the Aritheians and I thought it best not to ask. Lord Stiam died of a fever, and both Wither and Enziet took their own fives."

"Enziet a suicide? I did not know Lord Wither well enough to say whether he might consider such an act, but Enziet?"

"We fought, and his sword broke, Your Grace; he stabbed himself in the heart rather than yield to me."

The Duke's expression made it plain he still didn't believe Arlian's account.

"Your Grace, I admit to killing Lord Drisheen; why then would I deny killing Enziet, had I done so?"

"I have already said I do not understand you, Obsidian." He waved the matter aside. "In any case, you certainly attempted to kill him, yes?"

"Yes." Arlian admitted.

"Then the details don't matter. You're responsible for the deaths of half a dozen lords, not to mention at least two of my guards and, rumor would have it, a shopkeeper or two."

"That was Enziet!"

"The details, as I said, do not matter," the Duke said angrily. "Whatever the exact circumstances, you have killed several men in my service. You have let it be known that you had personal reasons for each killing—but all the same, the result has been to remove several of my supporters. Furthermore, sorcerous or not, you've been making weapons—and by all accounts not just a handful for the guards at your gate, but enough to equip a small army. And what is there in Manfort to turn an army against, my lord? What else, but myself?"

Arlian's mouth opened, then closed again.

"This is what Hardior suggested to me, at any rate, and he advised me to remove you once and for all.

Lady Rime argued for your life, and I agreed, because I had no proof that you meant me any harm—but still, why did you need all those spears? So I sent my men to retrieve them until we could discuss the matter—

and your men refused them, going so far as to use magic against them!"

They acted without orders, Your Grace," Arlian said.

Of course, if he had suspected the occasion might arise, he would have ordered them to do exactly what they had, in fact, done.

"I thought that might be the case," the Duke said, sitting back. "And you spared Belly's life, even letting him think he had beaten you, so that suggested you were perhaps not the bloodthirsty lunatic Hardior believed you to be. In fact, it suggested you haven't the courage to plot against me!"

Arlian blinked at that—had Zaner spoken to the Duke, perhaps?

Before he could say anything, the Duke continued.

"I decided to think matters over before pursuing the matter of the spears further—and then you requested this audience, and here we are, able to discuss it like the men of good sense we are."

"I assure you, Your Grace, the notion that those spears might be turned against your guards had never even occurred to me," Arlian said, deciding to ignore the implication of cowardice. "I have no designs on you or Manfort at all."

The Duke nodded. "Then what did you want so many spears for?"

For once, Arlian's knack for quick lies failed him, and the idea of speaking the truth, and risking Hardior's retaliation, did not appeal to him. Telling the Duke of Manfort that those weapons were intended to fight dragons did not seem like a good idea at all. He stood awkwardly silent for a moment, then said, "I wanted to have enough for my entire staff."

"Why?"

"I... I don't know; just a whim."

The Duke's expression was plain; he thought Arlian a liar, a madman, or both.

Before he could speak, though, inspiration struck, and Arlian said, "Your Grace, I confess, it was more than a whim. I do have a use for those weapons, but it's a trade secret. Must I reveal it?"

That clearly intrigued the Duke. "I'm afraid you must," he said.

Arlian sighed theatrically. "Of course you know, Your Grace, that my fortune is built upon trading in Aritheian magic. Have you ever wondered what I trade to the Aritheians for their magic?"

"Weapons?" The Duke was obviously delighted by his own perspicacity in producing this answer.

Arlian nodded. "I give them the weapons they need to defend themselves against the wild magic in those unholy lands beyond the border."

"And you've been preparing your trading stock? Is that what these spears are for?"

"Exactly. Your Grace is very quick."

"I see! And you've kept this secret so that no one else could share in your profits."

"Exactly," Arlian repeated.

The Duke considered this for a moment, staring at Arlian. Then he said, "You know, there are other rumors about you, besides Hardior's theory that you meant to take the city from me by force or sorcery."

"Oh?"

"It's rumored that you used sorcery to kill Stiam, and then destroyed the sorcerous aftereffects to remove any evidence that another sorcerer could use against you."

"Your Grace, I had no part in causing Lord Stiam's death. I swear it by the dead gods."

"And it's said that Lord Wither caught you somehow, and you slew him to cover your tracks, and bribed his clerk and his servants to he, and say he killed himself."

"Your Grace, Lord Wither believed that he had con-tracted die same ailment that killed Lord Stiam, and he chose to die quickly rather than suffer as Stiam had."

The Duke leaned forward now and spoke quietly, apparently not wishing his courtiers to hear. "Some people claim that you and Lord Enziet knew how to make an elixir of immortality, and fought over who would control it—that that was the root of your conflict."

That one caught Arlian off-guard, and he hesitated

"We all knew that Enziet had some sort of elixir,"

the Duke added. "After all, he advised my father and grandfather, and looked no older when I last saw him than he did when I was a child. He claimed the for-mula was lost, though, no matter what threats were made, or what payment offered."

"I cannot say anything about that," Arlian said. "I know of no elixir of immortality"

That was the truth. After all, dragon venom did not provide immortality, but only a millennium of incuba-tion for a new dragon.

"That's unfortunate. I would pay almost any price for such a thing."

"I cannot help you, Your Grace." He suppressed a shudder at the idea of this fool of a Duke living and reigning for a thousand years, becoming ever more draconic —not to mention the Question of the succes-sion when he did eventually die, since as a dragonheart he would be sterile.

The Duke sat back again and said, "I see. Ah, well.

And you swear that you planned no treason, and did not intend to use those stone-tipped weapons against me?"

"I swear it, Your Grace, by all the gods, alive or dead."

"Nonetheless, I think it might be best if you were to remove them from the city."

That startled him. "Your Grace?"

"I want those obsidian weapons removed from Manfort. You say they are not sorcerous, and that you did not intend to turn them against me, but nonetheless, my lord, they do cause rumors. I do not insist they be destroyed, but I will be happier when they are no longer within the walls."

Reluctantly, Arlian decided he had no choice in this.

The Duke had plainly made up his mind.

Arlian had put off any travel, in case the dragons came sweeping down upon Manfort, but there were matters to attend to in Deep Delving, and magic to be brought from Arithei, and really, what could he hope to do if the dragons did come, if he had no aid from either the Dragon Society or the Duke? It was time to go.

Taking the weapons on his postponed journey would be an inconvenience, since they would take up space in the wagons, and it would mean that there would be no weapons ready should the dragons attack Manfort—but then, why would they attack, if Arlian was not in the city? He was the one who had revealed their secrets and otherwise angered them.

And the Duke appeared quite determined in his desire to have the weapons removed. Arlian bowed. "As you wish, Your Grace. I had been planning a trip to the south, to trade; I will take the obsidian weapons with me."

Of course, this expedition would also give Hardior a chance to kill him once he was outside the city—but that did not trouble him He was fairly sure he could handle an assassin or two, and if Hardior sent a larger force against him word would get back to the Duke, which would probably not have pleasant consequences.

"I do not require that you leave the city, my lord,"

the Duke said, startled. "Only that you remove the weapons."

"Of course, Your Grace—but in fact, I do have business to attend to outside Manfort, and this will permit me to make absolutely certain that the weapons are not stolen or mishandled."

"I see. And you know, I think you are wise in this,"

the Duke said. "Your presence has unsettled Manfort, and I think the city needs a rest For that matter, I need a rest. Very good, then. I would suggest you depart as soon as possible."

Arlian said again, "As you wish. Your Grace."

It began to appear as if the Duke had said all he intended to say, but Arlian was not content to stop here; before the Duke could conclude the audience, Arlian quickly said, "Your Grace, if I might ask a question?"

"Yes?"

"Your Grace, let us suppose that I discovered a means of killing dragons. The Aritheians have much astonishing magic, and I think there may be such a possibility."

"I thought dragons couldn't be killed," the Duke said, cocking his head to the side.

"So it has long been believed," Arlian said. "But you know I am Lord Enziet's heir, and Enziet had spent much time and effort studying dragons, in hopes of finding a way to kill them. I believe he might have been on the right path."

"That would be wonderful, of course—but do you really think such a thing exists?"

"I do, Your Grace."

"Ah, you fascinate me. Do tell me more!"

"Alas, I cannot—I am bound not to. You understand that magic has certain peculiar properties. I am taking a very considerable risk even mentioning it."

"Then why do you bring it up at all?" The Duke was visibly annoyed.

'To ask, Your Grace, whether your aid might be forthcoming in attempts to use Enziet's knowledge."

The Duke frowned.

"It might be," he said. "But I think that I would first need proof that dragons can indeed be killed."

Arlian blinked. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but what would constitute such proof?"

"A dead dragon, of course. You show me that your magic can kill a dragon, and by the dead gods and the spirits of my ancestors, Obsidian, I promise you you shall have all the assistance you need in killing more."

"But... Your Grace, what if I need your help to kill even one?"

"Then I am afraid that you are on your own, my lord. I am not going to help you stir up those monsters unless I am certain of success. You know, they destroyed a village just ten or twelve years ago, burnt it all to the ground..." He paused, and blinked stupidly.

"In fact, I believe the village was called Obsidian.

How curious!"

"Very curious, my lord. As it happens, I own that village, and it is because of that attack that I had drought to seek a way to kill dragons."

"Oh, really? How very interesting! You are very fortunate, my lord, that you were not in the village at the time!"

"Very fortunate, Your Grace," Arlian said dryly.

"At any rate, my lord, I would not have you provoke the dragons into burning any other villages. Show me that you can kill them, and you can have whatever you need—but until then, I will not help. Now, I am tired—

you go off to Arithei, or wherever you're going, and let me rest"

Then he signaled that the audience was at an end, and Arlian was escorted from the room.

It took several days to prepare Lord Obsidian's caravan for departure. Arlian realized that this gave Lord Hardior, and anyone else who thought the world might be improved by Arlian's death, plenty of time to hire assassins, but he saw no alternative. This was not a simple pursuit, but a full-fledged trading mission to Arithei.

During those days Arlian, with Black's extensive aid, gathered eight wagons and hired appropriate per-sonnel, including twenty guards. No ordinary caravan that size would have hired so many guards, since they would eat into the profits to a level a serious trader would never allow, but Arlian wanted to be absolutely sure that the bandits on the southern slopes of the Desolation would not bother his Mends and employees.

And besides, ordinary caravans did not cross the magic-haunted, monster-infested Dreaming Mountains.

Arlian had not decided yet whether he would be crossing the mountains. The caravan would initially be bound not for Arithei, but for Deep Delving, to collect silver and amethysts, and Arlian thought he might well turn back to Manfort there, and let the Aritheians and the rest of the caravan proceed on their own. It would depend on what the exact situation was at Deep Delving, and what news he heard along the way. He thought that such an absence would be sufficient to give the Duke the rest he wanted—especially since Arlian had no plans to stir up further trouble upon his return.

He had had quite enough trouble, in fact. It seemed as if everything he had done lately had made matters worse—now not only Toribor, but Pulzera, Hardior, and perhaps others in the Dragon Society were his foes. The Duke had spared his life, but then sent him into exile, at least briefly.

And nobody wanted to help him fight the dragons. If and when they did come, Manfort would be defense-less, and he himself, while properly armed, would be almost alone.

It seemed to him that the best thing he could do would be to stay out of the way, prepare himself for the worst, and see what happened. Taking this trip to Deep Delving was as good a way to do that as any-but going all the way to Arithei would probably leave Manfort undefended for too long.

He would be back, if he thought he could return without creating any more difficulties for himself, and when he returned he intended to focus entirely on the practicalities of dragon-slaying, not on antagonizing anyone further.

Disposing of anything that might complicate his life and distract him from the tasks he faced seemed advis-able; accordingly, when not directly involved with preparing the caravan, he spoke with the broker known as Coin, who had sold him the Old Palace. Coin had agreed to sell the Grey House, and had begun to adver-tise it, but there were no immediate takers.

"We've had several properties come on the market of late," Coin said slyly, when Arlian stopped in to discuss the matter. "Lord Drisheen's estate, and Lord Horim's, and Lord Stiam's."

"I see," Arlian said. "Well, do your best."

He set Ferrezin to overseeing the transfer of the contents of the Grey House to the Old Palace, while he and Black concentrated on the caravan.

These preparations for departure occupied most of his time, but Arlian did hear some of the news and gossip that was making the rounds of Manfort. While all the servants picked up the occasional tidbit of information and shared it with the guests, Arlian discovered, when talking to Cricket and Hasty one morning, that Stammer had an extensive network of informants. She had developed this from her old contacts among the city's poor and displaced, as well as the servants on other estates, largely to please Cricket and Lily, who were eager to keep up with the goings-on elsewhere.

Hasty, both Cricket and Hasty herself told him, was too busy with her baby to worry about what anyone was doing elsewhere.

That afternoon Arlian found Stammer in the kitchen, and called her aside.

"I understand you keep up with the news of the city," he said.

She stared at him in terror. "I... I..."

Arlian held up a reassuring hand. "Calm down, please, my dear! This is not an accusation. I don't own you, and you're free to do as you please when your work is done. I'm pleased to know you take an interest in the world; my guests find it most generous of you to share with them, since they cannot go out and about freely themselves."

Stammer curtsied awkwardly in response, unable to speak. She had not been given her name lightly.

"It's come to my attention that there are rumors about me abroad in Manfort, and I wondered whether you had heard any of them."

"My lord, I... I... don't know .. " She seemed to stick at that point, unable to continue.

"Would it be easier to write them down, perhaps?"

Arlian suggested.

Stammer shook her head violently, and it occurred to Arlian that she might be illiterate. His mother and grandfather had taught him to read and write when he was a child, but Stammer might not have been so fortunate.

"I would be glad to hear anything that's being said,"

Arlian said, "no matter how dreadful. I assure you, no harm will come to you if you speak freely."

"I... I cannot, my lord." She looked down at her hands, her fingers rubbing at the front of her apron.

Arlian was curious about what rumors might be circulating, but it was not an urgent matter. "Very well, then," he said. "If you change your mind, let me know"

He dismissed her with a wave, and watched as she hurried back to the table where she had been kneading dough for tomorrow's bread. She returned to her work, but glanced up nervously every so often, seeing he was still there but not meeting his eyes. At last Arlian took pity on her, and left.

That evening he was alone in his study, going over the costs of assembling his caravan, when someone knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and Stammer stepped in. She closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and then said, "They say you're a madman, my lord, that you meant to slaughter all who would oppose you and then overthrow the Duke himself, but that when Toribor challenged you to prevent you from taking over all the Lands of Man you lost your nerve, and when he offered you a last chance you flung down your weapons and abandoned your schemes, at least for now, and now you're said to be hiding here in the palace, and when word got out that you were preparing to travel everyone said you were fleeing in disgrace, that you spoke to the Duke and were so frightened by him that you're leaving the city forever. It's all over the streets, my lord, and when I tell anyone it's not true they don't believe me, they think you've put a spell on me or seduced me or tricked me somehow, but it's not true, is it?"

Arlian stared at her for a moment, absorbing what she had just said, then said calmly, "It's not true. None of it."

She gasped, hands clutched over her heart, then said, "I knew it."

"What else?" Arlian asked.

"Wha... what..."

She had clearly reached the end of her prepared speech.

"Are there any other rumors abroad in the city?" he asked.

She nodded, gulped, composed herself for a moment, then said, "They say you poisoned Lord Stiam or put him under a curse you learned from Lord Drisheen before you killed him, or from the books in Lord Enziet's house, and you went to his deathbed to make sure it worked, and the sorcery went wrong and became visible and you had to dispel it to hide the evidence of your crime, and Lord Wither found some trace you had missed and told you so at the funeral, so you went to his house and stabbed him to death and bribed his servants and his clerk to say he had died by his own hand, but after all, it was your black stone knife that killed him, and ... and... and..." She took another deep, gasping breath, blinking helplessly at him.

The long, fast sentences were obviously a way to avoid stammering, so Arlian did not suggest she slow down and speak clearly, or ask her to untangle the pro-nouns; instead he said, 'Take your time."

She stared silently at him.

"Do you know who's been spreading these tales?"

he asked.

That drew a burst of stammered names Arlian didn't recognize—Thumb and Trot and Korri and Werrin and several she couldn't get out clearly. Attempts at explaining who they were quickly became hopelessly garbled, but Arlian thought he puzzled out part of it.

"They work for Lady Pulzera?" he asked. "Or Lady Opal?'

"And... and... and..." She swallowed hard, and said, "Har... Hardior. And Zaner. Or T . . . Ticker."

All of them.

For a moment Arlian considered canceling his expedition to stay and refute these calumnies, but he quickly discarded the idea. His denials would mean nothing, and he needed to attend to matters in Deep Delving so he could send his Aritheian employees for more magic—in particular, magic that might be useful against dragons.

And what harm could such rumors do him? All would blow over soon enough.

"Thank you," he said. Stammer curtsied, and hesitated.

"You may go now," Arlian said, "or stay, if you've more to tell me. And feel free to come to me as you have tonight should you learn or remember anything else you think might interest me."

Stammer said, "Thank you, my lord," then snatched open the door and vanished.

Arlian stared after her, thinking.

The rumors were harmless in themselves, but he wondered whether a conspiracy might be forming in opposition to him. Opal hated him for refusing to bring her dragon venom, and could be expected to speak ill of him; Pulzera had chosen to side with the dragons Arlian had sworn to destroy, so her enmity was also unsurprising. Hardior thought that if Arlian were gone, the dragons would leave Manfort alone. Arlian had thought he and Hardior were natural allies, but it had become very plain that Hardior did not agree.

As for Zaner and Ticker, their motives were less clear, but Arlian supposed they were in agreement with either Pulzera or Hardior.

And one name was, he realized, conspicuous by its absence; Stammer had not mentioned Toribor's household as a source of rumors. Had this been an oversight? Or did her web of informants perhaps not extend into that particular domicile?

Arlian frowned, and stepped out into the corridor.

He spotted a footman, and beckoned to him; the youth trotted quickly over to his master.

"Send word to Lady Rime that I wish to speak to her at her earliest convenience," he said. "I would be glad to wait upon her at her home, or to have her as my guest, whichever would please her more."

The footman bowed. "Yes, my lord," he said. He hesitated for an instant, then turned and hurried away.

Arlian watched him go, and frowned.

Rime was the only living member of the Dragon Society he trusted—and that was a sorry commentary on his situation.

It was hardly a surprise, though. He had come to Manfort seeking revenge, not companionship, and had not gone out of his way to make the acquaintance of his fellow dragonhearts—and that was quite aside from having killed some of them, and planning to kill the rest.

He could have gone to the Society's hall and talked to whoever he found there, but somehow he suspected that would produce anger and evasion, rather than honesty—and really, he supposed he could not blame anyone for such hostility when he had openly admitted that he had considered slaughtering the lot of them.

But he did not want to kill them now.

Rime did not seem troubled by his murderous intent, in any case, and perhaps she would be able to shed some light on what was happening among the members of die Dragon Society.

The following morning Rime arrived in time to share Arlian's midday meal, hobbling on her wooden leg, her legbone clutched tight in her right hand.

At table they discussed Arlian's upcoming journey, and Arlian made it plain that Rime was welcome to accompany him, if she chose, as she had in his pursuit of Enziet.

"No, thank you," she said. "Last time you were pursuing business that directly concerned us all." She glanced at the servants, and did not specify which "us"

she referred to, but Arlian understood her to mean the Dragon Society. "This time you are traveling on your own business, and matters of considerable interest are being discussed here in Manfort."

'True enough," Arlian said. "And these matters you mention are of some interest to me, as well. I would be glad to hear you speak of them."

"Perhaps later," Rime replied, with another glance at the footmen bringing in platters of meat.

Arlian nodded.

After they had eaten, Rime, Arlian. and Black retired to the study, where Rime settled quickly into a

chair and Black leaned against a wall. Arlian sent the servants away and closed the doors securely.

"Now," he said, turning to face his guest, "tell me, if you would, what is happening among the dragonhearts."

Rime glanced at Black, who stared back impas-sively.

"I have promised Black I would keep no more secrets from him," Arlian said, crossing to his desk.

"I see," Rime said, tapping her bone against the palm of her left hand. " I have made no such promise."

"Indeed you have not—but anything you might tell me I would share with Black in any case, so I have chosen to eliminate a step in the process. If there is anything you cannot bear revealing to him, then do not tell it to me, now or ever." He pulled out his own chair and sat down. "But surely there must be something you can tell us."

"Fair enough. Arlian, you have thrown the Society into chaos such as I have never seen before."

"I had that impression," Arlian said.

"They argue constantly. In the past I could walk into the hall at almost any time and find it quiet, no matter what might be happening in the world outside; now the city is calm, but I cannot set foot through the door there without hearing voices raised in anger.

When you first came to us I found your presence a break in the tedium; with your open avowal of vengeance against five of us, I thought you'd brought a little life to a virtual tomb. Your honesty was refresh-ing. You stirred up Belly and Nail, and I thought it was all quite amusing—to see Belly stamping about angrily, or others recoiling in horror from your intentions toward Enziet." She sighed. "I'm afraid the novelty has worn off. Now I'm weary of anger and horror and constant bickering."

"I'm sorry," Arlian said.

She waggled her bone at him. "Don't be. They dragged the truth out of you by calling that hearing."

"I am not claiming responsibility for the dispute, my lady, merely expressing regret that it troubles you."

She shrugged. "I can handle trouble."

"I'm sure you can," Arlian said. "As can I—but it is always easier if I know what trouble to expect. I have heard some of the rumors circulating in the city, blam-ing me for every dragonheart's death for the past two years and accusing me of plotting treason against the Duke, but I have not heard the nature of the arguments within the Society, nor who is on which side."

"There are certainly plenty of sides to choose from,"

Rime said. Arlian waited for her to continue, but she merely tapped her bone against her palm.

"I take it Pulzera still thinks we should pledge ourselves to serve the dragons, and side with them in the event of renewed war?" he asked at last.

"Oh, yes," Rime said. "And at least a dozen others agree with her. Alas, they would appear to be the largest single faction, and Shatter, the eldest, is one of them, and has therefore become their leader."

Arlian grimaced. "Shatter? He fought the dragons and their servants, centuries ago, didn't he?"

"Indeed. But he is hardly the first person to ever reconsider his previous actions, Arlian."

"I see. And the others?"

"Hardior has taken a 'wait-and-see' attitude toward the dragons, or at least so he claims, but he has come out strongly in favor of removing you from the city,"

Rime continued. "He seems to feel you are too unpredictable and uncontrollable; your refusal to finish the duel convinced him that you cannot be trusted at all.

He also points out that any grudge the dragons may hold would be against you, rather than the Society as a whole, and that therefore you are a threat—if the drag-mis do come to Manfort, it will be to kill you, bat the rest of as may well suffer as a result. He and Lady Pulzera are substantially in agreement on that."

"So I suspected," Ariian said

Rime nodded. "He further argues that we need to settle our differences and act as a unified group if we are to maintain our position of power in the Lands of Man, and that that will never be possible while you live. I have the impression that he doesn't really believe die dragons will ever threaten Manfort, and expects the whole affair to blow over once you are eliminated."

"I'm disappointed," Ariian said. "I had hoped for better from him."

"He and Pulzera disagree on some things—Pulzera and Shatter and their party believe that you have indeed ended the peace, and we should resign ourselves to serving the dragons, which makes you, personally, largely irrelevant. Hardior, on the other hand, believes that if you are removed, then the dragons will have no cause to attack us, and will be content to return to the behavior they have displayed these past several centuries. Ticker and Zaner both support Hardior in this—

but I don't think anyone else does."

Ariian nodded. That was not particularly surprising, really.

"Perhaps seven or eight people, led by Lord Voriam, think we should name you master of the Dragon Society and do whatever you say," Rime said. 'They maintain that as Enziet's heir and die only one of us to communicate direcdy with the dragons, you are clearly the chosen of Fate. They argue about what happened when you and Belly fought, whether you decided to spare Belly's life, or that your own could not be thrown away so lightly before your great task is complete. They have spoken of sending you an emis-mry, but when last I listened they had not yet agreed on how best to approach you, or whether they should wait until they have won over more of the membership."

"That's... um."

Arlian had started to say the idea of naming him master was ridiculous, but in fact it would certainly simplify matters in many ways. Instead he asked, "What about Toribor? I suppose he's sided with Hardior?"

"Belly? No. His faction, like Shatter's, maintains that you are simply irrelevant, now that your secrets are known. However, they maintain that Shatter and Pulzera are traitors, and that we should be preparing to fight the dragons by whatever means come to hand. He has spoken of buying obsidian weapons from you, or making his own, and of seeking out the caverns where the dragons sleep—but as yet he has not acted. I think he can't quite bring himself to speak to you."

"Oh," Arlian said.

"He's been speaking to the Duke, though," Rime continued. "I believe he's trying to convince His Grace to restore the city's fortifications to their proper condition and prepare for war with the dragons. Really, Arlian, it's quite amazing—for centuries Belly took no interest in politics, but now he's spending every moment he can at the Citadel." She smiled crookedly. "I don't know what will happen if the dragons don't come. I suppose that would discredit Belly, and make a prophet of Hardior."

"Is Belly trying to displace Hardior at the Duke's ear, then?"

"Not replace, but supplement," Rime said. "Belly takes no interest in anything but defense against the dragons, and that's a subject Hardior avoids."

"Does he?" Arlian asked, startled.

"Oh, yes. As I said, Hardior doesn't seem to believe the dragons will ever come, and he does not care to choose sides between dragon and human—he doesn't think he'll ever need to make a firm decision, and he knows that if he does he will estrange himself from half the Society. You and Pulzera have split it down the middle, An—I don't think the rift will ever heal."

For a moment Rime and Arlian gazed silently at one another, then Arlian said, "Well, one way or another, the Dragon Society must be destroyed eventually, if we are to avoid inflicting dozens of eager young dragons upon the world. Splitting it now may be a start."

"Oh. absolutely. It's a cancer at the heart of the Lands of Man, and it's past time it was cut out. We have been manipulating humanity for centuries, and look at the world we've built—a world of cruelty and slavery, where women like your guests, like my Rose, are treated as playthings or less, to be discarded at a whim. We live in a city of hard stone, as hard as our poisoned hearts."

Black shifted uneasily. He cleared his throat. Rime looked at him inquiringly.

"Your Rose?" Black asked.

"My several-times-great granddaughter," Rime explained. "She was one of the women in the House of the Six Lords. Lord Enziet had killed most of her family and enslaved her, and eventually had her murdered because sixteen was not evenly divisible by six."

Black stared at her for a moment, then said, "Oh."

"I explained this to Arlian in the wagon, on the way to Cork Tree," Rime said. "You were driving; I had thought you would have overheard."

"My attention was elsewhere," Black replied.

"And you never asked Enziet for her life?" Arlian asked, although he already knew the answer. "Or made any attempt to help her, or punish Enziet?"

"No," Rime said.

Arlian exchanged a glance with Black, then said,

"So you feel that the Dragon Society deserves to die."

"Yes, I do," Rime said.

"And if I were to ask you and Lord Voriam and his faction to turn on the others and kill them all, would you?"

Rime smiled coldly at him.

"No," she said, "I wouldn't—but I think some of Voriam's friends would, and I would watch the slaughter without making any move to stop you. I would lift my own chin to the knife when the time came for you to slit my throat, but I cannot bring myself to wield the blade."

Arlian looked at her, this woman who had lived many times her apparent age, her grey streaked hair pulled back tightly, exposing every line of her weathered face. Her dark, unwavering eyes returned his gaze.

The bone in her hand tapped idly on one arm of her chair. Half of one of her legs was missing, severed just below the knee in a long-ago mishap—and that bone was her own shinbone. Although she had told him the story of how she lost her leg, and how she came to have the bone, he had never asked her why she had held on to it all these years, why she carried it with her everywhere she went.

She had kept track of her surviving family for several generations after the encounter with a dragon that had transformed her from an ordinary woman to what she was now, but had never told them who she was, that she still lived.

Holding on to things she knew she should discard was simply part of what she was, he decided—and her life was no different to her than the bone or her granddaughters, something she had no need of any longer, but could not let go.

Those members of the Society who agreed with him would be the easiest to kill. Those who opposed him would fight fiercely for their fives, he was certain—as Toribor had.

But Toribor did, in fact, agree with him in intending to fight the dragons, unlike Pulzera and Shatter...

It was all too confusing.

"I think perhaps it's time for some fresh air," he said. "Shall we take a walk in the garden?" He rose, and held out a hand to help Rime from her chair.

At last, eleven days after his audience with the Duke, Arlian led his caravan southward, bound for Deep Delving. Only after he had collected silver and amethysts and dealt with the miners there would the caravan continue onward, across the Desolation and the Borderlands into the magical realms of the south.

The wagons left the suburbs of Manfort without incident, rolling between lush fields just starting to fade from green to yellow as the crops ripened. If Lord Hardior had hired any assassins, they had not shown themselves.

Arlian had refused to take the traditional caravan master's position at the rear; instead he had put the Aritheian magicians there, while he and Black took the lead. He wanted to look at the open road and the countryside, not the dusty back of the wagon ahead.

Arlian had hired a man called Quickhand, whom he had traveled with before, as his chief guard; Black, who had earned his keep commanding caravan guards for years, was instead assistant master and driver of the lead wagon, so that he and Arlian sat side by side at the head of the caravan, Black holding the reins and Arlian simply watching their surroundings.

The obsidian weapons, all of them, were in the two wagons at the front of the procession, which left little room for anything else. Arlian glanced back over his shoulder as the wagon rattled along the road, hoping that the brittle edges wouldn't be too badly chipped by the bumps.

Black noticed his gaze, and said, "You aren't really sending those to Arithei, are you?"

"No," Arlian said.

"You'll need to keep them hidden when we return, then. That would seem to complicate their distribution and use."

"We'll keep them hidden until they're needed," Arlian agreed. "If and when the dragons come, we'll dis-tribute them then."

"And what about your fellow dragonhearts? When do you intend to murder them?"

Arlian looked at Black, startled.

In fact, he had just been dunking about that, trying to determine what the best thing to do would be. None of them had chosen to gestate dragons, after all, and killing them would not be just.

Allowing new dragons to be born would be unwise, though.

He had thought that he would let each dragonheart live out his thousand years, and would then dispose of each new dragon as it was born, but if the Dragon Society was broken and its members scattered, tracking them all down when the times came could be difficult.

It might be better to kill them all before they could disperse....

But it would still not be just.

"I don't know" he said. "I'm not sure I intend to murder them at all."

"That would disappoint Lady Rime, if you did not."

"I'm sure she'll bear up under such a disappoint-ment"

"The two of you seemed quite determined to see the Dragon Society destroyed the other day."

"Well, we don't want them to hatch into dragons,"

Arlian said uneasily.

"It seemed more than that for Lady Rime," Black said. "She called the Society 'a cancer at the heart of the Lands of Man.'"

"She exaggerates."

"Rather, she understates," Black said. "Ari, the Dragon Society isn't a cancer—it's the heart itself.

Have you ever thought about just what the Society controls?"

Arlian looked at Black, clearly puzzled. "Well, the Duke's advisers are mostly dragonhearts..." he said uncertainly.

"Besides that," Black said. "Haven't you ever looked at who the other lords are? You haven't told me all their names, but I can guess. You did mention Lord Voriam, who owns most of the lands and mills from Norva to Kariathi, and there's Lord Zaner, who owns half the trading vessels and warehouses in Lorigol.

Lady Flute operates the pumps and aqueducts that supply Manfort's water, and owns most of Clearpool.

Lady Rime herself owns salt mines, tanneries, and dye works. You started out dealing in magic, which is not of any great importance, but have you ever considered that list of holdings you inherited from Enziet? As your steward I went over it with Fenrezin. You control perhaps two-thirds of the tin mines in the western mountains and thousands of acres of barley to the north, and your employees in Westguard coin the silver the Duke uses to pay his troops, to name just a few of the largest holdings."

"Hmm," Arlian said. He had not thought about any of this, and did not see yet what Black was getting at.

"But even if we do own all you say, what of it? We don't personally grow those crops or mine those metals; if we die, the businesses will go on."

"Will they? Most of you have no heirs, as I understand it—do you want the Duke to inherit it all? Imagine that man as not merely the hereditary lord of Manfort but the master of most of the enterprises in the Lands of Man. Or what if, without killing anyone, you divide die Society so that its members will no longer deal with one another? What if Lord Zaner will no longer carry your tin and barley on his ships? What if the Duke's men no longer trust the silver you send?

Or perhaps worst of all, what if the dragons do come, and you fight them? Manfort could be destroyed, and even you must agree that would cut the heart out of the Lands of Man "

"That's why the dragons must die," Arlian said. "So that they can't destroy what men have built"

"So you're willing to risk destroying everything we have to protect what our descendants might build."

"Yes, I am," Arlian said.

"And what gives you the right to decide this?"

Arlian blinked and turned to look at Black again.

"The right?" he said. "There's no 'right.' I have the ability to destroy the dragons—or at least, I hope I do—and I have chosen to do it."

"And die thousands of other people who may be affected by this have no say in it?"

"Each can choose for himself what to do," Arlian said "They can join me, oppose me, or simply hide until it's all over."

"Bat you believe they can't tell you, 'No, leave well enough alone.'"

"No, they cannot This is no special circumstance.

The Duke's decisions affect other people every day; every lord's decisions affect his employees. We are forever at the mercy of others."

"But everyone knows the Duke reigns over them.

Every employee has chosen to work for his lord. The only people who have no choices are slaves, yet you propose to give no choice to all of Manfort."

Arlian frowned. "Now, are you comparing me to a slave owner to enrage me, or do you really think I might accept this specious line of argument? No one chooses to live at the whim of dragons. No one chose the present Duke. No one can tell Lord Zaner what cargoes to load in his ships, though that may mean the difference between wealth and starvation for everyone in Lorigol. Black, do you really think that I could stop at this point, and that matters would simply return to what they were? Enziet is dead and his secrets are out, and I am caught up in the result, as we all are. Lord Hardior is a fool to think my death would restore things to what they were."

"You could dump these weapons and tell the dragons you will keep their secrets if they stay in their caves. You could stay in Deep Delving and never return to Manfort. You could work to reconcile the fac-tions in the Society."

"It's too late to keep the dragons' secrets."

"Is it? You heard the lies Stammer collected about you; rumor and gossip spread through the city like mushrooms after a rain, and vanish as swiftly. A year from now no one but the dragonhearts will remember how Nail died."

Arlian did not answer immediately. The wagon rolled on down the ruts in the road, the oxen plodding steadily.

"You can't be sure of that," he said at last. "It may be too late. The dragons may already be out of their caverns—and they do deserve to die, all of them."

"So you're going to go on with your revenge even if it destroys Manfort and ruins the Lands of Man."

"I am."

It was Black's turn to pause before replying, but at last he said, "So you will let the Dragon Society destroy itself."

"I don't believe I can prevent it"

"That will tear the heart out of Manfort. Have you given any thought to what might replace it?"

Ariian started as the wagon hit a bump. "What?"

The Dragon Society may be a bunch of cold-

hearted bastards, Ari, but they have kept Manfort peaceful and whole for six hundred years. If you destroy it, or it destroys itself, who will rule Manfort? Do you expect the Duke to actually do the job he was born to, with no Enziet or Hardior to direct him? And if the dragonhearts die without heirs and leave the Duke a hundred times as wealthy as he is now, do you think that would be a good thing?"

"Do you expect me to lead a real insurrection against him?" Ariian asked. "He's the Duke of Manfort, warlord of the Lands of Man."

"He's an idiot"

"Well, yes. But he's the Duke. I'm sure he'll find advisers, as he always has—they just won't be dragonhearts."

"So you would replace dragon-hearted sorcerers possessing the wisdom of centuries with ordinary men"

"Indeed I would," Ariian said.

"You have a higher opinion of my fellow men than I do"

Ariian smiled crookedly. "No," he said, "I have a lower opinion of dragon-hearted sorcerers." Then the smile vanished, and his expression turned thoughtful.

"What would replace the Dragon Society?" he said.

"Mortal men and women. What else?"

Black looked at him, but said no more. The conversation died, and no new one rose to take its place—

Arlian was distracted, plainly thinking hard about something.

In fact, he was thinking about what might become of the Dragon Society—not the organization as a whole, but its individual members. They could become dragons, if their tainted blood was allowed to mature, or corpses, if that blood was spilled—but was there no third possibility?

Black had asked what would replace the Dragon Society at Manfort's heart. Surely, ordinary mortals could fill the gap, and the Lands of Man would live on.

Could something similar be done on a more personal scale?

He had wondered before whether there might be some way to remove the taint that made a dragonheart something other than an ordinary human. He knew sorcery could not do it. Could the wild magic of the south?

Could Aritheian magic replace a dragon heart with a human one?

That night, in the street before an inn in a village called Grandfather Elm, as soon as the caravan was secured for the night, Arlian spoke to the Aritheians.

"When you come back," he said, "I want you to bring certain things."

"Love potions?" Thirif asked, smiling.

"No." Arlian shook his head. "I don't mean the things to sell. You know better than I what will bring the best profits, now that you've had all these months in Manfort, and I trust you to invest wisely. There are two matters I need to attend to, though, that will require magic—if they can be done at all."

"What are they?" Isein asked.

"First, I need some way to drive a spear into a dragon's heart."

The Aritheians exchanged glances.

"You spoke of that in Manfort," Thirif said. "We have spoken among ourselves. We think it can be done, but must speak with the elders of the House of Arlian nodded. "That's fine," he said. "The other—I think I need a physician."

"You are ill?" Isein asked worriedly.

"No, I... well, perhaps I am. But I need a magician who can drain a man's blood, perhaps even stop his heart, yet keep him alive. If there is some way to replace tainted blood with clean.. "

For a long moment the magicians were silent; at last Thirif spoke.

"I have never heard of such a thing," he said.

"Is it impossible?"

"I do not know."

"Find out," Arlian said. "Please. Speak to whoever might know in Arithei—not just the House of Deri, but all the eleven houses, even the House of Slihar. I will pay for this magic in silver and amethysts and whatever else you might want; it's worth more to me than everything else put together."

"We will ask," Isein said.

Arlian nodded. "Good," he said. Then he added, "If you do find such a magic, bring it to me at once, even if it means abandoning everything else. And bring enough to do it many times over, if that is possible."

"As you say," Isein said, bowing her head.

"Good!" Arlian looked up at the night sky, the stars hidden by clouds, then at the inn. "Then let us find ourselves some supper, and rest while we can."

He led the way inside.

In the morning they set out again, beneath an overcast sky, and rolled onward through an uneventful day of oppressive heat.

Arlian was startled to realize, as his caravan rolled down the dusty main street of Deep Delving, that he had never seen the place before. He had spent seven years in the mines, but he had never set foot in the town, half a mile away.

Now, though, he saw a crowded tangle of narrow streets lined with half-timbered buildings, nestled into a steep-sided valley. There was no open market, no plaza—but there was an inn, of course. A town that relied on the sale of what its mines produced could hardly fail to provide accommodations for the people who came to buy. Arlian guided the weary oxen toward the inn, and when the wagon had creaked to a stop by the door he dismounted, sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

He left his hat in the wagon, and left the caravan waiting in the street while he and Black went inside.

He stood by the door, looking impatient, with Black beside him, until the landlord deigned to notice them.

"May I help you, my lord?" the proprietor asked, brushing crumbs from his apron.

"I'm looking for an old man named Lithuil who operates a mine near here," Arlian said.

The innkeeper glanced over the customers in the taproom, then shrugged. "I know him, but he's not in here."

"Where might we find him, then?"

"He has offices in Brown Street—the second street on the left, that way." He pointed.

"Thank you." Arlian turned away.

Fifteen minutes later Arlian found himself face-to-face with the Old Man for the first time in almost a decade—across a cluttered desk in a dusty office, this time, rather than in stone tunnels. For a moment he had an irrational fear that the Old Man would recognize him and fling him back down into the mine, but he fought it down—after all, how could Lithuil recognize that ragged eleven-year-old boy in the elegant young lord who stood before him?

Arlian recognized the Old Man, however, though he was even older and had lost weight. He had the same wrinkled face and long beard, but the wrinkles had deepened and he was no longer so impressively fat.

Either that, Arlian thought, or his memory had exaggerated the Old Man's girth.

Once upon a time this man had carried him down into the darkness of the mine and had left him there, to slave away breaking the galena ore from the tunnel walls and carting it to the shaft.

Now that same old man said, "It is a great honor to meet you, Lord Obsidian. How fortunate that I was here in town today! Usually I would be out at the mine, but urgent matters ..."

"Yes, I'm sure," Arlian said, interrupting. He could not bear to hear that voice wheedling like this, when he remembered it bullying. "I have my own urgent business to attend to here. I assume you know that I now own four of the five shares in your mine?"

"I had heard..." Lithuil began.

Arlian cut him off. "That means you work for me,"

he said. "I sent instructions to gather amethysts, like this one." He displayed the silver pendant that held the largest of the stones he had taken from poor Hathet so long ago. "Do you have them ready?"

Lithuil spread empty palms. "Oh. well, my lord, we had not yet determined a price for the stones, and the miners report that they have had no luck in finding them ..." He shrugged, and smiled apologetically.

Arlian stared at him for a moment.

"Was my message not clear?" he snapped.

Lithuil's smile vanished. "I don't..

"I said I needed them, and you were to start mining them immediately," Arlian said angrily. "Are you telling me that you have found none?"

"My lord, I never even heard of these stones before you sent your messages," Lithuil said defensively. "I had no idea that these purple crystals could be found in the ore. I did as you instructed and told the miners to look for them and send them up with the ore, but as yet none have been delivered."

"And what did you offer the miners in exchange?"

Lithuil blinked. "Offer them? My lord, they are slaves—I told them to send up the purple stones."

Arlian stared at him for a moment, remembering his own years in the tunnels. None of the miners would have done anything to please their masters simply because they were told to—or rather, almost none, and those who might try would be reminded of the folly of their actions. If someone had fetched a few amethysts to the ore lift, one of the others would certainly have made sure the stones did not make it up the pitshaft.

In fact, the demonstration of folly might have permanent results.

"Have there been more deaths than usual since you told them to fetch the stones?" he asked.

Lithuil cocked his head to one side. "More than usual? Not really. There have been deaths, of course.

Two men were killed in fights. Why? Are these stones supposed to bring bad luck, then?"

Arlian shook his head. "No," he said. "Quite the contrary. They can protect the bearer from certain sorts of magic."

"Then why did.. "

"We'll go to the mine," Arlian said, interrupting again; he found he had very little patience with this unpleasant old man. "I want to speak to your slaves."

In fact, he intended to do considerably more than speak to them.

'It's late, my lord, not long until supper time"

Lithuil protested. "Let us look at the books tonight, so you can see how things stand, and wait until tomorrow to..."

"We'll go to the mine now," Arlian said, not loudly, but in a tone that brooked no argument.

Lithuil looked at Arlian's face, and said nothing more.

Half an hour or so later Arlian, Lithuil, Black, and four carefully chosen caravan guards arrived at the entrance to the mine. Arlian stared at the heavy wooden door in the shadowy opening, remembering when he had last seen it

He had been coming out into sunlight after seven years in darkness, wearing rags, carrying a bag of amethysts, and with nothing else to his name but his freedom, newly restored to him by a pair of brothers named Enir and Linnas in gratitude for saving Enir's life. Enir, also known as Bloody Hand, had been one of the mine's overseers; Linnas had been a guard.

Lithuil opened the door and stood aside so that Lord Obsidian could enter; Arlian hesitated, thinking for a moment that the Old Man would slam the door behind him once he was inside—but Black and the guards would see that so harm came to him. He was not a half-starved boy anymore; he was Lord Obsidian. He stepped in.

Lithuil followed, then Black, then the guards.

The stone passageway was lit by widely spaced torches mounted on the walls, providing light but filling the air with smoke. Even with the torches, though, the air inside was cooler than the raging heat of summer outside.

Arlian remembered the system—farther down the tunnel the torches gave way to oil lamps, and both the torches and the lamps were lit before each shift change for the convenience of the guards, overseers, and ore-haulers, but mostly because the mules that hauled the ore wagons didn't like the dark. The guards would light the torches and lamps as they went down the passage ahead of the empty carts, and would replace any torches or wicks that had burned down too far, and re-fill the lamps that needed it

A shift change must be in progress, as it had been all those years ago when he was first carried down to the pitshaft.

"How many people work for you here?" he asked Lithuil as the party started down the tunnel.

"We employ two overseers, two guards, and six teamsters," the Old Man replied.

Naturally, he didn't mention the slaves. "Very effi-cient," Arlian said. "And you trust these men?"

"Well enough."

"Have die present overseers worked here long?"

Startled, the Old Man glanced at him. "Why do you ask?"

Arlian shrugged. "Simple curiosity. I take an interest in how men live their lives, and a job like that, spending the day down in the dark with slaves...

well, I'm curious whether it's something men do for their entire lives, or whether they find it unbearable after a time."

He was not about to explain that he wanted to know whether Lampspiller, the sadist who had made his life as a slave even more miserable than it should have been, was still there, and available as a target for revenge.

"It can be either one, my lord," the Old Man said.

"We've had men who lived out their lives as overseers, and others who quit quickly."

"And the current pair? Have they been here long, then?"

He knew that Bloody Hand had begun working in the mine about ten years ago, and Lampspiller about six—but he didn't know whether they were still there.

And he couldn't ask about both of them by name; Bloody Hand and Lampspiller had been the slaves'

names for them, and Lithuil presumably knew them by other names. Arlian knew that Bloody Hand's true name was Enir, but he had no idea who Lampspiller might be outside the mine.

Lithuil grimaced. "No," he said. "We had an unfortunate incident last year—one of the overseers was murdered by the slaves, and the other resigned, so we had to hire new men. One of the new ones didn't work out, so ... well, one of our overseers has been here just over a year, and the other seven or eight months."

Arlian had to remember to keep his expression calm. "Murdered?"

Lithuil shrugged. "Apparendy. We don't really know."

"What happened?"

"The other overseer, a man named Enir, arrived for his shift, and the dead one didn't come up out of the mine when he should have " Arlian smothered a sigh of relief—Bloody Hand had lived. "Enir went down to see what had happened, and found Klorikor's body.

The slaves tried to tell him there had been an accident, but Enir said Klorikor appeared to have been beaten, and then strangled with his own whip."

"Unpleasant," Arlian said—but he could not help thinking that Lampspiller had deserved it.

It also resolved any question of whether to seek vengeance on Lampspiller; the other miners had beaten him to it.

That assumed, of course, that it was indeed Lampspiller who had been killed. "How long had the dead man worked here?" he asked.

"Oh, five or six years, I think."

That was Lampspiller. "And what became of the slaves responsible?" Arlian asked.

Lithuil did not answer immediately, and Arlian glanced at him, feeling a sudden chill. Had all the slaves been killed in retaliation?

"We never determined which men were responsible," the Old Man said at last. "Enir came back up, and we left them unsupervised and unfed, telling them that they would get no more food or water until they turned over those responsible for Klorikor's death. But they never admitted his death had been anything but an accident, and we couldn't afford to let them all die, so after a few days we gave in. That was when Enir resigned, rather than risk his life down there."

"But you found new overseers?"

Lithuil nodded. "We didn't tell them what had happened to Klorikor."

Arlian suspected that the new overseers would have found out by now. The miners would have told them, if no one else did. That might be why the one "didn't work out"

Black cleared his throat. "Pardon me, sir," he said.

"You said Enir described the injuries Klorikor sustained. Did no one else see the body? Didn't you see it?"

"Uh..." Lithuil glanced uneasily at Arlian.

"Speak up, man," Arlian said. "Surely you don't think you can keep secrets from me?" He met Lithuil's eyes with his own intense gaze.

"Well, Enir left a little hurriedly after seeing the body," Lithuil explained. "He didn't bring it up with him. He left it down there. And then—well, as I said, we decided not to feed the slaves."

Arlian missed a step, stumbling on the smooth stone of the floor. He remembered what it was like down there, how they had all been perpetually hungry, all slightly underfed. Missing a single meal could be agonizing.

He knew what had happened to Lampspiller's body.

"They ate him," Black said.

Lithuil nodded unhappily. One of die guards gagged.

"Very unpleasant," Arlian said mildly, though in fact it seemed oddly fitting. He wondered whether he would have eaten any, had he still been in the mine, or whether he would have preferred to stay hungry.

"We hadn't thought them so depraved," Lithuil said defensively. "It didn't occur to us at all!"

Arlian had no reply to that, and conversation was becoming more difficult in any case, as the ore wagons were coming up the tunnel just ahead. The rattle of harness and the creak of heavily laden wheels echoed from the stone walls.

The six men stepped to one side of the tunnel to let the wagons pass. The drivers glanced at them in surprise, but said nothing.

A few minutes later they reached the hp of the pitshaft, where a heavy wood and metal framework supported ropes and pulleys that would haul ore up from below, tons at a time. A lone guard in leather had been leaning against one of the support beams; he stepped aside at the arrival of this unexpected party of visitors.

He recognized Lithuil, and did not question the presence of strangers; his job was to make sure the slaves stayed down where they belonged, not to interfere with any guests his employer might bring.

Arlian breathed in; the air down here was cool and still, and smelled of dust and stone. It might have been pleasant and restful, a welcome change from the heat outside, if not for what he knew lay at the foot of the pitshaft. This was die end of the world of free men, Arlian thought as he looked down past the beams and ropes at the flickering light of oil lamps at the bottom.

Down there, fifteen feet below, was the dark and tiny world of the mining slaves.

And if the ore had just been hauled away, then the slaves would be eating the food that they received in exchange. Most of diem, maybe all of them, would still be nearby.

Arlian stepped to the edge and bellowed, "You miners! Listen to me!"

"My lord!" a shocked Lithuil protested.

From somewhere below another voice called, "Who in hell is that?"

"I am Lord Obsidian," Arlian called, ignoring Lithuil.

"I am the majority owner of this mine, and I want all of you miners to listen closely to my proposal."

"My lord, this is..."

"Shut up," Arlian told Lithuil, without looking.

"Black, keep him quiet. Cut his throat if you must."

Arlian heard the hiss of steel sliding on leather, and Lithuil made no further protest. A glance showed that the caravan guards had cowed the mine guard, as well—one of the caravan guards, a man called Stabber, whom Arlian had fought beside two years before in the Desolation, held a blade at the mine guard's throat.

"You men," Arlian shouted, "you heard a month ago that you were to collect the purple stones called amethysts, and send them up with the ore. You didn't deliver any. I don't think I blame you—what were you offered in exchange?"

"Nothing!" a braver-than-usual miner called back.

"Exactly. But those stones are very precious to me, and I'm going to offer you something precious in exchange. I know what men everywhere are like, and I assume you've all been saving die amethysts, and just not delivering them. That's fine—but deliver them now, and if you collectively deliver one hundred suitable stones, each large enough for my purposes, then you'll all go free."

When the echoes of this speech faded away there was a moment of stunned silence; then Lithuil protested, "You can't do that!"

Arlian turned, his hand on the hilt of his own sword.

"Yes," he said, "I can."

"But they're not your slaves! They're mine!"

"I'll pay you for them," Arlian said, smiling an unpleasant, tight little smile. This was his revenge on the Old Man. Then he turned back to the pit and called,

"One more thing—if any one of you dies before the full hundred has been delivered, the total goes up to one hundred and ten! Each additional death will add ten. If you steal from one another, you had better make sure your victim survives—and it won't buy you anything more; nobody wants these but me, and I will not pay you with anything but your freedom. I don't care who found how many—it's all of you or none. The sooner you can find die hundred, the sooner you can go! Now, how many do you have?"

There was a murmur from below, but no clear answer.

"All right, you aren't ready to say," Arlian said. "I'll be back here at the end of the shift with a bucket, and you can put the amethysts in the bucket, and we'll see what we have."

The thought of a mere bucket brought a wry, uncomfortable smile; ordinarily the miners filled a gigantic ore hopper twice a day, but to him, the contents of that one ordinary bucket would be worth far more than a dozen of the hoppers.

Then he turned away, and found he was trembling.

Being back in this place did not frighten him in the usual sense of the word, but it made him feel as if his mind were stretched tight and plucked, as if his identity were oscillating between Arlian the mine slave and Lord Obsidian the mine owner.

"We'll go now," he said to the others, pointing up the tunnel.

Lithuil started to protest further, then thought better of it and closed his mouth before a word had emerged.

The mine guard hesitated.

"You stay here," Black told him.

He stayed, and the other six men trudged back up the passage to the surface.

Arlian and his crew ate a late supper at the inn in Deep Delving. Lithuil did not offer to feed them at his home, as might ordinarily have been expected, and Arlian did not ask; he knew that his treatment of the Old Man at the mine, satisfying as it was, had swept aside the customary etiquette. A lord who had held a subordinate at swordpoint and arbitrarily claimed the right to free the subordinate's slaves had clearly given up any claim on the usual hospitality.

This bothered Arlian not at all; he had seen quite enough of Lithuil, and preferred to eat with his own people.

The four Aritheian magicians, Thirif, Shibiel, Qulu, and Isein, sat together at one table, chattering in their own language. The guards were clustered around another three tables, while Black, Arlian, and Quickhand ate at a small one in the back corner.

As lord and master Arlian could have had his meal brought to a private room, but he preferred to eat in the main room, with the others. He did however indulge himself to the point of ordering pork chops, rather than the greasy sausage that was the inn's common fare.

As he speared a piece of pork and lifted it to his mouth he recalled the conversation in the mine, and what had become of Lampspiller; the pork suddenly seemed much less appealing.

He stuck it in his mouth anyway, chewing dutifully, and then to distract himself he glanced around the room, his gaze falling on the tables full of cheerful, talkative guards. He asked Quickhand, "How are the men we hired working out? Is it a good crew?"

Quickhand looked over his shoulder at the others, then shrugged. "They're good enough," he said. "They think you're mad, hiring so many guards for just eight wagons."

"I probably am," Arlian said reflexively.

"You've worked with these men before?" Black asked.

"Not all of them," Quickhand said. "Twenty is a big company. We have four or five I'd never met before."

"Think they'll fight, or run?" Black gulped ale after asking his question, but kept his eyes on Quickhand's face.

"Oh, fight, most of them," Quickhand said, lifting his own mug. "There's one I'm not sure about—he's the sort with a little too much imagination. He might get thinking about just how much a sword in the belly would hurt, and decide not to risk it." He sipped his own beer, and made a face. "I think this is watered."

"Probably," Arlian agreed. 'This guard you think might run—what makes you think he's over-imaginative?"

"Oh, because he's always asking questions, my lord.

That's a sure sign of someone who thinks more than most. And the questions he asks aren't the practical ones that Black or I would worry about."

"Really? What sort of questions did he ask?"

"Well, any number of questions about where we were going—were we really going all the way to Arithei? Would we stop anywhere along the way? Are there dragons in Arithei? Not bandits, mind you, or anything else—I'd already told the men when Black and I hired them that we might ran into southern magic, but he didn't ask about that, he specifically asked about dragons."

"It would seem you've become associated with dragons in the popular mind, somehow," Black remarked.

"Mmm." Arlian took another bite of pork.

"I don't know about anyone else, Lord Ari, but this fellow certainly associates you with dragons! Or maybe he's just obsessed with them. He even asked whether there were dragons sleeping in the mines here in Deep Delving."

Arlian blinked and put down his knife. There was something strange going on here—that question felt wrong, somehow. Why would anyone think there might be dragons in Deep Delving? Oh, Arlian had sometimes worried, down in the mine, that he and the other miners might break through into one of the caverns in which the dragons slept, but in truth there was no evidence at all that there were any such caverns in the area.

And why would a caravan guard ask that? Neither mines new dragons were his concern.

For that matter, why would anyone be displaying such an unhealthy interest in dragons? Usually people tried to avoid speaking of them, since too much mention of them was believed to attract, if not dragons themselves, then at least lesser forms of misfortune.

"Who is this man?" Arlian asked.

"He calls himself Post," Quickhand said, pointing at one of the guards two tables over.

Black snorted. "Post? I suppose that's meant to impress women, but the first thing it brings to my mind is whether he's commenting on his own wits."

"At least he doesn't call himself Dragon," Arlian said. "That seems to be what he prefers to worry about."

"That, and sorcery," Quickhand agreed. "I tried to explain that southern magic isn't sorcery, but he didn't seem to understand or care, and he didn't want to hear anything about the Borderlands or the Dreaming Mountains except whether there were dragons there. I wanted to hear everything the Aritheians could tell us about the route, but Post wasn't concerned with that He seems interested in the strangest things! He asked how old you really were, my lord, as if it mattered—

and as if he couldn't see for himself as much as I can."

Arlian stared at Quickhand for a moment, a suspicion forming. These odd questions were beginning to make a pattern. He turned to look at Post again.

"Which one is he?" he asked.

"There," Quickhand said. "In the blue."

Arlian studied Post as best he could from this angle, and decided that no, he didn't know the man.

"I want to talk to him," Arlian said. "Bring him to my wagon after supper."

"As you wish," Quickhand said.

Black did not speak, but cocked an eyebrow at Arlian. "I suspect," Arlian said quietly, "that this Post may have another employer, in addition to myself."

"An interesting possibility," Black said.

After they had eaten Arlian returned to his wagon—

but he paused in the door of the inn to see that Quickhand was indeed speaking to Post.

Then he turned and stepped out into the street.

The inside of the inn had been hot and damp and slightly smoky, and Arlian had expected to cool off in the night air, but he found that the weather outside was still hot and sticky, as well, despite the late hour. The sun was long since down, but no moon or stars could be seen—the sky was heavily overcast.

Nasty weather, Arlian thought as he trudged to the waiting caravan. Hot and dark...

Dragon weather.

He stopped and looked up at the sky.

Maybe he would have thought of it anyway, he told himself, or maybe Post's questions about dragons had reminded him, but yes, this was dragon weather.

He turned and looked back at the inn; men were emerging, but he could not tell who through the gloom.

He clambered up onto the driver's seat of the lead wagon and waited in the dark, not lighting the lantern that hung near his head.

He looked back at the wagon's interior, at the waiting spears and blades. In this weather they might be needed soon, he thought—and they were all here, but they might be needed in Manfort.

There was a disturbance in the street; he turned again, and saw men struggling. One man was holding another, trying to keep him from fleeing; others were standing close by, watching. The light all came from the inn behind them, so he could not see anything but black outlines; still, he thought the captor might be Quickhand, which would mean the other was probably Post. He could hear shuffling and grunting. Someone called, "Give me a hand!"

Arlian reached down and picked up his sword from its place behind die seat. He laid the scabbard across his lap, then loosened the blade in its sheath.

Three men were holding the one now, dragging him forward.

Arlian found his firekit and lit the lantern as the men approached. Then he stood up and called, "Post, I'm not going to hurt you. Come and talk to me."

The captive looked up, and his struggles weakened.

He allowed himself to be led, rather than dragged, the rest of the way, until he stood beside the wagon. Arlian could finally see his face in the light of the lantern, and see that yes, this was Post, held by Quickhand, Stabber, and two guards Arlian didn't know by name.

"Climb up here," Arlian said, sliding over to make room. He kept the sword on his lap, his hand on the hilt.

Reluctantly, Post obeyed.

"Thank you, Quickhand," Arlian called. "You can go" Quickhand gave Post a doubtful look. "You're sure, Lord Ari?"

"I'm sure," Arlian said, shifting the sword.

The guards departed, leaving Arlian and Post alone.

Arlian looked at Post thoughtfully. He was a fair-sized man but not really large, and appeared to be getting rather old to work as a caravan guard.

But then, he wasn't really there as a guard.

"You know," Arlian said, "if you hadn't resisted coming here, you might yet have convinced me your peculiar questions were just harmless curiosity. Now, though, I'm afraid it's too late."

"What questions?" Post blustered.

"Your questions about dragons, and sorcery, and my age," Arlian said. "I take it someone's sent you to accompany me in hopes of learning something about the sorcerous uses of dragon venom."

"No one sent me," Post said resentfully.

His right hand remained on the sword hilt, but Arlian's left hand flashed out and closed on Post's throat.

He rammed the man's head back against the wagon's frame.

"I told you it's too late for that," Arlian growled. "I am not in a forgiving mood tonight, sir—my trip to the mine was unsettling, and I don't like this weather, so the discovery of your deceit, which I will generously not yet call treachery, has aggravated me a great deal.

Do not lie to me again."

He released the pressure on Post's throat.

"I didn't lie!" Post protested, when he could breathe again. "Not really." He rubbed at his neck and looked resentfully at Arlian.

"You claim no one sent you—then why are you here? Don't tell me you just wanted honest caravan work."

"No," Post said, still rubbing his neck. "You were right that I wanted to find out where you got your dragon venom, and how to use it."

"And why are you interested in dragon venom? It's poisonous stuff, you know."

"Lady Opal told me that you use it to make yourself young again."

"Lady Opal sent you?"

"Not exactly. She agreed to pay me if I bring back a sample, or even just knowledge of where you get it, but she didn't send me. I volunteered."

"Lady Opal." Arlian relaxed somewhat.

"Yes, Lady Opal," Post said. "She had wanted to send Horn, but you would have recognized him, so he suggested me."

That was nowhere near as bad a piece of news as Arlian had feared. He had worried that Post might have been a hired assassin in Lord Hardior's employ, waiting until he knew where to find the dragons before he struck, or that he might have been spying for the Duke as part of some court intrigue. He had thought that Lady Pulzera might have sent Post as her emissary to the dragons, using Arlian to find them, or that some other faction in the Dragon Society might have hired him for some esoteric reason.

It had even occurred to Arlian that someone within his own household might have betrayed him, and planted this spy among his hirelings. He had also considered the possibility that the dragons themselves had sent this man.

All in all, Lady Opal was perhaps the least frighten-ing explanation that made sense—though of course, she might be working in concert with Pulzera or Hardior.

"And did she want you to kill me when you had learned my secrets?" Arlian asked.

"No," Post said. "I know better than to fight you, my lord, or to try to ambush a sorcerer. Even if you were no sorcerer, and not a famous swordsman, just killing a caravan master surrounded by a score of honest guards—well, I wouldn't live to see my family again if I tried that. If Lady Opal wants you dead she'll have to hire someone else; I wouldn't attempt it for all the gold in Manfort."

"You show some sense, I see," Arlian said.

Post made a wordless noise.

"She lied to you, you know," Arlian said conversa-tionally. "Or at least misled you. Dragon venom doesn't make one younger. I really am as young as I appear."

"Then why does Opal want it so badly?" Post asked, apparently over the worst of his fear.

"Because it extends life," Arlian explained. "I'm only in my early twenties, yes, but there are men and women in Manfort who have lived for centuries, thanks to the dragon elixir. They age only very, very slowly—

but they do age, they never grow any younger."

"Centuries?" Post's eyes widened.

Arlian nodded. "Lord Enziet was the oldest," he said. "And Lord Wither was almost as old. Lady Opal learned about it from him."

"Lord Wither? I heard ... well, I heard you killed him, but I also heard he killed himself."

"Lord Wither took his own life," Arlian said. "The elixir has other effects besides extending life, and he feared the consequences were catching up with him."

Post did not appear convinced. "How often do you take it?" he asked. "I mean, if you're still so young, but you're going to get more ..

"I'm not," Arlian interrupted. "I told you she lied to you. This journey has nothing to do with fetching dragon venom Drink the elixir once, and the damage is done—I will never need it again. Though I'm not sure Opal believes that."

"I don't think she does," Post said. His expression seemed to add, And neither do I.

Arlian gazed at him for a moment, then asked,

"Have you spoken with the men who accompanied me to the mine today?"

"I..." Post stopped, but Arlian could read the answer in his face.

"Did they tell you what I wanted from the mine?

Did they say anything about dragons?"

"They said you offered the slaves their freedom in exchange for amethysts," Post admitted. "No one said anything about dragons." He hesitated, then added,

"They said the miners ate an overseer."

Arlian sighed. He hadn't told the guards to keep anything secret from their fellows, since he had assumed that they would all be traveling through the Dreaming Mountains together, and would see for themselves what the amethysts were for. Now, though, he feared that this fool would carry word back to Manfort that Lord Obsidian prized amethysts even more than his glassy namesake, and new rumors would spread.

"Did the slaves really eat him, or did they feed him to the dragons?" Post asked.

"There aren't any dragons in the mine," Arlian said wearily.

Again, Post's disbelief was obvious. The man really was a fool.

"Why do you want the amethysts? Do you need them for the elixir?"

"No. We need them to ..." In midsentence, Arlian decided against telling the exact truth. .. trade with the Aritheians. They prize the amethysts highly." A sudden spirit of mischief caught him, and he added,

"They believe amethysts keep dragons away, and that that's why the dragons have never ventured into Arithei—they think they're guarded by their jewelry."

He smiled as if deriding this silly fantasy. "The stones are the only thing they'll accept in trade for their magic—what else could we have that they need, after all, when half of them are wizards? And for myself, I don't care why they want them—if that's what they want, that's what they'll get."

"Do amethysts keep dragons away?" Post asked, marveling.

Arlian shrugged. "How would I know?" Then, in another burst of whimsy, he added, "But no one's ever seen any sign of dragons in the mine, even though it goes deep enough to reach their caverns."

Post's eyes were wide as he absorbed this nonsense.

Arlian sat back and slapped his thighs. "So, you came here because Lady Opal thought I was fetching dragon venom. I'm not. I'd suggest you go on home to Manfort and tell her so."

"Um," Post said.

"I'm afraid that under the circumstances, I cannot employ you as a caravan guard," Arlian said. "I'm sure you understand. I'll tell Quickhand to settle your pay. You can take your belongings and leave in the morning."

"Um," Post said again. "You aren't going..." His voice trailed off.

"I'm not going to punish you, or withhold your pay," Arlian said wearily. "You have committed a deception, but no actual crime, and you have carried out your duties heretofore. You are free to go." He had a horrible thought, and added, "But I would really very strongly recommend that you not attempt to follow the caravan to Arithei. I don't think you could make it across the Desolation."

"Then you really are going to Arithei again?" Post asked, startled.

"No," Arlian said, the matter suddenly settled beyond question. Up until this very moment he had still thought it might be possible, but now he was sure he could not afford to be away from Manfort for so long.

"My caravan will be going to Arithei, but I will be staying a few days here in Deep Delving, settling matters."

"Of course," Post said—-but his now familiar look of disbelief was back, more obvious than ever, and more than Arlian's fraying temper could bear.

"Go, sir," Arlian said, his hand closing on the hilt of his sword. "I have had a bellyful of you. Go back to Opal, and may both of you be damned!"

Post hastily backed away, and almost fell as he quickly clambered out of the wagon.

Arlian arose the next morning just after dawn, so that he might reach the mine before the shift change without undue hurry. When he first opened his eyes he thought that he had awoken before dawn, so dark was the sky, but then he realized that was due to thick, low-hanging clouds, and the sun was indeed up.

And the air was sweltering hot.

At least, he thought, this gloomy weather would be easy on the miners' eyes if they had collected the hundred amethysts he had demanded, and earned their freedom. He remembered well how he had been blinded by the sun when he first fled the mine.

He rose from his bed, dressed himself, and gathered together the various things he needed to cany out his promises.

Just over an hour later he stood at the mouth of the pitshaft, leaning against the heavy framework, lowering the promised bucket down to the waiting miners.

He could hear them muttering, talking among themselves. He supposed they were exchanging suspicions, wondering how their masters would betray and abuse them this time.

The others at his own level—Black, Qulu, half the caravan's guards, and the drivers of the ore wagons—

were utterly silent; the guards stood half-hidden in the shadows. The waiting day-shift overseer, a young man who had said the miners called him Whip, was standing back, as well; the night-shift overseer was still down in the pit Arlian had interrupted the regular loading of ore into the big hopper.

The bucket reached the bottom and the line went slack as Arlian paid out a little extra. Then he called,

"All the amethysts, in the bucket, right now."

The muttering grew louder, and he heard feet stamping and shuffling; then came a rattle, and a voice called up, "They're in."

Almost trembling with anticipation, Ariian began hauling the line up, hand over hand. A moment later he had the bucket in his hands. He tipped it toward the light

Purple stones glittered in the bottom

He took the bucket to where Qulu waited, and the two squatted down on the stone and began inspecting and counting his haul.

"What now?" Whip called.

"You might as well go on loading the ore," Arlian called back "This will take a moment." The possibility that the miners might have tried to pass off bits of purple glass or other detritus as amethysts had occured to him—but of course, such things would be almost impossible to obtain down here.

And in fact, so far as he could tell by lamplight the stones in the bucket were indeed amethysts, ranging from chips the size of an ant to a hexagonal chunk the size of a pigeon's egg.

ing dumpe

Behind d into

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a great many memories, most of them unpleasant. It was more distant than he remembered, of course, since be was up here instead of down below, but it was unmistakably the same sound. He shivered slightly, then concentrated on counting.

The final total was seventy-one stones—more than Arlian had expected. Hathet had saved amethysts fen-decades and only accumulated a hundred and sixty-eight; someone must have made a lucky find.

"It is not a hundred," Qulu said.

'Is it enough?" Arlian asked.

"Oh, more than enough, my lord," Qulu said. "Some are much larger than I expected."

"Then it will do," he said. He turned to die men in the shadows. "As soon as the ore is loaded in the wagons, lower the ladder."

"You're really going to free them?" die overseer asked, as the guards slid the ladder toward the edge.

'Yes, I am," Arlian replied. He got to his feet, leaving Qulu to collect the amethysts, and walked over toward the pitshaft

He had intended to shout down to the miners, but he realized he wouldn't be heard over the clattering and banging of ore being loaded into die hopper. He grimaced, then stepped back and waited.

The overseer below signaled the waiting teamsters, and they in turn set their mules to hauling on the ropes.

The hopper was pulled up and the support arms pivoted, with much creaking, to sway it over to the waiting wagons. Hie ore was loaded into the wagons, which took several minutes.

And then the hopper was empty, ready to be lowered again. Sacks of food and kegs of water and lamp oil had been set by the rim of the pit, ready to be lowered down as the miners' payment, but the workers hesitated.

"Go ahead and send the supplies down," Arlian said.

"Then lower the ladder."

"What about me?" Whip asked. "Should I go down

"I think so," Arlian said. "Keep order while the ladder is readied."

He watched with interest as the supplies were loaded into the hopper, and then as Whip clambered in—he didn't stand on the rim holding a rope as Bloody Hand and Lampspiller always had, but instead sat inside.

The arms swung out over the pit, the teamsters hauling on the ropes alongside their beasts.

Arlian had never seen the operation from this side before. He hadn't realized just how much work the teamsters did, or just how complex the machinery was.

Then the hopper began to descend, and Arlian stepped to the edge to watch. He could see the glow of the miners' lamps in the radiating tunnels, but not the miners themselves—they were forbidden to enter the pitshaft itself while the hopper was in use.

The hopper came to rest on the heap of rags used as a buffer, and Whip climbed out, beckoning.

"Listen, you!" he bellowed, his voice oddly faint from above. "Lord Obsidian says he's going to free you." He lifted out the bags of food.

"But that wasn't a hundred!" someone called, as the miners emerged from their tunnels.

"I know it wasn't, you useless fool, but Lord Obsidian's crazed with generosity! Now, shut up, and come get the last meal you won't have to pay for." He gestured for the nearest miners to lift the first water barrel out of the hopper.

For a moment the shaft was silent; then the miners surged forward, rushing for the food. Arlian could see the other overseer coming to whisper to Whip, and a faint memory stirred—was that the man they had called Loudmouth, who had served as a temporary replacement for Bloody Hand when Hand was injured?

Wood clattered on stone, and Arlian turned to see the end of the ladder sliding over the rim as the caravan guards lowered it.

A sudden hush fell below as the miners saw and heard the ladder.

Arlian stepped to the edge and called down, "Listen to me, all of you!"

He could see dirty, long-bearded faces turned up toward him.

"I am Lord Obsidian. I have bought this mine, and freed you, because I believe every human being who wants freedom should have it. My men are lowering a ladder, and you are all free to climb it and leave the mine any time you choose. The ladder will not be removed. However, you are also free to stay here, and to work for me here, if you are not ready to face the outside world. You will be paid two ducats a month if you stay, and will be free to come and go as you please.