Dragon Weather (17 page)

Fate was being kind to him—or perhaps merely playing with him; after all, where was the generosity in allowing his discovery mere hours before his intended departure? Might he be on his way to some delightfully ironic catastrophe?

He sat holding the flagon, sipping at the last of the ale, smiling to himself at his own foolishness. No one could know what Fate had in store, but the last few months had certainly been interesting, and he was not dissatisfied with where he was now.

He finished the ale and made a face.

He had never drunk ale before; it was odd stuff, strong-flavored, cool and burning at the same time. He wasn't sure whether he liked it. In the mine he had drunk only water; in the brothel he had drunk a variety of beverages, including juices and watered wine, but never any sort of beer or ale. Mistress had considered it inappropriate for her charges.

He would have to get used to ale, though; every young man of good fortune was expected to drink it in large quantities. He would also have to learn to tell good ale from bad; he hoped the innkeeper hadn't expected any comment on what Arlian had just drunk.

There were so many things he still needed to learn! His education so far had been, to say the least, unorthodox, and he was painfully aware that while he knew far more about the uses of pickaxes and cosmetics than most men, he was woefully ignorant of ordinary things. Ale was just one trivial example.

Well, he would have plenty of time—especially if his grandfather's stories were true, and dragon venom mixed in human blood extended life.

That was a strange prospect, and one he had sometimes faced with dread, on those rare occasions he thought of it at all—the idea of living a century or more in the mine or as a fugitive had held very little appeal.

Now, though, his life seemed to hold some promise—thanks to the finery and the training in deception that the girls had provided, he was now giving orders instead of taking them. He put down the empty flagon and called, “Innkeeper! Where's that bed?”

The innkeeper showed him the way upstairs. Arlian's room was small, tucked up under a gable on the third floor, but that hardly troubled him; it was equipped with niceties that he had done without since childhood, such as a window and a real floor. The bed was small and hard, the sheets rough—but Arlian really didn't care, and settled into it blissfully.

He slept late, and took his time in dressing—not because he had many choices to make, but simply because he wanted to do it well. He had three pairs of breeches and four assorted shirts to his name, counting those sorry specimens he had been wearing when he first arrived at the House of Carnal Society, but the night's adventures had ruined one blouse and left one pair of breeches sadly in need of cleaning and repair, reducing his circumstances farther. He had no mirror, and the room did not include one, so he had done the best he could with his face and hair using the windowglass—fortunately, he did have some of Sweet's castoffs, including a sparsely toothed comb and a thinning boar-bristle hairbrush.

And he had two pairs of hose and his velvet slippers. It was a pleasure to slip them on—but one of his first purchases would have to be a pair of boots.

He had a fine coat with silk facing, as well, one that Sweet had labored long and hard over, but he was not going to wear that recklessly; it was too precious to risk in everyday use. When the need arose, though, he would be able to look every inch a lord.

By the time he was satisfied with his appearance the morning was well advanced, and most of the inn's other guests already departed; Arlian had to make do with cold pastries for breakfast. He was finishing his third and brushing the crumbs from his lap, vaguely aware of the innkeeper talking to someone in the hallway, when the door of the common room burst open and Mistress marched in.

Arlian looked up, and struggled to hide any trace of recognition—although he had seen her through veils and peepholes several times, she had never before set her eyes on him, not even during last night's flight.

He wanted to ask her what had happened, whether Rose and Sweet and Hasty were all safe, but he knew he mustn't. He said nothing at all.

She glared around the room, and then at him.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He blinked at her with exaggerated nonchalance. “Are you addressing me?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“Then I will thank you to do it politely,” he said coldly. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, fighting not to tremble. He felt cold just seeing her like this, with no concealment, nothing but his wits to protect him.

She bit her lip, still glaring; he could see her forcing herself to hide her anger. He wondered whether she had slept at all since yesterday.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Could you tell me please who you are?”

He flung the napkin on the table and stood up.

“My name is Lanair,” he said. “My family's holdings are in orchards between Deep Delving and the Smoking Mountain, and I employ some eleven freemen in my own name, so I trust you will address me accordingly. Now, who are
you?
”

“I am Madam Ril, of the House of Carnal Society,” she replied, only belatedly adding, “my lord.” Arlian nodded an acknowledgment, and she continued, “You are the man who arrived here late last night, after the inn had closed?”

“I am,” Arlian replied.

“I understand you saw a man running in the street last night.”

“I did,” Arlian acknowledged.

“Lord Lanair, it is absolutely
essential
that this man be found,” Madam Ril said. “Can you tell me anything that might help?”

“I gave a description to a guardsman last night,” he said. “I have nothing to add to that. Why is it of such importance?”

Madam Ril—Mistress—was visibly struggling to control herself.

“Because if we do not find who he was, and how he came to be there, the House will have to be destroyed,” she said.

Arlian had to swallow hard before he could say, “Oh? Why?” He hoped she would think he was getting down the last of his meal, and not see how concerned he was.

If the House was destroyed, what would become of the women? Rose's phrase “dog food” echoed in his memory, and Bloody Hand's statement that there was no justice in this world.

“Because my clients expect safety and privacy in their visits there,” Ril replied. “If we cannot guarantee that, if there might be spies or assassins lurking … you understand, our clients are peculiarly vulnerable. We cater to the wealthy, the powerful…”

“I know,” Arlian said. “I believe my cousin Inthior has patronized your establishment.”

She nodded at the name. “Yes, then you must surely see—these are men with enemies. If I cannot assure their safety, I cannot operate.”

“Indeed,” Arlian acknowledged. “Well, that's most unfortunate, I suppose, but it's hardly my concern. I told that guardsman everything I had to tell.”

“A nosebleed, you said.”

“Yes.”

“We found no blood.”

Arlian remembered the long scratch on one calf that he'd received plunging through Sparkle's ceiling and frowned. He had invented the nosebleed because he thought he'd left blood spots here and there, but apparently he had not. “I suppose he managed to catch it all on his shirt,” he said. “Really, I have no idea of any details; I merely caught a glimpse. He certainly appeared to have blood on his beard and running from his nose.”

“Did you see what he wore on his feet?”

“I'm afraid not. I was more concerned with my own just then; I lost my horse last night, you know, and my boots with him.”

“I'm sorry to hear it, my lord. Your sword, as well? The guardsman said you did not have it with you.”

“Yes,” Arlian said, realizing for the first time that that was a serious flaw in his disguise. A real lord would not travel abroad unarmed. The lords he had seen at the House of Carnal Society had left their weapons downstairs, of course, but undoubtedly they had all carried swords when walking the streets. He had sometimes risked a glance out a window at the streets, and seen as much. The lack of a sword at the breakfast table was unremarkable, but arriving at the inn without one …

Well, his runaway horse was enough explanation for the moment. He should have mentioned it sooner, though, before it was questioned.

“You can think of nothing more that might aid us in finding this man?” Mistress asked.

Arlian shook his head. “Nothing at all,” he said. “I trust you will be able to apprehend him without my assistance.”

“I hope so,” Ril said. “I very much hope so.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, and he realized that the discussion was over; he turned away, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, and headed for the stairs.

As he mounted the steps he frowned and mulled over just what he should do next. He had intended to head for Manfort and look for work after he left the brothel, but he had not expected to be a fugitive, or to be concerned about the welfare of Sweet and the others.

His fugitive status seemed more urgent; surely nothing irrevocable would be done about the women until the escaped trespasser was found. His disguise seemed to be working reasonably well, but sooner or later someone might realize that his arrival, sans swords and boots, at the very same time the trespasser escaped was just a little
too
coincidental.

Madame Ril might already be suspicious.

Furthermore, now he was known here as Lord Lanair—what if he were to reach Manfort seeking employment, and be recognized as Lanair? Would he need to maintain this identity for the rest of his life? He didn't mind the name, certainly—after months of answering to “Triv” he could scarcely object to a respectable name like Lanair—but sooner or later someone might turn up who knew that no such person as Lord Lanair had lived between Deep Delving and the Smoking Mountain. He might do better to go somewhere else for a while.

Or perhaps he should go back to the brothel and try to rescue Rose and Sweet. Surely, none of his pursuers would expect that!

He continued to think about it as he packed up his belongings and cinched tight the canvas bundle.

By the time he had settled his bill the sun was almost directly overhead. He blinked at the brightness as he opened the inn's front door; his eyes were still more accustomed to darkness than to daylight. He squinted as he looked either way along the street.

Then he stopped and stared.

A crowd had gathered around the House of Carnal Society. Coaches stood at the brothel's two doors and along the wall between them—perhaps half a dozen vehicles in all, each of them large and splendid. Arlian had never before seen so many coaches in one place.

From what he could see of the gawkers around them, neither had anyone else in Westguard.

He had still intended to head east, toward either Manfort or the Blood of the Grape, but now instead he strolled up the street, as casually as he could, to see what the excitement was about.

As he approached he could hear voices arguing, loud, angry voices, both male and female. He could also see things being carried out of the brothel and loaded into the coaches, boxes and bundles of various shapes and sizes, and with a shock he realized that some of those bundles were the women who had lived there, wrapped in blankets. A few struggled and protested; most did not.

A driver shouted a command, and one of the coaches pulled away, the horses straining—they looked tired, and Arlian wondered where they had come from. Had they pulled that coach all the way from Manfort just that morning?

The coach came toward him, gathering speed, and he stepped out of its path. As it went by he glimpsed Hasty and another woman through the windows—the other might have been Kitten, but he couldn't be sure. The passengers also included a well-dressed man and one of the brothel guards.

The House of Carnal Society was being closed down, just as Mistress had said—and so quickly! Arlian had had no idea it would happen so fast.

At least the women were being taken away unhurt—though he worried about
where
they were being taken.

Another coach pulled away but turned down another street, where Arlian could not see who it carried.

He reached the edge of the crowd and tried to push his way forward—but the crowd pushed back, as two more coaches began rolling.

A tall man was standing in the open door of one of the two remaining vehicles, facing the brothel's open door—Arlian could see his back, but could make out no details. Mistress stood beside the door, shouting at him, pleading and threatening—Arlian could not make out her exact words, but the tone was plain enough.

A fifth coach pulled away, leaving only the one where the tall man stood, and Arlian found himself abruptly pushed forward, closer to the scene at the brothel door. He could see two women in the remaining coach—Sweet and Dove, both sitting in terrified silence, huddled against the rear of the compartment. Arlian took an involuntary step forward at the sight of Sweet, then caught himself.

No guard sat in that coach, but the driver was in place, reins and whip ready in his hands. Arlian dared not approach too closely.

Sweet and Dove were alive and well, even if they were scared; he had no need to risk his own life in an attempt to intervene in whatever was happening.

Two guardsmen appeared in the doorway—one wore the uniform of the brothel's guards, while the other was in Westguard's livery. They said something Arlian couldn't catch, and the man in the coach ordered clearly, “Burn it.”

The two hesitated, and Mistress screamed in protest.

The man in the coach drew a long, slim sword and repeated his order, steel blade naked in his hand. “Burn it, I said!”

The two guards bowed a hasty acknowledgment and ducked back inside.

Six coaches, Arlian saw, and in each one he had seen clearly there had been two women and one guard, as well as the driver and the coach's owner. That accounted for twelve of the sixteen whores, and all the six guards.