Dragon Weather (23 page)

“If that's all it is, then they did a good job,” Black said. “I suspect there's more to it than that. And why did these women choose to teach you?”

Arlian shrugged. “A whim.”

“You said you were a slave; how did you get free? You must have had help.”

“I saved an overseer's life,” Arlian said.

“And he freed you, in gratitude?”

“Yes.”

“In my experience gratitude is an emotion more common in children's tales than in everyday life.”

Arlian frowned and said nothing.

“It seems to me that whatever else may have happened, there is something about you that prompts others to your aid,” Black said. “You say it's not sorcerous; very well, I believe you. Nevertheless, call it nobility, or the dragon's heart, or the urging of Fate, I think it's real.”

Arlian remembered the taste of his grandfather's blood. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “It's not of my choosing, but if it aids me in the pursuit of my destiny I'll not quibble.”

“You think you have a destiny, do you?” Black asked.

Arlian glanced at him, expecting to see sardonic amusement in his face, but found only a thoughtful expression.

“Yes,” Arlian said. “Or at any rate, I have sworn an oath I mean to fulfill, if it takes all my life.”

“And what would that oath be?”

“To destroy the dragons who destroyed my village, and to bring justice to others who have wronged me and those about me,” Arlian replied.

Black stared at him silently for a moment. “Dragons,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Arlian said defiantly. He knew that his oath sounded stupid, a child's overblown fantasy—no one had ever killed a dragon. Still, he intended to try.

“Your home was destroyed by dragons?”

“Three of them,” Arlian said. “I saw them.”

“You speak our tongue like a native, and you are too young to be from Starn, in the Sandalwood Hills,” Black said, “so you must mean Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain.”

“Yes,” Arlian said. He swallowed. It was odd to hear that name again after so long.

“Was your family there?”

“My parents, my brother, my grandfather,” Arlian said.

“And you? Where were you?”

“I was there,” Arlian said. “I hid in a cellar. Looters found me, and sold me to the mines in Deep Delving.”

“So you
saw
the dragons?”

Arlian nodded. “I looked one in the eye,” he said. “Before I hid.”

“Perhaps that's it, then,” Black said contemplatively. “You looked Death in the eye and lived; perhaps that's what it is.” He frowned. “But I've faced death at times, and while it changed me, I haven't the dragon's heart as you do. Maybe it's the dragon itself that makes the difference…” He sank into silent thought for a moment. Then he roused himself and said, “And you're resolved to waste your life hunting dragons? Then why come to Manfort?”

“Many reasons,” Arlian said. “First, where better to go to learn about dragons? This is where men first defied them, isn't it?”

“True enough,” Black agreed. “The secrets are still kept secret, though.”

“Then I'll still learn them somehow.”

Black nodded. “And another reason?”

“I need to know more about
everything,
if I'm to have any chance of success,” Arlian explained.

“And where better than Manfort?”

“Exactly.”

“You seem to be more concerned with learning the sword than with sorcery, though, and surely magic is your best chance against dragons.”

“I'm leaving the dragons until last,” Arlian said. “I'm not a complete fool; I know I probably can't kill them. I intend to try, but I know I'll probably be killed myself. So I'm going after the others first.”

“Others?”

“The looters,” Arlian explained. “Lord Dragon and the six he brought with him.” He shuddered at the memory. “They took me from the ruins before I'd had a chance to mourn. They sold me as a slave. They took everything we owned that the dragons hadn't destroyed—the obsidian, my mother's jewelry, even the cheeses from our cellars! They'll pay for that—and payment's long overdue.”

“By eight years, or thereabouts,” Black agreed. “Now,
that's
a goal I can believe in.”

“And Lord Dragon ordered Rose killed,” Arlian said, beginning to lose control of himself. “He had Sweet's feet cut off. He had the House burned. He cut Madam Ril's throat. He and Lord Kuruvan and the others…” He gasped for air, and burst out weeping.

He had held it in for so long, but he could do so no more; it was all too much. He had never had a chance to mourn
any
of them properly—not his mother, or his grandfather, or his father, or his brother, or Hathet, or Rose, or Silk, or the two others dead in the brothel. He didn't even know which two they were. He didn't know where Sweet was, whether she was alive or dead, or what had become of all the others. He stood and wept uncontrollably.

Black embraced the youth and let him cry, and the two men stood together for a long time.

No further mention was made of Arlian's supposed sorcery.

19

The Merchant Lords

Black stopped dead in his tracks as the two walked down the Street of the Wainwrights, and flung his arm across Arlian's chest.

“What is it?” Arlian asked, startled, as he, too, came to a sudden halt.

Black pointed at the notice tacked to the crazed green paint on a provisioner's door. “At last!” he said,

Arlian looked, and read.

CARAVAN
the parchment read in big blue letters at the top. Just below, in smaller print, it said
TO THE SOUTHERN BORDERLANDS
.

And in black, below that, “Seeking Merchants to Join the Expedition, and Men at Arms to Escort Us.” At the bottom were instructions for contacting the caravan masters—three partners' names were listed, with the address of an office on the Street of the Silk Merchants.

Arlian read this with mixed emotions. Black had been seeking employment with a caravan all along; while he accepted the gold Arlian paid him for lessons in swordsmanship, he had made plain that he considered this a stopgap and had no intention of being a mere tutor.

“There are things you won't learn on the practice ground, boy,” Black had said one night as they drank ale at the tavern around the corner from Black's room—Black had undertaken to teach Arlian to tell good ale from bad, along with his other tutelage. “I don't know who this ‘Lord Dragon' of yours is, but if he's as formidable as you make him sound, you'll need to know more than I can teach you here in Manfort!”

Arlian was not entirely convinced. Lord Dragon was here in Manfort, he was certain; it seemed wrong, somehow, to spend a year or so deliberately going elsewhere—and he now knew that a caravan's journey out and back, with stops for trade along the way and at the end, could easily last a year or more.

But on the other hand, he knew he still had much to learn before he could face Lord Dragon, even if he found him.

He had not had to make a choice before, as no caravans were in the offing—but now this notice meant he would have to decide, and quickly.

“The Borderlands,” he said, as they stood before the provisioner's door. “That's a long way, isn't it?”

Black glanced at him. “Very long,” he said. “Could be two years, all told, before we're back here.”

Arlian frowned. He was thinking that Sweet might be alive somewhere in Manfort. He had asked a few questions, made a few brief excursions into the broad avenues of the Upper City, where the city's nobles made their homes, but had found no trace of her, nor heard any mention of any lord calling himself Dragon—but they might still be here.

“I don't know,” he said. “That's a long time.”

“You're young, lad,” Black said, as he turned away from the door. “You've plenty of time for your revenge. And you'll learn more about the world this way, not just about swordsmanship; when you come back you'll either be ready to take vengeance or you'll know you'll never be.”

“You seem very sure of that,” Arlian remarked, turning to follow.

“I
am
sure of it,” Black replied, setting a brisk pace. “If it were Lorigol, or one of the other ports like Benthin or Sarkan-Mendoth, or if it were into the western mountains, or if it were any number of other routes, then maybe not. But the Borderlands—you visit the Borderlands, boy, and the lands beyond the border, and you'll come back with a proper respect for dragons, and for the people who took their places.”

“Why?” Arlian asked. “What do dragons have to do with the Borderlands?”

Black turned to stare at him as they walked. “You know why they're called the Borderlands, don't you?”

“They're the farthest extent of the Lands of Man,” Arlian said. “So?”

“So, my boy, think about it! The Lands of Man are the lands we took away from the dragons, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And
all
the dragons are gone, yes?”

“Well, they're sleeping in the caverns,” Arlian said. “They aren't
dead.
I
saw
them.”

“Then what lies beyond the Borderlands, my young lord?”

Arlian stared at him blankly.

Black sighed as they turned a corner onto the Street of the Coopers. “
Think,
boy! You've just all but said that what lies beyond is the lands ruled by neither men nor dragons. So what do you think
does
rule there?”

Arlian's stare was no longer blank, but shocked. He stopped in his tracks. “I don't know,” he said. “Gods?”

“Maybe some places,” Black conceded, as he, too, stopped and turned to face his young companion. “Gods here and there, perhaps, and certainly a few magicians elsewhere, but mostly … mostly it's
other
things. Things that neither men nor dragons conquered.”

“Oh,” Arlian said.

“And what's more,” Black continued, “they're things that
couldn't conquer the dragons.
And we're going there to trade with them—or at least with their subjects. When you see what's beyond the borders, maybe you'll see a little more of why I think that's important, and what it says about the dragons.”

“I know about dragons,” Arlian said.

“You know
everything
about them?” Black asked. “Can you tell male from female? Do they lay eggs or bear their young alive? How long do they live?”

“I don't know,” Arlian admitted, taking a step down the sloping street.

“Neither do I,” Black said. “No one does, so far as I know. But you said you know about dragons.”

“I know enough!” Arlian said angrily, turning away and marching on.

“How do you
know
you do?” Black insisted, pursuing. “Isn't it good sense to know everything you can about your enemy before you go to fight him?”

“All right!” Arlian said, throwing up his hands in surrender. “All right. I'll come with you to the Borderlands—and you'll teach me to fight. Every day.”

“Every day,” Black agreed. He glanced thoughtfully back toward the notice. “And if you have any sense, boy, you'll take that gold of yours and you'll buy a wagon of your own, and stock it with trade goods, and you'll sign onto the caravan as a merchant, not a guard.”

Arlian stopped, thunderstruck.

“I hadn't thought of that,” he said.

He had been slightly concerned of late at how fast his supply of gold was dwindling; he still had more than enough to fill any purse, but after arming himself and paying Black's teaching fees he was no longer sure that his stolen fortune would be enough to live on indefinitely.

He hadn't worried about it, really. After all, he could always go back to the Blood of the Grape and fetch out more of Lord Kuruvan's gold, and that would be enough to live on for a very long time.

But if he invested it in a caravan—especially if he took
all
the gold from the broken keg and invested
all
of it …

Everyone knew that caravans were risky, but highly profitable. He might well return to Manfort really
rich,
a real lord instead of a fraud, rich enough to hire men to hunt down the looters, buy the twelve women free, and hire an army to hunt the dragons.

Or if disaster struck, he might return to Manfort penniless—or not at all. Still, if he was going to accompany Black in any case, it seemed worth trying.

He would need to get the gold out of the inn's cellars. He would be able to handle the operation far more effectively this time, since he knew just where the keg was and he had the time and money to prepare properly, but he would still need a distraction.

Black had stopped beside him; now Arlian turned to face the older man.

“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know much about wine?”

The next night, while Black spent half an hour choosing exactly the right expensive wine for an imaginary occasion, thereby keeping the innkeeper busy in the vault, Arlian told the rest of the inn's staff, “I'll just get my own ale, thanks!” and strolled down the cellar stairs, mug in hand.

No one argued with the impeccably dressed young lord. He wore his hair brushed back in the latest style, his beard neatly trimmed to a point; he wore a beautiful sword on his belt, and had a fine leather pack slung on one shoulder. He simply
reeked
of wealth and confidence.

And if he took a long time fetching his ale, and the pack looked a little heavier when he emerged, what of it? He tipped each of the staff a gold half-ducat, even the pot-boy, and it wasn't as if anything in the cellars other than the rare wines in the vault would be worth such a man's efforts to steal.