Dragon Weather (31 page)

The interpreter merely looked more confused than ever.

Arlian could stand it no longer. “Take me to someone from another House,” he said. “I've come to find Hathet's family, whether it's Slihar or not.”

“It is the House of Slihar that trades with people from beyond the mountains!” Meriei insisted.

“I am not trading!” Arlian shouted. “I'm looking for Hathet's family!” Meriei looked at the wagon. He said nothing, but his expression was plain enough.

“Trade
later,
” Arlian said. “After I find Hathet's family, and not until then!”

“You do not trade with Hathet?”

Arlian started to explain that Hathet was dead, but then bit the sentence off before the first word was out of his mouth. “I do not trade with Hathet,” he agreed. “I seek Hathet's family, but not to trade.”

“When you are done, you trade with the House of Slihar?”

“Maybe,” Arlian said.

The interpreter hesitated, then shrugged. “We must go to Theyani to find all eleven Houses,” he said. “Only six Houses are in Ilusali.”

Arlian frowned—why not start with those six? “What is Theyani?” he asked.

“It is…” The interpreter struggled, obviously looking for the right word. “It is the chief city. The center of Arithei.”

“Ah!” That sounded promising; after all, if Hathet had been sent as an ambassador for all of Arithei, he had presumably come from the capital. “Yes,” Arlian said. “Take me to Theyani.”

The interpreter looked at the sky; the sun was brushing the mountaintops to the west. “Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” Arlian agreed.

The interpreter smiled. “Can we both ride?” he asked, pointing at Arlian's wagon.

“Of course.”

“And tonight…”

“Tonight I'll stay right here,” Arlian said.

The interpreter bowed deeply in acknowledgment. “I will see you in the morning,” he said.

Arlian bowed in response, and the interpreter turned away.

Arlian clambered back into his wagon, and settled himself comfortably. The village of Ilusali might well have an inn, but if it did he had not recognized it, and attempting to deal with an innkeeper without speaking his language was more than Arlian cared to handle—he was exhausted from his journey over the mountains and his awkward conversation with Meriei. Sleeping in his familiar wagon would be fine.

At least here he wouldn't need to worry about magical monsters. The worst he would expect here would be human thieves, and even those seemed unlikely. He looked out at the villagers who stood on all sides, staring.

If they stayed there he wouldn't need to worry about thieves at all, since he'd have half a hundred witnesses to any attempted depredations. He sighed, and leaned back against one side of the wagon, thinking and planning.

Some of the villagers were still gawking when, hours later, he blew out his lamp and retired for the night.

The village square was deserted when he awoke the next morning—apparently even the most determined gawkers had eventually grown bored— but it filled quickly as the sun climbed the eastern sky, and he and Meriei had an audience of dozens when the wagon finally rolled southward, out another iron gate onto the road to Theyani.

The entire length of that road was lined with iron posts—not an actual fence, but isolated posts, one every hundred feet or so, each one the height of a man and as thick as Arlian's forearm. Each shaft was plain, but the top of each post was wrought into fantastical shapes—bizarre faces, wings, talons, or blossoms, seemingly at random. Arlian pointed one out to Meriei and asked, “What are those?”

“Ditiae,”
Meriei replied. “They keep away evil magic.”

Arlian looked around at the surrounding countryside. The air overhead rippled with strange colors; to either side of the highway shadows moved in impossible ways. Orange trees bent and twisted in various directions, as if they were struggling beasts. He could hear whisperings and rustlings that did not sound like wind blowing through leaves or grass, no matter how much he wished they would, and strange smells, like hot metal one moment and heavy perfume the next, reached his nose. This land wasn't as fierce or wild as what he had seen in the mountains, but it was still a hostile, unnatural place.

Keeping away magic seemed like a very good idea, and the iron posts seemed to work. The bare yellow dirt of the road stayed in place, retained its natural color, and produced no sounds except the occasional crunch of hooves or wheels on pebbles.

He tried to converse with Meriei after that, to pass the time and to distract them both from their eerie surroundings, but every attempt to discuss anything more complex than the weather quickly broke down in confusion. Eventually Arlian gave up, and they rode in silence.

At each human habitation they passed people stopped what they were doing and stared at the strange wagon and its foreign driver. It was quite obvious that regardless of what the House of Slihar might claim,
no one
had traded with the north for some time—or at least, Arlian corrected himself, no foreigners had come to Arithei; Aritheians might have ventured into the outside world.

Arlian had expected the journey from Ilusali to Theyani to take several days; accustomed to his vastly more spacious homeland, he had badly misjudged the size of the crowded little land of Arithei. They arrived at the ornately worked gates of the capital while the sun was still high in the west.

These gates were iron, of course, and part of a black iron wall surrounding the city. At a shout from Meriei the gates swung open, and Arlian's oxen plodded unhindered onto the pavement beyond.

The city was tiny compared to Manfort, but still larger than any other town Arlian had seen, with several large, fine buildings, most of them constructed of white or yellow stone with black iron fittings—iron gutters, iron shutters, and so on. Long streaks of rust stained most of the walls. The streets were of brown brick, but so covered in yellow dust as to almost appear unpaved. The entire place smelled of heat and dust.

Arlian had no idea where to go once they were inside the walls, and looked to Meriei for guidance.

“That way,” the interpreter directed, pointing across a broad plaza to a white stone building.

A few moments later, while the oxen waited placidly outside, Arlian found himself standing more or less ignored in a large, elegant room while a dozen Aritheians argued with Meriei and each other. Every so often another person would enter the room, take one long, surprised look at Arlian, and then plunge into the ongoing discussion.

Arlian admired the room—it was largely open on two sides, with broad blue awnings providing shade while admitting every breeze, and the rich scent of a garden wafted in from somewhere. The furnishings were suitable for a dining hall or conference chamber, built all of thick dark wood, simple but not in the least primitive. The brown tile floor had half a dozen small, brightly colored rugs scattered across it, giving it a festive touch to counter the heavy appearance of the massive wooded table and chairs. The whole place was unlike anything Arlian had ever seen before, but it seemed practical and comfortable.

Every so often as he stood there looking about Arlian heard the name “Hathet” spoken by one of the Aritheians. Other than that he could understand nothing at all of what was said, and could do nothing but wait.

Finally one tall old man stepped out of the crowd, and the others fell silent.

“I am Hirofa, of the House of Slihar,” the old man said in flawless, almost unaccented speech far better than Meriei's command of Arlian's tongue. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“I am Lord Ari of Manfort,” Arlian said, bowing.

Hirofa bowed in acknowledgment. “And why have you come to Arithei?”

“I have come to pay a debt to a man named Hathet, who befriended me when I was a child,” Arlian replied.

“Hathet is a name from the House of Deri,” Hirofa said. “The House of Deri does not trade with Manfort. How did you come to meet this man?”

Arlian hesitated. He had had some time to think, and had remembered that Hathet had claimed his enslavement was the work of his political enemies.

The House of Slihar might well be those enemies. To tell the whole truth might be unwise.

“I nursed him when he was dying of fever,” Arlian said. “He wanted his family to know that he would not return. He was too ill to tell me their names, or how he came to be in Deep Delving, where I met him, but I promised to find them, and to tell them how he died.”

“He told you no names?”

“None,” Arlian said.

Actually, Hathet might have named names, but if so, none of the other miners had paid any attention, and Arlian didn't remember them.

Hirofa turned away and conferred briefly with the others, then turned back to Arlian.

“To refuse a deathbed promise would dishonor our House,” he said. “I will tell Hathet's family of his death.”

Arlian frowned. “I promised I would tell them myself,” he said.

“You do not speak Aritheian.”

“I will need an interpreter,” Arlian agreed, “but I want to see them with my own eyes, and hold their hands to share their grief.”

“Very well,” Hirofa said. “I will take you to the House of Deri.”

Several of the others protested—apparently others besides Meriei and Hirofa knew Man's Tongue. Hirofa turned and spoke a single sharp sentence, and the protests stopped. Then he beckoned to Arlian.

“Come,” he said.

Arlian obeyed, and the two men made their way back out onto the plaza. Hirofa started to lead the way down a nearby street, but Arlian stopped by his wagon.

“You can leave that where it is,” Hirofa said.

Arlian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am a stranger here, and you must forgive me my customs. I will bring my wagon with me.”

Hirofa obviously didn't like the decision, but made no further objection as Arlian led the oxen alongside.

By the time they reached the rust-streaked golden palace Hirofa indicated as the House of Deri a crowd of curiosity-seekers was following them, staring at every motion Arlian and his oxen made.

Hirofa led Arlian up to a central archway and turned a handle set in the red-and-gold-enameled door; somewhere inside a bell rang, barely audible.

A moment later the doors swung open, and an Aritheian in an all-red gown stepped out. He and Hirofa exchanged a few words—but Arlian did not hear the name “Hathet.”

“I'm here about Hathet,” he called.

The man in red glanced at him, startled.

“Hathet,” Arlian repeated.

Hirofa turned and glowered at him briefly, but said nothing.

The man in red glanced back and forth between Arlian and Hirofa, then at the crowd of onlookers. He said something, beckoning to Arlian—Arlian didn't understand the words, but the message was clear enough.

Arlian pointed at his wagon. “Can someone guard this?”

The man in red understood the question, even if he didn't recognize the words; he held up a hand to indicate that Arlian should wait, then turned and shouted, to someone inside.

A moment later three men emerged, clad not in the customary short robes of ordinary Aritheians, but in brown leather with strips of black iron across their chests—armor, of a sort. They had no swords, but carried wooden staves, each almost six feet long. They took up positions around the wagon and oxen.

Satisfied, Arlian turned and looked questioningly at the man in red, who beckoned him inside.

He followed.

Hirofa also started to follow, and the red-clad steward, if that was what he was, looked questioningly at Arlian.

Arlian shrugged, and the steward held up a hand to prevent Hirofa's entrance.

Hirofa protested, and the two men argued loudly for several minutes before Hirofa turned away in disgust.

With that settled, Arlian followed the steward through an elegant antechamber, down a long stone passage, and into a lushly appointed room.

There a woman in a blue-and-green robe was sprawled comfortably on a rattan settee. She looked up at Arlian's arrival and sat up straight.

The steward spoke to her for a moment, while Arlian waited; then the woman rose and addressed the foreigner directly, in his own tongue. Her speech was clear, if not as free of accent as Hirofa's.

“You are from the Lands of Man?” she asked.

“Yes,” Arlian said.

“You have news of Hathet?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must see Grandmother. I am to prepare you.”

“Good,” Arlian said.

26

The House of Deri

A dais at one end of the reception chamber held three chairs, all of them occupied; a handful of other people, all of them well fed and handsome, stood to either side.

This room was larger than the one where he had met Hirofa, and only open on one side, but similar in design. The awnings were green instead of blue, and the chairs were all pushed back against one wall, but the floor tiles were the same shade of brown, and the furniture made in the same style. Presumably this was the norm for Arithei—or at least for the headquarters of the great Houses.

As instructed, when he had crossed the room Arlian knelt before the three people on the dais—two women, one young and one old, and an old man—and made the gesture of respect the interpreter had taught him—hands pressed together palm-to-palm before his face, head tilted back.

The old man spoke, in Aritheian.

“They welcome you to the House of Deri,” the interpreter explained.

“Please tell them that I am Lord Ari of Manfort, and I am honored to be here,” Arlian said.

The interpreter relayed the message, heard the reply, and told Arlian, “They ask your business here.”

Arlian looked up at the old couple. He asked, “You are the family of Hathet, who was sent as ambassador to Manfort many years ago?”