Dragon Weather (32 page)

His interpreter quickly translated the question into Aritheian, and the tall, white-haired woman replied with a few brief words.

“They acknowledge the relationship,” the interpreter said. She gestured at the tall woman. “Grandmother Iriol was Hathet's sister.”

“Then I regret to say I bring sad news,” Arlian said. “Lady Iriol, your brother Hathet is dead. I was present when he died, and held him in my arms.”

The interpreter relayed this, and received another question from the tall woman in response while the half dozen others in the room whispered excitedly to one another.

“How did he die?” she asked.

“Of a fever,” Arlian said. “I tended him in his illness, and did all I could for him—he had been kind to me.”

When the interpreter had translated this several of the Aritheians spoke at once, though the tall woman remained thoughtfully silent; the interpreter looked lost as she tried to decide whom to listen to.

“What are they saying?” Arlian asked her.

“They want to know where it happened, whether you are a northern physician or perhaps a sorcerer, when this happened … everything.”

Arlian waved for the family's attention, then began his story, pausing after each sentence so that the interpreter could do her job.

“As a boy, I was captured by slavers,” he said. “I was sold and sent to a mine in Deep Delving, and I met Hathet there. He befriended me, protected me and taught me. He said that he had been sent from Arithei as your ambassador, but no one believed him, not even I. He said he had been waylaid by bandits on the journey north—he had made it safely into the Lands of Man, but was taken captive in the Desolation, the wasteland between the Borderlands and Manfort. He believed this capture was the doing of his political enemies, because he was not held for ransom, as he expected, but was instead sold as a slave and taken to the mine where I met him.”

Several people muttered as this was translated. Arlian hesitated, then admitted, “We did not believe this story—we had never heard of Arithei, and we could not see why bandits would neither kill nor ransom him. At any rate, he lived out the rest of his days working in the mine; he caught the fever there, weakened, and in time died.” He reached into the waistband of his breeches and pulled out the crude little pouch he had carried for so long. “He had collected these in the mine— in the Lands of Man they're worthless, nothing but pretty stones, but he said they were precious here. When he died I took them to remember him by, not knowing I would ever find Arithei, but now that I am here I believe you should have them.” He opened the pouch, still kneeling, then poured the purple stones out onto the dais.

A sudden hush fell; the whispering that had gone on while he spoke ceased completely, and it seemed the Aritheians had even stopped breathing as they stared.

“Amethystoi,”
someone said at last.

“Amethysts,” Arlian agreed, looking around at the stunned observers. Obviously, Hathet had not exaggerated the value of his prizes.

The interpreter had been staring at the jewels as intently as anyone; now she looked up at Arlian. “I begin to understand how you got here,” she said.

Arlian made no attempt to hide his puzzlement. “What?”

“The dreams have been strong lately, and the wizards careless; no one had dared cross the Dreaming Mountains for years, not even those of the House of Slihar, until you arrived. When we saw you we all wondered how you managed to reach Arithei alive—some of us suspected you were a wizard, or a demon, or a homunculus, rather than a true human.” She gestured at the dais. “Now I see.”

“See what?”

“The amethysts—don't you know why they're precious?”

“No,” Arlian said. “Hathet said they could be used for some sort of protective magic, and I thought they were prized for their rarity and beauty, but that's all I know.”

The interpreter made a curious jerk of the head that Arlian was beginning to realize indicated denial in Arithei. “They are not merely used in magic,” she said. “They
are
magic, in themselves. An amethyst placed in a cup and a simple spoken word will cure drunkenness. They resist madness of any kind, and they keep bad dreams away.” She gestured toward the direction whence Arlian had come. “In the mountains, bad dreams can kill. These kept you safe.”

“Those, and my own sword, perhaps,” Arlian said. “I encountered certain difficulties on the way.”

“Yes, your sword,” the interpreter agreed. “Cold iron. We use iron for protection here.” She looked at the hilt on Arlian's belt and added, “And silver?”

Arlian looked down at the silver filigree of his sword's pommel. “Silver and steel, yes,” he said.

“The creatures of darkness fear silver,” the interpreter said. “The creatures of air cannot abide cold iron. And the creatures of dream cannot pass near amethyst. You are protected as few ever are.”

Arlian thought back to the things he had seen and fought on the road across the mountains, to what had remained of his fourth ox, and shuddered—if that was what it was like when he carried magical protection, what would have happened had he been without such defenses?

Obviously, he would have died. No wonder so little traffic passed between Arithei and the Lands of Man! And no wonder the Aritheians had placed iron fences around every town, and those strange posts along their roads.

And he had just given away all his amethysts; the journey back north might well be his last. He could scarcely reclaim them
now,
though …

The tall woman spoke.

“She's asking if this is all Hathet gave you,” the interpreter reported.

“Yes,” Arlian said. “That's all.”

The tall woman then stooped and chose the largest of the purple stones, one as large as the top joint of Arlian's thumb. “Then keep this,” she said, speaking slowly in Arlian's own tongue. “For nursing my brother in his illness.”

Arlian hesitated, trying to decide whether he should argue or not, but the memory of those things in the mountains decided him. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the stone.

“Wear it around your throat,” she said. “More effective that way.”

Arlian bowed in acknowledgment of this advice.

The tall woman then addressed the interpreter in Aritheian.

The interpreter listened carefully and asked questions before finally turning back to Arlian.

“She says you have the protection of the House of Deri any time you may need it, and she wishes to know whether Hathet ever mentioned any names, anyone he thought might have been involved in the plotting against him.”

“No,” Arlian said. “He never mentioned any names.”

“Then she wishes me to tell you that nonetheless, from events after Hathet's departure, and the events surrounding your arrival, she has a fairly strong suspicion of who was involved, and how. Your arrival has brought not merely news, but wealth…” She gestured at the gem-strewn dais. “… and the prospect of vengeance and a restoration of the former prominence of the House of Deri. You managed to bring this to
us,
to Hathet's House, despite the interference of those you first encountered. You came here even though you had met others who surely did not wish you to. For this, the House is greatly in your debt.”

Arlian noticed that the interpreter did not mention the House of Slihar by name, but he did not doubt that she was referring to them. Although he knew almost nothing of Aritheian society, it was easy enough to guess that the House of Slihar and the House of Deri had competed for control of trade with the Lands of Man, that the Slihar had been responsible for Hathet's abduction, and that his disappearance had allowed them to dominate—for a time.

“I merely did what seemed right,” Arlian said. “Hathet was kind to me when I needed kindness.”

The tall woman said something without waiting for the translation—obviously, while she preferred to use the interpreter, she knew something of Arlian's language.

“Yet you came to Arithei to bring us this,” the interpreter said, gesturing at the amethysts.

“I also came to Arithei to sell swords,” Arlian said. “And to buy goods to sell in the north. I have silver to pay.”

The interpreter and the tall woman stared at him.

“Swords?” Hathet's sister said.

“Silver?” the interpreter said.

“That's right,” Arlian said.

“Silver cannot pass Tirikindaro,” the interpreter said.

“No one stopped me,” Arlian said. “Tirikindaro was quiet when I passed.”

“But…” The interpreter groped for words, then began again, speaking slowly. “Our ancestors fled from the dragons long ago and came to Arithei,” she said, “but later they found that they were trapped here by the magic that surrounds this place. We have remained here ever since. We live confined by the dreams, the wizards, the creatures that live in the mountains, unable to leave this one safe valley because we lack protections from the magic in the hills. We found iron, all the iron we needed, to build our ward-fences, but none of us had the knowledge of making steel for swords, and iron alone is not sufficient against the creatures in the mountains. We have found no silver anywhere, though we have looked. We had a few amethysts our ancestors had brought from the north; these were carried by our traders and ambassadors, but they have gradually been lost over time as their bearers fell to the other hazards around us—Hathet carried the last stone our House possessed, and no doubt some bandit gave it to his children to play with. The House of Slihar had three or four more stones that allowed them to send
their
ambassador, and their traders, for a few years after Hathet disappeared, but those, too, have now been lost. We were confined here, without hope.”

She sighed, then said, “The people of the lands beyond the mountains did nothing to help us, but we do not fault them for this. We dared not tell them the secret of using amethysts to cross the Dreaming Mountains for fear of invasion, and they knew we had a secret we would not share. Mistrusting us in return, they would not sell us steel or silver.” She made a gesture of dismissal. “We do not blame them; we gave them no reason to trust us.”

Arlian started to protest, then thought better of it. The interpreter continued, “For centuries we have resigned ourselves to living in isolation here, behind our iron walls, and of late we have even resigned ourselves to having no contact with the outside at all—and now you come here, unbidden, with all these precious things, and offer us the world!”

The effusive gratitude that concluded the explanation made Arlian uncomfortable. “I owed Hathet a debt,” he said.

Hathet's sister reached out and put a hand on Arlian's shoulder.

“My friend,” she said slowly, “your words, and these stones, paid that debt many times over. If you have brought us silver and steel as well, you will be
very
rich.”

27

The Trade Delegation

Black looked at his empty mug, debating whether to order another cup of wine. They watered it here, of course—these southerners always did—but even when he knew he was paying for as much water as wine, it was still far cheaper than decent beer in Sweetwater.

He was tired of watered wine. He was tired of constant sunlight. He was tired of Sweetwater. He had been stranded here for months, and he was quite thoroughly tired of everything about it and eager to be moving again. He was completely recovered, his wounds healed and the infection long gone, but two of the caravans weren't yet returned, and Lord Drens wasn't about to head north until they were back.

He could hardly cross the Desolation by himself, but he very much wished that those other two caravans would hurry up and arrive.

The door of the inn opened, and Black turned at the sound—any interruption at all of the usual dull routine would be welcome.

A figure was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun—a tall man in a broad-brimmed hat. He stepped in, and Black recognized him.

“Ari!” he said.

“Hello, Black,” Arlian said, smiling broadly. “Lord Drens said I'd find you here.”

“Ari, it's you!” Black repeated, as he got to his feet and started toward the new arrival.

“I may not want to use that name anymore,” Arlian said. “I haven't decided, but I think something more elegant may be appropriate.” Then he fell silent for a moment as the two men embraced. He clapped Black on the back as they separated.

“They told me you'd headed across the Dreaming Mountains, bound for Arithei,” Black said.

“I did,” Arlian said.

“Alone, they said,” Black said.

“That's right.” Arlian grinned at him.

Black grinned back. “You do realize the contradiction between this and your current presence here, still alive, don't you?”

Arlian smiled. “I made it to Arithei alone,” he said. “There's no contradiction; I had protection you didn't know about.” The smile twisted awry. “For that matter, I didn't know about it, either.”

“I see,” Black said. “And this mysterious protection also saw you safely back to Sweetwater? Or am I to understand otherwise from your phrasing?”

“Oh, I had other protection on the way back,” Arlian said. He gestured toward the door.

Black peered out into the sunlight and saw a dozen men and women, all dressed in strange, bright costumes, all wearing broad leather sword belts that looked out of place on the garish robes, and with glittering silver medallions on chains about their necks.

“The Aritheian trade mission,” Arlian explained. “They escorted me back.”

Black was well aware that there had been no trade with Arithei in a decade or so, but he had no reason to doubt Arlian. He had never seen an Aritheian, but he had no reason to think these strangers were anything else.