Dragon Weather (39 page)

There was no laughter that time, and only halfhearted applause. Arlian knew that Black had been right—the image of a dragon was in poor taste. He had hoped, though, that it might stir a reaction from someone, that something in the crowd's response might give him a hint about Lord Dragon.

His hopes were dashed; no one seemed to associate the image with anything but mankind's traditional enemy and ancient overlords, the dragons themselves.

After that the party began to break up; in ones and two the revelers drifted away, out to waiting carriages or the city streets. When the Duke of Manfort took his leave the trickle became a flood, and within an hour Arlian and Black were standing alone in the gallery.

Arlian had been introduced to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the city's elite, including several tall scarred men—but he had seen no sign of Lord Dragon. He had not identified anyone else associated with the House of Carnal Society except Kuruvan and Jerial. Lords Inthior, Drisheen, and Salisna had not made their presence known, if they had been there at all, nor had Arlian learned whether any of them had in truth owned shares in the House of the Six Lords.

He had made a date with Lord Kuruvan, though, and Sahasin, the Slihar ambassador, had been dealt with.

He stood for a moment, thinking over the evening, then asked Black, “Is the Duke as great a fool as he appears?”

Black hesitated, considering, then said, “He has been accused of wisdom to his face, but behind his back? Never.”

“Then why is he still seen as the master of Manfort? Why has no one usurped his position?”

“Who says no one has?” Black asked. “The Duke remains the Duke because he makes a useful figurehead, but I've no doubt the real power lies elsewhere.”

“Where?” Arlian asked. “Who was here tonight who wields real power?”

Black shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “There are the secret societies—I suspect they do more to determine what actually gets done than the Duke. And of course, the Duke has his advisers—fool or not, he's smart enough to take their advice. If he did not he might wake up one morning with his throat cut, or find some interesting toxin in his wineglass.”

“Who are his advisers, then?”

“My lord, what does this have to do with your revenge?”

“I don't know,” Arlian admitted. “But I'm convinced that Lord Dragon must be a very powerful man, one close to the Duke—who better than one of his advisers?”

Black sighed. “I don't know who all his advisers are. I've heard a few names mentioned, just as I'm sure you have—Lord Hardior, Lord Enziet, Lady Rime—but whether those are all of them, or what their positions really are, I couldn't say.”

“I met Lord Hardior tonight,” Arlian said thoughtfully. “I hadn't known he was one of the Duke's advisers. I didn't meet anyone called Enziet or Rime—I did know those names, and I would have remembered.”

“I don't know whether they were here at all, but if they were you might have met Rime under her true name, or Enziet under some other cognomen,” Black said.

Arlian stroked his beard. “I might have, at that.” He tried to remember how many men he had met who had not given their true names. One would hardly give a false name at an affair of this sort, but plenty of people had been introduced only by nickname.

Manfort was very fond of nicknames, more so than almost anywhere else Arlian had visited—a relic of the long struggle against the dragons, when the human resistance to draconic authority dared not give true names for fear of reprisals. Ordinarily this was a pleasant and harmless habit, one Arlian had taken advantage of himself, but there were times when it could be confusing or inconvenient.

Arlian began pacing the length of the gallery—but then Black's outstretched arm caught him across the chest. He looked up, startled.

“Ari, it's late,” Black said. “Rest. Sleep. You can look for Lord Dragon in the morning.”

Arlian stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced out the gallery's tall windows at the night sky. Thick clouds hid the stars; a thin crescent of moon shone dimly through the overcast.

“You're right,” he said at last. “You're quite right. To bed. We'll start fresh in the morning.”

Black smiled at him.

33

Lord Wither

Arlian, unsurprisingly, slept late. By the time he arose and broke his fast the sun was approaching its zenith.

When he had eaten he ambled down the great gallery, noting the debris that the servants had not yet cleared away and the sour smell of spilled wine that still lingered, and spotted Thirif in one of the side-chambers. He paused, and then, momentarily overcome with curiosity, he asked, “What did you do with Sahasin?”

The Aritheian looked up. “You do not want to know,” Thirif replied.

Arlian hesitated, and decided that Thirif was right—at least for now he did not want to know. It was enough that the House of Deri, Hathet's family, was satisfied.

He still had plenty of others to concern himself with. He would see Lord Kuruvan tomorrow, and that would be his chance to get the names of the other lords—including Lord Dragon! And once he had dealt with the six of them, once Sweet was free and Rose avenged, he could track down Stonehand and Hide and the rest.

He started to turn away, but Thirif called after him. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. “A man was here this morning with a question that may interest you.”

Arlian turned back. “Oh?”

“He spoke to me, as he came to buy magic and the others were not yet available,” Thirif said. “He wanted to buy dragon venom.”

Arlian smiled. “Did he, indeed?” There were any number of reasons a person might want dragon venom—as a poison, or as a drug, or as an elixir of life. This inquiry might mean nothing—or it might lead back to Lord Dragon. Kuruvan would probably give him all the names he needed, but it would do no harm to have a second path to the information he sought—and even if this failed to provide any such link, it might well teach him more about dragons, and give him information that would be useful when he sought out the monsters in their caverns. “Who was he?”

“A servant. He wore homespun, not livery, and would not name his employer.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I could not sell dragon venom without consulting you, and that you would undoubtedly prefer to deal with his master. He is to return later today.”

“Excellent! When he comes, I want to speak with him.”

Thirif bowed. “As you say. Thank you, my lord.”

Arlian walked on, feeling cheered. Things were starting to happen. He had put events into motion. At long last he was pursuing his vengeance. There might still be distractions and side paths along the way, but he was headed the right direction. The day when Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes and Sweet would be free was drawing nearer.

Either that, or the day Arlian would die at the hands of one of his foes was approaching. The chances of punishing
all
his enemies, human and draconic, and surviving it all, were still slim.

Odd, Arlian thought, that even knowing he might be on the way to his death failed to counteract the pleasure he felt in knowing he was closer to his goal.

Death or justice—he was nearing one, but he had no way of knowing which.

He spent the next few hours on housekeeping and business—his agents, Aritheian and otherwise, were continuing to invest his assets, both financial and thaumaturgical, and Black and his subordinates were finally employing a proper full-time staff for the Old Palace.

Those little magicks he had brought from Arithei and used so freely at the previous night's festivities brought fantastic prices, Arlian knew, but just how fantastic still surprised him. He was seated in his study, totting up his profits in frank amazement, when a servant knocked at the door.

“A caller, my lord.”

Arlian looked up and smiled to himself. This would be the person seeking dragon venom. Arlian and the Aritheians had no dragon venom to sell, of course—the magic they sold all came from Arithei, where no dragon had ever breathed. There was no need to admit this, though.

“Show him in,” he said. He turned to face the door, but did not rise; as a lord he had no need to stand when greeting a messenger.

When the door opened, however, Arlian got to his feet, startled. The man who stood there was clearly no mere messenger.

Lord Obsidian's guest was slightly below average height, and somewhat stooped. His face was thin and wrinkled, and seemed shrunken, almost buried beneath a great mop of gray hair that was pulled loosely back into a thick ponytail—neither the traditional workman's braid nor the nobility's usual custom of unbound and stylishly cut hair. His physical appearance, while hardly impressive, was not that of a messenger.

His attire
was
impressive; he was dressed in green silk embroidered in spun gold, trimmed at throat and cuffs with lace and pearls. A belt of black leather set with emeralds supported a beaded scabbard; his sword hilt, hung for a left-handed draw, was chased with silver and adorned with pearl and diamond. This was clearly a nobleman's sword.

Gorgeous as the visitor's clothing was, Arlian hardly gave it a glance; instead he found himself caught by his guest's green eyes, deep-set but unnaturally bright, staring at him with an intensity Arlian had rarely seen.

“Lord Wither,” the footman holding the door announced.

Arlian had been so focused on the stranger that he had forgotten the servant was there. Thus reminded, he started to wave for the man to go, then paused.

Lord Wither should not be wearing his sword in another lord's home—not when Arlian's own sword was elsewhere. He should have surrendered it, and the servants should have kept it by the door, to be returned when Wither departed.

On the other hand, meeting those eyes, Arlian suspected that it would take a brave man to demand anything of Lord Wither that Lord Wither did not care to give. Arlian was not paying footmen for their courage.

He waved, and the footman left.

“Welcome, Lord Wither,” Arlian said, holding out a hand.

“Lord Obsidian,” Wither said, in a deeper voice than seemed appropriate to his size. He ignored the hand, and for the first time Arlian realized that the man's right arm was crooked, misshapen and shorter than it should be; the loose silk sleeves and drooping lace cuffs hid this deficiency well, and had presumably been designed to do so.

That explained the name, the left-handed sword, and perhaps more—buckling and unbuckling a sword belt one-handed was perhaps more than courtesy could ask, and unsheathing the sword under a host's roof would hardly be suitable.

Arlian lowered his hand and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Did you attend last night's festivities? I do not recall…”

“I wasn't there,” Wither said. “I'm too old for that sort of nonsense.” He spoke sharply, biting off his words.

“As you say,” Arlian said. “Nonetheless, I am pleased to meet you now. How can I be of service to you?”

“You sell magic,” Wither said. “Sorcerous baubles, spells, potions.”

“Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed. He gestured to a chair. “Would you care to sit down?”

“I'll stand. It's simple enough. I want to obtain a small amount of fresh dragon venom—a thimbleful would suffice. Can you oblige me?”

“I would need to know the use you propose for this substance,” Arlian said. “Forgive me, my lord, but dragon's venom is a most potent fluid, as I'm sure you know. It's said that a single drop can, if properly administered, enthrall a man, or kill a dozen. It can reportedly shatter locks, corrode the will, intoxicate even the mad.”

“It can extend life, as well as end it,” Wither replied.

“Ah! You wish to extend your life? Certainly a reasonable…”

“Not mine,” Wither interrupted. “My mistress.”

Arlian stopped, bemused, as he considered that. Wither was an old man; how old could his mistress be, that he was concerned with her longevity? A man of his obvious wealth could surely have any number of young women at his beck and call; who was the woman he sought to preserve?

Did he think dragon venom could preserve or restore a woman's youth? If so, was he right? Arlian had no idea just what the stuff could do—he had only rumors, legends, and hearsay to rely upon.

“Do you have it or don't you?” Wither demanded.

“I don't have any on hand,” Arlian admitted slowly. “I may have a source where I can obtain it. May I ask, perhaps, who the intended recipient is, and how you intend to apply it?”

“She's called Opal; you haven't met her. I intend to mix it with human blood and let her drink it,” Wither said impatiently. “That's the only way it works, so far as I know.”

Arlian nodded. “And the blood…”

“Anyone's. It doesn't matter. I'll pay someone to donate it. That part's easy.”

“And you don't want enough for both of you?”

Wither snorted. “I've had mine, Obsidian. Long ago, probably before your grandfather's grandfather was born. I was one of the
founders
of the Dragon Society, back when Manfort was all we had and Duke Roioch was still alive. Look into my eyes and tell me you can't see it for yourself.”

Arlian started at the mention of the Dragon Society—Cover had spoken of it, but had not known one really existed. Then Arlian caught Wither's eyes, as instructed, and stared.

He knew the name for what he saw there. “The heart of the dragon,” he said, more to himself than to Wither.

“Of course. You've got it yourself, don't you?”

Arlian, without thinking, nodded.

“I'd scarcely believe you could have the venom if you didn't,” Wither said. “Now,
do
you have any venom, or can you get it?”

Arlian held up a hand and turned away, forcing himself to look away from those fearsome green eyes. “A moment, please,” he said. He fixed his gaze on the floor, trying to clear his thoughts.