Dragon Weather (40 page)

Those eyes had a power to them, a ferocity—and Wither said that was the dragon's heart that Black had spoken of, that he had it himself.

And he said it came from drinking dragon's venom and human blood. He said it as if he
knew,
beyond question, that it was so.

Was that why Black had agreed to teach Arlian the sword, and become his companion? Was that why Sweet had invited him in and taught him so much? Was that why Bloody Hand had set him free? Had those accomplishments been bought with his grandfather's life?

Arlian could hardly doubt it; looking into Wither's eyes he could hardly deny
anything
the old man said. And that ferocity—was his
own
gaze as fierce as Wither's?

He could not imagine that it was—yet Wither saw the heart of the dragon in him. Perhaps not as strong, as he was so much younger, but that same power lay within him, fallen there in his parents' cellar all those years ago.

And it surely lay within Lord Dragon as well. Even after nine years Arlian could remember the intensity of those dark eyes.

Wither and Cover had both mentioned the Dragon Society, as well—that was another mystery that must be explained.

“My lord,” Arlian said, not meeting Wither's glance, “bear with me. I have only recently come to Manfort from Arithei, and while I know much of matters you would consider arcane, I know little of your homeland. Would you be kind enough to answer a few questions from me, before I answer yours?”

“If that's what it takes to get the truth from you,” Wither said. “What do you want to know?”

“Several things,” Arlian said. “Let me take it one step at a time. Am I to understand that long ago, you chanced to imbibe a mixture of dragon's venom and human blood?”

“Of course I did, you idiot,” Wither said. “Didn't I just tell you that? It was in one of the early defenses of Manfort, when the dragons had not yet resolved to abandon the fight for the city. One of them bit into my shoulder, and then made the mistake of flinging me into a pit where it couldn't reach me. I wiped the blood from my wound with my hand, then licked my hand before I lost consciousness, and the deed was done. My arm was withered and my shoulder ruined forever, but I recovered from my fever and lived.”

“That was centuries ago.”

“Yes, of course. Eight hundred years, more or less.”

Arlian nodded, still not meeting Wither's eyes.

“I had heard that this mixture could prolong life, but not that anyone who had actually drunk it still lived.”

Wither snorted. “Of course we do! Oh, it's rare that anyone survives a meeting with a dragon, but it does happen, and those of us who have tasted venom and blood don't die. Naturally, then, some of us are still around.”

“And you believe that I, too, have drunk this elixir?”

“Of course. I don't know when or how, but I can see it in your face. You have that air of authority, of certainty. I've never seen it in anyone who
hadn't
tasted the venom.”

Arlian stroked a finger across his cheek as he thought this over. “And now you ask me to give this same gift to someone else?” he asked.

“Marasa,” Wither said. “She calls herself Lady Opal.”

“You love her?”

Wither frowned. “I don't want her to die,” he said. “I'm tired of watching my women grow old and die. I've had a dozen wives and a score of mistresses, and I don't want to ever see another wither away while I watch.”

“I can see that,” Arlian said. The image of Rose sprawled across her bed with her throat cut came suddenly to mind. “I can understand that quite well.”

“I've tried before,” Wither said. “I've tried spells and potions. I tried feeding Vorina my own blood, in hopes it would carry the magic, and instead it poisoned her—she died writhing in agony.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “That was unpleasant—
worse
than unpleasant; when she died I felt as if I should now be the one writhing in agony. I had never imagined, in all those centuries, that my own blood could be toxic.”

Arlian blinked and looked down at his own hand, at the veins faintly visible beneath the skin. Was
his
blood similarly tainted?

“It's been years—decades—since Vorina died,” Wither continued. “I had said I would do without the love of women, rather than see another person I cared for die, and resolved to restrict my attentions to the purely physical, but then I met Marasa, and I was lost.

“I won't risk killing her. No more experiments. The only thing I
know
will work safely is the same mixture that worked for me, and for all the others in the Dragon Society. Blood and venom.”

“Blood and venom,” Arlian said. “The Dragon Society—you mentioned that before. What is it?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Wither replied. “Those of us who have drunk the venom aren't hard to recognize, not once you've met a few of us, and long ago we formed a society, a place where we could gather privately with our own kind, and need no longer pretend to be ordinary mortals, need no longer be, willingly or no, the dominant figure in any gathering by virtue of the power in our blood. A place where no one would stare at—or so obviously avoid looking at—our deformities, for of course most of us bear the scars inflicted upon us by our draconic benefactors. You're fortunate, in that your face and hands are unmarked—are there scars elsewhere, perhaps? Or did you in truth find some way to obtain venom without a fight? It was when I heard you carried the dragon's heart yet bore no obvious scars that I thought to seek you out, in hopes of preserving my Marasa.”

Arlian remembered Cover's belief that Lord Dragon was the master of the Dragon Society, and that his secret society controlled much of what went on in Manfort. “This society,” Arlian asked, “is there a person who calls himself Lord Dragon?”

Wither shrugged. “I have heard several of us use that name, now and again. I do not attach it to any one person. Now, boy, I've answered enough questions—can you help me, or not? Did you find a way to get the venom without facing a dragon's wrath? How did you drink it yet remain unscarred?” His voice shook with eagerness.

Arlian shook his head. “I'm sorry, my lord,” he said. “I drank my grandfather's blood as I lay trapped beneath his corpse. I will not deceive you further—I have no venom, nor the means to obtain it, at present.” He cleared his throat. “I do have the services of half a dozen Aritheian magicians, and I will set them to seeking what you want, if you like.”

Wither stared at him for a moment, then growled, “May the dragons blast you for leading me on!” His left hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

“My apologies, my lord,” Arlian said, standing up straight. He recognized, with a sudden thrill of excitement and horror, that he was facing a challenge—his first since attaining sufficient status to be entitled by tradition to duel. “I am unarmed; if you wish to avenge this slight upon my flesh, I pray you let me fetch my blade.”

“No,” Wither said in disgust, his hand dropping. “The fault is not worthy of such a cost, and further, I might well be violating my oath by slaying you here.”

Arlian frowned, relieved to know he was not going to be forced to fight this fearsome old man, but also puzzled. “How is that, my lord? What oath do you speak of?”

“The oath of the Dragon Society, required of each member upon joining, is that none of us shall attempt to slay another member within Manfort's walls,” Wither explained. “With more than a score of us gathered in one place for centuries duels would be inevitable, without that restriction—and what a waste to cut off a life that might, for all we know, last millennia! And so few new members ever appear that in time we would destroy ourselves, I'm sure.”

“I am not a member, though,” Arlian pointed out. He very much wanted to be one, though, now that he knew the Dragon Society really existed, for surely the man he knew as Lord Dragon was a part of it, even if not the master Cover had believed him.

“Oh, you are a member in all but name,” Wither said with a wave of his good hand. “I don't concern myself with needless formalities. You can merely present yourself, undergo our little initiation, and swear to the oath, and you'll be as much a member as I. The only difficult requirement is the first, the elixir that renders one suitable, and the mark of your eligibility is plain.”

Arlian considered that. “I was going to ask that the price of setting my magicians to searching be your sponsoring my application to join,” he said.

Wither shook his head. “You needn't bother. You can join at any time simply by answering the ritual questions and swearing the oath.”

“Yet I owe you for the honest answers you've given me,” Arlian said. “I will set my magicians their task—though I cannot promise any result.”

“A kind gesture, sir,” Wither said. “Thank you.” He bent his head briefly in acknowledgment.

“Ah, thank
you!
” Arlian replied. “I have but one last request.”

“Ask it, then, and I'll be on my way.”

“How am I to find this Dragon Society, should I choose to join?”

“Simple enough. Go to the intersection of Citadel Street and the Street of the Black Spire, and walk down the Street of the Black Spire toward the city gates until you come to a black door with a red bar across it. That is the Society's hall; knock, and when the doorkeeper sees your face you'll be admitted, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you.” Arlian bowed.

A moment later Lord Wither was gone, and Arlian settled into his chair, thinking hard.

This was his chance, surely—this Dragon Society could be the key to everything he sought. Everything was going as well as he could have hoped, as if fate itself was on his side.

Only belatedly did it occur to him that he had not inquired whether Wither had owned a share of the brothel in Westguard, but he shrugged that aside. There would be plenty of time to ask the old man later.

Arlian did see at least one potential problem ahead, however.

If he joined the Dragon Society and swore the oath, and found that Lord Dragon and the others he sought were members, then he could not try to kill them—at least, not within the city walls. Would he ever have a chance to meet Lord Dragon outside Manfort?

There were other questions remaining, as well—questions of timing, of strategy …

And the questions of preparation. Was he truly ready to meet Lord Dragon in combat?

He would know soon enough, he told himself. One way or another, now that he knew of the Dragon Society, he would find Lord Dragon. When he saw that hated face he would know whether or not he was ready to act.

34

Lord Kuruvan

As Arlian climbed into the coach the next afternoon he had still not decided how and when he should approach the Dragon Society. He had spent the previous evening running various plans and schedules through his mind, until at last he had made his way to bed having decided only that the meeting with Lord Kuruvan would come first.

For one thing, the possibility had occurred to him that Kuruvan might be a member of the Society himself, and he wanted to satisfy himself on that account before proceeding further.

He arrived at the gate of Kuruvan's palace without incident and clambered from the coach, throwing Black, his driver, a quick salute. He was greeted by a pair of footmen, and escorted into a salon paneled in unfamiliar reddish wood. He surrendered his hat and sword to a maroon-robed slave girl, silver chains jingling on her wrists as she carried them away.

Before he could take a seat a handsome, gray-haired man in a more elaborate version of Kuruvan's maroon-and-gold livery appeared and bowed. “If you would accompany me, my lord?”

Arlian had assumed the meeting would be in the salon, but he made no protest as the steward showed him down a passageway and into a smaller, more cluttered room where Lord Kuruvan was waiting.

“Lord Obsidian,” Kuruvan said, rising from his chair. “A pleasure to see you again!”

Arlian bowed in acknowledgment, forestalling any offered hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he said.

Kuruvan gestured toward a chair, and a moment later the two men were seated facing one another. Arlian studied his foe, looking for some sign of the intensity Black and Wither called the dragon's heart, but found none.

“Now, my lord,” Kuruvan said, “I believe you said you wished to discuss a private matter?”

“Indeed,” Arlian agreed. “Before I explain myself further, however, I really must ask for the names of your five partners in the House of Carnal Society in Westguard. I believe this matter concerns them, as well, though in a lesser degree.”

He tried to appear calm, but this was a decisive moment for Arlian. He had Rose's word that Kuruvan had claimed to be one of the six lords who owned the House, but while he trusted Rose, Kuruvan might have lied to her. His reaction now would show Arlian whether or not Rose had been deceived, whether or not he had found one of her killers.

Kuruvan sat back and stared at Arlian; his fingers fidgeted on the arms of the chair. He laughed nervously. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “You obviously know something about me, while I am in utter ignorance of your own history and connections. I don't know your true name…”

“I deal in magic,” Arlian interrupted. “I dare not give my true name.” He did not let his relief show, but Kuruvan's response removed any doubts—this
was
one of the men Arlian had sworn to kill.

Kuruvan nodded an acknowledgment. “Fair enough. Can you tell me
nothing
about yourself, though?”

“I will trade you, fact for fact, if you like,” Arlian suggested, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “To begin the exchange, I will tell you that while I was born and raised in the Lands of Man, I never set foot in Manfort until two years ago. Now, tell me the name of one of your partners—by preference, the dark-haired man with the scarred cheek who cut down Madam Ril and carried a letter from the Duke granting him immunity from the consequences of that act.”