Dragon Weather (44 page)

He would have Black visit Enziet's mansion and arrange a meeting, and when he was sufficiently recovered from his own injuries he would pay Lord Dragon a visit.

And he wouldn't leave Enziet alive, as he had Kuruvan.

He would question him about his knowledge of dragons, how he had known that Obsidian would be available for looting—and for that matter, why the village had been worth looting in person, for surely a man of Enziet's prominence could have sent an employee to attend to it.

He would learn everything Lord Dragon could tell him, he would finally know why his family and childhood had been snatched away, why his life had been twisted into an obsessive quest for revenge—and then he would kill him.

That settled, Arlian tumbled onto his bed, exhausted—but elated, as well.

He was making progress. Cover and Kuruvan were done, and Lord Dragon was next! At last, after all these years, Lord Dragon was next!

37

Approaches to Lord Dragon

Black marched in the doorway of Arlian's study and crossed to the writing table where Arlian sat. “He won't see you,” he said without preamble.

Arlian put down his quill and blinked up at his steward. “What do you mean, he won't see me?”

“I mean he won't see you,” Black repeated. “I delivered your message, and I recited it myself, just to be sure, as well as handing over the written copy—'Lord Obsidian wishes to call upon Lord Enziet at Lord Enziet's convenience about a matter of some importance to them both, and would appreciate a word as to when that might be possible.' They told me to wait at the gate, and a footman brought me back the reply—that Lord Enziet has no intention of seeing Lord Obsidian at any time, and that henceforth I am not to inflict my presence further upon any member of his household, at any time.”

“You protested?”

“Of course I protested. Loudly. And I was told to wait again, and someone fetched this.” He handed Arlian a folded sheet of paper.

Arlian accepted it and opened it, and read, “Lord Enziet busies himself with the Duke's business and his own concerns, and has no time to waste on social niceties. Let Lord Obsidian amuse himself elsewhere.”

“This verges on deliberate insult,” Arlian said, looking up from the little square of paper.

“I'd say so,” Black agreed.

“Do you think Enziet knows why I want to see him?” Arlian asked.

“It's entirely possible,” Black said. “After all, Lord Kuruvan had time to talk at some length before the fever set in.”

Arlian frowned at the reminder.

That Kuruvan's wounds had festered and brought on a fever was hardly surprising, but Arlian was not happy about it. His own injuries had healed well, but they had been far more superficial. Kuruvan had been stabbed in the belly, and while to Arlian's surprise the wound itself had not been fatal, it had turned foul; the reports that had reached the Old Palace said that Kuruvan was now bedridden and delirious, burning up with fever, his abdomen as swollen and red as an overripe peach. He was not expected to live much longer.

It was a slow, nasty way to die. Arlian had wanted Kuruvan dead, but would have preferred a quick death—he wasn't interested in inflicting suffering upon the guilty so much as in removing a menace from the world.

But that was in regard to Kuruvan; Arlian would be pleased to see Lord Dragon suffer. He had hoped to bring that suffering about.

Instead, Enziet was insulting him, defying him.

And of course, why shouldn't he? Lord Obsidian was nobody—rich, yes, but with no serious commercial ties in Manfort, no known family, no powerful friends.

That still did not entitle Lord Enziet to be openly rude to a fellow nobleman, and perhaps that was all the excuse Arlian needed. He opened a desk drawer and found a sheet of paper. He took up his quill, dipped it, and wrote, “I find the tone of your message inappropriate, and must ask that you apologize. It is essential that I speak with you.”

He signed it “Obsidian,” with a flourish, then blotted it, folded it, and handed it to Black.

Black had read it over his shoulder. “It may not do any better,” he said.

“You're welcome to make suggestions.”

“You're the lord here,” Black said with a shrug. “Anything else?”

“Check on Kuruvan,” Arlian said. “See if you can find out, without being obvious, whether he did communicate with Enziet.” A thought struck him. “And check on Cover, too. Perhaps he knows something useful—where did he meet Lord Dragon, all those years ago? Did he have any way to send Lord Dragon or any of the others a message?

Black nodded and tucked the note inside his tunic.

Arlian watched him go.

It seemed clear what had happened. The duel with Lord Kuruvan had hardly been secret—duels couldn't very well be kept secret. The reason for the duel would surely have become known, as well—Kuruvan would have had no reason not to speak of it. That meant that the other proprietors of the House of the Six Lords all knew that Lord Obsidian meant them ill. Furthermore, the fact that Kuruvan, a very respectable swordsman, had
lost
his duel meant that they would probably not be eager to face Arlian openly. He would be unlikely to catch any of them off guard, and luring each of them into a duel might well be impossible.

But perhaps he could still bully them into fighting. Demanding that Lord Enziet apologize was a first step in that direction; by the code of honor the lords of Manfort observed, if Enziet refused to apologize Arlian could escalate the conflict until Enziet had no choice but to fight.

And if he
did
apologize, well, Arlian could insist the apology be made in person, and matters could proceed from there. He was not yet stymied.

He might be in danger himself, though. Lord Dragon had had no hesitation about killing Madam Ril when she displeased him. While Ril had been a mere employee, not a fellow lord, might he not attempt to kill Arlian by some method less open than dueling? Assassination was not legal, but it happened. Arlian had no idea how one went about hiring an assassin, but he was sure Enziet did.

And that didn't even consider the fact that Enziet was reputed to know something of sorcery. Arlian frowned and rose from his desk; he left the study and trotted down the stairs to the office where Thirif conducted his business.

The Aritheian was seated cross-legged on a mat in one corner, meditating. He looked up as Arlian entered.

Arlian quickly explained the situation—that he had intended to visit Lord Enziet and challenge him to a duel, but that his polite request for an audience had been met with an insulting refusal.

“I believe my enemies may be aware of my intentions,” he concluded. “I also suspect they may attempt to take action against me by dishonorable means.”

Thirif asked, “Do you mean assassins?”

“Or sorcery,” Arlian said.

Thirif nodded. “Do you want me to place wards?”

“I'm not sure,” Arlian said. “I've heard the word, but could you explain what you mean?”

“A ward is…” Thirif frowned. “I know no other word for it in your tongue. It is a device or magic that surrounds a place and turns aside malign influences. The iron fences in Arithei serve as wards against wild magic, but would not stop any mortal, nor a properly made spell; for that we have magical wards. Any who try to enter a magically warded place while wishing the inhabitants harm will feel a compulsion to turn aside—a strong will may resist this compulsion, though. Hostile magic cannot enter a warded place unless it is stronger than the ward. If an enemy enters despite the ward, the magician who placed the ward will feel it and know what has happened. If the ward is broken by stronger magic, that, too, will be felt.”

“That sounds ideal,” Arlian said. “Can you do that here?”

“Of course. We brought many wardings with us, and they have not sold well—your northern sorcerers can create wards of their own. It is one of the few things that sorcery can do well—had we known that, we would not have brought them.”

“But you did bring them?”

“Yes.”

“Then by all means, place wards around the palace immediately. Strong ones.”

“As you wish.” Thirif unfolded his legs and rose from his mat.

“Thank you,” Arlian said.

Thirif bowed an acknowledgment, then departed.

Arlian stood gazing thoughtfully after the Aritheian for a moment. There was so much he didn't know about magic! Wards were clearly a basic spell, yet he had needed an explanation.

And there was so much he still didn't know about Manfort, and about the city's lords.

And so much he didn't know about dragons, about Lord Dragon, about the connections between Enziet and the dragons. Maybe Lord Enziet had not been told anything by Lord Kuruvan, but had known Arlian meant him harm by other means. How had Lord Dragon known that the dragons would destroy Obsidian, and that he could loot it?

Enziet was a mystery. Was Sweet safe in his hands? Lord Dragon had taken her—what had he done with her, and with Dove? Were Sweet and Dove still alive? Hasty and Kitten were safe and well, but Lord Dragon was not Lord Kuruvan.

At that, Arlian's thoughts turned to his two houseguests. Kitten seemed to be settling in reasonably well—she had not yet taken up learning any sort of skills, but she professed to be thinking about it, and she had discovered the library. Arlian had not had time to use it himself, but the Old Palace had a library, and it had been furnished with a modest collection of books when he bought the place. These were presumably the books not considered worth the trouble of moving to the Citadel, but Kitten apparently found them interesting enough. She spent much of her time there.

Hasty, on the other hand, had no interest in books—Arlian was not sure she knew how to read. Instead, during the several days Arlian had spent recovering from his wounds, she seemed to have devoted herself to harassing Arlian's servants, demanding to be carried hither and yon for no reason, deliberately seducing and then abandoning one young man after another.

He supposed she would get over it—especially if she was correct in suspecting that she was pregnant with Kuruvan's child.

As for himself, he had kept busy through his convalescence with his household and business. He had now sold off, through his agents, a significant fraction of the magical artifacts he had brought north from Arithei, and his income from those was augmented by investments he had made with the money thus generated. Keeping track of those hundreds of thousands of ducats was a considerable task, and working at it kept his mind off his plans for revenge, plans that could only circle endlessly and pointlessly in his head until he was again fit to fight.

Now, while Thirif set wards and Arlian waited for Black's return from the errands Arlian had assigned him, Arlian returned to his study to go over the latest business records once again. Until he had more information there was little else he could do.

He had closed the account books and eaten supper, and was sitting in the salon, glass in hand, when Black returned. Arlian looked up from his wine expectantly as the steward stood over him.

“Cover is dead,” Black said. “Five days ago.”

That was not really a surprise—if anything, he had lived somewhat longer than Arlian had expected. “And Stammer?”

Black shrugged.

“If she can find nothing better, offer her a job here,” Arlian said.

Black sighed. “As you say,” he said.

“And Enziet?”

Black hesitated.

“Lord Enziet,” he said, “spoke to me at some length. To be specific, at sword's length.”

“What?” Arlian put down his glass.

Black sighed again.

“Sit down,” Arlian said, “and tell me all about it.” He gestured at the decanter and an empty glass.

Black sat and poured himself a drink. He downed it in a gulp, then poured another.

“I was kept waiting for some time after I gave your note to a footman,” Black said, “but at last Lord Enziet himself came to speak to me.” He grimaced. “Not alone; he had half a dozen guards with him, and his own sword ready in his hand.”

“What did he say?”

“I remember his very words,” Black said. “He told me, ‘Your master has nerve, demanding an apology from a man he intends to murder.'”

“Oh,” Arlian said.

“He went on at some length, as I told you,” Black said. “He is aware that you consider yourself wronged by the proprietors of the House of Carnal Society; he has no interest in the truth of such accusations, or for that matter in any sort of justice, fairness, or revenge. Instead he wants me to warn you that if you harass or harm him or any of his surviving partners further, or attempt to enter his home, he will kill you—and not in anything so formal as a duel. If I return, he will kill
me.
If you send any other messenger, he will kill the messenger. He is not concerned with rules or custom, and is confident that his hold over the Duke is more than enough to ensure he won't suffer any legal consequences for any of these deaths should he choose to bring them about. He strongly advises you to leave Manfort and go back wherever you came from. That he hasn't
already
killed you, he says, is only because he does not care to antagonize your Aritheian allies—but having now warned you, that won't stop him if you persist. He assumes that once you're dead the Aritheians can be made to see reason. Furthermore, if by some chance you
do
kill him, he has made arrangements to ensure that you will be killed in return.”

Arlian swallowed.

“He also says to tell you that the wards won't stop him. I don't know what that means, but I assume you do.”

“Yes,” Arlian said.

“Ari,” Black said, “I had never met Lord Enziet before. Remember not long after we met, I told you you had the heart of the dragon in you? Well, Enziet has the heart, soul, liver, and lights of the dragon. I don't doubt for a minute that he means exactly what he says, and can do it.”