Dragon Weather (45 page)

“I don't doubt it, either,” Arlian agreed. He picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of his wine. The heart of the dragon, he thought. Credentials for membership in the Dragon Society. Lord Enziet was undoubtedly a member.

“He may decide to go ahead and kill you even if you
don't
harass anyone,” Black said. “I think maybe you
should
go home. Or back to the Borderlands.”

“No!” Arlian flung his glass away; it shattered against the wall as Arlian got to his feet. “
This
is my home! Dragons destroyed my first home; Lord Dragon burned the next;
this
is my home now, and they won't take it away from me!” He grabbed Black by his shirt. “I will kill that bastard somehow! If he won't let me do it openly and honorably in a duel, I will find another way!”

“If he doesn't kill you first,” Black said, locking his hands around Arlian's wrists. “It would seem to me that you ought to concern yourself with staying alive before you worry about killing someone else. I'd point out that even if you
do
somehow get Enziet, that leaves at least four others who'll want you dead—not even counting the Duke, once he's deprived of the man who tells him what to do.”

Arlian released Black's shirt and stepped back. He looked thoughtfully at his friend. Staying alive was indeed a prerequisite for any planned revenge, and Lord Enziet was clearly a powerful man—Arlian remembered the casual way Lord Dragon had slashed Madam Ril's throat with a single sweep of his sword, how he had paid no attention to the bright blood that had spurted from the wound, how no one had dared to step forward and oppose him or hinder him in any way.

A man who could kill like that, a man who had all Manfort's resources at his disposal … Arlian knew that if Lord Dragon were to decide Arlian must die, then Arlian would die, unless he took drastic measures to protect himself.

Bodyguards, soldiers—he could afford them, but could he trust them? Did he want to live surrounded by them?

He could flee the city, as Enziet suggested, but that would be defeat; it would mean giving up any chance at vengeance, and on a much less exalted level it would mean losing a significant portion of his fortune, since he could not hope to sell the Old Palace readily. He had paid far more than he should have to buy it and restore it, in the interests of impressing and intriguing the city's nobility and advancing his planned revenge.

And it would mean leaving Sweet and Dove in Lord Dragon's clutches.

What other means of protection could he find, then? Enziet had already discovered the wards Thirif had placed and dismissed them as inadequate, and Arlian did not think he was boasting. From what he had seen and heard, Lord Dragon had never struck him as boastful. Was there other, stronger magic he could employ?

He could think of none. He was no magician. He would talk to Thirif, but he doubted that salvation lay in that direction. Both the Aritheians and his own people had told him that magic was deceitful and untrustworthy stuff, as likely to destroy you as preserve you.

The best solution would be somehow to change Enziet's mind, to convince him that killing Arlian would be a bad idea—and there might, Arlian realized, be a way to do that.

“You spoke with him,” Arlian said. “Do you think he's a man of honor?”

“No,” Black said promptly. “But he may
think
he is.”

“Would he break an oath?”

“Probably. It would depend on the consequences.”

The obvious next question, not spoken aloud, was whether he, Arlian, Lord Obsidian, would break an oath, given sufficient incentive.

He wasn't sure of the answer.

Perhaps he wouldn't need to. Perhaps he could find a way around it.

But regardless of the oath, the time had come to walk down the Street of the Black Spire to a black door with a red bar. It was too late now, but come morning, he would go there.

That was where he could find Lord Dragon and confront him without need for any invitation into anyone's home. And that was where he could at least make it expensive for Lord Dragon to kill him, make him an outcast and oath breaker if he carried out his threats. If Arlian joined the Dragon Society, Lord Dragon would be sworn not to kill him within Manfort's walls.

That Arlian would be required to swear in return not to kill Lord Dragon was a matter he would deal with later.

38

Behind the Black Door

“Wait here,” he told Black.

The other man nodded and leaned back comfortably against a gray sun-warmed stone wall.

Arlian stepped up to the black door. It was riveted iron, blackened, unpainted save for a broad red stripe across it. The handle was cast in the shape of a beast of some sort, but so worn that Arlian could not be sure just what it was meant to represent. It might have been a dragon.

The building around it was gray stone, like so much of Manfort, but larger than most. There were few windows, and those there were were tall and narrow and horizontally barred with black iron.

He reached out and touched the metal door; it was cold and slightly damp, rough with a thin layer of rust, and felt very solid. He pressed a palm against it, then made a fist and rapped.

The resulting sound was so faint he was sure it couldn't be heard inside the building. He looked around for a bell pull or knocker, but found none; he tried the latch, but it did not yield. Seeing no alternative, he shrugged, then pounded on the iron door with his fist.

This time it rang, a deep, dull sound.

Arlian waited, and a moment later the latch rattled and the door swung open, revealing a small, dim antechamber. A heavily built man dressed in dark green finery stepped around the door and looked Arlian in the eye.

“Yes?”

Arlian bowed. “I am Lord Obsidian,” he said. “Lord Wither tells me that I might be welcome here.”

The man in green stared at him, studying Arlian's face in a way that would ordinarily have been objectionably rude; Arlian stared back. For a moment the two men stood, eye to eye.

“You're
very
young for this place,” the man in green said at last, “but the mark does seem to be there.”

Arlian snorted. “Lord Wither had no doubt of it, and he didn't have to count my eyelashes.”

And for that matter, Arlian had not needed to stare as long as he had to recognize the dragon's mark on the man in green—the doorkeeper was presumably a member, not merely a servant or slave. That explained his attire, which was far richer than any servant would wear.

“Lord Wither is an exceptional man,” the doorkeeper said. “I don't have a tenth his experience. And I must be sure before I let you pass the inner door.”

“Are you sure, then?”

“I believe I am. You wish to join the Dragon Society, then?”

Arlian took a deep breath. “I do,” he said.

“If you enter, you
must
join,” the man in green warned him. “Once inside you cannot change your mind; you join or you die.”

Arlian hesitated. He had not expected that. Lord Wither had said it was easy, though, for one with the heart of the dragon.

“It's not too late to turn back,” the doorkeeper said, in reassuring tones.

“No,” Arlian said. “I've come this far. I'll join.”

“You're certain?”

“Certain enough.”

“Enter, then.” The man stepped back, ushering Arlian inside.

“I have my steward…” Arlian began.

“No,” the man in green said firmly. “Only members and applicants pass through this door.”

Arlian shrugged; he waved a farewell to Black, then stepped inside. The doorkeeper closed the heavy iron door behind him, shutting out the sunlight.

For a moment he was in utter darkness and near-total silence, broken only by the scuffling of the doorkeeper, and he feared that his enemies had arranged a trap, that Lord Enziet had foreseen an attempt to join the Dragon Society and arranged to prevent it; then the inner door opened.

The room beyond was vast, rich and strange, and brightly lit—not by sunlight, though it was a cheerful cloudless morning outside, but by dozens of assorted candles, perched on tables and shelves or mounted in wall sconces and candelabra. Thick carpets covered the floor, and where not hidden by shelves or cabinetry the walls were polished wood panels; the high ceiling was coffered and gilded. Chairs, sofas, and tables, all heavy and elaborately carved, were so numerous as to make the chamber seem cluttered and mazelike, despite its size; perhaps a dozen of the chairs were occupied. Most of those occupants were busy with their own concerns and did not look up at the new arrival. The air smelled of dust and candle smoke.

The room's truly strange features were neither the people nor the furnishings nor the unnatural lighting, but the knicknacks and curiosities that filled the cabinets and shelves and stood on several of the tables. Most of them seemed to have been collected and arranged without rhyme or reason. A row of human skulls adorned one ornate cabinet; a mummified hand lay upon a nearby table, ignored by the woman who sat at that table, reading an old leather-bound book. The complete skeleton of what appeared to be a large lizard, held together with bits of silver wire, stood on a shelf. Odd and unfamiliar devices of wood, wire, and glass glittered from various niches.

The majority of the trinkets, however, were carvings or sculptures—wood, stone, metal, and glass, crude or sophisticated, all scattered about with no order that Arlian could see. A rough-hewn wooden phallus lay beside a golden eagle; a nude woman in white marble stood with her back to a jade monster; a glass dragon loomed over an architect's model of a palace.

And dragons, not usually depicted in the Lands of Man, were the most common subject for the carvings and other illustrations—paintings here and there, a small tapestry, embroidered upholstery, etchings, bas relief, and more. The dragons varied from stylized symbols to statuettes so detailed and realistic that Arlian felt uneasy merely looking at them. He was not entirely free of the common superstition that representations of dragons were bad luck, and this place was full of them.

The doorkeeper picked up a brass bell from a shelf by the door and rang it. The people in the room looked up, startled.

“We have an applicant for membership in this august body,” the man in green announced.

“Who is it, Door?” a dark-haired woman asked.

“Lord Obsidian,” the doorkeeper replied.

One man, a thin white-bearded fellow, smothered an oath; another, a barrel-chested bald man in an eyepatch, leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He drew his sword and stood at guard, facing Arlian.

“Is Obsidian his true name, then?” another, older woman asked.

“Who cares what his true name is?” the man with the sword demanded. “He's the one who wants to kill me!”

“And
your
name, my lord?” Arlian called, his hand on the hilt of his own sword.

“Toribor,” the swordsman said. “That's what Kuruvan told you, isn't it?”

“Then yes, I'm sworn to kill you,” Arlian acknowledged. “Would you care to attend to it immediately?”

“Oh, stop it,” the first woman said, obviously disgusted. “Belly, if he joins, he
can't
kill you—and you can't kill him. And if he
doesn't
join, well, he's already dead. Put your sword away.”

Toribor frowned; his sword lowered, but he hesitated.

“A moment,” Arlian said. “As I understand it, if I join your Society as I intend, I must indeed swear to make no attempt to kill any of my fellow members
inside Manfort's walls
—am I not correct in believing that nothing is said about what might happen
outside
those walls?”

“Oh, I like this,” the second woman said. “You're sworn to kill Belly—that is, Toribor? But you're willing to swear not to harm him in the city?”

“Exactly,” Arlian confirmed.

The woman laughed, and for a moment no one spoke.

“That's insane,” someone muttered at last.

“Delightfully so,” the woman agreed. “I think I may enjoy this. Yes, Door, by all means, let's have him join!”

Toribor's sword wavered.

“I came here intending to join this Society,” Arlian said, “and that is still my intention. If Lord Toribor would prefer to fight me to settle the matter between us before I continue, I have no objection.”

“If you won, you'd still need to join,” a man said.

“Yes, of course,” Arlian agreed.

“And if you lost, you'd die—even if Belly did not kill you cleanly,” the man continued. “You can't leave this room alive unless you join, and you could not join were you too injured to continue a fight, nor would we provide medical attention. We would instead finish you off.”

Toribor looked around. “You're all standing about discussing this as if it were nothing!” He focused on the thin white-haired man. “Nail, aren't
you
going to say anything?”

For a second or two the others, including the man addressed as Nail, simply stared at Toribor; then the older woman said, “You'd need to fight right here, you know—young Lord Obsidian can't leave this room except as a full member of the Dragon Society.”

Arlian said nothing, but he couldn't help glancing around at the maze of furniture and the clutter everywhere. A duel in here would be absurd; he and Toribor would be stumbling over everything.

“Well,
I'm
not cleaning up the mess if they fight here,” someone said.

“The survivor would clean it up,” the woman replied.

“There'd be breakage,” another woman said.

“Something valuable might be smashed,” a man remarked.

“Oh, may the gods rot you all,” Toribor said in disgust, sheathing his sword. “I won't fight him here. Can't we just kill him as an intruder?”