Dragon Weather (57 page)

He had gathered fabric into a heap bigger than the miserable mattress Sweet had slept on for the past two years and was trying to estimate what he might need on the roof when Sweet suddenly said, “I love you, Triv.”

“What?” He looked at her, startled.

“I love you,” she repeated. “You came for me.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “It took me more than
two years,
” he said. “I should have come for you long ago, guards or no guards. I had no idea he would treat you as he did—but I
should
have guessed. Especially when I found out that Lord Horim had killed the two he took.”

“Who?”

“Lord Horim—Lord Iron, he was called. He took two of you, and killed them both. Daub was one; I don't even know who the other was. I failed them both, just as I did Dove. And only gods and dragons might know what's happened to the two Lord Drisheen claimed.”

“But Triv, you did come for us eventually. You came for
me.
That's more than I ever expected.”

“You probably saved my life back in Westguard,” Arlian said. “I had to save you!”

“And I love you for it.”

He stared at her, baffled, for a few seconds, then turned back to the pile of fabric. “I think this should do,” he said. “I've made it all one big, long rope; I can cut it apart if I need to.” He hefted a loop of cloth, then looked at Sweet. “How strong are you?”

“Not very,” she said. “I haven't eaten well here. I can't climb that thing, if that's what you're asking.”

“I didn't think you could,” he said truthfully. “But if I sit you in a loop of it, a sling, and then haul it up, can you hang on?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Good.” He crossed to the balcony and peered out.

The courtyard was still empty, and most of the windows dark; after all, the cold, damp weather was hardly inviting. Most people who had a choice would be curled up in a warm bed, or huddled in front of a kitchen fire, in weather like this.

That reminded him that Sweet was naked. Cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner, he grabbed a coverlet that had been too thick to make a secure knot, and handed it to her.

“Wrap yourself in this,” he said. “It's chilly.”

“Thank you,” she said as she obeyed. She looked up at him again and forced a tentative smile, the first he had seen on her face since he had fled the brothel. “I do love you. Is … is that face permanent?”

“What? No, it's just a spell. It'll break as soon as I'm safely home again.”

“Oh, good. I like the old one better. I'm eager to see it again.”

Arlian looked her in the eye, and saw afresh just how thin and pale and weak she appeared. A thought struck him.

“How often did they feed you here?”

“Once a day,” she said. “Every morning. They had…” She hesitated. “Every morning,” she finished weakly.

Arlian nodded and smiled. “Good. You wait right here, then.” He turned and hurried out of the room, down the corridor, and around the corner.

The door of Sweet's prison still stood open; he trotted down the passage, closed it, and dropped the bar into place.

With any luck, they wouldn't even notice her absence until morning.

That done, he hastened back to the balcony.

He couldn't reach the overhanging roof without assistance, but pulling a chair out to the balcony was simple enough. He got that far, then paused, and hauled a second chair out, as well. He sat Sweet on this second chair, wrapped snugly in her comforter; then he tucked one end of his makeshift “rope” through his swordbelt, climbed atop the vacant chair, and jumped for the edge.

A moment later he had pulled himself up on the roof and was hauling his “rope” up behind him.

“Triv?” Sweet called, a note of panic in her voice.

“Shhh!” he hissed, leaning over the edge. “Hush! What is it?”

“I just wanted to be sure you were still there,” she said. “That you hadn't left without me.”

“Didn't you see the rope moving? Just hold on; I won't go without you, I promise.”

She nodded unhappily, and he pulled himself back onto the roof and continued hauling “rope”—woolen counterpane, linen sheet, velvet drape, linen sheet, the cloth slid through his hands and piled up on the tiles.

When the last of it came swaying wildly upward he looked around for an anchor point, and spotted a stone chimney that looked suitable. He crawled over to it on hands and knees, looped a few yards of his “rope” around it, and tied it tight.

Then he measured out a generous loop in the other end, keeping both ends in his hands, and lowered the loop over the edge.

“Grab it!” he called. “Sit on it, then hold on with both hands!”

He felt the jerk as the sling was caught; he felt tugging and shifting. He leaned over to see what was happening.

Sweet had obeyed; she sat in the loop of “rope,” looking up at him.

“Hold on tight!” he said. Then he pushed himself back up the roof, sat up, and began hauling.

He heard a tiny smothered noise, a suppressed whimper, as Sweet found herself pulled up out of her chair.

He had her more than halfway when he realized this wasn't going to work. The higher she rose, the worse his leverage; he simply could not pull her all the way up over the overhang onto the roof.

“Can you reach the edge?” he called.

“I don't … you told me to hold on!” she said.

“All right, hold on,” he said. “Look, I'm going to stick my leg out where you can see it; when I do, you hold on with one hand, and grab my leg with the other. Understand?”

She didn't reply, but he let himself slide down the roof as he hauled at the sling. He wrapped a length of “rope” around his chest, pulling it tight, so that he couldn't slide too far from the chimney the other end was secured to—but he was uncomfortably aware that because of the angles involved, if he lost his grip on the roof completely he might well find himself dangling several feet below the edge, a dozen yards to the right of the balcony.

That was still better than plummeting to the ground, of course.

He worked his way down closer to the edge until at last he was able to extend his booted foot over the edge.

Almost immediately, Sweet's hand reached up and grabbed at him; instinctively, he jerked away, and she wailed in terror.

“Hush!” he called. “I'm sorry!
Now
grab it!” He thrust his foot out again.

Her hand hooked over his ankle, and he leaned forward, letting the rope around his chest support much of his weight, and grabbed her wrist.

“Now the other hand!” he called.

The other hand appeared, and he grabbed that wrist, as well, and lifted.

Her face scraped against the edge of the tiles as it came up above the roof, and he winced. “Gods, I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't be,” she whispered, as she twisted herself away from further injury.

He shifted his grip, pulling her further, and step by step, inch by inch, he managed to haul her up onto the roof.

Her comforter had fallen away, though, leaving her shivering and naked on the tile. Arlian quickly hauled his entire rope up, and slashed a linen sheet from the end. “Here,” he said.

She accepted it, but said, “I can't crawl while I'm holding this.”

“Oh, blood and death,” Arlian muttered. “Give it back, then.” She obeyed, and he tucked the sheet into his belt. “Let's get you across here before you freeze, and you can put it on once we're on the ground. Come on!”

On hands and knees they clambered up the slope, across the ridgecap, and down the other side; Sweet was more practiced at this than Arlian and kept up easily, despite her weak and battered condition. The “rope” trailed behind, still tied around Arlian's chest.

At the outer edge Arlian untied himself, wrapped the end of the line around Sweet's chest, then directed her to lower herself over the brink. He sat up, braced himself against the tiles as well as he could, and held the “rope,” letting it out hand over hand as she descended.

Once she was safely below the eaves, he began to lower much more quickly, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, the tension eased—she had reached the pavement below.

That done, he slid himself and the line over until he was directly below the chimney, then threw the rest of the “rope” over the edge and began lowering himself hand over hand.

The knots held until he was almost past the second floor; he landed hard, but evenly and the right way up. He was momentarily dazed, but no worse—no bones were broken, his head had not hit the flagstones, and he was down, safe and sound.

And Sweet was down, as well—she was crawling across the pavement toward him even before his head cleared.

The rope had snapped right at the edge of the roof—the sharp tiles had cut into it, weakening it and allowing the knot just below the edge to unravel. Most of it had tumbled down around Arlian; now, as he got to his feet and brushed himself off, he looked at it and smiled.

If they could just get out of this yard safely, and take that rope away with them, it might be hours, or even days, before anyone had any clue what had happened.

Just then a commotion broke out somewhere off to their left; Arlian took one glance in that direction, then ran to Sweet and scooped her up.

The end of the rope was still securely tied around her chest, so it would come with them if he carried her; he threw her over his shoulder and ran for the far end of the house, away from the postern gate and the stables and the carriage house.

Because he heard hooves, the rattle of harness, voices shouting—Lord Enziet's coach had returned, and presumably Lord Enziet with it, and he would know, if he did not already, that his wards had been broken.

When they were safely around the corner Arlian untied Sweet, wrapped her in the sheet, and began reeling in his line. He balled up one end, then threw it over the outer wall, so that they could pull it out after themselves; then he boosted Sweet up until she could pull herself up onto the top of the wall, with the “rope” and her wrap providing minimal protection against the iron blades.

“It's sharp,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.” Then he took a running leap and pulled himself up beside her.

A moment later he trotted down the mist-damp alley with an immense bundle of fabric on his back. Only the most observant would have noticed the bright pair of eyes peering out through a tiny opening in the tangled cloth.

48

Sweet's Tale

The small salon was pleasantly warm, heated by a roaring fire; steam rose from the heaped fabrics on the floor. Sweet lay sprawled on a blue silk couch, wrapped in a robe a servant had brought, with an elegantly garbed Musk kneeling beside her while Black and Arlian stood nearby.

“It's not what I had planned,” Arlian remarked, “but she might know something.”

Musk, who had been bent over a semiconscious Sweet gently wiping her face with warm compresses, looked up. “You aren't planning to
interrogate
the poor thing, are you?”

“Nothing strenuous, I promise,” Arlian said. “I don't want to hurt her any more than you do.”

Musk looked warily at Black, standing behind Arlian. “What about him?”

“He won't hurt her, either, any more than he's hurt you.”

Black snorted.

“Well, she's in no shape to answer questions right now, anyway,” Musk said, returning to her nursing.

“That woman with the wooden leg, Lady Rime, might be interested in talking to her,” Black suggested. “Maybe she should be here, too.”

“A fine suggestion,” Arlian agreed. “She said to send a messenger for her if I found another witness.”

“Is this a witness?”

“She's the closest thing I have right now, Black. Send someone to fetch Lady Rime.”

Black shrugged. “I'll go myself.” He turned and left the room, not running, but wasting no time.

Arlian remained where he was, watching Musk tend to Sweet. Then he knelt on the floor beside her and asked tenderly, “How are you feeling?”

Sweet opened her eyes and looked up at him. One of her cheeks was gashed, a broad, shallow gouge where she had scraped against the roof tiles; Musk had dabbed away most of the blood. Her other injuries were all older, but still visible.

She smiled at Arlian. “You have your own face back!” she said happily.

That was true; as arranged beforehand, the spell had broken the moment Arlian crossed his own threshold again.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “But how are
you?
”

“I'll be fine,” she said. “It's so lovely to be warm again, and to just lie here! And Musk!” She looked up at her old friend, whose healthy face was such a contrast to her own. “Triv
said
you were alive, but I didn't believe it. Is anyone else still alive?”

“Lily and Kitten and Hasty,” Musk said. “They're all here and safe. I don't know about the others.”

“Rose and Silk and Daub are dead, and three others, but we don't know which,” Arlian said. “The others—well, there's still hope.”

“Rose?” Sweet's voice cracked. “I saw them kill her. And Velvet. I didn't know about Silk or Daub.”

“You saw?” Arlian asked.

She nodded. “And Dove, of course. He made me watch that.”

“He
made
you?” Arlian asked. “Why?”

Sweet stared at him in surprise. “For
fun,
of course,” she said. “He enjoys watching people suffer. At least, he must enjoy it, because that was what he always wanted to do, but he mostly looked angry while he did it.”

Arlian stared at her in silent horror, his fists opening and closing in frustration.

“I
will
kill him,” he said at last. “Somehow, someday, I'll kill him.”