Dragon Weather (65 page)

54

The Sword of Vengeance

Arlian wished he knew enough sorcery to alter his appearance anew, so that he would have neither his own face nor the one his foes had seen in the wagon and the inn. Unfortunately, he had no prepared spells with him, nor any idea how a glamour was cast, and Thirif and Shibiel were not there to help.

As he walked through gardens and yards, climbing over fences and leaping ditches, he did rearrange his hair—in the wagon he had worn it loose, brushed forward at the sides, after the fashion of the local farmers. Now he combed it back with his fingers, and used his swordbreaker to cut away locks on either side, shaping it into something marginally more like a traditional Manfort style—not that he could see what he was doing, in the dark with no mirror. He removed his homespun tunic, revealing the good linen blouse he had worn underneath—not so much because he anticipated a need to change his appearance as because he preferred the feel of the smoother fabric on his skin, the warmth of an additional layer had been welcome, and in his rushed preparations he hadn't brought any silk undershirts.

He was uncomfortably aware that he did not understand how a glamour worked, and that others might well see him completely differently from how he saw himself, so that these changes might be hidden; still, it was the best he could manage under the circumstances. He hadn't even thought to learn how to remove the glamour.

He stayed well away from the high road, taking cover when hooves drummed past, and again when a knot of yelling men marched by. In one yard a chained watchdog yapped at him, just once, and he froze for a long moment, but the bark was not repeated, no one responded to it, and he finally moved on.

And eventually he arrived in the kitchen garden behind the inn. He had expected to find a guard he would have to circumvent, but the little yard was empty—his enemies had been too disorganized, too unprepared, to post anyone here.

He made his way up the flagstone path to the little wooden stoop, where he pounded on the inn's back door with the hilt of his sword.

The innkeeper's wife, looking puzzled, opened the door and peered out at him. “Yes?”

“There's no one out here,” Arlian said brusquely. “Is Lord Drisheen still inside, or has he gone off with the rest of them?”

“Is Drisheen the thin one?” the woman asked uncertainly.

“That's him,” Arlian said.

“He's in the dining room. The one-eyed fat one went out after the assassin.”

“I need to speak to him,” Arlian said, not commenting on her descriptions—he wouldn't have called Lord Toribor
fat,
exactly, though the name “Belly” did suit him well enough. There was a lot of muscle there.

And Drisheen was not really excessively thin, either. Still it was one of several easy ways of distinguishing the two.

The woman hesitated, then stepped aside and let Arlian in. “You go straight through, and don't touch anything,” she said.

“Thank you,” Arlian said. He obeyed her injunction, marching directly through the generous and cluttered kitchen and out through the swinging door.

Sure enough, Drisheen sat at one of the tables, a boy and a woman occupying two of the other chairs. A single guardsman stood at the front door.

The boy looked up when Arlian entered; the guard at the door was leaning out and peering down the street, while Drisheen and the woman were deep in conversation. The boy clearly had no idea who Arlian was, but the sight of the bare blade in his hand, and the mere fact that he wasn't anyone from Enziet's party, was enough to alarm the child. “My lord,” he said, tugging at Drisheen's sleeve.

Arlian wasted no more time; he bellowed, “Get away from him, both of you!” and charged at Drisheen, his sword arm at full extension.

The boy leaped up; the woman turned, startled. Drisheen started to rise, reaching for his sword.

Then Arlian's blade plunged into Drisheen's chest. Because of the furniture in the way, it was not the clean thrust through the heart that Arlian had hoped for, but it was almost certainly a fatal blow.

The woman screamed, and the man at the door finally reacted, turning to see what was happening.

Drisheen looked down at the sword in shock.

“I thought you…” he began, but he was unable to complete the sentence as his mouth filled with bright blood—Arlian's sword had pierced a lung. Red streamed from Drisheen's mouth and nose as he fell back in his chair, eyes wide, right hand tugging at the hilt of his own weapon.

“Fought fair, as I did against Kuruvan and Horim?” Arlian finished for him. “When I can—but against
you,
after what you did to Ferret and Sparkle purely to spite me, I'll settle for butchery.” He yanked his blade free.

Drisheen's chest seemed to ripple unnaturally as blood gushed from the wound—Arlian blinked, unsure whether he was really seeing what he thought he was.

Then Drisheen fell forward across the table, into a spreading pool of his own blood, and a thin wisp of smoke spilled from his gaping mouth.

“Sorcery,” Arlian muttered. Then he looked up from his dead foe.

The guard at the door was staring, pulling his own sword from its scabbard but making no move to attack. The woman and the boy were unarmed and seemed interested only in getting away.

Behind him, the innkeeper's wife had emerged from the kitchen; now she started screaming. Arlian whirled.

“Shut up, or I'll gut you like a fish,” he snarled.

The screams died into a whimper.

The guard took an uncertain step into the room. Arlian spun again, his sword spattering drops of Drisheen's blood across the floor, drops that seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“You want to fight me?” Arlian asked, drawing his swordbreaker. “Drisheen's already dead, and I'm the man who killed Lord Iron—are you
sure
you want to take me on all by yourself?”

The guardsman dropped his sword, turned, and ran out the door.

“Idiot,” Arlian said. Then he looked at the woman and the boy. “Get out of here,” he said. “Both of you. Right now.”

The two of them staggered to their feet and obeyed, following the guard out into the street.

That left the innkeeper's wife. He turned and bowed to her.

“My apologies, madam, for the mess I've made, but this man murdered two friends of mine back in Manfort.”

The woman made a strangled noise.

Arlian decided she didn't pose any immediate threat. He could hear shouting in the street, though; at any moment he expected several armed men to burst in, intent on avenging Lord Drisheen.

He didn't want to be here when they arrived.

He could go back out through the kitchen, of course, but if the people out there had any wits at all they would surround the building before making their move—there might already be men moving around to block that exit.

Besides, Cricket and Brook were presumably here somewhere—probably upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. And Black and the others were somewhere, too—if they were still alive. Arlian had too much unfinished business to simply run off into the night.

He sheathed his swordbreaker and picked up the sword the guard had dropped—while he didn't know how to fight with two swords, someone else might need a weapon. He glanced at Drisheen's body.

That hideous, unnatural movement of his chest had stopped, and the flow of blood subsided to a trickle; no more smoke had appeared. He was clearly dead. All the same, Arlian decided not to take
his
sword; the blood on the table and floor had a peculiar, inhuman sheen to it as a reminder that Drisheen had not been an ordinary man. His weapon might be enchanted.

Arlian hefted his two swords and headed for the stairs, clattering up swiftly and swinging around at the landing, noticing as he did that the arrow he had dodged perhaps half an hour before was still stuck in the plaster above his head.

He had hardly reached the top step—encountering no wards this time—when he heard the clamor of armed men entering below. He paused for a fraction of a second, listening and looking.

He could hear the people downstairs shouting about the discovery of Drisheen's death, and boots stamping—men were heading for the stairs after him.

The corridor was unlit—the oil lamp that had illuminated it before had gone out—but Arlian could see that of the seven doorways before him, six stood open—presumably no one had bothered to close them in their rush to pursue him. The seventh—the second on the right—was another matter; it was shut tight.

That was obviously the room he wanted, as his pursuers would know it was occupied and expect him to hide elsewhere. He stepped up and hammered on the door. “Open up!” he called.

“Why? What's going on?” a deep, harsh voice replied—Shamble's voice; Arlian had heard it that afternoon, and recognized it readily.

“Lanair's got an army out here! We need everyone!” Arlian shouted.

“Oh, blood and death,” Shamble muttered, barely audible through the wood.

“Hurry!” The first guardsman had turned on the landing and was scarcely twenty feet away, peering up into the darkness.

The door opened, and Arlian charged it, pushing past a startled Shamble before the big man could brace himself. Then he turned and kicked hard, knocking the door out of Shamble's hand and slamming it shut.

Shamble growled and reached for his sword, but Arlian's blade was at his throat.

“Don't try it,” Arlian said. “Lock the door.”

Shamble snorted. “Not likely,” he said.

Arlian pushed, and the tip of his sword drew blood. Shamble growled.

“Lock it or get out of the way,” Arlian said.

Shamble backed along the wall, away from the door.

Arlian could hear voices in the hallway, but could not make out the words, as he threw the bolt with the tip of his other sword. He stole a quick glance around the room.

There were four beds, two on either side of a fair-sized room; a shuttered dormer window broke the sloping ceiling opposite the single door. Bundles of baggage were scattered about, sheets and blankets in disarray. An oil lamp burned on a small table.

Two of the beds were occupied—one by Cricket, one by Brook, both women clad in simple nightgowns. They were staring at him, clearly unsure what was going on. Arlian smiled.

“Cricket,” he called, “catch!” Then he tossed his extra sword to her and drew his swordbreaker. That felt better, having the proper weapons in both hands again.

She shied away, missing the catch; the sword tumbled off the bed.

Someone was pounding on the door. “Shamble! Open up!”

Shamble growled, but stayed where he was, back against the wall and safely out of reach of the latch. “Move or speak and you're a dead man,” Arlian told him conversationally. Then he looked around.

Cricket was scrambling for the sword; Brook was still staring.

“Brook,” Arlian said, hoping she would hear but the men outside would not, “tell them Shamble's asleep, dead drunk.”

“Shamble! Damn you, man!” the voice called.

“What?” Brook asked.

“Call out! Tell them he's passed out drunk!” Arlian insisted quietly.

Cricket had finally got her hands on the sword; now she held it up triumphantly and shouted, “Shamble's asleep! He drank up all the wine and fell right over!”

Brook looked at her, startled, then smiled and added, “And he stinks! I think he pissed himself!”

Cricket giggled; Shamble started to protest, but Arlian applied warning pressure on the sword.

Arlian could hear a mumbled conference on the other side of the door. He couldn't make out all of it, but it was plain that his pursuers were arguing about whether to believe the women.

“Let us in,” someone called.

Cricket and Brook exchanged glances. Brook called, “Do we have to? I hate crawling that far.”

“And Shamble's leaning against the door,” Cricket added. “We'd have to move him, and he's heavy!”

“And there's a puddle—don't make me crawl through that!” Brook said.

Arlian smiled broadly at them, admiring their quick wit. In a sudden inspiration he sheathed his swordbreaker and undid his trousers. A moment later a malordorous seepage under the door provided added verisimilitude for Brook's tale.

Shamble stared at him with hate-filled eyes, but did not dare move or speak.

That provoked disgusted exclamations from outside, and the pursuit moved on, searching the other rooms vigorously.

“Are you going to kill me?” Shamble asked quietly.

“Should I?” Arlian responded. “Do you deserve to die?”

Shamble growled.

Arlian did not take his eyes off his foe, but called to the others, “Cricket, what do you think? Should I kill him?”

“Please yourself,” Cricket said. “I won't weep for him.”

“Brook?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Who
are
you?”

“That's a good question,” Arlian said. “Do
you
know, Shamble?”

“Lord Lanair, I suppose,” Shamble said.

“And do you know who Lord Lanair is?”

“A lunatic who's decided to destroy Lord Enziet and his friends, and cast Manfort into chaos.”

Arlian nodded. “That's one way of describing the situation,” he agreed. “It's not my only one.” He shifted the tip of his blade upward an inch, drawing a bloody line on Shamble's throat. “Do you remember looting a village ten years ago, Shamble? Do you remember finding a boy in a cellar there, the lone survivor?”

Shamble's eyes narrowed. “That was
you?
”

Arlian smiled a nasty smile. “Good guess,” he said. “Yes, it was. And what happened to that boy?”

“We sold him to the mines at Deep Delving. So you're an escaped slave, dressed up in a lord's shirt.”

“Again,” Arlian said, “that's one way of looking at it. In fact, I
am
a lord, as I'm sure you know.”