Dragon's Treasure (9 page)

Martin Giambi, a gravely controlled man, was grim and white.

"Butcher's work. It's a child," he said. "Male, I think."

Dennis forced back his sickness. He made himself look again at the tortured corpse. It would have taken someone a long time to do this. In the trees, the waiting crows shifted from foot to foot.

"Cover it."

Martin threw a piece of sacking over the corpse.

They walked from the orchard. Smoke drifted from the terraced hillsides.

"Have you found the governor?" Dennis asked.

"Aye. He's dead. Oddly, he's not wounded. They tied him up and left him, and he choked on the gag. His strongbox is empty. There's another man in the kitchen, perhaps the cook. He's dead, too. A chest wound."

A man ran up. "Sir, we found a girl. Her name's Teresa. She works—worked—for Mistress Bertinelli."

"Worked?"

"She's dead, sir. Stabbed. The girl was raped. She's coherent, though."

They would need to make a list of the dead. The Lemininkai would want to know who had died, and who survived. He wondered what name he should put for the dead boy under the olive tree.

"Tell Carlo I want to see him."

The man saluted and loped away. In a little while, Carlo arrived. He was a steady, quiet man, a little older than most of the troopers. He had been born in Firense, and served in that city's cavalry.

"I need you to take a message to Lukas Ridenar," Dennis said. "Bring him the Lemininkai's greeting, and his deep regrets. Tell him Mistress Celia Bertinelli was killed in an outlaw raid on Castella. Tell him what you have seen."

"Yes, sir," Carlo said. He turned on his heel.

Martin said, "Why—?"

Dennis said, "She was his mistress."

He sent Piero to Ujo with a report to Kalni Leminin, including his recommendation that men be sent from Ujo to rebuild and hold the guardhouse. He set men to the ugly business of digging graves. The rest of the troop fanned out through the town, dousing fires where they found them, and looking for survivors.

He took upon himself the gruesome, necessary task of burying the atrocity in the olive orchard.

5

The ride from Castella to Secca took four days.

Under the bright summer sky, the wide brown road was nearly deserted. Behind them in the west ran one river; eastward lay a second: between the two the land was flat, and green. Barley and wheat grew tall in the fields. Black-faced sheep, newly shorn, grazed in their pastures, attended by black-faced dogs.

"This is rich country. Whose is it?" Edric asked.

The Genovese family had dominion over Secca. Treion had no idea if this was part of their domain, or not.

"I'm not sure," he said.

They passed a village: ten tiny houses clustered around a rectangle of common grazing land, surrounded by a palisade. A cow, accompanied by her calf, nosed steadily at the grass. Pigeons fluttered round a dovecote. A girl with a blue ceramic jar on her shoulder stood beside a well. She gazed at them with curious eyes.

"Hoy," Edric said to her. "What's the name of this place?"

She shook her head shyly.

Treion said, "Perhaps it has no name."

They rode sedately, but not slowly. Men in a hurry only called attention to themselves. They slept in the open, avoiding inns and travelers' shelters, where someone might notice them, or their horses. Edric fell asleep at once, snoring lightly. Treion lay still, staring at the darkness. He was, he realized, afraid to sleep. A monster stalked his dreams, a graceful, blond-haired monster with a knife in his hand.

Somewhere in Ryoka, Niello Savarini lay, his breathing light and steady, his dreams untroubled. Truly, the man was a monster. He had heard the rumor of it months ago in the gutters of Ujo. He had even, to his shame, made use of it.
Show him, Niello.

* * *

The morning of the fourth day, they rode into Secca. The flag over the city gate showed the Genovese crest: a black viper on a red field, rampant. The guard at the gate did not even ask their names.

"State your business in the city," he droned.

Treion slipped him a ridari. "Entertainment."

They found Olin Marchioni at his place of business: a large, utilitarian warehouse, filled with pots. Marchioni was a legitimate pottery dealer. He was also a smuggler and a dealer in gems. He whistled when he saw the jewelry.

"This is fine stuff. Don't tell me where you got it. I don't want to know."

"I won't," Treion said. "What'll you give me for it?"

They haggled for a while, and finally agreed on a price.

They slept in the warehouse that night. Edric slept; Treion lay awake, listening for footsteps in the darkness.

The following morning they reached the Gorsin Bridge. The stones of the slender span were pitted with centuries of weathering. Two guard towers, equally ancient, flanked it on either side. They appeared to be empty. No smoke rose from the chimneys; no banners hung from poles. The noise of the river sang in their ears.

Edric gazed suspiciously at the long grey archway. "This place makes my head hurt. Where are we?"

"The Gorsin Bridge."

"Where does it go?"

"To Lienor."

"Lienor," Edric repeated. "The king's city." He tried not to look impressed, and failed. "Why Lienor?"

"It's a big city," Treion said. "Big enough for us to get lost in. We need to be lost, for a while."

"Is it as big as Ujo?"

"Bigger."

Edric frowned, clearly unable to imagine a city bigger than Ujo. "Why are those towers empty?"

"Because no one comes here anymore," Treion said. "There's a bridge to the south, a newer bridge, wide enough for carts. Everyone goes that way." He dismounted. "We'll have to lead the horses."

"Wait. I need to piss," Edric said. He walked toward the side of the bridge, loosening his clothes. "Oh, Mother." He stepped back, white-faced. "Vaikkenen's balls, we're high."

They coaxed the horses forward. The river streamed pewter. Sun glittered on its labile surface. A wet mist boiled to meet them out of the riverbed. On the far bank, a massive stele stood in the center of the path. They circled the stone. On the far side its makers had incised a crown, and below the crown, ancient markings.

"That's wizard's work. Runes," Edric said. He glanced anxiously at the tall pillar.

They mounted. Beyond the pillar, dark, spiky trees closed about them. Grey tendrils of mist seeped through the trees.

A narrow, stony road wound beneath their horses' hooves. The clip-clop sound echoed into the mist. There were none of the usual forest noises, no bird sounds, only the whisper of the wind sliding through the trees. The rushing sound was constant, inexorable as lust.

Edric said angrily, "This place isn't natural."

When night fell, they found a place to camp. Edric yanked his hood over his ears and lay down in the dirt. "Fucking wind," he complained. Treion leaned against a tree. His eyes were gritty. His mouth tasted of ash. He closed his eyes.

Monster,
the wind wailed.

* * *

He woke, and found a blade at his throat.

He froze. Above him, cold eyes registered his return to wakefulness. Grey ghosts weaved silently amid the mist-wreathed trees. One held a torch.

The blade moved in a tight gesturing circle. "Get up. Slowly."

Very slowly, he pushed aside his blanket, and rose to his feet. It was not yet dawn. The sword tip touched his chest warningly.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

No one answered him. Hard, competent hands searched through his clothes. Neither the cloaks nor the gear of his captors bore any emblems, but he had no doubt that he was dealing with professionals. They took his sword, the pouches with the gold, his boot knife, and the knife in his sleeve.

"Boots."

He put his boots on.

"Hold out your hands." He obeyed. "That's a pretty thing. Take it off." Treion twisted the topaz ring from his little finger. "Captain, look at this."

The troop leader appeared silently out of the mist. He turned the ring in his fingers.

"How did you get this?" he asked.

Treion said, "A woman gave it to me."

Hands bound his arms neatly behind his back. They brought him to his horse and hoisted him on it. Edric, also bound, was already mounted.

"Where are you taking us?" Treion asked. Still no one answered. "Whom do you serve?"

The captain answered. "We serve the king. Now be quiet, or we will bind your mouth and your eyes." He raised a hand. "Ride out!"

They moved, swiftly. Treion clamped his legs around his horse's ribs and concentrated on staying in the saddle. That day they halted once, to rest the horses, and to eat. Then they pushed on. Forest gave way to cleared land. They passed a village, another, another. By nightfall, Treion was swaying in the saddle, his legs trembling with weariness. Their captors loosened their bonds so that they could eat and relieve themselves. Then they were bound again. They slept tied.

The following day they reached the outer gate of Lienor. It was massive, two stories tall. Guard towers flanked it on either side. Pennants fluttered atop the towers, each bearing a device: the red running horse, the blue arrow, the white wolf, emblems of the lords of Ryoka who had once sworn fealty to the kings of Lienor. The tallest of them was black. It bore three gold emblems: crown, sword, and star.

The captain advanced to the portal and spoke to someone on the other side of the gate. The iron teeth lifted. They rode through. Ahead of them stretched a long bare plain, and at the other side of it stood another wall. It ran north and south. Even across the distance it looked taller than the one behind them. It seemed to go forever.

The captain said, "Behold the King's Wall. They say it was built at the same time, and by the same hands, as the Wizard's Wall." Three abreast, they rode toward the immense granite barrier. As they neared it, the iron grate that barred the way to its other side lifted. They rode into a dark passageway. The smells of oil and burning wood and horse swirled about them. A wain filled with huge iron-shod barrels thundered past. Then they were through. Directly ahead stood a massive stone fortress. Squat and strong, it thrust out of the earth like a boulder. Men in dark cloaks hurried by, intent on unknown errands. Helmeted soldiers with sharp-edged pikes guarded its entrance. The horsemen dismounted.

"In," said the captain. Hard hands pulled the captives up the fortress's broad steps. They were hustled along a corridor, thrust through a door, and left.

The bare room held neither cushion nor chair, not even a chamber pot. The only illumination came from a slit high in a wall. Treion swore. His fingers, which were fat as sausages, ached horribly, and his wrists were near chafed raw by the cords. He was thirsty, hungry, and sick of his own stink.

The door opened: the rider captain entered, followed by an older man. He was clean-shaven, his greying hair shorter than Nakase fashion would have it, much as the captain's was, but he was broader than the wiry captain, and older by twenty years.

Hands on hips, he surveyed the captives.

"Which of you is Unamira?"

"I am." Treion bowed as smoothly as a man whose forearms are tied together against his belly can bow. "And you, sir, are—?"

The man shook his head. "I ask the questions. You answer." He paused. "You bear no travel pass, no letter or courier's emblem. You carry a fortune on your person. Given your name, I doubt you came by it honestly. What is your business in Kameni?"

Treion said, "My business is my own."

"Bran," said the grey-haired man.

The blow came straight at his head. He dodged, too late. The rider's gloved fist caught him on the left side of the jaw.

"Try again," the grey-haired man said. "What is your business in Kameni?"

Treion's jaw throbbed. He said, through shut teeth, "My business is my own."

Bran's fist hit him squarely. He reeled, and fell hard against Edric, who went over as well. His bound hands hit the floor. Blood popped painfully beneath his nails.

The grey-haired man said, without haste or heat, "Eventually you will tell me. It is a simple question. What is your business in Kameni?"

Slowly, Treion untangled himself from Edric's legs, and stood. He breathed a moment, tasting blood. He could take a beating. But they might move on to other methods. He did not want to be tortured.

He said, "I came to Lienor to hide."

"From whom?"

"Kalni Leminin's soldiers."

"Why do they want you?"

"I burned the guardhouse at Castella, and stole the governor's treasure."

"I see," the man said dryly. "In answer to your question, I am Honoris Imorin. You may have heard of me."