The Dragon Lord (30 page)

During the early decades of the Sherbanul dynasty’s rise to absolute power—before the coming of the Warlords—it had become necessary to find a secure place where important prisoners, political hostages and “guests” of the Drusalan Empire could stay pending an ultimate decision on their fate. That decision could be a reprieve, or the signing of a favourable treaty-favourable to the Empire, naturally—or legal execution. Once in awhile it was just disappearance.

The Red Tower—which had acquired its name and its glazing when the city first declared its support for the Emperor ten years before, during that delicate few months when the second autocrat of the dynasty was considering who were allies and who enemies and what to do to each—was just such a place. Created as a fortress, finished as a home, it had all the necessary requisites and had been handed over to the then-current Emperor on the instant that his speculation passed from the cerebral to the verbal. Red being the preferred Imperial color (a fact made known to those who had cho-sen the tint of the glaze, and everyone was aware of it) the gift was accepted at once. Since then a considerable number of people had passed through the tower’s lowering portals, and though most of them were accounted for in one way or another, there were still a score or so who had never been seen or heard from again… as if the somber crimson building had swallowed them. Yet in keeping with the facade of safe, comfortable accommodation for individuals of consequence—and since a few of them were indeed restored to their full rank and privilege with apologies of varying sincerity—conditions within the Tower were said to be little short of luxurious. And the guard contingent was supposed to be downright polite!

Dewan ar Korentin had told Aldric about this place over a drink; one of the many, many Imperial subjects which they had discussed in the short time available for Aldric to learn about them. He had said that a posting to duty in the Red Tower was regarded by most regular troops— and granted by their officers—as a kind of good-conduct award. That meant several things; most of all, that the attitude of the entire small garrison from its commander down tended to be somewhat lax. Quite apart from anything else, the construction, reputation and appearance of the Red Tower was such that it deterred all but the most determined escape attempts. Not that any of those had ever succeeded, of course—and for the same reasons, nobody should be mad enough to want to get
in
.

Except, reflected Aldric sardonically, that several otherwise rational people apparently were…

And somebody, somewhere, seemed to suspect as much. Why else would all the streets leading to Tower Square be blocked by army checkpoints? The soldiers manning them wore
Woydach
Etzel’s crest and colors— Aldric was growing very tired of seeing that jagged four-pointed star disfiguring what he still regarded as his own clean black and silver, for all that he wore Imperial red right now—and they were turning away any who lacked the proper written authority to pass through their blockade, even those who, by the sound of their protests, actually lived in the sealed-off streets.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” Aldric wondered quietly out of the corner of his mouth. “They can’t be expecting us. Can they… ?”

“No.” Bruda’s reply sounded confident and unconcerned. “This is standard practice. A drill. A precautionary measure.”

“Precaution against what?”

This time Prokrator Bruda made no answer.

There was a travelling fair in town: jugglers, musicians and acrobats—and knowing the Imperial Secret Police a little, Aldric guessed that some of them, the acrobats at least, were as likely
taulathin
as not. It was only a guess, because nobody had told him or even hinted that it might be so. But then, they probably hadn’t told Lord General Goth either. The fair was keeping company with the more respectable and socially acceptable entertainments of professional storytellers and a theatrical troupe; altogether an expensive-looking show, drawn here for some festival or other to make the last few performances of the season before winter closed in, which had attracted more people than Egisburg seemed able to comfortably hold. One or two more strange faces would hardly attract attention; Bruda or whoever was behind this venture’s planning must surely have known, and it explained much of the tight timekeeping involved.

For all the crowds, it proved easy to find lodgings; the cavalry escort were billeted at once with the city’s garrison—for despite tensions among the politicals, there was no similar internal breakdown in the Army. Yet. That lay behind the arrogant ease with which they had travelled from Goth’s headquarters, and was why the Lord General had insisted Aldric wear Imperial armor. It made him just another part of—the Alban sneered inwardly as the thought took shape—one big, happy army. And a part who was of such rank that he need not fear casual questioning; no military policeman or checkpoint Serjeant would dream of questioning a
ha-nalth
of Armored Cavalry without a triple-thick, lead-lined, copper-bottomed damn good reason to hide behind. And if he had one, and was already so suspicious as to ask questions, then it was already far too late.

Officers of rank naturally did not live in barracks with their men when there was better to be had, and in Egisburg there was much, much better. For all the teeming host of visitors, and regardless of the fact that they were the best in the city, there were still rooms vacant in the inns lying directly beneath the brooding shadow of the Tower. Vague, forbidding rumours of just who might be held in the citadel—and those rumours varied widely from the unlikely to the downright impossible—were enough to persuade all but the boldest and the wealthiest to seek rooms elsewhere in the city—anywhere elsewhere. Those who remained, other than high-ranking military officers, were men and women cushioned by money whose boldness was directly proportional to their wealth. And some were very, very
bold
indeed.

The explanation had come from Bruda, prompted by Aldric’s voiced doubt that they would find anywhere to stay other than barracks and that he most certainly wasn’t going to live and sleep in a place where his slightest error would show up like a candle in a cellar. They were riding easily through the crowded streets, letting the throng part before the horses in their own time rather than forcing a passage as they might have done; to do so would have been unnecessary, and obviously so. A casual drifting was much more natural in Egis-burg’s holiday atmosphere; as natural as the smile which it created on Aldric’s face when he began to appreciate the citizens’s cheery mood. It was the first such mood, and the first unforced smile, which he had experienced in far too long. More interesting still, the leisurely pace gave him time to overhear such of the storytellers as were close enough to avoid drowning in the background babble.

Aldric had long known that these professional storytellers were rather different from the Alban equivalent— like, for instance, the old man who had harped and sung at his
Eskorrethen
feast almost four years ago.
Four years ago this very month
! he realized with a slight start. Albans were conservative in many things, preferring the old ways to any innovation; that was not always a good thing, whether in the matter of literature or in wider world affairs. One might lead to a degree of cultural stagnation, but the other could be much more dangerous. Of course, King Rynert’s new approach—as typified by his presence here—could be equally chancy. To Aldric!

That old man had memorised scores of old legends, old stories, old folktales and even the old, approved way in which to tell each one. But all, like their teller, were
old
. However, the Imperial word for a storyteller translated literally into Alban as “one who makes tales which entertain,” and indeed they spent as much time creating new material as they did in learning the classics. It was no accident that, though Jouvaine by birth and Vreijek by inclination, the playwright Oren Osmar had produced some of his most enduring and popular work under Imperial auspices. Even
Tiluan the Prince
, a play still widely regarded as original, daring and controversial more than eighty years after its first performance.

Not, of course, that such daring controversy touched on anything to do with the Empire’s policies; generations of hard-working theatrical censors had seen to that, and Aldric was not so naive as to forget it. Still, it was intriguing to hear not only stories which he knew already— though in a foreign language which required a degree of concentration for him to understand—but also tantalising snatches of tales entirely new; although some of these were familiar and popular favourites here, if the noisy approval of their audiences bore true witness.

“... As long ago as forever, and as far away as the moon…”

“... Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank…”

“... be sure that you return before the stroke of midnight, for otherwise…”

“... proud, pale Prince of ruins, bearer of the rune-carved Black Sword…”

“... the falcon struck thrice upon the ground and became a fine young man…”

“... I shall clasp my hands together and bow to the corners of the world…”

Aldric was jolted violently back to an awareness of his purpose in this city by a slap between the shoulder-blades which observers—had their eyes been keen— might have noticed struck him far, far harder than any
hautheisart
had a right to strike a
hanalth
, no matter how close their friendship might have been. But there was no friendship at all in Voord’s grin when Aldric swung round with a stifled oath to glare at him. The man’s thin, bloodless lips were stretched back far too tightly from his teeth; it was an ugly rather than an amiable expression, and both men knew that the other was meant to know it.

“There will doubtless be a time for sightseeing,
sir
,” the Vlechan said. “But later. Not now.”

Drinking white wine from a flagon sunk in compacted snow to keep it cool, two Imperial officers sat in the otherwise deserted withdrawing-room of a fine tavern and regarded one another over the rims of their goblets. Two others were absent.
Hautheisart
Voord had gone out for an ostentatiously-announced walk, and if there was any ulterior motive behind his decision—coming as it did so closely on the heels of certain observations regarding sightseeing—not even Aldric Talvalin considered it worth commenting on.

Aldric himself, typically enough, had settled himself into his assigned room for some five minutes, then had gone looking for the tavern’s bath-house. Bruda had shown no surprise; he knew the Alban people and their customs slightly, and this young man rather more than that. It was of course possible that Aldric was being subtly insulting, trying to imply that the company he was forced to keep made him feel unclean, but any insult so delicately subtle that it went unnoticed failed to be an insult at all. Instead Bruda and Tagen sat drinking their chilled wine, chatting about inconsequential matters in a relaxed way which would have shocked officers of a similar difference in rank who were unaware of the informal rank structure within
Kagh’ Ernvakh
.

Aldric came in before the flagon was more than halfway empty, looking pinkly clean, still a little damp behind the ears and smelling the merest touch scented—in short, like any other officer of the Drusalan military on an off-duty evening. He was out of armor now and back into his own clothing as far as his pretence allowed; only the rank-flashed brassards on the upper arms of his tunic, and the wide embroidered shoulder-tabs resting uncomfortably on the densely-furred
coyac
he wore over it, gave any outward indication of what he was supposed to be. The severe haircut inflicted on him before he left Goth’s headquarters was no different from that of any other man, officer or other rank, and the overrobe bearing his other insignia was doubled carelessly over the arm which carried his sheathed longsword. In the instant of his taking a seat, that robe was flung casually across the chair-back—and the sword leaned respectfully against its arm.

“You should be wearing that,” said Bruda reprovingly.

“The sword?” Aldric misunderstood deliberately, then reached behind him and pulled the rank-robe further down to make a better cushion for his head. “Or this thing? Because you aren’t wearing yours,” he pointed out with impeccable logic as he poured himself some wine.

Bruda smiled thinly “Your point,” he conceded without rancour. “But then again, I’m entitled to my rank; I earned it. Yours is merely borrowed. So wear the robe whenever you go out of this tavern: understood?”

The request was acknowledged—just—by a lifting of eyebrows and wine-cup, and by the faintest of nods.

You do know how to be annoying, don’t you
? thought Bruda. He said nothing of that sort aloud, and instead turned back to Tagen and the conversation interrupted by Aldric’s arrival. “So—now that you’ve seen the Tower, what do you think? Any ideas about getting in?”

“
What
?” Aldric sat up very sharply, flinched, swore and shook cold wine out of his sleeve. He was none too pleased by the import of Bruda’s words; playing things by ear was all very well in the proper time and place, but this was neither.

Bruda’s gaze flicked unemotionally from the spilled wine to Aldric’s face and back again in any eyeblink. “Mop that up,” he said, taking a drink of his own. “And I wasn’t talking to you. Tagen—you’re from the hill country. Opinions?”

“I think, Prokrator,” said Tagen, after taking a moment to gather his thoughts, “that hill-climbing and the Tower don’t go together. No natural toe or finger-holds thanks to the glaze; and if you tried to hammer in a spike you’d have the whole garrison out to answer your knocking.”

“Conclusion?”

“As well try to climb a mirror as go up that bitch by normal means. Sir.”

“I see.” Bruda shifted in his chair. “Well, Aldric: no comments yet?”

“No. Not yet.” There was more on Aldric’s mind right now than being sarcastic; and granted, that did make a change.

“Sir?” said Tagen in the voice of one struck by a sudden thought. “Sir, I might be able to get a grapnel on to one of the parapets.”