The Dragon Lord (40 page)

At least there was no need to climb right to the top of the Tower, as he had first feared that they might. But it was still five levels up, an ascent made in armor maybe twice as heavy as his own, and Aldric was only glad to see he wasn’t the only person out of breath when at last they stopped. “How—how many levels—are there?” he gasped.

The trooper sent along to guide them—in tunic rather than armor,
he
was in full possession of his breath— gestured upwards. “Fourteen more and then the rooftop, sir,” he replied. Politely, for he had been primed or maybe simply warned about the young man with the
hanalth
insignia. “If you’re interested, then in daylight and better weather…”

“And no armor.” The words all came out in a rush as Aldric waved a hand, dismissing the offer. “No, soldier. I’ll forego”—and his next hesitance wasn’t so much a pause for breath as a meaningful stare at Voord—”the chance for sightseeing. Now, at least.”

Any hotter and the spellstone would be raising blisters on his skin! Oh for a moment to himself, a moment’s privacy to tug away the glove and look, only to see even if not to understand what the crystal talisman was doing. Apart from hurting him. There was more power contained now in the Echainon stone than at any other time he could remember, it thrummed with it, vibrating down the innermost core of his arm’s three bones so that he felt as though the limb itself trembled uncontrollably. Yet a surreptitious look revealed nothing of the sort— nothing whatsoever.

Then the guide trooper paused and tilted his head back as if listening to something. After a moment he shrugged, dismissing it as unheard or at least as unimportant. Nobody else noticed. Except Aldric, for just at that instant he had been leaning against the wall, his hand flat, and he alone knew that what had been heard was less a sound than a vibration in the stone, set aside by the trooper as perhaps snow-slip from a ledge or the slamming of a distant door. It would take more than snow, or a bigger door than any he had so far seen, to create such resonance in the ponderous blocks of which the Red Tower was built. But something settling on the roof, something with sufficient mass to well-nigh drown the fore-deck turrets of a Fleet battleram? That was another matter.

“Fourteen levels to the roof-top, soldier,” said Voord in a voice that was brisk and to Aldric all too businesslike, “but surely Princess Marevna isn’t being hel—has her quarters somewhere more convenient? Where, exactly?” It was a genuine enough question, just the sort of thing that a man fed up with climbing stairs would ask, and the trooper read nothing more from it than that. He pointed along the corridor.

“Fifth on the left, sirs. Will I make your introductions?”

Voord’s smile inside his helmet was more pleasant than the thought which had prompted it. “No need. I know the lady, so we’ll surprise her.”

You should be on the stage
, thought Aldric sourly.
Or on the scaffold
. There was a few minutes of scuffling as they tugged and neatened their clothing and armor— brushing away real or imagined dirt, water-beads and snow-melt smudges, straightening rank-robes, setting helmets just so. Bruda and Tagen each slid their broad nasal-bars up through the helmet-peaks and clear of their faces; but Aldric found it significant that Voord made no move to follow suit. Indeed, he seemed to have settled his harness more securely, rather than just making it neat. Aldric nodded imperceptibly; he knew now, for certain. Voord’s actions had confirmed the suspicion born when Voord—again—had dismissed their honor guard before they climbed the stairs. So. Aldric too kept peak and cheek-plates and nasal locked down in battle position. He didn’t trust
Hautheisart
Voord at all—except where this need for ready armor was concerned.

Then Bruda swore, very softly. Aldric’s head jerked round with a rustle and a click of metal, but saw only a man emerging from a doorway much further down the corridor. He turned, stooped and fumbled with keys until he had locked the door behind him. There was a cup in his hand—a dainty thing far removed from the beakers Aldric had seen used by the other members of the garrison when they were sitting off-duty in the lower levels, watching him go by—and there seemed nothing dangerous about him. Yet Bruda’s face was stamped with a flare of recognition that faded even as Aldric watched to a wary, guarded apprehension.

The man walked towards them, but stared past them, deliberately ignoring them completely… until he came close enough to see the glitter of rank badges in the lamplight. Only then did his pace slacken and a certain interest come into his face. It was a thin face, with thin hair and set on a thin body; his only noteworthy feature was the pair of prominent ears which Aldric fancied would never fit inside an army regulation-pattern helmet.

Bruda was less inclined to humor, because he knew this man by brief acquaintance—and more particularly by his reputation. He was well known—or rather, notorious— among several branches of service for what he called “attention to detail” and they more bluntly described as “bloody nit-picking.” His gods were the Books of Regulation and Instruction, and one story behind his room-locking custom held that there was a shrine to those gods hidden inside, in a cupboard.

Not even the best-laid plans were proof against such a man, whose life revolved around minutiae and pettiness. He could probably spot some overlooked error from where he stood. All that Bruda could hope was that this encounter was a coincidence and not something far, far worse; and that Aldric Talvalin would keep his mouth tight shut around that obviously non-Imperial accent.

“Bruda? Yes, Prokrator Bruda!” The newcomer laughed as he recognised a more or less familiar face. It was an unmistakable laugh, but it was also unreadable, because Bruda knew already that it would sound exactly the same whether sincerely meant or as a screen for something more sinister.

“Yes, indeed!” Bruda was being as jovial as he could manage, given the circumstances, and was relieved to see that Tagen, Voord and Aldric had all backed away, conscious of the “wrongness” of this situation and— certainly in two out of the three—ready to respond with total violence should such be required. The young trooper who had been their guide looked from one to another, saw the gathering clouds of a senior-level disagreement and, with a very sketchy salute indeed, made himself scarce.

Aldric watched him go. It was just as well; there was trouble brewing here, even though this new officer hadn’t yet seen it and Aldric for his part couldn’t guess the reason behind it all. But he was staying well clear of what was only an internal wrangle and nothing to do with him at all. Until the thin man turned to him in all innocence and like the
eldheisart
downstairs asked: “What did you do to earn gold diamonds so young,
hanalth? Hanalth
... ?”

Before he could begin to flounder or look otherwise obviously trapped, Aldric caught Bruda’s swift nod over the stranger’s shoulder.
Go on
—
tell him
, that nod said. Aldric didn’t shrug, or sigh resignedly, although it was a time for doing both; instead he drew himself a little straighter and as he had replied once already tonight, said, “Dirac, sir.
Hanalth Kagh’ Ernvakh
Dirac.”

Those few words were enough; Imperial officers of such seniority spoke only with the accent of the central provinces—and Imperial officers of any rank at all did not speak with the unmistakable Elthanek burr of northern Alba. The man stepped back sharply, a frown creasing his face; then he swung on Bruda. “What is this?” he snapped.

“Not this—
he
,” Bruda returned simply. “He is an Alban.”

Shock at the blunt, impossible answer left the man—whatever his name was—speechless for an instant (for a wonder), and those who could see his eyes watched a dozen speculations flicker through them in the brief silence. “And what’s he doing here?” No laughter now; no curiosity. Just an angry, tending-to-shrill immediate demand for information.

Bruda glanced at Aldric and allowed himself to smile, because the Alban was ready for anything short of outright murder. It was enough. “Right now? He’s going to hit you just as hard as he can manage.
Do IT!”

Aldric’s hand had already flattened into a chopping blade and the muscles of his entire body were still tingling with the energies leaking from the overcharged spellstone. So he didn’t do as Bruda said and strike as hard as he was able, because feeling as he did now it would likely have knocked the thin man’s head clean off. But he hacked down on the close-clipped neck with feeling, right below one of those ludicrous ears, and he certainly seemed to have hit with quite enough force to do what was required. The thin man jolted forward half a step without moving his legs and while still in the process of being utterly astonished, and would have measured his length along the corridor had Bruda not caught him in time. His pretty cup exploded into fragments on the floor.

“I have wanted to have that done,” Bruda said, “or do it myself, from the first moment that I met this… Well struck, Alban.”

“My pleasure.” Aldric massaged the edge of his hand thoughtfully and flicked a speculative glance at Voord. “I know what you mean, I’ve met one or two like that.”

“See to the princess,
Hlensyarl”
snarled Voord, nettled despite himself. “We’ll attend to this and then I’ll be right behind you.”

I’m sure you will
, thought Aldric.
And alone
—
but for a
telek. He said nothing aloud, but turned his back and walked quickly down the corridor to the fifth door on the left. Behind him he could hear Tagen being instructed to carry the unconscious man downstairs and have his “accidental” injury attended to.
That leaves you, and Bruda
—
and me. Well, well
Aldric unbolted the door, tried the handle, found it unlocked—and went inside.

“Dear God!” gasped Dewan. They had both seen it this time, beyond denial even by the driest of dry humor; seen it as clearly as the swirling snow allowed. A monstrous shape made more monstrous yet by the darkness which surrounded it, vast wings, lean body and a brief bright lick of flame—all landing with audacious ease atop the Red Tower. By now Gemmel and Dewan were close enough to see how a length of parapet broke away under the dragon’s weight and went tumbling down and out of sight. Neither of them saw or heard it striking ground.

“How many men in the garrison?” Gemmel had the Dragonwand braced now in both his hands, held like a weapon rather than a walking-staff; that pretence was over, for the energies which it contained and focused were overflowing now, illuminating the snowshot darkness with a fluttering actinic glare like summer lightning behind clouds, the lightning’s brilliance muted by great distance—or by the will of he who held that lightning’s power in check.

Dewan could hear the sound which emanated from the spellstave; for Ykraith sang to herself with a thin atonal screaming that spoke of nothing less than utter power. The ebb and flow of that high, sweet wail, a song without words, matched every nuance of the arabesques of force dancing along her dragon-patterned length. And both matched the beating of someone’s heart. Not Dewan’s, for his heart was racing again, pounding the blood through his veins in a percussive arhythmic counterpoint to the spellstave’s music; and most likely not Gemmel’s either—even if what he was, man-shaped though it might be, had a heart that Dewan ar Korentin might recognise as such.

“I said, ‘How many men?’” There was an impatience in the sorcerer’s voice, an urgency which spoke of more important things than merely calculating odds.

“Forty, most likely. Maybe more, given the circumstances. But Gemmel, that still makes it twenty-to-one at the very least!”

“Count again,” Gemmel reproved. “You’re forgetting Aldric—and you’re forgetting…” He gestured just once towards the top of the tower, invisible now behind a curtain of snow. “I’d say that evens things a little.”

“But what are you planning?” Tactical and strategic studies had never included a scenario quite like this one! “What are you going to do?”

“Diversion. Remember what the Vixen told us? When the alarms go off, the guards should only think of running in one direction. I’m”—his gaze shifted briefly, apologetically, to where Ymareth crouched unseen high above them both—” no.
We’re
going to force them to a choice—confuse them with decisions just a little. Let’s get closer. I want to hear just when the shouting starts.”

They began edging forward, eyes narrowed and squinting against a snowfall that was winding up towards blizzard proportions, until after a few steps Gemmel straightened himself and strode as best he could along the middle of the street, as if he had every right in the world to do so. Dewan stared at him, saw the wizard’s outline waver towards invisibility as the white-swirled distance between them increased, and realized what had made him bold. There was no need to hide in
this
.

“I’ve never seen it fall like this before,” Dewan said as he drew level again, “at least not so early in the season. Oh, of course! I’m not seeing it again, am I?”

Gemmel turned to look at him and grinned a grin made vague because white teeth and white beard and white snow were all running into one another. “Snow’s easy, if it’s already there,” he said. “Fog’s much more difficult.”

Neither saw the cloaked and muffled figure standing with a little group of horses in the wind-lee of the buildings nearest to the wall-gate of the Tower. If they had— and Dewan in particular—then memory and recognition might have stirred a chord. But as the snow fell and danced and whirled across the thick, cold air, not even Gemmel knew that there was someone there.

The room beyond the door was snug and warm, illuminated by scented lamps and by the flickering of a large log fire. Applewood, by the smell. There was a sense of ease and comfort rather than real luxury, but certainly nothing to suggest that this might be a prison cell… except for those thick bars across the outside of the door.

But it would have taken far less than that to make Aldric’s suspicions gather momentum again. Already there had been too much trickery, too much deception; too many things which had not been as they first appeared. What if the princess was here willingly? Or if he had been unknowingly involved in some internal political power-play? Or if the assassination itself was just another trick?