The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

Arlian stared at him silently for a moment, and Hardior's smile slipped under that gaze.

"There are secrets here you do not know, my lord,"

Arlian said at last. "What Enziet told Belly was, if not lies, at best only part of the truth, but Enziet did spend almost a thousand years researching the nature of dragons, and he named me heir to what he learned. I may be mad, my lord, but I believe I do in fact know a means of killing dragons. If it proves that I am
not
mad, and I do indeed slay one or more of the monsters, what then?"

Hardior's smile vanished.

"Are you asking what I would do if you killed a dragon?"

"Yes. And let me also ask what you would do if I slew
all
the dragons."

Hardior hesitated, his expression unreadable, before replying, "Why, you would be the greatest hero in Manfort's history, of course! Anything you asked would be yours."

"Anything? Even the deaths of certain people?"

"Nail and Belly?"

"Perhaps. And perhaps others."

Hardior swallowed, then shook his head. "This is absurd. Your madness is catching, my lord. Let us leave such matters until such time as they move out of the realm of sheerest fantasy."

"As you please, my lord." Arlian turned and began walking.

Hardior hesitated, then turned the other way.

"Good day to you, my lord," he called.

Arlian waved a silent response, and marched on.

That suggestion that he might spend years in planning his assault on the dragons—the implication that he would never, in fact, attempt it—aggravated him.

He would take his time in preparing, since rushing in unprepared would almost certainly get him killed, but he would not put it off indefinitely. The temptation to do so was real, certainly, but it was not a temptation he would yield to. He would demonstrate to Hardior, and to everyone else in Manfort, that he might be mad, but he was neither a fool nor a coward. He
would
go hunting dragons, and he would do it soon.

Perhaps he and the Aritheians would go to Deep Delving together, settle matters at the mines there, equip a caravan with silver and amethysts for the journey to Arithei, and then head south.

And once in the Desolation the Aritheians would continue on to the Borderlands, while he would turn east, to the cave where Enziet had died, and the dragons' lair beneath it.

Within a year, he promised himself. He would head

Vanniari was a happy baby, plump and healthy, feeding well at her mother's breast. Hasty doted upon her, but was limited in how well she could care for the child by her own maimed condition; Lord Obsidian's other crippled guests, Cricket and Brook and Musk and Lily and Kitten, were of little assistance, and instead the palace servants were called upon to handle the fetching and carrying involved. Stammer took charge of the situation, ensuring that Hasty's daughter had a steady supply of clean clothing and was properly provided with bedding.

Arlian made a point of visiting Hasty and Vanniari at least ooce a day, but he devoted most of his attention to other matters.

One of the first things he did after returning home from his conversation with Lord Hardior was to begin composing a message to Lord Toribor, a message that asked for a meeting.

This composition was difficult; the usual forms, with their expressions of friendship, were clearly impossible when the last contact between the two men had been a duel that had ended with Arlian declaring their dispute unresolved. Furthermore, it would not do to put down in writing exactly what Arlian wanted to discuss, as servants might well read the note. Even reassuring Toribor that his life was still protected by the Dragon Society's oath was difficult, since the very existence of the Dragon Society was at least nominally secret.

At last, though, after a full day's effort, Arlian felt he had achieved a satisfactory phrasing, and dis-patched the message in Black's care.

Two hours later, as Arlian was conferring with the kitchen staff regarding when and where dinner would be served, Black returned with Toribor's reply. He handed it to Arlian without comment.

Arlian opened the note and read, "I had wondered when I would hear from you. For reasons I trust are clear, I will not set foot in the Old Palace, nor in the house that once belonged to Lord Enziet, nor will I allow you in my own home; but I will, if you choose, meet with you tomorrow at an address we both know on the Street of the Black Spire."

Arlian considered this briefly, then handed it to Black. "Fair enough," he said. 'Tell him I will see him tomorrow afternoon." He glanced at the preparations going on a few feet away, and added, "Don't go now, though. After supper will be soon enough."

The following day was bright and warm, a perfect day in early spring, and between the weather and the impending meeting with Lord Belly, Arlian could not concentrate on his schemes of vengeance against the dragons; instead he visited the graves in the garden where Sweet and Dove were interred, and marveled at the green shoots poking up in the flower beds, and the buds on the trees, and the rich smell of the moist earth.

He had not often had the opportunities and time to look at such things. A year ago when the first spring greenery appeared he had been returning to Manfort a wealthy man, and had been too concerned with establishing his household in the Old Palace, establishing his business connections for his dealing in Aritheian magic, and establishing his reputation as one of Manfort's wealthy eccentrics, to pay attention to nature's changes.

The year before that he had been fleeing the House of the Six Lords, and finding refuge with Black in a rented room in the stony streets of Manfort, as the world outside the city turned green.

And for the seven springs before that he had been deep beneath the ground, in the bare rock tunnels of the mines at Deep Delving, where the seasons meant nothing.

Now he stood in the garden, staring at the tiny green points pushing up through the dead leaves on either side of Sweet's grave, unable to decide just what he was feeling. Sweet's death still left a raw wound in his heart, a ragged hole in his soul—but she was at peace, free forever of Lord Enziet, free of her pain and fear and horrific memories, and around her the world was renewing itself, going on without her.

He, too, had to go on without her. He had avenged her, had killed the man who had tormented her for so long, and who had fatally poisoned her. He had as well killed three of the others who had held her in bondage, crippled her, and abused her—only Nail and Belly remained alive. He had done everything he could to repay her for her kindness and love.

It didn't bring her back. It didn't give her the happy life she had deserved. Nothing could; she was dead and gone.

Ariian was not He still lived. He had a home, and wealth, and friends, and he was a dragonheart, immune to poison and disease. The world was a wonderful place that was renewing itself, turning green and lush There was a new baby upstairs with her mother, just starting out on life.

His life should be long and happy. He was free to do anything he chose.

And he intended to commit dozens of murders, cul-minating in his own suicide. That assumed, of course, that he didn't die in his attacks on the dragons.

Over the past ten years any number of people had told him he was mad, and as he looked at Sweet's grave he suspected they were right. He had done as much as anyone could reasonably ask of him; he had destroyed Enziet and Drisheen, and rescued six women from slavery. He had freed all Enziet's slaves, as well.

But it wasn't enough to satisfy him; obviously, he wasn't anyone reasonable.

He was still awash in confusion and uncertainty of the wisdom of his cause when he marched down the Street of the Black Spire to the black iron door with the red bar that guarded the hall of the Dragon Society.

He knew it might not be wise, that it could only end badly, but he never seriously contemplated abandoning his vengeance against the dragons. He merely debated whether or not he was insane to pursue it.

He was thus distracted when he was admitted to the Society's great chamber, and the sudden hush that fell over the room startled him out of his thoughts. He paused, standing just inside the inner door, and looked over the room, where a dozen faces stared silently back at him.

None of the spring sunlight penetrated here; instead the windowless room was lit by a hundred or so assorted candles, their light sparkling dully from the gilding on the coffered ceiling and from the polished wood of the walls and cabinetry, bright on hundreds of carvings and curios. The air was still and heavy with the scent of dust and hot candle wax. The room's occupants were scattered among the dozens of heavy tables and chairs, their footsteps silent on the thick carpets.

But all of them were staring at him.

Arlian, concerned with his own thoughts and his upcoming meeting with Toribor, had not stopped to consider what the effect of his appearance here might be.

Now he realized he should have.

He was the man who had denounced Lord Enziet, the Society's most senior member and one of its founders, as a traitor. He was the man who had pursued Enziet into the Desolation, and presumably driven him to his death. He was the man who had slain Lord Drisheen, another senior member, in a tavern in Cork Tree, and who had survived the assassin Drisheen had loosed upon him. He was the man who had slain the notorious Lord Horim in a duel outside the gates, and who had sworn to kill Lords Stiam and Toribor as well.

And he had not set foot in this room since he set out after Enziet

Furthermore, he was a dragonheart who reportedly had a
new
scar on his face, and it was the Society's long-held belief that only a dragon could scar a dragonheart. Naturally, the others wanted to look at him, to see what he would do, and whether the scar was really there.

He looked slowly around the room, at the faces amid the statuary and bric-a-brac, and in a far corner he saw the big square face with the eyepatch, the face he was seeking. Wordlessly, he made his way across the room, winding between the tables until he reached Lord Toribor. who sat behind one of the several tables.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed his movements closely

"May I join you?" Arlian asked, gesturing at a chair at Toribor't table.

down," Toribor said. "Let's get on with it."

Arlian took a seat, and for a moment the two men simply looked at one another.

"I take it you're not interested in polite pleasantries," Arlian said at last, speaking quietly.

"You stabbed me in the leg last time we met," Toribor said, a good deal more loudly, "and you've promised to kill me. I find that sufficiently unpleasant to make any sort of social niceties very difficult."

"Of course." Arlian nodded. "Nonetheless, I think there are matters we should discuss. I think you'll recall that when last we spoke, as you lay bleeding pro-fusely, you made me swear an oath—that I would not kill Lord Enziet without hearing him out." His voice remained low.

"I remember it," Toribor said, matching his tones to Arlian's own.

"I listened to what he had to say."

"And..."

Before Toribor could say any more, the two were interrupted by another, a man of medium height, his black hair going grey, who had marched up to the side of the table. Arlian recognized the features, but could not immediately recall the man's name.

"Is Obsidian threatening you?" the new arrival demanded.

Toribor looked up at him. "No," he said.

"We all know he intends to kill you..

"And he's sworn not to attempt it inside the city walls. Thank you for your concern, Lord Zaner, but I can handle this young pup."

Zaner looked from one man to the other, then spread his hands. "I'm trying to help, but if you don't want it . . "I don't," Toribor said, glaring at Arlian. "The offer is appreciated, but we have private business."

"If you change your mind, just let me know."

Zaner hesitated, then turned away, saying, "I just want to help. There's no need for any trouble here."

Toribor and Arlian watched Zaner retreat; when fie was out of earshot, Toribor leaned across the table and said, his voice low but intense, "What did Enziet tell you?"

"A great deal, actually." He remembered that conversation in the utter blackness of an unlit cave, how Enziet had laughed at him, and told him that the dragons had been driven from the Lands of Man all those centuries ago not because the first Duke of Manfort and Ms warriors had fought them so bravely, but because Enziet had blackmailed them, had threatened to destroy their young.

He had no intention of telling Toribor all that, nor of describing how Enziet had died releasing a dragon from his own heart's blood.

"The point I wanted to mention to you," he said, "is that Enziet lied to you. He said that if he died, the dragons would return. Well, look around you—he's been dead for months, and has there been a single report of a dragon awake? He told me, there in the Desolation, that he
didn't know
what the dragons would do when he died. Yes, he had made a pact with them, and it ended with his death, so the dragons are no longer bound by its terms—but they're old and tired, and they still sleep."