The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (46 page)

When he had eaten enough to take the edge off his appetite and drunk enough to wet his throat properly, Arlian leaned back in his chair, trying to soothe the aches his ride had produced, and asked, "What troubles you, Venlin? Is everyone well?"

"I would ask you the same, my lord," Venlin said.

"Is everything in order? You have returned without your steward, without any of the wagons with which you departed, riding an unfamiliar and wholly unsuitable mare—has there been some disaster?"

Arlian started to say no, then caught himself. The people of those seaside villages undoubtedly would say there had been a disaster, could any of them still speak.

"I am well enough," Arlian said. "The caravan is on its way to Arithei, save two wagons I have sent to Westguard, whence their contents will be properly disposed." He did not mention just what that contents might be; he trusted Venlin well enough, but the possibility that someone less reliable was eavesdropping could not be ignored. His encounter with Post had made him cautious. "I have sent Black on an errand to the east, and hope he will return here safely in a month or so."

"And all are safe?"

"So far as I am aware, they are," Arlian replied.

"Why do you ask? While I can understand that my return may have come as a surprise, surely I have surprised you in the past without evoking such concern."

"There is word in the streets, my lord, that you are involved in treason and vile sorcery, and that your caravan was merely an excuse to flee the city. We have heard threats. Some have taken action to express their distaste for you—or at least, for what you are rumored to be."

"Action?" Arlian was puzzled. "What sort of action?"

"Stones have been flung at the gate and house, my lord. Stones and dung."

"Oh," Arlian said. He grimaced. "How very unpleasant. I hope no one has been injured?"

"No one, my lord. A window was broken, and has been repaired."

Arlian waved that away. "A window is nothing. I am pleased to hear that no one was hurt."

"I had feared, my lord, that
Black
had been hurt."

"No, he was in fin* health when last I saw him, and I have no reason to believe that has changed. I simply asked him to make certain investigations for me. I'm sure that when he returns he will be gratified by your concern."

Venlin hesitated, then asked a further question—an action that astonished Arlian, as the old man had never before been so inquisitive. Venlin had always made plain that he thought a servant should be as unobtrusive as possible, and not trouble his employer with unnecessary comments or inquiries; this exchange was, Arlian realized, the longest conversation he and Venlin had ever had.

"May I ask the nature of those investigations, my lord? I believe the household would find your steward's presence reassuring; might his return be expedited?"

Arlian stared at his chief footman for a moment, then decided there was no point in hiding the truth.

"The dragons have come out of their caverns," Arlian said. "Sorcery told me this, and told me that they have destroyed a fishing village on the coast I have sent Black to see if he can locate and aid any survivors."

"Survivors of a
dragon
attack, my lord?" There was pained disbelief in Venlin's tone.

Arlian sighed. "My sorcery indicates there is at least one," he said.

Venlin's expression was still troubled.

"My lord," he said, "one among the rumors in the streets is an accusation that you have somehow, presumably by sorcerous means, disturbed the dragons, and that they may emerge from their underground lairs. What you tell me is dismayingly similar to these tales, and will undoubtedly lead to further speculation and further hostility ..."

Tm afraid that one's true," Arlian interrupted, toy-ing with his goblet "I
did
disturb the dragons, albeit unintentionally"

Venlin swallowed, more ruffled than Arlian had ever before seen him. Arlian studied him silently for a moment, then added, "That's why I made those obsidian weapons. Because I knew I might have disturbed the dragons."

"My lord," Venlin said.

"It's taken them some time to emerge," Arlian said.

"In all likelihood it will take them considerably more time to reach Manfort I hurried home, though, in part because I feared they might be here soon, and I did not want to leave you to face them without me."

Venlin said nothing, but his stricken expression was not suppressed quickly enough—Arlian saw it clearly.

What could he say, though, to undo the harm his words had caused? All he could do was try to find something else to speak of.

"Are my guests well?" he asked. "Vanniari?"

"Oh. mother and babe continue to thrive, my lord; all your guests are well, though I believe the rumors and unrest have troubled them."

That was not the cheerful subject Arlian had hoped for. "And is there any word from Coin regarding the sale of the Grey House?"

"Ah, my lord, there have been messages sent, but Ferrezin has been responsible for that, and I have not inquired into the matter. Shall I summon Ferrezin, or Coin?"

Arlian waved wearily. "Let it wait until morning."

He suddenly realized that he was exhausted—he was not much of a horseman, and the ride had been long and strenuous. "Let it
all
wait until morning." He set his goblet back on the table, then settled back in his chair and folded his hands upon his chest. He closed his eyes, just for a moment's rest.

He was only vaguely aware of Venlin helping him to bed, but once he realized where he was, he sighed gratefully and settled to sleep for the night.

In the morning Arlian looked in on Hasty and Vanniari, breakfasted with Lily and Brook, and made sure that Kitten, Cricket, Musk, and Stammer were all well and had no urgent news to relay. Lily complained of the hot, cloudy, rainless weather at length, but had nothing more to report; Hasty had numerous details of Vanniari's accomplishments; the others had only minor items of gossip.

No word of any draconic activity had reached Manfort as yet, and Stammer did not offer any detailed reports on just what new rumors were drifting through the city, though she acknowledged that Venlin's account had been accurate, so far as it went. Arlian did not press her on the matter, not yet, nor did he tell any of the women that the dragons were out of their subter-ranean refuge.

That done, he met with Ferrezin to discuss both the Grey House and methods for smuggling the obsidian weapons from Westguard back into Manfort—he was fairly certain that Ferrezin had had some experience of such things while in Enziet's employ, and Ferrezin did nothing to convince him otherwise.

Coin had indeed received offers for Enziet's home, but none that he and Ferrezin considered serious. Arlian accepted their counsel and sent a polite note to Coin to the effect that he was dismayed Coin had even bothered to inform him of such absurd offers; Coin could then show this letter, as if betraying a confidence, to the prospective buyers, who might be encouraged to reconsider and offer more.

That afternoon Arlian and Ferrezin set out for Westguard, to make preparations for the returning wagons.

Halfway from die Old Palace to the city gate Arlian was startled by the thump of a rock striking the side of his coach. He looked out quickly, and saw a fist-sized paving stone tumbling down the steeply sloping street, but he could not see who had thrown it. After a quick look at the hostile faces of passing pedestrians he urged the coachman to move on.

That encounter dismayed him; clearly, the rumors of his alleged treason were having an effect on the people of Manfort. Later, when he disembarked in Westguard, he discovered that the stone had chipped the gilding on the door; it had clearly been flung with some force.

Events in Westguard proceeded as planned, however, and no one there seemed to notice him particularly; Stabber and Fixiol arrived on schedule, and the process of smuggling the obsidian weapons back into the city piecemeal was begun.

That done, as Arlian rode back toward the Old Palace he could see little to do but wait—wait for the weapons to be back within the walls, wait for Black, wait for the Aritheians, and wait for the dragons. He did intend to arm those members of the Dragon Society who would stand against the dragons, but he was not ready to do that—not when word of the dragons'

emergence had not yet reached the city, not when his obsidian weapons were still in Westguard.

He wished he could arm the Duke's guards, but the Duke would not have it—not unless Arlian could first show him a dead dragon.

The oppressive hot weather—dragon weather—

continued unbroken, wearing on everyone's nerves.

Several times over the course of the next few days Arlian drew blood and washed his hands, attempting to communicate with the dragons and leam more of their plans, but as the dragon had promised in Deep Delving, his attempts failed.

He could only wait.

The first interruption of Arlian's wait was unexpec ted. He had been in the garden, meditating by the graves beneath the ash tree where Sweet and Dove lay buried, when Venlin appeared.

Venlin never set foot in the garden without good reason; Arlian turned and asked, "What is it?"

"Lady Marasa, my lord."

Arlian blinked. "What of her?"

"She awaits your pleasure in the small salon."

"She's here? She came here?" Arlian stared at Venlin. What did Opal want here? She hated him, and had made no secret of it; there could be no pretense of a mere social call.

"Yes, my lord."

"You let her in?"

"Yes, my lord. Lady Marasa can be very forceful."

That was true, Arlian knew—she did not have the supernatural presence of a dragonheart, but she was not shy about asking for what she wanted. Arlian suspected that that was why Wither had liked her. "Did you leave her unattended?"

"No, my lord. Wolt is with her."

An unpleasant thought struck Arlian. "She didn't see Dovliril, did she?" That was the footman who had witnessed Lord Wither's death; he had left Opal's employ some time ago, and been hired by Arlian to help transfer goods from the Grey House to die Old Palace.

Seeing him would not do anything to endear Arlian to Lady Opal.

"I do not believe so, my lord."

"See that she doesn't," Arlian said, as he brushed pollen from his breeches and strode toward the door.

A moment later he stepped into the small salon and bowed.

"Lady Opal," he said.

She was arrayed on one of the blue silk couches, the full skirt of her white dress tucked provocatively high on her hip, raising the hem to reveal a trim ankle. She leaned toward Arlian, displaying her low-cut bodice.

Her black hair was elaborately coiffed, ringlets fram-ing her face, and her eyes were dark with kohl.

"My lord," she said, her voice lower than Arlian had ever before heard it.

"Wolt," Arlian said, without taking his eyes off her,

"thank you. You may go."

Wolt bowed, and vanished through the other door.

Arlian heard the latch click behind him.

"My lord Obsidian," Opal said. "What a pleasure to see you!"

Arlian gazed silently at her for a moment, then said,

"Must you be so blatant, my lady?"

She stared at him for a moment, then forced a laugh.

"My informants have reported that you have not responded to less obvious overtures," she replied.

In the back of his mind Arlian wondered just who these informants might be, but he only said, "That would probably be because I do not care to respond, my lady, not because I was unaware of the possibilities."

Opal frowned slightly, an expression Arlian was sure was carefully cultivated to appear charming and girlish. "But I know you like women!" she said. The frown vanished, and she shrugged. "I suppose that your harem of half a dozen whores is enough for you."

Arlian had known for weeks that he and Opal were not friends, that they were on opposite sides of a dispute, but only now did he realize he actively disliked her on a personal level. "What brings you here, my lady?" he asked. "What is it you want from me?"

"Post told you," Opal said, straightening up. "And you knew, anyway. Poor Ilruth told you."

"And he agreed you should not have it," Arlian said.

"He made certain you would not be present at his death to ensure you would not attempt to drink his blood to obtain it"

Opal feigned shock—or perhaps it was not entirely feigned. "Was
that
why? I would never have drunk his blood!" Her expression turned thoughtful. "Would that have worked?"

"Probably not," Arlian said, disgusted. "Certainly it would not have worked before he thrust the knife into his heart and killed the dragon that was growing there, but after the thrust, who knows?"

"I know his blood was poison when he was still alive," Opal agreed. "He told me about that stupid Vo-rina he killed that way. It hadn't occurred to me that his death might alter it." She eyed Arlian curiously.

"My blood would not suffice," Arlian said, "no matter when or how you took it—I have not been tainted long enough."