The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) (49 page)

"I don't know where my mother and brothers are,"

Cricket volunteered. "They didn't stay in Lassir."

"Triv and Vanni are all the family I have," Hasty said, reaching out to tickle the baby, who gurgled ap-preciatively.

Arlian smiled, and put a hand on Toribor's arm to turn him and guide him away. When they were in the passageway, walking toward the gallery, Arlian said,

"You see, my lord, I think of them as
people,
not slaves—perhaps because, as you say, I was one of diem. As people, I think they deserve vengeance for the wrongs inflicted upon them."

"Perhaps they do," Toribor replied. "I'll leave that to die gods to decide, if any gods survive. Whether they deserve it or not, Obsidian, your vengeance has unleashed the dragons upon us all."

"Perhaps it has," Arlian said, "but perhaps that would have happened anyway. You surely know that Enziet did not have long to live, in any case, and who would have taken up his bargain? Might we not be facing just the same fate we do now?"

"Not quite," Toribor said. "Drisheen might have been Enziet's heir. And the Dragon Society would be united in opposing the monsters, instead of fractured as it is."

"Would it? And would that matter?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said unhappily. "Damn you, Obsidian!"

They emerged into the gallery and continued walking. "My lord," Arlian said, "you think me die cause of all your miseries, but it may be that Fate sent me to end than, not to cause them. You would prefer to see the dragons destroyed, would you not?"

"Of course I would! I'm no traitor like Pulzera."

"And is anyone but me working toward that goal?"

"We're trying, blast it, but what can we do? Voriam and his little group expect you to appear in a blaze of glory and lead them to victory, and most of the others have been swayed by Pulzera, to one degree or another. She and Hardior and that odious Lady Opal have all been exchanging schemes not to defeat the dragons, not to destroy or confine them, but only to ensure that they do not attack Manfort itself. They would sacrifice all the Lands of Man to protect themselves—and Opal would give her entire fortune for a few drops of venom; she's been flattering and cajoling Pulzera and Hardior in hopes of learning from them just how she might obtain some." He snorted. "At least, that's what she does when they allow it. When they can stomach no more of her, she devotes her time to spreading lies about you."

"Does she?" Arlian found this oddly amusing.

"Lies and truth, mixed together," Toribor said. "She knows altogether too many of the Society's secrets, and I'm not sure how much she learned from Wither and how much from Pulzera." He glanced sideways at Arlian. "She says you've turned your coat, and intend to rule Manfort as the dragons' viceroy. At least, so she says when she isn't saying you've sunk into utter de-spair and abandoned yourself to debauchery, here with your six whores."

Arlian frowned. "They are no longer whores, and I do not trouble them."

"You know, Obsidian, I believe you." He glanced back at the passage toward the sitting room.

They walked in silence for a moment. Then Arlian said, "Belly, I wish I could tell you that there is a way to drive the dragons back into their caves, and save us all from their flame, but I can't. I know very little more than you about what to expect I do have plans—I have hopes for a magical solution to at least some of our problems, and I do have weapons that can, in theory, slay dragons. If the dragons do come to Manfort, come to me and I will give you a spear, "so at least you can die fighting them."

"That would be something, at any rate," Toribor replied. He glanced at Arlian again. "You say you have plans?"

"Hopes, really. I have asked the Aritheians to see what they can provide to help us. After all, the dragons have never dared cross the Dreaming Mountains; perhaps something can be found there to defeat them."

"Perhaps." Toribor considered that, then said, "You know, Obsidian, I'm glad now that I didn't kill you. As you say, the dragons would be free anyway."

The corner of Arlian's mouth quirked upward.

"I'm pleased you let me live, as well. And furthermore, I'm pleased I let
you
live, in Cork Tree last year."

'It would seem we've found grounds for agreement after all."

And on that note, Toribor took his leave.

Stones and mud and dung were flung at the Old Palace with depressing regularity for the next few days, breaking several more windows, but the assaults began to taper off eventually.

Then word came of the destruction of Cork Tree, and the barrage was renewed, heavier than ever.

On the second day of this assault Arlian sat in the small salon, staring at the shuttered window and listening to the shouted insults beyond the broken glass. He had glimpsed outside earlier, and seen the angry faces of the mob, and wondered who these people were, and why they had the time and energy and anger to come and harass him. He thought he might have seen faces he recognized in the crowd—Post and Horn.

He was not certain of it, however, and he retreated back out of sight before his appearance could provoke a new barrage.

He wondered whether the dragons had chosen Cork Tree deliberately, to taunt him—or to intercept the caravan to Arithei. Did they know what the magicians were after? Had they read the information from his thoughts? Had someone who knew of Arlian's plans somehow sent them a message?

He could not think who might have done so; he had not spoken freely of his intentions. Some of the servants might know, but he knew how rarely the lords and ladies of the Dragon Society listened to their household employees.

He had told Toribor that the caravan sought dragon-fighting magic—had Belly told the wrong person, perhaps?

It was possible. Anything was possible. He would probably never know whether Cork Tree had been deliberately targeted with the caravan in mind.

He would know, sooner or later, whether the caravan had survived, though.

Just then someone knocked on the door of the salon.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and Black stepped in.

Arlian leapt up from his chair, his despondency vanished, a grin stretching from ear to ear. "Beron!" he said. "You've returned safely!"

"Ari," Black acknowledged, somewhat less enthusi-astically. "Yes, I'm home."

Arlian embraced him, then stepped back, studying his face. Blade's expression was weary and somber, his beard untrimmed, a few strands of hair escaping the tight knot at the back of his neck.

"Was it very bad?" Arlian asked.

"Bad enough," Black replied. "And my homecom-ing hasn't been what I might have hoped for."

Arlian glanced at the shutters, just as a heavy object thumped against them—mud, by the sound of it, rather than a stone.

"They blame me for the dragons' depredations," Arlian said. "Lady Pulzera and Lady Opal and Lord Hardior have been spreading lies."

"Hm," Black said noncommittally.

"Did any of them trouble you?" Arlian asked, concerned.

"I came in the postern, and they took me for a servant," Black explained. "No one troubles servants over such matters—except, of course, that someone has to repair the damage and clean off the stains, and it's not the lord and master who dirties his hands."

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better welcome,"

Arlian said. "Have you eaten? Have you had anything to drink?" He reached for the doorknob.

"I had a bite when I came in," Black said. "And I left my charges in the kitchens, eating."

"Survivors? The two fishermen?" Arlian opened the door wide, and the two men left the salon and turned their steps toward the kitchens.

"Five
fisherfolk," Black said. 'Two from Kirial's Rocks and three from Tiapol."

"And are they ..."

"Dragonhearts?" Black said. "Three of the five, I believe." He glanced sideways at Arlian. "Do you intend to kill them? I could have done that easily, if that's what you had in mind."

Arlian shook his head. "No," he said. "Primarily, I want to know who and where they are. I want to talk to them, help them find new lives—and let them know what awaits them. Perhaps eventually it will become necessary to kill them, but I am in no hurry to put more innocent blood on my hands, and I can still hope to find some alternative in the coming centuries."

"Centuries," Black said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

Arlian thought better of replying, and the two men said no more before reaching the kitchens.

There Black introduced Lord Obsidian to his new guests—Splash and his father, Rope, of Kirial's Rocks, and from Hapol a man called Shell-Edge, his wife, Demdva, and her brother Dinan. All were tired and dirty, wearing clothes little better than rags; they had lost most of their possessions when their homes were destroyed, and Arlian had not thought to provide Black with sufficient funds to compensate for that.

Rope, Demdva, and Dinan believed they had swallowed Wood and venom in the chaos of sinking, burning boats; Splash and Shell-Edge had not. That certain something, that forcefulness that was the heart of the dragon, was not really discernable yet in any of them, but after all, they had only drunk the elixir a few weeks ago, Arlian thought, and it took time for the contagion to do its work.

Demdva had lost her right hand, trapped and crushed in twisting debris as her family's boat came apart around her, smashed beneath a dragon's claws—

but the stump had healed quickly, without infection.

That loss had provided the blood necessary for the elixir, spurting on herself and her brother; Shell-Edge had been at the far end of the boat, trying to keep the little craft steady, and he was still whole. Demdva and Dinan both bore half-healed venom burns on their faces and arms—burns that Arlian knew would never heal completely, any more than would the scar on his own cheek.

Splash had lost the skin of one hand when a rope tore from his grasp, an injury that might well have healed cleanly if not for the venom that later fell in the torn flesh. His father had already fallen overboard by then, clear of the fray, and it was when Splash followed and put an arm around Rope's neck to help him to shore that the older man swallowed the blood and venom from his son's wound.

"I told them you would pay well for their story,"

Black said.

"As I shall," Arlian promptly agreed. "Enough to make a fresh start, in Manfort or on the coast, as they choose."

His guests were visibly relieved by these words, and Demdva, emboldened, asked, "My lord, why were those people outside shouting and throwing things?"

She spoke with a broad accent Arlian did not recall hearing before.

"They believe I am responsible for the dragons' attacks," Arlian explained.

The five exchanged glances, and Rope asked, "Are your

"I don't
think
so," Arlian said. "And if I did in some measure contribute inadvertently, still, is it not the dragons themselves that deserve whatever blame there may be? They chose to destroy your homes; I certainly did not desire anything of the sort."

"Are we safe here?" Shell-Edge asked. "What if that mob outside sets this place aflame?"

Arlian started to say that Manfort had been built to withstand flame, but then he remembered what Rime had said, and looked around at the room in which they sat. The great hearth and ovens were of stone, with black iron fittings, but the doors and doorposts were of wood, and elsewhere much of the Old Palace and its furnishings were wood and plaster and cloth.

"If it worries you," he said, "I have another house you can use, a stone one."

"The Grey House still hasn't sold?" Black asked.

Arlian gestured at the window. "I suspect the potential buyers are hoping to acquire it more cheaply at an estate auction. I hope to disappoint them." He turned back to his guests. "In the meantime, though, surely you can risk one night here, to tell me of your adventures?"

They agreed to one night, and Arlian listened intently to everything they could remember of the dragons' actions. He took careful note of how low the dragons flew when attacking, how they sometimes landed and approached on foot to strike more easily at walls and doors, rather than rooftops—that would clearly be the time to strike at diem, as they strode toward their targets.

He said as much to Black, after their guests had retired for the night. "That's the sort of thing I wanted to know when I sent you east."

"Killing a dragon with a spear still does not strike me as an easy task," Black remarked. "It requires getting much too close for comfort."

Well unless the Aritheians find some suitable magic, I can't very well hope to kill them from a distance," Arlian said. "An arrow, even one with an obsidian head, would never reach a dragon's heart."

"Not unless it was a very big arrow," Black said, smiling wryly.

Arlian laughed, but then stopped.

A very big arrow, as big as a spear, or even larger... why not? An ordinary archer could never loose an arrow long enough to pierce a dragon to the heart, but perhaps something could be constructed. An ordinary man could never lift a bucket the size of the ore hopper in the mine, but with pulleys and ropes and mules that hopper was lifted twice every day—or at least, it had been until he freed the slaves who filled it.