Dragon Stones (16 page)

"You mean I will be murdered?"  T'Sian smiled.  "Unlikely."

"Perhaps you need not fear, but I am not so mighty, and have no desire to be killed in an alley.  In any event, approaching people too directly won't get you any information, even if you aren't worried about your own safety."

"If I terrify them enough, they will talk."

"They will talk, yes, but you cannot rely on what they say."

"What do you mean?"

"A frightened man will tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear in order to save his own life.  He will speak whatever lies are necessary to make you go away."

"I see."  She cocked her head.  "Then what lies did
you
speak, Pyodor Ponn, there on the island?  Do you really have a kidnapped daughter?  A missing son?  Do you have any children at all?  Perhaps you killed all those other men yourself."

He had opened himself up to this, hadn't he?  "Everything I said was the truth."

"So you would name other men liars, but exempt yourself?"

"I had no need to lie, but had it been necessary, I would have said north was south and day was night."

"How do I know you are not lying now?  Perhaps I should kill you as a scoundrel, and proceed on my own."

He hardly liked the direction this conversation was taking.  "Whether you believe me or not, you need my help.  I'm well known in Dyvversant; I can gather information without drawing attention."

"Lies," she said mildly, inspecting her fingernails.

Had she already made up her mind?  "Kill me, then, and be done with it," he said.

She looked at him, and for a moment he thought she would do it, would jam those long, sharp fingers into him and pull him apart; but then she shrugged and said:  "For now, you may continue to live.  I must have some guide to help me move among you men.  But if you prove to be useless, or treacherous, or a liar, then I will find another.  Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Good.  Then let us proceed."

"Wait.  We'll need a story to explain who you are and why we're together.  And I need something to eat; I'm starving."

"A story?"

"Just something to tell the people who know me.  They will wonder why I am traveling with you."

"The people here really do know you?"

"Some."

"I do not want them to tell Gelt that you are alive."

Ponn found himself worrying about how she might enforce that.  "My associates here are unlikely to spread information to the likes of Gelt.  Or to anyone else, for that matter."

T'Sian eyed him with her unblinking gaze; at length she said:  "Are you some sort of criminal, Pyodor Ponn?"

"No, of course not," Ponn said.  "But I do some … trading in goods, without the proper paperwork."

She raised a red eyebrow.  "A smuggler?  You had best not deal in animal parts, man.  I've killed more than one fool who came to my lair seeking dragon horns as a cure for impotence or scales to be sewn into armor."

"Wood," he said, alarmed.  "I only deal in wood and spices.  No animals or animal parts."

"More lies?"

"Truth.  I swear it."

She glared at him for a little while, and then said:  "Very well.  Every moment we delay, Gelt gets farther away.  We will tell people that you and I are lovers, and—"

"We can't say that!"

"Why not?"

"Word will get back to my wife."

T'Sian made a dismissive noise.  "You can explain later."

"You would have me tell her that it was all just a story concocted by a dragon so that she could get revenge on the men who killed her hatchlings?"

"Yes."

"Would
you
believe such a tale?"

"Of course I would," she said.

Adaran cinched his cloak tighter around his body, trying to keep out the constantly blowing fine-grained grit.  It insinuated itself through the seams of his clothing, up his sleeves, down his collar, settling on his skin to itch and burn, its sting revealing the location of every scratch and wound he had sustained during their escape from the mountains.

The girl, in her light garment and ill-fitting poncho, must be suffering even more than he was; she had climbed down from his shoulders some time ago, and now stayed near him, using his body to shelter herself from the worst of the wind.  Its intensity increased as the storm moved over the mountains to the southeast.  If they didn't reach the walled city soon, they would be caught in the open, suffering the full force of the cyclone without protection from the sand and dust.

And if they
did
reach the city?  What then?  The Salt Flats held little
to sustain any sort of genuine civilization.  Existence here centered around the extraction, transportation, and sale of salt.  Each mining operation was a petty kingdom; he had heard of full-blown wars between rival camps, of raiding parties and marauding bandits who waylaid merchants as they traveled in flatboats along the alkaline streams.  What would the miners make of a man suddenly appearing at their gates with a child and a giant bird in tow?

He realized suddenly that his feet were wet; they had begun to cross a shallow rill, one of many that lay like drab ribbons on the surface of the salt flats.  The water, originating in the fresh, clean snowpack of the surrounding mountains, became undrinkable as it flowed across the poisonous waste; he'd heard that a single draught could kill a man.

The girl knelt down, scooping up water in her cupped hands; Adaran dropped the eagle's reins and grabbed her wrists, spilling the liquid from her palms.  "No," he said.  "You can't drink this.  Poison."  She looked at him, her brow knitted in irritation.  Perhaps she didn't understand what
poison
was.  He pointed at the water, then clutched his throat and made a gagging noise.  She seemed to comprehend that, at least; she looked at her hands, then quickly wiped them off on her poncho.  Then she cried out and pointed with a chubby finger; the eagle had its beak submerged in the toxic water, drinking its fill of deadly liquid.  
"No!" he shouted.  "Stupid bird!  Stop!"  The eagle blinked at him, water dripping from its mouth; it made a croaking sound and went back to drinking.

Adaran grabbed the reins and pulled the creature away from the creek; it came reluctantly, its feet dragging through the dust, squawking and fluttering its wings in annoyance.  For a moment he thought it might attack them, but then it made a hiccuping sound and sat down in the dust.  It blinked and chattered, evidently in some discomfort.

"Stupid bird," Adaran said.  "You didn't feel well to begin with, and now look what you've done."

The girl rolled her eyes.  "Bird can't talk," she said.

Suddenly a particularly fierce gust of wind staggered Adaran, nearly knocking him over.  The child shrieked and hid her face; the eagle buried its head under its wing as its feathers blew and ruffled.  It pulled in its legs and settled down into a hunched ball of feathers.

The squall abated, then intensified again.  There was no more time; they would have to find what shelter they could.  Adaran took the girl's hand and led her up against the eagle, forcing the creature's left wing away from its body, creating a space for the child and himself.  The hollow was cramped, and smelled like a hen house, and soon became stiflingly hot; but at least it provided some protection from the storm.  They didn't have to fear being flayed and choked by blowing sand.

Instead, they just had to worry about being buried alive.

The morning after the twins had attempted to seduce her, three servants and two guards came to move Tolaria from her prison in the tower.  She protested, not caring to be any closer to the royal suite; but her wishes in the matter were, of course, ignored.  Dunshandrin's sons were the masters here.

Escorted by the guards, followed by the servants who carried her meager possessions, Tolaria descended from the tower and walked through the dim, deserted corridors of the regal wing.  Threadbare tapestries and faded artwork adorned the walls; drab sculptures reposed in dusty alcoves.  The scene put her in mind of the subterranean storage halls of the Crosswaters, where they kept old furniture, statuary, and other disused items.  This castle had obviously seen better, livelier days.

They passed by the door to Lord Dunshandrin's chamber, where she had met the twins; she wondered if they had bothered to make any further provisions for their father's care.  She doubted it.  The sooner he died, the sooner they would have a kingdom to divide.  Now that she thought about it, she was mildly surprised that one of them hadn't murdered him by now and blamed it on the other.  "May I look in on his lordship?" she asked; but the guard in front of her merely shook his head and kept walking.

They stopped in front of an ornate door just around the corner from Dunshandrin's room.  The lintel was decorated with a relief of flowering vines, the door with sheaves of wheat and loaves of bread.  Fertility symbols?  Perhaps this had once been the Lady Dunshandrin's room; assuming that there
was
a Lady
Dunshandrin, that the twins hadn't been gotten upon some scullery maid or courtesan.

The exterior of the door had been fitted with a newly-added bar to keep her in; she may have been moved out of the tower, but she was still a captive.  The guard slipped the bar and gave the door a push.  It swung inward without a creak, revealing a chamber twice as large as her previous prison.  Light flooded through enormous glass windows along the wall opposite the door.  In addition to a massive, ornately wrought bed, the room boasted enough seating for an entire retinue; she could choose to sit in a different gaudy, overstuffed chair every day for a week.

She noted heavy doors in either wall, and wondered what they led to.  Were there additional rooms in her suite?  She asked about them, and learned to her dismay that Torrant's chambers were on the left, Tomari's on the right.  Either prince could come or go as he pleased.

The servants set her trunk down near the bed, and then withdrew.  The door closed; she heard the bar slide home.  Locked in again.  She hesitated, then tried the door to Torrant's room.  The gilt knob turned, but the door would not move.  Barred or blocked from the other side.  She saw no way to lock it from here.  Nor could she pile furniture in front of it; it opened the other way, into the prince's room.

Feeling ill at ease, she went to the windows.  The middle pane proved to be a large glass door, giving access to a wide balcony.  She tried to open it, but it was chained from the outside and would not give more than a few inches.  She put her palms flat against the pane and stared out at the countryside that was denied her.  She could see down the hill to ramshackle Dunshandrin Town, and beyond that, the glistening waters of the small lake.  A single road emerged from the northern edge of the village, crossing the river over a narrow stone bridge and then meandering up the hillside before disappearing from view behind the castle wall.  She couldn't see the courtyard or the gate by which she had entered, but she had a better idea of her position within the castle, and which direction to go if she got the chance to slip away.

The yellow sun glowed bright in fair skies; but off in the distance, beyond the rolling hills and scrubby forest, dark clouds promised wind and rain in the near future.  She recalled all the activity she had observed when she had arrived here just after a storm:  Servants sweeping water, scraping up mud, spreading straw.  They would close the doors and shutters against the storm, but after it passed they would open every aperture while they aired out the castle.  A good time to escape, perhaps, if she could find a way out of this room.

She turned away, and gasped as a straw-haired slip of a girl approached.  "Who are you?" Tolaria said.

"My name is Wyst."

"Why are you here?"

"I have been assigned to be your servant."

"My servant?  Why do I need a servant?"

"To attend your needs."

"My only
need
is to get out of here."

The girl flushed a bit, bit her lower lip, glanced to her right, said nothing.  After a moment Tolaria turned her head to see what she was looking at:  Torrant, standing in the entrance to his suite, watching her with an amused expression.  She hadn't heard his door open, which worried her; he could slink in during the night, stand at the foot of her bed as she slept.

"I hope you're not already trying to subvert poor Wyst into helping you escape, Tolaria," he said.

"Escape?  And forgo your lavish hospitality?  Why would I do such a thing?"

"I've no idea."  Torrant smiled, looked at Wyst.  "If you did, though, we would have to punish your attendant most severely."

The girl blanched; if she grew any paler, Tolaria thought, she was liable to disappear.  "I'm sure Wyst will do her utmost to prevent my slipping away."

"I certainly hope so, for her sake.  And in time, you will stop harboring such thoughts.  You may even grow to like it here."

"Perhaps so," Tolaria said.  "And at the same time, flowers will start to grow out of my ears and my hair will turn purple."