Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (47 page)

Arlian bowed. "My apologies, Your Grace. I have neglected my duties, as you say. In part I did so simply for lack of time to produce appropriate reports, but far more importantly, I feared that any word sent to your court, however you and I might endeavor to keep it private, would reach ears we would prefer not to hear it, or eyes we did not want to read it. I did not want my experiments compromised."

"You say my court is riddled with spies and traitors, then?" The Duke settled onto a blue-upholstered chair as he spoke.

"Alas, Your Grace, I do." Arlian took the room's only other chair, upholstered in deep red.

"And have you any evidence to support this accusation?"

"The corpses removed from Obsidian House would seem to be precisely that. These were men in your service, but someone had promised them the dragon-venom elixir if they slew my steward's wife."

"Your steward's wife? They were not assassins sent to kill you?"

"Indeed they were not."

"Why would anyone want to kill your steward's wife?"

Arlian explained, in detail.

When he had finished the Duke sat silently for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you know what this child will be?"

"No, Your Grace. I can only guess. However, the dragons may know—their servants certainly seem to be determined to prevent the birth."

"You assume it was they who sent those soldiers?"

"I do. One of the men explicitly mentioned that he had been promised dragon venom in payment for his services."

"The dragons may have good cause to fear this magical baby you have created. We might, as well, if we knew what it will become."

"Your Grace, can this child be any worse than a dragon or wizard?

We have the means to destroy any dragon or wizard. The kitten-creatures could be slain easily with a silver dagger."

"You are dragging all the Lands of Man into the unknown, my lord."

"Yes, Your Grace, I am. I feel the risks are justified. Imagine if all our realm's magic were held by our own children, children brought up in loving homes, taught everything we know of justice, of mercy—

would not such a future be infinitely preferable to the reign of the dragons, demanding the annual sacrifice of an innocent village, or to the unpredictable chaos of uncontained magic?"

"Of course it would—I think. Or . . . We don't know, Obsidian."

"And the dragons are determined we never will know. I would prefer to see this third possibility, and make our own choice."

"Yes. Perhaps, yes." The Duke tugged thoughtfully at his beard.

"I have moved my steward's family to the Grey House, which is more easily defended than Obsidian House."

"You might bring her here, where we can all keep . . . "

"Your Grace," Arlian interrupted, "we have just discussed why the Citadel is not safe. Simply because you must permit so many people to come and go, you cannot know the heart of every man here, and the prospect of living for a thousand years is enough to tempt many who might otherwise be trustworthy."

The Duke considered that unhappily, then said, "We will post guards around the Grey House. They will not enter—you and your staff will see to that—but they will add another layer of safety."

Arlian was not entirely convinced of the wisdom of this, given that one group of the Duke's guards had so recently been suborned by the enemy, but he did not think it advisable to argue too strongly with the Duke, and certainly his own hired guards had proved completely worthless; accepting this measure would soothe the Duke's feelings. "That would be very welcome, Your Grace," he said.

"I will want to see this child, when it is born."

" I . . . Allow us a few days to be certain it is safe, and for the mother to recover her strength, and I am sure that can be arranged."

The Duke nodded, then grabbed the arms of his chair and pushed himself upright.

The audience was over.

By the third day of the relocation the first squad of guardsmen had taken up positions on the surrounding streets. Black had taken to wearing a sword and swordbreaker at all times; Arlian had always carried a sword when venturing out in public, but now he kept his weapons close at hand even in the house.

The first assassin was intercepted and killed on the fifth day.

It was on the sixth day, when the perimeter was solidly in place, that the first serious mass assault began.

The attackers had moved into position gradually—tradesmen leaning in doorways as if waiting for customers, whores standing on corners, farmers and merchants stopping wagons here and there. The soldiers, unsure of the nature of the threat they were there to confront, did not notice anything out of the ordinary until mid-afternoon, when the coach rolled up to the gate.

Then a lace-cuffed hand gestured from the window of the carriage.

"You, sir," a voice called, "is this Lord Obsidian's home?"

The guard nearest the coach stepped up. "It is, my lord."

"Excellent." The carriage door opened and a man stepped out, a muscular figure clad in a fine green silk jacket, white lace at his throat, a jaunty wide-brimmed hat shading his features. "Open the gate, would you?"

"I cannot do that, my lord," the soldier said uneasily. "Let me send word of your arrival." He beckoned to the footman inside the gate, who stepped forward but did not lift the latch.

The nobleman frowned. "Is this really necessary?"

"I fear it is, my lord."

"Oh, very well. Tell Lord Obsidian that Lord Rhiador must see him at once, on a matter of great urgency."

The soldier bowed, and gestured to the footman. "You heard him."

The footman bowed, and hurried across the narrow forecourt.

Within the house, Brook and Arlian had been debating.

"I am not going to let you trap me up there!" Brook insisted.

"But on the third floor we can bar the door of your room, and any intruders will have to fight their way up the stairs past us."

"Bar the door? Do you mean to put me in that room? Sweet's prison?"

"I . . . "

"And will you remember to feed the prisoner, and make certain my chains do not chafe?"

"You will not be chained, nor in any way a prisoner . . . "

"If you bar that door I most certainly will be a prisoner, my lord!

The bar is on the outside—had you forgotten?"

"I had thought that it might be relocated."

"Ari, this house has no lift, and I cannot take my chair up and down stairs without assistance. I tolerated that for years, but now that I have had a taste of life elsewhere my tolerance has worn very thin indeed. I appreciate the necessity for staying in this house, but I do not see why I should not remain on the ground floor, where I can move about as I please, where I can dine with my family, where I can, in the event of an emergency, call out a window to the Duke's guards."

"They are all outside the wall," Arlian pointed out. "I did not allow them in the yard."

"I can shout loud enough to be heard, I assure you."

Arlian glared at her for a moment, but before he could say anything more he was distracted by a polite cough. He turned to see a footman standing in the door of the room. "Yes?"

"My lord, a gentleman giving his name as Lord Rhiador wishes to speak to you."

Arlian frowned. "Rhiador?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I don't recognize the name."

"He said it was a matter of great urgency."

Arlian sighed. "I will be out in a moment," he said. He looked at Brook, then at Black, who stood nearby. "You have said little, Black."

"My wife can speak for herself, my lord."

"Then you agree with her?"

"I do. She is a capable woman, not something to be locked away in a vault"

"Capable? She has no feet!"

"She has a brain and two good arms. She has never learned the sword, but she has considerable skill with a knife."

"She is heavy with child, and consequently clumsy!"

"Ari, she survived the previous attack well enough."

"Because I returned in time!"

"I could have held out for some time in that lift!" Brook protested.

"Fine!" Arlian flung up his arms. "Fine. Do as you please. I will go speak with this Lord Rhiador, and see what new complications have arisen." He turned, and marched toward the gate.

A moment later he looked out through the bars at his visitor. He did not recognize the green-coated nobleman, though something about him seemed uncomfortably familiar. "Ah, Lord Obsidian!" the new arrival said, holding out a hand. "May I come in?"

"You have the advantage of me, my lord," Arlian replied. "I do not recall your face."

"Oh, I have not previously had the pleasure of your acquaintance, my lord; I have only seen you from a distance, in the Citadel and in Ethinior."

"Ethinior?"

"At the masked ball."

"Indeed." Arlian still did not reach for the proffered hand, and Rhiador let it fall. "And why have you come to see me?"

"I believe I have news of certain activities that will be of great interest to you."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Whose activities?"

"Lord Shatter's. Could we go inside, perhaps, and speak in private?"

Arlian considered this—he had no particular reason to distrust Rhiador, but at this particular moment he was inclined to distrust everyone, and he had no recollection of ever encountering Lord Rhiador or his name prior to this meeting, so he had no reason to trust him. This person could well be an assassin.

And quite aside from such rational concerns, something about the man simply made him uneasy.

Arlian was, however, curious as to what Lord Shatter, nominal head of the Dragon Society, might be up to, and the house was surrounded by the Duke's guards—men chosen for their trustworthiness, and in such numbers that they could not all have been suborned.

"No," Arlian said. "However, I will come out to your coach, if you like."

Lord Rhiador was visibly disconcerted, but then spread his hands.

"Of course," he said. He stepped back from the gate, to give Arlian room.

Arlian opened the gate left-handed, keeping his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and stepped out—and as he did, Rhiador bellowed,

"Now!"

Arlian whirled, astonished, his sword in hand. He had half expected Rhiador to draw a blade, and in fact the nobleman did draw both sword and swordbreaker, but all around them other weapons appeared, as tradesmen, whores, and beggars suddenly brandished knives and clubs and fell upon the unprepared soldiers. Arlian had not anticipated that.

And then the rooftop archers began to shoot.

Arlian ducked, blade coming up to defend against Rhiador's

attack—but Rhiador was circling, not attacking.

Other people were attacking—the coach's driver had jumped down, sword out, and charged Arlian, and two footmen had appeared from somewhere behind the vehicle, as well. Arlian's back was to the gatehouse wall as he drew his swordbreaker and met this assault.

His sword crossed with the driver's blade, parrying a slash that Arlian judged either was intended merely to intimidate, or indicated that the man was no swordsman. He attempted a riposte, and discovered a third possibility—that the blow had been meant to lure him in. He ducked and twisted as the driver's sword struck where his right eye had been an instant before, then countered with a thrust that put his own sword's tip through the driver's left shoulder.

The man stepped back, but kept his sword up, while the two footmen moved in with their own blades. These were not the finely honed and balanced swords used by dueling lords, but the shorter, heavier, clumsier weapons wielded by hired guards or simple thugs. They would be little real threat to Arlian individually, but facing three men at once was a serious challenge.

And then he remembered that he had been facing four men, and he quickly glanced to his left.

Lord Rhiador, whoever he really was, clearly had his own mission—

he had slipped out of Arlian's reach and opened the gate. The footman who had been tending it, a man named Hendal, had tried to stop him, and now lay on the ground, red spreading across his chest as he gasped out his life. Rhiador was running across the forecourt.

The door of the house was closed, but Arlian could not recall whether he had locked it. He had thought he was coming out here to speak to a guest, not fend off an assault, and he had been distracted by his argument with Black and Brook—could he have left it open?

An arrow snapped loudly against the gatepost above his head, and he remembered that the house had been surrounded by the Duke's soldiers. He could not see much from his sheltered position in the gateway, but he could hear orders being shouted, men screaming, metal striking metal and flesh and stone.

The guards had not been instantly overwhelmed, at any rate—from the bellowed orders, they seemed to be holding their own.

And they were all there for a single purpose—to protect Brook and her child. That was Arlian's own purpose, as well—and Rhiador was inside the wall, and in a moment would be inside the house.

Arlian feinted, then turned and ran into the narrow stone-paved yard, breaking off his duel with the other three men from the coach; the driver promptly pursued him. The footmen hesitated; then first one, then the other, followed.

Rhiador, his hands made awkward by the blades he still held, was struggling with the door latch; at the sound of running feet he turned to see what was happening—and saw Arlian suddenly turn aside, running across the yard, rather than toward him.

He plainly had no idea why Arlian would do that, but he accepted the gift, and turned his attention back to the door.

Meanwhile, Arlian had looped back toward the wall as the driver charged after him, and was now able to approach the gate from the other side, stepping over his dying servant's body to slam the heavy iron framework shut. He threw the bolt, and called through it, "Captain!

Guard this gate at all costs!"

There was an instant's hesitation, and then the commander of the defenders replied, "Yes, my lord!"

Then Arlian turned toward his attackers, fending off a quick thrust by the coachman's blade.