Dragon Weather (14 page)

And the face thus adorned was straight and strong, with clear dark eyes and firm, full lips surrounding a long and elegant nose—a nose like Grandsir's—eyes like his father's, and his mother's mouth.

The result was nothing like the face of the village boy he remembered; he looked instead like an aristocrat.

“That's amazing,” he said.

Sweet leaned over and kissed him on the now exposed temple. Rose just smiled.

“Now,” Rose said, “I think it's time to get some sleep before they wake us for breakfast.”

“Should I go, then?” Arlian asked, gesturing at the window.

“Must you?” Sweet asked.

Arlian hesitated. “I don't want to be caught,” he said.

“Then you don't want to leave yet,” Sweet said. “If you go walking the streets with a lord's head above a farmer's best shirt and that filthy pair of workman's breeches and your own bare feet, the guards will be very curious about who you are and what you're doing in Westguard.” She pointed at the attic and asked Rose, “He can sleep up there, can't he?”

“Go ahead,” Rose said resignedly.

Sweet smiled. “And tomorrow we'll see about fixing you up
below
the neck!”

Arlian smiled back at her.

This was wonderful, being here; the tin-roofed attic would surely be at least as comfortable as the barns and sheds he had been sleeping in, and the risk of discovery would be less. These women were providing him with what amounted to a perfect disguise—no slave-catcher searching for an escaped miner would bother a man with his hair trimmed and oiled and his face powdered.

And being around women was a pleasure he had never before experienced—just enjoying their company, quite aside from Sweet's unorthodox welcome. That welcome, of course, was another, and much more intense, pleasure he had never known until tonight.

If only he had something to eat … but surely Sweet would think of that in the morning, and they would manage something. Maybe he could slip out long enough to find something, then return.

Or if necessary he could simply wait until his disguise was complete. He was hungry, but not starving.

“Go on, then,” Rose said. “Take Sweet back to her room, and then get up there.”

Arlian, perhaps inspired to extra courtesies by the lordly image he saw in the mirrors, rose gracefully and essayed a bow. Then he picked Sweet up.

“He's a strong one, isn't he?” Rose remarked, upon seeing how easily Arlian lifted her friend.

“Seven years hauling ore,” Arlian explained as he held Sweet in one arm and opened the door with the other.

A moment later he had deposited Sweet back in her own bed; then he turned away and hurried back up the stairs.

In his last glimpse of Sweet's face he had thought she looked somehow disappointed, but he couldn't think why she would be—perhaps she'd noticed some flaw in his appearance? He didn't dare take the time to think about it, though; he wanted to get safely into hiding in the attic.

He had left Rose's door open; now he strode briskly in, closed it behind him, climbed up on the chair, and lifted the attic trap.

A jump, and his elbows caught the edges of the opening; then he hauled himself up, trying not to kick anything as he did. At last he tumbled into the attic.

It was dark, and much cooler than the room below, but still nowhere near as cold as the outside world. Immense beams ran across it, dividing it into bands; he lowered himself carefully into one of these troughs and found himself on rough planking. He could see nothing of what he sat upon, as the faint light that leaked up through the open trap did not reach that far, but a brief exploration with his hands found what seemed to be solid wood—and also a band of stone, presumably the top of the wall between Rose's room and the corridor.

“Close it!” Rose called.

Arlian started, then hastened to obey, lowering the trapdoor back into place, closing himself in and shutting out the light.

That done, he sat alone in cool, silent darkness.

He feared that his concealment might not be perfect; if he stepped on the wrong board it might sag visibly below, or even break, sending him tumbling through someone's ceiling. The beams, wide as they were, were not so wide that he could lie down upon one to sleep. Accordingly, he settled onto that band of stone, bracing himself against the beams on either side. He lay there, intending to review his situation and make plans for the future.

But then, despite the cold and the dark and his awkward position, exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.

12

Decisions

Arlian awoke in utter darkness, and for a moment thought he was back in the mines, that his escape had all been a dream. Then he shivered with the cold, and knew he was outside—the mines were never so chilly. He reached out and touched wood instead of stone, the rough wood of a heavy beam, and remembered where he was. He raised a hand to his head and felt his neatly cut hair, then stroked his short-trimmed beard.

The events of the previous night had been real, then. He was hidden in the attic of a whorehouse.

He winced at the word, one he had learned in the mines; it was so harsh! And he couldn't bring himself to think of Sweet or Rose as “whores.” It was unquestionably an accurate description, but it simply didn't seem right. Sweet's own word, “brothel,” was not much better.

He sat up, and found that the windowless attic's darkness was not absolute; faint sunlight seeped in through the eaves, enough to make out dimly the massive beams, the sloping rafters overhead—and not much else.

He couldn't guess at the time; the trace of light was far too diffuse to show him the sun's angle. He hesitated, trying to think what he should do.

He was hungry—hungry and
thirsty
—but where could he find food or water? He frowned.

Food could wait, he told himself, but he needed water soon.

And a chamberpot or privy would be welcome, too. He didn't dare simply use a corner of the attic; it might seep through, and even if no one found that suspicious it might send someone up for a look at the roof.

He could scarcely just open the trap and drop down, though; what if Rose were with a customer?

He clambered cautiously over the intervening beam, knelt, ran his fingers along the boards until he found the edges of the trap door, then put his ear to the wood and listened.

He heard voices—one he thought was Rose, but he didn't recognize the other.

Whoever it was, Arlian knew he would have to wait. He sighed and sat up on the beam.

He remembered that before going to sleep he had intended to make some plans, but had dozed off; well, now he was awake, and not going anywhere. It was time to give some serious thought to his future.

He was free of the mines; if the women carried through on their plans to dress him, once his disguise was complete no one would ever recognize elegant young Triv as the escaped slave Arlian. Escape, his first goal, was largely accomplished. He need merely cooperate with Sweet and Rose and avoid being spotted by the brothel's guards or the dreaded Mistress, and he would be free to move on wherever he chose.

Ensuring his continued survival had to be his next priority; he needed food and water, and some way to earn a living. He was a healthy young man, big and strong—surely he could find work.

That would require some thought, though. Perhaps the women would have some useful suggestions.

And his third goal was justice—vengeance for the murder of his family and the destruction of his village, vengeance for the looting of the ruins and his own enslavement.

And the mine—was that just? Was it right that a score of men led such a miserable existence as that he had fled? Was it right that Lampspiller and Bloody Hand had power over them?

His thoughtful frown deepened. There were undoubtedly many injustices in the world; he could scarcely hope to end them all.

But surely, he had to do what he could. As he had told Bloody Hand, people could make their own justice, and he was obliged to at least try.

Below him even now, he realized, was a massive injustice; what could Sweet or Rose or the others possibly have done to deserve being crippled? Did they really face the possibility of someday, when they ceased to be profitable, being murdered and fed to the dogs?

That couldn't be allowed. He would have to find some way to prevent it.

But how? And how could he find the looters, or the dragons? How could he destroy the dragons? He was just a man—scarcely more than a boy. He knew little of the world; obsidian carvers and silver miners had no need to know of much beyond their own limited surroundings. He had no weapons, and no money; even his clothes weren't fit to be seen on the streets.

He had his little bag of keepsakes, but that was all—a few scraps of fabric, a crude necklace, and a handful of pretty stones. What sort of justice could that buy?

Hathet's stones … might they really be worth something, beyond the Borderlands in far-off Arithei?

Was Hathet really even
from
Arithei? Did Arithei even exist?

If it did and Hathet was genuinely Aritheian, Hathet might have family there, people who had been wondering all these years what had become of him. Perhaps they would appreciate word of their lost kin.

Arlian swallowed, wishing his throat weren't quite so dry—and that his bladder weren't quite so full.

He had intended to go to Manfort, in part to track down and confront Lord Dragon—for surely, even if Lord Dragon did not live in Manfort, most of the great lords and ladies did, and they might know who dared to use the name “Dragon.”

Now, though, Arlian had second thoughts. He was just a youth, with no friends, no family, no funds—how could he hope to destroy a lord, a man who could casually buy and sell men and women? He remembered what that man had done to Sweet the night before, and how Sweet had not dared to resist or even speak, and how he had simply watched, not daring to act. He was not ready to fight such men. Perhaps he should go seeking Arithei to find Hathet's family …

Or perhaps he was afraid.

He bit his lip. Was that it? Was this simply cowardice?

All those years in the mines he had dreamed of the day when he would be free, and could confront Lord Dragon and strike him down. In the few days since his escape, though, he had learned a little more of the ways of the world, and of himself—he had not even dared confront ordinary farmers. Even now he was hiding in an attic, lest he be seen by mere guards.

He had told himself that because right was on his side, in the long run he could not fail—but was that true? Perhaps justice must triumph in the end, as he very much wanted to believe despite all he had seen and heard, but need he live to see it? Had Fate, or the gods, told him so?

If he were to head to Manfort and march boldly into Lord Dragon's home, did he really think that he would be able to kill Lord Dragon? Wasn't it more likely that Dragon would run him through with the sword he carried? Or simply laugh, and call a dozen guards, who would deal with this intruder?

And that assumed he could even
find
Lord Dragon's front door.

But his memory of the looters pawing through the wreckage of his home, the memory of being hauled to Deep Delving and sold as if he were a bolt of cloth, would not allow him to give up the idea. He
must
avenge himself somehow!

He would need to work at it, to find some way other than simply walking in the front door.

He needed to know more about Lord Dragon. He needed to know more about Manfort. He needed to know more about everything.

And the women here might know a few things. They might know of Lord Dragon; he might even be a regular customer. He would, at the very least, want to ask them a few questions before he left and went on his way toward Manfort.

And he might want more than that, if the women could provide it. There were many things he needed to learn about the outside world.

Just then he heard a voice call, “Triv? Are you awake?”

“Rose?” he called back quietly.

“It's clear!” Rose replied.

Arlian hastened to dig his fingernails into the crack around the hatch and lift the trap open; then he lowered himself down until he hung from his hands, and let himself drop the last foot or two.

Then he looked up at the black square, and hurriedly fetched the chair, climbed up on it, and slid the door back into place.

Then he turned to Rose, who was sitting up in her bed, eating breakfast from a tray on the bedside table. The room was dim, lit only by what light filtered through the drawn curtains, but otherwise just as he remembered it. He stepped to the bedside.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

“In a moment,” he said; he felt along the side of the space under the bed with his toes, and found a chamberpot. Then he stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at Rose.

She looked at his face, then down. Then she pointedly turned her back.

“I won't look,” she said.

She didn't, and a moment later, when the chamberpot was safely stowed away again, he was nibbling a sweet roll and drinking cider, sharing Rose's cup.

The food was excellent, but there wasn't much of it. Rose noticed Arlian gazing hungrily at the empty plate and said, “They don't want us to get fat; most of the customers like their women rounded, but not fat.”

“Oh,” Arlian said.

“We probably eat better than most slaves,” Rose said. “Maybe Sweet has more.”

Arlian was at a loss for how to reply to this until Rose added, “Why don't you go see? Careful going out in the hall, though—make sure no one's collecting the trays yet.”

Arlian nodded. He crossed to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out.

The hallway appeared deserted. He slipped out, crept down the stairs and along the corridor to Sweet's door, and knocked.