Dragon Weather (19 page)

“I couldn't help overhearing part of what you said to that guardsman,” Arlian said.

“My sympathies on your inability,” the man said, raising one corner of his mouth sardonically. “I sometimes think the gods erred in not providing a means to close our ears, as we close our eyes.”

Arlian managed a weak smile in return. “Am I correct in believing you are hiring men?”

The grip on the dagger-hilt loosened visibly.

“Not precisely,” the man said. “I am aware of someone who is, however.”

“Ah,” Arlian said. “And who would that be? I'd be grateful for whatever you might tell me of this matter.”

“Would you, indeed, my lord?”

Arlian nodded. “I'm a stranger here,” he said.

The man in black considered Arlian for a moment. “It is my understanding,” he said at last, “that the caravan master has budgeted for a dozen guards for this trip, and as yet has hired only eight, myself included. For my part, I don't think a dozen any more than adequate and I'd be glad if he found more.”

At the word “caravan” understanding dawned upon Arlian; the confusion around him suddenly made sense, and old childhood dreams burst into renewed life. He remembered Grandsir's tales of travel, and his own desire to emulate the old man.

“A caravan!” he said “Of course. And where does it go? What goods does it bear?”

“We go east, to the port city of Lorigol,” the man said. “As for what we carry, we carry whatever the investors choose to send—but I'd assume you'll find bolts of cloth, jars of herbs, and the like in these wagons.” He took his hand off his dagger and waved in a gesture that took in most of the plaza.

Arlian nodded. “And you need more guards?”

“I'd say so,” the man said dryly.

“And … well…” Arlian wasn't sure what to ask next, and the guard took pity on him.

“You're thinking of signing on, then? Seeking adventure in the wide world?”

“Yes, exactly!” Arlian said, smiling. He had intended to go on into Manfort in pursuit of his vengeance and Sweet's rescue, but now he suddenly found himself with an attractive alternative. He was still determined to free the surviving whores, still determined to find some way to strike at the dragons that had destroyed Obsidian, but he was young, he had time, and the world was large and he had seen so little of it. From his mountainside village he had seen the land spread out before him, but most of what he had seen since had been stone walls or a stuffy attic. To get away from his past for a time, to breathe fresh air and see new lands … that would be good for him, he knew it.

And he would make some money, learn more of life as a free man, give himself more of a grounding before he flung himself at his foes in his pursuit of vengeance.

Of course, it meant that the women would remain in captivity somewhat longer—but he had no way to find them, nor means to free them, in any event. Perhaps a few weeks with a caravan would give him time to plan and prepare.

“You'd be willing to serve as a mere guard?” the man in black asked, interrupting Arlian's thoughts. “It's hardly suitable work for a lord.”

“My holdings are greatly diminished,” Arlian improvised. “I must take what I can find.”

“Can you fight?”

“I can learn,” Arlian replied promptly.

“Have you your sword? We leave tomorrow at dawn, or as close as we can manage with this many wagons—there's no time to fetch your great-grandfather's blade from the family vaults in Blackwater, or wherever it might be.”

“I have no sword,” Arlian admitted.

“Ah. Then you aren't fully a lord yet?”

“No.” Arlian could scarcely argue with that. His disguise, as he had feared, had a fatal flaw.

“Have you any armor, perhaps?”

“No,” Arlian said, seeing his dreams fleeing back into childhood fantasy. “Not so much as a penknife.”

The man did not dismiss him, as Arlian had expected; instead he stared at Arlian with those intense blue eyes for a moment. “Could you use a sword if you had one?” he asked.

Perhaps there was hope after all. “I could
learn,
” Arlian insisted.

“My lord,” the man said, “If you want to learn swordsmanship, there are schools and tutors—signing on as a caravan guard is not the easiest way. Hasn't your father offered to have you taught?”

“My father is long dead,” Arlian said.

“He left you no sword?”

Arlian shook his head. “It's lost.”

“And your mother?”

“Dead as well—and my brother with her.” That much was true—and if the man assumed that the family's sword had been lost in the same catastrophe, Arlian would not disabuse him of the idea.

“And the family business?”

“Gone as well.”

“I begin to understand,” the man in black said. “Nothing left but your pride, eh, my lord?” The mockery that had been in his voice whenever he spoke the title before had been replaced by pity.

“A little more than that,” Arlian said defensively, remembering Kuruvan's cache. “I believe I can
buy
a sword and armor—and pay you to teach me their use.”

“What makes you think I know enough to teach anyone?”

“You didn't get those scars on your face from a woman's fingernails,” Arlian said.

The man in black laughed. “No,
those
scars are on my back,” he agreed.

“And I heard what you told that townsman,” Arlian continued. “If you have so little fear of bandits, then you must have confidence in your own skill, and you don't look like someone easily deluded, even by himself.”

The man nodded. “How much can you pay?”

Arlian hesitated. “I'm not sure,” he admitted. The truth was he wasn't entirely sure the money was there at all, or how he could get his hands on it if it was—the innkeeper was not simply going to let a stranger carry a keg out of the cellars, no questions asked. “I still need to settle a few accounts. You'll be here until tomorrow's dawn?” That would give him one night to get what he needed.

The guard nodded. “But the caravan master may hire all the men he needs before that,” he warned. “In fact, I hope he does—I hate traveling with overconfident fools and insufficient defense.”

Arlian's expression turned woeful, and the man in black smiled.

“There will be other caravans,” he said. “They gather here every so often. Perhaps instead of accompanying me to Lorigol you'll find some other teacher bound southward to the Borderlands, or west to the mountain tribes. Go get your sword and armor, and…”

He stopped in midsentence and considered Arlian thoughtfully.

“Do you know how to choose a sword?” he asked. “Or armor?”

Arlian shook his head. “I was only eleven when my father died,” he said.

“But you've lasted this long without him.”

Arlian shrugged.

The man in black studied him. Then he looked around the plaza. Finally his gaze returned to Arlian.

“Do you have the money with you? Enough for a sword?”

“No,” Arlian admitted. “But I should have it by some time tonight.”

The man snorted, and gestured at the western sky, where the sun was much nearer the horizon that the zenith. “I can hardly hope to see you equipped by dawn if you don't have the funds until tonight! But I don't know that I like this caravan master that much in any case; he should have had his full complement of guards by now, and I shouldn't have to do his recruiting. I'll tell you what, my would-be lord—if this caravan doesn't have twelve good men signed on by morning, I'll stay here and take your money and see you properly fitted out, and we'll join the
next
one that comes along, if it's headed somewhere worth going. Would that suit you?”

“I believe it would,” Arlian said cautiously.

Indeed, it might prove ideal. If the next caravan did not depart until some days had passed, he might have time to learn some basic swordsmanship from this man, he might be able to rescue the women, and then carry them all away with him when the caravan departed.

He didn't want to commit himself too completely, though; he might not be able to get the money at all, and he did not want to be responsible for costing this man his employment.

The guard seemed confident that he could find another job readily enough, though, and Arlian didn't doubt it was true; certainly, had Arlian been hiring guards, this man appeared formidable and experienced enough.

“Well, then,” the man in black said. “Go and settle your accounts, and I'll see you in the morning.”

“And what name shall I give when I look for you?” Arlian asked.

The guard smiled. “They call me Black,” he said, hooking a thumb under his leather tunic and displaying it. “And you?”

“Lanair,” Arlian said—he thought that alias was still safe enough.

“Then perhaps I'll see you in the morning, Lord Lanair,” Black said. “Or perhaps not—I may be gone by the time you rise, if all goes well. Or
you
may be gone, if those accounts you wish to settle aren't cooperative, eh?”

Arlian managed a nervous laugh. “The morning, then,” he said. He essayed a quick bow, then turned and made his way through the crowd toward the inn.

16

The Blood of the Grape

The interior of the Blood of the Grape was as crowded as the plaza. Harried boys and women were carrying trays back and forth through the throng in the common room; every chair was occupied, and most had someone standing behind them, waiting for the present occupant to finish.

Arlian had not anticipated anything like this when he heard Rose describe Lord Kuruvan's hiding place; he had expected a quiet little inn like the Weary Traveler, not a vast and crowded caravansary.

The caravan merchants would surely have made most of their preparations elsewhere—in Manfort, or on their estates, or in the surrounding towns. This was only a final gathering place for the wagons and travelers.

The caravan's personnel had certainly gathered, though, and they were obviously enjoying this chance to obtain food and drink in a civilized setting before venturing out into wilder lands.

Although, Arlian realized, those lands might not be
that
much wilder; surely there were other inns, other caravansaries, on the roads to the east. The route to Lorigol could be peppered with such establishments, neatly spaced, each one day's journey from the last—at least for part of the distance. If the entire route were safe, there would be no need to travel in caravans in the first place.

Arlian knew little of geography beyond what he had been able to see from the Smoking Mountain, or what his grandfather had told him; he had no idea how far Lorigol was from Manfort, or what lay between, or where the ships that sailed from that port might trade. For the first time in his life that ignorance troubled him. He realized he didn't have any very clear idea how long he would be gone if he signed onto a caravan.

Those were all matters he could worry about later, he told himself; for now he needed to focus on getting at Lord Kuruvan's gold. He looked about, trying to think what he should do next.

He had originally thought he would take a room at the inn—though that might have been difficult in any case, since his entire remaining fortune, after settling at the Weary Traveler, consisted of eight coppers and a tiny silver coin of uncertain value—and then sneak out of his room at night, find his way down into the cellars, and carry off the keg. If it was there.

That was clearly not going to work; this place was full of people, and even if he could still somehow get a bed he was sure he wouldn't get a room to himself. He doubted that he could move about the place, even in the middle of the night, without waking anyone.

He found himself a corner in which to stand, dropped his bundle to the floor, and watched the crowds while he tried to puzzle out a plan.

The steps were easy enough to spell out: He needed to get down into the cellars; he needed to find the keg; and he needed to get the gold out of the inn.

He had intended to sneak down into the cellars by night, but it belatedly occurred to him that he might not have been able to do so in any case; the cellars were probably kept locked. If so, his original scheme wouldn't have worked at all; he was vaguely aware that there were ways to open locks without the appropriate keys, but he certainly didn't know any of them.

That might complicate matters.

At present he didn't even know where the cellar door was, but that would be easy enough to remedy—he could just follow one of the servers.

Once in the cellars, finding the keg should be fairly easy—how many kegs marked “sour wine” would there be? But getting it out through a crowd like this would not be so simple. He could not possibly hope to get it out unseen.

For a moment he considered ways he might simply carry it out openly—could he claim to be Lord Kuruvan's representative, come to fetch it?

No. The innkeeper would surely demand at least a letter from Kuruvan, and there might well be a prearranged password, or some other means of verifying his right to the keg.

Could he switch it with another keg, and claim that he was a merchant in the caravan and it was his own property?

No, there would almost certainly be paperwork of some sort. He couldn't expect to get away with that.

Carrying a keg out openly wasn't going to work; someone would want to know who he was and where he was going. It would take an incredibly audacious thief to simply walk in and carry a keg away, but it wasn't impossible that it had been tried. He'd been successfully audacious back in Westguard, but he couldn't rely on it.

Besides, how
big
was this keg? How far could he carry it? Where would he take it? Would the innkeeper notice that it was gone?