Dragon Weather (37 page)

Arlian shook his head. “It's all so complicated,” he said. “I could show mercy, have the Aritheians look at Cover—perhaps they could heal him, or perhaps not. But what would come of it?”

Black shrugged. “We never
know
what's to come, my lord; we can only make our best guess.”

“And that's often wrong. When I saved Bloody Hand's life, it brought me hatred—and my freedom. I still haven't decided whether I was right or wrong, or whether
he
was right or wrong.” He sighed. “I had thought my vengeance would be simpler. Looting Obsidian in the dragons' wake was an evil thing—I don't think any could question that. Selling me as a slave, rather than letting me make my own way as best I could, was wrong. I had thought that the people who did those things, when I found them, would be evil, that by killing them I would be ridding the world of a continuing threat to the well-being of innocents—and instead I find Cover a sick, harmless beggar who seems to have hurt no one in years, who is clearly loved by his wife. What if the others are the same?”

“What if they are?” Black responded. “Does that wipe out the wrongs they did?”

“I don't know,” Arlian said quietly.

“Ah,” Black said. For half a dozen paces neither man spoke; then Black suggested, “Perhaps, if you're still determined upon your vengeance, you should concentrate on those six lords, then. The mutilation of sixteen young women, and the murder of four, is surely harder to forgive than a mere looting and enslavement.”

“Five women murdered, not four,” Arlian said. “Lord Dragon slew Madam Ril with his own hand.”

“Ah, indeed, five it is—though she was herself a party to crimes against the others, was she not?”

“Yes,” Arlian said. “And if
I
had killed her, for those crimes … but Lord Dragon cut her throat for failing him, not for abusing her charges.” He bit his lower lip. “She would be just as dead in either case; does it really matter who killed her, or why?”

“Not to me,” Black said. “You are, of course, free to form your own opinion, but I say that dead is dead. And whether she deserved to die or not, there were still the other four.”

“It's so very tangled,” Arlian muttered.

“Indeed,” Black agreed. “Life generally is.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Arlian's shoulders hunched against the rain.

31

Lord Obsidian's Debut

Arlian made no attempt to locate Hide or Stonehand over the course of the next few days; instead he threw himself into the preparations for the feast and dance that he was to host, as Lord Obsidian, to celebrate his arrival in Manfort.

He put some effort into his own appearance, even considering asking his Aritheian employees to throw a glamour on him, though in the end he settled for the more natural methods he had learned during his stay in Westguard.

He did, however, teach the Aritheians an elaborate code of signals that he would use, should he have any need of their services during the gala. He taught Black the same cues.

“Do you think,” Black asked, after a final review, “that perhaps you've taken rather too much upon yourself?”

Arlian frowned. “How do you mean that?”

“I mean that you are one man—a strong and clever man, with the heart of the dragon, but a single man—yet you're determined to take on at least seven enemies.”

“I'm not alone,” Arlian protested. “I have you, and Thirif and Qulu and Shibiel and Isein.”

“And the lords will undoubtedly have their own hirelings and allies.”

Arlian shrugged. “The six lords and Ambassador Sahasin and the looters and the mine's overseers may or may not be too much for me; we'll see. But they're just the start.”

“You speak of the dragons.”

Arlian nodded. “The world is not safe for anyone so long as those monsters still live.”

“You stand no chance against any dragon, Arlian,” Black said resignedly. He had told Arlian this before, many times. “No man has
ever
slain a dragon. It's not even known whether they
can
die.”

“I know,” Arlian said. “So I'll probably die horribly in some cave somewhere.” He waved it aside. “We all die sometime, and if no one ever
tries,
we'll never know whether there
is
a way to kill dragons.”

“You're mad, you realize.”

Arlian grimaced. “Quite possibly. Seeing one's family slaughtered, spending much of one's life as a mine slave, crossing the Dreaming Mountains, drinking human blood and dragon venom—I'd suppose that to be enough to drive a man mad.”

“You didn't see them killed, save your grandfather,” Black corrected.

Arlian smiled wryly. “Literalist. It was close enough.” He clapped Black on the shoulder. “Come on, let's get on with it—I want this party to be perfect.”

The first coach arrived at midday. A handful of early arrivals, people who had come on foot but who had been milling about the gates, reluctant to be first to enter, took this as their cue.

Black greeted the arrivals at the great front door, ushering them through the entry hall into a long mirrored gallery some hundred feet long and two stories in height. The servants were waiting with wine and sweetmeats amid a vast display of fine tapestries, elaborate drapery, and artful arrangements of flowers. Perfume had been added to the water in the vases, to enhance the flowers' own scents, and a lutenist played unobtrusively on a central balcony.

Arlian stood out of sight behind the draperies of another balcony, listening to his guests; he intended to withhold his grand entrance for some time yet. From this post he caught only snatches of conversation, but he found them informative.

“… place cleaned up nicely…”

“… finally have a chance to meet the mysterious…”

“… from the south somewhere. I understand his people have been selling…”

“… probably hasn't been in here since his father…”

“Eccentric, definitely. I wonder how long he'll last in Manfort?”

“Dead or fleeing in a month, I would…”

“I don't remember that picture on the ceiling—was it there before?”

“I would assume, from the name, that he's dark…”

“You know your mother would never…”

Arlian noted that at least some of his guests had been in the Old Palace before—that was hardly surprising. Speculation about their host was also to be expected. He had hoped for more gossip about the other guests, and remained in place, listening. Perhaps when they had had a bit more time to exhaust the most obvious subjects he would hear more.

He knew more coaches were arriving; the crowd below was growing steadily.

Then there was a stir, and normal conversation died away in a rush of whispering. Arlian risked leaning out for a quick glimpse.

A white-haired man attired in a fine blue coat and white shirt was entering, attended by half a dozen guards in white livery. The crowd backed away, making room for this new arrival.

From the response and the whispers he caught, Arlian realized that this was the Duke of Manfort himself—the hereditary warlord, the only lord whose position bore no relationship to his wealth or business, the person nominally in charge only of the city's defenses but in practice the closest thing to a ruler the Lands of Man possessed.

The Duke waved to the other guests and looked around.

“And where is our host?” he asked.

Arlian backed away from the draperies, tugged his sleeves straight, then turned and hurried for the stairs. He had not expected the Duke to appear—certainly not so early! It would be very bad form to keep the warlord waiting any longer than absolutely necessary.

On the way across the landing he signaled to a waiting servant, and as he descended the stairs he signed to Isein, the Aritheian woman who was waiting near the bottom. Both hurried away to prepare his entrance.

A moment later Arlian stood ready at the corner just beyond the end of the long gallery. The lutenist ended his piece with a flourish, and four trumpeters stepped out on the other balconies and began a brief fanfare.

The skin at the back of Arlian's neck tingled, and he knew the Aritheians were invoking the spells he had asked them to ready. He stepped forward, striding into the gallery.

Sure enough, images of brightly colored birds were dancing in great swirling patterns overhead; Arlian had seen such birds in the Dreaming Mountains and knew the species really existed, but to anyone who had never ventured south of the Desolation he guessed they would appear the exotic creation of fevered dreams, with their vivid green and red and yellow feathers and their long, curling tails.

Tiny lights, like fireflies, flickered from nowhere in the air above the heads of his guests. The scent of roses filled the hall. The fanfare ended in an arpeggio of crystalline tones that Arlian was quite sure never came from any mere piece of brass.

And then the birds and lights froze, the music stopped, and silence fell. Arlian paused in the archway entrance to the gallery, raised his hands, and bowed elaborately. “My friends, new and old,” he called, “I am Lord Obsidian. Welcome to my home!”

Someone laughed nervously, and somewhere the delicate clap of a woman's hands sounded. Speech returned in a rush amid scattered applause, and men and women in multicolored finery pressed forward to meet their host. The lutenist strummed a chord and began a new air.

Arlian accepted a woman's hand and kissed her fingers, then said, “Your pardon, my lady, but I believe I must attend another.” He gestured.

The crowd's eyes followed his wave and saw the Duke of Manfort approaching at a brisk pace, three guards on either side; the throng parted swiftly for him. Overhead the “fireflies” faded away and the bight birds vanished.

“Lord Obsidian!” the Duke called, as he approached. “A pleasure to meet you at last!”

Arlian bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.”

The Duke let out a bark of laughter. “I'm sure! Well, let us enjoy ourselves, then—tell me about yourself.” He held out a hand for Arlian to clasp. “Where
did
you get the disappearing birds?”

Arlian took the Duke's hand and looked at him.

He had had a wild notion that perhaps the Duke of Manfort himself was Lord Dragon, but any such thought was plainly absurd. This man was shorter than Lord Dragon—shorter than Arlian himself—with short-cut white hair and a square, smooth face paler than Lord Dragon's could ever be. His cheek was unscarred, and his watery blue eyes nothing like Lord Dragon's dark ones. His hand was soft and damp, his smile broad and slightly foolish.

The possibility of an illusion had occurred to Arlian, and he glanced up at Thirif, the Aritheian who now stood on one of the balconies.

Thirif gave the hand sign for “no magic in use.”

“In Arithei, Your Grace,” Arlian said.

“You've been to Arithei?
Yourself?
By the dead gods, my boy, how very remarkable!”

“My business is trading in magicks and sorcery, Your Grace; Arithei is the very foundation of my fortune.”

The Duke looked disconcerted. “Indeed,” he said.

Arlian hid a smile. It was not done, to speak openly of magic or sorcery in Manfort.

“Arithei is not so distant or strange as all that, Your Grace,” Arlian said, as if misunderstanding the Duke's reaction. “I understand that the Aritheians sent an ambassador to Manfort some years back.”

“Yes, of course! Sahasin—a fine fellow! I think I saw him as I entered.” He gestured vaguely at the crowd behind him. “But I don't believe he's been home to Arithei in a decade or more. It's not a safe journey.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, for most it is not,” Arlian agreed. “I have been very fortunate.”

“Ha! Indeed, you
must
have been, to be able to afford this old pile! You know, one reason my grandfather moved into the Citadel was that it was simply a nuisance, trying to keep this place from falling down around his ears, and yet you've made it look quite splendid.”

“Your Grace is too generous.” Arlian bowed again, with a flourish.

The Duke stared at Arlian for a moment, then waved in dismissal. “Well, it
has
been a pleasure, my lord, but you have your other guests to attend to—I mustn't monopolize your time!” He turned away, immediately turning his attentions to a buxom young lady in lavender velvet.

Arlian bowed one last time, and when his head came up again found himself looking at the back of the Duke's close-cropped head and blue silk collar. He kept his face expressionless as he turned to his other guests.

How, he wondered, did that insipid twit manage to keep order in Manfort? Was he really the fool he appeared to be, or was it a carefully cultivated act?

That someone had managed to get a letter out of the old fool giving him freedom to do anything he pleased in Westguard no longer seemed quite so surprising. Instead it seemed surprising that the entire city of Manfort had not devolved into anarchy.

But the Duke had advisers, of course, and presumably they were the ones who actually maintained order. Arlian had heard a few of their names during his stay in Manfort—Lord Enziet, Lady Rime, Lord Drisheen.

Arlian had almost met Drisheen on occasion in Westguard, two years before; certainly he had smelled the man's perfume. Rime and Enziet were unknown to him beyond their names and association with the Duke, however. He wondered whether any of those advisers were present.

Well, there was one person he wanted to meet who almost certainly was present; it was just a matter of finding him. Arlian noticed a worried-looking young man, roughly his own age and dressed in gaudy red-and-gold velvets, whose attention seemed to be focused on the Duke. He tapped this man on the shoulder, then bowed—a restrained little bow, not the grand production he had performed for the Duke. “Excuse me, my lord,” Arlian said. “I am Lord Obsidian; I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”