Dragon's Treasure (23 page)

"I don't," said Nortero. "But Franco Genovese does. The day after the funeral, the funeral that didn't happen, he hung the guards. Then he put out word that he would pay a reward for the return of the bones. Fifty nobles. Every mountebank in Nakase has been showing up on the doorstep of Genovese Castle, dragging sheep bones and pig bones and Imarru alone knows what other sorts of bones, dressed up in winding sheets some of them, with rings and bits of lace and finery and such.... Francos front hall is ankle deep in bones."

DiSorvino pictured Franco Genovese's paneled hallway strewn with pig bones, and Franco, brandishing a sack with fifty gold pieces in it, wading through them.... He laughed. "Was it Franco who locked the old man in the cellars for twenty years?"

"It wasn't twenty years," Nortero said. "More like ten. No, it wasn't Franco; it was Franco's father, Luigi, who did that. Claimed he'd tried to poison him. Probably he had. He'd already killed his brother, Marcello, and the other boys, his sons, Luigi's brothers. Lorca was always killing somebody."

"How did Luigi die?"

"I believe it was a fever. A natural death, the physician said."

DiSorvino grunted. He disliked physicians as much as he disliked apothecaries.

"Were Franco's brothers at the funeral? Carlino, and—and—"

"Alano. No. Wise of them. Franco's not a loving brother. It's a wonder they're alive at all. They left home quite early."

"Clever of them." His own brother had done the same. He lived in the south, near Firense, and had never shown the slightest interest in returning to Sorvino. "Franco had a sister, didn't he? What happened to her?"

"She's Abbess of the Temple of the Moon in Mako. She probably spends a good deal of time praying for the rest of her family." Nortero grinned merrily. "That reminds me of a story I heard about Fabio Trasio." Fabio Trasio was one of the town's leading citizens. He was also a drunk, a spendthrift, and a notable rake. DiSorvino waved a hand. The story turned out to be quite unbelievable, involving as it did a novice in the temple, a horse, and Fabio Trasio clad only in his socks. But it was a funny story.

"Tevio!" diSorvino called. "Bring more brandy." It was good brandy, from some vineyard in the Lake District. It was not, of course, as good as the merignac would have been. How could anyone steal nearly fifty bottles of merignac? He had had the wagon driver and the guard flogged and dismissed. "What other news do you hear?"

"Let's see. Erin diMako's daughter, the one who married into the Leminin clan, is pregnant. Bork Hal, Gerris Hal's eldest, has settled his trouble in Serrenhold. Though you know that family. Never out of trouble. Already he's in dispute with the Red Hawk sisters over the ownership of some land. There's unrest on the southern border. The Chuyokai are restless. And oh, yes, there's a story being told about your young troublemaker, the one you, ah, mislaid in Ujo."

"Unamira," diSorvino grated. "Treion Unamira. The one who was stolen from me, you mean. I presume it's an old story. He's dead."

"Not according to Egidio diPrima. I met him at the horse fair in Averra. You know him; his caravans go everywhere. He heard from one of his suppliers that
he
had heard from a friend of his, an innkeeper in Castria, that Unamira's still alive. Karadur Atani didn't kill him. After all the misery he put you through, it hardly seems fair."

A scarlet rage crawled up Marion diSorvino's backbone. The Bastard was alive. He could not believe it. Tevio came in, a fresh bottle of brandy cradled in his arms.

"Bring it here, damn you!" He did not want to believe it. He glared at Nortero. "When did you hear this?"

"I told you, at the horse fair. Last month."

"Why did you not mention this before?"

Nortero shrugged. "It slipped my mind."

"What mind?" Nortero looked away. "What more did diPrima tell you?"

"That was all, my lord." Nortero reached blithely for the bottle.

"Take your hands off that! That can't be all. Is Unamira a prisoner? What was done to him? Damn it, find out! I want to know everything."

"You want me to talk to diPrima, my lord?"

DiSorvino looked at his commander in loathing. The man was brainless. "Gods, no. Idiot. I want you to send someone to Ippa."

Nortero's ruddy face went blank. "My lord," he said, "it's November. It's winter in the north. No one goes to Ippa in winter."

"I give you money for intelligence, don't I?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then show some! Hire a spy, tell him what you need to know, and pay him double." DiSorvino closed his fingers around the brandy bottle. "Tell him not to come back until he knows everything that happened to Unamira, and most particularly, where he is." With all his strength, he flung the bottle at the door.

Naturally, it shattered.

"Go!"

12

"Hoy, One-arm," said Anssa, "give me a hand!"

The pot of grease he held was tipping dangerously, threatening to spill on the kitchen floor. Taran went quickly to his aid.

"Careful," Anssa warned, "it's hot." Taran grabbed a cloth. Between them they steadied the pot. "Got it. Thanks." Staggering outside, Anssa poured the hot grease into the snow. Eilon handed Taran a grease-encrusted skillet. He passed it to Pico for washing.

Ruth grabbed his sleeve. "Help me with the rolls." He went with her to the bake oven, and helped her pull the wide flat trays from their shelves. The crusts of the rolls were flavored with honey and cinnamon. They slid the trays into the trestle to cool.

"Smells good," Taran said. Ruth nodded and returned to her table, on which sat rows and rows of savory dumplings, waiting to be dropped into the soup. Taran had never realized what labor it took to feed a household. Every day, Boris and his undercooks thrice fed Dragon, his officers, his guests, if there were any, the forty or so men of the war band, and the more than fifty men and women who served them. The work started before dawn and did not stop. There was always something to be done: fires to be fed, beasts to be butchered, vegetables to be cleaned and chopped, dough to be prepared, sauces and soups to be stirred, pots and pans to be filled, emptied, or scoured, spits to be turned. The work was drudgery. He hated it, especially the pot washing. He hated the grease and spatter and smoke.

A pot holding yellow mustard sauce started to bubble. Taran hissed at Eilon. Together they moved the pot farther from the fire. Eilon was chief of the scullions, soon to be made undercook. He was a big-boned lad, with a placid temperament, quite different from Boris, who made an art of losing his temper, or from Simon, the sneering stew cook. Sour Simon, the scullions called him.

When first Taran came to the kitchen, Eilon had refused to speak to him. The other scullions had been actively malicious: jostling him, tripping him, leaving spoiled food in his blanket. "Ignore it," Boris had said. "It'll stop." But ignoring it had not been easy. The harassment set his teeth on edge. He wanted badly to retaliate, with words, or blows, or with the knife that he had stolen from the knife rack and hidden in his boot.

But retaliation, he knew, would incite more animosity, and if he used the knife, no matter what the provocation, Karadur would kill him. He kept his mouth shut and did what he was told. Eventually, as Boris had said it would, the hostility ceased. Only Simon's had not. That morning he had surreptitiously spilled water at Taran's feet as he was balancing a heavy pot. "Look out!" Ruth had shouted. "Simon, you lackwit oaf. Watch what you're doing!"

"Sorry," Simon said sullenly, "it was an accident."

But they all knew it was not.

Someday, Taran determined, Simon would pay for that, and for other insults. But not now. The door to the yard swung open. Half a dozen children, red-cheeked from the cold, weaved amid the flashing cleavers and the dangling cauldrons. Boris brandished his slotted spoon and roared at them. Laughing, they ducked beneath his windmilling arms, snatching bits of meat from the tables.

Great haunches of elk lay cooling on the slicing table. There was plenty of food, of course, more than enough. Even in the dead of winter, no one went hungry or cold or untended in Dragon Keep or anywhere in Karadur Atani's domain. The lord and his hunters made sure of that.

I saw your sister yesterday,
Rogys had said, two days ago. Or was it three?
We brought her meat and firewood. She said to tell you she's well.

Karadur Atani was a good lord. Taran had come to the opinion grudgingly. He had wanted to hate the man, to name him tyrannical and brutal, but he was not. He asked of his soldiers only what they could give. He rode with them, trained with them, hunted with them. On winter nights, when the air grew so cold that smoke froze leaving the chimney, he stood watch on the walls beside them, lending them his warmth.
Dragon
, they called him.

Karadur rarely spoke to him. But he felt the dragon-lord's gaze on him, now and again. It sent a chill through him that the kitchen warmth could not assuage.

Jess said briskly, "Hoy! One-arm, you're dreaming. Wake up." She held out a dirty pot. Taran added it to the scullions' pile. Metal screeched; Boris was sharpening his big carving knives.

Anssa said, "He's dreaming of the treasure." Up to their elbows in grease, the scullions grinned. Dragon Keep was rich, everyone knew that. There were vaults beneath the castle, hollowed by the dragon-kindred out of solid rock. The scullions had plied him mercilessly with tales of those vaults: immense, shadowy rooms piled with heaps of glittering bright coin and blazing jewels.... He had dreamed about it at night.

But those were Treion the bandit's dreams. He was Taran, or, more commonly, One-arm. The soldiers, when they spoke to him, called him One-arm. He watched them training every chance he had. The officers—even Herugin—did not stop him. He knew them all now: tough, black-bearded Marek, volatile Lurri, Rogys, the red-haired cavalryman who was clearly one of Dragon's favorites, Raudri the herald, Ruth's brother.... The day after he followed Boris to the kitchen, Raudri had dragged him to a shadowy corner of the courtyard and told him that if Taran caused Ruth any trouble, he, Raudri, would break Taran's neck.

"Anything," the herald warned him.

But Taran had no intention of causing Ruth, whom he liked, or Anssa, or Boris, or even Sour Simon, a moment's concern. He would keep his bargain with the dragon-lord. He would win his freedom, and a sword.

And then, somehow, he would kill Marion diSorvino. The passion that coursed through him whenever he thought of the man had in no way abated. He did not know how he would manage it, only that he would find a way, somehow.

What he would do once
that
was done, he had no idea.

Anssa stuck his head out into the hall. "They're coming in," he said over his shoulder. The serving-girls stopped their gossiping and straightened their aprons.

Boris laid the whetstone down and began to slice.

* * *

At the end of the meal, Karadur called for music. As was customary, the cooks and servers and scullions laid their work aside and went into the hall to listen to the singer. Taran went with them. The reverence the folk of Dragon Keep gave to music had surprised him. There had been no music in Sorvino.

"
Riders at the gate! Seven riders at the gate!
" Azil's voice filled the hall, compelling as a trumpet. When he ended, there were tears in some men's eyes. Lord and singer left the hall together, and the rest of the household followed; most to their beds, a few to the bitter cold of guard duty in midwinter. The servers cleared the remains of the meal from the tables. The dogs, whining, crowded at the kitchen entrance for the scraps of meat. The scullions scoured the cauldrons. Boris wiped his spoon on a cloth and hung it on its hook in the pantry, above the jar of precious yellow saffron that was his alone to touch.

When all was done, he set the keph pieces out on the baker's table. Finding someone to play keph with at the Keep had been a bounty Taran had not expected. Boris was a good keph player, better than Taran. The cook preferred the Summer pieces. His play reminded Taran of Niello's, a little. Niello was dead. He did not want to think of him. Taran wiped the grease from his fingers and took his place on the stool opposite the cook.

Boris moved his Eagle. Taran moved a pikeman to protect his Princess. Boris leaned back a little, then took the pikeman. Taran moved his Raven up to threaten Boris's King. Boris moved his Eagle to intercept the threat.

Their pieces ambled about the board for a while. Then Boris took Taran's Wizard. Taran scanned the board. He was going to lose this match.

"I'm done," he said. He tipped the Winter King on its side.

Smiling, Boris put board and pieces away and padded off to his apartment. The ovens emanated warmth. The scullions, rolled in their quilts, snored beside the shining cauldrons. Boris had left the lamp alight on the baker's table. Taran felt under his quilt for the wood stave he had hidden there. He tucked it under his arm. Then, carrying the lamp, he went back into the vacant hall.

It was cold and dark as a tomb. A faint warmth rose from the hearth ashes. He set the candle beside the hearth. The stave was nearly four feet long. Holding it as a man would hold a practice sword, he cut, and cut, and cut again ten strokes, twenty, fifty, a hundred.... He did figure eights. He advanced, boots stamping, and retreated, slicing into the shadows with strokes he had first learned when he was ten from Emmit d'Andorra, commander of the diSorvino household's guards. DiSorvino had been furious when he learned about the lessons.