The Dragon Lord (23 page)

Massaging his arms more for something to do than because they hurt—even though the sentries’ grip had been tight enough to stop the flow of blood, and it tingled in his fingers as it returned to them—Aldric watched all the officers surreptitiously from under drooping eyelids. And the general who spoke Alban most of all.

“My lord,” he said, cringing inwardly at the loudness of his own voice in the silence, “I thank you.” He bowed a little, as was polite; then looked straight at the general, as was not polite at all, and tried not to care that his direct gaze might be considered insolent and dealt with as such. “But I would thank you rather more if I knew what the hell was going on!”

Nineteen high-ranked officers growled their displeasure— suggesting that each and every one of them was familiar with colloquial Alban—but the twentieth merely inclined his head. “Talvalin,” he said. The statement was neither confirmed nor denied by so much as the flick of an eyelid, but he nodded again, seeming content. “Aldric Talvalin. Yes. Your file suggested that you might react like this.” Aldric didn’t miss the inference, delivered with all the subtlety of a battleaxe:
We know all about you, boy
. “And I,” the bearded lips allowed themselves a thin smile, “am Lord General Goth.”

At last. At long last.

Aldric did the most sensible and indeed the most appropriate thing he could in the circumstances—he knelt and offered Goth the elaborate courtesy of Second Obeisance that was due to him as senior officer here and thus technically lord of the place. It also gave him a chance to get his betraying facial muscles under control, so that when he sat back he was hiding behind a cool, inscrutable, half-smiling mask.

Goth half-smiled as well. “There is a proverb among my people, Aldric Talvalin. It refers to your people: ‘Be wary of the Alban when he bows to hide his face.’ Should I be wary of you, perhaps?”

Aldric shrugged; he doubted it. Doubted indeed if there was much this man had to be wary of, anywhere at all. Lord General Goth was third man in the Drusalan Imperial hierarchy, and paramount military commander— for despite its martial title, the office of Grand Warlord was more political than anything else; recent events had made that all too clear. Equally, or most likely more important, he was virtual father to young Emperor Ioen. Much as Gemmel was to Aldric, but for years longer. He was a man of honor, although it was Drusalan honor and more flexible than most Alban
kailinin
would have tolerated. Goth, in doing what he considered necessary for the good of the Empire, had been required to twist his vaunted honor almost beyond recognition.

“Then be seated, Aldric-
an
,” the general invited. “Properly.” It wasn’t really an invitation at all, and Aldric did as he was told. “First,” continued Goth when the Alban had settled himself, “I ask pardon for the means which brought you here.”

Since the verb he used for “ask” was in an imperative mode, it seemed unlikely to be just a linguistic slip. That kind of accident was only made by such as Goth for its effect. So Aldric nodded and smiled, and made all the courteous little wordless gestures of one dismissing a paltry inconvenience.

Rather than an experience which had been terrifying at the time—he admitted this without hesitation, if only to himself—and which had still done little in the way of reassurance.

“Now, as to the reason for it all.” Goth leaned back in his chair and made ready to talk at length; Aldric had seen such expressive body language before, too many times, for both Gemmel and Dewan were great preachers when the mood was on them. “You must realize, of course, that you were in what we regard here as debatable territory—most seaports must perforce be…”

Locking an expression of polite interest onto his face, Aldric let five minutes of speculation and political theory wash over him. Either he had heard it all before, or he hadn’t been interested in finding out about it the first time around. Then Goth said something which jarred him back to full awareness.

“... and more than my men knew of your presence there.”

Something of what he felt must have shown on Aldric’s face despite his endeavours towards guarded neutrality, for Goth leaned forward and wagged a disapproving finger at him—a tutorial gesture much in keeping with his tone of voice.

“Come now, you didn’t really think the goings-on at Seghar went unnoticed, did you?” He stared more closely, spade beard jutting pugnaciously. “Or
did
you?”

Aldric said nothing.

“Well… !” There was a deal of private opinion in the way that Goth exhaled the word, but he elaborated no further and instead lifted one armored shoulder in the beginnings of a shrug. “No matter now. But given the situation—and your apparent frame of mind—you would scarcely have paused for conversation had you been approached by armored regulars like those who brought you here. Besides which, their presence would have made my hand too plain. As I say, there were more eyes than mine in Tuenafen. So I was forced to resort to—shall we say, other means? Despite some opposition.”

As if on cue one of the other officers got to his feet, snapped a perfunctory salute and began to address his superior in what Aldric could only think of as a polite shout—if such a thing were not a blatant contradiction in terms. Certainly it was very different from the muted voices at King Rynert’s war council before the Dunrath campaign.

Another man rose, nodded to his equals, saluted his superiors and joined the discussion—if discussion was really the word for it, and Aldric was still not sure that it was. This man’s oration carried more shouting and less politeness, so that the tapping of Goth’s finger began again. Both speakers employed dialect, as Geruath of Seghar had done all those months ago—and for the same reason: so that the foreigner present wouldn’t understand.

As indeed he couldn’t. Aldric was curious to learn how they knew this fact; eager, too, to find out the other score or so of things which were perplexing him right now.

“Gentlemen,” Goth said finally, his tone indicating a full stop to the discussion, “gentlemen, we voted on this matter when the plan was first proposed.” He spoke Drusalan, and though the drawling accent which seemed to be a trademark of the military made understanding difficult, what he said was clear enough to Aldric. All too clear.

Plan
? a voice was yelling in his mind.
Nobody told me about a plan
!

The first officer jumped up, scowling, and barked out a few words before making an indignant gesture in Aldric’s direction.

“We have not been
forced
to anything,” returned Goth. “This was a choice made by the whole council. And yes, Hasolt, I do remember your views at the time. Do you want to make your objections formal—a matter of record?”

“
Kham-au tah, Coerhanalth Goth
!” The officer glanced around the table, shot another unfriendly glare at Aldric and began to count off points on his fingers. “
Ka telej-hu, sho’ta en kailin tach; cho-hui k’lechje-schach hlakh’t’aiyo? Teüj h’labech da
?”

This time, either because of his passion or because he no longer cared who understood him, the officer called Hasolt used Drusalan. Even without it Aldric could have taken meaning from his words and waving arms; and his complaint was one with which the Alban could— almost—sympathise. He had been led to expect a warlord, a
kailin
, and Light of Heaven alone knew what picture Hasolt had created in his mind. What he got, and what he was being asked to accept on the same terms, was a singularly scruffy
eijo
. A man who, as he said, could as easily be
h’labech
. A spy.

“Hasolt.” Goth’s voice was sharper now, and the officer fell silent. “That’s quite enough. If you want to continue in this vein, then at least have the courtesy to speak so that our
guest
can understand. He may well wish to challenge you as a result.”

Hasolt licked his lips, then bowed curtly and sat down; he was aware that he was in the wrong, but at the same time he was trying to retain some face by an air of respectful defiance. One thing was certain: he wanted no challenges from
eijin
. What Drusalans knew of the landless warriors was crude and melodramatic; it made them artificial, characters from a cheap play rather than the honor-bound self-exiled men they truly were. Seldom heroic, often villainous, always lethal. The perfect anti-hero. Not all of it was fact.

But not all of it was fiction.

Aldric suspected that Goth knew much more about his guest than he had confided to his colleagues. He wanted—needed—to know how much more; to know where the general had obtained his information. And there was one other question which, discourteous or not, seemingly cowardly or not, he had to ask.

“
Coerhanalth
Goth-
eir
?” The Drusalan glanced in his direction, eyebrows lifting in query. “Sir, what plan is this?”

“Ah. So Rynert didn’t tell you after all? That was most remiss of him.”

The reply sent an apprehensive shudder scurrying down Aldric’s spine, and he felt his mouth go dry as the fear he had suppressed so well came flooding back. “Tell me? Tell me what? I was requested to deliver messages of—of some delicacy to Lord General Goth, in a place of his own choosing. Nothing more.”

“Indeed.” Goth steepled his fingers and stared at them in a very Rynert-like gesture. “Ah well.” He seemed to come to some decision and looked past Aldric at the escort who had brought him from the harbor. “Return him his black knife,” he told the escort leader, “then dismiss.”

Aldric looked at the
tsepan
where it had been laid gently—the soldier had either been warned in advance about disrespect, or knew anyway—on the table before him, and heard without hearing the clatter as the armored troopers took their leave. His
tsepan
. The Guardian of his Honor. A blade whose scars crossed his left hand, scars he would carry to the fire. He lifted the weapon gently, almost between finger and thumb, and felt its black lacquer cool and comforting against his sweaty skin as he pushed it through the belt which closed his borrowed shirt-tunic. “General,” he spoke Drusalan himself now, for sincerity’s sake, “again I thank you. For returning my,” the proper word eluded him, “... my self-respect. But—what plan?”

“Was no mention made of certain favours you might do for me—you and your sword?”

“I don’t…” Aldric closed his teeth on the excuse. Rynert’s words were months in the past, but he had an uneasy feeling that the king had indeed said something of that sort. What was it? “If there is any favour you— and Isileth—can do to further prove my friendship, then I expect it to be done.” A mere courtesy phrase to indicate cooperation with tacit allies, or so it had seemed at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. “Suppose you hear the messages?” he wondered at last, hopefully. Those messages had been locked within his skull by sorcery, and only those for whom they were meant knew how to release them. Which meant they
had
to be important; Rynert had said his messenger’s rank alone served to make them so, and Aldric was about to say as much when a hollow, metallic voice spoke right behind his head—where nobody had any right to be without his knowing of it.

“Tell him, Goth—then perhaps we can get on.”

It was probably impossible to get out of such a deep and well-upholstered chair with quite the speed that Aldric managed then, but when he was as startled as he had become in the past few seconds impossibilities ceased to concern him.

The man who stood far too close for comfort at his back was almost six feet tall, and though he was leanly built there was altogether too much of him to enter any room without someone as nervous as Aldric Talvalin at least suspecting he was there. Yet he had done so, with absolute success, and now stood with his arms nonchalantly folded as if proud of the fact. Grave and elegant in crimson and silver beneath the dragonsblood cloak of the Imperial military, he wore its hood drawn part-way over his head. But it was what that hood left exposed that started Aldric’s pulse-rate jumping.

For it was a mask of mirror-polished steel.

There were far too many deeply-ingrained images from his memories of cu Ruruc and the demon-sending Esel in that tall, silent figure; enough, and more than enough, for him to jerk his newly-regained
tsepan
from its scabbard. Even though the suicide dirk was no fighting weapon, it had killed before—Overlord Geruath of Seghar, that had been, and at the hands of his own son. And anyway, it was all that he had. His own warped, miniscule reflection stared back at him from the surface of the mask. There was nothing else to read from that blank visage: no threat, no anger, no amusement. Nothing at all.

“Aldric!” Goth’s voice was sharp with urgency. “Aldric, it’s all right. This man is a friend.” Tense seconds passed before the younger man relaxed enough to move from his attack-ready posture, and even then it was only to retreat on stiff, poised legs from an immobile would-be opponent. Not until Aldric was content with the separation space did he chance a single glance at Goth.

“If he’s a friend, then make him show his face.”

The masked head shook from side to side, just once, unspeaking but quite clear. No.

“He won’t do that at your command, Aldric-an,” the general said. “Or mine. This is Bruda. Prokrator Bruda, the other man your king commanded you to meet.
En Hauthanalth Kagh’ Ernvakh
.” Aldric stared, not understanding until the general elaborated further. “Call him Commander of the Guardians of Honor.” Everyone caught the Alban’s eyes flick from the glittering mask to the glittering blade of his own
tsepan
. “Or call him Lord of the Honorable Guard. He’s Chief of the Empire’s Secret Police.”

Aldric returned the
tsepan
maybe a finger’s length to its scabbard and hesitated, glancing thoughtfully from the slender blade to Bruda’s cold steel face; then he shrugged and slid the weapon home. “Secret Police.” There was a world of unvoiced insult in the way he sneered the words. “So. Now I begin to understand.”

“Perhaps you do.” Bruda unfolded his arms, seeming quite unruffled by the display of open hostility. “And perhaps you merely think so.” Snapping his fingers, he pointed in a single sweeping gesture to the officers who sat at each side of the table, and ended it with an over-shoulder jerk of his palm towards the door. “By my command,” he said, “out.” And that was all.