"It's almost dawn," Arlian said.
"Then I'll stay the morning," Rime replied. She twisted around, pulled her wooden leg from the corner where she had secured it, and set about strapping it onto the stump of her left leg.
"Good," Arlian said. He turned toward the others, and found Cricket already stirring, her sleep disturbed by their voices.
A moment later Black returned to announce that the postern was open, the kitchen fire burning, and the staff alerted. "Will you want breakfast, my lord?" he asked.
Arlian blinked at him.
"I want sleep," he said. "Have my bed readied, and places found for all of us. Anything else can wait."
"As you will, my lord," Black said.
Arlian stared at him for a moment. Black had slipped easily back into his formal role as steward after months of casual equality on the road; Arlian, in his exhausted condition, could not make the adjustment so readily. "Let us fetch the women," he said, gesturing toward Cricket and Brook.
Black nodded.
Everyone was awake now, and the Aritheans lent a hand in getting Brook and Cricket down from their perch and out of the wagon.
Brook stared at the arrow, but said nothing. The others seemed not to notice it. Arlian suspected that Rime had been awake for at least a portion of their encounter with Drisheen's assassin, and had already seen it.
"We're really here?" Cricket asked sleepily, as Black lifted her and started for the postern. "I'll really see Lily and Kitten and Hasty and Musk?"
"You really will," Black assured her.
She smiled happily. "That's wonderful! What else could I ask for?"
"Feet," Brook said grumpily as Arlian hoisted her in his arms, the stumps of her ankles waving in the air.
And on that note, Lord Obsidian re-entered his home.
Arlian came awake with the odd impression that he had coughed. His throat felt entirely fine, however. He blinked up at the plaster nymphs on the dimly lit ceiling.
"Ahem."
That explained it, he realized. He hadn't coughed; someone else had, to awaken him. He lifted his head.
He saw at once that the light in his chamber was only dim because the curtains were drawn. The narrow gap where one pair failed to close completely allowed a beam of sunlight, like a bright golden screen, to cut across the far end of the room at a steep angle.
From that, Arlian judged it to be roughly midday.
It was good to be home, he thought, where he could sleep away the morning in a real bed, untroubled by innkeepers or the exigencies of travel. He stretched beneath die covers, enjoying the feel and smell of the fine linen sheets, then looked around for the source of the cough.
Old Venlin, Arlian's chief footman, was standing at his bedside, carefully not looking at his lord and master. "Good morning, Venlin," Arlian said. "Assuming, of course, that it is still morning."
"It is, my lord," Venlin said, "though in another hour or so the sun will indeed be past its zenith."
"Then it's time I was up and about my business, wouldn't you say?"
'It's not my place to instruct you, my lord," Venlin said.
"Of course," Arlian said, flinging aside the sheet and counterpane and swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed. "Still, I won't fault you for offering your opinion when asked. And right now, I wouldn't fault you for fetching my robe."
"As you wish, my lord," Venlin said, stepping to the wardrobe. "Might I suggest, if you do indeed welcome my opinion, that you might wish to dress immediately? You have a visitor waiting."
"Ah!" Arlian smiled as he stood, clad only in his shirt. "That's why you're here at my bedside, then. I thought perhaps the kitchen staff had simply become impatient about keeping my breakfast warm. Who is it, then? Lord Wither?" Horn had said Wither would wait until Arlian had had time to recover from his journey, which should have meant at least a day or two, but Arlian supposed Wither might have yielded to impatience.
"No, my lord."
"Oh? Then one of our unfortunate female guests, perhaps?"
"No, my lord—your steward has explained to them that you need to rest after your journey, and they are accordingly restraining their eagerness to see you.
Your visitor is a gentleman who says he represents Lord Enziet."
Arlian's smile and good mood vanished; for one nightmarish instant he thought he had dreamed his long pursuit of his enemies southward along the caravan road, had imagined that horrific final battle with Lord Enziet, most appropriately also known as Lord Dragon...
But he could feel the scar on his cheek, could remember it all far more clearly than any dream, and he knew Enziet was in fact dead.
But the people of Manfort, and of Enziet's household and estates, might not know it yet. And even if they did, they might well still have posthumous mis-sions, as Drisheen's hired assassin had.
He did not think Enziet had hired assassins—he would have left that to Drisheen. Presumably this visitor was some servant of Enziet's, here on some long-delayed business—or to demand any news Arlian might have of Enziet's whereabouts. Whatever he wanted, Arlian could not see how it could be good.
The news of Arlian's return must have spread quickly, even more quickly than he had expected, if someone from Enziet's household had already heard of it and come to call. Perhaps Drisheen's assassin—
Arlian wished he had thought to get the archer's name—had carried the word.
"I'll meet him in the small salon in ten minutes,"
Arlian bowed, and departed.
This meeting with the dead man's representative seemed to demand a certain degree of formality, so it was actually closer to twenty minutes before Arlian strode into the small salon, washed and brushed, re-splendent in his best black velvets, his vest and jacket trimmed with white lace and worn over a white silk blouse.
Just outside the door of the salon he had passed a pair of his servants, a woman called Stammer and a youth named Wolt, obviously planning to eavesdrop; he pretended not to be aware of their presence. He doubted anything would be said that he didn't want them to hear, and he could always chase them away later if it became necessary.
In the salon he found two men waiting for him. One was Black, of course, in the white-piped black livery of the household. The other was a thin, gray-haired man Arlian had seen before, also dressed in black. His coat was trimmed with gold, however, rather than with white.
Arlian knew those colors, and after a second he recognized the face, as well—this was Enziet's own steward. He had been expecting a mere messenger, not the head of Enziet's staff.
Arlian stopped dead.
Enziet's steward bowed, and said, "My lord Obsidian."
"Good day, sir," Arlian said. "I understand you wish to speak to me." He kept his tone formal, but not openly hostile; after all, this man was a mere hireling.
"Indeed, my lord. I am here at the direction of Lord Enziet—who, I am told, is dead." He glanced at Black.
"He is," Arlian said. "I saw him plunge his swordbreaker into his chest and tear out his own heart, in service of dark sorcery."
The steward swallowed. "Ah," he said.
"Did you think I had killed him, then?" Arlian asked mildly. "We fought, yes, but in the end it was his own blade that slew him." This was technically true, but highly misleading; Arlian had no intention of explaining the actual circumstances of Enziet's demise. He did not want to encourage any sort of retribution.
He wished he could have denied killing Lord Drisheen, as well, but alas, there had been several witnesses to that. And of course, Lord Drisheen had arranged his own attempt at retribution.
"I am not unduly concerned with the manner of his death, my lord," Enziet's steward replied. "Merely the certainty that it occurred."
"It did," Arlian said. "In a cave beneath the Desolation. I witnessed it, as I have said, and my man Black saw the body as well, and can attest that the heart had been ripped out and that Lord Enziet is no more."
The steward nodded. "We had reas
on to believe that my lord Enziet was dead some time ago," he said.
"Through sorcerous means."
"That does not surprise me," Arlian said. "Lord Enziet was a sorcerer of renown."
"Yes." The steward's reply was a flat acceptance of Arlian's statement, with nothing of surprise or flattery or displeasure in it.
"And why does this bring you here?" Arlian asked.
"Did your master leave a message for me, to be delivered upon my return? A threat, perhaps, or a curse?"
It occurred to him that there had been time for a message to be delivered before he left Manfort in pursuit of Lord Enziet; he had not rushed out on the other man's heels, but days later. Whatever brought this man here was something intended to follow Enziet's death.
"A curse? On the contrary," the steward said. "As Lord Enziet was preparing to depart, I asked him when we should expect his return, and he said he did not know, and explained the sorcery that would allow us to determine that he yet lived. I asked what we should do if he never returned, and he said these words: 'If I die and Obsidian lives, then let it be his problem."
Arlian frowned, but before he could speak the steward continued, "I asked him to explain that further, and he did. My lord Obsidian, Lord Enziet has named you his sole heir in all things."
"He ..." Arlian stopped after that single word, and his mouth snapped shut. He stared at the steward.
As he stared, though, he was thinking about what the man had said and realizing that it was very much the sort of thing Enziet might have done. Arlian had been his bitterest foe, certainly—at least, his bitterest human foe—but Enziet had not been inclined to anger or hatred. His passions were colder than that, cold and cunning as a dragon, any human warmth he might once have had long since dead.
Enziet could have had no natural heir, after all. His blood and heart tainted by the venom of a dragon, he had lived for nearly a thousand years; any family he might once have had was long dead. And while the venom bestowed long life and immunity to poison and disease, another effect was sterility—for the past several centuries Enziet had been unable to sire children.
Nor had he had any friends or colleagues he would have trusted to succeed him. The few comrades he viewed as anything near his equals had all been ancient dragonhearts like himself, cold and treacher-ous—his closest companion, Lord Drisheen, had accompanied him on his final journey, and had died on Arlian's blade at an inn in Cork Tree.
Arlian had slain Lord Horim, whom Enziet had used as his proxy in duels, in a duel outside Manfort's gates. Later he had severely wounded Lord Toribor, another of Enziet's sometime companions. Enziet could not have relied upon any of his friends surviving Arlian's thirst for revenge, save perhaps the Duke of Manfort, and Enziet was hardly foolish enough to rely on the Duke for anything at all.
And Arlian could easily imagine that Enziet would consider his killer his only equal. It was very much his way of thinking. Nor would Enziet have thought he was doing anyone any great favor by naming him his heir. He knew Arlian had all the wealth he wanted.
The real question here was just what else Enziet's legacy might contain, besides mere riches. Drisheen's legacy had been an assassin of limited competence; Enziet's, while seemingly far more benevolent, might well prove more troublesome.
"His heir in all things, you say," Arlian said.
"Indeed, my lord," the steward said with a bow.
"Do you know what he meant by that?"
The steward hesitated, then said, "I assumed that he meant precisely what he said, my lord—that you are now the master of all his enterprises, of whatever sort, and that his estates and all their contents are now yours, to do with as you please. It is with that understanding that I place myself at your service, my lord."
"I already have a steward," Arlian said, with a wave at Black. "Tell me, though—do you think Lord Enziet meant me to assume his obligations, as well?"
The steward, discomfited, glanced at Black before replying, "I am not aware that my former master had any significant obligations, my lord."
Arlian's mouth twisted wryly. "Oh, he had obligations, indeed. And vows, and secrets. And I'm not at all sure I know enough of those secrets to keep up with the obligations."
"I don't understand, my lord."
"Of course you don't," Arlian said. "I'm not sure I do." He gestured at the chairs. "Do sit down," he said.
"I need to think, and there's no need for us all to tire our feet while I do it."
Enziet's steward—Arlian realized he had no idea of the man's name—bowed, then obeyed, sinking into a chair of gilded oak and dark leather. Arlian took a seat on one of the blue silk couches for himself, and Black settled on the other.
Black cleared his throat, and Arlian glanced at him.
"My lord," he said, "do you intend to claim this legacy?"
"Of course," Arlian said, leaning back in his chair.
"Has it occurred to you that Lord Enziet might have prepared some elaborate vengeance? A deadfall tripped by entering his private chambers, perhaps, or some subtle poison on his personal papers?"
"An interesting suggestion," Arlian said, glancing at Enziet's steward, "especially in view of certain events last night."
"I can assure you, my lord, that..."
Arlian held up a hand to silence him.
"I am quite sure that you are not aware of any such traps," Arlian said. "Furthermore, I think it very unlikely that any exist. Lord Enziet intended to dispose of me far more directly, and was far too pragmatic to concern himself with any elaborate revenge—at least, any revenge so lacking in subtlety as killing me outright; he was not as simple as Lord Drisheen. I think Enziet might well have taken some aesthetic pleasure in leaving me heir to his own problems, though."
"Ari ..." Black began, but Arlian cut him off.
"There may be traps. There may even be assassins.
We will check for them carefully. However, I think them unlikely. Enziet expected me to die, and himself to live, and disarming such traps or paying off hired killers upon his return would be a nuisance I'm sure he would have preferred to avoid. Furthermore, dear Black, if you'll recall, Lord Enziet left quite hastily; I don't think he would have taken the time to devise and implement such a thing."
"He was in quite a hurry," Enziet's steward confirmed.
Arlian nodded, and for a moment the three men were silent as they contemplated the situation. Then Arlian said, "Tell me, does Lord Enziet's legacy include slaves?"
"Of course," the steward said. "I believe there are eight here in the city, and hundreds on his country estates."
"They're all to be freed immediately."
The steward's mouth opened, then snapped shut.
"As you say," he said.
"Are you one of them?" Black asked.
The steward hesitated, then said, "Lord Enziet gave me my freedom some time ago."
"Ah. You were a slave once," Black said.
"Then perhaps you understand my distaste for that institution," Arlian said.
The steward replied with an ambiguous gesture, not quite a nod, not quite a shrug.
"Whether you understand or not, as Enziet's heir, I am now your employer, am I not?"
"If you'll have me, my lord."
"You wish to remain? You understand that I have a steward in whom I am well pleased, and that you will serve merely as chamberlain of certain properties."
"I do, my lord."
"Then do as I say. Every slave is to be freed immediately. Furthermore, they are to be offered employment as free men and women, but are by no means to be co-erced in their decision to accept or reject that employment. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough."
"As you say, my lord," the steward said, bowing his head.
Arlian did not think the man looked entirely convinced that the order was a good idea, but at least he seemed to accept that Arlian was serious.
"What's your name?" Arlian asked.
"Ferrezin, my lord."
"Go
od. Once the slaves have been dealt with, I will need an inventory of my legacy."
"I will see to it."
A thought struck Arlian. "When time permits, I wish to know who is heir to Lord Drisheen, as well."
Ferrezin looked up. "Then Lord Drisheen ..."
"... is dead, as well," Arlian concluded. "I slew him myself." There was no point in trying to conceal the fact since there had been several witnesses. "He did not see me as kindly as your late master; we have already met and disposed of an assassin he had hired before his departure."
Ferrezin nodded. "I had heard rumors. I will inquire as to his heirs, my lord."
"Excellent. Is there anything more you wish to tell me, then?"
Ferrezin thought for a moment. "I have no further instructions," he said. "I would ask, though, when we might expect Lord Obsidian to visit his new holdings, in Manfort and elsewhere."
"I will come by Lord Enziet's manor tomorrow afternoon, I believe, by which time I trust a preliminary outline of that inventory will be ready."
"Very good, my lord." Ferrezin rose and bowed.
"Black will see you to the door," Arlian said, rising as well. That would give the two men a chance to exchange any steward-to-steward remarks that were inappropriate for the master's ear—and it would give him time to think.
Ferrezin bowed again, then snapped upright and wheeled on one heel. He and Black left the salon, and Arlian stood, looking after them.
So he was Lord Enziet's heir—and in more ways than Ferrezin could possibly know.
In that cave beneath the Desolation, far south of the walls of Manfort, he had learned a secret that Enziet had guarded for centuries—and other secrets, as well.
That first great secret was a burden and a power, and on the long journey north, as his wounds had healed and he and his companions had made their slow way back to Manfort, he had thought about it often. Now, though, the news that he had become heir to Enziet's goods as well as his knowledge seemed to bring a new clarity.
The secret was simple enough—the method by which the dragons, once rulers of much of the world but now sleeping in their caverns beneath the earth, reproduced themselves.
The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 3
