The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And he remembered being pulled from the cellar to see his home in flaming ruins, the entire village destroyed, while Lord Dragon, with his fine clothes and scarred face and cold voice, directed half a dozen looters in stripping away what few valuables remained. He remembered Enziet demanding to know where the workshops were, where the obsidian was.

  And he, Arlian, had shown him, to escape a beating, so as not to risk being crippled—because a cripple would never be able to avenge the wrongs done that day.

  He stared at the black glass shards in that trunk in Manfort and felt all the cold hatred he had nursed for years rise up afresh in his bosom, all the thirst for justice, all the lust for bloody vengeance.

  He had slain Enziet, or at least the dragon Enziet had become. He had let Cover die of a fever, had let Hide be murdered. He had killed Shamble and Stonehand.

  Dagger and Tooth might still live; Arlian had been unable to locate them. Dagger had fled from Manfort years ago, and Tooth simply vanished. Tracking them down would probably require sorcery, if it could be done at all, and if they still lived—which Arlian thought unlikely.

  The looters, then, had been dealt with; all were dead or gone.

  But the dragons still lived.

  And here, in this chest, was the material Arlian needed to make weapons that could kill them.

  This was a part of what Enziet had left him, part of the legacy—surely a part that Enziet had intended to be used when he named Arlian as his heir. Despite his dealings with them, despite his betrayal of the old Order of the Dragon that had fought them, Arlian knew that Enziet had hated the dragons even as he was becoming one. For centuries, he had sought a way to destroy them.

  He had found one—but had never had a chance to use it. Clearly, he had hoped Arlian would do it in his stead.

  Arlian grimaced. Lord Obsidian, he called himself.

  This volcanic glass was his namesake—and his destiny. He reached down and picked up a piece, and realized that it had already been shaped into a fine long spearhead. Beside it lay a black stone dagger, and a broken shard that appeared to have been intended as a sword-blade—but obsidian did not have the strength to make a sword.

  Knives and spears. That would be enough. A good sword was a nobleman's weapon, meant for honest combat—and Arlian did not want to fight dragons. He wanted to slaughter them, as they had slaughtered his family and townsfolk.

  He had been thinking that killing Enziet had been enough to satisfy his lust for revenge, and that he would continue his campaign against the dragons simply for the greater good of humanity, but now he realized that it had merely been enough human blood. He still wanted to see the dragons die for what they had done.

  And with obsidian weapons and a thousand years, he he might achieve that goal.

  He was holding the obsidian spearhead and gazing contemplatively at the chest when a knock sounded on the door. He glanced up.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  The door opened, and a servant peered in nervously.

  Arlian did not know the man's name; he had not yet teamed who everyone in Enziet's household was.

  "Your pardon, my lord," the servant said, "but your steward wishes to speak with you."

  "Ferrezin, you mean? He's not..."

  "Your steward, my lord, not the chamberlain." The reproach in his tone was subtle, but definite.

  "Black? Here?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "What does he want?"

  "He did not say, my lord."

  Arlian frowned, puzzled. This did not bode well. "I will be down presently," he said.

  "Very good, my lord." The door closed again.

  Arlian put the spearhead back in the trunk, looked at the two chests that were still unopened, then at the shelf of notebooks and ledgers.

  There would be plenty of time for all that later. He straightened his cuffs and reached for the door. He did not bother locking the chest; who would want to steal obsidian blades?

  And who would dare, even now, to steal anything from Lord Enziet's house?

  A few moments later he arrived in the gray stone foyer and found Black waiting for him.

  "My apologies for any inconvenience, Lord An,"

  Black said. "I had thought I could come in and wait until you wandered downstairs on your own, but I'm afraid that the staff here does not tolerate such informality"

  Arlian waved away Black's apology, and directed him toward the inner door. "I'll tell them that you are to have the freedom of the house," he said, as he led the way to a small parlor, "but what is it that brings you here? Is there a problem at the Old Palace?"

  "Well, I don't believe he's there anymore," Black said, "but he might well have slipped back."

  "A problem you call 'he'? Of whom do we speak?"

  "Your dear Mend, Lord Wither."

  Arlian turned his head to peer sideways at his friend. "Wither? He came to the palace again?"

  "Indeed he did."

  "Did you direct him here, then?"

  "He wasn't looking for you, Ah," Black said, smiling crookedly. "He came to speak to me."

  "Indeed?" Arlian settled into an age-blackened oak chair, and gestured for Black to take a seat as well.

  "And what did Lord Wither want with you?"

  "He made me a business proposition. He believes I have a piece of information for which he offered to pay very generously indeed."

  "And what information would this be?" Arlian asked, though he thought he knew.

  "The exact location where Lord Enziet died. He wanted me to lead him there."

  Arlian nodded. "I suspected as much. Did he say why?"

  "He did not." Black eyed his employer. "I take it there is something he believes Lord Enziet had with him when he died, and which Lord Wither wants very much. When he spoke to you the day before yesterday, I suppose he thought you had whatever this mysterious thing might be? I suppose this is why he sent Horn to protect us?"

  "He hoped I had it. I didn't And for that matter, Lord Enziet didn't have it yet when he died, either—he was on his way to fetch it, and fell short of his goal."

  "Ah." Black sat back in his chair. "I had wondered why Enziet sought out that particular cave in the Desolation. Should I ask what this precious thing was?"

  "I think you would be better off if you did not. And when Lord Wither made his offer, what did you tell him?"

  "Why, that I would consider it, of course! Am I so foolish that I would casually discard an offer of great wealth?"

  Arlian smiled crookedly. "Indeed, Black, you are no fool at all, and well do I know it—though your willing-ness to remain in my service does perhaps cast some doubt upon the matter. Am I to bid for your services in this, then, to see whether I will match Lord Wither's offer?" His tone and smile were openly sardonic, to avoid any possible misunderstanding of his attitude.

  "Of course not, Ari! You already know where Enziet died!" Black replied, mirroring that smile. Then his expression turned grave.

  "Seriously, Ari," he said, "I really wasn't sure what to make of this. I know something of your history, and I've aided you in your pursuit of vengeance, but you have always kept secrets from me, and more than ever since Enziet's death. There are clearly issues here of which I know nothing; plainly, as plain as that scar on your cheek, events occurred in that cave I do not understand, and it seems reasonable to assume that Lord Wither's ferocious interest in the place, and in you, is somehow connected. When I travel through unfamiliar land I prefer to have a guide, and you would seem to be the only person I know to be familiar with these paths. Would it harm you if I led Wither to the cave, or would it aid you in your schemes? Would it harm met Would it harm Wither? I can't serve your interests effectively when I don't know what they are."

  Ariian contemplated his steward for a long moment, then sighed.

  "I do wonder sometimes why you put up with me,"

  he said.

  "You pay well," Black responded immediately, before Arlian could continue.

&nb
sp; Arlian smiled wryly. "Not that well—and as you say, I do keep some secrets from you, a great many of them, while burdening you with others. And I'm afraid I intend to continue doing so for some time yet. This one is one I think I can reveal, however, and one that should not prove burdensome. That cave was just an antechamber; what Lord Wither seeks lies below."

  "A deeper cavern?"

  Arlian nodded.

  "One where dragons sleep? Was Enziet trying to wake them?"

  "I'm not certain just what Enziet intended," Arlian admitted. "Waking the dragons is one possibility.

  What he had told Wither, however, was that he merely intended to fetch back a dragon's venom."

  "And that's what Wither wants? Dragon venom?"

  "Exactly."

  "But why? He already has the heart of a dragon, and all the money he needs. Does the magic eventually need renewal, then?"

  Arlian shook his head. "He also has a mistress," he said.

  "Lady Marasa, called Opal."

  "Exactly."

  Black did not reply, and Arlian felt the need to add,

  "Wither has seen several women grow old and die, and has developed a distaste for the process."

  "Understandably," Black said. "Shall I tell him, then, where to find the cave?"

  Arlian frowned. "No. The world needs no more dragonhearts."

  Black gazed thoughtfully at his employer for a long moment.

  "It occurs to me to wonder, Ari, why you would object to bestowing long life and exceptional health and impressive strength of character upon anyone. It occurs to me to wonder why I, for example, should not seek out this venom for my own use."

  Aiiian had feared this might be coming. It would be simpler if he just told Black the truth, but although Arlian trusted Black more than he had trusted any other man he had met since escaping the mines of Deep Delving, he was not yet ready to share these particular secrets. Enziet had kept the knowledge of draconic reproduction hidden for centuries, and Arlian was not so hasty as to casually throw that secrecy away.

  At least, not yet

  He met his steward's eye. "I have my reasons, my dear Black, and I think them good. I ask you to trust me in this, for now. Perhaps in time I shall bring myself to explain it all to you, and you can decide for yourself. If there comes a time when you can no longer rely on my unsupported word and I still will not explain. I won't stop you—but if the results of your experiment are what I fear, I may well do my best to slay you upon your return. I would really very much prefer not to do that."

  Black made a wordless noise.

  "And do remember, please, that what you propose is to slip into a cavern where several dragons are sleep-iag—a cavern with no natural light whatsoever. Do you plan to bumble about in the dark, perhaps stumbling over an outstretched talon while groping for the venom-dripping fangs, or do you intend to bring a light"7 I have no idea how soundly dragons sleep, nor hem sensitive they might be to torchlight..."

  Black grimaced. "You have a point," he said. "So I am not to seek out the caverns for either myself or Lord Wither and his woman. Shall I lead him hither and yon across the Desolation, then, pretending I've lost my way? It might discourage him."

  "No," Arlian said. "I suspect that would merely make him more determined, and we owe him better than such a deception—he did send Horn and his men to our aid, and has not pressed that claim on my service. No, simply refuse his request. Let him find some other way to damn Lady Marasa; we will have no part in it"

  He did not mention that he doubted even a man as reliable as Black could resist Wither's superhuman charisma indefinitely. The possibility that the heart of the dragon would be enough to sway Black to Wither's will if the two were to travel together in the Desolation for any length of time was not one Arlian cared to risk.

  Black might not appreciate hearing this stated aloud, though.

  Arlian was so focused on the question of Black's susceptibility to Wither's authority that he did not think anything of his own words until Black replied,

  "Damn her?" Black's eyes widened. "What an interesting turn of phrase. Are you damned, then?"

  Arlian's face grew still as he remembered all he had been through in the past ten years—fire, death, and horror; his family, his friends in the mines, the woman he had loved, all dead. He saw his own life, empty of almost everything but an obsessive need for revenge; he saw that he could not trust even his best and most loyal friend, but instead withheld secrets from him and calmly considered the possibility that Black would betray him to Lord Wither—and the possibility that he might someday kill Black.

  Arlian looked Black in the eye. "Do you really need to ask?" he said.

  Black's gaze fell, and the dialogue was at an end.

  For the next several days Lord Wither did not intrude on Arlian's attention—nor did anyone else outside his own households. Instead Arlian concerned himself with his preparations for his eventual war against dragonkind, and seeing to the needs of his guests and staff. Freeing Enziet's slaves had left that house shorthanded, but he hesitated to hire new servants.

  He supposed that in time he would dispose of one house or die other, but he had not yet decided which.

  The Old Palace was much more comfortable, but far larger than he needed, and far more difficult to maintain. It had stood empty for years before he acquired it because it was simply too big for any ordinary lord.

  If he could not obtain more Aritheian magic to sell, and if Enziet's holdings did not yield sufficient in-come, he might not be able to afford to keep the Old Palace; and the Grey House, while lacking in charm, was large enough for himself and the six women.

  If money was no object he would prefer to keep the Old Palace and sell the Grey House, but he certainly wasn't going to dispose of anything until he was sure he had dealt appropriately with its contents.

  A box of bones and other remains in an upstairs prison chamber of Enziet's house were, Arlian knew, all that was left of a woman named Dove; on his third visit he retrieved that receptacle and began arrangements for a private burial in a garden behind the Old Palace, beside Sweet's grave, where Cricket, Brook, Hasty, Lily, Kitten, and Musk could attend without attracting unwanted attention to their maimed condition—or to Hasty's extremely pregnant condition. The funeral took place without incident on a raw, blustery day. The evening after the burial Hasty went into labor, and Arlian sent for the midwife. Little Vanniari was safely delivered the following morning, and served to usurp much of everyone's attention for some time thereafter.

  Arlian did find time to purchase a new sword and swordbreaker to replace the set he had lost in the cave beneath the Desolation, and to make a few experimental obsidian weapons from the supplies Enziet had left.

  He received preliminary word from Deep Delving—Lord Enziet's holdings included a one-fifth share in the Old Man's mine, and the other owners would be willing to sell if the price was right.

  The mine's manager, whom Arlian and the other miners had known only as the Old Man but whose real name proved to be Lithuil, had agreed to collect amethysts for Lord Obsidian, the exact price to be negotiated later. It was clear that Arlian would eventually want to make a trip to Deep Delving in person to deal with this—but it could wait. He did, however, send word that he would be interested in acquiring the other four shares, and that he wanted silver stockpiled for his use.

  He did not visit the Dragon Society's hall on the Street of the Black Spire. He knew that he should, to assess his own reputation there and to inquire as to whether the locations of the dragons' lairs were known, but he could not bring himself to face the other dragonhearts yet. After all, he was seriously considering trying to kill them all eventually. A cure for the dragon's taint would be better, but he could not imagine how one might be found—in all its seven hundred years, the Dragon Society had not found one.

  Of course, most of them probably hadn't tried, since it was the dragon's venom in their veins that kept them all alive; even so, he knew that Enziet had delv
ed deep into sorcerous methods of holding the venom's effects at bay, and had only managed to extend his span by a few years—no more than fifty, at most. If that was the best Enziet had done in centuries of work, Arlian did not see how he could hope for much better.

  And that meant that the dragonhearts would have to die if the dragons were to be exterminated.

  Which also meant that he, Arlian of the Smoking Mountain, would have to kill them all.

  Furthermore, as a member of the Society Arlian was sworn to share any information he might acquire about the dragons, and he was not yet ready to reveal the great secrets he had learned from Enziet, any more than Enziet had. Enziet had found it expedient to ignore that part of his own member's oath; Arlian did not like to think himself similar to his late foe, but he could certainly understand why Enziet had held his peace. In time Arlian thought he would find it necessary to reveal the truth, but he hoped it would not be soon; he needed time to think, to plan, to prepare himself and anticipate the actions of the others. Fortunately, the oath did not say that he must reveal what he learned immediately. He would tell them all eventually, if only to explain why he was killing them.

  To walk into their hall now and pretend that all was as before, to face their questions about how Enziet had died, to look at them and talk to them in full knowledge that someday he would kill them... Arlian was not ready for that

  He did not go to the Society's hall, nor did he invite any of the Society's members to his home—not even Rime—nor did he call on any. Had anyone come to call at the Old Palace he would have admitted his visitor and been as polite as he could contrive, but he could not bring himself to seek out the company of men and women he meant to kill.

  He did wonder what was being said among them, whether Nail and Belly were concerned about their fates—they knew he meant to kill them someday, where the others did not. He did not seek them out, but he did listen when his guests or his servants gossiped, and he asked a few questions intended to elicit the latest news about them.