And the air was sweltering hot.
At least, he thought, this gloomy weather would be easy on the miners' eyes if they had collected the hundred amethysts he had demanded, and earned their freedom. He remembered well how he had been blinded by the sun when he first fled the mine.
He rose from his bed, dressed himself, and gathered together the various things he needed to cany out his promises.
Just over an hour later he stood at the mouth of the pitshaft, leaning against the heavy framework, lowering the promised bucket down to the waiting miners.
He could hear them muttering, talking among themselves. He supposed they were exchanging suspicions, wondering how their masters would betray and abuse them this time.
The others at his own level—Black, Qulu, half the caravan's guards, and the drivers of the ore wagons—
were utterly silent; the guards stood half-hidden in the shadows. The waiting day-shift overseer, a young man who had said the miners called him Whip, was standing back, as well; the night-shift overseer was still down in the pit Arlian had interrupted the regular loading of ore into the big hopper.
The bucket reached the bottom and the line went slack as Arlian paid out a little extra. Then he called,
"All the amethysts, in the bucket, right now."
The muttering grew louder, and he heard feet stamping and shuffling; then came a rattle, and a voice called up, "They're in."
Almost trembling with anticipation, Ariian began hauling the line up, hand over hand. A moment later he had the bucket in his hands. He tipped it toward the light
Purple stones glittered in the bottom
He took the bucket to where Qulu waited, and the two squatted down on the stone and began inspecting and counting his haul.
"What now?" Whip called.
"You might as well go on loading the ore," Arlian called back "This will take a moment." The possibility that the miners might have tried to pass off bits of purple glass or other detritus as amethysts had occured to him—but of course, such things would be almost impossible to obtain down here.
And in fact, so far as he could tell by lamplight the stones in the bucket were indeed amethysts, ranging from chips the size of an ant to a hexagonal chunk the size of a pigeon's egg.
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a great many memories, most of them unpleasant. It was more distant than he remembered, of course, since be was up here instead of down below, but it was unmistakably the same sound. He shivered slightly, then concentrated on counting.
The final total was seventy-one stones—more than Arlian had expected. Hathet had saved amethysts fen-decades and only accumulated a hundred and sixty-eight; someone must have made a lucky find.
"It is not a hundred," Qulu said.
'Is it enough?" Arlian asked.
"Oh, more than enough, my lord," Qulu said. "Some are much larger than I expected."
"Then it will do," he said. He turned to die men in the shadows. "As soon as the ore is loaded in the wagons, lower the ladder."
"You're really going to free them?" die overseer asked, as the guards slid the ladder toward the edge.
'Yes, I am," Arlian replied. He got to his feet, leaving Qulu to collect the amethysts, and walked over toward the pitshaft
He had intended to shout down to the miners, but he realized he wouldn't be heard over the clattering and banging of ore being loaded into die hopper. He grimaced, then stepped back and waited.
The overseer below signaled the waiting teamsters, and they in turn set their mules to hauling on the ropes.
The hopper was pulled up and the support arms pivoted, with much creaking, to sway it over to the waiting wagons. Hie ore was loaded into the wagons, which took several minutes.
And then the hopper was empty, ready to be lowered again. Sacks of food and kegs of water and lamp oil had been set by the rim of the pit, ready to be lowered down as the miners' payment, but the workers hesitated.
"Go ahead and send the supplies down," Arlian said.
"Then lower the ladder."
"What about me?" Whip asked. "Should I go down
"I think so," Arlian said. "Keep order while the ladder is readied."
He watched with interest as the supplies were loaded into the hopper, and then as Whip clambered in—he didn't stand on the rim holding a rope as Bloody Hand and Lampspiller always had, but instead sat inside.
The arms swung out over the pit, the teamsters hauling on the ropes alongside their beasts.
Arlian had never seen the operation from this side before. He hadn't realized just how much work the teamsters did, or just how complex the machinery was.
Then the hopper began to descend, and Arlian stepped to the edge to watch. He could see the glow of the miners' lamps in the radiating tunnels, but not the miners themselves—they were forbidden to enter the pitshaft itself while the hopper was in use.
The hopper came to rest on the heap of rags used as a buffer, and Whip climbed out, beckoning.
"Listen, you!" he bellowed, his voice oddly faint from above. "Lord Obsidian says he's going to free you." He lifted out the bags of food.
"But that wasn't a hundred!" someone called, as the miners emerged from their tunnels.
"I know it wasn't, you useless fool, but Lord Obsidian's crazed with generosity! Now, shut up, and come get the last meal you won't have to pay for." He gestured for the nearest miners to lift the first water barrel out of the hopper.
For a moment the shaft was silent; then the miners surged forward, rushing for the food. Arlian could see the other overseer coming to whisper to Whip, and a faint memory stirred—was that the man they had called Loudmouth, who had served as a temporary replacement for Bloody Hand when Hand was injured?
Wood clattered on stone, and Arlian turned to see the end of the ladder sliding over the rim as the caravan guards lowered it.
A sudden hush fell below as the miners saw and heard the ladder.
Arlian stepped to the edge and called down, "Listen to me, all of you!"
He could see dirty, long-bearded faces turned up toward him.
"I am Lord Obsidian. I have bought this mine, and freed you, because I believe every human being who wants freedom should have it. My men are lowering a ladder, and you are all free to climb it and leave the mine any time you choose. The ladder will not be removed. However, you are also free to stay here, and to work for me here, if you are not ready to face the outside world. You will be paid two ducats a month if you stay, and will be free to come and go as you please.
The quality and quantity of meals will improve—but probably not very much. Overseers will still have the authority to use their whips, but not to kill or cripple.
"If you leave my employ at any time you will be paid ten ducats apiece for the work you have done, and after that you're on your own. Choose carefully."
That said, he stepped back. Voices sounded below, a dozen conversations starting at once.
The ladder touched bottom.
Arlian waited.
A minute or so later he heard the first awkward feet clambering up, and then a face appeared above the stone rim, looking around in wonder.
Arlian recognized him immediately—Bitter.
Bitter clearly did not recognize his former comrade Arlian in the finely dressed, well-groomed Lord Obsidian. He climbed slowly up the ladder and then stepped out onto the stone, where he hesitated, staring at his surroundings.
The ten caravan guards, the Aritheian magician, the lord and his steward, and the half-dozen teamsters all stared back at him.
"Can I ride one of the wagons up, or do I have to walk?" Bitter asked.
The teamsters looked at Arlian, who shrugged.
"As you please," he said. He glanced at the ladder; no one else was
climbing up. "You might want to reassure your fellows that it's not a trick."
Bitter turned and called back, "I'm fine so far!"
Then he turned and headed for the lead wagon.
More feet sounded.
Arlian waited and watched as more than a dozen men climbed the ladder to freedom. He recognized Stain and Rumind and Swamp and Elbows and Verino and a few others; some faces were new, and several old ones were missing.
None of them showed even the faintest glimmer of recognition when they saw their deliverer.
That was oddly distressing. Arlian had lived and worked with these men for seven years; had he really changed so completely?
Of course, he remembered, they probably thought he was dead. Bloody Hand had tried to convince them that he had flogged Arlian to death, when he had actually helped Arlian escape; it would never occur to anyone here that Arlian was still alive and free, let alone that he was this mysterious madman, Lord Obsidian.
Still, he couldn't resist calling to Verino, and beckoning him to a quiet corner.
Puzzled, Verino obeyed. "Yes, m... my lord?" he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar formality.
"I spoke with a man who escaped from this mine once," Arlian said.
Verino frowned. "No one ever escaped," he said. "At least, not in my time here."
Arlian realized his mistake, and said, "Not a slave—an overseer. I believe you called him Bloody Hand."
Verino's face tightened.
"On the basis of what he told me, I would like to inquire after certain slaves," Arlian said.
"If the Hand wants me to help you punish ..."
Arlian held up a hand. "Verino, I've just had you freed—why do you think I would seek to punish anyone?"
Verino blinked. "How did you know my name?"
"I asked. Now, Verino—is Wark here?"
"He's still down there."
"Olneor?"
"Dead, weeks ago—maybe years. Broke his hip and died."
"Rat?"
"Didn't he come up?"
Arlian hesitated, trying to think who else he could remember. He was sure there were more ...
But really, what did it matter?
"Why is Wark still down there?" he asked.
Verino shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "He went back down Number Twenty-Eight." He hesitated, then said, "May I ask a question, my lord?"
"Go ahead."
"Why are you doing this? I mean, why are you freeing us?"
Arlian stared at him for a moment.
"Because I can," he said at last. "I'm trying to make the world a better place, Verino, and this is part of that."
"So you're spending all your money buying slaves, and freeing them?"
"No," Arlian said. "I can't free everyone. You miners were just lucky. I needed amethysts, so you got my attention."
"It really was the amethysts?"
"It really was."
"We didn't have a hundred, though."
"You had enough."
"Rat has some more, I think. He started saving them years ago, because a crazy old man named Hathet said they were valuable. We made him give us some, but I think he had more hidden."
"Thank you," Arlian said. "I'll look into that."
Verino hesitated a moment longer, then asked, "Is it night or day out?"
"It's morning—but it's veiy cloudy. You'll have time to adjust to the sunlight, I think. It's dark and hot."
An odd look came over Verino's face, as if he were remembering something that troubled him, and he said, "Dragon weather?"
"Dragon weather," Arlian agreed.
Verino shuddered, hesitated—then bowed, turned away, and started marching up the tunnel.
Even the dim light of the heavily overcast day was too much for some of the miners. Three of them burst into tears at the sight of the sky; a fourth lost his nerve and retreated back down the tunnel, babbling,
"No, no, too much, I can't, it's not right."
Most of them, however, stepped out through the heavy door with arms shielding their eyes against the daylight, but with broad smiles on their faces. One man laughed nervously. Arlian felt his own mouth turning up at the sight. They were filthy, ragged, half-blind from so many years of darkness—but they were free.
It was a pleasure to do good things for people. This felt better, more satisfying, than killing anyone—except possibly, Arlian had to admit, Lord Drisheen, but monsters of his ilk were scarce.
Perhaps, Arlian thought, he should completely abandon his obsessive pursuit of vengeance and devote himself to improving the world in other ways. He had already decided that Lord Toribor could be forgiven; Tooth and Dagger were nowhere to be found; all his other human foes, even Lampspiller, were dead, unless he extended the definition to include people like Lithuil, Opal, Hardior, and Zaner, who had not, to his knowledge, personally killed or enslaved anyone, though he supposed they had probably been complicit in deaths and enslavements.
He did not think his vengeance should stretch that for. That left the dragons. They certainly deserved to die, but if he tried to kill them they had told him they would fight back, and innocents would suffer.
Of course, over time, if the dragons were permitted to live, innocents would suffer anyway. He tried to tell himself that fighting them really wasn't so much vengeance anymore as survival. In the long run, he thought, he probably couldn't avoid fighting them even if he wanted to.
He looked up at the sky, and his smile vanished. The dragons might well be out even now. They might be on their way to Manfort, or they might be destroying some unsuspecting village.
But if they weren't...
"That way," someone called. "Half a mile."
Arlian, distracted by the interruption, looked again at the miners, who were milling about in confusion.
One of the caravan guards was counting out the payment Arlian had promised them, while another was directing them to Deep Delving, pointing out the road. The ore wagons were already rolling down the slope toward the smelters.
"Come on," he said, beckoning, leading the party toward town.
As they walked he glanced at Qulu, who was keeping the precious bag of amethysts in his hands, not trusting it to hang on his belt or be stuffed in his shirt Amethysts and the silver in the vault on Brown Street would be enough to fetch a caravan of new magic back from Arithei—but what sort of magic? The love charms and illusions he could sell, or magic that would drive a spear into a dragon's heart, and replace tainted blood with clean?
If he could kill a single dragon, to prove it was possible, the Duke would help him continue the fight—or at least, so he had said. Could the Aritheians provide the magic to make that first kill?
And if he could restore a dragonheart to full humanity, he would have no reason to kill any more of his fellows in the Dragon Society.
He glanced up at the sky again.
It would take months for a load of magic to be brought from Arithei, and in those months, how much damage could the dragons do?
Perhaps he should find another way to handle the dragons. Perhaps he could still come to an agreement with them, as Enziet had, even though he had already revealed their secrets. After all, he had a thousand years to deal with them. If he could stall, could keep them from attacking anyone...
He pushed away the thought that Enziet had had a thousand years, and had not been able to destroy die dragons or prevent his own transformation. Enziet had not had anyone to tell him the secret of obsidian; he had needed centuries of research to learn that, while Arlian had had the information handed to him, ready to use.
Arlian needed to contact the dragons. He needed to negotiate a truce. It could not be coincidence that this dragon weather had come now, after years without it.
The dragons must have some way of causing it.
He had to communicate with them, stop them from attacking—if it was not too late.
With that in mind, upon reaching Deep Delving Arlian went directly to the inn and demande
d three things: a room, a basin of water, and complete privacy.
The innkeeper grumbled, casting uneasy glances at fee ragged, dazed-looking miners who had followed Arlian to town, but when Arlian showed him gold he complied quickly enough.
"Do you want these men with you?" he asked, pointing at the miners.
"Of course not," Arlian said. "I told you, I want complete privacy."
The innkeeper bowed and retreated.
The room was on die ground floor, a small store-room at the back; Arlian closed die room's shutters and latched them, checked to be sure the door was securely bolted, then settled into a chair, the basin before him on the table. He drew his swordbreaker.
He had no assurance this would work, of course; he did not know how the sorcery actually operated, only that it was possible to speak to the dragons in this manner. All the same, he could see little choice. He took the swordbreaker in his right hand, pressed the tip of the blade against the inside of his left forearm, and drew a line erf blood on his flesh.
He remembered that before, when he had spoken with the dragon, he had washed blood from his hands into the bowl; further, when Sweet had seen Enziet conjure a dragon's image, he had just washed blood from his hands. Therefore, Arlian did not just drip blood into the water; instead he smeared it on his fingers, then spread the blood on both hands, rubbing palm on palm and twining his fingers together.
Only then did he wash his hands, soaking and scrubbing until his skin was clean and pink, die water dark and bloody.
That done, he stared at the water.
At first, nothing happened. Arlian was not much of a sorcerer, but he tried to re-create the calm focus that Rime had taught him was the beginning of controlling sorcery, and to direct his energies toward the polluted water.
The water stilled, becoming as fiat as a mirror, while the blood gathered below the surface. An image took shape—the same image he had seen before, the same dragon he had communicated with in Nail's home.
The dragon was amused. Arlian could sense that before anything that could be put into words was conveyed.
"Why do you trouble us? "
"I want to discuss an agreement," Arlian said.
The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 31
