Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “No one in here,” the innkeeper remarked.

  Arlian, still acting out his role, insisted on stepping inside and tapping on the walls and floor and several of the boxes; the innkeeper waited impatiently while he played out the charade.

  They emerged from the wine vault; Arlian waited while the innkeeper carefully locked it. Then they turned aside, stepping between the wine barrels and into a maze of side passages, past vegetable bins and root cellars. Servers continued to fetch wine and beer, providing a constant background of moving shadows and the sound of footsteps and splashing beverages.

  As the search continued Arlian began to wonder whether that little girl had decided to settle for just the three coins after all. He tried to steer toward the northeast corner, but felt compelled by his role to poke at the produce and tap walls at every opportunity.

  Then a boy came stumbling down the stairs calling, “Madam Innkeeper!”

  Arlian waited politely, a few steps away, as the boy told her that Lord Inthior wanted to see her outside right now.

  The innkeeper glanced at Arlian unhappily.

  “I’ll just look around a little more,” he said. “I won’t disturb anything. And I’ll wait for your return.”

  “Very well,” the innkeeper agreed. She followed the boy up the stairs.

  There was a temporary break in the stream of barmaids; no one wanted to be in the innkeeper’s way as she climbed the stairs. Arlian took advantage of this and snatched the hammer and crowbar from the hooks; he tucked them under his shirt and held them with one hand while he lifted a lamp with the other and made his way quickly back through the line of wine barrels, and through the labyrinth of pillars, bins, barrels, and boxes to the northeast.

  At last he reached a dead end, with solid stone walls ahead of him to both the north and the east.

  This corner was among the darkest and dustiest he had yet discovered. Three kegs stood along the north wall, one stacked atop the others.

  The top keg was open, and held nails; Arlian lifted it off and set it aside.

  The others were sealed. One was unmarked; the other had faint lettering, drawn with charcoal. It was too dusty to read, but Arlian thought it could say “sour wine.” He tipped it, listening closely.

  Nothing sloshed, and the weight did not shift like liquid.

  He turned it over and attacked it with hammer and crowbar. His mining experience came in handy; he was able to knock in the end quickly.

  He thrust in a hand, squeezing it between the broken lid and the side, and grabbed. Then he pulled it out into the lamplight.

  Gold coins glittered in his palm.

  He smiled, pulled the stockings from the waistband of his breeches, and began stuffing them.

  When the stockings were full he tucked a few more coins into his tiny purse, then returned the keg to its place, the open end on the bottom where it wouldn’t be noticed as readily.

  The keg was still mostly full; he wished he had some way to get the rest out, but could not think of any way to smuggle it past the innkeeper and her staff.

  All the same, once he had secured the full stockings he had several pounds of gold hidden under his shirt, and that would have to do. He hurried to replace the keg of nails, then to put the hammer and crowbar back where they belonged.

  He was waiting at the foot of the stairs when the innkeeper returned.

  “I took the liberty of investigating further while I waited,” he said. “I’d say my uncle’s fears are groundless, Madam. I congratulate you on the efficiency and good order of your cellars.”

  She stared doubtfully at him, then looked at the door to the wine vault—still securely closed, of course.

  “Would you by any chance have a bed available, or has this throng taken all of them?” Arlian asked.

  She laughed harshly. “Oh, all of them and more, my lord,” she said. “I could rent you a space on the floor, if you have bedding.”

  “I think not,” Arlian said. “Thank you all the same.” He mounted the steps, trying desperately to move just as he had when there was nothing beneath his shirt but himself. The coins were packed too tightly to jingle, but they might shift …

  But they didn’t, and a few moments later he was back out on the plaza with his bundle under his arm; a few seconds in a relatively quiet corner had let him transfer the heavily loaded stockings to the bundle.

  He had money at last, real money, but all was not yet perfect. The sun was setting behind the rooftops to the west, and he still needed to find somewhere to sleep.

  17

  Black

  He slept on Black’s wagon, on the rear platform, wrapped in the bedding he had brought from the House of Carnal Society. Black himself slept inside.

  “Accounts settled, then, my lord?” the guard had asked him as Arlian had roamed aimlessly about the plaza, trying to think what he should do.

  “Why, yes,” Arlian had said. “Quite successfully.”

  “The caravan master’s yet to find another man who knows one end of a sword from the other,” Black said. “I think I may be able to help you with those purchases after all.”

  “Excellent!” Arlian had said. “Now, if only you could help me find a bed!”

  “Can you pay?”

  And it had been as simple as that.

  He was awakened not by Black, nor by preparations for the caravan’s departure, but by a rude shaking. He opened his eyes to find the little girl standing on the wagon’s step, looking down at him. The sky behind her was just turning pale in preparation for sunrise.

  “She says you owe her money,” Black said from the wagon’s door.

  “Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed, as he blinked sleep from his eyes. “Three-tenths of a ducat, I believe.”

  She nodded silently.

  Arlian sat up and found his purse, and extracted the promised coppers. He was pleased to see gold coins glittering in the morning light, reminding him of the previous night’s adventure.

  On an impulse, he pulled out the smallest gold coin he could find and gave that to the girl as well.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Your timing was impeccable.”

  “And they didn’t even ask me anything when they couldn’t find Lord Inthior,” she said cheerfully. “They believed the whole thing.”

  “That’s just as well,” Arlian said. “It keeps matters simple.” He patted her shoulder, and watched as she climbed carefully out of the wagon and ran off.

  He wondered whether the innkeeper had really believed the story; it might be unwise to let her see him again this morning.

  “I take it your business went well last night,” Black remarked, watching her go.

  “Reasonably well,” Arlian agreed.

  “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go see whether our friend the caravan master was equally fortunate.”

  “Of course,” Arlian said. He squeezed to the side so that Black could descend the step to the ground.

  Black locked the wagon’s door, then stepped past his guest and headed away. Arlian watched him go, curious as to just where the caravan master was. Black, however, almost immediately disappeared around the corner of another wagon.

  Arlian hesitated, unsure what he should do. He looked out across the plaza.

  Men and women were rising, going about the business of making their wagons ready; on all sides oxen were being led into position and hitched in place, awnings furled, cargo strapped down. Arlian watched the bustle for a moment, wondering whether he should perhaps ride out with these people even if Black did not—though he had nothing to trade but gold, no skills to offer …

  On the other hand, perhaps, whatever Black did, he should just go on into Manfort, in pursuit of Lord Dragon, and the twelve surviving women, and those looters who had accompanied Lord Dragon in picking Obsidian’s bones, and the five other lords who had so casually participated in the destruction of the House of Carnal Society and the murder of one-fourth of its inmates.

  And information about the dragon
s themselves. Manfort would unquestionably be the best place to start any attempt to track down and destroy the three dragons that had slaughtered his family.

  Sweet was probably somewhere in Manfort. Rose was dead, but Sweet and Dove had been carried off alive.

  But finding them, in that great metropolis, and freeing them from Lord Dragon, would take time and skill and whatever other resources he could muster. Perhaps, rather than heading directly into the city, he should stay here and see if he could find a way to get the rest of that gold.

  But Black had offered to help him buy a sword and learn to use it, and he shouldn’t be hasty in passing that up …

  “Stay, then, blast you!” someone bellowed, disturbing the peaceful scene; Arlian saw a dozen people start, and a cat jumped from somewhere and dashed for cover at the sound. “We’ve nine brave men and true, and that’s more than enough!”

  Arlian smiled wryly; it appeared Black would not be traveling with the caravan after all. He got to his feet and brushed himself off.

  A moment later Black reappeared, frowning slightly. Another man walked beside him—a big, black-haired, bushy-bearded fellow in brown leather, with a sword on his hip.

  “My lord,” Black said as he approached, “I must ask you to remove yourself from that wagon.”

  Startled, Arlian gathered up his bundle and climbed down. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “It would seem that I will not be going to Lorigol with these gentlemen,” Black said. “And this wagon is the caravan’s property, rather than my own, so I am required to turn it overt to Bonecrusher, here, forthwith.”

  “Ah, I see,” Arlian said, stepping out of the way.

  “Do you, indeed?” Black said as he mounted the step. “And they say today’s young men have no understanding of the deeper issues.” He vanished into the wagon’s interior.

  Bonecrusher waited on the ground, standing a foot or two from Arlian’s side; Arlian looked him over and decided against any attempt at conversation.

  Half an hour later the ox-drawn wagons of the caravan were moving slowly out the eastern side of the plaza, one behind another, while Arlian and Black, also headed eastward, walked easily past them. Black’s belongings, intended to keep him adequately supplied for the trip to Lorigol, were in an immense pack he carried on his back.

  As they walked Black cast a glance backward at the wagon he would have driven had he stayed with the caravan; it had not yet begun to roll. Bonecrusher stood at the driver’s seat, exhorting the other guards to get themselves and their possessions aboard quickly.

  “I wish them well,” Black remarked, “but I can’t say I’m impressed. That wagon should be at the front of the column. If I were driving it would be at the front, and any guards who weren’t aboard it, or astride horses, would ride with the master.”

  Arlian asked, “What does it matter, so close to Manfort? Surely there are no bandits here!”

  “It’s a matter of discipline, lad! You must keep order, or the caravan isn’t a caravan so much as a lot of wagons that just happen to be traveling the same direction.”

  Arlian blinked; he had more or less thought of a caravan heretofore as “a lot of wagons that just happen to be traveling the same direction.”

  No, he corrected himself, he had thought of it as a lot of wagons traveling together, and he now saw that that really wasn’t the same thing. Black’s distinction was important. He remembered times in the mines when teamwork had been important, when the miners had had to work together, not just in the same place.

  “I see,” he said. “You want everyone to know his place, and stay in it, so that everyone will know where to be and what to expect if they do find trouble later.”

  Black glanced at him. “You’re quick,” he said.

  Arlian shrugged.

  “Or maybe I’m just accustomed to fools,” Black said, with a shrug of his own.

  Arlian smiled a little to himself. They were passing the lead wagon now, and he asked, “So the guard wagon should be here? Not the master?”

  “The master’s place is at the back,” Black explained. “That way no one can fall behind without his knowledge. The guard wagon goes here to be the first to meet any trouble that might be encountered on the road. There should be at least four men in it, and at least two more in the master’s wagon, and horsemen riding up and down on either side of the column, ready to investigate anything out of the ordinary; the master of this particular caravan has decided to dispense with the riders. Which means he’s dispensed with me—I’ve no horse, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate their value.”

  Arlian nodded.

  “I understand your horse ran off?”

  Startled, Arlian glanced at Black. How had he heard that?

  That was a stupid question, Arlian realized; gossip had a way of spreading, and while the story of Lord Lanair’s arrival at the Weary Traveler was hardly a very exciting tidbit, it was something that Black could easily have picked up.

  He hesitated, then admitted, “Actually, I had no horse to begin with.”

  “Ah,” Black said. “And were you perhaps resident in Westguard for several days, then?”

  “Perhaps,” Arlian admitted. He eyed his companion warily, wondering if he would need to flee.

  “You’ll have heard, my lord, that an intruder was discovered at the House of Carnal Society?”

  “Why, yes,” Arlian said.

  “It’s a curious thing, that no one has found any trace of him since his escape, in his brown homespun and bloody beard.”

  “Well, he’d certainly have washed the blood out by now,” Arlian said.

  “Indeed. And he might well have trimmed the beard, as well. And changed into a good white blouse and black breeches, and grown a few inches.”

  Arlian studied Black, but saw no sign that the man intended any hostile action. “You think so?” he asked.

  “Why, I’d venture that at this very minute, he’s on his way to Manfort to buy a sword,” Black said. “But I admit to wondering why he wants a sword, and why he would head for Manfort, rather than some more isolated area.”

  “Well, perhaps he intended to elude pursuit by joining a caravan to some distant land, and needs a sword for that. Or perhaps he wants a sword the better to disguise himself as a lord. And where better to find a good sword, and news of a caravan, than in Manfort?”

  “You don’t think it more likely he’d have headed off in some other direction, where he might buy a sword in some outlying town and join a caravan as it passes through?”

  Arlian replied, “I can think of two—no, of three reasons he might have preferred to turn toward Manfort instead.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, it would scarcely be expected, would it? And to do the unexpected is surely wise when one wishes to avoid pursuit and capture. Besides, where is it harder to find a dropped straw—on the road, or in a haystack? Tracking a man through a crowd must surely be more difficult than tracking him through a forest.”

  Black nodded.

  “Second, perhaps this person has some business to attend to in Manfort, some matter of which we can scarcely be expected to know.”

  “It’s possible,” Black agreed.

  “And finally,” Arlian said, “If this person has never before visited Manfort, what could be more natural in a young man of normal curiosity than to wish to see the great city?”

  “I see,” Black said. “Then you think our fleeing felon intends to buy his sword, attend to his business, see the city, and then join a caravan and depart for places unknown? Is this not a risky course of action?”

  “Perhaps this person has been a trifle overconfident,” Arlian agreed thoughtfully. “After all, if we can so readily imagine his plans, those who are seeking him might do as well.” He turned and looked back at the caravan; they were almost at the fork where the caravan would turn to make its way around the city, while they would proceed on to the gate.

  “Do you suppose this young man might have acqua
intances who would hide him in the city?” Arlian asked. “Perhaps someone he met only recently.”

  “And what would induce any sensible person to take such a risk?”

  “Why, gold, of course.”

  “Of course,” Black agreed. He smiled.

  Together the two men passed the fork and started up the slope toward the city gates.

  18

  Lord Ornisir’s Sword

  “It should balance about here,” Black said, resting the sword across two fingers. “It should be light enough that you can use it without tiring, strong enough to pierce your foe without bending or breaking.” He tossed the weapon in the air and caught it in one hand. “The hilt should fit your hand comfortably,” he said. “Remember that a good sword is a tool, something to be used—it’s not just for show. Lordlings such as yourself sometimes forget that.” He took the blade in his left hand and passed the sword to Arlian, hilt first.

  Arlian accepted it, closing his hand around the grip. He hefted the sword, feeling its weight, then slashed tentatively at the air.

  “You realize, of course, that all the blades you see here have been rejected,” Black said, waving a hand to take in the entire interior of the swordsmith’s shop. “These are noblemen’s blades, not the cruder tools customary for an ordinary guardsman like myself. Every fine sword is made to a customer’s specifications—but the customer may not be pleased with the results, in which case the swordsmith tries again, and the rejected weapon is sent here, to be sold to the likes of us, who know better than to buy the cheap cutlery some people would palm off on buyers, but who lack either the time or the money to commission our own.”

  Arlian looked at Black, startled, but before he could reply the swordsmith spoke up.

  “And sometimes,” he said, “the swords are sent here because the buyers who ordered them never came to collect their purchases—sometimes out of negligence or inconsideration, but sometimes because the buyer suffered a severe reversal of fortune, perhaps died, before the sword was ready.” He pointed at the weapon Arlian held. “That blade was made for the late Lord Ornisir.”

  “Ah,” Arlian said, looking at the sword.