Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The possibility of an illusion had occurred to Arlian, and he glanced up at Thirif, the Aritheian who now stood on one of the balconies.

  Thirif gave the hand sign for “no magic in use.”

  “In Arithei, Your Grace,” Arlian said.

  “You’ve been to Arithei? Yourself? By the dead gods, my boy, how very remarkable!”

  “My business is trading in magicks and sorcery, Your Grace; Arithei is the very foundation of my fortune.”

  The Duke looked disconcerted. “Indeed,” he said.

  Arlian hid a smile. It was not done, to speak openly of magic or sorcery in Manfort.

  “Arithei is not so distant or strange as all that, Your Grace,” Arlian said, as if misunderstanding the Duke’s reaction. “I understand that the Aritheians sent an ambassador to Manfort some years back.”

  “Yes, of course! Sahasin—a fine fellow! I think I saw him as I entered.” He gestured vaguely at the crowd behind him. “But I don’t believe he’s been home to Arithei in a decade or more. It’s not a safe journey.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace, for most it is not,” Arlian agreed. “I have been very fortunate.”

  “Ha! Indeed, you must have been, to be able to afford this old pile! You know, one reason my grandfather moved into the Citadel was that it was simply a nuisance, trying to keep this place from falling down around his ears, and yet you’ve made it look quite splendid.”

  “Your Grace is too generous.” Arlian bowed again, with a flourish.

  The Duke stared at Arlian for a moment, then waved in dismissal. “Well, it has been a pleasure, my lord, but you have your other guests to attend to—I mustn’t monopolize your time!” He turned away, immediately turning his attentions to a buxom young lady in lavender velvet.

  Arlian bowed one last time, and when his head came up again found himself looking at the back of the Duke’s close-cropped head and blue silk collar. He kept his face expressionless as he turned to his other guests.

  How, he wondered, did that insipid twit manage to keep order in Manfort? Was he really the fool he appeared to be, or was it a carefully cultivated act?

  That someone had managed to get a letter out of the old fool giving him freedom to do anything he pleased in Westguard no longer seemed quite so surprising. Instead it seemed surprising that the entire city of Manfort had not devolved into anarchy.

  But the Duke had advisers, of course, and presumably they were the ones who actually maintained order. Arlian had heard a few of their names during his stay in Manfort—Lord Enziet, Lady Rime, Lord Drisheen.

  Arlian had almost met Drisheen on occasion in Westguard, two years before; certainly he had smelled the man’s perfume. Rime and Enziet were unknown to him beyond their names and association with the Duke, however. He wondered whether any of those advisers were present.

  Well, there was one person he wanted to meet who almost certainly was present; it was just a matter of finding him. Arlian noticed a worried-looking young man, roughly his own age and dressed in gaudy red-and-gold velvets, whose attention seemed to be focused on the Duke. He tapped this man on the shoulder, then bowed—a restrained little bow, not the grand production he had performed for the Duke. “Excuse me, my lord,” Arlian said. “I am Lord Obsidian; I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “Ah,” the young man said. “Of course. I’m Lord Rademi, and I’m delighted to meet you, Lord Obsidian.” He bowed sketchily, but was clearly still trying to get the Duke’s attention.

  “The Duke mentioned the Aritheian ambassador,” Arlian said. “Sahasin, I believe the name was?”

  “Yes, what about him?” Rademi replied.

  “Why, having visited his homeland, I’d like to meet him,” Arlian explained. “Could you point him out to me? I don’t see anyone in Aritheian attire…”

  “No, he’s dressed like anyone else,” Rademi said. He pointed. “Over there.”

  “Thank you,” Arlian said. Now that his attention was directed properly he could see that the indicated individual did indeed have the darker complexion and rounded features of an Aritheian.

  He had deliberately chosen the distracted youth to avoid being drawn into a long conversation, and Rademi was ready enough to let him go, but not everyone was so cooperative; as he made his way across the gallery to the man Rademi had pointed out Arlian found himself accosted by various lords and ladies eager to make his acquaintance.

  One woman introduced herself and her husband as Lady Joy and Lord Jerial; Arlian immediately recognized the latter name and took a closer look at the fellow.

  Yes, this was indeed the man who had abused Sweet while Arlian watched from the closet. Arlian suddenly contrived to sneeze, thereby avoiding the customary handclasp as his right hand was instead employed in dabbing his nose with a lace handkerchief.

  “Your pardon, Lord Jerial,” he said, as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Lady Joy, a pleasure to meet you.”

  Lady Joy was a plump little woman who could no longer honestly be called young, and who had probably never been beautiful; she appeared to be a little older than her husband, and Arlian wondered why Jerial had married her.

  For money, probably. His activities in Westguard had made it plain that he was not particularly devoted to her; perhaps he restricted his violent tendencies to other women so as not to antagonize a source of funds.

  “I have heard so much about you,” Arlian continued, addressing Lady Joy. He lifted one of her hands in his own. “I really do hope we can become better acquainted—perhaps we might dine together one night?”

  Joy blushed with pleasure. “I would be delighted,” she said. “We really must make some arrangement at the first opportunity!”

  “The pleasure will be all mine,” Arlian said, touching her fingers to his lips. “If you’ll forgive me, though, I have other guests I must attend to just now. I do hope we’ll have a chance to speak again soon.” He released her hand and swept on.

  And finally, he reached the man who had been pointed out as the Aritheian ambassador. He was a gray-haired man of sixty or more, of medium height, running to fat.

  “Lord Sahasin?” Arlian inquired.

  “Just Sahasin,” the other corrected him, as he turned to face his host. “I own no enterprises, make no investments.”

  “Oh, but surely, as the representative of your homeland, you are entitled to be addressed honorably!” Arlian protested.

  “If my lord pleases,” Sahasin said with a smile. “You know me?”

  “I have heard of you,” Arlian replied.

  “And how have you heard of me, then? The rumors say that you dabble in sorcery and the buying and selling of magicks—are your from the Borderlands, perhaps?”

  Arlian said, “Rather, I trade with Arithei.”

  The ambassador’s smile faded somewhat. “Oh?”

  “Indeed. I was there just last year.”

  The smile vanished completely. “But the road has been closed…”

  “It is closed no longer,” Arlian interrupted.

  “Are you sure? Why have I received no word?”

  “I am quite certain—and I have brought word with me.” He raised his left hand, fingers spread in one of his prearranged signals.

  The ambassador looked up at Arlian’s hand, then past it, at one of the balconies—where an Aritheian was just disappearing through the draperies. He paled.

  “What sort of word?” Sahasin asked. “Who are you?”

  “I am a friend of Hathet,” Arlian said. “As for what word, his family and the House of Deri would like to discuss that with you.”

  “What … is this a threat?”

  Arlian shook his head. “I make no threats,” he said. “However, there are six representatives of the House of Deri, six of Hathet’s kinsmen, who wish to speak to you regarding certain suspicions they hold regarding the House of Slihar—your House. If you satisfy them, then I am satisfied. If you do not, well … they will have the opportunity to deal
with you first. If that does not end the matter—are you familiar with our custom of dueling?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Sahasin said. “Hathet was killed by bandits in the Desolation! I had nothing to do with it!”

  “Your house profited from it, or you would not be here,” Arlian pointed out.

  “Yes, of course,” Sahasin said, “but there’s no crime in that! Someone had to take his place, and I was available, and my House had the means to send me, as the Deri did not!”

  “And if that’s all there was to it, then you have nothing to fear,” Arlian told him. “You need merely convince six Deri magicians that you are telling the truth.”

  Sahasin looked up at him, terror-stricken, then turned, saying, “I won’t have it! I’m innocent!” and began making his way toward the door.

  Arlian made no move to stop him; at least four of the six Aritheians would be waiting for him at the entrance, and as Arlian had said, as Hathet’s family their claim to vengeance took precedence over his own.

  And it might well be that Sahasin was telling the truth after all, that he was merely an innocent beneficiary, in which case the others would do him no real harm. They had brought the necessary magic to interrogate him quite thoroughly.

  Several people had overheard all or part of this conversation; others noticed Sahasin’s indecorous flight. For a moment a pall of silence fell over the crowd; then a renewed chatter burst out.

  That was one matter dealt with, Arlian thought. First Cover, now the ambassador—he was making progress.

  He wished he could find Lord Dragon, though. He looked out at the crowd but could see no one who might be the tall, scarred lord.

  Well, there were still others to deal with.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” he said to a nearby woman. “By any chance would you know whether Lord Kuruvan is here?”

  32

  The Festivities Continue

  Lord Kuruvan was there—a tall, thin man with thick black hair and a nervous smile, elegantly clad in maroon and buff and smelling ever so faintly of musk. As with Jerial, Arlian managed to avoid shaking his hand or making the usual polite proclamations of pleasure while still establishing friendly relations and insisting that they must meet again.

  “I believe I heard your name mentioned in Westguard,” Arlian said. “Something about a building you owned there having burned down?”

  “I don’t know what that would be about,” Kuruvan said, but his expression, while remaining nervous, ceased to be a smile. “I own an inn outside the city walls, but it isn’t in Westguard.”

  “Oh, this wasn’t an inn, and was definitely in Westguard,” Arlian said. “Perhaps you only owned a share in it?”

  Kuruvan turned up his hands. “I’ve invested in a good many ventures,” he said.

  “Ah! Well, perhaps we might compare notes one day,” Arlian said. “I might know of a few enterprises where another partner would be welcome—if not yourself, then perhaps one of your friends.”

  “Perhaps,” Kuruvan said uneasily. “I can’t speak for them.”

  “Of course,” Arlian agreed. He studied the man’s face, trying not to be obvious about it.

  Lord Kuruvan was by no means the vapid fool the Duke appeared to be, but he scarcely seemed a mastermind, either. He had been clever enough to buy that inn, clever enough to put aside a keg of gold coins against some future emergency—and careless or stupid enough to tell a slave who hated him where that money was hidden. Surely, there was some way to get the names of the other five owners of the House of Carnal Society out of him.

  Not here, though, amid the crowd and the festivities.

  Arlian leaned close. “Seriously, my lord,” he said, “there is a matter I would discuss with you in private, a matter concerning a mutual acquaintance and a large sum of money. Might I perhaps call on you at your home—soon?”

  Kuruvan frowned. “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “Impossible—and surely, you’ll scarcely want to conduct business the day after hosting such an affair as this!”

  Arlian laughed. “A very good point, my lord. When would you be available, then?”

  Kuruvan studied Arlian’s face just as Arlian had studied his, then shrugged. “Not tomorrow, but the day after I will be home—in the afternoon, of course, not the morning.”

  “Then I will do my best to see you then,” Arlian said. “Ah … but I am new to Manfort, and as yet unfamiliar with the Upper City; could you perhaps see that my steward knows where your home is to be found?” He beckoned to Black, who had been standing unobtrusively nearby.

  Kuruvan glanced at Black and his drab black livery with distaste. “My coachman is outside,” he said. “He wears maroon and gold.”

  Black bowed, and hurried away.

  “You are kindness itself, my lord,” Arlian said. “I look forward to spending more time with you.”

  Kuruvan frowned again. “I hope you do not mistake me, Lord Obsidian,” he said. “I am an ordinary man.”

  “Oh, surely more than merely ordinary! But perhaps you mean rather that whatever your virtues, you do not stray too far from the natural pursuits of mankind? Wine, women, and the clink of gold coins?”

  “Exactly,” Kuruvan said, visibly relieved, and Arlian realized that the references to the brothel and other secrets had worried the man. Perhaps he had thought Arlian intended to blackmail him by accusing him of perversion—or that Arlian was himself a pervert, seeking a partner in vice.

  And perhaps Kuruvan was a pervert, though Rose had not mentioned any actions on his part that were out of the ordinary for her clients. That might explain his caution.

  Arlian had no very clear idea just what the debauched lords of Manfort might consider a perversion, though. He snatched a wineglass from a nearby tray and handed it to Kuruvan. “I can provide you with wine readily enough,” he said, “and we’ll speak of gold another day, but I’m afraid that you’ll have to find your own women.” He gestured at the crowd. “There are certainly beauties here—is there any that takes your fancy? Are you married?”

  “I’m not,” Kuruvan replied. “I’ve never found a woman who suited me for long. And yourself? You must realize that half of Manfort is wondering about you.”

  Arlian’s teeth clenched—no, Rose hadn’t suited him for long, and he had left her lying there with her throat cut. At least when he killed Kuruvan he would not leave behind a grieving widow.

  And if Kuruvan was, as Arlian believed, one of the erstwhile owners of the House of Carnal Society, what had become of the two women he had carried off when that establishment was destroyed? He hadn’t married either of them, obviously—were they still alive?

  Arlian forced a smile. “No, I have not yet found a wife,” he said. “I’m still young, and I have generally devoted myself to business to the exclusion of all else.”

  The business of survival and revenge, he added silently.

  “Then perhaps I might introduce you to someone,” Kuruvan said. He turned and indicated one of the handful of people who had gathered around him as he and Arlian spoke. “This is Lady Fiala…”

  “Fan-Fan,” the woman—scarcely more than a girl really—said eagerly, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Call me Fan-Fan. Everyone does.”

  Arlian bowed and kissed the girl’s fingers. She smiled delightedly and curtseyed in return, then said, “I understand you are a great traveler, my lord.”

  “I have traveled,” Arlian admitted.

  “Oh! I have scarcely been outside the city gates. Tell me where you’ve been.”

  A moment later Arlian found himself describing Arithei to a growing and appreciative audience—an audience that did not include Lord Kuruvan. After that he fell into a discussion of the Desolation, and the best routes and methods for crossing it, with a Lady Irmir.

  The presence of beautiful women eager to know him better was distracting, but Arlian had had to learn to resist such distractions in order to survive hi
s stay in the House of Carnal Society. He reminded himself that he was not here to enjoy himself, but to pursue his revenge against those who had wronged innocents—the memory of Sweet’s face as he had last seen it from a distance, as she sat terrified in Lord Dragon’s coach, insulated him from the charms of these other faces. In time he tore himself away from the little knot of listeners and made his way through the throng, meeting more of the city’s nobility, and always looking for some sign of Lord Dragon.

  A buffet supper was served in the two dining halls—there were too many guests for a seated meal—and the party spilled from the gallery into those rooms. Thence it spread to the ballroom, where pipes, drums, a virginal, and a shawm provided music for dancing. Wine flowed freely. Whenever spirits showed signs of sagging Arlian signaled to one of the remaining Aritheian magicians, and some new display would be forthcoming—a rain of flowers, a forest growing up the walls and then vanishing, rainbows playing across the room. Each was greeted with applause and laughter.

  The final display, launched at midnight, was one that Black had counseled him to drop, but Arlian had insisted—the image of a great black dragon appeared in the air above the heads of the crowd, flew the length of the gallery, then vanished.

  There was no laughter that time, and only halfhearted applause. Arlian knew that Black had been right—the image of a dragon was in poor taste. He had hoped, though, that it might stir a reaction from someone, that something in the crowd’s response might give him a hint about Lord Dragon.

  His hopes were dashed; no one seemed to associate the image with anything but mankind’s traditional enemy and ancient overlords, the dragons themselves.

  After that the party began to break up; in ones and two the revelers drifted away, out to waiting carriages or the city streets. When the Duke of Manfort took his leave the trickle became a flood, and within an hour Arlian and Black were standing alone in the gallery.

  Arlian had been introduced to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the city’s elite, including several tall scarred men—but he had seen no sign of Lord Dragon. He had not identified anyone else associated with the House of Carnal Society except Kuruvan and Jerial. Lords Inthior, Drisheen, and Salisna had not made their presence known, if they had been there at all, nor had Arlian learned whether any of them had in truth owned shares in the House of the Six Lords.