He had made a date with Lord Kuruvan, though, and Sahasin, the Slihar ambassador, had been dealt with.
He stood for a moment, thinking over the evening, then asked Black, “Is the Duke as great a fool as he appears?”
Black hesitated, considering, then said, “He has been accused of wisdom to his face, but behind his back? Never.”
“Then why is he still seen as the master of Manfort? Why has no one usurped his position?”
“Who says no one has?” Black asked. “The Duke remains the Duke because he makes a useful figurehead, but I’ve no doubt the real power lies elsewhere.”
“Where?” Arlian asked. “Who was here tonight who wields real power?”
Black shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are the secret societies—I suspect they do more to determine what actually gets done than the Duke. And of course, the Duke has his advisers—fool or not, he’s smart enough to take their advice. If he did not he might wake up one morning with his throat cut, or find some interesting toxin in his wineglass.”
“Who are his advisers, then?”
“My lord, what does this have to do with your revenge?”
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “But I’m convinced that Lord Dragon must be a very powerful man, one close to the Duke—who better than one of his advisers?”
Black sighed. “I don’t know who all his advisers are. I’ve heard a few names mentioned, just as I’m sure you have—Lord Hardior, Lord Enziet, Lady Rime—but whether those are all of them, or what their positions really are, I couldn’t say.”
“I met Lord Hardior tonight,” Arlian said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t known he was one of the Duke’s advisers. I didn’t meet anyone called Enziet or Rime—I did know those names, and I would have remembered.”
“I don’t know whether they were here at all, but if they were you might have met Rime under her true name, or Enziet under some other cognomen,” Black said.
Arlian stroked his beard. “I might have, at that.” He tried to remember how many men he had met who had not given their true names. One would hardly give a false name at an affair of this sort, but plenty of people had been introduced only by nickname.
Manfort was very fond of nicknames, more so than almost anywhere else Arlian had visited—a relic of the long struggle against the dragons, when the human resistance to draconic authority dared not give true names for fear of reprisals. Ordinarily this was a pleasant and harmless habit, one Arlian had taken advantage of himself, but there were times when it could be confusing or inconvenient.
Arlian began pacing the length of the gallery—but then Black’s outstretched arm caught him across the chest. He looked up, startled.
“Ari, it’s late,” Black said. “Rest. Sleep. You can look for Lord Dragon in the morning.”
Arlian stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced out the gallery’s tall windows at the night sky. Thick clouds hid the stars; a thin crescent of moon shone dimly through the overcast.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “You’re quite right. To bed. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
Black smiled at him.
33
Lord Wither
Arlian, unsurprisingly, slept late. By the time he arose and broke his fast the sun was approaching its zenith.
When he had eaten he ambled down the great gallery, noting the debris that the servants had not yet cleared away and the sour smell of spilled wine that still lingered, and spotted Thirif in one of the side-chambers. He paused, and then, momentarily overcome with curiosity, he asked, “What did you do with Sahasin?”
The Aritheian looked up. “You do not want to know,” Thirif replied.
Arlian hesitated, and decided that Thirif was right—at least for now he did not want to know. It was enough that the House of Deri, Hathet’s family, was satisfied.
He still had plenty of others to concern himself with. He would see Lord Kuruvan tomorrow, and that would be his chance to get the names of the other lords—including Lord Dragon! And once he had dealt with the six of them, once Sweet was free and Rose avenged, he could track down Stonehand and Hide and the rest.
He started to turn away, but Thirif called after him. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. “A man was here this morning with a question that may interest you.”
Arlian turned back. “Oh?”
“He spoke to me, as he came to buy magic and the others were not yet available,” Thirif said. “He wanted to buy dragon venom.”
Arlian smiled. “Did he, indeed?” There were any number of reasons a person might want dragon venom—as a poison, or as a drug, or as an elixir of life. This inquiry might mean nothing—or it might lead back to Lord Dragon. Kuruvan would probably give him all the names he needed, but it would do no harm to have a second path to the information he sought—and even if this failed to provide any such link, it might well teach him more about dragons, and give him information that would be useful when he sought out the monsters in their caverns. “Who was he?”
“A servant. He wore homespun, not livery, and would not name his employer.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I could not sell dragon venom without consulting you, and that you would undoubtedly prefer to deal with his master. He is to return later today.”
“Excellent! When he comes, I want to speak with him.”
Thirif bowed. “As you say. Thank you, my lord.”
Arlian walked on, feeling cheered. Things were starting to happen. He had put events into motion. At long last he was pursuing his vengeance. There might still be distractions and side paths along the way, but he was headed the right direction. The day when Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes and Sweet would be free was drawing nearer.
Either that, or the day Arlian would die at the hands of one of his foes was approaching. The chances of punishing all his enemies, human and draconic, and surviving it all, were still slim.
Odd, Arlian thought, that even knowing he might be on the way to his death failed to counteract the pleasure he felt in knowing he was closer to his goal.
Death or justice—he was nearing one, but he had no way of knowing which.
He spent the next few hours on housekeeping and business—his agents, Aritheian and otherwise, were continuing to invest his assets, both financial and thaumaturgical, and Black and his subordinates were finally employing a proper full-time staff for the Old Palace.
Those little magicks he had brought from Arithei and used so freely at the previous night’s festivities brought fantastic prices, Arlian knew, but just how fantastic still surprised him. He was seated in his study, totting up his profits in frank amazement, when a servant knocked at the door.
“A caller, my lord.”
Arlian looked up and smiled to himself. This would be the person seeking dragon venom. Arlian and the Aritheians had no dragon venom to sell, of course—the magic they sold all came from Arithei, where no dragon had ever breathed. There was no need to admit this, though.
“Show him in,” he said. He turned to face the door, but did not rise; as a lord he had no need to stand when greeting a messenger.
When the door opened, however, Arlian got to his feet, startled. The man who stood there was clearly no mere messenger.
Lord Obsidian’s guest was slightly below average height, and somewhat stooped. His face was thin and wrinkled, and seemed shrunken, almost buried beneath a great mop of gray hair that was pulled loosely back into a thick ponytail—neither the traditional workman’s braid nor the nobility’s usual custom of unbound and stylishly cut hair. His physical appearance, while hardly impressive, was not that of a messenger.
His attire was impressive; he was dressed in green silk embroidered in spun gold, trimmed at throat and cuffs with lace and pearls. A belt of black leather set with emeralds supported a beaded scabbard; his sword hilt, hung for a left-handed draw, was chased with silver and adorned with pearl and diamond. This was clearly a nobleman’s swor
d.
Gorgeous as the visitor’s clothing was, Arlian hardly gave it a glance; instead he found himself caught by his guest’s green eyes, deep-set but unnaturally bright, staring at him with an intensity Arlian had rarely seen.
“Lord Wither,” the footman holding the door announced.
Arlian had been so focused on the stranger that he had forgotten the servant was there. Thus reminded, he started to wave for the man to go, then paused.
Lord Wither should not be wearing his sword in another lord’s home—not when Arlian’s own sword was elsewhere. He should have surrendered it, and the servants should have kept it by the door, to be returned when Wither departed.
On the other hand, meeting those eyes, Arlian suspected that it would take a brave man to demand anything of Lord Wither that Lord Wither did not care to give. Arlian was not paying footmen for their courage.
He waved, and the footman left.
“Welcome, Lord Wither,” Arlian said, holding out a hand.
“Lord Obsidian,” Wither said, in a deeper voice than seemed appropriate to his size. He ignored the hand, and for the first time Arlian realized that the man’s right arm was crooked, misshapen and shorter than it should be; the loose silk sleeves and drooping lace cuffs hid this deficiency well, and had presumably been designed to do so.
That explained the name, the left-handed sword, and perhaps more—buckling and unbuckling a sword belt one-handed was perhaps more than courtesy could ask, and unsheathing the sword under a host’s roof would hardly be suitable.
Arlian lowered his hand and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. Did you attend last night’s festivities? I do not recall…”
“I wasn’t there,” Wither said. “I’m too old for that sort of nonsense.” He spoke sharply, biting off his words.
“As you say,” Arlian said. “Nonetheless, I am pleased to meet you now. How can I be of service to you?”
“You sell magic,” Wither said. “Sorcerous baubles, spells, potions.”
“Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed. He gestured to a chair. “Would you care to sit down?”
“I’ll stand. It’s simple enough. I want to obtain a small amount of fresh dragon venom—a thimbleful would suffice. Can you oblige me?”
“I would need to know the use you propose for this substance,” Arlian said. “Forgive me, my lord, but dragon’s venom is a most potent fluid, as I’m sure you know. It’s said that a single drop can, if properly administered, enthrall a man, or kill a dozen. It can reportedly shatter locks, corrode the will, intoxicate even the mad.”
“It can extend life, as well as end it,” Wither replied.
“Ah! You wish to extend your life? Certainly a reasonable…”
“Not mine,” Wither interrupted. “My mistress.”
Arlian stopped, bemused, as he considered that. Wither was an old man; how old could his mistress be, that he was concerned with her longevity? A man of his obvious wealth could surely have any number of young women at his beck and call; who was the woman he sought to preserve?
Did he think dragon venom could preserve or restore a woman’s youth? If so, was he right? Arlian had no idea just what the stuff could do—he had only rumors, legends, and hearsay to rely upon.
“Do you have it or don’t you?” Wither demanded.
“I don’t have any on hand,” Arlian admitted slowly. “I may have a source where I can obtain it. May I ask, perhaps, who the intended recipient is, and how you intend to apply it?”
“She’s called Opal; you haven’t met her. I intend to mix it with human blood and let her drink it,” Wither said impatiently. “That’s the only way it works, so far as I know.”
Arlian nodded. “And the blood…”
“Anyone’s. It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay someone to donate it. That part’s easy.”
“And you don’t want enough for both of you?”
Wither snorted. “I’ve had mine, Obsidian. Long ago, probably before your grandfather’s grandfather was born. I was one of the founders of the Dragon Society, back when Manfort was all we had and Duke Roioch was still alive. Look into my eyes and tell me you can’t see it for yourself.”
Arlian started at the mention of the Dragon Society—Cover had spoken of it, but had not known one really existed. Then Arlian caught Wither’s eyes, as instructed, and stared.
He knew the name for what he saw there. “The heart of the dragon,” he said, more to himself than to Wither.
“Of course. You’ve got it yourself, don’t you?”
Arlian, without thinking, nodded.
“I’d scarcely believe you could have the venom if you didn’t,” Wither said. “Now, do you have any venom, or can you get it?”
Arlian held up a hand and turned away, forcing himself to look away from those fearsome green eyes. “A moment, please,” he said. He fixed his gaze on the floor, trying to clear his thoughts.
Those eyes had a power to them, a ferocity—and Wither said that was the dragon’s heart that Black had spoken of, that he had it himself.
And he said it came from drinking dragon’s venom and human blood. He said it as if he knew, beyond question, that it was so.
Was that why Black had agreed to teach Arlian the sword, and become his companion? Was that why Sweet had invited him in and taught him so much? Was that why Bloody Hand had set him free? Had those accomplishments been bought with his grandfather’s life?
Arlian could hardly doubt it; looking into Wither’s eyes he could hardly deny anything the old man said. And that ferocity—was his own gaze as fierce as Wither’s?
He could not imagine that it was—yet Wither saw the heart of the dragon in him. Perhaps not as strong, as he was so much younger, but that same power lay within him, fallen there in his parents’ cellar all those years ago.
And it surely lay within Lord Dragon as well. Even after nine years Arlian could remember the intensity of those dark eyes.
Wither and Cover had both mentioned the Dragon Society, as well—that was another mystery that must be explained.
“My lord,” Arlian said, not meeting Wither’s glance, “bear with me. I have only recently come to Manfort from Arithei, and while I know much of matters you would consider arcane, I know little of your homeland. Would you be kind enough to answer a few questions from me, before I answer yours?”
“If that’s what it takes to get the truth from you,” Wither said. “What do you want to know?”
“Several things,” Arlian said. “Let me take it one step at a time. Am I to understand that long ago, you chanced to imbibe a mixture of dragon’s venom and human blood?”
“Of course I did, you idiot,” Wither said. “Didn’t I just tell you that? It was in one of the early defenses of Manfort, when the dragons had not yet resolved to abandon the fight for the city. One of them bit into my shoulder, and then made the mistake of flinging me into a pit where it couldn’t reach me. I wiped the blood from my wound with my hand, then licked my hand before I lost consciousness, and the deed was done. My arm was withered and my shoulder ruined forever, but I recovered from my fever and lived.”
“That was centuries ago.”
“Yes, of course. Eight hundred years, more or less.”
Arlian nodded, still not meeting Wither’s eyes.
“I had heard that this mixture could prolong life, but not that anyone who had actually drunk it still lived.”
Wither snorted. “Of course we do! Oh, it’s rare that anyone survives a meeting with a dragon, but it does happen, and those of us who have tasted venom and blood don’t die. Naturally, then, some of us are still around.”
“And you believe that I, too, have drunk this elixir?”
“Of course. I don’t know when or how, but I can see it in your face. You have that air of authority, of certainty. I’ve never seen it in anyone who hadn’t tasted the venom.”
Arlian stroked a finger across his cheek as he thought this over. “And now you ask me to give this same gift to som
eone else?” he asked.
“Marasa,” Wither said. “She calls herself Lady Opal.”
“You love her?”
Wither frowned. “I don’t want her to die,” he said. “I’m tired of watching my women grow old and die. I’ve had a dozen wives and a score of mistresses, and I don’t want to ever see another wither away while I watch.”
“I can see that,” Arlian said. The image of Rose sprawled across her bed with her throat cut came suddenly to mind. “I can understand that quite well.”
“I’ve tried before,” Wither said. “I’ve tried spells and potions. I tried feeding Vorina my own blood, in hopes it would carry the magic, and instead it poisoned her—she died writhing in agony.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “That was unpleasant—worse than unpleasant; when she died I felt as if I should now be the one writhing in agony. I had never imagined, in all those centuries, that my own blood could be toxic.”
Arlian blinked and looked down at his own hand, at the veins faintly visible beneath the skin. Was his blood similarly tainted?
“It’s been years—decades—since Vorina died,” Wither continued. “I had said I would do without the love of women, rather than see another person I cared for die, and resolved to restrict my attentions to the purely physical, but then I met Marasa, and I was lost.
“I won’t risk killing her. No more experiments. The only thing I know will work safely is the same mixture that worked for me, and for all the others in the Dragon Society. Blood and venom.”
“Blood and venom,” Arlian said. “The Dragon Society—you mentioned that before. What is it?”
“Just what it sounds like,” Wither replied. “Those of us who have drunk the venom aren’t hard to recognize, not once you’ve met a few of us, and long ago we formed a society, a place where we could gather privately with our own kind, and need no longer pretend to be ordinary mortals, need no longer be, willingly or no, the dominant figure in any gathering by virtue of the power in our blood. A place where no one would stare at—or so obviously avoid looking at—our deformities, for of course most of us bear the scars inflicted upon us by our draconic benefactors. You’re fortunate, in that your face and hands are unmarked—are there scars elsewhere, perhaps? Or did you in truth find some way to obtain venom without a fight? It was when I heard you carried the dragon’s heart yet bore no obvious scars that I thought to seek you out, in hopes of preserving my Marasa.”
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