Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

Arlian smiled broadly and bowed. “I will be there,” he promised.

  Then he turned and marched out.

  35

  A Meeting at Swordpoint

  “Remember, you’ll have raw speed and strength on your side,” Black said, leaning down from the driver’s seat of the coach, “but he’s far more experienced than you are, as he said. He’ll probably react faster simply because he won’t need to think about it.”

  Arlian nodded, then opened the door of the coach. He felt cold and stiff, as if the blood were cooling and thickening in his veins. He had fought before, and he had killed beasts, monsters, and even a man—creatures in the Dreaming Mountains had perished on his sword, and the bandit on the southernmost edge of the Desolation had died at his feet.

  But despite all his plans and dreams of vengeance, he had never before deliberately set himself in front of another human being with the intention of killing him in cold blood. It felt different. It felt wrong.

  He glanced at Thirif, who sat silently in the coach, but the Aritheian said nothing.

  “He’s taller than you,” Black said, as he climbed down. “He’ll have a longer reach. Don’t let him use it; stay in close or get clear, don’t fight at full extension.”

  “You told me that,” Arlian said.

  “I know I did—I want you to remember it!” Black retorted. “I want you to live through this.”

  Arlian didn’t answer as he stepped out of the coach. He stretched, straightened his jacket, straightened his sword belt, and faced his enemy’s home.

  The air was warmer than it had been in days, but still cool and redolent of spring; vines twined up the gateposts, and blue flowers bloomed splendidly on one side, catching the bright light of midday. The gate of Lord Kuruvan’s mansion was closed, as it had not been when Arlian arrived the day before; guards wearing the maroon and gold of Kuruvan’s household, including gold-trimmed breastplates, stood on either side outside the fence. They held pikes.

  There was no sign of Lord Kuruvan, or of the two women he had carried away from the brothel in Westguard. Arlian glanced up; the sun was straight overhead, so far as he could tell.

  Had he put too much faith in Kuruvan’s honor and respect for tradition? Had the man perhaps fled, rather than face him? After all, Kuruvan had once made preparations to flee Manfort on short notice.

  The guards were still there, though. Why would they stay if Kuruvan had fled?

  Then the grand front door swung open, and Kuruvan’s gray-haired steward emerged. He strode to the gate with smooth assurance, then bowed, his head almost scraping the black iron bars.

  “Lord Obsidian,” he said.

  “Sir,” Arlian replied. He stepped forward and stopped a yard from the gate. “I believe I have an appointment with your employer.”

  “Indeed,” the steward said, straightening. “However, Lord Kuruvan has asked me to speak with you briefly first.”

  “Has he? Why?” Arlian placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, not so much as a threat as simply to indicate his impatience.

  “In hopes, my lord, of preventing unnecessary bloodshed. While he has no fear for his own safety, he hesitates to deprive Manfort of a man of your own obvious intelligence and courage, and therefore hopes that this quarrel can be composed by more peaceful means.”

  “And has he some proposal for atoning for his crimes?”

  “Indeed,” the steward said. “He proposes to give you the two slaves you sought, in exchange for the gold you took from him. He will lay no claim to any interest or profit upon the stolen funds.”

  “And what about the four women he helped murder—Rose, and Silk, and the others? What about mutilating a dozen women for the sake of pleasure and profit?”

  The stewart frowned. “I know nothing of that, nor do my instructions cover it. Lord Kuruvan assures me that he broke no law in the matters you accuse him of.”

  “The women were slaves—but they were still women, not beasts.” Arlian hesitated. He did not want to kill anyone, not really—but Kuruvan was a murderer. Slaves were human beings, and no one, owner or not, had the right to maim and kill them with impunity.

  Still, if he could be made to pay some other way …

  “I propose a counter-offer,” Arlian said. “If Lord Kuruvan frees every slave in his possession, and swears never again to hold a person in bondage, I will consider our quarrel settled and justice done. He cannot give those four women back their lives, nor the others their feet, but if he grants life and freedom to others, perhaps the scales will be balanced.”

  The steward hesitated. “I must consult with my lord,” he said. He bowed and turned.

  Arlian watched him go. Black stepped up beside the younger man.

  “Thirif says he senses no magic anywhere nearby,” Black whispered. “And if I were you, I’d have taken the deal he offered.”

  Arlian shook his head. “And leave him free to torment and kill others who had the mischance to be taken by slavers? I don’t think so.”

  Black shrugged. “Please yourself.”

  “Get the gold ready,” Arlian told him.

  A moment later the door of the mansion opened and Lord Kuruvan stepped out and strode across the small paved yard. He wore a sleeveless tunic of thick oiled leather and a nondescript pair of leather breeches, not at all like the finery Arlian had seen him in before—these were serious fighting clothes, and the sword and swordbreaker on his belt were plainly meant for use, not show. Arlian reached for the clasp of his own cloak.

  “Not yet,” Black advised. “Give him a moment. He may yield yet.”

  “And if I give up my right to own slaves,” Kuruvan shouted without preamble, well before he reached the gate, “what then? Will you carry this insane crusade of yours on to my friends and associates? Do you mean to stamp out the entire institution of slavery, so that the poor will starve in the gutter while vital work goes untended?”

  “I would like to, yes,” Arlian called back. “I doubt I shall live long enough, but indeed, an end to slavery would suit me very well.”

  “If I make peace with you, you’ll go on to pursue this mad vengeance of yours? You’ll challenge Drisheen and Enziet and the others?”

  “Yes, I will,” Arlian said.

  “You are mad, then,” Kuruvan said, “and I cannot in good conscience accept your proposal. I can’t trust a madman to keep his word, or not to come up with some other wild scheme, some other imaginary crime that must be avenged. You, sir, are a menace to society, and it is my duty to remove you.”

  “Or die in the attempt,” Arlian said, hoping that Kuruvan would back down. His own nerves were raw with anticipation.

  “Ha!” Kuruvan signaled to the guards, then drew his sword and swordbreaker as the gate began to swing open.

  “Wait!” Arlian said, his voice cracking. “Where are the women?”

  Kuruvan called over his shoulder, “Bring them out.”

  The door of the mansion swung wide, and two footmen appeared, each carrying a naked woman—Hasty and Kitten. They blinked in the bright sunlight.

  Kuruvan pointed, and the footmen seated the women side by side on a stone bench beside the arched doorway. They looked about in obvious confusion. Kitten tried to tuck her ankles under the bench, to hide the fact that she had no feet; Hasty made no such effort. Although the outside air was cool, neither seemed troubled by her lack of clothing—though Arlian was. He tried not to stare. He remembered how accustomed he had become to casual nudity during his stay in the House of Carnal Society and tried to recall that indifference—but it had been two years.

  The two women had been little altered by the intervening time, though. Both wore their hair differently, and Hasty’s belly was somewhat more convex than Arlian remembered, but those were no great changes. Their faces were as lovely as ever.

  The sight of them brought back a flood of memories, and Arlian’s heart ached. He suddenly wished he were fighting Lord Enziet, rather than Lord Kuruvan, so that he could see Sweet again,
rather than these two.

  But he was here, and they were here, and Sweet would have to wait just a little longer. This pair seemed almost untouched by the passage of two years; Arlian could only hope that Sweet was likewise unharmed.

  Then Hasty spotted Arlian. “Triv?” she said. “Kitten, it’s Triv!” She pointed.

  Kitten turned and saw Arlian. Her jaw dropped. “Triv?”

  “It appears they do, in fact, know you,” Kuruvan remarked. “Interesting. Now, I believe you have something of mine?”

  Arlian signaled to Black, and Black brought out a keg, deliberately made as much like the one in the cellars beneath the Blood of the Grape as Arlian had been able to contrive, even to having the words “sour wine” chalked on it. He set the keg on the ground.

  Arlian doffed his cloak and handed it to Black; then he drew his own blades and moved forward.

  Kuruvan stepped back. “Come in,” he said. “Let us duel like the nobles we are, not brawl in the street like ruffians.”

  Arlian nodded and stepped warily through the gate onto the paved courtyard, his sword held ready.

  The guards backed away; the footmen who had brought out the women vanished. Only the two swordsmen stood in the square of pavement between gate and door.

  “Take your first stroke, if you will,” Kuruvan said, moving his sword into a guard position.

  Arlian was not fooled; he knew better than to charge in directly against a foe with arms and blade longer than his own. He waited, his own sword raised, swordbreaker poised at his waist.

  As he stood he found himself wondering if he was being a fool. He was risking his life—he knew he was a good swordsman, but how could he be sure Kuruvan wasn’t a better one? Certainly, Kuruvan’s leather showed a greater sense of self-preservation than his own black silk. He had dressed for elegance and freedom of movement, and given no thought at all to turning his foe’s blade.

  And he had been offered a chance to free Hasty and Kitten without bloodshed—what right did he have to turn it down and pursue some abstract concept of justice?

  Might he not just as well have simply tried to buy free the dozen surviving women? He glanced at the two of them, sitting naked there on the bench …

  And saw the stumps of Hasty’s ankles at the same instant that Lord Kuruvan, seeing his opponent distracted, lunged forward.

  Arlian dodged, parried, but missed the riposte completely. He staggered slightly as he moved to the right, away from Kuruvan’s blade—and then that blade was withdrawn, shifted, thrust again, before Arlian had fully recovered. His parry was awkward, almost slapping away Kuruvan’s sword rather than turning it with any grace or skill. Kuruvan smiled thinly and pressed his advantage.

  Arlian started to retreat, then realized that the iron fence was less than a yard behind him—he had no room to retreat without being cornered. He ducked and ran to the side instead.

  Kuruvan whirled and took a step forward, but not quickly enough to maintain contact; the two men once again stood apart at twice a sword’s length, facing each other. No blood had yet been drawn.

  “You are a fool, as well as a madman,” Kuruvan said. “Not half the swordsman you thought yourself, eh?”

  Arlian made no answer, but he was silently cursing himself. He could not afford doubt or hesitation; however it had come about, and whatever the wisdom or foolishness in bringing himself to this, he was fighting for his life.

  And for justice. The image of Hasty’s ruined legs dangling from the bench was fresh in his mind, reminding him of the injustice to be avenged. The image of Rose, lying naked on her bed beneath a thickening cloud of smoke, throat cut and eyes staring blindly at nothing, returned to him as well.

  “There’s still time to end this peacefully,” Kuruvan said, as the tip of his sword moved threateningly. “I’ll still trade those two for the gold, and your oath to trouble me no more. I think you may have learned a lesson here—and let me assure you, Lord Obsidian, or Triv, if that’s your name, that I am by no means the best swordsman of the six you’ve chosen as enemies.”

  He might have intended to say more, but midway through the word “enemies” Arlian strode forward, ducking, trying to get his blade under Kuruvan’s guard.

  Kuruvan was not caught off guard that easily; he caught Arlian’s blade on his own and turned it aside. His sword-breaker came up, but not in time, as Arlian withdrew.

  But he did not withdraw fully; instead he thrust again, this time aiming for Kuruvan’s right thigh and stepping in closer.

  Again, steel clashed on steel as the swords crossed; Arlian’s left hand whipped out, and the tip of his sword-breaker slashed across the leg of Kuruvan’s breeches, scarring but not piercing the leather. This time it was Kuruvan who retreated a quick two steps, breaking contact.

  Arlian, suspecting a trap, did not pursue immediately; he stepped back as well and began to circle to the left.

  As he did, one part of his mind considered Kuruvan’s words. In fact, it was quite likely that some of the other lords were better swordsmen than Kuruvan. Enziet, in particular, with his dragon’s heart and fearsome reputation, might well be more formidable.

  For that matter, some or all of the other four might also be members of the Dragon Society. Whether that would really matter Arlian didn’t know. Certainly his own supposed draconic gifts didn’t seem to have intimidated Kuruvan.

  And he needed to intimidate Kuruvan. It was too late now to do anything but kill or be killed, and Arlian had no intention of dying.

  Arlian suddenly stopped his leftward circling and charged to the right, lunging, trying to catch Kuruvan unaware, evade his sword and strike at his left side.

  Kuruvan’s swordbreaker swept up, but Arlian dodged it. His blade slashed across the bare skin of Kuruvan’s left arm midway between shoulder and elbow—not the truly damaging blow he had hoped for, but first blood, all the same.

  And Kuruvan’s own sword was sweeping in from Arlian’s own left, high and wide, headed for his ear; Arlian’s left hand snapped up, swordbreaker ready, as he ducked his head.

  Kuruvan’s blade cut through Arlian’s hair, and a sudden warmth on his scalp told Arlian that he had been wounded, but then he heard the click of steel as his swordbreaker slid around Kuruvan’s weapon.

  Arlian smiled, and twisted—and Kuruvan’s blade slipped free, apparently undamaged.

  And Kuruvan’s own swordbreaker was coming up toward Arlian’s heart; in his stooped position, escaping the sword, he could see the approaching dagger blade clearly.

  Already aslant, Arlian threw himself back and further to the right, right knee bent and left leg straight, and the swordbreaker slashed up across his left shoulder, ruining fine black silk but drawing no blood. Arlian’s sword swept up, behind Kuruvan’s swordbreaker, aimed at Kuruvan’s throat.

  Kuruvan flung himself backward, and the two men staggered apart.

  Kuruvan’s left arm was bleeding steadily, Arlian saw, and while his sword was not broken, it was very slightly bent.

  Arlian’s own weapons were undamaged, but his left shoulder felt bruised and the cut-open shirt was sliding down onto his left arm in a most distracting fashion. He knew he was bleeding from his scalp, as well, but that was well back on the left, too far back for the blood to get in his face and interfere with his vision, so he ignored it.

  Arlian thought that all things considered, he had gotten the better of that exchange. He wondered if Kuruvan knew his sword was bent; swordsmen were trained to watch their opponents’ swords, not their own. If he hadn’t noticed, Arlian might be able to use that.

  But he would only be able to use it once before Kuruvan discovered it, and the sooner the better. Arlian launched into a direct attack, turning his body to present a smaller target as he thrust his blade forward.

  This was the sort of attack that Black had warned him against, the sort where Kuruvan’s greater reach was an advantage, and sure enough Kuruvan’s sword met his own in what should have been a deadly parry and riposte�
��but slid harmlessly aside, across Arlian’s chest, as Kuruvan misjudged where his bent blade would go. Arlian stepped forward, inside Kuruvan’s guard, his own sword arm pulling back for a lethal thrust—but Kuruvan’s swordbreaker came up, catching the tip of Arlian’s sword.

  Arlian twisted, swinging his sword free, and stepped forward again. Now Kuruvan’s right arm was outstretched across Arlian’s chest, and his left pinned by Arlian’s right; there was nothing to stop Arlian’s left arm as he rammed the point of his swordbreaker through oiled leather into Kuruvan’s belly.

  Arlian had thought that was a killing blow, and that the duel was over; he expected Kuruvan to gasp and crumple, as that bandit in the Desolation had.

  But Kuruvan pulled away, still upright, still fighting, and slashed with his sword, drawing a bloody line across Arlian’s left arm and chest, slicing through black silk into flesh.

  Arlian stabbed again with his swordbreaker, but this time the two were angled differently and not quite so close, and the thick leather turned the blow. Kuruvan’s swordbreaker cut across Arlian’s right arm as the two men pulled apart.

  And then Arlian’s shorter arms worked in his favor; as they drew back, his sword came free, and he was able to thrust it forward and down into Kuruvan’s side. It was not a deep cut, but it was another telling blow.

  Kuruvan gasped and staggered, but broke free and brought his sword up to guard.

  “Stop it!” someone shrieked—Hasty, Arlian realized. “Stop it, both of you!”

  Neither man paid any attention. They were intent on one another.

  Kuruvan was apparently no longer interested in speaking, or in attacking; he appeared to be having difficulty breathing, though his weapons did not sag nor his movements falter. He was bleeding several places, and his face was unnaturally pale.

  Arlian was bleeding as well, but was convinced his own wounds were all superficial, while at least two of Kuruvan’s were not. That meant time was on Arlian’s side; Kuruvan would weaken with every passing moment, every drop of blood he lost.

  The two men stood facing each other, neither one ready to attack, for what felt like hours; then Kuruvan’s eyes rolled back in his head, his weapons fell from his hands, and he collapsed upon the pavement.