Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Arlian started to move forward, to attack; he had been awaiting an opportunity so long that it took him a few seconds to realize that any other action was possible. Then he caught himself and stopped, his sword almost at Kuruvan’s throat.

  There was no honor in killing an unconscious man; in fact, to strike now would be murder under the dueling laws. Arlian stepped back, and realized he was panting and trembling.

  Footmen in maroon and gold were hurrying forward to attend to their master; Arlian stepped back again, giving them room. He glanced down at himself, at his own bloody chest and arms; he tugged at the tatters of his silk blouse with his thumb, then noticed the blood on his sword. He blinked.

  Dazed. He was dazed, he realized. The duel had only lasted a few minutes, and hadn’t really been so very strenuous, but still, he knew he was not thinking clearly anymore.

  “Black!” he called, starting to tremble uncontrollably.

  And then his steward, his friend, was there, handing him a cloth. Arlian dropped his swordbreaker to accept it, then wiped his sword carefully, struggling to keep his hands steady enough for the task. He sheathed the sword, then retrieved the swordbreaker and cleaned and sheathed that, as well.

  Then he stood, still shaking, his mind momentarily a blank.

  “I’m glad to see you have your priorities straight,” Black said, putting one arm around Arlian, “but we’ll need to get you cleaned up, too.”

  Arlian nodded. His thoughts were beginning to clear. “The women,” he said. “Get them in the coach. And the gold.”

  “And you,” Black said. “Come on, now.”

  Arlian allowed himself to be led away.

  As he sat in the coach, still trembling, waiting for Hasty and Kitten to be carried over from the bench, he saw Kuruvan being carried inside. The gray-haired steward gave Arlian one last hate-filled look; then the mansion door slammed shut.

  Arlian stared at that closed door, trying to think whether he hoped Kuruvan would live or die, and utterly unable to decide.

  36

  Tending to Wounds

  Despite his battered condition, Arlian later remembered every detail of the ride home—the two naked women staring at him, Thirif sitting silently beside him, the worry in Black’s voice as he called to the horses, the stinging when a cut on one arm brushed against the upholstery. He had wanted to speak to the women, to reassure them, but the shifting expressions on Hasty’s face deterred him—she seemed angry as much as frightened, and as scared of him as of anything else. He couldn’t find the words to speak to her over the creaking of the coach, the rattle of harness, the beating of the horses’ hooves, and his own weary confusion.

  Kitten’s expression was closed and unreadable.

  Arlian had never known Kitten well to begin with, but Hasty had been his friend, and her antagonism worried him.

  The ride was a short one, in any case, and when they pulled up at the door of the Old Palace Arlian had still not said a thing.

  He opened the coach door and climbed out before Black could dismount, then turned, with the idea of carrying one woman inside while Black fetched the other.

  Thirif looked meaningfully at his chest, and pointed at the blood on his arms, and Arlian thought better of carrying anyone. Instead he stood aside as Thirif and Black brought Hasty and Kitten into the small salon.

  “Where are we?” Kitten asked, craning her neck to look at the gilding, tapestries, and fretwork.

  “Home,” Arlian said. “Welcome home!”

  Hasty stared at him. “Triv, are you insane?”

  Arlian, very much aware of his injuries, was in no mood to argue with anyone. He frowned at her. “Why do people keep asking me that?”

  “Because you’re acting like a madman!” Hasty squeaked. “What’s going to happen to us when the owner of this place comes back?”

  “I am the owner of this place,” Arlian said patiently. He gestured at Black and Thirif. “Ask them.”

  “If he’s mad, it’s nothing as obvious as that,” Black said. “He’s the true Lord Obsidian, all right, and he does own this palace.”

  “But he’s just Triv!” Hasty protested. “He’s an … he’s nobody!”

  “Not anymore,” Black told her. He glanced at Arlian. “Someday you’ll have to tell me why they call you Triv.”

  Arlian shrugged. “It’s not important.” He smiled to himself at this answer.

  “I’ll agree with that,” Black said. “What’s important is cleaning and dressing those wounds before any of them turn poisonous.”

  Arlian glanced down at himself.

  “Black speaks wisely,” Thirif said.

  Arlian yielded. “Get these two some clothes,” he told Thirif. “And food. Whatever they want.”

  The Aritheian nodded, and Arlian allowed himself to be led away.

  An hour later, heavily bandaged and attired in fresh new clothes, Arlian returned to the salon.

  Hasty and Kitten were seated on two settees; Kitten wore a black silk tunic that reached just below her knees, while Hasty was wrapped in a velvet robe.

  “We have no women’s clothing on hand, my lord,” a footman explained before Arlian could remark on this garb.

  “That’s fine,” Arlian said. He crossed the room and stooped to kiss Hasty on the forehead. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and he smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you again!” he said.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Triv,” Hasty said, looking up at him, “but why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Arlian asked.

  “Fight that horrible duel! You could have been killed! You might have killed Vanni!”

  Arlian stared at her, a puzzled frown upon his face. “He was holding you prisoner,” he said.

  “Vanni? Oh, he was sweet,” Hasty protested. “He’s a poor silly boy!”

  “Lord Kuruvan, you mean,” Arlian said, baffled.

  “Yes, Lord Kuruvan. Vanni.”

  “Lord Kuruvan is a poor silly boy? He must be forty years old.”

  Hasty shrugged. “He’s still a boy,” she said.

  “He was holding you in bondage,” Arlian pointed out.

  “Well, but he wasn’t hurting us!” Hasty replied.

  “He was one of the owners of the House of Carnal Society,” Arlian said. “He was one of the six men who put you there and had your feet cut off.”

  “But the House is gone!” Hasty protested. “That’s all over!”

  “It is now,” Arlian said grimly. “For you two, at any rate.”

  “But it was over years ago! For two years we haven’t had to please anyone but poor Vanni. And he was hardly ever rough, and when he was he’d feel bad afterward and give us candy and wine to apologize.”

  Arlian stared silently at her for a moment. Hasty had always been prone to confusion and thoughtlessness—that was where her name had come from, after all—but this seemed more than Arlian could deal with.

  “Hasty,” he said, “he ordered your feet chopped off! He agreed to have Rose and Silk murdered! He had to be punished for those crimes.”

  Now it was Hasty’s turn to stare in incomprehension.

  “Murdered?” Kitten said. “Rose and Silk are dead?”

  “When the House was closed,” Arlian told her. “Each of the six lords took two women, and then the guards cut the throats of the other four and burned down the house.”

  Hasty’s confusion turned to shock. For a moment she and Kitten sat motionless, staring at Arlian.

  “We didn’t know,” Kitten said. “And Kuruvan didn’t abuse us. We … it wasn’t a bad life there, really.”

  “You were slaves,” Arlian said.

  “Well, of course,” Kitten replied. “We always have been. We still are.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Arlian said. “Lord Kuruvan wagered your freedom on that duel. You’re free.”

  Hasty’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. “But we can’t be!” she wailed. “What will I do if I’m free? I’m a cripple, w
ith no feet! I may be carrying Vanni’s child, and I’m not married! I need to be a slave. I’ve never been free, I never asked to be free! I don’t know how!” She flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around Arlian’s waist and burying her face against his belly.

  Arlian tried to comfort her, and looked at the other woman for guidance.

  Kitten’s expression was somber. “I’m glad to be free, Triv,” she said, “but Hasty has a good point. What will become of us? Neither of us knows a trade, and who would marry a cripple?”

  “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you please,” Arlian said, as he patted Hasty comfortingly. “I made my fortune with money Rose gave me, money she said should have belonged to the women in that brothel—to me, that means that one-twelfth of my wealth is at your disposal, each of you. I took that money to avenge the injustices you and the others suffered.”

  “So we’ll be parasites instead of slaves?” Kitten asked.

  The day’s accumulated stresses finally broke Arlian’s calm. “Would you rather be dog food when your Lord Kuruvan tired of you?” he demanded. “You earned that money! You paid for it be giving up the ability to walk! And if you don’t think so, then go ahead and learn a trade—a seamstress doesn’t need to walk, does she?”

  Hasty snuffled miserably.

  “You’re right, Triv,” Kitten said. “I’m sorry. This was so unexpected! We had settled into our lives with Kuruvan, and we were comfortable there—though you’re right that it probably wouldn’t have lasted long. You meant well.”

  Arlian stared at her for a moment.

  Meant well?

  He had risked his life to see that justice was done for these women. He had fought down his fears and misgivings and had crossed blades with an experienced swordsman, he had shed his own blood, and still faced the very real possibility of wound fever. The duel with Kuruvan had been no elegant display of skill, but an ugly, awkward, messy brawl that ended not in a clean death for one that left the other unscathed, but in numerous wounds and great pain on both sides. Arlian had gone through all that not for himself, but to have justice for these women, and he had carried away Hasty and Kitten, not to keep them, but to give them their freedom.

  He had thought they would be grateful.

  He hadn’t fought for their gratitude; he had fought because it was the right thing to do, because it would serve the cause of justice. Still, Hasty and Kitten were the immediate beneficiaries, and he had thought they would be grateful.

  He hadn’t expected to be told he had meant well.

  He should have known better, he told himself. He remembered Bloody Hand, back in the mine, shouting at him for having dared to save him from the falling ore.

  He had done what was right. He had saved Bloody Hand’s life—and he had tried to take Kuruvan’s. He had tried to make a little justice in the world.

  He frowned as he stroked Hasty’s hair. Why was it right to save Bloody Hand, and to kill Kuruvan?

  Because it was. Bloody Hand had killed Dinian, yes, but by accident. He had not been a sadist like Lampspiller. He had been trying to survive as best he could, to do the job he had been given.

  Kuruvan had maimed and killed women because he wanted to, because it was convenient and profitable.

  That was wrong. No matter how pleasant he had been to Kitten and Hasty afterward, it was wrong, and Kuruvan had done nothing to make amends.

  Perhaps now he would—assuming he survived his wounds. Arlian resolved to check on Lord Kuruvan, if he recovered, to see whether he still considered himself free to kill slaves.

  But first, there were five more lords to deal with—Stiam, Horim, Toribor, Drisheen …

  And Lord Dragon. Lord Enziet. The man who had looted Arlian’s home and sold Arlian into slavery, the man who had killed Madam Ril and ordered the House of Carnal Society burned, the man who had carried Sweet and Dove away with him.

  Arlian would deal with them all, including Lord Dragon, and would rescue Sweet and the other women—and from now on he would not expect gratitude.

  He disentangled himself from Hasty and set her back on the settee. “I’ll have someone show you your rooms,” he said. “If you want anything, my servants will get it for you.”

  Then he turned and headed for his own chambers, to rest—and to plan. He knew now who all his enemies were—the six lords, the looters, the dragons. He had wounded Kuruvan, forgiven Cover …

  He paused on the stairs. Was he finished with Kuruvan, then? Should he go back and finish him off?

  And that offer he had made, to let Kuruvan go unscathed if he forswore all future connection with slavery—where had that come from? Was that truly what he sought? Did he think that the institution of slavery was something that must be abolished? That was not any task he had consciously set himself. He had been seeking justice; was slavery then inherently unjust? Was it any more unjust than the rest of the world?

  Would Hasty be happier free than she had been as Kuruvan’s slave? Certainly he was happier free. And Rose would still be alive had she been free.

  He was not ready to say that slavery was always wrong. He was convinced that it was abused, that Lord Dragon—Lord Enziet!—had been wrong to sell him to the mine, that the six lords had been wrong to maim their whores and kill four of them.

  They had demonstrated that they could not be trusted with slaves—that was why he had made his offer to Lord Kuruvan. The question of whether anyone could be trusted with slaves he would leave open for now.

  That decided, he continued up the steps.

  As for whether Kuruvan had paid sufficiently for the evil he had done—well, perhaps he should leave that to Fate. If Kuruvan recovered from his wounds, and committed no more atrocities, then Arlian would let him live.

  After all, he had the others to deal with.

  Lord Enziet would be next, of course. He was the one Arlian was most determined to see punished, now that he knew who Lord Dragon was; the others could wait. Enziet was also the one who held Sweet. Arlian dared not risk getting himself killed fighting one of the others, leaving Lord Dragon untouched and Sweet still in his possession.

  He would have Black visit Enziet’s mansion and arrange a meeting, and when he was sufficiently recovered from his own injuries he would pay Lord Dragon a visit.

  And he wouldn’t leave Enziet alive, as he had Kuruvan.

  He would question him about his knowledge of dragons, how he had known that Obsidian would be available for looting—and for that matter, why the village had been worth looting in person, for surely a man of Enziet’s prominence could have sent an employee to attend to it.

  He would learn everything Lord Dragon could tell him, he would finally know why his family and childhood had been snatched away, why his life had been twisted into an obsessive quest for revenge—and then he would kill him.

  That settled, Arlian tumbled onto his bed, exhausted—but elated, as well.

  He was making progress. Cover and Kuruvan were done, and Lord Dragon was next! At last, after all these years, Lord Dragon was next!

  37

  Approaches to Lord Dragon

  Black marched in the doorway of Arlian’s study and crossed to the writing table where Arlian sat. “He won’t see you,” he said without preamble.

  Arlian put down his quill and blinked up at his steward. “What do you mean, he won’t see me?”

  “I mean he won’t see you,” Black repeated. “I delivered your message, and I recited it myself, just to be sure, as well as handing over the written copy—’Lord Obsidian wishes to call upon Lord Enziet at Lord Enziet’s convenience about a matter of some importance to them both, and would appreciate a word as to when that might be possible.’ They told me to wait at the gate, and a footman brought me back the reply—that Lord Enziet has no intention of seeing Lord Obsidian at any time, and that henceforth I am not to inflict my presence further upon any member of his household, at any time.”

  “You protested?”

  “Of cours
e I protested. Loudly. And I was told to wait again, and someone fetched this.” He handed Arlian a folded sheet of paper.

  Arlian accepted it and opened it, and read, “Lord Enziet busies himself with the Duke’s business and his own concerns, and has no time to waste on social niceties. Let Lord Obsidian amuse himself elsewhere.”

  “This verges on deliberate insult,” Arlian said, looking up from the little square of paper.

  “I’d say so,” Black agreed.

  “Do you think Enziet knows why I want to see him?” Arlian asked.

  “It’s entirely possible,” Black said. “After all, Lord Kuruvan had time to talk at some length before the fever set in.”

  Arlian frowned at the reminder.

  That Kuruvan’s wounds had festered and brought on a fever was hardly surprising, but Arlian was not happy about it. His own injuries had healed well, but they had been far more superficial. Kuruvan had been stabbed in the belly, and while to Arlian’s surprise the wound itself had not been fatal, it had turned foul; the reports that had reached the Old Palace said that Kuruvan was now bedridden and delirious, burning up with fever, his abdomen as swollen and red as an overripe peach. He was not expected to live much longer.

  It was a slow, nasty way to die. Arlian had wanted Kuruvan dead, but would have preferred a quick death—he wasn’t interested in inflicting suffering upon the guilty so much as in removing a menace from the world.

  But that was in regard to Kuruvan; Arlian would be pleased to see Lord Dragon suffer. He had hoped to bring that suffering about.

  Instead, Enziet was insulting him, defying him.

  And of course, why shouldn’t he? Lord Obsidian was nobody—rich, yes, but with no serious commercial ties in Manfort, no known family, no powerful friends.

  That still did not entitle Lord Enziet to be openly rude to a fellow nobleman, and perhaps that was all the excuse Arlian needed. He opened a desk drawer and found a sheet of paper. He took up his quill, dipped it, and wrote, “I find the tone of your message inappropriate, and must ask that you apologize. It is essential that I speak with you.”