Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And then finally Arlian lunged in with his swordbreaker, and Horim brought his sword over to counter, and Arlian’s sword punched up under Horim’s jaw, through the soft flesh beneath his beard and up into his brain.

  Horim made an appalling gurgling noise; his eyes flew wide and blood spat from his open mouth, blood that seemed to shine unnaturally in the summer sun. Then he slumped to his knees, his head falling back, and as Arlian withdrew his reddened blade Horim crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Blood ran from his mouth and throat, pooling on the paving stones and shimmering as if blown by a faint breeze.

  Arlian felt no breeze; he thought that trace of movement must be from Horim’s fading pulse. He stepped back and waited, arms tingling with fatigue, as Lord Toribor dashed forward into the circle to attend to the fallen Lord Iron.

  Arlian could not imagine how even a dragonheart could have survived that thrust, but he did not leave, nor clean and sheathe his blades, until he heard what Toribor found.

  For that matter, he could scarcely trust Toribor not to carry on the fight himself so long as they were both outside the gates; he stood with steel still bare in each hand, waiting.

  “He’s dead,” Toribor said, kneeling over the body, his hand behind Lord Iron’s ear feeling for a nonexistent pulse. “He’s cooling already; he must have been dead as soon as he hit the ground.”

  Arlian let out his breath in a long, wavering sigh. Then he turned and marched toward the city gates, his weapons sagging but unsheathed.

  As he did he listened carefully for any hint that Toribor was coming after him, and he scanned the crowd for Lord Dragon. He would not have been at all surprised to find one or both of them attempting to finish off the job Horim had failed at.

  No one moved to stop him, and no attack came. When he set foot on the threshold of the gates Arlian let out another sigh and slowed his pace. He sheathed his sword-breaker and groped for a handkerchief as he walked on into the city.

  Then Black was there beside him. “Not bad,” he said.

  Arlian let his breath out with a shudder and mopped his face with one end of his handkerchief. He sat himself heavily down upon the edge of a stone horse trough, then set to wiping his sword clean with the side of the cloth that was not already moist with sweat.

  Black stood beside him, watching the crowd warily. No one came near them; apparently no one wanted to congratulate the victor. Toribor and three others were hauling Horim’s corpse across the plaza and into the city, and the crowd was beginning to disperse; Lord Dragon was nowhere to be seen.

  “The women,” Arlian said. “Horim had two of the women. Who are his heirs? We’ll want to buy the women free.”

  Black didn’t reply; instead he remarked, “We have company.”

  Arlian looked up to see Lady Rime hobbling toward him, cane and peg leg thumping and wobbling on the cobbles. He stood and sheathed his sword.

  “My lady,” he said.

  “Lord Obsidian,” she said. “My congratulations on your victory. An impressive performance—did you know about Iron’s arm, or was that luck?”

  “A guess,” Arlian admitted. “Or an experiment.” He hesitated, then said, “Lord Horim had possession of two of the women from the House of Carnal Society—I want them freed. Who are Horim’s heirs?”

  “I doubt he has any,” Rime said, with a crooked smile. “Have you forgotten everything I told you?”

  “You don’t marry,” Arlian said. “And dragonhearts sire no children.”

  Rime nodded. “The custom, in fact,” she said, “is for us to leave our worldly goods to the Dragon Society itself. That would make you part owner of those slaves already, and I’m sure the rest of us will be reasonable in selling them to you, or simply freeing them.”

  Arlian, exhausted as he was, managed to smile at that. “Good,” he said. Then a thought struck him, and the smile vanished. “I can think of two or three members who may not be reasonable,” he said.

  Rime glanced up the street at Toribor and his companions, carrying the body to Horim’s home. “Enziet,” she said. “And Belly, and Nail, and Drisheen?”

  “I think Nail will be reasonable,” Arlian said. “But the others, yes.”

  “Enziet might surprise you,” Rime said, as she settled herself carefully onto the rim of the trough. “He’s as cold-blooded as any of us, usually, and if he decides it’s easier to cooperate with you in some minor matter, he’ll do it.”

  Arlian looked doubtful as he sat beside her.

  “Why is he so determined to be rid of you, Arlian?” Rime asked. “What secrets have you not told us?” She glanced up at Black, who suddenly took an intense interest in watching the crowd, rather than listening to the two nobles. Rime’s tone turned chiding. “You’re not supposed to keep secrets from the Society,” she said.

  “I’m not keeping secrets,” Arlian protested. “I told you, I’ve sworn to kill him for what he did to Rose and Sweet and Dove and the others, and what he did to me when I was just a boy.”

  “That’s why you want to kill him,” Rime agreed. “But why does he want to be rid of you?”

  He blinked at her, puzzled. “I’m sworn to kill him,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “No,” Rime said flatly, shaking her head. “Not for Enziet. I’ve known him for two hundred years—closer to three—and no, it’s not enough at all. You swore not to kill him as long as you were both in Manfort; that removes you as an immediate threat. Enziet is a patient man—or at least, he always has been before. He could easily have waited ten years, or twenty, until you set foot outside the walls on your own, and then ambushed and slain you; that he did not, that he risked Lord Iron’s life to dispose of you sooner, means that there’s something more involved, something urgent, something that meant he needed to be rid of you now.”

  Arlian stared at her. “But what could it be?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, child,” Rime said wryly. “That’s why I asked you.”

  “I don’t know either,” Arlian said, still staring. “I told you everything at the initiation, I swear it.”

  Rime rocked back and slapped her thighs, then reached for her cane. “Well, then,” she said, “that’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Arlian agreed, not moving from where he sat. “Yes, it is.”

  43

  Conversations and Questions

  Horim’s steward sneered openly at them as Rime and Arlian stood on the tessellated marble floor of the dead man’s palace foyer. He made no pretense of welcome, or even courtesy, and did not invite them into another room, nor offer them seats, despite Rime’s obvious infirmity. “There are no women here,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “None?” Rime asked mildly. “In all the household, not a scullery maid nor laundress?”

  “None,” the steward asserted. “My lord did not choose to keep women around. Certainly no female cripples.”

  “He took this pair from Westguard two years ago, in the spring,” Arlian said, resting his left hand on the hilt of his sword—at least partly to keep himself from drawing it with his right. “I saw it myself. If he didn’t bring them here, what happened to them?”

  “Two years ago?” the steward said, startled. He raised a hand. “Ah! Now I understand. Those two.”

  “Yes, those two,” Arlian said, annoyed and resisting the temptation to grab the man by the throat. “Where are they? Did he sell them?”

  “No, he killed them,” the steward said. “Long ago. I think the second one might have lasted as long as a month.”

  Arlian’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Why?” he demanded. “In the name of the dead gods, why would he kill them?”

  “Because he had no use for them,” the steward replied. “Why waste money feeding a slave you don’t want?”

  “He could have sold them!” Arlian shouted. “Or set them free!”

  The steward shrugged. “They knew something my lord did not want known, I believe.
”

  “So he simply killed them?” Arlian asked in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  Arlian’s right hand balled into a fist, while his left gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles went white. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to turn away—striking the steward would not accomplish anything useful.

  “Do you know their names?” Rime asked the steward. “Did they have any family, and were their families informed?”

  “I have no idea,” the steward replied.

  Without turning back, Arlian said, “Sparkle. Amber. Cricket. Daub. Ferret. Brook. Velvet. Sandalwood. Are any of those names familiar?”

  The steward frowned. “Daub might be,” he said. “I’m not sure, though, and I don’t believe I ever heard a name for the other one.”

  Arlian’s jaw tightened again. Poor little Daub, dead? Merely because Lord Horim had had no use for her? That bastard probably hadn’t even known she could paint, or that she was expert with cosmetics and had a sly sense of humor. Horim had probably seen her as nothing but a crippled whore, not human at all.

  And the steward didn’t think he had ever even heard the other woman’s name! It could have been any of the others. Arlian knew that Sweet and Dove had gone with Lord Dragon, but which of the others still lived, and where, remained a mystery.

  “Can you describe her?” Arlian asked through gritted teeth.

  “After two years?”

  “Did you assist in so many murders that these two don’t stand out?” Arlian growled.

  “I took no interest in them,” the steward said defensively. “I did nothing to them.”

  Arlian made a wordless noise of disgust. “You said one lived here, in your home, for almost a month!”

  “And I saw her only rarely,” the steward insisted. “She was not my concern. Lord Iron kept her locked away, out of my sight.”

  “And you didn’t care.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Lord Obsidian,” Rime said, interrupting before Arlian could say any more, “perhaps it’s time we went elsewhere.”

  Arlian stared at her for a moment, then glanced at the steward.

  “Yes,” he said. The steward was a hateful, uncaring wretch, in Arlian’s opinion, but the world was full of such people. He couldn’t change them all. He had to concentrate on the most important, most dangerous men—such as Lord Enziet.

  “Yes,” he repeated, “let’s go.”

  Together they were escorted to the door of the late Lord Iron’s manor, and a moment later they were again on the cobbled streets of Manfort.

  There they hesitated; then Arlian suggested, “Come home with me, and we’ll talk.”

  Rime nodded, and together they made their way toward the Old Palace. For the most part they walked silently, each lost in his or her own thoughts, but at one point Arlian said, “He killed them.”

  “Apparently,” Rime agreed. “Unless they’re hidden away somewhere—but I can’t imagine why that would be so, and I don’t want to give you any false hopes.”

  “We should have asked what became of the bodies,” Arlian suggested.

  Rime shook her head. “If I judged Lord Iron’s character correctly, I think perhaps we’d be better off not knowing. He was a dragonheart, and no sentimentalist.”

  Arlian, remembering what Rose had said so long ago about what became of old whores, did not reply. Instead he said, “If I had come to Manfort at once, instead of going south with the caravan, I might have saved them.”

  “Might you?” Rime asked sharply. “How?”

  Arlian reluctantly admitted, “I couldn’t have. I had no money then, and no magic, and no sword, and I didn’t know how to use a blade if I’d had one.”

  “Then don’t trouble yourself about it,” she said. “Think rather about what you can do. You’ve saved four women, have you not? That’s better than what you’d have accomplished by getting yourself killed two years ago.”

  Arlian made no reply, but his teeth ground together in frustration.

  At the Old Palace Black welcomed them in from the cold, and the three of them settled themselves in the small salon with wine and a plate of fruit.

  When Black had been informed of the results of their visit to Horim’s estate, Arlian turned to Rime and said, “You said that you thought Enziet must have some other motive for wanting to be rid of me.”

  “Of course he does,” Rime replied. “He’s certainly had enough other brave young men wish him dead over the years, even if they weren’t dragonhearts, and I’ve never before seen him involved in a scene like that one at the Society’s hall, nor has he ever before sent one of his friends to fight a duel on his behalf.”

  “Horim fought on his own behalf,” Arlian pointed out. “I was sworn to kill him, as well as Enziet and the others.”

  “Lord Iron did as Enziet asked, never doubt it,” Rime said. “He would never have challenged you if Enziet had not advised him to.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “I knew both men for two hundred years, Lord Obsidian. Yes, I’m sure. In the past Enziet has taken his time, waited for the right moment, let his opponents make mistakes that he could capitalize on; he hasn’t sent them threatening messages or let his companions fight them openly. He urgently wanted you removed, as he never did his previous antagonists. The question is, why? What is there about you that makes you a threat to him?”

  Arlian frowned. “I’m not keeping secrets,” he said. “I’m no more than I appear—a man seeking to right the wrongs I’ve seen done to those I care about.”

  Rime smiled. “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “I suspect there’s a great deal to you that isn’t obvious—perhaps there’s more to you than even you know.”

  “Well, the same could be said of any man,” Arlian protested. “I see nothing that would make me different from anyone else who sought revenge upon Lord Enziet—save perhaps that I am, as you say, a dragonheart.”

  “Did Enziet even know that?” Black asked. “Had he met you, and seen the signs?”

  “He hadn’t seen my face since I was a boy, there in the ruins of the Smoking Mountain.”

  “Someone might have brought him word,” Rime suggested.

  “There’s a question,” Black said, “of just when he became determined to remove you. When I spoke to him as your messenger, after you fought Kuruvan, he was not inclined to oblige you, but he did not simply have you murdered, either. He warned you away.”

  “That’s true,” Arlian said. “That was why I joined the Dragon Society.”

  “Perhaps he had not known you possessed the dragon’s heart until you joined,” Black suggested.

  “He could have killed you easily at any time before you joined,” Rime agreed. “That he did not would indicate that the reason to remove you did not yet exist, or at any rate was not urgent, prior to your initiation.”

  “Then is it because I joined the Society?”

  Rime shook her head. “He has had enemies among us before,” she said. “He still does, though no others who have sworn to kill him. You probably noticed that he was never there when you visited the hall—there’s a reason for that.”

  “But what, then?”

  Rime thoughtfully tapped her shinbone on the arm of her chair. “Consider the timing,” she said. “He knew you for his enemy when you killed Kuruvan, but he merely warned you to leave him alone. That’s as he has always acted in the past. But then, at some time after your initiation, something changed—he came to the hall in the company of his friends, Belly and Iron, to confront you, to give you a chance to submit your will to his, or to leave the city, or to die. What had changed?”

  “I don’t know,” Arlian said. “I swore an oath not to kill him while in Manfort—would that not make it less urgent?”

  “Of course it would,” Rime agreed. “In fact, I would have expected that to settle the matter as far as he was concerned—he would have simply ignored you until business drew him out of the city, which might not be
for years yet, and would have then arranged to kill you when you pursued him. There would be no need for a duel, no need to risk Lord Iron’s life—though I’m sure he thought it only a small risk, and indeed, it’s a wonder that it’s you who lived, and he who died.”

  “Then something else changed, besides the oath,” Black said. “But what?”

  “Something became a threat,” Rime said. “Now, what else had changed?”

  “I was forced to bide my time, as you say he does,” Arlian said.

  “And you came to the hall fairly often as you did it,” Rime pointed out. “You spoke with me, and with Nail, and with others there.”

  “Did he fear I would learn some weakness he possesses, that you might know of?”

  Rime snorted derisively. “He has no weaknesses I know of,” she said, “and if we knew of any, he would have found ways to remove that danger long ago. I told you he has other enemies among the Society’s membership.”

  “Then perhaps he feared that they would learn something from him,” Black suggested. “From Lord Obsidian, I mean.”

  “That fits,” Rime said thoughtfully. “He would have learned of this threat, whatever it might be, only when he heard the accounts of your initiation; if he did not know until then that you possess … well, whatever it is you possess…” Her voice trailed off as the bone in her hand tapped rhythmically against the polished wood of her chair.

  “What could this threat be, though?” Arlian asked. “You were there; you heard all I said. Did I speak of anything that could pose a greater threat to Lord Enziet’s life than my own sword?”

  Rime stopped tapping. “His life?” she asked. “I don’t think we’re speaking of a threat to his life. I doubt that Enziet fears death after all these centuries.”

  Puzzled, Arlian asked, “What, then? What else could I threaten?”

  “What else does he value?” Black asked. “That’s always the trick in handling an enemy—know what he cares about and what he doesn’t.”

  Rime nodded. “That’s very true,” she said.