Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He couldn’t reach the overhanging roof without assistance, but pulling a chair out to the balcony was simple enough. He got that far, then paused, and hauled a second chair out, as well. He sat Sweet on this second chair, wrapped snugly in her comforter; then he tucked one end of his makeshift “rope” through his swordbelt, climbed atop the vacant chair, and jumped for the edge.

  A moment later he had pulled himself up on the roof and was hauling his “rope” up behind him.

  “Triv?” Sweet called, a note of panic in her voice.

  “Shhh!” he hissed, leaning over the edge. “Hush! What is it?”

  “I just wanted to be sure you were still there,” she said. “That you hadn’t left without me.”

  “Didn’t you see the rope moving? Just hold on; I won’t go without you, I promise.”

  She nodded unhappily, and he pulled himself back onto the roof and continued hauling “rope”—woolen counterpane, linen sheet, velvet drape, linen sheet, the cloth slid through his hands and piled up on the tiles.

  When the last of it came swaying wildly upward he looked around for an anchor point, and spotted a stone chimney that looked suitable. He crawled over to it on hands and knees, looped a few yards of his “rope” around it, and tied it tight.

  Then he measured out a generous loop in the other end, keeping both ends in his hands, and lowered the loop over the edge.

  “Grab it!” he called. “Sit on it, then hold on with both hands!”

  He felt the jerk as the sling was caught; he felt tugging and shifting. He leaned over to see what was happening.

  Sweet had obeyed; she sat in the loop of “rope,” looking up at him.

  “Hold on tight!” he said. Then he pushed himself back up the roof, sat up, and began hauling.

  He heard a tiny smothered noise, a suppressed whimper, as Sweet found herself pulled up out of her chair.

  He had her more than halfway when he realized this wasn’t going to work. The higher she rose, the worse his leverage; he simply could not pull her all the way up over the overhang onto the roof.

  “Can you reach the edge?” he called.

  “I don’t … you told me to hold on!” she said.

  “All right, hold on,” he said. “Look, I’m going to stick my leg out where you can see it; when I do, you hold on with one hand, and grab my leg with the other. Understand?”

  She didn’t reply, but he let himself slide down the roof as he hauled at the sling. He wrapped a length of “rope” around his chest, pulling it tight, so that he couldn’t slide too far from the chimney the other end was secured to—but he was uncomfortably aware that because of the angles involved, if he lost his grip on the roof completely he might well find himself dangling several feet below the edge, a dozen yards to the right of the balcony.

  That was still better than plummeting to the ground, of course.

  He worked his way down closer to the edge until at last he was able to extend his booted foot over the edge.

  Almost immediately, Sweet’s hand reached up and grabbed at him; instinctively, he jerked away, and she wailed in terror.

  “Hush!” he called. “I’m sorry! Now grab it!” He thrust his foot out again.

  Her hand hooked over his ankle, and he leaned forward, letting the rope around his chest support much of his weight, and grabbed her wrist.

  “Now the other hand!” he called.

  The other hand appeared, and he grabbed that wrist, as well, and lifted.

  Her face scraped against the edge of the tiles as it came up above the roof, and he winced. “Gods, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” she whispered, as she twisted herself away from further injury.

  He shifted his grip, pulling her further, and step by step, inch by inch, he managed to haul her up onto the roof.

  Her comforter had fallen away, though, leaving her shivering and naked on the tile. Arlian quickly hauled his entire rope up, and slashed a linen sheet from the end. “Here,” he said.

  She accepted it, but said, “I can’t crawl while I’m holding this.”

  “Oh, blood and death,” Arlian muttered. “Give it back, then.” She obeyed, and he tucked the sheet into his belt. “Let’s get you across here before you freeze, and you can put it on once we’re on the ground. Come on!”

  On hands and knees they clambered up the slope, across the ridgecap, and down the other side; Sweet was more practiced at this than Arlian and kept up easily, despite her weak and battered condition. The “rope” trailed behind, still tied around Arlian’s chest.

  At the outer edge Arlian untied himself, wrapped the end of the line around Sweet’s chest, then directed her to lower herself over the brink. He sat up, braced himself against the tiles as well as he could, and held the “rope,” letting it out hand over hand as she descended.

  Once she was safely below the eaves, he began to lower much more quickly, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, the tension eased—she had reached the pavement below.

  That done, he slid himself and the line over until he was directly below the chimney, then threw the rest of the “rope” over the edge and began lowering himself hand over hand.

  The knots held until he was almost past the second floor; he landed hard, but evenly and the right way up. He was momentarily dazed, but no worse—no bones were broken, his head had not hit the flagstones, and he was down, safe and sound.

  And Sweet was down, as well—she was crawling across the pavement toward him even before his head cleared.

  The rope had snapped right at the edge of the roof—the sharp tiles had cut into it, weakening it and allowing the knot just below the edge to unravel. Most of it had tumbled down around Arlian; now, as he got to his feet and brushed himself off, he looked at it and smiled.

  If they could just get out of this yard safely, and take that rope away with them, it might be hours, or even days, before anyone had any clue what had happened.

  Just then a commotion broke out somewhere off to their left; Arlian took one glance in that direction, then ran to Sweet and scooped her up.

  The end of the rope was still securely tied around her chest, so it would come with them if he carried her; he threw her over his shoulder and ran for the far end of the house, away from the postern gate and the stables and the carriage house.

  Because he heard hooves, the rattle of harness, voices shouting—Lord Enziet’s coach had returned, and presumably Lord Enziet with it, and he would know, if he did not already, that his wards had been broken.

  When they were safely around the corner Arlian untied Sweet, wrapped her in the sheet, and began reeling in his line. He balled up one end, then threw it over the outer wall, so that they could pull it out after themselves; then he boosted Sweet up until she could pull herself up onto the top of the wall, with the “rope” and her wrap providing minimal protection against the iron blades.

  “It’s sharp,” she said.

  “I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” Then he took a running leap and pulled himself up beside her.

  A moment later he trotted down the mist-damp alley with an immense bundle of fabric on his back. Only the most observant would have noticed the bright pair of eyes peering out through a tiny opening in the tangled cloth.

  48

  Sweet’s Tale

  The small salon was pleasantly warm, heated by a roaring fire; steam rose from the heaped fabrics on the floor. Sweet lay sprawled on a blue silk couch, wrapped in a robe a servant had brought, with an elegantly garbed Musk kneeling beside her while Black and Arlian stood nearby.

  “It’s not what I had planned,” Arlian remarked, “but she might know something.”

  Musk, who had been bent over a semiconscious Sweet gently wiping her face with warm compresses, looked up. “You aren’t planning to interrogate the poor thing, are you?”

  “Nothing strenuous, I promise,” Arlian said. “I don’t want to hurt her any more than you do.”

  Musk looked warily a
t Black, standing behind Arlian. “What about him?”

  “He won’t hurt her, either, any more than he’s hurt you.”

  Black snorted.

  “Well, she’s in no shape to answer questions right now, anyway,” Musk said, returning to her nursing.

  “That woman with the wooden leg, Lady Rime, might be interested in talking to her,” Black suggested. “Maybe she should be here, too.”

  “A fine suggestion,” Arlian agreed. “She said to send a messenger for her if I found another witness.”

  “Is this a witness?”

  “She’s the closest thing I have right now, Black. Send someone to fetch Lady Rime.”

  Black shrugged. “I’ll go myself.” He turned and left the room, not running, but wasting no time.

  Arlian remained where he was, watching Musk tend to Sweet. Then he knelt on the floor beside her and asked tenderly, “How are you feeling?”

  Sweet opened her eyes and looked up at him. One of her cheeks was gashed, a broad, shallow gouge where she had scraped against the roof tiles; Musk had dabbed away most of the blood. Her other injuries were all older, but still visible.

  She smiled at Arlian. “You have your own face back!” she said happily.

  That was true; as arranged beforehand, the spell had broken the moment Arlian crossed his own threshold again.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “But how are you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s so lovely to be warm again, and to just lie here! And Musk!” She looked up at her old friend, whose healthy face was such a contrast to her own. “Triv said you were alive, but I didn’t believe it. Is anyone else still alive?”

  “Lily and Kitten and Hasty,” Musk said. “They’re all here and safe. I don’t know about the others.”

  “Rose and Silk and Daub are dead, and three others, but we don’t know which,” Arlian said. “The others—well, there’s still hope.”

  “Rose?” Sweet’s voice cracked. “I saw them kill her. And Velvet. I didn’t know about Silk or Daub.”

  “You saw?” Arlian asked.

  She nodded. “And Dove, of course. He made me watch that.”

  “He made you?” Arlian asked. “Why?”

  Sweet stared at him in surprise. “For fun, of course,” she said. “He enjoys watching people suffer. At least, he must enjoy it, because that was what he always wanted to do, but he mostly looked angry while he did it.”

  Arlian stared at her in silent horror, his fists opening and closing in frustration.

  “I will kill him,” he said at last. “Somehow, someday, I’ll kill him.”

  Sweet closed her eyes. “I don’t think anyone can kill him,” she said. “He’s a sorcerer, you know. He talks to the dragons as if he were a dragon himself. I don’t think he can die, any more than they can—maybe he is a dragon, in human form. Maybe it’s a disguise, like the one you wore.”

  Arlian continued to stare at her, but his hands were still as frustration gave way to confusion.

  “He talks to the dragons?” he said.

  “I think that’s why he calls himself Lord Dragon,” Sweet murmured, her eyes closing. “He is a dragon.”

  Arlian looked around the room, as if for guidance—was Sweet speaking the literal truth, or was this simply the deranged imagining of a woman who had been subjected to two long years of torture and abuse?

  It was at that moment that a servant entered with a heavily laden tray of food and drink, providing a welcome distraction. “Set it there,” he said, pointing to a low table. Turning to Sweet, he asked, “Can you sit up to eat?”

  She started. “Is it morning already?”

  “No, of course not—you’re here, and can eat when you please,” Musk explained. “Come on, let me help you.”

  Together, Musk and Arlian got the exhausted Sweet sitting upright, and a glass of wine to her lips.

  She spluttered, then drank, draining the glass eagerly.

  A honeycake followed, then raisins, then more wine and a slab of cheese. She ate voraciously for several minutes as Arlian and Musk watched.

  Then abruptly she stopped, doubled over, and vomited onto the carpet.

  “Too much rich food, too fast,” Musk muttered. “She’s half starved, the poor thing!” She turned to the servant, still waiting in the corner, and said, “Fetch some broth—something fit for a sick child.”

  The servant bowed and started toward the door.

  “And send someone to clean this up,” Arlian added.

  The servant bowed again, and left.

  When Rime arrived, half an hour later, Arlian and Sweet and Musk were settled in another room, a drawing room where Sweet was curled up in a velvet-upholstered armchair, wrapped in her robe and a blanket, sipping a mug of beef broth. Hasty had joined them, and been repeatedly shushed for arguing with Sweet—Hasty insisted that Enziet simply could not have been that much worse than Kuruvan. Hasty was now visibly pregnant with Kuruvan’s child, and determined to think well of the baby’s father and all his friends.

  Arlian stood when Rime hobbled into the room, and bowed respectfully; the three women could not rise, of course, but Musk attempted a partial bow. Rime waved her cane at them in acknowledgment.

  “So is this one of your four witnesses, or just another whore you’ve rescued?” Rime asked Arlian without preamble. “Black didn’t seem very certain on that point.”

  Wither had accompanied her, and now stepped into the room behind her; Arlian bowed again. Black, who had opened the door for the two guests, now hesitated.

  “Come in, all of you,” Arlian said, beckoning. “This is Sweet—and yes, she’s another of the women I sought to rescue, but she may be a witness to Lord Enziet’s treachery, as well.”

  “Treachery?” Sweet looked up, startled.

  “You said he spoke to dragons,” Arlian said gently. “What did you mean?”

  She looked up at Arlian, puzzled. “I meant he talks to dragons. He uses his sorcery and a bowl of water—I saw him do it once. I didn’t hear anything, but I saw the dragon in the water, and he told me what it said.” She shuddered.

  Wither leaned forward and studied Sweet intently; Rime leaned on her cane and stared.

  “You’re serious?” Rime said.

  “Of course I am!” Sweet said, pulling the blankets closer around her.

  “What color was the dragon?” Rime demanded.

  Sweet hesitated, and glanced at Arlian. “Black,” she said. “But maybe that was the magic, because I thought dragons were green.”

  “They’re black,” Arlian said.

  “Some of them,” Rime agreed. “The biggest ones.”

  “Why did he show you this?” Wither asked.

  “And when?” Rime added.

  “He was … he was tormenting me,” Sweet said. “He was taunting me, saying I would spend the rest of my life as a plaything. I said that no, sooner or later I’d die, just as Dove did, when he got bored and killed me, and he said no, he would keep me alive until I was old and gray and even more helpless than I was then.” She swallowed. “I was … I was braver back then—it was, I don’t know, a long time ago, in the summer I think, but a long time after he brought me to Manfort. A hot day, I remember. Anyway, I said that he was older than I was, and would be dead before my hair turned gray, and he laughed and said he was a sorcerer and would live forever. And I didn’t believe him, so he took the bowl of water he used to wash off the blood, and showed me that he talked to the dragons.” She glanced at Arlian, and added, “I think he might be a dragon, in human form, but he never said that, I’m just guessing.”

  “He’s no dragon,” Wither said.

  “Not yet, anyway,” Rime added. “He seems more like one every year, though.”

  Wither looked at Rime. “Do you think it was an illusion?”

  “Probably,” Rime said.

  “But it would explain how he knew my village would be destroyed!” Arlian said. “The dragons told him what they were going to do!�
��

  “It would, at that,” Rime agreed thoughtfully. She asked Wither, “Could you make a dragon’s image appear in a bowl of water?”

  “Not just like that,” Wither said. “Blood in the water … no, that wouldn’t help.” He looked at Sweet. “Did he use anything else? Any powders or devices?”

  “I don’t know,” Sweet said. “I didn’t see any.”

  “If he just wanted to make an illusion to prove he’s a sorcerer,” Arlian asked, “why would he choose the image of a dragon?”

  “Suppose he can talk to the dragons,” Wither said. “Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

  “He’s keeping it to himself so he’ll have resources we don’t,” Rime said.

  “But what could he do with it?”

  “Well, he knew when he could loot the Smoking Mountain,” Arlian pointed out.

  Wither waved it away. “How often would that be of any use?”

  “And even if he can speak to them, why would the dragons tell him that?” Rime asked.

  “Perhaps he can compel them to speak?” Black suggested. Rime and Wither turned, startled, as if both had forgotten that Black was still present.

  “Compel a dragon to do anything?” Wither countered.

  Black shrugged. “Well, you’d know more than I about that,” he said, “but didn’t someone, or several someones, compel them to leave humanity to its own devices, while they slunk off to their caves?”

  “It wasn’t…” Wither began. Then he stopped and frowned.

  “We don’t know why the dragons gave up and left,” Rime said. She glanced at Wither. “Do we?”

  Wither didn’t reply, and after a few seconds of uneasy silence, Arlian suggested, “Maybe Enziet does know.”

  “Maybe Enziet knows a great deal he hasn’t told us,” Wither growled. Abruptly he turned and stamped out.

  The others stared after him, caught flat-footed by this sudden exit. “Wait a minute,” Rime called. She began to hobble after him, but gave up after a few steps—Wither might be old, and his arm a useless ruin, but there was nothing wrong with his legs, a claim Rime could not make.

  “Should I go after him?” Black asked Arlian.