Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He heard both women draw in their breath; they did not have the straight line of sight he enjoyed, but both could obviously see something of the monstrosity outside.

  Whatever it was came no closer—it was not advancing to attack. Arlian stepped up to the glass, the better to study what he could see.

  The window looked out over the stableyard; below the glowing, whirling cloud-thing he could make out the stalls, the mangers and troughs, the tack shed, and his own wagon—and oxen; his draft animals were out of their pen and in front of the wagon.

  And standing on the driver’s seat of the wagon was a robed figure, waving one hand in the air—Thirif. A lantern hung above the driver’s seat, and Arlian could see the magician’s face clearly; the glamour was gone and his own features revealed.

  Arlian looked at the way the hand moved, and the way the demonic images above it moved, and grinned. He knew now why the “demon” resembled one of the nightmares he had had repeatedly in the Dreaming Mountains on the way north from Arithei. He hoped that none of his enemies down there knew that Aritheian magic could not truly summon demons, but only create illusions.

  Arlian had not known that Thirif had brought an illusion like this, but he was very glad to see it. It ought to put a good scare into their enemies.

  The rest of the stableyard was almost deserted—almost; it was hard to see clearly, what with the darkness around and below and that seething red vapor in the way, but he was fairly certain he could see Black, still wearing his magical disguise, yoking the oxen. The wagon would be ready to roll in a few minutes, and Thirif’s illusion appeared to have frightened away all opposition.

  Drisheen wouldn’t have been fooled for a moment—but Drisheen was dead.

  Arlian frowned. Lord Toribor ought to be enough of a sorcerer to know that the thing was a harmless illusion; where was he?

  Well, wherever he was, he didn’t appear to be in the yard below. Arlian swung the shutters wide, then unlatched the casement and opened that, as well. He eyed the resulting space critically.

  Shamble would never have fit through it, and Arlian wasn’t entirely sure he could squeeze himself out that way, but Brook and Cricket were small enough. If he could lower them down …

  He turned and began stripping the linens from Cricket’s bed. It had worked getting Sweet out of Enziet’s house; it ought to work just as well here.

  “What are you doing?” Cricket asked. “Can we help?”

  “I’m making a rope,” Arlian explained. “I have friends down there with a wagon, and I plan to lower you down to them.”

  Cricket stretched up and tried to peer out the window.

  “But … but there’s that monster!” she said.

  “It’s just an illusion,” Arlian said. “Two of my friends are magicians.”

  Cricket hesitated—but then she saw that Brook was already pulling the sheets from her bed and knotting them together.

  A moment later the rope was ready; Brook went first.

  “I don’t want to call from up here and let everyone hear me,” Arlian told her, as he looped a sheet around her back and under her arms, “so when you’re near the ground, call out for Black. That’s the man in charge down there.”

  Brook nodded, and looked back over her shoulder. “The man on the wagon?” she asked.

  “No, that’s Thirif the magician—don’t disturb him! Black’s on foot, by the oxen.”

  “I see him,” Brook said. Then she pushed herself over the sill and slid out the window as smoothly as an eel.

  Arlian leaned out, watching and listening as he let the rope down, hand over hand; Brook was almost out of sight below him when she called. Arlian could barely hear her, but Black looked up, startled. He spotted the half-clad woman and hurried over to her.

  Arlian heard none of their whispered conversation, but he saw Black untie Brook and carry her to the wagon. By the time Arlian had pulled the line of bedclothes back up and hoisted Cricket onto the windowsill Black was waiting at the foot of the wall.

  After Cricket was safely down it was his own turn; with the line securely tied in place he turned and began squirming, feet-first, through the window.

  He didn’t fit as neatly as the women had; the casement slammed back against the dormer, cracking the glass, as he tried to wiggle past it. He had to twist his shoulders up at a steep diagonal to squeeze through.

  At last, though, his head emerged from the warm, stuffy air of the inn into the cool crispness of the night, and he half climbed, half slid to the ground.

  “Ari!” Black said, slapping him on the back the instant his feet struck the hard-packed earth of the stableyard. “You’re safe!”

  “Not yet,” Arlian replied. “Not until we’re out of this town and away from these people.”

  “Oh, Thirif’s put a scare into them,” Black said. “We were getting ready to go. They’ve promised us safe passage.” He grimaced, his expression visible even in the eerie red glow. “Only northward, though.”

  “I’m not going north,” Arlian said, as they began walking toward the wagon.

  “We could go a few miles, then double back, and go around the town,” Black said. “it’s only a minor delay.”

  “There’s no decent road around Cork Tree,” Arlian pointed out. “An ox could break a leg trying to drag us all across underbrush or furrowed fields.”

  “Well, Lord Belly thinks you’re headed south, and he doesn’t want us to rejoin you,” Black said, as he turned aside toward the stableyard gate. “He agreed to let us go north, but not south.”

  “You spoke with him?” Arlian asked, following.

  Black nodded. “He was commanding the party that went after that horse you stole,” he said. “After they found the horse, with you not on it, he sent one group on to the south, while he came back here. He went inside the inn for a little while, and then came out here. When most of them went galloping after you just four men stayed here, keeping an eye on us and blocking the gates so we couldn’t get the wagon out; we held them off readily enough while Thirif summoned our friend up there.” He pointed at the glowing illusion overhead, then pushed the gate open; the street beyond was dark and mostly quiet, though Arlian could hear shouting somewhere in the distance. “Then Belly and his group got back, just about the time Lord Demon appeared, and he came to discuss matters with us. Some fool came running out of the inn shouting about a madman attacking Lord Drisheen, and Belly said we could go, and everyone went running inside. I hitched up the oxen, but I took my time about it, in hopes you’d be able to join us.” He turned back toward the wagon.

  Arlian nodded. “Good,” he said.

  “So you killed Drisheen?” Black asked, as he pulled himself up onto the wagon, forcing Thirif to step aside. Cricket and Brook were inside the boxy body of the wagon but leaning out the door, watching and listening.

  “And Shamble,” Arlian said. “They’d left him guarding these two.” He gestured at the women.

  Black glanced at them; Cricket smiled back at him.

  “Ah, that’s a good night’s work, then,” he said. “At least, if we can get out of here alive!”

  “It’ll do,” Arlian agreed, “but Lord Toribor still lives, and I wouldn’t mind a few words with old Stonehand.”

  “Oh, you hot-blooded young idiots are never satis…”

  “Your pardon,” Thirif interrupted, “but I cannot keep this illusion much longer.”

  “I think it’s done its job,” Arlian said. “Let it go.”

  “Thank you,” Thirif said, lowering his arm. The demon-image dissipated into fading red smoke, and the lantern over the driver’s bench seemed to brighten. Black seated himself comfortably and shook out the reins, signaling the oxen to move. Thirif leaned past him, ducked, and stepped inside the wagon, pushing past the two women, who squeezed aside to make room for him but did not relinquish their place in the door.

  “You’re heading north?” Arlian asked.

  “At least at first,” Black said.


  “That’s fine,” Arlian said. “Take the women back to Manfort, where they’ll be safe.” He jumped down from the seat as the wagon began to roll. “I’m going south,” he said. “Toribor won’t expect me to be behind him.”

  “Ari, you’re mad!” Black said, tugging the reins to halt the oxen before they had gone more than a couple of yards.

  “Quite probably,” Arlian agreed. “But mad or not, I’ve sworn to kill Lord Enziet, and he’s to the south, not the north.”

  “How will you find him, without the magicians?” Black demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Arlian admitted, “but I’ll manage it somehow.”

  Just then a loud crash sounded above them; Black, Arlian, and the others looked up, startled, as an angry, bearded face appeared in the open window of the inn whence Arlian had escaped.

  “Obsidian!” Lord Toribor’s voice bellowed. “By the dead gods!”

  “Block the gate,” Arlian said to Black without looking back. Then he called, “Yes, Lord Toribor—I’m here.”

  “Hiding behind sorcery,” Toribor called back. “Too afraid to show your own face?”

  “And you’re hiding behind a dozen guards,” Arlian shouted back. “Afraid to meet me honorably?”

  “So you can butcher me as you did Drisheen and Shamble? Ha!”

  “So I can fight you fairly, as I did Iron and Kuruvan,” Arlian retorted.

  “Fair? You crippled Iron before you killed him!”

  “I did nothing of the kind—he was already crippled. I merely removed the brace that hid it. And I remind you, he challenged me, and made no offer to yield!”

  “Lies and half-truths!”

  “No more than your own!”

  Lord Toribor’s one good eye glowered down at Arlian for a moment; then he turned and spoke to someone behind him. Arlian took the opportunity to see that Black had started the wagon forward, toward the stableyard gate. There were lights in the street beyond; Toribor’s men were on their way.

  “I don’t suppose Thirif has any more of those spells…” Arlian said.

  “He told me that was the only one he’d brought,” Black called back.

  Then Toribor was back in the window.

  “I’ll give you a chance to surrender,” he called.

  Arlian found himself smiling at that, though he was not entirely sure why. “And I’ll return the favor, and allow you to surrender,” Arlian called. “You tell me your terms, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Give yourself up into my custody, disavow your oath to slay me and Lord Enziet, and I’ll take you back to Manfort to stand trial before the Duke for Drisheen’s murder, and make no further claim on you,” Toribor called. “Your friends would be free to go.”

  Arlian almost laughed. “And the two women? Cricket and Brook?”

  Toribor made a disgusted noise. “Oh, fine!” he said, exasperated. “Take them as part of the bargain, if that’s what it takes to get you to give yourself up!”

  “It’s not enough,” Arlian called back. “Listen, Lord Belly, to my terms. You give me a horse, and your oath not to harm or molest in any way anyone in that wagon until they’re safely back to the Old Palace in Manfort, and I’ll forestall my vengeance on you—not forgo it entirely, but merely put it off. I’ll give you a year before I seek you out to kill you, and you’ll be free to try to make your peace with me in that time. I’ll be busy hunting Lord Enziet for part of that time—and who knows, maybe he’ll kill me and you’ll be safe!”

  “Are you mad?” Toribor roared. “Do you expect me to agree to that?”

  “No more than you really expect me to agree to your terms!” Arlian shouted back cheerfully.

  “Listen, you little fool, you have no idea what you’re doing! I can’t take any risk that you might kill Enziet!”

  “Ari!” Black called, before Arlian could respond.

  Arlian turned to find guardsmen with drawn swords standing in the stableyard gate, blocking the oxen. “Thirif! Stand ready!” he called, as he drew his own weapons. Then he bellowed, “Do you men want us to summon the demon anew?”

  “There is no demon!” Toribor shouted. “It’s all just illusion! Sorcerers can’t summon demons!”

  “Thirif is no mere sorcerer, Belly!” Arlian retorted. “He’s an Arithein mage, from beyond the Dreaming Mountains.”

  The swordsmen looked at one another uncertainly.

  Just then Rime thrust her head out of the door; like Thirif, and unlike Black and Arlian, her glamour was gone. She clambered out and stood on the seat beside Black, unsteady on her wooden leg.

  Toribor stopped shouting to stare at her, and Arlian turned to look.

  “You there!” she said, pointing her trademark bone at the nearest guardsman. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  The guardsman lowered his sword. “Lady Rime?” he asked, baffled.

  “Yes, Lady Rime!” she shouted. “Who told you to block my wagon?”

  “Ah … he did,” the soldier replied, pointing up at Toribor.

  “And who gave him that authority?”

  “Lord Enziet, my lady. He said we were to obey Lord Drisheen and Lord Belly until his return.”

  “And do you think Lord Enziet meant you to interfere with me?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Then get out of the way!”

  “No!” Toribor shouted. “Don’t listen to her!”

  Rime turned and glared up at him. “And why not?” she demanded. “I am an adviser to the Duke of Manfort, my Lord Toribor, as you are not!”

  “But you’re a traitor!” Toribor shouted. “You’ve been helping Obsidian!”

  Rime put her hands on her hips. “You dare to call me a traitor? You fled here and went through all this—setting up ambushes, chasing people about in the middle of the night—because you’re too much of a coward to face Lord Obsidian in an honest duel!” She turned back to the soldier. “Did Lord Enziet tell you anything about setting up ambushes? Did he say you were to trap Lord Obsidian?”

  “No, my lady; he just said to obey the other lords.”

  “So you’ll just blindly obey any order young Belly gives you?”

  “My lady,” the guardsman said desperately, pointing at Arlian, “that man, whether he’s Lord Obsidian or not, did murder Lord Drisheen.”

  “And what happened before that? Might he have had cause to kill Drisheen in his own defense?”

  “I … I don’t really know,” the soldier admitted.

  “He meant to murder us both in our beds!” Toribor shouted.

  “I came to speak to you, and someone shot an arrow at me!” Arlian shouted back. He turned to the guard. “See for yourself—it’s probably still stuck in the stairway wall!”

  The guardsman looked helplessly from Rime to Toribor, saying nothing.

  Toribor called, “Rime, stop this! You don’t know what’s at stake here!”

  Rime stared up at him in disbelief. “I don’t? Besides your miserable life, you mean?”

  “No! It’s far more than that!”

  “What is at stake, then, that’s so precious?”

  “I … I can’t tell you here!”

  “And where could you tell me? And why haven’t you done so before? I seem to recall an agreement to share secrets, Lord Belly.”

  “I didn’t know!”

  “And did Lord Enziet? Is this some new lie he’s told you, or some secret he’s withheld?”

  “Rime, you don’t understand! Enziet had reasons…”

  “I understand enough,” she retorted, turning away.

  Arlian called up to Toribor, “Listen, Belly—once again, before witnesses, I challenge you to meet me in an honorable duel, to settle all matters between us!”

  For a moment Toribor stared down at him in speechless fury; then words exploded from him. “Blast you, Obsidian!” he shouted. “Fine, then! I’ll fight you, here and now!”

  “In the street in front of the inn!” Arlian called back.

 
; “Done!” Toribor’s head vanished from the window.

  Arlian smiled, and turned back toward the wagon.

  “Good,” he said.

  “I hope so,” Rime said. She looked up at the empty window thoughtfully. “I do hope so.”

  56

  Crossed Swords

  The two opponents faced each other warily, about a dozen feet apart, swords and swordbreakers held ready. The sky was still overcast, the moon and stars hidden, so the only light came from a few windows and the lanterns hung to either side of the inn’s signboard; the fighters’ shadows stretched out across the street in an elongated tangle of gray and black, arms and blades crisscrossing. Despite the chill in the air Arlian saw sweat gleaming on Lord Toribor’s bald head.

  The audience consisted of two distinct groups—Toribor’s party, clustered in and around the inn’s front door or peering from the inn’s windows, and Arlian’s party, seated in the wagon fifty feet to the north, ready to move out on a moment’s notice. The few townspeople who were awake, including all of the inn’s staff, had joined Toribor’s group, swelling its ranks to perhaps three dozen people.

  Black had extinguished the lantern above the driver’s seat of the wagon, and Arlian supposed that was to make it easier to slip away into the darkness unnoticed.

  “Kill him!” the innkeeper shouted. “I’m never going to get all those bloodstains out, and that door upstairs is ruined!”

  “We’ll pay for the damages,” Lady Rime called in reply.

  The innkeeper snorted in disbelief.

  Arlian watched Toribor closely, looking for some hint of an impending attack, but could see none—perhaps Lord Belly thought that time was on his side, and he intended to wait Arlian out, fight defensively until his opponent tired.

  Or perhaps he fought conservatively because of his missing eye—he was blind on his left side, and kept his head cocked at an odd angle to compensate, his right eye angled forward and focused on Arlian’s blade.

  Arlian tried a quick feint, just to see what would happen; Toribor’s blade flashed up to parry, but he made no counter.

  Arlian grinned; that suited him fine. He circled to the left, stepped in, feinted, then dodged right and attacked in earnest.