Arlian had noticed that Lord Rolinor's coat was cut differently from his own, with sharply tapered lapels—was that the latest style, or merely an individual affectation?
Arlian did not like being out of touch with events. Styles were not important in themselves, but what else might he be missing? Was the Duke of Manfort steadfast in his support for the war against the dragons? Might the Dragon Society's careful lies have undermined his determination, or fourteen years of war sapped his courage? Was Lord Rolinor typical of the attitudes of the younger nobility? If the Duke's support was to weaken or vanish, the campaign to exterminate the dragons might never reach a successful conclusion.
The remaining forty-six dragons, or whatever the actual number might be, could wait until next winter, or subsequent winters, to die.
Arlian had had enough for this season. He resolved to spread the word this evening, as soon as he had eaten—they would break camp first thing in the morning, as expected, but not to travel farther into the northern wilderness. Instead he and his soldiers and sorcerers would be marching back to the Duke's Citadel in Manfort, and the camp followers, whether servants, whores, beggars, or entrepreneurs, would be turned out to find their own way home.
He would return to Manfort, report his progress to the Duke, and then pay a call on Lady Rime to discuss his future.
He looked up as Black reappeared at the flap, supper in hand. Arlian rose and took the platter, glanced at the unappetizing slices of boiled salt beef, and remarked, "At least it's warm."
4
A Bird in the Hand
Arlian came awake suddenly, muscles tensed, but did not move
beyond a slight twitch. He lay on one side on his cot, wrapped in blankets, as he opened his eyes carefully and peered into the cold darkness, trying to make out what had awakened him.
The last carefully banked coals of the evening's fire still glowed on the crude stone hearth, and the distant glow of the sentry's lanterns seeped through the tent's canvas, so the darkness was not absolute; Arlian could see the slim figure standing at the tent's entry flap. Arlian realized that he had awakened because he had heard the flap opening, and had heard a footstep.
That was not Black, come to carry out some late-night errand; Black was twice the size of this person. The intruder lowered the flap and looked around, and as she turned, revealing her outline in silhouette, Arlian was left in no doubt that this was a woman, and one not dressed suitably for the wintry weather.
That was interesting. She could hardly have any legitimate business slipping into his pavilion in the middle of the night, but that did not mean her intent was hostile. Arlian did not consider himself a great beauty, but he knew many women found him attractive, and of course he was wealthy and powerful, and had the unnatural charisma of the heart of the dragon—the possibility that she had come seeking a harmless tryst did exist.
Also, in recent years a superstition had arisen that a dragonhearts seed conveyed longevity, that the life-giving potency that could no longer engender children had been transformed rather than destroyed.
Arlian did not think there was any truth to the rumor, certainly members of the Dragon Society who had married ordinary mortals had always outlived them, and he could not recall any mention of extended lifespan among those spouses. Still, the belief persisted in some quarters, and some women therefore sought out dragonhearts as lovers.
On the other hand, most of the people sneaking into his tent or bedroom at night over the past several years had been would-be assassins sent by the Dragon Society.
His sword and two lesser blades were hanging from the pavilion's frame just a foot or so above him, but he was facing the wrong way and was too wrapped in his blankets to grab them quickly. He began easing his right hand upward, out of the bedclothes, as he watched the intruder.
She seemed unsure of herself—or perhaps she simply could not see much in the gloomy interior of the tent. She stood by the entrance, hands slightly raised from her sides, and stared into the darkness for a long moment. Then she apparently found her bearings, and moved slowly forward, circling around the table and chairs in the center of the pavilion.
He could see that her hands were empty; that was reassuring. Most assassins, especially the sort of amateur most tempted by the Dragon Society's offers, would be brandishing daggers or winding garrotes by this point. The exceptionally stupid might be uncorking poisons, unaware that dragonhearts were immune to virtually all natural toxins.
This woman, whoever she was, had her hands raised, fingers spread, as if to help her balance. If she was an assassin, she was a subtle one.
Whoever she was, she was also either cold or nervous—he could see that she was trembling.
By the time she reached the side of the cot Arlian had both his hands out of the entangling blankets, ready to grab for either the woman or a weapon, but had not otherwise moved.
"Lord Obsidian?" she said, in a nervous, high-pitched whisper. "Are you awake?"
Arlian sighed, and rolled over on his back, no longer feigning sleep.
"What is it?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Wren," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord, but I wondered whether I might sleep here tonight"
Arlian considered that, and as he did he reached up, without looking, and closed his hand on the first hilt his fingers encountered.
Watching the woman as best he could in the darkness, he drew the blade and sat up, aware by the feel that he held his swordbreaker—probably the most practical weapon in this situation, really. The swordbreaker was a heavy knife with a leather-wrapped hilt and a blade slightly over a foot in length; the crosspiece between hilt and blade was curved into a U, its two arms paralleling the blade for almost half its length and ending in sharp points, giving the overall weapon almost the shape of a three-tined fork. It was designed to be held in the left hand when dueling, where it could be used to stab, to parry, or to catch the blade of an opponent's sword. With luck and skill a sword could be trapped between the swordbreaker's blade and one of the side pieces, and a twist of the wrist would then snap it off short—or at the very least, bend it into uselessness.
This woman had no sword to break, but the swordbreaker was
handier in confined spaces than the sword, and less likely to chip or shatter than the brittle obsidian dagger.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Wren. I'm . . . I . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Arlian adjusted his grip on the swordbreaker, making sure she had seen it.
"Lord Rolinor threw me out," she said, on the verge of tears. "And I can't go to any of the other tents, because they . . . they would want to share, and I don't . . . I thought you . . ."
She did not need to complete her explanation; Arlian understood.
Of the hundred men in camp, only three slept alone—himself and Lord Rolinor in their respective pavilions, and Black in Arlian's personal wagon. This woman clearly had only one form of payment to offer for lodging, and did not care to degrade herself further by compensating multiple landlords; Rolinor had evicted her, Black was a married man of uncertain temperament, and that left Arlian as her best prospect to avoid freezing to death in the open.
One important question remained, however. "Why did Rolinor send you away?" he asked. "Surely, if he had simply wearied of you, he would allow you to stay until morning."
" I . . . He was in a foul temper tonight, my lord. I don't know why.
It seemed to worsen when we heard that you would be returning to Manfort, rather than continuing northward."
"Hmm." That was interesting. While the reason for his initial ill temper was obvious, why would it worsen? Had Rolinor perhaps hoped to fill another bottle of venom, and been disappointed to learn he would not have a chance to do so?
Or had he taken the change in plans as an indication that Arlian did not trust him?
"I tried to cheer him," Wren said, "but it didn't help. He was . . . It didn't help. It ju
st made things worse." That required no further explanation. "I just want somewhere to sleep, my lord—I will not trouble you." Her voice dropped in pitch as she added, "Though of course, if there is anything I can do to please you, I will be happy to oblige."
"That won't be necessary," Arlian replied. He might have been tempted under other circumstances, but the day had been long and wearisome, and he wanted to be alert when breaking camp in the morning. Keeping the swordbreaker ready, he used his other hand to pull two of the blankets from his wrappings and toss them to the woman.
"Here," he said. "You can sleep in one of the chairs, and leave in the morning. You're from Crackstone, I believe?"
"Yes, my lord," she said, catching the blankets.
"Then you can go home tomorrow, and find a better way to earn your keep."
"Thank you, my lord," she said, but her gratitude did not sound especially sincere.
He watched as she settled into one of the camp chairs, wrapping the blankets around herself, and then allowed himself to sleep again. He kept the swordbreaker tucked at his side, however, rather than returning it to its sheath.
And then he awoke again at the sound of footsteps on the frozen ground, and turned to see that Wren had risen from her chair and was approaching him.
"Lord Obsidian?" she said.
Arlian did not immediately reply. He listened to her voice, considering her pronunciation of his name.
"My lord?" she asked again.
"Yes?"
"It's so cold—I can't keep warm in that chair, or on the ground.
Can't I sleep on the bed with you?"
"No," he said flatly.
She stopped a pace away, but pleaded, "Oh, please, my lord—it's so cold!"
Up to that point he had been perfectly willing to give her the benefit of any doubt, and to accept her story as genuine, but now his suspicions were aroused once more. The night was cold, but not so bitter as that; an ordinary camp follower would not press her case—and then there was her accent, which did not seem to be quite that of the region in which they found themselves. Rather, she seemed to be imitating the local accent.
"It would do you no good to cuddle with me," he said. "I am no warmer than the night air. Did you not know that dragonhearts are as cold-blooded as the dragons themselves?"
"No, they . . ." she began, startled. Then she stopped. "I never heard that," she said warily.
"And how would you know anything of dragonhearts?" he asked.
"Just . . . well, people talk."
"Yes, of course they do." He sat up, the swordbreaker in his hand again. "Fetch the lantern," he said, pointing at the lamp hanging from a hook on one of the pavilion's supports. "Light it from the coals on the hearth."
Uncertainly, Wren obeyed, and returned a moment later with the lantern aglow. Arlian finally got a decent look at her face, and saw that yes, this was the woman who had been living in Rolinor's tent; that much of her story was true.
"Take off your clothes," he said.
"But it's so cold!" she protested.
"I want to see what I am offered," Arlian replied.
"I would be happy to lift my skirts, my lord, but . . ."
"Take them off."
"But . . ."
"Mistress, you may either remove your clothing or remove yourself from my tent; the choice is yours."
Wren hesitated, then reluctantly cast aside the blankets and began to unbutton her coat. Arlian watched with unfeigned interest.
Beneath the inadequate fleece-lined coat she wore a green dress with an elaborate bodice trimmed with gold cord; when she turned to drape the coat across a chair he saw that the bodice laced up the back.
She reached behind to untie the laces while still facing away from him.
"Turn around," he said.
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"Turn around," he repeated.
"But the laces . . ."
"I don't want to see the laces," he said. "Face me."
Reluctantly, she obeyed, and faced him, her head down as she
reached back to loosen the laces. He studied her closely.
"Stop," he said. "Stand up straight."
She sighed, and obeyed—and as Arlian had expected, a gold ornament at the base of her loosened bodice slipped down, revealing itself to be the hilt of a stiletto.
"Raise your arms," he said, as he rose from the cot and stepped forward, the swordbreaker at the ready. She obeyed, dislodging the concealed blade further; Arlian reached out and plucked it from its sheath, and looked it over while never taking his attention entirely off his guest.
The stiletto's narrow blade was six or seven inches long, ending in a needle-sharp point; the golden hilt was roughly teardrop-shaped and had hung just above Wren's navel, where she could have easily reached it while lying on her back.
"I need to be able to defend myself!" Wren said.
"Perhaps you do," Arlian said. "Perhaps you are indeed merely a girl from Crackstone who happens to own so elaborate a dress and concealed weapon, yet who chooses to become a camp follower; a girl who feels the need to defend herself by such means, yet tries to talk her way into my bed; a girl who does not give her true name, a whore reluctant to disrobe. We are funny creatures, we human beings, and it is indeed possible that you are just what you claim to be." He sighed, and raised the point of the swordbreaker to her throat. "On the other hand, I think it rather more likely that you are a would-be assassin, hoping to collect the bounty the Dragon Society has placed on my head and gain a thousand-year life expectancy. I think that you sought to gain my trust in order to get into my bed while I was unarmed, where you could draw this blade and thrust it into my heart before I would have time to react.
You have undoubtedly heard how difficult it is to simply catch me unawares, as several of your predecessors discovered, and rather than try to stab me in my sleep you hoped to disarm my suspicions and render me vulnerable to your assault."
"I . . . I would never . . . " She stared down at the hand holding the swordbreaker, and tried to back away, but collided with a chair. Arlian stepped forward, keeping the blade at her throat.
"I further suspect, young lady, that you have been cozening Lord Rolinor, and that you were partially responsible for his near-fatal lapse in common sense in the cavern today—perhaps you thought there might be an easier way to obtain the elixir than through killing me.
When you learned that Rolinor had failed in his attempt, and furthermore that we would not be providing another opportunity this season, you decided to kill me after all."
"No!" she shrieked. "I don't know what you're talking about!" Her false accent had vanished, though he could not immediately place her natural tones.
"Perhaps, as I said, you genuinely do not. There may be a simple enough way to determine whether you are a liar, young woman; in the morning we will be leaving this camp and proceeding to Crackstone, which you have said is your hometown. We should be there the following evening, if the weather holds, and we can then inquire of your friends and family, and if you have told the truth return you to their care. If you are not from Crackstone, then we must assume you are indeed an assassin. Now, if you cooperate, I might show mercy—Lord Rolinor will have told you that I sometimes do. If you force us to drag you to Crackstone in chains and pointlessly interrogate the townspeople there, then I'm afraid our resentment will impel us to execute you, and your head will adorn the pike at the rear of my wagon—the skull there at present has had its day."
At that she broke down in tears. The jerking of her head as she sobbed drove the tip of the swordbreaker into the skin of her neck, leaving a shallow scratch, but Arlian held the blade unwaveringly in place.
Arlian waited, and at last she regained sufficient control to say,
"Please don't kill me, my lord. Please, I'll do anything."
"Simply tell me the truth, and we shall see whether your death is necessary."
"I'm not from Crackstone," she said. "No o
ne there knows me. But I'm not an assassin, I swear it! I've never killed anyone."
"I was to be the first, then?"
"Not originally," she said. "I wasn't sent to kill you, but I . . . " She stopped and swallowed, the motion catching the skin of her throat against the point of Arlian's blade. "I didn't want to hurt you," she said, staring helplessly up at him.
"Tell me about it," he said gently. "Tell me the whole tale."
She swallowed again, struggled to compose herself, then said, "I'm from Siribel. I was at the market in Sarkan-Mendoth when the news came."
Arlian's lips tightened. Siribel was a coastal town the dragons had destroyed two summers back, when the town elders chose to side with the Duke of Manfort against the Dragon Society. Black's wife, Brook, had been born in Siribel—and that might mean she would be able to verify the accuracy, or lack thereof, of Wren's story, should it prove necessary.
The lilt of the coastal dialect was in Wren's speech, though.
"My whole family was dead," she continued. "I had no one to help me, no one to keep the slavers from taking me, so I went to Lord Shatter to beg his protection. I tried to shame him, saying the attack on Siribel was his responsibility."
Arlian smothered a derisive snort. "Shatter has never been one to live up to his responsibilities."
"He saved me, though. He took me in and fed me and hired me as a spy. He sent me here, to watch you, and to send word of your intended route. I could not catch your eye, so I seduced Lord Rolinor and coaxed your plans from him, and then reported them to one of Lord Shatter's messengers—but then tonight, when you changed them and said we would turn back to Crackstone . . . well, I had instructions for such an eventuality, and the dress and knife Lady Pulzera had given me."
"So there is an ambush waiting for us on the road north."
"I don't know. Not for certain."
"But you have no reason to think otherwise."
"No. I . . . There is a phrase I was taught. If bandits struck at us, I was to call out to Fate and the dead gods, and I would be spared."
Arlian nodded. "And if my forces prevailed, we would not have recognized that as anything out of place. So an ambush was planned. And what else? What of your connection with Lord Rolinor?"
Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) Page 4
