The Blue Dragon: A Claire-Agon Dragon Book (Dragon Series 2)

by Salvador Mercer

  The grandmaster assassin’s tone became a bit more ominous, and Richtor raised his hand to his mouth, opening it and then shutting it just as quickly, hesitating to speak. Finally, despite the silence, the governor finally responded carefully. “Perhaps you are right, Master Azex, but the important fact now is that the Kesh conclave can continue without delay. Will the story hold?”

  Jayrel motioned. “Let me answer that question. My sources inform me that most citizens believe our story of a false alarm. No one saw us removing the bodies near the harbor, and there was nothing amiss at the main barracks for anyone to notice, other than, say, some extra patrols during the day, and we accounted for that by saying our security needed to be improved in light of the many realms’ representatives here. We should be fine.”

  “Will I be able to proceed with the gala tonight?” Richtor asked, and Seth noticed both the guildmaster and his boss roll their eyes. This wasn’t the first time the governor incorrectly assessed a state priority.

  “Your fancy dancing party will be just fine,” Jayrel said mockingly, but the sarcasm was obviously lost on the governor as the man’s face displayed a smile at the news.

  Seth looked at the governor and had a nasty question in his mind. Would the man’s bones sound crunchier since he was thinner than Overseer Jaxon? The question was pleasing to the assassin.

  “What about the nosy historian?” Azex asked calmly. “He’s been poking and prodding around.”

  “That no good busy body?” Richtor said, a frown now replacing his short-lived smile.

  “He knows nothing,” Jayrel said. “My source inside the Ulathan residence has informed us they only heard the alarm. He’s just doing what he does.”

  “Well, he needs to find a new line of work. Shouldn’t he be retired by now?” Richtor asked.

  “He’s officially part of the Tynirian delegation, but he’s Ulathan, so he’s staying with that pompous judge of theirs,” Jayrel replied.

  “I’d not underestimate the man,” Azex said. “He was once one of Ulatha’s fiercest warriors, and he has lost little of his skill with a blade, despite his age,” Azex said, folding his arms across his chest.

  Richtor waved nonchalantly at the assassin leader. “You worry too much, Master Azex. We’ll keep an eye on that delegation for sure.” The emphasis was understood by all.

  “So we are all in agreement, then?” Jayrel asked, looking from man to man and giving Seth a curt, respectful nod, despite the fact that Seth was not officially a leading member of the Balarian bureaucratic trio. “We stick to the story. The guild will take care of propaganda, and the order will enforce security with our overt governmental arm taking lead on maintaining our façade.”

  “Façade?” Richtor said, clearly offended.

  “A poor choice of words, Governor. Perhaps keeping our state secrets would better describe your important duties?”

  “Well, it’s much more than that. You haven’t tried facilitating a trade agreement between a half a dozen baronies, much less two major realms, and then there’s the Kesh, always the Kesh.”

  “You’re sounding underappreciated,” Azex said, looking at Richtor intently.

  “No, no, simply pointing out the many mundane yet necessary duties that befall my branch of our society, of which you two cutthroats seldom appreciate.”

  Seth laughed aloud, and all three leaders stopped their discussion to gawk at him. “What’s so funny?” Jayrel asked.

  Seth stopped laughing and looked at Richtor for a long moment before speaking. “I do believe you’d sound much crunchier than Overseer Jaxon.”

  There was no more discussion after that.

  “So, how was your day today, Master Historian?” Orwell asked as Diamedes returned to the Ulathan rented villa.

  “Fine, nothing special of note, though I dare say there is a bit of speculation in town and not a little excitement for this party the Balarians are throwing. It seems that most of the town is invited by the talk of it,” Diamedes said, moving to a plush chair in the main room after scraping his sandals on the wooden block near the door.

  The justiciar was sitting across a small knee-high table from the historian and gave him a brazen look. “So, did you manage to solve the mystery of the tolling bell?”

  Diamedes chuckled and thanked a servant who quickly brought a glass of wine from the kitchens. “Actually, the rumor going around is that it was a false alarm. All is fine in Balax, and the grand gala will continue unimpeded, or so it would appear.”

  “A false alarm, eh?” the justiciar said, continuing with the intense look at the tired historian. “What will history demonstrate for us, I wonder?”

  Diamedes shook his head and took another sip before talking. It had been a long walk back to the villa. “In Balaria, nothing is as it appears. The only thing one can be certain of is that there is no certainty when dealing with our hosts. Still, despite the rumors, the party will commence at sundown and there seems to be no further issues that I could detect.”

  “All right, but I know you better than that,” Orwell said, finally releasing the smaller man from his intense gaze and allowing himself to also partake of the wine.

  “Do you now?” Diamedes shot back.

  “Well, enough to know you didn’t return empty-handed, so to speak. If you don’t wish to share your information, then by all means, keep it to yourself, but I’m sure you learned something. I’d bet my sword on it.”

  Diamedes knew the man’s sword was precious, and so he took a final sip and sat the glass down. There would be plenty of time for wine later. “There was a barmaid that seems to have a certain fancy on one of the elite guards in the city center. I didn’t find this out till late this afternoon, but she seemed a bit distraught the man didn’t arrive for their rendezvous.”

  “So? What’s so unusual about that? Perhaps he has a mistress or had to work an extra shift,” Orwell said, dismissing the information he had pressed to receive just seconds earlier.

  “I would have thought the same thing, but the man’s closest friend was supposed to have met him for lunch earlier that day and he missed both meetings.” Diamedes turned to arch his brow and give his benefactor the same treatment.

  Orwell smiled now, seeing the game. “All right, Master Diamedes, put the two together for me, then.”

  A smile crossed the historian’s face immediately, delighted to draw his conclusion, though true history was about facts, not speculation. Sometimes, however, one had to speculate to arrive at the truth. “The solder was given leave as a reward for his services. He was one of the survivors from the expedition that killed the dragon. He would not have had other duties, and he was free to attend to both affairs. Furthermore, his two companions who were with him haven’t been seen either, though I could learn little about them.”

  “You suspect something, then?”

  “Not suspect, rather it’s odd that three virtual heroes have suddenly dropped out of sight when they were expected to be at the festivities to celebrate the demise of their ancient foe.”

  “Odd indeed, but nothing conclusive,” Orwell stated, his tone that of a solemn and contemplative justiciar.

  “Spoken in true fashion, but we are in Balaria and they don’t do things as we would. Perhaps you’re right, but add this to the false alarm and I think they are covering something up. No matter, the Kesh meeting has not been canceled, so it can’t be too serious, right?” Diamedes asked.

  “Maybe. Let’s find out more, shall we?” Orwell stood, straightening his tunic and pulling his belt around.

  “How?” Diamedes asked, also standing absentmindedly.

  “Let’s get ready to go to a ball.” Orwell smiled.

  The servant waited till both men had departed to freshen up and take in a change of clothes before he grabbed two empty flasks from a rack on the kitchen wall and walked over to the front gate, holding them somewhat obviously in his hand, both straps wrapped around his arm.

  “Leaving again, Vincent?” the
taller of the two Ulathan guards asked, giving the Balarian servant an observing eye.

  “What can I say, your lordship enjoys his wine,” the man bluffed.

  The guard was about to speak when he closed his mouth, and Vincent noticed the guard was no longer looking at him—no, his eyes broke contact and was looking behind him. Vincent looked at the other guard and noticed the same observation. Slowly he turned to face the tall Ulathan blonde woman who had somehow managed to walk right up behind him in full plate armor.

  “Is there a problem, Fist Madalena?” Vincent said.

  Fist was correct. The etched outline of a closed palm, knuckles facing outward, was etched and inlaid with fine gold on her steel breastplate. Vincent was sure the woman’s armor was worth more than he could make in an entire year. Her hand was resting gently, though Vincent knew that was deceptive with dealing with a Fist of Astor, on the hilt of her long sword, and her other hand was on her hip.

  She stared at Vincent from her helmet’s narrow, rectangular opening that left her eyes and cheeks exposed but covered her entire head and nose, including longer side extensions that came down past her ears to her neck. Perhaps they interfered with her ability to hear him?

  The silence was awkward until the woman finally spoke, Vincent deciding it was better to not make a move at all after already speaking. “What kind of wine will you be procuring?” she asked.

  Vincent stuttered, if only for a second, and then thought of the most expensive wine he could think of. “Aquinian.”

  “Good, secure an extra third flask,” she said, pulling her own from the side of her belt and pushing it into the man’s chest.

  Vincent took her flask, looping the thin leather strap around his elbow, and turned, walking past the guards who opened the gates. He took a deep breath when he was a good ways down the street and, for a moment, was pleased with himself for deceiving the stupid Ulathans till the flask bumped his leg as he walked. It was then that he realized he had been played. Now he had to come up with three flasks of Aquinian wine, and he had no idea how he’d pay for that.

  Chapter 8

  Eiry

  The sun set and the cool easterly breezes wafted both over the spine of the large hill set behind the city and whipped up and around from the southern, flat parts of the Eastern Ocean. There was a fairly large gathering of people as they approached the Balarian compound, but Orwell and his group bypassed them and approached from a side street, following their guide that was provided by the governor and his staff.

  “I see a fair site of security around us,” Orwell said to Diamedes as they walked. Ambassador Toray had actually arrived at their rented villa first and then accompanied them to the governmental complex. The Ulathans saw this as interesting that the man would give up his ride, but Toray simply had said, “Better to be in safe company this night,” and the Ulathans left it at that.

  “Yes, that is to be expected considering how many realms are represented here. If not careful, it would be easy to start a war,” Diamedes said, walking at a much more leisurely pace than when the justiciar had arrived.

  “You know, that may just be one of the most observant things I’ve heard you say, or even read,” Justiciar Orwell said, giving Diamedes a nod of his head and allowing a smile to cross his face.

  Toray jumped into the conversation from next to Diamedes. “You can’t be serious? You think we’re here to start a war?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all, but if you wanted to arrange for one, I mean actually get certain kingdoms to fight other specific realms, then it would seem a gathering like this would suffice rather nicely, don’t you think, Ambassador?” Orwell said.

  “Well, if the parties weren’t diplomatic and cordial, then I could see some offenses getting out of control rather quickly. Still, it was your lord, Duke Uthor, who maneuvered us into this Balarian city. What was his objective in all this?” Toray glanced over to the justiciar as he walked.

  Orwell laughed. “You think Ulatha desires war?”

  “Of course not, but you said that this would be a perfect opportunity to start one,” Toray countered.

  “No, our good historian Diamedes said that. I simply concurred with the man’s assessment.”

  Toray looked flustered, like he was losing at a bad game of chance. “All right, for the record, the historian said this. Still, we wouldn’t be in such a dangerous realm if not for your lord’s refusal to attend the conclave in the first place.”

  “No, we’d all be in the most dangerous place in all of Agon,” Orwell said, his smile gone now.

  “Kesh?” Toray said while Diamedes was struggling to look either way as each man spoke, feeling as if his neck was receiving some kind of torturous workout.

  “None other. I’d rather be here than in Keshtor, wouldn’t you agree?” Orwell said.

  “Have you been to the Kesh capital before?” Toray asked.

  Orwell nodded. “Two times, and there shan’t be a third.”

  “You worry too much. The Kesh citizenry are like most any other realm, and the wizards there keep to themselves most of the time,” Toray said, now looking at the complex’s outer wall and slowing down as they arrived at a side portal.

  “Most of the time,” Orwell said. “The time that they don’t keep to themselves is the part I worry about. Ah, Master Arwell, how are you this evening? Fancy meeting you here.”

  A portly man with large, muscular arms and a torso shaped like a barrel turned around and smiled, reaching out and embracing the justiciar. “You look young as ever, hardly any grey in that hair. You’re aging like a fine wine.”

  Orwell sent his hand through his hair and smiled, looking the other man up and down. “I see your retirement has added a few inches to that beltline of yours.”

  “Nonsense,” Arwell said, patting his belly and returning the smile. “Retirement was good to me; it’s the politicking that really puts on the weight. All these parties, pleasantries, and meetings, good for nothing if you ask me, but I do what I must in service to my lord and liege.

  “Speaking of which, how is Baron Sonrey?” Orwell asked.

  “He’s fine, longer in the tooth, but lost none of his zest for life. How goes Duke Uthor nowadays?”

  “The man is still in his prime, if you ask me, lost none of his lethality with that sword of his and rules with a fair but iron fist. Speaking of fists, have you met my guests? This is Fist Madalena from the Order of Asto; here is the Tynirian historian, Diamedes, and Ambassador Toray.”

  Arwell, reached out and shook their hands, smiling and nodding at each in turn. “So the great Diamedes is here with us this evening, eh?”

  Diamedes was already feeling rather awkward, having had the justiciar insist on his wearing of a silk shirt to go with what he considered ridiculous ballooning pantaloons and new leather laced shoes. He cleared his throat, but Toray spoke first.

  “Indeed, King Akula’s personal historian is recording the events for posterity’s sake.”

  “So I wonder, how will we fare in the annals of history, eh?” Master Arwell said.

  “I wouldn’t worry.” Diamedes gained his composure. “It’s mainly ensuring that any agreements are well documented, especially concerning the parties involved.”

  “He’s referring to the Kesh,” Orwell said, giving the smaller historian a sideways look.

  “Like I said, not the most tactful of ambassadors.” Toray sighed.

  The guide cleared his throat, gaining their attention. “Yes,” Orwell said, “let’s go now. The wine and entertainment are waiting.”

  The party filed past the Balarian guards, through the archway and opened portcullis, and out into the main courtyard of the complex, instantly mingling with many other representatives of various realms and the elite of Balarian society.

  Seth watched the group intently and then quickly motioned across the courtyard at his counterpart, using a subtle hand signal. The other man slowly matched his pace as they wove in and out of the crowd, following
the Ulathan delegation. They were easy to follow; the tall, blonde woman stood a head taller than most anyone there, and her helmeted head was difficult to miss as it glinted light off of its shiny surface. Even in the dark, it would reflect starlight, Seth thought as he paced the group.

  Certain they would not lose the group, Seth looked high above the courtyard at the inner wall which stood twice as high as the outer complex wall, and that wall was a good height to begin with. He could just make out the plumed helmet of Captain Eiry as the man oversaw the elite guards of the Balarian government. He was also watching the various groups, along with his aides, for any signs of unusual activity.

  Seth didn’t scare easily, but when he felt the gentle touch of a small hand on his shoulder, he gave a start, reaching out and grabbing it with lightning-fast reflexes before he ever saw it.

  “Ow, that hurt,” Alyssa said, reaching with her other hand and trying to unclench Seth’s.

  “What are you doing here?” Seth asked, glancing quickly to see if he was still within sight of the Ulathan group.

  “Same as you.” She rubbed her hand. “Jayrel wants extra security in place and . . .”

  “Go on,” Seth demanded.

  “Well, any information we might overhear from our guests,” Alyssa said.

  Seth looked again at the group and pulled Alyssa with him, continuing their casual shadowing of the group. “It makes sense.”

  “What does?” Alyssa asked, walking beside the assassin.

  “For Jayrel to want information. What better time or place than a party with most of the various Agon realms present and no shortage of intoxicating wine? A perfect situation to loosen lips, resolves, and secrets,” Seth said.

  “I’d be more worried of a silent knife in the back at this point,” Alyssa said, finishing her rubbing of her wrist and habitually tapping her dagger’s sheath across her belt.

  “Aren’t we all?” Seth said, moving like a large cat, silent and deadly, through the various people that were congregating around a large podium in the center of the courtyard.