The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  On his own again now, Zarien was very hungry. Despite their taste for cooked flesh, the mountain rebels enjoyed good food. It was plentiful, too. Tansen had explained this was because Josarian had convinced Silerians to stop letting the Valdani take most of it. Now Zarien missed the food at Dalishar. He didn't enjoy returning to a diet of hastily-gathered wild things.

  Sister Rahilar's treatment had helped his feet, but by sunset of his second full day in pursuit of Tansen, they hurt like all the Fires. He was pleased that some of the blisters had become calluses, but very sorry that some of the sores were worse than ever. He was also pleased that the stahra now led him on an ever-descending trail into a lush, wooded valley. This was easier on his abused body than those high mountain trails which the shallaheen scrambled over as if pushed by a good wind in calm waters.

  However, at least the other minor pains he'd acquired during his sojourn on the dryland were improving. The blisters on his burned hand, acquired while retrieving the stahra from the Guardians' fire, were withering now. The cold burning sensation caused by Najdan's shir pressed against his throat was fading.

  Drylanders.

  It was no wonder, he thought, that the Lascari chose, long ago, to become sea-bound.

  He approached a thick grove of olive trees, thinking perhaps it was time to stop for the evening. The tortured twisting of the trees' ancient branches looked eerie in the dim light of the dramatic sunset; but he could tell that there was water in the grove, and he was both thirsty and sticky from the day's exertion. He brushed past a gnarled tree with dull green leaves and considered how pleasant it would be to bathe his stinging feet in the cool—

  "Umph!" He grunted in surprise as the stahra suddenly leapt out of his hand.

  Zarien's eyes flew wide and a gasp caught in his throat when the weapon leaped towards an assassin who appeared out of nowhere, his dark face fierce, his two yahr swinging—

  "Galian?" Zarien said in surprise.

  Impervious to Galian's blows, the stahra slapped the black-clad shallah so hard he fell down and lay there without moving.

  "Zarien?"

  He heard Tansen's incredulous voice and whirled to face him. Like Galian, Tansen was wearing the black clothes and red jashar of an assassin. He looked sleek and deadly. The surprised expression on his face changed to an angry scowl. Zarien suddenly realized he should have prepared in advance for this moment. Smooth explanations would clearly be needed to appease Tansen. Instead, Zarien's mouth just worked silently as he glanced from Tansen, to the now quiescent stahra, to Galian—whose prone body was alarmingly still—back to Tansen.

  "Um..."

  Tansen looked at the stahra, then back at Zarien. "So now you know?"

  "Yes. You knew. I didn't understand... when you... I... " His voice sounded thin and breathless in his own ears. "I..."

  "What in the Fires are you doing here?" Tansen demanded sharply.

  Zarien pointed at Galian. "Is he all right?"

  Radyan now appeared, as did three other men. All clad in black, two of them wearing the other two red jashareen Tansen had taken from the assassins he'd slain on the path to Dalishar. Radyan bent over Galian's body and spoke his name. He was answered by a groan.

  Radyan looked up. "Just stunned."

  "Why are you all disguised as assassins?" Zarien asked.

  "Ohhhh." Galian opened his eyes and put a hand to his face. "What happened?"

  "Counter attack," Radyan said. "By an oar."

  "An oar?" Galian repeated, trying to lift his head.

  "Never happened before?" Radyan asked. "No oar wars in your clan's past?"

  "An oar?" Galian repeated. With Radyan's help, he succeeded in lifting his head. "Zarien?"

  "And Zarien's oar," Radyan said.

  "It's a stahra," Zarien said, uneasy with the extremely displeased way Tansen was looking at him.

  "It protects the boy," Tansen explained.

  "Does that mean we can't kill him?" Galian asked with a disappointed glower.

  "I didn't make it hit you," Zarien insisted.

  "I suppose it just did that by itself," Galian snapped.

  "It did!"

  "Wish I had one of those," Radyan murmured.

  "He's telling the truth," Tansen said.

  "You see?" Zarien said to the others.

  "He's also," Tansen continued, "in so much trouble, I don't think even that stahra is going to be able to protect him."

  "Now wait a moment," Zarien said, alarmed.

  Tansen took his arm in a grip of steel and said to the others, "Would you excuse us?"

  "I had to follow you!" Zarien protested as Tansen dragged him away with more haste than dignity.

  "What did I tell you?" Tansen snapped. "Didn't I tell you to stay at—"

  "Well, Sharifar told me differently. I am to stay close to you," Zarien argued, tripping as Tansen tugged him through the trees and beyond the hearing of the others.

  "Oh, for the love of Dar." Tansen released his arm and faced him, his expression radiating exasperation. "I evidently haven't made this clear enough yet: For your own safety, you are to do exactly as I tell you at all times."

  The cold fury in Tansen's voice upset him. "It is the will of the goddess that I—"

  "No matter what."

  "—follow you now!"

  "You have no business disobeying my orders!"

  "She told me so in that—that—" He made a vague gesture.

  "Do you think I give you orders for the pleasure of hearing myself talk?"

  "—that strange fire in the cave."

  "Do you think I'm being whimsical when I tell you to wait for me in safety?" Tansen demanded.

  "The fire that your friends say is sacred."

  "Do you think you have the right to risk my men's safety the way you just did?"

  "Ask Mirabar if you don't believe me!" Zarien said defensively.

  "What do you suppose the people at Dalishar are doing right now? What if they have to neglect their duties to go in search of you?"

  "Ask Cheylan. They saw it, too. They were there. Ask them, if you don't believe me!"

  "I believe you." Tansen looked up at the darkening sky. "I believe you," he repeated, evidently trying to master his temper.

  "Then why can't I—"

  "Because what we're about to do is very dangerous."

  "I don't mean to—"

  "And we're in territory ruled by an enemy."

  "—fight assassins. I just want to—"

  "Do you know what that means?" Tansen prodded.

  "—stay close to..." Zarien paused. "Um. I'm not sure. What does that mean?"

  "Waterlords are not like other men," Tansen said.

  "I know that, but—"

  "I couldn't protect Josarian from Kiloran."

  "Surely if I—"

  "And I doubt I can protect you from Wyldon."

  "Who?"

  "The waterlord we've come to... harass." Tansen nodded in the direction of the colorfully streaked sunset. "He lives a short trek that way." He added significantly, "At our pace, not yours."

  "I'm getting faster," Zarien said. "I caught up to you, didn't I?"

  "We stopped today to ambush some of Wyldon's assassins."

  "Oh." Zarien was relieved he hadn't stumbled across the bodies. "I guess you didn't fight them right there on the path this time."

  "No, we were obliged to deviate," Tansen said with a touch of sarcasm.

  "I'll keep up w—"

  "Wyldon is a waterlord. A sorcerer. Much less powerful than Kiloran, true, but still not the sort of opponent I was trained to face. Not someone I can protect y—"

  "Then maybe you shouldn't be here, either," Zarien said, suddenly worried.

  "It's necessary."

  "You can come back later," he urged. "Who knows what power Sharifar might grant you in her embrace, what protec—"

  "This has to be done now, Zarien." Tansen sighed and looked at the ground. "How did you track us, anyhow?"

&n
bsp; "The stahra led me."

  Tansen's head jerked up and a look of surprise washed across his face. "I see."

  "Can you understand?" Zarien asked eagerly. "Can you accept your—"

  "I can accept," Tansen said slowly, "that I'm evidently obliged to keep you with me for the time being."

  Frustration boiled over in Zarien's blood. "Why are you so unwilling to—"

  "And I suppose I'll have to count on that stahra to protect you when I can't." Tansen frowned as he added, "If Sharifar's weapon is a match for a waterlord."

  Zarien considered this, then looked over his shoulder to where the others awaited them. "Perhaps I should not leave it lying on the ground."

  "Perhaps not." Tansen's voice was dry.

  Zarien eyed him suspiciously. "And you will not try to leave me behind again?"

  "No, I won't leave you behind again." Tansen added wryly, "I've learned that it's more trouble than it's worth."

  "Please, siran, a gift, a gift, spare me a gift." The beggar didn't look much older than Armian, but he was worn down by life. Dirty and smelly, with red-rimmed rheumy eyes and rotting teeth, he was also more persistent than a Valdani priest of the Three collecting tribute goats. "A gift, siran, if you please."

  "A gift?" Armian repeated, brushing past the beggar and proceeding through the streets of Shaljir.

  "Money," Tansen clarified to Armian as the beggar followed them, encouraged by Armian's having noticed him.

  "Money? Then why doesn't he just say so?" Armian said.

  Tansen shrugged. "It's good manners to say 'gift' instead." He said to the beggar, "Go away. We have nothing for you."

  "A gift, a gift," the beggar demanded. "Give me something!"

  Tansen shrugged off the dirty hand that tugged at his arm. Valdani-ruled Sileria was full of beggars. Tansen had always accepted this as normal, but he learning differently from Torena Elelar. She insisted that Valdani laws were responsible for the homeless, starving beggars crowding the streets of every city and wandering the roads of every district.

  He'd asked Armian if he thought Elelar was right when she said that someday things would be different. Armian doubted it. A few men were born to wield power, the rest were born to obey them, and some were born to scramble for scraps. That, Armian said, was the way of the world.

  "Give me something!" the beggar demanded again, following Tansen and Armian.

  Tansen ignored him.

  "You who have so much—you will offer nothing?" the beggar cried, attracting attention with his loud voice. "You are sheep molesters! You are dung-eaters!"

  Now Armian turned to stare at him.

  "A gift!" the beggar insisted.

  "I will only say this once." Armian's voice was calm, even pleasant, but Tansen felt a chill of tension creep through him. "The boy told you that we have nothing for you. Now do as he says, and go away."

  "Go," Tansen urged. His heart was starting to pound.

  To speak to a beggar, to acknowledge a beggar and engage him in conversation... It was encouragement. Tansen should have known better. He should explain this to Armian now.

  The beggar put his hand on Armian's sleeve, crumpling the material in his fist. "A gift, and I will go," he promised, breathing into Armian's face.

  Armian looked down at the hand on his arm.

  No one else noticed. Not a soul in the street seemed alarmed. No one but Tansen realized what would happen now.

  "No," Tansen said, dread flooding him. He started forward. Too late.

  In a flurry of movement so fast Tansen could scarcely follow it, Armian clapped his hand over the man's fist, trapping it, then sharply rolled the edge of his forearm down into the beggar's wrist, driving him to his knees with a cry of pain.

  The beggar lashed out, ineffectually flailing at Armian with his free hand.

  "Father, don't!" Tansen blurted.

  Armian grabbed the beggar by the hair, let go of his hand, and seized his chin. With one sharp, experienced twist, he broke the man's neck.

  A woman shrieked as the corpse fell to the ground.

  Tansen stared stupidly at the lifeless body. His heart raged as if it were on fire. His breath sounded like wind gusting through a mountain pass.

  Dar help me! Dar shield me. Dar...

  He felt a hand on his arm, dragging him away from the sight. He heard Armian's curses ringing in his ears.

  "Come on," Armian urged him through gritted teeth.

  "Wh—what?"

  Tansen looked up in a daze, stumbling as Armian dragged him through the crowded street. He saw Valdani faces everywhere. That was bad, he knew. Unlike Silerians, Valdani would tell the Outlookers what they had seen.

  "They'll be looking for you," he murmured, his mind still locked on the vision of the beggar lying dead in the street.

  "Who?" Armian asked, still hauling him along.

  "The Outlookers. They'll hunt for you."

  "Because one Silerian killed another?" Armian gave him an amused look. "I doubt it."

  Wyldon the waterlord was notoriously bad-tempered. He'd been known to kill men for smiling the wrong way or for interrupting him once too often. Excessively skinny due to bad health, he'd been heard grumbling more than once that Kiloran, though twenty years older, was just waiting for him to die so he could increase his power by taking over Wyldon's territory.

  Tansen figured that if anyone could be driven to disrupt the Society with swift, rabid, unreasoning fury, it was Wyldon.

  Now, in the middle of the night, Tansen addressed his men. Their faces, like his, were blackened with soot. The moons overhead, both on the wane now, were eerily red, lending no charm to the occasion. The men were attacking Wyldon's stronghold tonight, and timing was crucial. The ambush must be swift, and they must be well out of Wyldon's reach by dawn.

  Tansen went over their objectives one last time. "I must kill an assassin with one of Kiloran's shir and leave it behind as evidence," he said. "The rest of you give them a good battle and then get away fast. Even if you can, don't kill them all. We want a few of them left alive to talk about how Kiloran's assassins ambushed them at Wyldon's very door." He paused and added, "Above all, don't let them kill you."

  He hadn't allowed Lann or Yorin to accompany him here because Lann's immense size and bushy beard, like Yorin's scarred one-eyed face, were too distinctive. If one of Wyldon's assassins saw them up close and survived to describe them, someone might soon realize that the attack had been a ruse by Josarian's loyalists. The five men who'd come here with Tansen tonight were, like him, fairly average in size and appearance. The brand on Tansen's chest was his only distinguishing feature, and it was covered now by his black tunic. He was leaving his two swords, as notorious as his Kintish scar, in Zarien's care for the duration of the attack.

  There were six assassins Kiloran couldn't account for, since Mirabar had burned their bodies on Mount Dalishar. Now six assassins, apparently Kiloran's, would be witnessed harassing another waterlord. Tansen and his men had already ambushed and killed four of Wyldon's assassins, prior to encountering Zarien, and they made sure that some local shallaheen saw them in the area, so Wyldon was bound to hear about it. The waterlords enforced lirtahar, the law of silence, but they expected the people dependent on them for water and goodwill to tell them everything that happened in their territories.

  "And if we see Wyldon himself?" Radyan asked.

  "Retreat immediately," Tansen replied. "We're not here to kill him or be killed by him. We just need to make sure he wants to kill Kiloran."

  He ensured that everyone knew the positions they were to take in anticipation of his signal, then sent them off into the darkness. Then he turned to Zarien and said, "And you are going to stay here, exactly as ordered. Right?"

  "Yes, Tansen."

  "And what will happen if you don't?" he prompted.

  Zarien heaved a sigh and replied, "You'll kill me yourself." They had gone over this before. More than once.

  "Good. I'm glad we've got that cle
ar at last."

  Tansen glanced at the metal-tipped oar in Zarien's hand. The stahra had led the boy to him after he'd left him behind at Dalishar, and Tansen had learned by now that some things were better quickly accepted than long resisted. He knew it frustrated Zarien that he didn't agree this meant he was Sharifar's mate, let alone that he should abandon his responsibilities and go to sea. He was, however, convinced that it meant he must protect the boy and keep him close for the time being. Inconvenient, but evidently inescapable. As for the possibility that he might be the sea king... He shook off the thought, knowing that tonight he must focus on the task at hand.

  When Tansen turned to go, Zarien forestalled him by saying, "I would appreciate it..."

  He paused. "Yes?"

  "... if you wouldn't get yourself killed."

  He smiled at the boy's irritable tone. "I'll do my best."

  Armian was wrong. The Outlookers might not care that one Silerian had killed another, but they minded very much—as did their citizens—that a Silerian had committed a violent murder in the streets of Shaljir, surrounded by hundreds of Valdani.

  "They think you might just as easily have lost your temper with a Valdan," Elelar explained to the assassin that evening. "So they're determined to arrest and execute you, lest you break one of their own people's necks next time." She arched a delicate brow and added coldly, "They also feel that Silerians killing each other in their mountain villages, which the Outlookers readily overlook, is a different thing altogether than doing it in the streets of Shaljir right in front of Valdani women and children."

  Armian shrugged in the dim light of the inn where they were still staying. "Then let's leave Shaljir. I'm tired of all this waiting."

  Tansen saw the young torena's jaw work briefly before she said, "They've locked all the city gates and are searching high and low for you. The Outlookers don't know who you are—ironically—so no Silerian can get out of the city until they've found the one who committed today's murder." She made an exasperated sound. "Do you understand how serious this is?"

  Armian's expression was forbidding. "I suggest you find a solution, torena. If, that is, you're at all interested in securing Sileria's freedom."