“He says they would like to give me better accommodation, something more spacious and better suited to a person of my standing. He will take me to meet the commander in the morning.”
She waited, still not capable of forming a question. I had a few of my own, though.
“Ask him what the commander will do to you.”
Another back and forth. “He says that is for the commander to decide, but they mean me no harm. They have the greatest respect for sorcery.”
And that was probably true enough. Who wouldn’t be respectful towards someone who can create flames in her hand and bend metal with her mind?
I nodded. “Very well. But tell him that I must come with you.”
Zarin rushed across to my side. “I am her tutor. I should go with her, too. And the Lath.”
Dragon’s teeth, was there no getting rid of the old parasite? I bit back the argument that rose to my lips. “Very well. Will you explain that to them, Drusinaar? All three of us are to go with you.”
The tassel man eyed us up and down, no doubt taking in our torn and filthy clothes, unkempt beards and bare feet. I could only hope that he recognised the quality of the clothing beneath the layers of grime. After a few moments, he nodded, a gesture that needed no translation, and we were shepherded out of the door, past the astonished faces of the other prisoners. Or maybe it was fear I saw in them? Not envy, anyway.
They took us down endless corridors, up some bare stone stairs and across a yard lit by lamps still tossed about by the wind. The storm had passed over, though, and a few stars peeked out between the clouds. Into another, lower building, and through a door to a small sitting room. Other doors led to bedrooms, a bathing room, a kitchen and store rooms. The furnishings were plain but serviceable. A guest suite, probably, for unimportant visitors.
Tassel man said something to Drusinaar.
“He says we may make ourselves comfortable. He asks if there is anything we require.”
“A hot meal,” I said at once. “Something with meat or fish. Wine, if he can manage it. And if he wants my eternal gratitude, hot water, clean clothes and a barber.”
The translation, which I guessed was literal to the word, brought the first glimmer of a smile to the man’s face, softening his harsh features.
“He says the hot water is available by turning valves in the washing room. He says he will arrange everything else.”
And so he did. With a few barked commands to his juniors, a horde of men arrived to attend to our needs, bringing an assortment of clothes of pleasingly sumptuous materials, trays of meat and cheese and fruit, pots of stew and a man with comb and scissors and a shaving blade. It was glorious. Washed and changed and fed, beard trimmed, and with a glass of wine in my hand, I felt like a new man.
When we were eventually alone again, I checked all the windows and doors and confirmed that, even though we weren’t locked in any more, there were even more guards waiting outside in case we had any thought of escape. The odds were still against us. No help for it but to wait for the commander and see what came of that. But at least now we could talk to these people.
I said to Drusinaar, “So what was that language you spoke to the important man?”
“Rin-dryar. Derived from High Mesanthian, with elements of western Brianese and Mursh’atar. Some otherwise unexplained aspects are believed to descend from one of the secret Tre’annatha languages.”
“And you learnt that from books? At the Keep?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s good to know that all that book-learning has a use. Could you pour me a little more wine?”
The dawn light was seeping into our new quarters, but we had proper beds to sleep in at last, and full bellies.
“We should make the most of it,” Zarin said. “It could be hours before we can see this commander person.”
“And he’s in his bed, no doubt,” I said. “Sensible man. Presumably the world will end if he has to be dragged from the arms of his luscious wife before the appointed hour for rising.”
“You are cynical, Garrett,” Zarin said wearily.
“He is frivolous,” the priest said reprovingly. “This is a serious matter.”
“By the Nine, I thought a dragon had eaten your tongue,” I said. “Don’t feel obliged to talk on my account, you know. I don’t mind a bit if you stay silent.”
“And rude,” the priest added.
I just laughed. He was right, it was a serious matter, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. We went to bed, Zarin and the priest in one room, and Drusinaar and I in the other, and slept away the morning. At least that way I didn’t have any time to wonder whether I’d done a very stupid thing in loosing Drusinaar.
~~~~~
I’ve no idea what time it was when we were shaken awake by anxious-faced juniors, chattering incomprehensibly.
“They say the commander awaits us,” Drusinaar said.
“The commander can await a little longer,” I said. “A man needs a piss when he wakes up.”
Zarin rolled his eyes, and the priest muttered, “So crude!” under his breath. But they followed me to the carsi all the same.
When we got back to the sitting room, the minions had whistled up some kind of hot drink for us, which was surprisingly civilised of them. It was bitter stuff, but it would have been rude to refuse. They smiled and nodded as we drank, although they muttered to each other in seeming agitation.
When we were ready, we followed them out of the sitting room. I took the opportunity to grab a chunk of bread, making Zarin roll his eyes again.
I’d put back on my armoured leather jerkin, since I’d have felt naked without it, but underneath it, my new clothes were expensively comfortable. A woollen tunic, its long skirts heavy round my thighs as I walked, sat over a fine linen shirt, and the trousers were the softest doeskin. I still missed my boots, though. The elegantly embroidered slippers were not my style at all. Zarin was dressed like a rich merchant, and the priest looked almost normal. Drusinaar had put on clean underthings and a gown, but she still wore her wrap, with its many useful folds. Not quite as many as when Shakara had fussed over her, but Drusinaar had long since found a simpler way of tying it that she could manage herself.
Outside, the man with the tassels joined our escort, which was depressingly large. Too large for me to have any thought of making a run for it, despite our lack of shackles. But these were not the regular guards from the prison room. I’d spent enough time around military outfits to recognise that all the uniforms were immaculate, and the lines of men marched perfectly in step. The most presentable men. There was a tension in the air, too, even in tassel man. Visiting the commander was not something to be taken lightly, then.
We crossed the courtyard, filled with washing on lines now, its drab grey walls enlivened by pots on window sills bursting with flowers in vivid yellow, all perfectly matched in height, standing to attention like so many tiny soldiers. Then through a narrow passage between buildings to another, grander, courtyard, filled with statues and fountains and carefully arranged bushes with creamy coloured flowers. Here the buildings were of a more tasteful pink stone, and the pots lining paths and doors displayed green shrubs trimmed into perfectly symmetrical spheres.
We were marched up wide stone steps, and in through an arched door to a wide hall, crowded with a multitude of uniforms scurrying importantly about, who fell back with respectful bows at our approach. Then up sweeping, curved stairs of white marble with a strip of thick carpet on every step, which muted even the tassel man’s iron-rimmed boots. Up again, the bustle from below dropping away as we rose into quietness, the clink of sword loops and rustle of starched coat-tails echoing from high ceilings.
A broad corridor was hung with chandeliers dripping with gold trim. Every few paces a niche held a collection of fearsome weaponry – swords, spears, pikes, crossbows and several I couldn’t identify. My hands itched for a decent broad sword, and a good, honest fight. I fanci
ed my chances, too, because although we were surrounded by guards, none of them looked like much. Skinny types, with no muscle, or the opposite, well-built but gone to fat. If I’d had even three or four more warriors from the plains, solid, battle-hardened men, I’d have tried it, too, especially with Drusinaar to level the odds. Sadly, all the weapons were securely locked away behind iron grills.
We stopped outside the furthest door, where the corridor ended in a massive window. Its painted glass showed rolling hills filled with some battle scene or other. The Drakk’alona army victorious, no doubt. In the sky, reddened by the flames of a burning town in the distance, several dragons flew.
Tassel man knocked on the door. It was opened by some unseen minion, and he vanished inside, the door closing behind him.
We waited. At first we heard nothing. Then, very faintly, raised voices. Silence fell again. I took the opportunity to munch on the bread I’d brought, as the guards pretended not to notice the puddle of crumbs around my feet.
The door flew open again with a crash, and a man glared at us. His uniform was even more dramatic than tassel man’s, with gold trim everywhere. I recognised the type at once. Young, high born or perhaps just wealthy, oozing arrogance from every pore. And he was not pleased to see us, not pleased at all.
Tassel man crept around him, bowing jerkily like a nodding bird, and began to point us out, one by one, starting with Drusinaar. He’d barely got to me when the commander snapped an order and whisked back into the room. Tassel man gestured to us to follow, and we trooped in behind him.
It was as splendid a room as I’d ever seen. I couldn’t begin to guess how much money had gone into it. The furnishings were curvaceously ornate, without a straight line to be seen. Gold and crystal and coloured gems glittered everywhere. Deep windows on two walls were half hidden by swathes of draped silk and lace. Thick carpets muffled our footsteps. And every surface was painted – walls, ceiling, furniture and ornaments – with garish pictures of birds or vines hung with berries or half-naked people cavorting. It was distractingly peculiar.
The commander had seated himself behind a vast desk, empty except for a leather writing board and a gold pen stand. There was no paper, so I don’t suppose he did much actual writing. He didn’t offer us chairs, and that was a mistake, because it meant that we towered over him, and put him at a disadvantage.
The tassel man and the commander exchanged some terse words, both of them becoming red-faced with the effort of not losing their tempers. It was quite entertaining to watch, but unsettling. We’d been treated rather well since Drusinaar had unleashed her magic, but this suppressed anger wasn’t a good sign. The commander clearly had the power to have us locked up again, or worse, and I didn’t have a good plan to deal with that. Or any plan, really.
Eventually the commander made an exasperated noise and waved an arm at tassel man, ceding defeat. At least, that was how it read to me, judging by the expression of triumph on tassel man’s face. Sometimes you don’t need words.
Tassel man had chairs brought for us, and another for himself, placed close to Drusinaar. He then began asking her many questions. She referred them all to me, of course, and I gave her answers which she then translated for the Drakk’alonans. They wanted to know all about us – where we came from, the purpose of our journey and how we ended up in their city, friendless and alone. I saw no reason not to tell them the truth. Whether they chose to send us to the homeland or not, knowing that we were of interest to the Tre’annatha would, I hoped, increase our value to these people.
Zarin was restless while this was going on. He thought of himself as Drusinaar’s special friend, and it irked him to see her turn to me. I wasn’t quite sure why she did that, but sometimes I wondered if there was a special bond between us. A kind of friendship, certainly, and perhaps there was affection in it, too, but something more than that. I was drawn to her, that was the truth of it, and perhaps she felt something the same towards me. Or maybe I flattered myself, and it was no more than a similarity in age.
I watched the commander carefully during the questioning, to get the first hint of impending trouble, but his face told me little. He watched proceedings without impatience – no, it was more than that. He was relieved, I thought. So he hadn’t known how to deal with us, and the anger was all bluster.
For amusement, I hopped into his head to see the room through his eyes. Or rather, attempted to. That was odd. The process was so automatic now I never even had to work at it. As soon as I had the thought, there I was, looking through a different pair of eyes. But not today. No matter how much I tried, nothing happened. It reminded me of the Karningplain, where my ability wouldn’t work at all. That raised all sorts of questions, but—
Drusinaar tugged my sleeve, interrupting my thoughts. “He says we are to be taken to a special island for sorcerers.”
“A special island? Ask him where it is.”
She asked, he responded. “He says it is to the north of here, about one hundred marks away. But that is a lie.”
“Is it? How can you tell?”
“Because there are no islands to the north, and one hundred marks to the north of here is beyond the Southern Extremity.”
“The Southern… what?”
“Extremity,” Zarin said impatiently. “The boundary of the turbulence. Even if there were an island there, it would be uninhabitable.”
“Tell him that,” I said to Drusinaar.
I watched both the commander and tassel man as she spoke, and the bolt of fear that crossed their faces was unmistakable. What were they afraid of? Us? Drusinaar, I suppose. They had no idea what she might do. Well, I didn’t know myself. I wasn’t sure even Drusinaar had any idea of her ultimate powers, if she could ever learn to use them.
The tassel man rattled away in his language for quite some time, but we never got to hear what he said, or how he explained his lie. Instead the door opened, and a woman walked in, the last woman I could possibly have imagined there.
The Guardian.
18: The Guest Room (Zarin)
Zarin gasped when he saw her. For a heartbeat… two… three… he truly believed it was the Guardian, or perhaps the Sister. Then he realised it could not be so, and when he started looking more closely, he noticed a multitude of tiny differences in the fold of the eye, the fall of her hair, the shape of the mouth. This lady was extraordinarily like the Guardian, but was not her.
She wore a gown of plain silk, in a dusky pink the colour of moonrose buds. Over it, a long leather coat and a collar of lace at her throat. Her hat was leather, too, in a strange style that fitted closely like a cap, but with upward-tilted wings. Another difference, for the Guardian would never wear anything so outlandish. It must be a northern fashion.
Garrett was surprised by her entrance, too, jumping half out of his seat, his mouth round with shock. Then he had realised, and subsided. Dru gave no sign of surprise, and the Lath was not a man to startle easily. The locals were not shocked by the newcomer, but they were not pleased to see her. The captain’s words trailed away and he fell into silence. The commander stood, and all the soldiers saluted the lady as she walked composedly past them, straight to the commander’s desk.
“You have something of interest for me, I believe?” Her tone was as soft as sea mist.
Zarin was relieved to hear a language he understood, for she spoke in High Mesanthian. But he should have expected it, since the Tre’annatha used both High and Low Mesanthian when dealing with outsiders.
The commander’s lips were compressed in annoyance, but he answered her calmly. “That has not yet been determined, Honourable One.” He raised both hands palm outwards placatingly. Soft, white hands, with long, buffed nails. Not ink-stained, like Zarin’s, or calloused and scarred, like Garrett’s.
The lady’s face was bland, hard to read. “No? I have heard rumours of flames, and melted metal.”
Zarin huffed an impatient breath. Were they intending to stand about arguing over the four of them,
as if they were pigs at market? It was humiliating. Who was this commander to determine their fate, anyway? They had not escaped from the slavers to be fought over by the jumped-up son of some wealthy family, who had clearly never had to work hard in his life. The Tre’annatha lady was the answer to all their troubles.
He jumped to his feet. “Excuse me, Lady, but I believe you can help us get to the homeland.”
They all turned to him, the commander reddening, the captain snorting with amusement, the lady expressionless.
“The homeland?” she said politely. “What is your business there?”
“We are sent there by the Guardian of the Western Keep. My friend here is of interest to a Diamond Court for possible inclusion in the Program. We had papers of introduction… but we were captured by raiders and sold to slavers. We managed to escape—” Garrett grunted, but Zarin ignored him. “We escaped, but ended up imprisoned here instead. These gentlemen want to send us to an island but I believe it would be best to follow our original plan and go to the homeland, as the Guardian wished. Can you arrange that?”
The commander shook his head. “You know nothing of the Program – or the homeland – it is clear. Truly, there are dark tales of what goes on there.”
The lady’s lips twitched into the tiniest of smiles. “Not as dark as the tales of your island, Commander.” She turned to face Zarin. “There is no island, stranger. It is all lies. These people will smile and treat you like lords and take you out to sea and then toss you overboard. That is how they deal with those they fear.”
“We had already guessed something of the sort,” Zarin said. “So will you help us?”
Before she could speak, the commander raised a hand again. “One moment.” He and the captain rattled away in their own language for a while. Then he turned to Zarin and said, “Look, I have no quarrel with the rest of you. I will have you escorted to the harbour and found passage on a southbound ship. You can go back to the Western Keep, in whatever back end of the continent that is to be found, and continue your lives. But she is subject to the laws of sorcery in this city, and must be dealt with accordingly.” He pointed at Dru, who gazed back at him blandly.
The Dragon's Egg Page 17
