Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (37 page)

He turned the flame down as low as he could without risking extinguishing it, then paced off a reasonable distance, turned, and ran. At the right moment he jumped, catching his fingers in the crevice in the wall.

He slammed against the stone, and felt the lamp's heat on his chest; his knees struck the granite hard, and he was sure he would have painful bruises there. He had a solid grip, though, several feet off the cavern floor, and the ledge was just a foot or two higher, to his right.

But there was a burning in his fingertips, one that simple strain could not account for; he could see wisps of smoke that did not seem to be coming from the lamp.

Hastily, he scrabbled his feet against the granite, swinging himself to the right; as his right foot found temporary purchase he pulled his right hand from the crack and grabbed for the ledge.

The fingers hooked over the edge, and he heaved himself upward; when he felt his hold was secure he snatched his left hand free and lunged for the ledge.

Then he was hanging by his fingers, the sharp granite edge cutting into the joints, the toes of his boots scraping at the wall below; he heaved again, and got first his right elbow, then his left, onto the ledge.

From there it was easy, despite the burning in his fingers, the smoke swirling in his face, the burn on his chest, and the dim, flickering light; a moment later he stood upright on the ledge, unbuttoning the battered lamp from his scorched and twisted vest.

He stared at it ruefully; the impact with the walls had bent the little lamp out of shape, smashing it almost flat, and the wick adjustment no longer functioned at all. The flame still burned, though, and the remaining oil had not all spilled, and he had left no evidence behind on the cavern floor—that was what mattered.

Then he turned his gaze elsewhere, with unhappy results. The fingertips of his gloves had been burned to smoking tatters; that seam in the wall had apparently collected venom in the bottom, and he had thrust his fingers right into it while climbing up.

If he had known that that reservoir of venom existed, he might have contrived a way to collect it there and never needed to go down among the dragons at all—but in that case, he would never have known that his grandfather's killer lurked here.

The front of his vest had been pulled, twisted, and blackened, and the blouse beneath bore a large black burn. He brushed black soot from his beard, as well; he would need to see a barber at the first opportunity.

Of course, he would have needed that in any case, after so long a journey in the wilderness.

At least his spear and pack seemed undamaged; he glanced in the pack to be sure the two bottles of venom were still intact and unopened, then secured everything as best he could, retrieved his coat and cloak, and made his way up the slope, easily heaving himself up to the higher, narrower ledge, and then leaving the cavern behind and starting up the long tunnel to the surface.

The temperature dropped steadily as he climbed; he paused at one point to eat a hasty meal of crumbling cheese and dried salt beef, and had scarcely finished when the lamp gave a final flicker and went out. He finished repacking in the dark, working by feel, then pulled on his coat and cloak; he did not really need them yet, but he knew he would soon.

He had brought no water, and was thirsty after his long sojourn in the cave, his dry meal, and his various recent encounters with flames, but he knew that once he was back on the surface he could find all the snow he wanted. Drinking water was never a problem in the Shoulderbone Range in winter; he merely needed to get out of the tunnel.

At least there was no danger of getting lost, of taking the wrong passage or the wrong direction; there was only the one long crevice, sloping steadily upward. He set out again.

He could not judge how long it took; counting his steps or heartbeats seemed pointless. Instead he simply marched onward, until at last he glimpsed a lessening of the darkness ahead.

He pressed on, and several minutes later found himself scrambling up through snow and ice onto the blinding whiteness of the snow-covered mountainside in full daylight. The sky above was intensely blue, the air cold and sharp; his fingertips, unprotected by the ruined gloves, stung with the cold.

He scooped a generous handful of snow into his parched mouth to slake his thirst, then pulled his cloak tight, his hands stuffed securely into the warm inner pockets, and began the long trek back toward Manfort.

34

Obsidian House

Obsidian House

Arlian suspected that an ordinary man might well have lost a few fingers and the tip of his nose to frostbite on the way back down from the mountains, but he was a dragonheart, immune to poison and disease—

his nose and fingers ached for days even after he reached the warmth of civilization, but did not blacken or rot.

Winter's hold had begun to weaken by the time he reached Man-

fort; the streets were clear of ice, and at midday the patter of water dripping from icicles was a constant ripple of sound throughout the city, as if rain were falling from invisible clouds in the clear and sunny skies.

The icicles were more numerous than at any time in Arlian's memory—the forest of rooftop catapults had provided them a myriad of new places to form.

When Venlin ushered him into the Grey House Arlian soon discovered that Black and his family had indeed moved out, and were not there to welcome him; he accepted this without comment, and made no effort to contact his steward immediately. Instead he took a day to bathe, rest, and recover from his travels. He had paid a tavern girl in a village in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains to trim his hair and beard, but she had not been trained to the standards of Manfort, and at any rate the journey from there to Manfort had allowed them to grow out again, so he spent his first evening sprawled comfortably in the tub while Wolt struggled to restore a veneer of civilization.

That also served to avoid any wearisome conversation; Wolt was not much of a talker, and no one else dared intrude while the master was bathing. Arlian had already picked up some news on the road, enough to be reasonably certain that nothing earth-shaking had occurred in his absence, and he was not in a mood to describe his adventures or cope with household affairs. That could wait.

In fact, he decided as he lay in the tub with Wolt neatly shaving his throat, he did not want to waste any time on household affairs at all. He wanted to proceed directly to his research, and for that he wanted the Grey House to himself, so that the only life at risk would be his own.

But that could wait until morning; he closed his eyes and enjoyed the comforting warmth of the bath.

Accordingly, after he had breakfasted the following day he first sent word to the Duke that he had returned safely with the materials for his experiments, and asked that he be excused from any duties at the Citadel so that he might proceed immediately with his research. That done, he summoned his remaining guests and the entire staff from the kitchens and servants' hall and upstairs offices, and informed them that the household was to be evacuated.

"Where shall we go, my lord?" Lilsinir asked. "Tiviesh tells me that the Citadel is not particularly welcoming these days."

"Are we all to take up residence in your new establishment, then?"

Wolt asked.

Arlian had been about to answer Lilsinir, but now he stopped dead, then turned to stare at Wolt.

"New establishment?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," the footman said, plainly puzzled. "The house your steward has been building for you on the grounds of the Old Palace."

Arlian considered that for a moment.

"Black is building a new house for me?"

Wolt apparently realized now that this was news to his employer, but was not yet certain how it was being received. "Yes, my lord," he said noncommittally.

"Is he, indeed?"

"Yes, my lord. Is this not by your own orders?"

Arlian smiled crookedly. "Let us just say that I had not remembered, for a moment, giving those orders. But yes, I think removing the entire household to this new residence, if it be sufficiently prepared, would be entirely suitable. See to it at once, all of you."

The servants scattered, leaving Arlian standing in the parlor.

"Building me a house, is he?" He shook his head, and addressed the air. "Even after all these years, Black, you can still surprise me."

Naturally, Arlian oversaw the relocation—he did not admit to curiosity, but concern for the welfare of his employees, and the necessity of ensuring that the new house was fit for them to live in, required his involvement Thus he found himself making his way through the old gardens, past lingering patches of half-melted snow, and across the threshold of Obsidian House, where he stood in the entry-way and contemplated the product of Black's efforts.

The building was obviously still far from complete, but Arlian liked what he saw. Black had clearly borrowed ideas from several sources, rather than simply following either Manfort tradition or the current fashion. The entry-way opened into a large and airy hall, where a sweeping staircase led up to a broad balcony; several rooms opened off the balcony, and more below it.

There were, as yet, no rugs nor hangings, several of the doorframes did not yet hold doors, and the many-paned windows were not yet encumbered by any sort of drapery, but the proportions of the existing structure were elegant. This house was far smaller than the Old Palace, occupying an area that had once been one end of one wing, but it nonetheless had a feeling of spaciousness and comfort similar to the Palace's, and quite different from the cramped confines of Grey House.

Black emerged from one of the doors beneath the balcony and saw Arlian standing in the entry. He stopped.

"My lord," he called. "I trust it meets with your approval."

"Indeed it does," Arlian replied.

"You had said we were welcome to make our home here," Black said, standing where he was. "I chose to take you at your word—and of course, as I am your steward, our home is yours."

The door behind him opened farther, and Brook's wheeled chair edged out; Black stepped aside to let his wife past.

"Ari!" she called, wheeling herself across the great hall. "Welcome!"

"Thank you," Arlian replied, stepping forward to meet her.

"We thought you had been too long in that gray stone tomb, dwelling in Lord Enziet's shadows," Brook said, as she brought her chair to a stop.

Arlian glanced around at the unfinished walls and smiled. "If my eyes are to be trusted, this house is gray stone, as well."

"Ah, but it's hardly a tomb!" Brook said, gesturing at the broad windows. "And we had to use stone—there are still dragons out there, after all."

"Alas, there are," Arlian agreed, taking Brook's hand and bowing.

As he did, he could not help noticing a definite roundness to her belly; apparently, if all went well, Kerzia, Amberdine, and Dirinan were soon to have another sibling. He remembered the two stillbirths before Dirinan's arrival, and the miscarriages between and after the two girls, and hoped this pregnancy would have a happy outcome; he had not expected another so soon after the boy.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Brook's three children came

spilling down the stairs from the balcony. Black hurried to intercept them. After a moment of chaos, the entire party was organized for the purpose of giving Arlian a tour of his newest property.

The airy feel of the great hall was maintained in most of the major rooms; Arlian approved of the arrangements that permitted this. Black knew his employer's tastes and habits and had designed the new house accordingly, providing an equivalent of every room Arlian had favored in the Grey House or the Old Palace, while leaving out those features he had neglected.

Arlian particularly admired the lift, with its elaborate system of pul-leys and counterweights, that allowed Brook, or any other amputees who might visit, to move to the upper floors without being carried up the stairs. Black had designed this himself, and had ensured that the mechanisms could be worked so easily that even his children could, if necessary, use them.

As they neared the conclusion of the tour Arlian found himself in the servants' hall, watching his staff bring in their belongings.

"You call it Obsidian House, I am told," he said.

"Of course," Black replied, as he shifted a sleeping Dirinan from one shoulder to the other.

"I did not see any obsidian anywhere in it."

"No, you did not," Black agreed. "The Duke has confiscated all the obsidian in Manfort, and as much as he can from elsewhere, for use in the city's defenses. You will have noticed, I'm sure, the iron frameworks on the roof?"

"I saw them as I approached, yes."

"That stair I pointed out on the upper floor goes to a tower room where the release mechanisms for all the catapults may be controlled.

The counterweights are not yet rigged up, and the bolts are not yet in place, but a full system of defenses has been installed. Because it was built in from the first, rather than added later, we were able to make it far more efficient than most; it will require only a single operator to release a full volley."

"And if that first volley misses?"

"Oh, well, reloading will take rather more manpower," Black admitted.

"And more obsidian."

"I am sure His Grace will allot us our fair share, when the time comes."

Arlian reached forward to help Stammer with a large bag. "I had once hoped," he said, "that Manfort would never again need defenses against dragons. I find it saddening that the city now bristles with them, and that the Duke seems to consider them a permanent necessity."

"Perhaps we won't need them," Brook said. "Still, they're reassuring,"

"I suppose they are," Arlian said, lifting Stammer's bag. "Where does this go?"

Three hours later, after a hastily improvised cold supper, Arlian made his way back down to the Grey House.