Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (5 page)

He sat slumped in his chair, fingertips resting lightly on the cold earthen floor of his tent, as he considered which alternative he would pick.

He really ought to speak to Rime and the others, he thought; Black was right. And given how rapidly they seemed to be aging, he could not afford to put it off for very long.

He reviewed his plans. The next reported cave was about eighty miles to the northwest, deep in the Brokenback Mountains, and despite the cold and die lingering snow the first scent of spring was already in the air; he would have to hurry if he wanted to get there before the dragons could wake. Rolinor would need to be watched closely . . .

He stopped in midthought.

No, he told himself. No.

He had reached a decision. He had been on campaign constantly for more than four years this time, moving from one site to the next, tracking down reported sightings of dragons, searching out the caverns by means both mundane and magical. When the weather was cold enough to ensure the dragons would be asleep he had slaughtered his monstrous foes in their lairs; in warmer weather he had helped fortify and defend the towns he found himself in, and had sometimes found, fought, and slain dragonhearts who had refused the Duke's order to undergo the magical cleansing that Oeshir and her heirs offered—not to mention defending himself from the Dragon Society's attempts to kill him.

While messengers had brought news, supplies, and troops from

Manfort, as well as occasional nuisances like Lord Rolinor, he and his best men had remained afield—well, most of his best men; Black only rarely joined the campaign, and only for brief periods, preferring to spend as much time as possible in Manfort with his wife and children, overseeing Arlian's various business concerns.

Arlian had not returned to Manfort, summers or winters, for more than four years. In all that time he had lived in inns and tents and guesthouses, and had not slept under his own roof. He had not seen Black's children grow, nor Hasty's, nor any of the others born to the women he had rescued from slavery. He had not properly reviewed his holdings, or spoken to his staff other than Black—he had no idea how most of his various businesses were doing.

He glanced at the battered, plumeless hat he had set on a nearby chest. He had not seen a decent tailor in four years, either; he was unsure what the current fashions were. The damnable fad for wearing masks seemed to have spread to most of the Lands of Man now; might it have finally faded away in Manfort? Black had not mentioned it. Observant as Black might be, he could not tell Arlian everything as effectively as Arlian's own eyes could.

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 just 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."