Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (6 page)

“Thank you, my friend.” Iolanthe was about to take her leave when a baaz draconian wearing the emblem of Lord Ariakas entered the shop.

“Can I help you, sir?” Snaggle asked.

“I seek the witch, Iolanthe. I am told she lives in the apartment above the store,” said the baaz. “I come in the name of Lord Ariakas.”

Snaggle glanced at Iolanthe, letting her know he would either acknowledge her or deny that he’d ever heard of her, depending on the sign she gave him.

Iolanthe spared him the trouble. “I am Iolanthe.”

The baaz bowed. “I have the information you seek, Mistress. Broken Shield Inn. Room number sixteen.”

“Thank you,” said Iolanthe.

The baaz saluted, fist to heart, and turned on his scaly heel and left.

“Another cup of tea?” Snaggle asked.

“No, thank you, my friend. I have an errand I must run before darkness falls.”

Iolanthe took her leave. Though confident of her ability to protect herself by day, she knew better than to walk the streets of Neraka alone after dark, and she had to pay a visit to the Broken Shield.

The Inn of the Broken Shield, as it was properly known, was located in the White Quarters district and was one of the oldest and largest buildings in Neraka. It looked very much like it had been built by a child playing with blocks stacked up one atop another. The inn had started as a one-room shack offering drink and food to those early dark pilgrims come to worship at the Temple. As its popularity grew, the shack added on a room and called itself a tavern. The tavern added on several blocks of rooms and named itself an inn. The inn sent out an entire wing of rooms and was now proud to call itself tavern, inn, and boarding house.

The Broken Shield was a favorite with the mercenaries, pilgrims, and clerics in Neraka, mainly due to the fact that it was “human only”. Other races, most notably draconians, goblins and hobgoblins, were not allowed. The patrons themselves policed this policy and saw to it that “dracos” and “hobs and gobs” did their drinking at the Hairy Troll.

The inn was crowded tonight, filled with hungry soldiers just coming off guard duty. Iolanthe had exchanged her silken robes for the plain black robes of a dark pilgrim. Her face heavily veiled, she waited outside until she saw a group of dark pilgrims file into the inn. She joined up with them and they all entered the inn together.

She immediately spotted Kitiara. The Dragon Highlord sat alone, eating her meal with rapid efficiency and drinking a mug of ale. The pilgrims separated, seating themselves at various tables in groups of twos or threes. Iolanthe slid into a chair at a table close to the others, but kept herself apart. No one took any special notice of her.

She watched Kitiara shove back her empty plate and sit back in her chair, her mug in her hands. Kit was somber, lost in thought. One sellsword, a comely young man, with long blonde hair and sporting a jagged scar down one cheek, came over to her table. She did not seem to notice him. He started to pull out a chair.

Kitiara put her booted foot in the seat. “Not tonight, Trampas,” she said. She shook her head. “You would not find me good company.”

“Come now, Kit,” the young man said persuasively, “let me buy you a mug of ale, at least.”

She did not move her foot and there was no other chair.

Trampas shrugged and went on his way. Kitiara drank the ale in a long swallow. The barkeep brought her another and set it down before her, taking the empty mug away. Kit drank that one too, continuing to brood. Iolanthe tried to guess her thoughts. Kit did not look irate or angry, therefore she was not worrying about her rebuff from Ariakas. She looked introspective. Her eyes stared at the ale mug, but she was not seeing it. Occasionally she would smile to herself.

She looked like someone reminiscing, thinking over past times, remembering happy moments.

“How very interesting,” Iolanthe murmured to herself. She thought back to the conversation she had overheard between Kit and Ariakas. They had discussed past times—Kit’s days in Solace. They had talked about her brother the mage, but judging by the warmth of her smile and the flash of her dark eyes, Kitiara was not thinking about sickly baby brothers.

“My lord was right. You do have secrets,” Iolanthe said softly. “Dangerous ones.”

Kitiara took a long pull from the mug and, settling back more comfortably in her chair, she put both her feet in the chair opposite, letting everyone in the tavern know that she wanted to be alone this night.

“Good,” said Iolanthe. The presence of a lover would have been a serious inconvenience.

Iolanthe left her table and walked up to a bar crowded with soldiers demanding ale or dwarf spirits, wine or mead or a combination of several. The bartenders, red-faced and sweating, bustled here and there, trying to keep up. The soldiers were loud and raucous, shouting insults at the bartenders and groping the barmaids, who were accustomed to the rough crowd and gave as good as they got. Iolanthe pushed her way forward. Seeing a dark pilgrim, the soldiers hastily drew back, making respectful, if grumbling, way for her. A man would have to be very drunk indeed to dare insult a priestess of Her Dark Majesty.

“Yes, Revered One?” said a harried bartender, who clutched three foaming mugs in each hand.

“I want my room key, please,” said Iolanthe. “Number sixteen.”

The bartender thrust the mugs into the hands of various patrons, then turned around to where the room keys hung on various hooks, each with a number attached. The soldiers cursed him for his slowness. He cursed back and shook his fist at them. Finding “16,” he snagged the key and tossed it across the bar. Iolanthe caught the key deftly as it came sliding past her. Key in hand, she climbed the stairs that led to the upper chambers.

She paused in a dark hallway to look over the balcony down into the bar area. Kitiara still sat there, still staring into a half-filled mug of ale. Iolanthe continued down the hall, glancing at the room numbers on the doors. Finding the room she sought, she inserted the key into the door and walked inside.

The horned blue helm of a Dragon Highlord lay in one corner where Kit had tossed it, along with various other pieces of a dragon rider’s habiliment. The armor was specially designed and had been blessed by the Dark Queen. It protected the rider not only from the buffeting winds of travel by dragonback but also from the weapons of an enemy. Other than her armor and a bed, the room was empty. Kitiara traveled light, it seemed.

Iolanthe paid no attention to any of the objects in the room. She stared about the room itself, committing it to memory. Certain that she could visualize it at need, she shut the door and locked it. She took the key back to the barkeep, and seeing he was busy, she left it lying on the bar and departed.

A glance over her shoulder showed her Kitiara, still sitting by herself, draining yet another mug of ale. Apparently she planned to drown herself in her memories.

Iolanthe sat in her small sitting room, studying the spell by the light of the fire. Beside her, a candle with the hours marked in increments on the wax burned steadily, the hours melting away one by one. When six hours had passed, Iolanthe deemed the time was right. She shut her spellbook, picked up another book and took that to her laboratory. She was dressed in her robes of magic, thick black robes with no decoration, to blend in with the night.

Iolanthe placed the second book on the table. This book had nothing to do with magic, being titled
A History of Ansalon from the Age of Dreams to the Age of Might with Annotations by the Author, a Learned Aesthetic of the Esteemed Library of Palanthas
. A more boring book one could not hope to find, likely to gather dust on any shelf. No one would ever pick up such a book, which was just what the maker intended, for it wasn’t a book at all. It was a box. Iolanthe touched the letter “A” in Aesthetic and the cover that was the lid of the box popped gently open.

A glass jar sealed with a stopper covered with wax and trimmed with golden filigree nestled inside a hole cut in the “pages”. Alongside the jar in another small pocket was a paintbrush, the tip made with hair from a lion’s mane.

Iolanthe lifted the jar carefully. Placing it on the table, she broke the wax seal and pried out the cork lid. The substance inside the jar was thick and viscous, like quicksilver, and it shimmered in the light. This was Iolanthe’s most valued possession, a gift from Ladonna, head of the Order of the Black Robes, upon the successful completion of Iolanthe’s test. The substance quivered as Iolanthe carried the jar and paintbrush over to a portion of the room concealed by a thick curtain.

Iolanthe drew aside the curtain, letting it fall behind her. There was nothing at all in this part of the room. It was empty of furniture. No pictures hung on a wall made of bare plaster covered with whitewash. Iolanthe placed the jar on the floor. She dipped the paintbrush in the silver substance and, beginning at floor level, she painted a straight line up the wall, a line as long as she was tall. She painted another line perpendicular to the first, then added a third line down to the floor. This done, she carefully replaced the stopper in the jar. She poured melted candle wax over the cork and set it aside to let it dry. She checked to make certain the little silver knife was secure in her sleeve then returned to the curtained alcove.

Iolanthe stood before the lines painted on the wall and spoke the requisite words of the magic. The silver paint on the wall flared brilliantly, dazzling her eyes. For a moment all she could see was blinding white light. She summoned up an image in her mind of the bedroom in the Broken Shield Inn and forced herself to stare into the bright light.

The wall on which the silver lines were painted dissolved. The hallway in the inn stretched before her. Iolanthe did not immediately enter the hall, but looked about carefully, not wanting to be interrupted. She did not enter until she was certain no one was about, then she walked through the wall and the silver lines as another might walk through a door and, traversing the corridors of magic, she stood in room 16.

Iolanthe glanced behind her. The faintest gleam of silver, like the slimy trail made by a snail, shone on the wall, marking her return path. Embers burned in the fireplace, and by their light she could make out the bed and the woman sleeping in it.

The room reeked of ale.

Iolanthe drew the silver knife from her sleeve. She padded on slippered feet across the floor and came to stand beside the bed. Kitiara lay on her back, sprawled out, with one arm flung over her head. She still wore her boots and her clothes; either she had been too tired or too drunk to change. Her breathing was even, her slumber deep. Her sword hung in its sheath from one of the bedposts.

Knife in hand, Iolanthe bent over the slumbering woman. She did not think Kit was shamming sleep, but there was always the possibility. Iolanthe held the knife poised over Kitiara’s wrist and dug the blade into her skin, drawing a little drop of blood.

Kitiara never stirred.

“What a fine assassin I would make,” Iolanthe reflected. “But enough foolery. Down to business.”

She shifted the blade from Kitiara’s throat to her hair. She took gentle hold of a silky black lock that lay tousled on the pillow, and, tugging it to its full length, placed the knife at the roots and sliced it off. She cut off another curl and yet another and was going to take a fourth, when Kitiara gave a deep sigh, frowned, and rolled over.

Iolanthe froze, not daring to move, not daring to even breathe. She was in no danger. The words to a sleep spell were on her lips and a requisite pinch of sand was in her hand, ready to be tossed over the slumberer. She didn’t want to have to resort to the use of magic, however, for Kitiara might wake the next morning, and, finding sand in her bed, deduce she’d been ensorcelled during the night. She must suspect nothing. As for the cut on her wrist, warriors were always cutting themselves on their armor or their weapons. She would think nothing of such a small mark.

Kit wrapped her arms around the pillow, and murmuring a word that sounded like “tanning,” she sighed, smiled, and drifted back to sleep. Iolanthe couldn’t imagine why Kit would be dreaming about tanning leather hides, but one never knew. Tucking the lock of hair in a velvet bag, Iolanthe tied the bag to her belt and left Kit’s bedside.

The snail-slime trail of silver gleamed faintly on the wall, marking the exit. Iolanthe walked through the silver doorway and stepped into the curtained alcove of her own home, her night’s work a success.

4

A Dragon and his rider.

itiara’s mount, a blue dragon named Skie, waited for her in a secret location outside of the city. Stalls for dragons were provided near each of the military quarters of the Highlords in Neraka, but just as Kitiara preferred to stay in an inn rather than the cramped quarters of military housing, Skie liked his privacy and comfort too well to live in the crowded conditions of the dragon stables. He did pay his fellow dragons a visit, however, and he was ready with the latest gossip and news of dragonkind for Kitiara when she arrived.

The blue dragon had spent a comfortable evening. He’d gone out hunting that morning and brought down a fat deer. After dining, he’d found a patch of autumn sunlight, and lying down, he extended his blue wings. Resting his head on the warm rocks, he basked in the warmth. When Kitiara arrived, he roused himself, shaking his head with its blue mane and flicking his long scaly tail.

The greeting between Highlord and dragon was warm. Skie was the only being Kitiara truly trusted and the dragon was devoted to his rider, something rare for dragons, who generally disdained all lower forms of life. Skie admired Kitiara’s courage and her cool-headed skill in battle, and thus he was willing to overlook her defects, putting them down to the fact that she had been born, lamentably, a human.

“What a dragon she would have made!” Skie often commented regretfully.

Kitiara patted the blue’s long scaled neck with her hand and asked if he had eaten. Skie indicated the remains of a deer carcass nearby. Few other human riders ever bothered to check on the welfare of their dragons, but Kitiara never forgot. She nodded and then, instead of mounting, as he expected, she stood by his side, her hand resting on his neck, staring at her boots.

Skie saw at once that something was wrong.

“What did the emperor think of your plan to attack the High Clerist’s Tower?” Skie asked.

Kitiara sighed. “He thinks it is too reckless, too risky, so he did not approve it. That is true, I suppose, but to my mind we risk far more by curling up all snug and complacent in our dens.”

“The man is a fool,” Skie remarked.

“No, if Ariakas were a fool, I would not mind so much,” said Kitiara somberly. “He is a brilliant commander. Witness the fact that his armies control almost all of Ansalon. But those very victories will be his downfall. Back at the start of the war, when he had nothing to lose, he would have taken my advice and attacked the High Clerist’s Tower. Since then, he has grown too fond of victory. He is afraid of defeat so he bets only on the sure thing. Hazarding little, he wonders why his winnings decrease.”

Skie shook his head. His belly rumbled. He’d eaten too fast and the deer wasn’t sitting well.

“Did you visit the dragon mews?” Kitiara asked. “What news did you hear?”

“As you say, the emperor’s war is going well,” Skie returned in grudging tones. “The Black Dragon Highlord, Lucien of Takar, has strengthened his hold on the eastern lands, putting down minor uprisings and rebellions, though his greatest achievement appears to have been forcing those lay-about slugs of black dragons to crawl out of their swamps and fight. Lucien has joined with the Highlord of Icereach, Feal-Thas, and his white dragons to conquer the Goodland Peninsula. Feal-Thas is putting it about that he was the one responsible for the victory, but all know the pointy-eared elf was merely following Lucien’s order.”

“Of course, no human thinks an elf has a brain in his head, so they discount Feal-Thas,” Kitiara remarked, “probably at their peril. We will see for ourselves. We are to pay this elf Highlord a visit. I should learn more about him.”

“What, travel to Icereach!” Skie snorted. Sparks of lightning sizzled from between his teeth. “If you go there, you go without me. Nothing but snow and ice. Why anyone would want to travel to such a dreadful place is a mystery to me!”

He didn’t mean it, of course. Skie would never think of entrusting Kit’s welfare to another mount. Still, let her worry a little.

Kitiara dragged the heavy leather harness out of the brush where she had stashed it for safekeeping. Skie detested the harness, as did all self-respecting dragons. “Harness” equated to “horse” in Skie’s mind, and he wore one only because it ensured the safety of the rider. Some riders mounted their dragons with the mistaken idea that they could use the harness to guide and control the dragon. Every dragon soon disabused his rider of that notion.

Dragon and rider worked best as a team. Dragon and rider had to trust each other implicitly, for their lives depended on each other. Such trust was difficult for most dragons and riders to acquire, especially the chromatic dragons who were not given to trusting anyone, not even each other. The blue dragons had turned out to be the best mounts thus far. Blue dragons tended to be more gregarious and outgoing than their fellows and worked better with humans. That said, there always came a time in the relationship of every dragon and his rider when the dragon would have to teach the rider who was really in control. This was often done by the dragon flipping over in midair and dumping his offending rider in a lake.

Skie still recalled with an inward chuckle the time he had done that to Kit. She’d been wearing full plate armor and she’d sunk like a boulder. Skie had been forced to plunge in after her and drag her out, half-drowned. He had thought she would be furious, but once she’d quit spewing up water, she had started to laugh. She had admitted that he’d been right and she’d been wrong and she never again sought to impose her will on him.

The first thing Kitiara had learned from Skie was that aerial combat was far different from battles fought on land. In the air, a human had to learn to think and fight like a dragon. Thinking of this made Skie recall the rest of his news.

“The rumor is that soon the metallic dragons will enter the war,” the blue dragon said. “If that happens, Ariakas’s victories may dry up. These metallics are our equals, armed with deadly breath weapons and powerful magicks.”

“Bah! I don’t believe it,” said Kit, shaking her head. “The metallics have sworn an oath promising not to enter the war. They don’t dare, not while we are holding their precious eggs hostage.”

“You and I both know what’s happening to those eggs, and someday the metallics will figure it out. Some are already starting to grow suspicious. Word is that one named Evenstar is going about asking questions about the draconians. When the golds and silvers discover the truth, they will enter this war—with a vengeance!

“Which reminds me, I suppose you heard Verminaard is dead,” Skie added offhandedly.

“Yes, I heard,” said Kitiara.

Skie assisted her in putting on the harness, which fit around his neck and chest and forelegs. At least Kitiara did not insist on using one of the awkward and uncomfortable dragon saddles. She rode bareback, settling herself in front of his wings.

“Did you hear the truth of how he died?” Skie asked chattily. “Not battling dwarves in the dwarven kingdom, as we were led to believe, but ignominiously, at the hands of slaves!”

“The draconian commander said he was killed by assassins,” said Kit, adding with a chuckle, “At his death, an aurak masqueraded as Verminaard. Quite clever of him.”

“The dragons who served under the scaly little bastard were not fooled,” said Skie disparagingly.

“You don’t like draconians,” Kit observed, climbing up on Skie’s back.

“No dragon does,” said Skie, glowering. “They are a perversion, an abomination. I cannot believe Her Dark Majesty sanctioned such a heinous act.”

“Then you do not know Her Dark Majesty,” said Kitiara. She glanced about then said quietly, “I suggest we change the subject. You never know who might be listening.”

Skie grunted in agreement. “Where are we bound? Back to our camp?”

“Why?” Kitiara asked bitterly. “We have nothing to do there but drink and belch and scratch ourselves. We’re not going to be allowed to fight.”

She sighed again then said, “Besides, Lord Ariakas has other assignments for me. First, we go to Palanthas …”

“Palanthas?” Skie repeated, amazed. “That’s in enemy territory. What business do you have in Palanthas?”

“I’m going shopping,” said Kitiara with a laugh.

Skie craned his neck to stare at her. “Shopping? What for?”

“A man’s soul,” Kit replied.