Dragon's Treasure (13 page)

Fourteen-year-old Eilon, eldest of the scullions, turned from scrubbing the big copper pot with lemon to ask, "Is a prince a lord?"

Ruth said, "Surely. They're all lords."

Eilon frowned. "Then how's a prince different?"

Simon made a rude noise. "Hah. You don't know anything." Then he yelped, as a brisk, hard hand clouted his ear. The scullions ducked beneath the slicing table, all but Eilon, who was too big to hide.

"You don't know anything either," said Boris the head cook. He was a small, balding man who could hang his nose over any pot and tell from the steam how long the food had been cooking, and if it needed more spicing. Like many head cooks, he had a blistering tongue and an explosive temper.

"A prince is the son of a king. And a king, you ignorant slovenly jackass"—Simon flushed, and the scullions beamed happily at him—"is one who rules a country."

Deferential silence greeted this declaration. Then Jess said, "But this is Dragon's country. Is Dragon a king?"

"No," Boris said. "Listen, toads." The scullions ceased making faces at Simon and edged from beneath the slicing table. "This
is
Dragon's country. But Dragon's country is part of Ippa, and Ippa and Nakase and Kameni and Issho and Chuyo all together
are
Ryoka. And just as you and I and all the folk of Dragon's country are subject to Dragon's law, so the lords of Ryoka are subject to the king's law."

Pico tugged on the tail of Eilon's shirt and whispered a question.

"Does the king have a castle?" Eilon asked.

"Naturally he has a castle. It's in Kameni, in the east."

"What's the king's name?"

"Idaris Imorin. Cirion is his son." Picking up a spoon, the head cook absently stirred a pot. "Not that the title of king means much. The time of the kings is gone. All Cirion Imorin brings to this marriage is his land, and his lineage."

Simon said, "I don't know why they make so much of it. For all they are so great, under the sheets these lords and ladies look no different than you or I, or Jess in her shift."

The scullions cackled. Jess said, "How do you know what I look like in my shift?" She scooped a heavy rolling pin from the pastry table. Simon scuttled to the other side of the room. Boris's brows drew together.

"Simon, if that sauce burns, you shall be chopping onions for a week. Girl, put that down! Enough chatter. This is Dragon's business."

And since all in Ippa, especially those who served him, knew it was unwise to pay overmuch attention to Dragon's business, the folk of his household abandoned their speculations and went about their own business, which was dinner.

* * *

Eight days after Treion Unamira had been put into a cell in Lienor, they took him out and told him he was leaving.

"Where am I going?" he asked the man binding him. The man reminded him of Bran, same dark hair, same features. A cousin, perhaps. He had not seen the rider captain, or Honoris Imorin, since the day he had been confined.

"To Ujo," the man said. "Kalni Leminin wants you." He was not surprised. They had had no cause to execute him: he had done the folk of Nakase no harm; not a storehouse breached nor barn burned, not even an apple filched from a barrow. They walked him through the prison to a stable yard, and hoisted him onto a handsome, restive chestnut.

A few yards away, Niello Savarini, secured like himself, sat astride a black mare.

"Where's Edric?" Treion asked him.

Niello shook his head. "Don't know."

"Shut up," someone said. "No talking."

Guards closed round them. They rode through the prison gate. The pennants fluttered bravely on the towers of the wall. At the outer gate, their guards displayed passes. Treion hoped savagely for a diversion, something to distract the guards: a rearing horse, a falling roof tile, a mad dog loose in the streets.... But no mad dogs appeared.

The ride to Ujo took three weeks. It was not a pleasant journey. The midsummer heat sucked the life from all of them, even the horses. The captives were not allowed to talk to each other. They ate one-handed. They slept tethered. They were fed, and given water, but it never seemed to be enough.

As they neared the gates of Ujo, the road grew crowded. Bright banners fluttered from windows and cornices and rooftops. They rode through the East Gate. Guards took Niello roughly from his horse.

"Down," someone said to Treion. He slid down the horse's side. Two men took him into the guardhouse, down a torch-lit corridor lined with doors. They stopped in front of one. It opened, of course, to a cell.

It held nothing save a pallet, no water pitcher, not even a pot to piss in. A slit in the rear wall was set too high to see out of. It stank of urine and fear. The walls were covered with thin lines of writing.
I, Petros Antolini, swear by the gods that I am innocent of all offense....

I am Julian the scribe, who lives in the cottage behind the bakery on Peach Tree Street....

I, Fulk of Secca, made these signs....

"Where am I?" he asked. "What place is this?"

"Eastgate Prison."

"How long will I be here?"

"Probably not long," the man said. "That's up to the Lemininkai."

Treion had never met Kalni Leminin. He was Marion diSorvino's overlord. He was reputed to be ruthless, intelligent, and ambitious.
He's clever,
Niello had said once.
Cleverer than you. Possibly even cleverer than me. He plays keph, by the way. I hear he prefers the Winter pieces.

"I'd like to speak to him," he said, with dignity. Perhaps Kalni Leminin was not as clever as Niello thought him to be.

The two guards grinned at one another.

"I'd like my uncle to die and leave me his fortune," the older one said. "Try again."

"I'd like a bath."

They laughed aloud at that.

"What happened to the man who came in with me?"

They stared at him contemptuously.

"You mean Ciccio?" The older guard wrung his hands slowly. "That gods-cursed piece of filth. He's going to be dead, very soon. Tonight, in fact. Is he a friend of yours?"

"No," Treion said.

They looked at him as though they did not quite believe him. Then the younger one said, "You have family? A mother, a brother? Anyone you want us to speak to?"

At that moment, Treion realized that he, too, was destined to die for what he had done at Castella: if not that night, then soon. He thought, briefly and with pain, of Maia.

But Maia was dead.

"No," he said, dry-mouthed. "There's no one."

* * *

Ujo smelled like a slaughterhouse.

The visitors from Dragon Keep entered the city through the North Gate. The smell of offal and roasting meat rose from the baked earth like steam.

Finle, riding at the tail of the small cavalcade, remarked, "Imarru's balls, they must have killed every pig in the city!"

Hawk, just ahead of him, did not answer. She was occupied in keeping Lily from bolting down an alley. A man, or possibly a woman, carrying the plaster figure of a griffin on his—her?—back, had scampered directly under the red mare's nose. Lily, normally as well behaved as any of Dragon Keep's steeds, had decided to take offense.

"Daughter of goats!" Hawk clamped her knees on the cavorting mare's sides and whacked her over the ears with the end of the shortened rein. The mare shuddered and stopped dead. More masquers danced past the troop. Lily rolled her eyes at them. Hawk crooned at her. "Come on, girl." Reluctantly, Lily moved.

The avenues and alleys were filled with people in costume, people wheeling barrows, people carrying hammers and harps and sides of beef and baskets filled with fruit. The noise from the roistering crowds was deafening. Hawk took a deep breath of the ripe, pungent air. She knew the odor well. She had lived fifteen years in Ujo. For twelve of them she had served in Kalni Leminin's Blue Arrow company; for six, as its captain. It felt strange to be back. She wondered how Tiko, once her apprentice, was faring with the bowyer's shop on Lantern Street that had once been hers.

Edruyn said, "It's hot. Is it always so hot in summer?"

"Yes," Hawk said. It was not that hot, for Ujo: it was late afternoon, and the lengthening shadows had begun to cool the streets. They pushed from the crowded avenue onto a side street. A man trotted past them, carrying a lute.

Herugin turned in his saddle to catch Hawk's eye. "Do you know a quick way to the Hotel Goude?" he shouted.

She hesitated. There was no telling which alleys were blocked. "I think I can find one."

"Lead us, then."

She urged Lily forward. Letting memory guide her, she coaxed her nervous horse down the narrow cobblestoned street, left, then straight three blocks, into Jugglers' Alley, past the Yellow Dog tavern, then right and left again onto a wide, silent street. The buildings' tall stone facades made an elegant fence. Trellises wound with yellow and red and white roses stood in front of every door. The street smelled strongly of flowers.

"What's this street?" Finle asked.

"The Avenue of Roses. This is the perfumiers' quarter. See that arch? The Hotel Goude is on the other side of it." They trotted down the boulevard to Three Lions' Square. It was not a square, but a circle of deep green lawn. In the center of the sward, three lions turned their wide marble countenances to the sun. Water sprayed from their mouths and fell into a pool at their feet.

The hotel was two floors tall, of gleaming pink stone. A broad marble stairway rose from the street to the hotel's entrance. As they reached the steps, a brigade of stableboys shot out of the shade of the hotel walls. Karadur swung from his saddle.

Amaral, the hotel's owner, hurried down the steps.

"Welcome to the Hotel Goude, my lord!" he called, bowing deeply to the dragon-lord. "Your rooms are ready." He snapped his fingers at the hovering grooms. Edruyn pulled the dragon standard from his pack. It would fly over the hotel while Karadur Atani was in the city. Hawk tossed Lily's reins to a waiting stableboy. As they strode through the hotel lobby she glimpsed Magnus at his post.

A page led them to the hotel's second floor. He opened a door. "The Gold Suite," he announced grandly, and withdrew. The rooms—a sitting room, a bedroom—were hung with cloth of gold.

Finle said, "My lord, they are bringing food and drink. Do you need aught else?"

"No," Karadur said. He went inside. The page showed Hawk and Finle to a room across the hall. It held four pallets, each with a chest. It had two narrow windows. Hawk took the pallet beneath the far window. Finle sank onto a bed. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Tired?" Hawk said.

He looked up. His hair was standing straight up on his head.

"Gods, aren't you?"

She grinned at him, and went looking for a privy. When she returned, there were platters of food—grilled capons, a whole fish, a huge bowl of ripe figs—and a large pitcher of beer on the table. Finle handed her a capon leg. The sounds of the city echoed upward from the streets. In a little while, Herugin entered. He went straight to the beer and drank a mug without stopping.

"Ah, that's good," he said. He set the tankard down.

"How's Rosset?" Finle asked.

"Fine. His stall's bigger than this room." He reached for a plate. "How's Dragon's temper?"

Finle made a face. "The same." It had taken them five days to come from the Keep to Ujo. Karadur had been withdrawn and silent, with a smolder to his gaze that made them all walk softly near him. He had wanted Azil Aumson to come to Ujo with them, and Azil had refused. Why, none of them knew. Azil rarely refused the dragon-lord anything.

Hawk finished her meal. "I'll be back," she said. She found Magnus in the lobby. He had been head concierge at the Hotel Goude for twenty years: he knew every boulevard, every alley, every tavern and gamblers' den and moneylender's stall. He knew who sold the best wine, and where to get boots repaired, and which guard to bribe if you were caught outside the wall after the gates had closed.

He grinned. "Terrill Chernico. I heard you were in the north." They clasped palms. Hers had a gold piece in it. "So that's the Dragon of Chingura. He looks—severe. Is it true he stormed a wizard's castle, and captured a great treasure?"

"Of course it's true," she said. "Do you still know everything that happens inside the city?"

"Pretty much," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"Who else is in the city?"

He ticked the names off on his fingers. "Marichal is at the Hotel Bene. The Talvelai are at the Hotel Imago. The Oseppi and the diScala are with cousins. None of the lords from Derrenhold, Serrenhold, nor Mirrinhold are here."

"Any of the Chuyo lords?"

"Isheverin was supposed to come—the son, not the father. But at the last minute he cried off."

"That's not a good sign," Hawk said.

"No, it's not. What else do you want to know?"

"When's the wedding?"

"Tomorrow, at dawn, in the Temple of the Mother. It's to be very private: family, the abbess, a few witnesses. After, there is to be a feast at the Lemininkai's palace. The Lemininkai's proclaimed a three-day holiday. Footraces, horse races, wrestling matches and shoots, sword bouts, dancing, singing, two masques—and that's only the public sport."