The Dragon Lord (17 page)

There was a pallid light beyond the shuttered windows that told of oncoming dawn. Soon the house-servants would appear, with their mask-like faces which betrayed nothing of thoughts of disapprovals within, and their[* *]quick, capable hands which would tidy the aftermath of the night without any reaction to what they might have to touch. Just as they had done so many times before.

Except that now was not like all those other times.

None of those other times had ever left her feeling as she was feeling now. None of them had left a dead man stiff and cold on the floor at the foot of her bed. None of them had left the contents of a shattered skull soaked darkly into the rugs. None of them had left the foetid taint of death hanging on the air.

Kathur felt a churning looseness in the pit of her stomach and tried to close her nostrils to the reek, her mind to its source; rolling onto her side, she stared at the blankness of the wall beside the bed—stared anywhere, indeed, just so that she would no longer have to stare at the corpse with its smashed half-expression of surprise, or at the door which still gaped wide like the corpse’s slack-jawed mouth, or even at the side of the room from which her snug and sybaritic world had been so totally torn asunder.

As she lay there, trembling, her skin slick with the icy sweat of nausea, her hearing seemed to grow uncannily acute and she could hear the most minute noises with utmost clarity. Noises distant: the tick of a bird’s claws and the rustle of its feathers as it perched to preen on the sill beyond the window. Noises close: her heartbeat and breathing, and the whispering of silk disturbed by the rise and fall of her own rib-cage.

And the noises of soft movement at her back.

Kathur’s heavy, drowsy eyelids snapped wide open and her very eyes seemed to bulge out of sockets that were no longer deep enough to contain them: sapphires inadequately bedded in a mask of carven ivory. For this was no sound made by a servant; they were quiet—but this was stealthy. Hope and horror fought for precedence in the half-dozen slams of her suddenly-racing heart. Because it might be Kourgath. Or equally it might be Voord.

Her head jerked up and around to look over the obstruction of her own shoulder, but flinched backwards in the self-same movement with a shrill small mew of terror, away from the glittering point of a sword which hung unmoving on the air less than a handspan from the fragile bubble of her eye. Had she sat up more abruptly— ! The very thought of what might have happened turned her belly sick again. Even now, the most minute forward thrust of that implacable steel and…

Her eyes focused beyond the weapon’s point, and it was neither Voord nor Kourgath after all.

The intruder was cloaked, and hooded so deeply that the swathing of cloth resembled the cowl of a holy man. All that could be seen of the face within the hood was an inch or two of smooth chin; and it was impossible for even a gaze as experienced as Kathur’s to read anything from that. But the thrusting-sword drew back a considerate inch or two, and its tip swung to one side so that it was no longer aimed quite so directly at Kathur’s eye. The small motion which shifted it was accompanied by a dry metallic scraping, and that told her something at least. Whoever and whatever this person was, they wore armor.

“No noise.” The figure’s free hand moved across the hood’s opening in a gesture which Kathur had never seen before, but understood at once: A quick, neat blending of the sign for silence and the threat of throat-cutting. She swallowed down a gullet that, though sore from screaming and… screaming, was still intact, and nodded hasty agreement while trying to fit a nervous smile onto a face which plainly didn’t want to carry it. The cowl studied her. Nodded once in response. Then a finger jerked out at her with a suddenness that made Kathur jump. “And no movement.”

Feeling like a mouse beneath the flight path of a kestrel, movement was the last thing in her mind.

As Kathur lay quite still, her anonymous visitor stalked about the room, dabbing inquisitively at things with the murderous point of that long sword, and despite the voluminous folds of the oversized cloak still contriving to move with all the mincing, lethal grace of a hunting cat. Kathur could see that it would take little provocation— probably none at all—for this particular individual to respond with a burst of killing violence. Whatever else the cloak concealed, it made a poor job of hiding ten-sion, apprehension—and rising irritation. The dead man on the floor was inspected with no more than cursory interest. Until the
telek
dart which had killed him was found embedded in a panel of the wall.

“So.” A glance—a sweeping glare from the blank blackness within the hood—studied distance, trajectory and penetration, and drew some conclusion from them all. “So, and so, and so… Did the Alban do this?”

The question snapped out harsh and clear after the muted introspective muttering of voiced thought, and again Kathur jumped. At first she did not answer, and for her hesitation was lashed by a volley of words in a language which she had never heard before. “Answer, damn you!” The voice returned to Jouvaine again, more heavily accented than before and using the most basic mode; each word’s meaning was unequivocally clear now, and the speaker knew it. “Did the Alban do this— and if he did, why?”

Whatever patience there had once been in that voice was eroding fast, and as the cloaked figure took two long steps forward, it led with a levelled sword. Now not only accent but tone and timbre were impossible to ignore. There was something wrong about all three, something very wrong indeed, but still Kathur could not place what instinct said was obvious.

“Why, and when, and where is he? What is going on here?” The hood was pushed back, then shaken clear of its wearer’s head.

And Kathur knew at last what was wrong. Except that it was
right

“I can’t help but think,” muttered Gemmel half to himself, “that
I
may have caused last night’s fog.”

“You… ?” Dewan ar Korentin flexed the big muscles of his shoulders and back in a huge yawn-and-stretch. Gemmel had been uneasy about entering a tavern and Dewan had given way to the old man’s doubts; they had spent a chilly, uncomfortable night in some farmer’s hay-barn, and now there were kinks in Dewan’s spine which felt as if they would be there forever. He was getting too old for this, too old and too soft. Tonight, like it or not, wizard’s objections or not, they were going to sleep in beds like human beings, not like rats in a rick. “Why say so? And why worry? It’s gone.”

Gemmel glanced at his companion and said something in a voice so low that Dewan made more sense from the movement of his lips. “I say so because I believe so— and I worry for the same reason. You saw what happened with this thing just as well as I.”

Dewan looked at him, then at the Dragonwand, and grunted expressively. “I wonder what else you might believe, old man. And what else might happen because of it.”

“That, friend Dewan, is something we may find out before much time has passed us by…”

The morning bloomed around them like a flower. Dewan had been right: the fog was gone, leaving in its wake a cloudless, chilly blue sky which toned through pastel shades of rose and saffron towards where the sun rose on their landward side beyond a screen of tree-clad hills. They were still very close to the sea, moving northeast towards Tuenafen Port on the Inner Coast-Road; the Outer Coast-Road ran a hazardous course along the crest of the limestone cliffs which marked the Empire’s western boundary, and in rough weather was prone to lose stretches of itself to the hungry sea.

“
Yo
! Look there!” Ar Korentin pointed with the full length of his right arm towards the ocean—or more accurately, towards the black speck scudding across its beaten-metal surface. “Warship,” he pronounced with such authority that Gemmel didn’t quibble his opinion.

Not aloud, anyway; but the sorcerer reached into his satchel, withdrew a long-glass and studied the speck with it before uttering his agreement. “As you say: warship. And a big one. Bigger than I’ve ever seen before. Look.” He passed over the long-glass. “What is it?”

Dewan squinted, and held his breath; the wizard’s glass was more powerful than any he had used before, and just the beat of his own pulse was enough to send the magnified image dancing wildly about. It took him a few moments to fix the distant vessel in the circular field of view, and some seconds more to adjust its focus for his eye. Then he said something malevolent in his own language, something which provoked a raised eyebrow from Gemmel and suggested a certain familiarity with Vreijek oaths.

“Apart from that,” he said, “what is it?”

“A battleram.” Dewan’s “of course” was unvoiced, but there all the same. “I should have guessed. Anything else would be too small to notice at… what, a mile-and-a-half?”

“Nearer two. He’s bearing north. Out of Tuenafen?”

“There isn’t another port on this stretch of coast that can take battlerams; not unless they’ve built one in the past few years and managed to keep it secret. Which,” he slid the long-glass shut and handed it back, “I very much doubt.”

Then he stared at Gemmel, guessing from the old enchanter’s face that they were sharing the same thought.

“Aldric…” Gemmel said it first.

“We’re too late.”

“That… that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether he’s aboard that ship; if he is, on who put him there. And on its destination.”

“You know more about this business than you’ve let slip before, don’t you?” Dewan accused, watching the sorcerer’s reaction closely.

“More—but not enough. Rynert is very good at keeping secrets.” Gemmel said nothing more for a while; he was watching the distant battleram dwindle beyond sight, and thinking unguessable thoughts about kings and conspiracies and other matters which were of importance only to himself. Then he glanced at the sky. The sun was well up now, though still concealed by the wooded high ground, and its glow was already giving a suggestion of warmth to the late autumn morning. “It’s going to be a good day,” he said idly, unslinging his satchel and taking a pack of biscuit and dried meat from it. “Breakfast?”

“Thanks.” Dewan took a helping of the food; jerked beef like strips of leather, and twice-baked sheets of wheaten bread which both looked and felt as if it had been sawn from the trunk of a tree. It and the meat required as much effort to eat as if they had been in very truth what they merely resembled; breakfast was an exercise in chewing rather than a meal. “By the way,” the Vreijek said after finally disposing of his first mouthful and washing it down with a swallow of black, bitter beer, “I’d sooner you said nothing more about the weather.”

Gemmel squashed the beginnings of a smile. “Because it might be unlucky? I hadn’t thought superstition would be one of your vices.”

“Call it caution; I’ve grown very… very cautious since I met you. And since the beach beyond Dunacre. The Valhollans have a wise proverb: don’t praise the day until evening—”

“Or ale until it’s been drunk. Pass the beer.” He drank, and made a face. “This Hertan brew doesn’t travel well, does it? Yes, I know the proverb you mean. It goes on and on rather. Don’t praise a maiden until she’s been married—and don’t praise a wife till she’s dead. Quite…” He laughed softly. “Well, I can praise my wife and will if you want to listen—but why that proverb in particular? You’re not known for quoting things.” He stared sharply at the Vreijek. “Especially words from Valhol. What made you think of it?”

“Just a thought. An idle notion. Nothing more.”

Gemmel looked at him and smiled, and drank more beer, and said nothing at all.

When they stopped again the day hung on the cusp of noon; and with ill-concealed dismay Dewan surveyed a scene which he had not expected. For the past hour he had been praising the tavern where they planned to stop for a midday meal, and maybe rent the use of horses. Except that the tavern was no longer there. Oh, it had been until recently, and parts of its structure remained— but most of these were blackened, charcoaled wood and the rest were shanty reconstructions. Everything else was gone.

“So much for dinner,” said Gemmel drily. “I still have some beef and biscuit—if you want it.” He did not even trouble to feign enthusiasm at the prospect. Dewan made an expression of distaste and stalked across the seared ground to find out what had happened—also to ask what might be left that was worth raiding.

He found out rather more than he had been expecting.

Dewan supplied speculative details himself, when relating the innkeeper’s story to Gemmel. Both men knew enough to make educated guesses whenever blank spaces in the secondhand story gaped too wide; and Dewan in particular was able to draw on his Imperial and Alban military service to suggest answers.

“It seems,” said Gemmel around a mournful of excellent spiced beef stew—the tavern was making a determined effort to get back on its feet, and its more loyal patrons were chivalrously undeterred by the state of the place—”that we are going to Tuenafen regardless, and once there to find someone who can tell us a thing or three.” He swallowed, and drank good red wine with an air of satisfaction.

“Find someone who might need persuasion, you mean.” Dewan broke bread into his own portion, Vreijek-style, and sank a chunk or two idly with his spoon; then tapped for emphasis on the bottom of the bowl. “But if this is the work of
Kagh’ Ernvakh
, both the finding and the persuading will be difficult.”

“
Kagh’ Ernvakh
?” Gemmel repeated the Drusalan words carefully; their literal meaning was clear, but what Dewan meant by them was a mystery to him. It was a mystery easily solved.

“The Honorable Guard. The Guardians of Honor. Translate it into Alban however you like, Gemmel—it still means nothing more than the Secret Police.”

“Ah. And by ‘persuading’ you mean torture.”

“Don’t lose your appetite, old man.” Dewan grinned briefly. “Persuasion covers more than you think: bribery, coercion, blackmail… I don’t want to hurt anyone, any more than you do.” He lifted another sheet of bread and stared at it thoughtfully, then ripped it across and across with unsubtle emphasis. “But if I must, then—”