Dragon Stones (17 page)

He laughed then, and said:  "You're such a pessimist."

Tolaria sank into a chair near the window, staring at the azure sky, feeling the sun warm on her face.  "Are you here to make small talk, or do you want something from me?"

"Do you dislike small talk?"

"It depends on the subject, and the speaker."

"The subject?  Let us speak of Flaurent, then.  Would that interest you?"

"Flaurent?  What of it?"

"We have dispatched a party to deal with our escaped thief.  The wizard has gone with them; we expect him to bring back something special."

"Oh?  A crate of free salt, perhaps?"

"You
are
in a mood, aren't you?  Fortunately Tomari is not here to be goaded.  Tell me, Tolaria, do you remember anything of what you told us when you were under Orioke's influence?"

"No.  Oracles usually don't remember what they say when they make predictions.  Or," she added, "when they are being abused by wizards."

"You gave us the true name of some sort of elemental that resides at the school, working underground, manipulating earth and stone.  Orioke is quite confident that, armed with this information, he can bind it to our service."

"Just think of all the mud huts you can raise."

"I'm more interested in what we may be able to knock down."  He dragged over another chair and sat beside Tolaria; Wyst, evidently grateful to have been forgotten, melted away, returning to a distant corner and settling onto a pallet.  "You were at Flaurent for many years; did you ever hear of this creature before?"

"No."

"Nor did I.  Yet the wizard knew of it."

She shrugged.  "Wizards know things."

"This one knows too much."

"He's your servant now," Tolaria said.  "Have him give you a full accounting of everything he's ever learned."

"If only I could," Torrant said.  "If only I could."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ponn and T'Sian entered Dyvversant from the southeast, following an old trade route that came out of the Oronj Mountains.  The season was late for crossing through the pass; they encountered only a single plodding caravan heading out of the city.  He couldn't remember the last time he had arrived via the overland route.  Why take the treacherous path through the mountains, when the sea was so much faster?

T'Sian drew interested glances from the drivers.  Ponn, watching surreptitiously, spotted no one he knew among those on horseback; but some acquaintance or business partner of his could be riding in one of the enclosed wagons, peering languidly out from heavy purple curtains, eyes widening as Ponn went by in the company of this strange, striking woman.

At the outskirts of the city, Ponn took T'Sian's wrist and pulled her to the side of the road.  Her skin, which looked soft and fair, felt hot and unyielding as sunbaked rock; it was like grasping a marionette made of newly-fired clay.  She looked at the hand that held her, then at him; understanding the unspoken message, he released her and said:  "Is it possible for you to assume a less … impressive appearance?"

She stared at him, eyes smoldering.  "What do you mean?"

"You are very … memorable.  If you wish to go unnoticed, then you might want to look more ordinary."

"I wish for
you
to go unnoticed," she said.  "If my appearance distracts others from you, so much the better."

"I have friends here, connections.  No matter what you look like, they will know me.  They will want to see me, discuss business, buy me drinks."  Then, pointedly:  "They will ask me about you."

Her reptilian tongue flicked out and across her lips.  "And what will you tell them, Pyodor Ponn?  Will you tell them I am a dragon who stole you away from your home?  Will you tell them I could burn their city to the ground if the whim took me?"

He didn't like the gleam in her eye when she said that.  She would, he thought, be more than happy to carry out that threat.  "No, of course not," he said.

"Perhaps you should.  Perhaps they would be frightened and give you information."

"More likely they would think I had lost my wits."

"It does not matter to me if your associates think you are mad."  She turned her back on him, looking at the outskirts of Dyvversant instead.  "Now, Pyodor Ponn, where are we going?"

"To an inn."

"What is it called?"

"
Nowhere Special.
"

She glanced over her shoulder.  "If it is nowhere special, why are we going there?"

"That's its name."

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's something of a joke.  Someone asks where you're staying, and you say
Nowhere Special
.  Someone asks where you've been, and you say
Nowhere Special
.  Someone
—"

"Enough.  Let us go.  When we arrive, you will describe Gelt and his men and find out if they have been seen."

"As you wish," he said.  "We can stay there for a few days while I make inquiries."  He would also leave a message to be smuggled back to Plenn, but there was no reason for T'Sian to know that.

They started walking again, proceeding into the city.  Unlike Astilan, the capital city far to the northeast, Dyvversant lacked an outer wall; it merely began, first with farms and granaries, then neighborhoods of small houses and shops; as one approached the downtown, the architecture became dense, buildings abutting each other, narrow dark alleyways between them.  As Ponn had expected, T'Sian drew some attention.    Usually when he came to Dyvversant, he was the one who attracted the casual eye; despite its proximity to Enshenneah, few of Ponn's countrymen wandered the streets of this city; those who did come tended to be sailors, arriving at and staying close to the harbor.  Now, however, he was a mere curiosity compared to the giantess by his side.

After a passing group of young rakes assaulted her with catcalls, T'Sian glowered down at Ponn.  "People are staring at me," she said, her tone suggesting this was somehow his fault.

"I told you they would."

"Those men whistled at me."

"They must have found you attractive."  He supposed they were probably intoxicated; otherwise they would have noticed that despite her voluptuous shape and form-fitting garment, T'Sian was no ordinary woman, and certainly not someone to be idly propositioned.  "Perhaps you would like to assume a less striking form once we reach the inn?"

"No.  How much farther is it
to this nowhere place?
"

Ponn paused, looking around.  They had entered a square, with a small grassy area separated from the surrounding streets by low split-rail fencing.  The barrier did not look particularly functional; it served more as a warning not to enter the knoll than an actual impediment.  Within the fenced area, a wooden gallows stood, along with stocks, a post with chains, and other devices of punishment.  These held no prisoners at the moment, but the pile of burst and rotting fruits and vegetables in the sandy area beneath the stocks indicated that someone had been there recently.

"I think we need to take that road," Ponn said, indicating a wide dirt track to the right.  It descended at a fair angle, lined with shops, taverns, boarding houses; in the distance he could see the ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun.  A faded, hand-lettered sign at the corner said
Harbor
, with an arrow pointing toward the sea.

"You
think
?  You
said you knew this city, Pyodor Ponn."

"I do, but I don't normally come this way on foot."

"Are we lost?"

"No, we're not lost.  This is Execution Square."

"Execution Square?"

"It's a place where criminals are put to death by hanging.  They also imprison people here for minor crimes, make them stand for public humiliation, that sort of thing."

"Men come to watch other men be killed and tormented?"

"Some do, yes."

"Do you?"

"No."

She eyed the gallows, the stocks.  "A dragon would never stand for this sort of treatment."

"Well, dragons don't live in cities, do they?  Humans have a society, with rules; dragons have lairs."

She looked at him.  "Dragons have rules as well."

"Do they?"

"The first rule is to stay away from another dragon's lair."

"That doesn't surprise me," Ponn said.  "I'm quite sure the inn is this way.  Come."

As she followed him toward the harbor road, she said:  "The second rule is to kill any men who intrude upon your lair, or in the caves where the crystals grow."

"Well, you've broken that one, then," Ponn said.  Then:  "Unless you plan to kill me later?"

"Because you are assisting me," she said, "I see no reason to kill you at the moment."

Ponn wasn't sure how to take that, and fell silent; T'Sian, meanwhile, named a few more rules—one a quota of men that a dragon must eat each year, another governing how deep a dragon's hoard of gold and treasure must be—and he began to think she was making them up just to have sport with him.

The road brought them into a neighborhood that Ponn recognized.  He began looking for a shortcut he knew, an alley that led to the wharf, bypassing several blocks where the road meandered like an old river.  At night the alley could be dangerous, but in daylight it should be fine; and if there were any ruffians who thought to make a scene, T'Sian could certainly deal with them.

He soon spotted the street, and led her into the narrow, crooked avenue, stepping over a drunkard who lay sleeping just inside the opening.  The dragon looked down at the derelict with what Ponn took to be distaste, but she made no comment.  The passage wound through the spaces behind and between the buildings; it suffered from poor sanitation and worse drainage, so that they were forced to slog through muddy puddles strewn with unsavory refuse.

"Worse than a troll's warren," T'Sian muttered.  Ponn wondered what she might know of trolls or their warrens, but elected not to inquire.  Soon they emerged from the alley onto a shoddily cobbled street overlooking the shallow harbor.  A few small merchant craft floated in the water; another sat in dry dock, undergoing repairs.  It looked similar to Ponn's own boat, but if he wanted his vessel salvaged, he would have to carry it to the shipwright in a sack.  That thought led him to thoughts of Pord; had his son had been hiding somewhere on board during the voyage to the volcanoes?  Had he been there when Gelt's men had murdered all the sailors, when T'Sian had destroyed the ship?  No way to know, now; not until he got back home, and found the boy at the inn, waiting for him.  Or not.

"This place stinks of dead fish and unwashed men," T'Sian said, bringing him out of his reverie.

Did all dragons complain so much?  "Well, it
is
a wharf, so there are plenty of both."

She grunted.  "Are we near to this inn of yours?"

"Not far now."  He led her along the tilted road, past gaudily painted bars and taverns and flophouses vying for attention from merchants and seamen.  This late in the season, trade was not brisk; some of the smaller houses had already closed, and those that remained open were quiet.  The lack of activity in the neighborhood reflected the dearth of ships in the harbor.  They had rounded the bend of autumn, and winter was in sight up the road, threatening more storms like the one that had lashed the islands.

He stopped at the front step of the inn.  Unlike the other buildings in the vicinity, it displayed no garish colors, n
o sign above the door, no lettering on the front shutters; after all, this was nowhere special.

Eyeing the building, T'Sian said:  "This is it?"

"Yes."

"Now I see where the name comes from."

Was that a joke?  "I am part owner of this inn," Ponn said.  "Please don't destroy it."

"It hardly looks worth the trouble."

This fell far short of a promise, but it was probably the best he could hope for.  "Also, try not do anything overtly inhuman."  The dragon pulled back her lips into a grimace and flicked her serpentine tongue across her immense teeth.  "Yes, exactly," he said.  "Don't do anything like that."  Ponn opened the door and they went into the common room.  He had expected to find it quiet, but in fact it proved completely deserted.  The tables all stood vacant, the chairs pushed in, like flowers closed up for the night.  Where were the local rowdies?  Where were the sailors between voyages?

"Your inn does a brisk business," T'Sian said.  "You must be quite wealthy."

He turned to retort, but couldn't think of anything to say; being the target of sarcasm from a dragon left him flummoxed.  As they moved into the room, the door to the kitchen opened and the bartender emerged.  The man glanced their way and said:  "The inn is closed."  Then he took another look.  "Pyodor Ponn?"

"Yes."  Ponn crossed to the bar.  "Timmeon, what's going on?  Why is the inn closed?"