Dragon Stones (46 page)

They walked unchallenged across the bridge, ignored by the guards stationed along its length.  Once on the other side, it was a short walk to the castle gates, which stood open to allow townsfolk and merchants to come and go.  That was good, but she had been hoping for more activity than she saw; the light traffic would give the guards an opportunity to inspect her and T'Sian more closely than they otherwise might.  Tolaria had spoken of numerous carts and heavy foot traffic into and out of the castle, but Dunshandrin had been secretly preparing for war at that point, and had probably been stocking up on food and other perishables.  Now that the war had begun, trade had dwindled.

"Remember," she whispered to the dragon, "let me answer their questions, if they ask any."  T'Sian grunted a response.  If the dragon still had a tail, Diasa thought, it probably would be twitching in irritation.

The guards eyed them as they approached; two ambled over to meet them.  "Who's this, then?" the one on the left said, peering at T'Sian.

"A visitor to see Qalor."

"And who are
you
supposed to be
?"

His companion, staring at her while chewing on a hunk of dried meat, said:  "I've never seen a girl guard before."

"And you aren't seeing one now," Diasa said.  "I'm no
girl
.  I'm a
woman
, and more than a match for you two."

The guard with the meat guffawed; the other one said:  "Are the twins running so low on men that they need to start hiring girls?"

"I told you, I'm no girl.  Let us through.  Qalor is waiting."

"Let him wait.  Qalor doesn't decide who passes through these gates.  What's your name?"

"Diasa."

"Not you, her."

"I am T'Sian."

"Tuh-syan?  What kind of name is that?"

After a moment, the dragon said:  "An old one."

"Where are you from?"

Another long pause.  "The mountains.  Why do you ask so many questions?"

The two men exchanged a glance.  "Because we're
guards
," the first one said, "and you two look suspicious."

Diasa decided that she had to put a stop to this before T'Sian lost her temper and did something ostentatious, such as flinging the men over the castle wall.  "Are you going to let us through or not?" she said.  "You're wasting my time."

"Well, here's the thing," the one on the left said.  "You're dressed like a guard, but we've never seen you before.  You're escorting someone who isn't a servant or a merchant or a courtesan.  And you're armed.  You see our problem."

"If you send for Qalor, he'll tell you—"

"I guess you didn't hear me the first time.  Qalor doesn't say who comes and goes."  The man stroked the thin growth of beard along his chin, eyeing Diasa.  Was he planning to proposition her, offering admission to the castle in exchange for a little private time behind the guardhouse?  But then he surprised her by saying:  "Show me your blade."

He must have noticed that the hilt of her weapon looked different from the corded pommels of the swords that the real  guards carried.  She drew it from its scabbard and held it sideways for inspection, ready to bring it around and use it if the need arose; but the men merely stared at her steel in unabashed envy.  "That didn't come from the armory.  Where did you get it?"

"It was my father's.  He told me it was forged by dwarves in the Oronj Mountains, using metal from a fallen star."

The man licked his lips.  "Tell you what.  If you'll trade your sword for mine, I'll let you in the castle."

"Yours?" his companion cried.  "Why not mine?"

"Because I have seniority."

"But my uncle's the castellan."

"I don't care who's senior or who has powerful relatives," Diasa said.  "I've seen the butter knives that you call swords," she said, sheathing her weapon.  "It's no loss to me if you refuse us entry; you'll have to answer to your superiors when they find out, that's all."

"All right, I'll trade you my dagger as well."

"A spoon to go with the butter knife?  I think not."  She took T'Sian's hand and started to lead her away.  "Come on, T'Sian, back to the village with you."

A new voice said:  "What's going on over here?"

Diasa turned back.  Yet another guard had joined them; this one evidently outranked the other two, judging by the way they stepped aside to make room for him.

"This woman seeks admittance to the castle, Maelus."

Giving Diasa a cold look, the one called Maelus said:  "That uniform doesn't fit you very well."

"The tailors don't know how to stitch for a woman."

"So you purport to be a member of the guard, then?"

"I do."

"Really.  And who is your captain?"

"My captain?"

The man nodded slightly; the other two watched, amused expressions on their faces.  T'Sian also stood by, waiting.  Diasa wondered how much longer it would be before the dragon started swinging her fists.

"I am waiting for an answer," he said.

"I'm not sure you will know his name."

"I know the names of all the guards and mercenaries," he said, "but I don't know you."

"Well," she said, "the man I report to is called Gelt."

After a moment, Maelus said:  "You … work for Gelt?"

"Oh, yes," she said.  She put on a sardonic smile.  "I was with him on several of his missions.  I could not accompany him on his most recent journey, although he wanted to send me on ahead of him, as I had pressing business here."

Glancing back at the other guards, Maelus said:  "You two are dismissed.  I'll handle this."  As the two returned to their positions near the gate, Maelus said softly, "You cannot discuss Gelt in front of the common men!"

"I didn't want to," Diasa said.  "You forced me into it."

"And the … woman?  She is part of whatever you're doing?"

Narrowing her eyes, Diasa said:  "Haven't you and your men meddled quite enough already in Gelt's affairs?  When I report this incident to him, how angry do you suppose he will be?"

Maelus blanched slightly.  "You may pass, of course," he said, stepping aside.  "Please give your master my regards."

Not answering, Diasa took T'Sian's arm and guided her through the gates.  The two guards Maelus had sent away gave them surreptitious looks as they passed, perhaps wondering who Gelt was and why his name had granted them entrance to the keep.

After they had gone through the gates, T'Sian said, "How did you know they would let us through if you said you worked for Gelt?"

"I didn't.  It was the only name I had to offer."

"Oh."  T'Sian was silent a moment, then said:  "Was your father's sword really made by dwarves using metal from a fallen star?"

"No, of course not."

"Why
of course not
?"

Sometimes talking to the dragon was like talking to a child.  "For one thing, it's not my father's sword, it's mine; I don't know who my father is.  Besides, dwarves do not exist."

T'Sian chuckled.

"What?"

"I have lived in the mountains for many, many years, Diasa," the dragon said.  "There
are
dwarves deep beneath the high peaks; a band of them once accidentally tunneled into the lower part of my lair."

"Really?"

"Yes," T'Sian said.  "They tasted terrible."

Pyodor Ponn had just reached the bridge on the castle road when he saw T'Sian and Diasa talking with the guards at the gate.  He paused there, tightening Diasa's cloak around his waist, and waited.  He could hardly run up to them now; the two of them were spectacle enough without having himself scurry up to join them.  He watched as Diasa conversed with the guards for some time, first two, then three, then one; he thought the guards would turn them away, but in the end they were allowed to pass.  Ponn waited until they were in the castle, then moved slowly up the road, keeping his face turned toward the ground, the hood of Diasa's cloak up over his head.  The garment was overly long on him, the hem dragging through the mud, the sleeves drooping past his wrists; wearing it, he felt constricted and ungraceful, but it helped to conceal his features.  To the eyes of others on the road, he probably looked like a hunched old woman wearing scrounged clothing, which was preferable to looking like a furtive Enshennean.

But it would not be enough to get him through the gates; the attention Diasa had received convinced him of that.  So when, on the far side of the bridge, he noticed a small, faint trail leading off to the right, he paused, eyeing it.  The path skirted the stony hill, descending along the side of the stone outcropping on which the castle stood, eventually reaching the level of the river.  Intrigued, Ponn followed it.  He quickly lost sight of the main road, having circled partway around the northern face of the cliff.  The fast-moving river rushed by to his right, constrained within steep, rocky banks; mist from the rapids slicked the red rocks, making the footing treacherous and putting a chill into the air.  He pulled Diasa's cloak a little tighter as he walked, keeping an eye on the cliff to his left, hoping to find a spot that looked scalable.  Unfortunately the palisades tipped outward near the top, such that he would have to climb upside-down in order to gain the ledge; not impossible, but very difficult, especially considering that he would be trying to bring a wounded man out with him.

At length the path widened into a roughly circular area where the stone had been well-trod; it went no further, as if the entire purpose of the trail were to reach this point.  He poked around among the rocks, finding some scraps of garbage but nothing of much interest.  He studied the wall for a few minutes, taking its measure, noticing a shallow chute in the side of the hill.  It pierced the overhang through a notch.  Could he climb here?  The walls were smoother than he would have liked, but it was narrow enough that he could brace himself against each side.

Ponn slipped out of Diasa's cloak and tied it around his waist, then took off his shoes and secured them between the cloak and his back; he would climb barefoot, so that he could feel the rock beneath his toes.  It looked damp and crumbly, with patches of slick blue-black lichen, and he anticipated a difficult ascent.  He stepped into the chute and was struck by a stale, sour odor emanating from the rock, like rotting offal.  The fiery mountains of Enshenneah emitted a similar stench, but this was clearly not a volcanic formation; why should it stink?

Pondering the mystery of the malodorous stone, Ponn began to climb.  He had not gotten more than five or six feet up when a small projection broke off under his fingers, sending him sliding back to the bottom.  He would have to choose his handholds more carefully.  He started again, and got about ten feet before the brittle stone betrayed him again; he checked his fall by jamming his arms and legs against the side of the chute.  Wedged in that position, he probed for a new toehold, found one, and tested it with part of his weight.  It held, but this difficulty didn't bode well for the rest of the climb; he was scarcely a third of the way to the top.  Much higher, and a fall would likely be injurious, if not fatal.

He resumed climbing, slowly, not committing his weight to any fissure or protuberance until he had tested it for several seconds.  The cliff face continued to crumble beneath his fingers and toes.  At about twenty feet up, he found himself stranded with no handholds within reach; he shimmied up the sides of the chute, the stone digging into his toes and knuckles, until he found a shelf wide enough to grip and strong enough to bear his weight.  As he neared the top, he heard the screech of grinding metal.  He froze, clinging to the stone, wondering what had made the sound; then a rush of noisome fluid washed down the chute, carrying rotten vegetables, spoiled meat, small bones, and moist clumps of unidentifiable excrement.  He held on as the effluence splashed over him, eyes and mouth shut tight, trying to hold his breath; by the time the flood ended he was thoroughly coated in filth and smelled like a cesspool.

Ponn started climbing again, but now the channel was freshly slicked and he had to travel even more slowly than before.  An exhausting few minutes later, he hauled himself over the edge, finding himself on a lip of stone barely six feet wide.  The castle wall loomed above him, higher than the cliff had been, made of fitted blocks taller than a man.  In the side of this fortress he saw a rusty iron lift-gate, still raised, revealing a stinking black maw on the other side.  A thin trickle of effluence dribbled from the opening, the last remnant of the sewage that had inundated him.  As he moved to investigate, he heard voices approaching from below.  He pressed himself flat against the ledge, then crawled forward to peer over the lip.  A trio of figures approached along the path he had followed, sad, hunched villagers clad in tattered clothing, chattering about village gossip.  Two carried old wooden buckets at their hips, while the third carried a basket.  They stopped directly below him, where the chute spilled onto the jumbled rocks above the river.  Some of the discharged waste had accumulated among the stones, and the villagers began picking through the filth, taking vegetables, bones, bits of bread, whatever might be edible.  They were going to take this salvaged food away, he realized.  Perhaps they would eat it, or sell it.  That explained the path, and why it ended where it did.  Occasionally one of their finds would prove too rotten and they would throw it into the river, but they kept a distressingly large proportion of what they took.