Dragon Stones (6 page)

It seemed his options were to die slowly of thirst in the Salt Flats, of exposure in the mountains, or as a meal in the jungle.  Or he could return to Dosen's camp and die quickly, taking some of Dunshandrin's henchmen with him.

Adaran looked up the steep, wooded slope, toward the stony ridge, invisible through the trees.  It wasn't necessarily such a bad idea, sneaking back into camp; if he could steal some supplies—a few water-skins, some dried meat, some bread—and ration it properly, he might be able to reach one of the mining operations in the barrens below.

He moved away from the tree, making his way slowly up the slick, loamy slope.  He soon reached the edge of the trees, where the spiny ridge broke through the skin of the earth.  The umber cliff rose thirty feet or more above his head, weathered and crumbling; fortunate he hadn't been killed, falling blind from such a height.  He quickly located the chute he had come down, not far to his left; the ground was disturbed where he had landed.  Something gleamed from the earth and brown needles:  A lost dagger, the same one he had dropped when he'd tumbled off his eagle yesterday.  Evidently the strap that held it in its scabbard was in need of a leather-worker's attention.

He retrieved the weapon and slipped it back into its sheath; then he moved closer to the cliff, eyeing the stone.  The gully would be a good spot to climb, offering concealment during the crucial moment when he hauled himself over the edge of the cliff, unless Dosen had realized the same thing and thought to post a guard over it.  That was unlikely, Adaran decided; Dosen wouldn't be expecting him to come back.  One man against twenty?  Only a desperate fool would willingly walk into those odds.

Adaran assessed the rock face, his experienced gaze locating the cracks and crevices where his fingers and toes could find purchase.  After fully planning a route, he climbed the wall as quickly as he could given the crumbly slickness of the stone and the need for silence.  He soon reached the lip of the chute and scrambled inside, pausing there to listen for sounds of movement from the camp.  Nothing.  He moved forward, crouching as the crevice grew shallow, stopping at a spot where he could peer out without being seen.  The camp looked much as it had yesterday; they had left up the tents where he and the others had slept, where Redshen and Jenune had been murdered.  Orioke's tent, of course, had been destroyed.  He wondered if the wizard had survived, or if he had immolated himself and taken Dosen's men with him.

The steward's pavilion stood some distance away, flanked by the smaller shelters used by his men.  Beyond the tent city, the great birds were tied to iron posts driven into the rock.  He noted that most of the eagles were missing; he only saw two of them, one sitting like a hen on a nest, the other idly scratching at an animal carcass, the remains of an earlier meal.  Where were the others?  Out looking for him?  On their way back to Dunshandrin with the dragon stones?

The supply tent stood near the eagles; in order to reach it, he would have to sneak past all the guards, and then past the giant birds.

Fortunately, sneaking was his specialty.

Adaran lifted himself out of the crevice and scurried up the slope toward the camp, his soft leather boots silent against the stone.  The avians saw him coming, of course, and watched him with unblinking eyes, but they did not screech or otherwise raise an alarm.  Perhaps they remembered him.

Suddenly he realized that what he had taken for the bodies of goats or sheep were not animals at all.  He froze, appalled, an unexpected fury coloring his face.  Last night's treachery, while odious, was at least comprehensible as an attempt to conceal Dunshandrin's plot, to eliminate hirelings who might speak of it; but what manner of men would use human beings for offal, as if they were of no more consequence than squirrels or rabbits?

Adaran realized that he had taken out two daggers, holding one in each hand.  He didn't remember drawing them, and though he felt a strong urge to use them, he forced himself to put them away.  The birds did not act out of malice; their handlers had given them meat, and they had eaten it.  If he were going to wake the camp, it would be by sinking his blades into Dosen's fat belly, not by attacking a pair of overgrown chickens.

Trembling, he crept the rest of the way to the supply tent, opening the flap and ducking inside.  The cache of food and water was smaller than he had expected; perhaps they had taken some of it away on the missing birds.  He rummaged through the sacks and crates, taking whatever looked useful or edible and stuffing it into his voluminous pockets.  

Pulling aside a blanket, he came across a small woven net, not much bigger than a bird's cage, with a sturdy wooden floor and topped by a thick leather loop.  Something lay curled up inside of it.  He knelt down for a better look and then paused, shocked again, staring at the occupant:  A very small, copper-skinned, black-haired girl, apparently asleep.  With the blanket removed, she shivered in the morning chill; she wore only a thin green wrap that looked more appropriate to the tropics than these windblown peaks.

Suddenly, the eagles outside began to squawk loudly.  Leaving the girl, Adaran peered outside.  One of Dosen's thugs stood nearby, urinating off the edge of the ridge.  He turned his head to the screeching birds and shouted, "Be quiet!  I'm not feeding you, you stupid birds!"

Adaran drew a throwing knife, weighed it in his hand.  He could certainly hit the man from here, but there was no guarantee of a kill, and if he failed the guard would rouse the others.  He still didn't know how many henchmen remained in the camp, but he had to assume there were enough to overwhelm him.  He reluctantly put the knife away and withdrew into the tent.

The commotion had awakened the child; she clutched at the woven bars of her prison, small fingers curling through the gaps, huge dark eyes staring up at him.  "What is your name?" he whispered.  "Where are you from?"

No answer, other than whimpers.  He eyed the basket, trying to figure out how it opened, but there didn't appear to be a door.  Maybe they had put her on the wooden base and then knitted the thing up around her.  He took out a dagger, intending to cut through the tough-looking fibers, but the girl took one look at the blade and began to scream, her voice shrill and piercing.  How could someone so small be so loud?

"Hush!" he hissed, looking at the entrance to the tent and then back to her.  He put the dagger away.  "See?  All gone."

It didn't help; she kept screaming.  Adaran looked at the flap again.  Between the birds and the girl, the entire camp must be awake by now; someone would come to investigate.  He quickly tossed the blanket back over the net and then moved to the back of the tent, up against the canvas wall, sliding into a dark corner behind a half-empty crate of dried meat.  After a moment he grabbed a piece of jerky and stuffed it into his mouth.  Tough and salty, but edible.  He started to reach for another, then froze as a man came into the tent and said:  "Shut up already!"

The child's cries subsided into a muffled whimper.  The man's expression softened a little bit; he knelt down and lifted the blanket.  "Are you hungry?"

No answer.

"You must be cold.  I'll put you by the fire."  The soldier picked up the little prison by its leather handle and hauled it out of the supply tent.

Adaran snatched another bit of meat and gobbled it down as well, scarcely bothering to chew it this time.  He wondered if the man would return; he didn't know whether or not the girl could talk, or what language she spoke, or if she would tell the soldier that a stranger was in the tent.  Finally thirst got the better of him and he crept out of his hiding place in search of water, finding it in a barrel with a tap.  He took a drink directly from the spigot, then filled a water skin for the journey out of the mountains.

He heard someone approaching and scrambled behind the water barrel.  He stayed motionless in the pocket of darkness, watching as another man entered, rummaged in the food, and left with a handful of bread and some dry cheese.

This was a bad place to hide; people would likely be in and out of here all day long.  He was trapped now, though; the camp had come awake, and if he exited through the front of the tent he would certainly be seen.  Perhaps he could cut a slit in the back and slip out that way.

But what about the girl?  What was she doing here?  A little morsel for the eagles perhaps, something to whet their appetite?

He had to be sensible.  If he tried to rescue her, he would probably get himself killed.  But he couldn't stand to see anyone in a cage; and if Redshen were here, she would want to rescue the child.  She had a maternal streak that she was determined to keep hidden.  On the other hand, the child didn't appear to be in immediate danger.  The soldier hadn't made any move to harm her, other than frightening her by shouting.

He needed time to think, to plan.  Rescue the girl, or not?  Try to escape by day, or wait until dark and sneak off into the woods?

Leaving the questionable safety of his hiding place behind the water cask, he picked up the girl's blanket and took it to the far back corner of the tent, moving into the gap next to the crate of dried meat.  He enshrouded himself with the rough fabric, leaving a gap so he could see the entrance, and then cut an escape route in the tent so that he could slip out in case of emergency.

He took another piece of meat, chewed it slowly, wondering what he should do next, until sleep crept up on him and transformed his worries into disturbing dreams.

Tolaria sat at the window of her room, staring out across the narrow valley at the scrubby slope of the hills opposite her prison.  She thought she must be in the northern tower of the keep; the river rushed by almost directly beneath her sill.  She could jump from it and land in the water and be swept away, and might have done so, if not for the ornate iron grille that blocked the aperture.

Her fire had run low, but she couldn't add wood; the hearth, too, stood behind a barrier of black wrought iron, and could only be tended from the other side of the wall.  No doubt this was to prevent her from removing burning logs and setting the room alight.  She supposed she should be thankful that she had a fire at all, that they hadn't locked her in some dank corner of their dungeon like a cutpurse or common thug; they craved her services, and so they maintained the fiction that she was an honored guest instead of a prisoner.

She had begun to wish for both food and warmth when she heard a key in the lock.  She looked toward the door but didn't bother to stand as the twins entered, followed by a pair of burly servants.  The men carried the trunk that contained her belongings; she hadn't seen it since abandoning it in the wagon when she had first arrived here.  How long ago was that?  Astonishing how quickly one lost track of time when one's existence was reduced to sleeping and waking in a single chamber, day after day.

"Good morning," one of the twins said.  Tomari?  He carried a sack; she felt mildly surprised that he had not brought a boy along to bear that burden for him.  "I trust you slept well?"

"I have nothing to do here
but
sleep
, so I have become quite adept at it," she said.  "Have you come to your senses?  Are you here to apologize for imprisoning an oracle in violation of all courtesy and convention?"

Torrant laughed and called her saucy, while Tomari looked affronted; the servants exchanged an uncomfortable glance as they set the chest on the floor.  The twins felt themselves unbound by the usual codes of conduct and were manifestly unsuperstitious regarding her gift, but perhaps their henchmen could be persuaded that keeping her captive invited retribution from a higher power.  She knew what sort of legends about oracles circulated among the uneducated classes.

Torrant said:  "We are here to conduct a small test."

"What sort of test?"

He glanced at the two men.  "You will wait outside."

The twins watched silently as the men departed, shutting the door behind them; then Tomari removed a length of rope from the sack and advanced on her.  He motioned for her to move to a straight-backed chair in the corner.  She had examined that seat when she had first been imprisoned here, and hadn't liked the look of it; it sported iron loops fastened to the arms and legs, a leather strap that could go around the midsection, and what appeared to be a restraint for the head.  Bolts attached it securely to the floor.  "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you," she said.

Tomari grimaced, showing her his teeth; then he grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet, dragged her across the room, and threw her roughly into the chair.  If it were not fastened in place, it would have tipped over and spilled her out onto the stone.

"Gently," Torrant said; he had gone to her seat by the window and closed the shutters against the morning breeze.  "Don't damage her."

"She's fine," Tomari said.  He bound her feet and arms tightly to the chair, running the rope through the iron rings and tying it off near her feet, then fastening the belt across her stomach, his hands quite deliberately brushing her breasts.  He leered up at her.  "More than fine."

"This is intolerable!" Tolaria cried.  "When word gets back to the Crosswaters, they—"

"There's no one there to receive word," Torrant said.  He had opened her trunk—she had left it locked, but they doubtless had people who could open such things—and was now rummaging around inside.

"What?"

"There was a fire and the building was gutted," Torrant said.  "Many of the oracles perished.  You could well be the sole survivor.  Ah, here they are."  He removed the box of herbs and the stone mixing bowl, inspecting them as if they were treasures found at the bottom of a river.