Dragon Stones (7 page)

"You … you burned the Crosswaters?"

"We didn't say that," Tomari said.

"We said there'd been a fire.  Just because someone brings news of a storm doesn't mean he caused it."

"But you
did
burn it, didn't you?"

"Perhaps you'll see the truth during your next vision." Torrant
brought the stone bowl over to the chair and placed it in her lap.  Now she knew why Tomari had tied her so tightly; she couldn't even wriggle enough to knock it to the floor.  "First we put in the herbs, then the powder, then the water.  Isn't that right, Tolaria?"

She stared at him, aghast.  How could he know that?  The mixing of the vapors took place in private chambers, out of sight of petitioners, be they commoners or nobles.  "You
never
wanted me to settle your dispute," she said.  "Even when you called for an oracle, your intent was to imprison whoever came."

"Have you only just realized that?" Tomari said.  Then, to Torrant:  "Perhaps she is not so clever as you thought."

"She is clever," Torrant said, "but she is also naïve."

Tomari laughed.  "We will cure her of that."

"You must realize that I can't forecast like this," she said desperately.  "These ropes—the chair—everything is wrong."

"Don't worry," Torrant said.  "We have every confidence in you."  He scooped out some herbs and sprinkled them into the bowl, then handed the box to Tomari and said, "Put this back and fetch the powder."

Tomari returned the herbs to the trunk, poked around a bit, and then said:  "There are two jars of powder."

"Red is for wisdom, white for divination," Torrant said.  "We'll be mixing the two, so bring both."

"How did you learn all this?" Tolaria said.

Torrant winked at her.  "Perhaps I'll tell you some time."  Then he stepped aside as Tomari brought the jars, placing them on a table beside the chair.  Torrant opened them and began spooning the calx into the bowl, first a pinch of white, then red, then a little more white.

"Please," Tolaria said, "you must not do this."

Torrant raised an eyebrow.  "Why not?"

"You're abusing my gift."

"This seems like quite a good use of your gift, actually," Tomari said.  "Certainly better than wasting it on some moldy farmer with a question about crop rotation."

"You must let me prepare the mixture," she said.  "If you've done it incorrectly, the vapors could harm me.  I would be useless to you then."

"Not to worry," Torrant said, smiling in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner.  He liked to maintain eye contact; she was not sure if he meant to intimidate her, seduce her, or both.  "The powders and herbs are in the correct ratio, more or less.  Tomari, the water, if you please?"

"I am not your servant," he said.

"In this matter, you are," Torrant said.

Muttering, Tomari fetched the pitcher from her washbasin, then dumped the entire contents into the bowl.  Water sloshed over the side, spilling onto Tolaria's dress; the mixture of powder and herbs fizzed and bubbled, making her knee tingle.

"You fool!" Torrant cried.  "That was too much!"

"But you said—"

"You were to use the bottle, not the pitcher!"  Torrant pointed at the bed, where her flask lay on its side, unopened.  "We must untie her!  There will be too much vapor!"

Fumes had begun to billow out of the bowl; Tolaria held her breath, blinked away tears as the miasma stung her eyes.

"There's no time," Tomari said.  "We must go before we're affected as well."  He seized his brother's arm and dragged him toward the door.

"You had better pray she survives the exposure intact," Torrant said, "or Father will have your head."

They exited, slamming the door behind them.

Tolaria struggled against her bonds, but they held her fast.  She couldn't hold her breath any longer and gulped for air, inhaling a draught of the vapor.  It made her lightheaded and dizzy; it made her want more.  She inhaled again, deeply, then tried to stop herself; but it was already too late, she was slipping away from consciousness, sliding into a strange, shadowed hall where past, present, and future flowed together like the three rivers joining at the Crosswaters.  She could still perceive the room around her, but it seemed false and faint, the palimpsest of an old drawing that had been erased and  covered with something new.

At length she heard the door open.  Footsteps hurried across the room.  She heard the shutters bang open, felt a cool draft; then the footsteps retreated and the door slammed shut.

Some time later, the door opened again, then closed.  Two men approached.  Their movements were strange, slow and jerky, like figures in a sketch book that danced as the pages flipped by.  She knew them, she thought.  They looked the same as each other.  Who were they?  What were their names?

One of them said:  "Tolaria?  It's Torrant."  His voice sounded slow and thick, like honey on a cold morning.  "Can you hear me, Tolaria?"

"Yes."

The other one said:  "Are you all right?"

She said nothing.

"I asked if you were all right."

Still, she said nothing.

"Why does she answer you but not me?"

"Perhaps she dislikes you," Torrant said.  "Or perhaps it's because your first question was not explicitly directed at her, and your second question was a statement.  Tolaria, who will be the first to return with the stones?"

"The steward, Dosen."

"Tolaria, when will Dosen arrive with the stones?"

"Before the sun reaches its apex, Dosen will have been and gone."

"Gone?" Tomari said.  "Why will he be gone?"  Pause.  "Tolaria, why will Dosen leave again after he arrives?"

"He has unfinished business in the mountains."

"Unfinished business?  What sort of—"

Torrant cut his brother off.  "That can wait for Dosen's arrival.  Tolaria is here to help with larger issues than his slipshod performance."

"Fine," Tomari said.  "Let's ask her if we'll win, then."

Torrant rolled his eyes.  "She won't answer that, Tomari."

"Why not?"

"I explained this already.  She's directly involved in the outcome.  They can't accurately forecast events that are tied so closely to themselves."

"Nonsense," Tomari said.

Dropping their voices, the two of them started squabbling; then Tomari turned to her and said, "Tolaria, will we be successful in this war?"

She sat, silent, as the voices in the dark hall of the future swirled around her, contradicting each other, saying things that couldn't possibly all be true.  The clamor prevented her from seeing anything clearly, and so she said nothing.

"Well?  Answer!"

"She won't answer," Torrant said.  "I told you so."

Tomari grunted, then said:  "Tolaria, what about the party we sent with Dosen to kill the dragon?"

"What about them?" she said.

"Enough, Tomari," Torrant said.  "Dosen's coming back, so he must have dealt with them.  There's no need to waste time on trivialities."

"She said there was unfinished business," Tomari said.  "Tolaria, did Dosen eliminate all the villeins who accompanied him?"

"No."

Tomari shot his brother a triumphant look, then turned back to Tolaria and said:  "Who escaped?"

She said nothing.

Torrant sighed.  "Tolaria, which hirelings did Dosen fail to kill?"

"A speaker of Words, and a picker of pockets."

"A speaker of words?" Tomari said.  "Everyone speaks words."

"A speaker of
Words.  
She means the wizard."

Tomari blanched.  "The wizard?  That fat fool let the
wizard
escape?  What if he comes here?"

"We will deal with him.  I'll speak to Qalor."

"You think potions will suffice against the wizard?"

"Unkind.  You know that Qalor is responsible for our more unconventional defenses.  They will come into play if the wizard attacks."

"What about the other one, then?  The picker of pockets?"

"One of the rogues, no doubt."

"I realize that, but which one survived?"

"Does it matter?" Torrant said.  "At the moment, an escaped thief is the least of our worries."

Before setting off for the cove where he kept his boat, Ponn stopped by the children's room, pulling back the curtain and peering into the darkness.  Not wanting to wake them, he did not venture inside; he merely looked at them, memorizing their sleeping faces.

When his gaze fell on Pord's bed, he frowned; the boy was not there.  Pord had made a rudimentary attempt to conceal his absence, wadding up his blanket into the semblance of a body, but the subterfuge was transparent and did not fool Ponn for a moment.

Uneasy, Ponn went to the kitchen, where Plenn was preparing a small sack of food for him to take.  "Almost ready," she said.  "Do you want hard cheese, or—"

"Pord is not in his bed," Ponn said.  "Have you seen him?"

She shook her head.  "I heard someone moving about in the common room earlier, but I didn't look.  I thought it was you, or a guest."

"Find him, but don't leave the other children alone.  Send people out to look for him if you must."

She nodded.  "And you?"

"I have to go," he said.  "Gelt said to meet him at sunrise.  If I don't leave now, I will be late."  He hugged her tightly, feeling her cheek wet against his.  "None of that," he whispered.  "I'll be fine.  I'll take them to the islands, and then they will give Prehn back to us."

"You believe that?"

"I must."

"How do we know they haven't already—"

Ponn put his finger on her lips.  "I'll bring Prehn back safely," he said.  "I promise."

He left then, forgetting to take the sack of food,  hurrying out the door so that she would not see the tears in his own eyes.  In the darkness before dawn, few people were about; those villagers he did see averted their eyes and didn't greet him, as if acknowledging his presence might cause their own children to disappear.

His route took him by a communal well, where he paused for a drink and then to duck his head in the trough.  It was a warm and sticky morning, the air dense and still; the cool liquid refreshed his hot, tired eyes, helped wake him up.  He had not slept well last night.

Water coursing from his thick black hair and dripping down his shoulders, Ponn left the well, following a little-used path into the brush that grew along the interior of the village stockade.  He followed the wall of tall, dark wood until he came to the notched log; then he began counting the panels as he passed, one, two, three.  When he got to fifteen, he stuck his fingers into a recess beneath the stub of a branch, pressed up on a hidden latch, and pulled.  The lower section of log pivoted open and he slipped into the jungle beyond the fence.

Once out of the village, he patted the yellow bone handle of his long, curved dagger.  He was quite sure that Gelt would confiscate it once he reached the boat—that was why he hadn't brought his good blade—but one simply didn't go into the jungle without one's knife.

The trail to the cove ran straight and flat through the jungle for some distance before turning sharply to the left and climbing the volcanic ridge that surrounded the lagoon.  By the time he reached the top, pink traces of dawn had begun to spread from the horizon.  Still no breeze in the air; they might have to use the oars in order to reach their destination.  The dragon islands were not visible from here, shrouded as they were by smoke and steam, like a shy girl covering herself in veils.

Beyond the arms of weathered black stone that protected the tiny harbor lay empty ocean, placid this morning, glittering under the rising sun.  The oarsmen were going to be spending a long, hot day rowing below decks, Ponn thought.  At least he, as the putative navigator, was unlikely to be pressed into that particular service.

Below, Ponn could see Gelt and his sailors—Enshenneans, he thought, though none he recognized—loading
their
supplies onto
his
ship.  It looked like they had even tossed some of his own cargo overboard; debris bobbed in the water near his vessel.  He bit back on his anger, thinking of Prehn.  They held her, and so he had to cooperate.

His gaze traveled up the beach to the caretaker's hut; he paid a man to live out here and keep an eye on his ship and the cove.  Two thugs stood outside the door of the cottage, arms folded, obviously on sentry duty.  He supposed that meant they hadn't killed poor old Shaumi; or maybe they had, and had put something in his cabin that required guarding.  Prehn, perhaps.

Four great eagles, tethered to a wooden post driven into the black sand, paced and strutted, their taloned feet leaving little tick marks on the beach.  They stopped their patrolling and stared at him with glossy black eyes as he descended the path and approached the ship.  Gelt hailed him as he approached.  "Good morning, innkeeper!" he called, waving as if they were long-separated friends.