Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (9 page)

"He's dead," Arlian said sharply.

Ferrezin bowed again, but said no more. Arlian looked at the chamberlain, at his snow-white hair and bony face, and wondered whether it might be past time to retire him, give him a pension and find him somewhere quiet to live, some family to care for him. By Ferrezin's own reck-oning, as just stated, he had lived over three-quarters of a century, without benefit of sorcery or dragon venom; he could scarcely be expected to simply labor on until he fell dead in his tracks.

Arlian wondered why the old fool's fancy had bothered him so much.

He and Enziet were both tall, dark-haired, well-built men, scarred on the right cheek, and both habitually wore black—mistaking one for the other was not really so unreasonable.

But Enziet had trimmed his garb in gold, while Arlian used white; Enziet's face had been beardless and badly marred, while Arlian's scar was a single streak of red and he wore a neatly trimmed beard. Anyone with a working eye could surely see as much at a glance. Even with the white plume removed from his hat, the difference was obvious.

Perhaps Ferrezin's eyesight was failing. Yes, definitely time to consider a pension.

"Is my wife at home?" Black asked, interrupting Arlian's thoughts—

and reminding him of yet another obvious difference between Enziet and himself; Enziet had had no companion who resembled Black in the slightest.

"I believe so, sir," Ferrezin replied, taking Arlian's cloak. "Shall I have the wagon emptied?"

"Please do," Arlian said. "We will be staying for some time, I hope."

Ferrezin bowed, and turned down a stone passage that led from the entry-way to the kitchens, hurrying as best he could to find a footman or two. He carried Arlian's cloak draped across one arm; he had apparently forgotten its presence, as he had passed the entrance to the cloakroom without pausing.

The man was overdue for retirement; Arlian had no doubt of that now. Ferrezin's momentary confusion of masters had been just one more sign of encroaching age.

It was just as well Arlian had returned now, and not left the matter any longer. Four or five years was clearly too long an absence.

When Ferrezin was out of sight, Black and Arlian proceeded on into the parlor. There Arlian stopped, to look about and re-acquaint himself with his surroundings; after his long absence the room was not as familiar as he might have liked. Someone had made changes while he was away; the cabinet by the door was gone, the draperies had been replaced, and he did not recognize a gilt-trimmed chair that now stood in one corner.

Well, it had been years, and the house had not been empty.

Behind him he heard Ferrezin calling orders, and booted feet running. A door slammed somewhere.

"Brook!" Black called, striding on into the gallery. "I'm home!"

Arlian wished he were so confident; this was nominally his home, yes, and certainly he owned it, but he had spent so little time actually living in this house, and it had been so long ago . . .

He sank slowly onto a brown velvet settee, and dropped his hat—

which Ferrezin should have taken, along with his cloak, but had not—

onto a nearby table.

The Grey House, home to Lord Enziet for several centuries—could this ever truly be
Arlian's
home? This was the house where Dove was murdered, where Sweet was tortured and fatally poisoned, where Enziet had conferred with the dragons and experimented endlessly in sorcery in his attempts to secure true immortality for himself. Arlian had acquired it as part of Enziet's legacy, and for fourteen years he had lived in it when he was in Manfort—but he had been in Manfort so rarely!

The Old Palace, where he had dwelt when he first came to Manfort, had been his home in a way the Grey House was not—but the Old Palace was gone, set ablaze by dragonfire and burned to the ground.

The stony walls and vaulted ceilings of the Grey House could never burn; if the dragons sought to destroy this place, they would have to smash it with brute force, not merely spray it with flame. As long as he fought the dragons, the Grey House befitted him—cold and hard, resistant to the monsters' threats—but he was not sure it was truly home.

And when the day came that the last dragon was dead, the last dragonheart dead or cleansed, what then? Would he stay in this fortress when there was no longer a foe to defend against?

He grimaced to himself. That assumed that he would live to see such a day, which was hardly a sure thing. Forty-six dragons still lived, and twenty-six dragonhearts older than himself—but he had come so far, so fast! The possibility that he would survive to see his campaign's end was quite real.

And if he did, he would not stay in this house. He would find another, a place less drenched in blood and sorrow and sorcery, less fraught with memories and meaning...

Or he would die. Suicide would be the simplest way to ensure that no dragon ever burst from his bosom. Having his heart ripped out, cleansed of its hideous taint, and then restored to his body hardly seemed worth the trouble; what would he have to live tor, with his enemies gone? What future could he expect that would justify such pain?

And what need would he have for another home, in that case? No, the Grey House would serve him well enough.

He heard voices, and the sound of doors and footsteps and luggage bumping walls. His servants were attending to their duties.

He was shirking his, merely by being here—he should be in the northwestern mountains, hunting for that next lair, or he should be at the Citadel, reporting to the Duke. Coming here was self-indulgence, yielding to his doubts and fatigue.

Nonetheless, he told himself, he was here now; it was far too late to reach another of the dragons' hiding places before spring arrived and the monsters woke, and the Duke had not requested his presence. He might as well indulge himself.

He rose from the settee, glanced at his hat, then left it on the table as he followed Black deeper into the house.

Lord Obsidian's Guests

8

Lord Obsidian's Guests

Black had found his wife at the north end of the long gallery, and had scooped her up out of her wheeled chair; Arlian did not care to intrude on their reunion, nor to get in the way of the footmen hauling his belongings from the wagon to his second-floor apartment, so he took the stairs up to the third floor.

This had once been Lord Enziet's private domain, where even his own servants did not often venture; this had been where he imprisoned and tortured slaves for his own bitter amusement, and occasionally killed them. This had been, as well, where he practiced his sorcery, where he sought to stave off the inevitable birth of the dragon growing within him.

That was all gone. This was now the preserve of the Aritheian magicians Arlian had employed, the physicians who knew how to remove the draconic taint from anyone who had drunk the elixir of blood and venom. What Enziet had struggled so long and futilely to achieve, Arlian's hired magicians had mastered.

As Arlian strolled down the passageway a door opened, and a

woman stepped out, closing the door behind her. She turned, and saw Arlian approaching.

"Lord Obsidian!" she said, smiling.

Arlian smiled back. "Isein."

She curtsied. Arlian bowed in return, and looked at her more

closely.

Isein of Arithei, it appeared, had finally fully adopted the styles of the aristocracy of Manfort; she wore a bottle-green velvet vest laced tight over a white linen blouse, and a full green skirt flared from her waist to the floor. Her hair was done up in an elaborate construction of curls and feathers—or at any rate it had been; bits were beginning to come down now, trailing over her lace collar. Because her skin, even after so long in the north, was still darker than that of any native-born lady of Manfort, the effect was oddly exotic.

When she had first come to Manfort, Isein had continued to wear the short, loose, brightly colored robes of her homeland—until her first experience of a real winter, when she had come to see the utility of keeping her arms and legs covered. For years, though, she had preferred her garments looser than custom required, and had always worn her hair in the simple Aritheian style.

It seemed she had reconsidered.

"I was very sorry to hear of Oeshir's death," he said. "You have my deepest sympathies, and my sincerest apologies for missing the funeral.

Her accomplishments brought great honor to the House of Deri, and were of great service to me and my people. I regret my failure to acknowledge that at her passing."

"Thank you, my lord. Death comes to everyone, in time, and she had lived long and well."

"Are her students still here, and well?"

"Lilsinir lives here, my lord, but Asaf and Tiviesh have made their homes at the Citadel, with Hlur, that they might be more convenient to His Grace."

"Very sensible." Arlian was relieved that all three students were still in Manfort; they were the only three magicians in the Lands of Man capable of performing the elaborate cleansing spell that would restore a dragonheart to mere mortality, and he preferred to know they were safe and near at hand. "And Qulu?"

"We expect his return from Arithei any day."

"Another buying expedition?"

"Yes, my lord."

"You did not accompany him?"

"No, my lord; I stayed to oversee matters here. We thought it unwise to risk both of us, in light of the rumors of unrest in the Borderlands."

Arlian gave her a sharp look. "I had not heard any rumors of unrest"

Isein appeared startled. "Had you not, my lord? We have been hearing for two or three years now of disturbances along the border. Wizards and other magical creatures have been harassing travelers; what's more, the master of Tirikindaro is said to be extending its reach into the Borderlands, and there are tales of hauntings and strange dreams as far north as Sweetwater."

"I had not heard. Is the road to Arithei still..." He stopped himself before he completed the sentence; the question was absurd, since the road to Arithei had never been safe.

"It's hard to say, my lord," Isein answered the unfinished question.

"It is certainly no better, from the latest reports, but whether it's any worse I do not know."

Arlian nodded, and tried to maintain a facade of polite sociability, but the Aritheian's news had disturbed him. Rumors of foreign magic as far north as Sweetwater? That town was at the edge of the Desolation, deep inside the Lands of Man!

He hoped Qulu had taken no needless risks, and was safely on the road to Manfort. Of the magicians he had hired long ago in Arithei, Qulu and Isein were the last who were still in his employ; he had brought them here to sell Aritheian spells and talismans to the nobility of Manfort, and had made himself stupendously wealthy thereby.

He no longer needed that wealth, though; he had inherited Lord Enziet's extensive possessions and enterprises, and had his post as warlord, as well. The magic business had become largely irrelevant—at least, to him; it was still how Isein and Qulu earned their keep.

He realized that he should have made clear to them that they were welcome to remain indefinitely as his guests, and need not maintain the flow of goods from the south. He owed them a debt for past services that would more than cover any living expenses they might incur.

When Qulu returned—if he did return safely—Arlian was deter-

mined to offer him and Isein an honorable retirement, as he would Ferrezin. If they chose to continue, he wanted it clear that they did so of their own choosing, and not his.

"What has the Duke said about these rumors?" Arlian asked. "After all, the safety of the roads within the Lands of Alan is his responsibility."

"I do not know, my lord," Isein replied. "I am not in His Grace's confidence."

"No, I suppose not—but you said that Asaf and Tiviesh are now residents of the Citadel; surely, some word must trickle out."

"Not that I am aware of, my lord. Although if you wish, I might inquire when next I see them."

"I would appreciate it," Arlian said. "It not only affects my business interests, but might well bear some relation to the war against the dragons."

"There have been no reports of dragons in the Borderlands, my lord."

"No, I hadn't thought there were. Still, who knows what might have some connections to the dragons' schemes?"

Isein looked very doubtful of this suggestion.

"Well, I'm sure you must have other matters to attend to," Arlian said. "I did not wish to keep you from them."

Isein curtsied. "You are my host and my employer, my lord; whatever pleases you I am happy to provide. That said, yes, I have business that demands my attention."

"Then go to it, by all means, and thank you for your time." He stepped aside to let her pass.

"You are most welcome, my lord," she said as she walked by him; then she turned and added over her shoulder, "And it is a great pleasure to see you home once more."

Arlian smiled, and watched her go.

He would need to do whatever he could to make himself current on the gossip and rumors of Manfort, that was obvious. Stammer, the chief of his kitchen staff, would undoubtedly be a rich source for that; she had always maintained an elaborate network of friends and acquaintances with good ears and wagging tongues.

And these tales from the Borderlands—could they be connected with his campaign against the dragons? Had the Dragon Society perhaps begun stirring up foreign magicians to distract the Duke's attention? Or might this be part of some new scheme to halt Arlian?

He glanced at a nearby door, and stepped through it into an unused bedroom, where two broad casements gave a view of the courtyard at the center of the Grey House.

He looked out at the balconies, then down at the courtyard pavement and the gentle fountain at its center, then up at the sloping tile roof.

Eight oak-framed catapults were mounted on that roof, two to a side, each one loaded with four obsidian-tipped spears ready to be flung at any dragons that might come to put an end to their bitterest foe, or to threaten his establishment. From the bedroom Arlian could see the two machines on the far side of the courtyard, and one on the roof to his right; the angle was such that the others were invisible from his present position, but he assumed they were all still there, armed and ready.