The Dragon Lord Page 5

  “Not many. It’s too far for most.”

  “Indeed.” Another grin split the young man’s face. “Or too far to stagger back?” The innkeeper laughed.

  “Something like that.” Then he moved away to serve another customer and left the inquisitive young man alone with his wine, missing the intent expression on features still dusty but no longer bored.

  The young man set down his cup with its contents barely tasted and began an unobtrusive study of this foreigner who didn’t want to do his drinking in Tuenafen Port. It had taken ten hours, forty taverns and a sizable outlay in untouched alcohol to get here, but now the whole thing was worth his effort. When something pleased the Vixen, she had ways of proving it.

  The sketch she had shown him was a good one, detailed and an excellent likeness. Not identical but close enough and, give or take the few miles to Tuenafen, in the right place. A beckoning finger summoned Kamis and brought him leaning over the counter, full of ill-disguised curiosity. Gossip, juicy scandal or even the arrest of a criminal would bring new customers into the tavern to hear all about it. The young man gave him a look that blended amusement and contempt in equal measure, for these occasional favours for Kathur the Vixen could end in ways sensible people preferred not to talk about, if they even survived the experience.

  “That foreigner,” he used the insulting Drusalan word hlensyarl, “is to stay here.” There was an authority in his voice which hadn’t been there before.

  “What?”

  “Keep him here. Don’t let him leave. I don’t care how you do it, but do it.”

  “But what about that sword? I can’t do anything if he—”

  “I think you can.” The young man straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “Because if he isn’t here when I get back…” He didn’t bother to complete the sentence.

  *

  Far steadier on his feet than he had any right to be, and far clearer in his mind than he would have liked to be, Aldric settled his bill. For an innkeeper who had tried to eject him from the premises or confiscate his sword, the man Kamis now seemed reluctant to let him go. He fumbled more than usual as he made change from the fistful of florins which Aldric had slapped onto the counter, and as an apology of sorts pressed a gratis bottle of wine into the Alban’s hands.

  Aldric turned it over, glanced at the letters etched on the green glass, then blinked twice and read them again with the conviction that his eyes were tricking him. This ‘apology’ was a bottle of white Hauverne, matherneil, the Kingswine which changed hands in Alba – if it ever got there – for upwards of thirty marks a time. His free hand dug into the pouch at his belt and poured a shining, chiming stream of silver coins over the counter and onto the floor, no longer caring that silver was a mere courtesy title for the Empire’s money nowadays. In economic matters as in all else, Tuenafen was a part of the Empire. Let the useless currency buy something here if nowhere else.

  “This will get drinks for everyone,” he said, brows coming together in a frown of concentration as he worked on the slurring High Drusalan syllables. They were elusive enough when sober and a slipshod drunken tongue just made them worse, but the words he sought eventually fell into place. “Fill all the cups. And—” the bottle of Hauverne thumped onto the bar-top, “—open this. Bring two good glasses. One for me.” His eyes locked with the innkeeper’s as his left hand freed Widowmaker’s shoulder-belt, and the slithering noise as the taiken dropped to battle position at his hip was like the sound an adder makes moving through long grass. “And one for you. We’ll sample it together.”

  If he entertained suspicions about the extravagant gift, they fell silent as his host first sipped appreciatively then drank with every sign of enthusiasm and no hesitation at all. Aldric smiled and followed suit. The wine was rich and fragrant with an acid tang of fruit yet as sweet as honey, and it rose to his head as the harsh grapefire spirit had never done. Perhaps because that stuff was being drunk for effect, while brooding on the need for its effect, while this Hauverne was being drunk for delight in its flavour. Of the many roads to oblivion offered by a tavern, this was the one to choose.

  The door opened, and stayed open while the cold night air flowed in. Heads turned and a voice rose in protest, but it cut off short as six armed men crossed the threshold, wearing crest-coasts over light mail and short cutting-spears cradled in their hands. They fanned out to either side of the door with the crispness of drill and discipline.

  Then they stopped.

  She glided into the common-room like an empress, wrapped in furs against the bitter air outside, with raindrops beaded on her high-piled auburn hair flaming like rubies in the firelight. If her guards had caught a few eyes, her own appearance drew all the rest. Conversation ceased, the fola’s thin music fell silent and everyone stared.

  She was well worth staring at, and knew it. As tall as any man in the room, her willowy elegance gave unconscious grace to every movement. Nobody in the tavern had seen her before, nor was foreknowledge necessary to realise she was either the pampered daughter of a noble house, wilful enough to travel the Imperial roads alone, or a courtesan of the highest rank. The young man at her side was a harsh contrast to her finery, for he was nondescript to a studied degree, dusty, tired…and familiar to Kamis, whose tongue licked at lips which had gone far drier than his cup of wine would ever quench. They looked at each other, one apprehensive, the other satisfied by a job well done.

  When the woman snapped her fingers the innkeeper jumped despite himself, and emerged from behind his counter to bow judiciously low. Still unsure of her station, he preferred to treat her as high-born rather than make an insulting error that the half-dozen troopers of her escort would take – and cause – pains to correct.

  “You have rooms.” The fox-haired lady spoke even that simple fact in a smoky contralto purr. “I wish to rest. See to it.”

  Her decision to grace his establishment startled Kamis, for though clean enough it was a class or more below where she would normally stay, but he concealed it well. Such occurrences were rare, but not unheard-of. There were many travellers who despite or because of riches and importance, preferred for various reasons not to advertise the fact, and his inn wasn’t the only one which maintained at least one fine stateroom against the day Wealth stepped through the door. As it had done tonight.

  It wasn’t any innkeeper’s place to wonder the whys and wherefores, merely to make everything he could from the opportunity. Bowing lower than ever, Kamis went about his business deep in calculation about how much he could overcharge and get away with it. The lady and her companion made private conversation for a moment, mouth to ear, then the young man nodded and went out, taking the soldiers with him to the unspoken but obvious relief of the entire tavern.

  Aldric watched them go, but found his gaze sliding back towards their mistress. Mistress. His mind toyed with the word as he sipped wine and let the soft, sweet liquid flow over his tongue. Sweet. The adjective in his native Alban, and the thoughts in his head, had nothing much to do with wine at all. Granted she was inaccessible. Granted he had a failing for a pretty face and an attractive figure. Granted that same failing had tripped him up more than once, and granted he was leaving Tuenafen in the morning.

  But he too could rest here for the night.

  *

  In the beginning there was fire, and a dream of fire; a dream of gazing down and down into the liquid seething of the world’s hot secret heart; a dream of rumbling sound almost below the limits of hearing; and a dream of the smell of burning, blended incongruously with a sense of unbelievable blue-white cold.

  The great Cavern on the Island of Techaur, and a thing of power exchanged for his given Word. Granted for a promise made to…

  Made to…

  Speak and say, kailin Talvalin. Name my name.

  “Ymareth!” Aldric said the name aloud in his troubled sleep and snapped awake, staring straight up towards the darkness of the ceiling. Or at where the darkness should have bee
n. Light moved among the beams of rough-cut timber and it wasn’t the light of dawn. Dawn didn’t flicker like that, it didn’t roar beyond the shutters like that, and it wasn’t the awesome, awful amber of flames running wild.

  Then there was awareness, and full awakening, and the knowledge that this time his dream of fire was real.

  Aldric flung back the quilt from the narrow bed, rolling sideways to plant both feet square together on the floor, and clutched at the wall as the whole room continued to roll around him. For an instant, a few heartbeats, for the second it took his naked skin to film itself in icy sweat, everything plunged sideways. Only his fingernails gouging into the plaster kept him from pitching onto his face. There was sourness in his throat, queasiness in his belly and a pounding headache behind his eyes. He knew only too well what had caused them, but what about the bitter stink of fire and the smoke making him cough? Aldric steadied himself with an effort crossed the room and flung the shuttered window open.

  Heat slapped like a physical blow across his face and chest, the bellow of a fire out of control assaulted his ears, and mingled with that bellow was the squealing of terrified horses. To any ears it was a ghastly noise, but to an Alban horse-lord it was infinitely worse. His bloodshot eyes stared at the stables where a solitary ribbon of flame was fluttering up its wall, a little insignificant thing barely a handspan wide. But the stable wall was wood. And the stable roof was thatch.

  Aldric wasn’t sure afterwards how he scrambled into his clothes so fast. Straps and laces were left undone, secured too loosely or too tight, but shirt and boots and breeches were all in place before the little flame had grown much larger. He thrust his tsepan dirk into his belt, wincing as its pommel nudged his nauseated stomach, then scooped up Widowmaker and his nameless taipan shortsword as he made for the swiftest way down he could see. It was the open window.

  He went over when he landed, betrayed by his wobbly legs, and rolled like a shot rabbit while dirk and swords all flew in different directions. After the bone-jarring impact came the nasty realisation that in his present state he was lucky not to have broken his neck. There was no time even to shrug. A swift glance told him what had probably happened. The hottest, best-established flames were billowing from an incandescent framework where the kitchens had once stood, and even in the instant of that glance they bridged the gap between courtyard and tavern. Thatch exploded like tinder, sparks and smoke filled the air, stinging and choking, a dense grey cloud rolled across his line of sight and something unseen collapsed with a tearing crash.

  Where in damnation’s bloody name is everyone? He saw them, someone, anyone, black against the firelight, running about in an aimless fashion or flinging meagre buckets of water at the inferno. Other more practical people were already carrying their belongings clear of the doomed building.

  No more time to watch! Get the horses out! All of them! Where’s the rain we’ve been expecting since yesterday?

  The thoughts tumbled through Aldric’s confused brain even as he ran towards the stable-block, watching that ribbon of flame as he might have watched a snake. In the few long strides which took him to the door it expanded to a flickering yellow scarf, tipped and trimmed with dark smoke. Confused or not, they were the last rational thoughts he had for a long, long time. Everything afterwards was action.

  The stables were the familiar Imperial pattern, tall sliding doors at either end of a paved walkway and loose-boxes on each side strewn with deep, comfortable – and fiercely inflammable – straw. The horses in them were supposed to be left free to move about, but tonight of all nights someone had secured their headstalls to the iron holding-rings in the rear wall of each box. A spasm of anger shot through Aldric at this evidence of some ostler’s thoughtlessness. It wasn’t just because of the fire and because his own task had now become more than simply flinging all the doors wide open. None of the horses could have reached food or water until the man came back to release them. With enough time he would root out whoever was responsible and make them pay for such neglect.

  But not tonight, because time was in very short supply.

  *

  Lyard knew his master, and it was just as well. The Andarran’s rolling eyes showed white, terror-sweat streaked his black coat and foam drooled from where he had champed uselessly at his halter. He allowed Aldric to lead him out at a steady pace even though the flames of his own private hell skipped only a plank’s thickness from his heels. But after another minute of building panic, the big warhorse would have pulped anybody in his path.

  The pack-pony was next. Aldric flung the saddle, frame and baggage any which way across the animal’s back, jumping aside as it barged after Lyard. As it always followed Lyard – he coughed as smoke throttled what might have been wry laughter – but a damn sight more willingly than usual!

  The other horses were the problem. They weren’t battle-schooled and dangerous bloodstock like the Andarran courser or obedient baggage animals like the pony, just a matched pair of carriage ponies and half-a-dozen riding hacks. They weren’t as brave, biddable or well-trained, and they were unfamiliar thus risky. Scared, too. The laid-back ears and bulging eyes would have told anyone that even if they were deaf to the piteous noises of fright. But it was only fright, not pain. Not yet.

  Not ever, if he could help it.

  The thatched roof caught just as Aldric went into one of the stalls, and in that same second what felt like a mace slammed him backwards to the floor. It was close enough to the truth. The horse in that stall had lashed out in a paroxysm of fear and its iron-shod hoof clipped his thigh, stunning the big muscle and tearing the riding-breeches of his heavy combat leathers as if made of paper. Another inch and it would have ripped flesh from bone and crippled him. As he swore under his breath he clambered back to his feet, cuffing at hindquarters which swung round to pin him against the partition. The horse flinched away then thumped back, and stars inside his head joined the sparks already floating through the air.

  Something that was only a dark outline against the fire-glow swam into view. No, someone. Aldric shook glowing motes from his eyes and the world snapped back into focus. It – he – was a man, big and broad-shouldered. One of the lady’s escort? The man shouted something, but roaring flames made nonsense of the words.

  “Get them out!” Aldric mouthed at him, enhancing his unheard words with mime, then returned his attention to the plunging horse. Its frantically jerking head had drawn the headstall’s knot far tighter than human fingers could hope to loose, but there were other ways than untying and a knife appeared in his hand from the scabbard down one boot. There was no point in trying to quiet the beast; it was beyond the stage where gentle words would have any effect. With the ropes cut the horses would stampede out faster than he could drive them, and he could get clear himself before the roof came in.

  As if summoned by his thought the rafters beneath the blazing thatch overhead made a long, groaning creak and a drizzle of sparks broke through the tight-packed reeds and straw. Aldric spared a single instant to glance up, then sliced his blade across the braided halter just as the horse threw all its weight into a final, desperate heave. The hemp went taut as wire, humming with strain, and the first touch of the razor-whetted knife jumped and skittered across its fibres. Then the edge bit home, it parted with a deep sound like the strings of a great-bass coruth and the horse floundered back on its haunches then wheeled to bolt headlong from the stable.

  Aldric sat down hard, yelping with pained surprise as blood welled from the scar beneath his right eye. It was three years healed, but the whiplash strike of the severed rope had laid it open like an hour-old cut and he barely noticed the brief sting at the nape of his neck which might have been a spark.

  As he darted from stall to stall, severing ropes and dodging horses as if taking part in a crazy rustic dance, he heard the roof groan again as it sagged further. Chunks of its structure fell away and the drizzle of sparks became a torrent of blazing fragments all over the floor. Except for the p
aved walkway that floor was knee-deep in loose, dry straw which ignited with the roar of a hungry animal and filled the confines of the world with fury. Heat washed over Aldric as he stumbled from the last stall on that side and into the main aisle of the stable, almost trampled as all the remaining horses galloped past him on the way to open air and safety. His mouth stretched into a tight grin of relief. The other man had been busy.

  There was unknowing irony in how that thought coincided with a rub at the sore spot on his neck, dislodging the tiny dart imbedded there.

  He could see no trace of his helper, likely too wise to linger in this furnace. It was time to follow the horses’ good example, for worms of smoke were already writhing from the wooden walls as they heated to flash point and the doorposts at each end of the building were already on fire. The only other time he had seen anything burn like this it had been set ablaze on purpose. That momentary suspicion led nowhere. With so much straw about, no wonder the fire had spread so fast.

  But the tavern wasn’t full of straw and it was also well alight. That too meant nothing and drifted from his mind even as he tucked his head down and sprinted for the nearest doorway. His legs were unsteady beneath him and once-solid objects were wavering in the haze of hot light and smoke. Then all concerns and idle notions vanished in the vast rending sound as the stable caved in on itself.

  And on him.

  The surge of heat made his senses swim as it consumed what little air remained. A searing gale tugged at his hair as it funnelled through the blazing doorway, an exit that receded down an endless corridor of fire even as he ran towards it. Aldric felt the rush of movement at his back as something came scything down like a headsman’s sword, heard the impact as it smashed between his shoulders like a giant’s fist, saw the sparks exploding like a halo around his head—

  Too late! You left it too…

  And that was all.

  *

  “How did you find him in Tuenafen?” Goth planted both hands palm-downwards on the desk and leaned forward, beard jutting pugnaciously. “How did you know?”