The Dragon Lord Page 6

  “I told you.” The scrap of parchment Bruda held between finger and thumb of a black-gloved hand looked insignificant, and the writing on it was minute. But it afforded a certain degree of pleasure even though his glistening metallic mask concealed whatever smile might have curved his lips. The smile was there, audible in the smugness of his laconic words: “I told you long ago—”

  “Three weeks.”

  “And now I too have been told.”

  “I didn’t somehow think it was coincidence.”

  “I abhor coincidence.” Bruda might have shuddered theatrically at the thought, but Goth saw no tremor in his own misshapen reflection.

  “Of course.” There was the merest touch of acid in his voice. “Unless you create it. I know.” He straightened, pressed hands palm to palm and touched their steepled fingertips to the end of his hawk nose as he pondered a moment. “Now, Tuenafen.” The hands clapped decisively. “The quickest route is by sea. I’ll put a battleram at the disposal of your squad.” He stalked to the window and looked out. When he swung back, Bruda hadn’t stirred from the high-backed chair where he lounged with such elegant indolence. “Teynaur is moored in the estuary,” he said. “Use her.” His smile widened as the masked man sat bolt upright, his lazy assurance gone in an instant.

  “Teynaur? But she’s an… An augmented ship.” There was a long beat of silence.

  “If you don’t like the idea, let Voord go alone. Such things don’t worry him. Rather the reverse.”

  “To an unhealthy degree!”

  “No matter. He’s efficient. You used that very word when you sent him to Seghar. Have you changed your views?”

  “No.” Bruda’s reply was sullen. “Despite what happened to him he remains most capable.”

  “Good. Then it’s agreed.” Goth gathered up his rank-marked helmet and settled it in the crook of one arm, preparing to leave. Then he hesitated. “You want Talvalin alive?”

  “Yes. Why ask?”

  “So do I. I also want him untouched. There’s a difference. Make sure Voord remembers it.”

  *

  “The wound is new. And he has a beard.”

  “It’s just a lack of shaving. That’s something I’m better qualified to know than you, lady. But the wound was old when I saw it.”

  “When you saw it? When you thought you saw it? Or when you saw what you wanted to see?”

  “I saw what I saw. Look for yourself.” Paper rustled crisply. “Now say I was wrong.”

  “Close. Very close. This is an excellent likeness of somebody. But is it close enough?”

  “Close enough for me. I sent messages last night and this morning, one by courier, one by pigeon.”

  “Without asking permission?”

  “I saw no need, lady. I thought you would approve.”

  “Never presume what I will or will not do. But yes, I approve.”

  “And the Lord-Commander? What will Voord say?”

  “Voord will be… Very pleased.”

  *

  The soft murmur of sound droning like insects on a warm summer night was surely a dream. It took shape and became voices, a man’s and a woman’s. They ebbed and flowed, weaving patterns of words, but whatever language the voices spoke, none of their words made sense. The dream faded, but Aldric’s eyes remained shut. Other than the slow rise and fall of his chest and the never-ending tic of pulses beneath his skin, he didn’t move. But with a swiftness that fell between one breath and the next, he became totally aware of his surroundings.

  There was softness above and below him, a yielding warmth of quilts comforting in its familiarity. Light surrounded him, brilliant enough to glow red through the skin of his eyelids. A faint flavour of bitter herbs left a metallic taste in his mouth, and there was a scent of flowers, the arid, delicate fragrance of dried blossoms set out to perfume the air. He opened his eyes to see them, to see where he was—

  And saw only featureless white.

  Sweat beaded on Aldric’s skin and now he couldn’t move, even though each breath was coming faster and faster and the blood-pulse in his ears was running wild. Memories crashed back into his brain, of monstrous heat, smoke and flames surging in his wake as he fled for ever. Of the roof coming down, the blow across his back and the midnight embrace of oblivion. Of the long fall into the dark which had never reached bottom.

  A fall as black as blindness…

  His skin was no longer beaded by perspiration but slickly sheathed in it. Aldric could feel each droplet forming, running down his ribs, his jaw and his temples. What had happened could never have been so selective as to destroy only his sight. Not that inferno. And if blindness was black, as the proverb claimed, then was this flaring whiteness death?

  With that thought came a great uncontrolled intake of breath which could only return as a scream.

  Or a gasp, for in the same instant someone took the bandage from his face and pressed a cool, moist pad against each eye in turn, and when they opened again Aldric’s world lurched back to reality with a dizzying jolt. The unborn cry became a hissing exhalation that trickled out between his teeth, leaving him shamed by the sleek glaze of fear on his skin and by the surely audible thudding of his heart. But the woman who sat by his bed and gazed down at him either didn’t notice, or had the courtesy to feign deafness. Without her furs and her guards and her imperious air she looked very different. Her hair was unbound now, and in the lamplight which filled the room it was the deep rich russet of a fox’s pelt. She was smiling.

  “I thought…” He faltered, because the admission would sound foolish, or cowardly, or both. “I thought I was dead.”

  “Quite so. There was a time, indeed, when we thought we’d lost you.” She spoke in the Jouvaine language and her voice was as Aldric remembered it, a soft throaty sound, surprisingly deep. Almost a purr, if foxes purred.

  “Lost me?”

  “Lost you,” she repeated. “You were lucky. Very lucky. The timber which hit you wasn’t properly aflame, and you were already running hard in the right direction. Otherwise you would never have got out.”

  “I should never have gone in,” he muttered, deciding not to sit up as his stomach gave a little warning heave. His words, indeed his thoughts, were forming more easily and that surprised him. He had been stunned before and the concussion had jumbled both stomach and brain for a long while afterwards. As she said, he must have been very, very lucky. He knew he had been something else. “I was stupid—”

  “You were brave, and you were unselfish. You didn’t have to stay after you freed your own horses, but you did, and saved them all. That was typical, I suppose. You’re fond of horses.” Again the smile. “I know a little about Albans.”

  If she had hoped for any reaction, the lady was disappointed. Aldric had never tried to conceal his nationality; his Elthanek accent made it difficult to support such a deception and instantly suspicious if discovered. His identity was quite another matter. The risk of an ulterior motive behind her casual remark was enough to send another worm of nausea coiling through him, masked only by a smile of sorts to disguise whatever else might show on his features.

  “Most people do.” Or think they do. The words stayed behind the fence of his teeth. For one thing he was in no mood for opening his mouth more than necessary, and for another this lady was his hostess and the house in which he lay was hers.

  There could be nothing left of the tavern where he had awoken so suddenly last night, nothing at all. He was certain of that, though he was less certain that it had been last night, or even the night before. Aldric closed his eyes and shivered as he wondered how many days and nights he had lost. And what had happened while they passed him by. Who are you? Where am I? What is this place? What day is it? The questions were all there, waiting and needing to be asked. Banal questions, obvious questions, stupid questions. But all lacking the answers which he needed to make sense of what was going on.

  “You’re still far from well, ’tlei,” said the lady gently. “
Sleep now. We can talk again later.” Her hand on his brow was cool. “Sleep.”

  He slept.

  *

  He slept.

  He dreamed.

  He woke, and woke knowing he had been drugged, his senses insisting on the fact and emphasising it with that faint metallic, medicinal flavour at the back of his throat. It was the after-taste of herbal soporifics, extracts of poppy, or valerian, or nepet, or hops, or… The possibilities were endless. He was in the Empire now and the Drusalans had raised herb-lore to an art form and a science, while also lowering it to a vice. As he swallowed in an attempt to clear away the bitterness, Aldric realised just how parched his mouth had become.

  At least there was a terracotta jug of water on a table near the bed. Aldric rolled over and reached out, then hesitated at the thought of more soporifics in the water itself, put there so he would drink without thinking. Brief consideration put an end to that idea. If the intention was to keep him unconscious he would never have woken up to worry about it. He ignored the cups, gripped the jug itself, put the vessel to his lips and disposed of its contents in half-a-dozen rapturous gulps. Then he stared for several seconds at the shiny glaze of its brick-brown interior, tilted it a few degrees further and let the last drops of water patter across his face.

  Only then did the questions once more play follow-my-leader through his mind. Who, and where, and when? And why? There were various answers to that one, few of which were appealing. The lady of the fox-bronze hair and the purring, feline voice had something to do with all this. Yes, all of it. The fire and the trapped horses, the grinding roar of falling timber and a shower of sparks before the lights went out.

  How in the name of nine hot hells did I survive?

  Aldric studied the room, noting the elegant understatement of furniture and ornaments which were a wealthy person’s version of the current austere style. If this place was meant to impress him, then despite his cynical efforts to the contrary it succeeded. He grinned when he saw his own possessions, but it faded swiftly as more details gave cause for a deal of thought.

  His saddlebags lay on a chair by the far wall. Nothing wrong with that, though he was sure they had been opened and the contents carefully scrutinised. A garment of some sort, not one of his own, was draped across the linen chest at the foot of the bed, obviously meant for him. His own clothes were either still packed away or in a smelly, smoky, unfit state, unless someone had washed them. Or, he amended, ordered them washed.

  But whoever managed the disposition of his Three Blades had known exactly what they were doing. Isileth Widowmaker wasn’t merely laid on a shelf or hung from wall-hooks as anyone might who, what were her words? ‘knew a little about Albans’. Oh no. Instead the taiken leaned on a fine sword-stand of fumed oak with its weapon-belt wrapped around the scabbard in one of the crisscross patterns proper for battle-furnished longswords. His taipan shortsword was hooked to the interlacing of the belt so it could be easily removed and worn indoors according to custom, and his tsepan dirk wasn’t with the others at all but on the cushion of a three-legged stool set close in beside his bed. That seemed insignificant, but it meant the Honour blade was within arm’s-length of its owner as tradition and the Codes required. It told Aldric that someone under this roof knew more than he liked about his homeland, his background and possibly himself, and that they had the confidence to flaunt that knowledge.

  His glance towards the door was more speculation than hope. If they or he or she or whatever were so sure of themselves, there might just be a remote possibility that the overconfidence could extend further, into carelessness and locks not turned.

  The thought was no sooner completed than he was out of bed with Widowmaker off the sword-stand and the scabbard off her blade. Then he paused long enough wrap himself in the fur-trimmed cymar overrobe so thoughtfully provided. Its heavy fabric was the colour of autumn maples, its fur was red fox, and it was tailored for someone so much bigger than Aldric that it hung from his shoulders, as loose as a riding mantle. Clothing meant much more than simple modesty right now. In this potentially hostile setting bare skin felt vulnerable beyond any mere lack of armour, and even a single layer of cloth gave illusory protection.

  At least it should have done.

  Instead the sleeveless, side-slashed, open-fronted and oversized cymar emphasised with every movement that he was naked beneath it, which felt worse than having nothing on at all. Aldric exhaled a soft oath. This was a deliberate mind-game, and the robe had been selected with a deal of care to unsettle him just as it was doing.

  Isileth’s equally naked blade gave more comfort. Once the taiken was in his hands then armoured, unarmoured or newborn naked he could give good account of himself to anyone, or anything, or any Thing. His mind reconsidered that last one, and an inward shudder raised the hair on arms and neck as he regretted tempting fate with such a thought. The events in Geruath’s citadel at Seghar were still far too recent for such an idle jest.

  With a mirthless smile he gently closed his left hand on the door’s iron handle and increased the pressure to an inward pull. Nothing happened. He relaxed a little, then pushed instead. Again nothing. He tried sliding it sideways, then shrugged with resignation and wrenched back with all his strength and weight behind it.

  The door wasn’t stiff, unoiled or jammed as he had allowed himself to hope. It was locked and bolted top and bottom, and the jolt of his failed attempt to open it sent silver spikes of discomfort into every joint from wrist to shoulder. So much for carelessness. Aldric shrugged again, this time more of a suppressed wince, and would have sworn if swearing might have helped. As he considered the matter and flexed his arm to work the twinges out of it he swore anyway, not loudly but with great sincerity.

  “Should have guessed,” he muttered under his breath. “Now after all that racket, who else does?” It was talk for the sake of hearing a familiar voice and nothing more. Despite his self-accusation, Aldric suspected – no, was sure – that whoever needed to know he was awake knew it already. If he was a prisoner or a guest, though not even the Drusalan Empire kept guests under lock and key, then the past few moments’ activity wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

  But who would notice? And who would they tell?

  He grimaced and recovered Widowmaker’s scabbard from where his unsheathing flick had sent it, ran the taiken’s blade home with a steely whisper then sat down in one of the several chairs. Aldric drew the cymar’s folds around his chest, laid the sword across his thighs and composed himself to wait.

  He didn’t wait long.

  Only ten minutes passed from the first signs of life in his room to the series of metallic clicks as its door was unlocked. At the sounds he rose smoothly, swiftly and silently, and as he spaced his feet for balance his right hand tightened on the longsword’s hilt, giving it that minute twist to free the locking-collar. Widowmaker seemed to tremble with eagerness in his grip. She would leave her scabbard at a touch, as quick as a striking snake. And as deadly.

  *

  The woman standing quite still in the doorway realised it at once, though she wasn’t in the least afraid if the smile on her full red lips meant anything. But she had been told, in fact warned at length, about how fast and dangerous this young man could be. She had noted that warning, just as she noted many other things while she studied his tantalisingly concealed and at last so very alive body. Once, while he lay in drugged sleep, she had drawn back the covers and studied him, mildly attracted by what she saw, but only as she might have appreciated the contours of well-made sculpture.

  Now he was up and moving the Alban looked very different, with lithe, powerful muscles that slid and shifted purposefully under his tanned skin. Yes. Different indeed. Alive. For just an instant, before she controlled it again, the interest in her eyes was as naked as the body under a cymar she had spent a quarter-hour selecting for effect and entertainment value. Not a minute of that time was wasted. This one would be treated with all the caution he deserved, and a littl
e more besides.

  For now, at least.

  *

  Aldric stared at her with eyes gone narrow and watchful in a face schooled to expressionless immobility. His whole demeanour was as poised and wary as a startled cat, ready to dodge or lash out at a heartbeat’s notice. A blurred, hazy memory told him he had seen this woman twice before, but he only recalled the first sight of her with any clarity.

  She had been entering a room on that occasion too, flanked by armed and armoured guards.

  Well, there were no guards this time. And that was her mistake, because if need be he could reach her and lay the persuasive length of Widowmaker’s edge against her expensively scented throat before that throat could shape a cry for help. And then, though the idea repelled him with its total lack of any honour, he could bargain for his freedom with her life.

  “You’re awake.” The fact was self-evident and made her words unnecessary, but their very triviality eased the taut silence which hung in the bedroom’s atmosphere like smoke.

  “I am.”

  “Good.” It was scarcely a conversation sparkling with brilliant wit. She hesitated, studied him from hair to heel with the same frank appraisal as before and nodded to herself. “You look well rested and healthy.”

  “I would feel more at ease with my clothes on, lady,” said Aldric, uncomfortable beneath that speculative stare. “Where are they?”

  “They were foul. Stained, torn and—”

  “And mine. I asked where, lady, not what. I want my own clothes, not this… This horse-blanket.” It was a superior horse-blanket of considerable value, but that no longer mattered. Aldric knew he was trying to be humorous, to lighten the mood, and knew too he wasn’t succeeding as the emotion his not-quite-humour concealed came bubbling to the surface. That emotion was anger. It was directed at her for the way his memory jarred with what he saw and heard, and fed on itself as unease hardened to an abruptness without the civility expected of a guest. Or was he a prisoner after all? “My clothes,” he repeated. Then more quietly, “Please.”