DRAGON 
WEATHER 
Lawrence Watt-Evans 
Copyright © 1999 by Lawrence Watt-Evans 
Dedicated to Charles Worsley, 
an honorable man, 
and the man who has made my sister happy 
Book I 
Arlian 
1 
Dragon Weather 
The sky to the west was dark with heavy black 
clouds; Arlian didn’t like it at all. He was eleven

years old, almost a man by the standards of his 
village, but right now he felt much younger, and 
very unsure of himself—his father was away, and 
the weather seemed threatening and unnatural. He 
stayed close to his mother as she stood staring 
down the slope of the mountain, watching the men 
of the village haul the heavy water wagons back up 
the winding, stone-paved road. 
Oxen would have made the hauling much easier, 
but the village had no place to graze oxen on the 
rocky mountainside; what little arable soil they had 
was all reserved for human needs. That meant that 
the men of Obsidian had to use their own muscles 
to fetch water up from the river. 
In another year or two Arlian would be big 
enough to join them, but for now he stood beside 
his mother and watched. 
Arlian’s mother fanned herself with one hand, 
while the other clutched at her black-and-gold 
brooch, holding her collar open; the air was thick, 
hot, and stagnant, and her gray dress was soaked in 
sweat. “I can’t stand weather like this,” she said. “I’ll 
almost be glad to see winter come this year!” 
Arlian looked up at her—though not far up, as he 
was almost as tall as she, now. He always liked 
winter, and had never entirely understood why the 
adults didn’t. In winter the mountain was covered 
in snow—well, except right up by the crater—and he 
and the other children of the village could go sliding 
down it; there was plenty of cold, clean water 
available for the melting, without having to haul it 
up from the valley when the streams ran dry. He 
could play outside for hours, then come in and 
warm up by the fire, and no one would order him 
out of the way or ask him to help with the chores. 
Even the adults had less work to do in the 
winter—so why did they all hate it? Yes, there was 
less food and it wasn’t fresh, and the cold seeped 
through everywhere, and the fire had to be kept up, 
but still, Arlian thought that winter was wonderful.

And anything was better than this stifling hot, 
humid summer, when the sun didn’t seem to want 
to show its face and hid behind a thick haze or 
clouds. This wasn’t how summer was supposed to 
be—there should be bright days and rainy ones, not 
these endless smothering gloomy days when the 
clouds hung overhead but the rain never fell. This 
was ugly and exhausting. 
It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the crops were 
suffering— the water the men were hauling up from 
the river would help, but a good cistern-filling rain, 
splashing down the mountainside and pooling in 
the rocks, would have been better. 
Those clouds in the west looked even uglier than 
most of this year’s skies. Maybe they would bring 
storms, and put an end to this nasty heat—but their 
appearance was not promising, and Arlian didn’t 
trust them. 
His grandfather—his mother’s father; his father’s 
father was long dead—stepped out on the rocky 
ledge beside them and looked, not down the slope at 
the water-haulers he was too old to assist, but out 
at the clouds. 
“Dragon weather,” he said with a frown. 
“Oh, nonsense,” Arlian’s mother said. “You’ve 
been saying that for weeks. It’s just a hot spell.” 
“Isn’t that what dragon weather is, Mother?” 
Arlian asked. “A hot spell?” 
His mother glanced at her father. 
“Not just the heat,” the old man said. “Look at 
that sky—hot as a furnace and days dark as night, 
that’s dragon weather. You need the heat and the 
dark. If those clouds move in and settle here, that’s 
really what we’ll have.” 
Arlian looked straight up at the sky overhead. It 
wasn’t dark as night, but it wasn’t very bright, 
either; the summer haze was thick and foul with the 
gasses from the smoking peak of the mountain. The

fumes had been thicker than usual lately, but 
whether that had any connection with the weather 
no one seemed to know. Arlian had heard the adults 
arguing about it, but the arguments were never 
settled. 
“Why is it called dragon weather, Grandsir?” he 
asked. 
“Because it’s the sort of weather that brings the 
dragons out of their caves,” his grandfather replied. 
“They can’t abide cold or light, Ari. In the days 
when the dragons ruled over our ancestors the 
world was warmer than it is now, and the great 
beasts darkened the skies with their smoke so that 
they could come out by day, as well as night. When 
the weather’s dark and hot now, old and tired as 
they are, they still stir in their sleep, and sometimes 
they awaken and come out to feed.” 
Arlian stared nervously at his grandfather. The 
old man spoke in a deeper voice than usual—his 
storytelling voice. It made his words seem more 
important, and more ominous. 
“Don’t mind him, Ari,” Arlian’s mother said, 
patting Arlian’s shoulder reassuringly. “That’s just 
stories. No one’s seen any dragons in hundreds of 
years.” 
Her father shook his head. 
“No, Sharbeth, you’re wrong,” he said. “When I 
was a boy I saw a village where a dragon had been 
not long before. I may be old, but it wasn’t 
hundreds of years ago.” 
“Tell me about it!” Arlian said. 
His grandfather smiled down at him. “Are you 
sure? They say it’s bad luck to talk about the 
dragons, just as it’s unlucky to speak too much 
about magic.” 
Arlian nodded. “Tell me about it, Grandsir!” 
Grandsir looked up at the sky and frowned, then 
back down at Arlian, his smile reappearing. “I was a

year or two older than you are, and my uncle Stirian 
had taken me on a trading journey down to 
Benth-in-Tara, to meet a caravan that was passing 
through,” he said. “We saw the ruins on the way. 
We’d had a hot summer the year before, weather 
something like this, and for a few days the smoke 
from the mountain had been much thicker than 
usual and had collected in that valley over in the 
Sandalwood Hills.” He pointed over the shoulder of 
the mountain; Arlian had never been to the 
Sandalwood Hills, but he had seen them from the 
crater rim and knew where his grandfather meant. 
“The dragon must have come out late that 
summer,” the old man continued, “and no one 
discovered it over the winter. When we got there in 
the spring, there was nothing left but charred ruins 
and bare bones.” 
“And how do you know it wasn’t human raiders 
who destroyed it?” Arlian’s mother asked. “Those 
bandits in the south are surely bad enough without 
worrying about dragons!” 
“The Borderlands bandits never get anywhere 
near this far north,” her father said; “and human 
raiders don’t leave six-foot claw marks.” 
“And neither do dragons,” Sharbeth said, her 
hands on her hips, “because the dragons, if there 
are really any left alive at all, stay asleep in their 
caves, deep beneath the earth. You must have just 
imagined those claw marks, Father, or 
misinterpreted sword cuts or wagon ruts.” 
“They were real, and they were claw marks,” her 
father insisted, but without much vehemence; 
Arlian realized that the two of them had 
undoubtedly had this argument many times before, 
as they had so many others, and had worn the 
passion out of it. His mother and grandfather 
argued often, and had done so ever since Grandsir 
had first come to live with them while Arlian was 
still a small child. He could barely remember a time 
when Grandsir had not been there—or when his

mother did not argue with him. 
“I’m not going to listen to your nonsense,” 
Arlian’s mother said, with no great anger. “I’m 
going to go see that those men have something fit to 
eat when they get those wagons up here, something 
to keep their strength up!” She turned and started 
back toward the house. 
Arlian hesitated. He wanted to stay close to his 
mother, and help out when the water wagons 
arrived, but he also wanted to hear his 
grandfather’s story about the ruined village—it 
wasn’t one he remembered hearing before. He 
wanted to know more about the dragons and what 
had become of them. 
“Are you coming, Arlian?” his mother called. She 
paused and looked over her shoulder. 
“No, Mother,” he replied. “I’ll stay here for a 
while, with Grandsir.” 
“Hmpf.” She marched on across the rocky yard, 
toward their thatch-roofed home. 
Grandsir looked down at Arlian. “Eager to see 
your father and brother back?” he asked. 
Arlian nodded. “Tell me more about the 
dragons,” he said. 
His grandfather laughed. “That’s my boy!” he 
said. “What do you want to know?” 
“Have you ever seen a dragon, Grandsir?” 
The old man shook his head. “Of course not,” he 
said. “I’m still alive, am I not? There aren’t many 
who see dragons and live to tell of it!” 
“There must be some people who see them, or 
how would we know anything about dragons?” 
Arlian asked. 
“A fair question,” his grandfather said, smiling. 
He glanced at the water-haulers, judged it would 
still be a while before they reached the village, and 
settled down cross-legged on the ledge, into a better

position for storytelling. Arlian settled beside him. 
“Yes,” Arlian’s grandfather said, “there have been 
a few people who saw dragons and lived to tell 
about it. Most of them were at a safe distance, and 
the dragons simply didn’t notice them, but there 
have been a few…” His voice trailed off as he looked 
to the west, at the approaching clouds. He frowned. 
“A few what, Grandsir?” Arlian looked, trying to 
see what his grandfather was staring at. 
The old man shook himself. “Nothing,” he said. “I 
just don’t like this weather.” Then he smiled at 
Arlian, and said, “Of course, there were a few who 
got a good close look at the dragons. There might 
even be some of them who are still alive today.” 
Arlian nodded. “From that village in the 
Sandalwood Hills, you mean?” 
“Oh, no.” Grandsir shook his head. “Nothing like 
that; I saw that village, and there wasn’t so much as 
a rat left alive there, just bones and cinders. But 
there are old stories, very old stories, about dragon 
venom.” 
“Venom?” Arlian frowned. As Grandsir had said, 
most of the adults in the village didn’t like talking 
about the dragons; there were so many 
superstitions about them that most people thought 
it safer not to discuss them at all. Dragons were 
magical, and magic was wicked and untrustworthy, 
and speaking too much about it could attract 
misfortune. 
Still, Arlian had thought he had a reasonable 
understanding of what a dragon was, and he didn’t 
remember anything about venom. “I thought 
dragons breathed fire!” he said. 
“Well, they do, after a fashion,” Grandsir said. 
“Or so I’m told. But the older stories, the ones from 
the early days of the Years of Man, say that 
dragonflame isn’t so much fiery breath, as some 
people would have it, but a spray of burning venom, 
like a snake’s spit of poison. Except dragons

somehow set their poison ablaze, and thereby spit 
flame.” 
“Ooooh!” Arlian shivered at the thought. It 
seemed somehow more real to know that dragonfire 
was burning venom, rather than some sort of 
magical breath. It made dragons seem more like 
actual beasts, rather than spirits, or illusions like 
the little images the village sorcerer sometimes 
conjured up. 
“Whether it’s the truth or not I can’t say,” 
Grandsir continued, “but there are stories, very old 
stories, so old I don’t know where they came from, 
that say that sometimes the venom doesn’t catch 
fire properly. It’s still deadly poison, of course, a 
poison that will burn the flesh from your bones—but 
supposedly it quickly loses some of its virulence 
when once it’s been sprayed, and a mixture of this 
dragon venom and human blood is said to bestow 
long life on anyone who drinks it. Very long life. 
There are tales of men who lived centuries after 
surviving dragon attacks in which blood from their 
wounds was mixed with dragon venom and then 
swallowed—though many of them had been horribly 
mutilated in the attacks, their faces burned away, 
arms or legs lost, so that such a life would hardly be 
a blessing.” 
Arlian shivered again. He looked at the clouds. 
The dragons seemed so terrible that it was hard, 
sometimes, to believe that they were ever real. 
Everyone knew they were real, though, or had 
been once, at least. The dragons had ruled all of the 
Lands of Man, from the eastern sea to the western 
wilderness, from the Borderlands in the south to the 
icy wastes of the north. People had resisted their 
rule sometimes, fought great wars against the 
dragons, but to no avail—until one day, about seven 
hundred years ago, when the dragons had all gone 
away, leaving humanity free. 
Arlian’s mother said the dragons had all died, 
perhaps of some plague, but most people insisted

they were still alive, deep in their caverns, and 
might come back at any time. 
And sometimes, according to Grandsir, they did 
come back, briefly. 
“That village in the Sandalwood Hills,” Arlian 
asked. “What do you think the people there did to 
anger the dragon? Why would it destroy them all?” 
“I don’t think they had to do anything,” Grandsir 
said. “The dragon simply felt like destroying 
something, and they were close at hand.” 
“But that’s so unfair! You mean they didn’t do 
anything to deserve it?” 
“Not a thing,” Grandsir replied. 
Arlian absorbed that unhappily. He didn’t like it 
at all. He knew life wasn’t always fair, but he felt, 
deep in his heart, that it should be. He always tried 
to be fair to his brother, Korian, and to their 
playmates in the village-even the giggly girls. In the 
stories his mother told justice always triumphed in 
the end. Why was the rest of life so messy and 
unjust? 
His father said it was because the gods were 
dead, and only Fate remained, and Fate had its own 
plans for everyone. 
The village sorcerer—the only person in the 
village of Obsidian whose name Arlian didn’t know, 
because he said names had power—had said that 
justice was as much an illusion as any of the little 
tricks he did to entertain the children. 
Arlian wondered sometimes if it might be the 
other way around—maybe everything did work out 
fairly in the end, somehow, and the apparent 
injustices were the illusions. He wiped sweat-damp 
hair away from his eyes and looked down at the 
approaching wagons. 
Maybe the dragon did have a good reason for 
destroying that village. Maybe the dragons were 
part of Fate’s plans.

“Do you really think it’s dragon weather?” he 
asked. 
His grandfather put an arm around Arlian’s 
shoulder and gave him a reassuring hug. 
“I hope not,” he said. “Come on, let’s go give your 
mother a hand.” 
Together, they turned away from the ledge and 
ambled toward the house.
2 
The Coming of the Dragons 
The dark clouds hung heavy in the western sky 
for the next three days, creeping very slowly nearer, 
spreading across the sky like a stain. The water 
wagons were brought to the cisterns above the 
village and emptied into the great stone basins, and 
water was doled out carefully to each family, 
enough to keep both crops and people alive, but still 
thirsty. 
The mountain above the village continued to 
smoke and steam; the air now had a very noticeable 
sulfurous stench to it, and the sun, when it could be 
seen through the haze at all, was as orange as a 
pumpkin. 
Despite the oppressive heat and gloom the young 
men of Obsidian returned to their usual tasks, 
working the mines, carving the black glass, tending 
the crops. The women kept house, cooked and 
cleaned, wove and sewed, minded the livestock and 
the children. The old men thatched roofs, polished 
brightwork, and took care of the other less urgent, 
less strenuous jobs. 
And the children ran errands and helped out as 
required, but still found time to play and explore.

On the third morning after the water run Arlian 
climbed up to the top of the great black rock north 
of the village; at the top, sweaty and filthy, he 
settled down cross-legged and looked out over the 
countryside. 
Up here it was just as hot as in the village, but 
the air seemed not quite so still and thick. From 
here he could see for miles upon miles, out across 
the Lands of Man, across fields and forests, from 
the Sandalwood Hills to the Bitter Lake, from 
Skygrazer Peak back to Tara Vale, miles in every 
direction but southeast, where the mountain 
blocked his view. 
To the north, far off on the horizon, beyond the 
lowering clouds and the pall of mountain smoke, he 
could see a dull line of blue sky. At one point, to the 
northeast, that blue was marred by a smudge of 
smoke; his father had once pointed it out and told 
Arlian that that was where the great city of Manfort 
lay, where humans had first resisted, and finally 
broken, the dragons’ hold on the world—Manfort, 
where the great lords and ladies lived in their stone 
palaces, in their fine clothes and fancy coaches, 
with their dress balls and formal duels, amid 
rumors of secret societies and elaborate intrigue. 
Arlian stared at the smoke for a long time, trying 
to imagine what the city was like. 
When he grew up he wanted to travel; he had 
said so for as long as he could remember. His 
grandfather had been a traveler in his youth, and 
Arlian loved to hear him talk about it. He wanted to 
see all the places Grandsir had 
described—Blackwater, and Deep Delving, and 
Benth-in-Tara, and the groves of Nossevier. 
And maybe he could even get to Manfort, as 
Grandsir never had, to see the palaces there, and 
the old shrines to the dead gods, and the lords and 
ladies with their swords and horses, and the Duke 
of Manfort, heir to the great warlords of old. 
Grandsir had stayed clear for fear of being robbed,

or captured by slavers and sold, or killed by some 
lord he had inadvertently offended, but Arlian was 
certain he would be able to handle a visit there. 
Or he might cross the Desolation to the 
Borderlands, where, it was said, one could see wild 
magic flashing across the southern skies, above the 
wild lands—magic was weak and scarce in the 
Lands of Man, useful only to trained sorcerers and 
severely limited even then, but Arlian had heard 
that in the Borderlands beyond the desert magic 
was so strong it danced like brightly colored fires in 
the sky. The intervening Desolation was said to be 
hot and almost waterless, a wasteland where anyone 
losing his way would leave bleached bones in the 
sand, and where bloodthirsty bandits roamed—but 
caravans still crossed it every year, and Arlian could 
surely join one. 
There was magic beyond the eastern seas, as well, 
and ships sailed there from the ports of Benthin and 
Lorigol, and stomeday Arlian might travel in one. 
And maybe he would become a lord himself—he 
would own a business, perhaps a caravan or a ship 
or a manufactory, where others would labor on his 
behalf, and he would carry a sword and dagger on 
his belt and ride a fine horse. 
But wherever he went, Arlian told himself, he 
would come home at the last, to settle in his own 
familiar village, just as Grandsir had. Arlian 
thought he would find a pretty wife somewhere and 
bring her back here and raise half a dozen children, 
sons and daughters both, and he would treat them 
equally and fairly and raise them to be good and 
just people. And he would tell them stories of his 
travels at the supper table, just as Grandsir did. 
With that thought he realized that it was almost 
time for the midday meal. Arlian wiped 
black-tinged sweat from his forehead with his 
sleeve, then turned away from the distant smoke of 
Manfort and started back down the jagged side of 
the black rock.

Later, after everyone had eaten, as his parents 
headed for the fields, Grandsir beckoned to Arlian. 
“Summer can’t last much longer,” he said, “and 
we haven’t put aside as much for the winter as 
usual. I want to take a look in the cellars, see what 
we have and what we need. Come along and give me 
a hand, would you, Ari?” 
Arlian smiled and came willingly; the cellars were 
usually cool, and any respite from the muggy heat 
would be welcome. He was not permitted in the 
cellars without adult supervision; there were too 
many ways for an active lad to do damage, down 
there in the cool darkness. 
“Bring a candle,” Grandsir said, gesturing toward 
the drawer. 
Arlian rummaged through the drawer until he 
found a good thick candle stub as long as his finger; 
he lit it with a splint from the kitchen fire, which 
was kept burning even on days as swelteringly 
uncomfortable as this. 
The candle flared up, and even in the 
well-ventilated kitchen with its wide-open doors 
and windows the little flame seemed to brighten the 
room; the day was darker than Arlian had realized, 
and seemed to be darkening as he watched. 
He took a final glance out the window at the 
black clouds, then followed his grandfather, trotting 
through the long narrow pantry, past the tiered 
shelves to the door at the back. 
The rush of air from the cellars when Grandsir 
opened the door was disappointing, nowhere near 
as cool as Arlian had expected—apparently the heat 
had even penetrated into the stone-lined depths 
beneath the house. Still, it was cooler than 
anywhere else he might go. 
The old man went down the ladder first while 
Arlian held the candle high; when he reached the 
bottom the boy handed the light down, then turned 
and made his own way down the sagging wooden

rungs. The rails were slick in his hands, polished to 
a silky sheen by generations of hands sliding down 
them, and he had to watch his step closely. 
When he stepped off the final rung the stone floor 
felt warm beneath his bare feet; he glanced down in 
surprise. 
“The mountain is hot,” Grandsir said. “I wouldn’t 
be surprised if it erupts soon.” 
Arlian said nothing, but his eyes widened at the 
notion. The crater that loomed over the village had 
smoked all Arlian’s life, but there had been no 
actual eruption for almost fifty years. 
The natural path for any lava or ash was down 
the far slope, well away from the village, but still, an 
eruption was an exciting, frightening thought. 
“Come on,” Grandsir said, leading the way down 
one of the passageways, between dusty shelves lined 
with earthenware crocks and black glass jars. 
Arlian followed, brushing aside cobwebs and 
soaking in the dimness and the rich musty smells. 
Somewhere behind him, from the sunlit world 
above, he heard a distant shriek—probably Kashkar 
the Stonecarver’s three girls playing some silly 
game, Arlian thought. 
A man’s voice shouted, but Arlian could not make 
out any words—probably Kashkar, telling his 
daughters to go elsewhere with their racket. Arlian 
paid no attention to the noise, but watched as 
Grandsir ran a careful finger along a shelf, counting 
crocks. 
“Eighteen pots of the soft cheese,” the old man 
said. “Count the wheels of hard cheese on the 
bottom shelf, boy, the ones in black wax—my old 
knees don’t want me to stoop that much anymore, 
and my eyes…” 
Arlian squatted and began counting the big 
drums of cheese—the black wax did tend to fade 
into the dark background, and he could see how

Grandsir might have trouble. 
More voices were shouting somewhere in the 
distance, Arlian realized as he counted—had those 
girls started the adults arguing? 
Then he heard another sound, a hollow metallic 
booming, and started up so suddenly he almost 
knocked the candle from Grandsir’s hand. 
The old man hardly noticed; he had heard the 
same sound, and was staring at the open door at 
the top of the ladder-well. From where they stood 
only a corner of the opening was visible, a triangle 
of dull gray light in the brown darkness. 
They both knew that sound. Everyone in the 
village knew it. Once a year everyone gathered 
around and solemnly listened to it, simply so they 
would know it when they heard it. It was the 
ringing of the great brass warning bell that hung in 
the otherwise abandoned village shrine. 
“Do you think the mountain’s erupting, 
Grandsir?” Arlian asked. 
“I don’t know,” his grandfather replied, taking a 
step toward the ladder, the candle held high. “It 
could be. But I don’t hear any rumbling…” 
Then he stopped moving, stopped talking. People 
were shrieking again—but this was no game. These 
were screams of mortal terror, from grown men and 
women as well as children. 
“What’s happening?” Arlian whispered hoarsely. 
He stared at the ladder. 
Then a rush of hot air swept down into the 
cellars, flinging long-settled dust into the air in 
great swirls; dust stung Arlian’s eyes, blinding him 
momentarily. He blinked frantically, and dabbed at 
his watering eyes. 
Somewhere overhead he heard a tremendous 
roaring. 
“Come on,” Grandsir said. “Whatever’s 
happening, we don’t want to be trapped down

here.” He tugged at Arlian’s arm. 
Still squinting, Arlian came, staggering toward 
the ladder. The doorway seemed much brighter 
now—much too bright, Arlian thought. He realized 
with a start that the wind had blown out the candle 
and he hadn’t even noticed at first, so much more 
light was spilling down from above. 
Hot air roiled about them when they reached the 
ladder. Grandsir gestured for Arlian to wait, and 
began climbing. 
He reached the top and took a step forward, and 
Arlian did not wait for a signal, but started up the 
ladder himself. 
The minute his head cleared the pantry floor and 
he could see through the other door he knew why 
there was so much more light; the kitchen roof was 
gone, torn away, and the kitchen walls were ablaze. 
The pantry’s stone walls were intact, but the 
wooden ceiling was beginning to smolder and 
blacken, and the top shelf on one side was askew. 
“What’s happening?” he shouted—he had to 
shout to have any hope of being heard over the 
immense roaring that now seemed to fill the entire 
world. Hot whirlpools of smoke and air spilled 
through the pantry, blinding him anew. “Where’s 
Mother? And Father, and Korian?” 
“I don’t know,” Grandsir said, stepping forward, 
arms raised to shield his face against the fire. 
“Is it an eruption?” Arlian shouted. 
Grandsir stopped dead, staring. 
“No,” he said. “It’s not an eruption.” 
Arlian stared as well; still on the ladder, his waist 
level with the pantry floor, his vision was limited to 
what he could see by peering around his 
grandfather’s legs and out through the door to the 
kitchen. He could see a corner of the kitchen table, 
a burning fragment of wall, and a wedge of gray 
sky—and framed in that wedge he saw the dragon.

He could not judge its size accurately, but he 
knew it was huge. It hung there, flapping its 
tremendous wings, and Arlian knew that that 
flapping was what had caused the whirlwinds that 
had swept through the cellars. 
It looked black against the sky, but Arlian could 
not be sure that was its true color. Its eyes were the 
color of flame, but perhaps they merely reflected the 
blazing village. 
Its wings swept up in a graceful, gigantic curve, 
then snapped down, then swept upward again, and 
between them hung a body as long and lithe as a 
snake, tail whipping and winding below. Its long 
neck arched elegantly, and it seemed to be staring 
right at Arlian. 
“Oh,” Arlian breathed. The dragon was 
simultaneously the most beautiful and the most 
terrifying thing he had ever seen. 
Then it turned and soared away, moving through 
the sky as smoothly and effortlessly as a fish moves 
through water. 
“It’s gone,” Arlian said. 
His grandfather took a cautious step forward, 
and Arlian hoisted himself up off the ladder, 
stepping through the doorway into the pantry. 
Then they both froze as the second dragon 
appeared. 
This one did not look their way, but simply flew 
across their field of vision, left to right and angling 
upward. Its scaled flank caught a gleam of sunlight 
and shone a dark, rich green, though the rest of it 
seemed as black as the other. 
It was definitely not the same dragon, however. 
The proportions were different—and the face, even 
when seen only from the side, was different. 
Arlian was startled at how readily he could know 
that. The dragons, he discovered, had faces as 
distinctive and as instantly recognizable as people.

Why or how it could be so he did not know, but he 
knew it was. 
“Two of them,” Grandsir said—he, too, had seen 
immediately that the two were not the same 
creature. “Two dragons!” 
“Are they gone?” Arlian asked. 
“I don’t know,” Grandsir said, stepping 
cautiously forward. He coughed as a swirl of smoke 
reached him. 
Just then a dragon reappeared—the first one, 
Arlian was sure. It swept down from the sky toward 
something Arlian could not see through the burning 
ruins of his family kitchen, and spat flame. 
It was just as Grandsir had said three days 
before—the dragon opened its mouth and flexed its 
jaw, and something sprayed out, then burst into 
flame. The fire never touched the dragon itself; 
instead a burning mist spattered down across the 
village below. 
Grandsir coughed again. 
“Dragons or no, we can’t stay in here,” he said. 
“The smoke will kill us both. Maybe we can get to 
the cisterns— if we hide in there the flames can’t 
touch us.” 
Arlian nodded hesitantly, and stepped 
forward—and that was when the third dragon 
appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was afoot, 
strolling through the village rather than flying, and 
had thrust its immense black head into the flaming 
ruins of the kitchen to see what might be in the 
depths of the house. It stared into the pantry, 
directly at Arlian and his grandfather. 
Arlian screamed and stepped back involuntarily, 
back through the door. His foot missed the edge of 
the floor and he fell backward, hands flinging out in 
an unsuccessful attempt to catch himself on the 
doorframe. He tumbled heels over head down the 
ladder into the cellars and landed, bruised and

dazed, on the warm stone floor. 
He heard his grandfather shouting wildly; at first 
he was too stunned to make out the words, but then 
his senses began to return. 
“… our home! May the dead gods curse you and 
all your kin, dragon—what have you done with my 
daughter and her husband, and my grandson? You 
get out of here, back to your caverns! Your time is 
over! You have no place in the Lands of Man!” 
Arlian looked up and saw flames and smoke 
licking across the pantry ceiling, turning the 
familiar surface fierce and strange. Still bleary and 
stiff from his fall but desperate to get out, to not be 
trapped down here, he struggled to pull himself 
upright on the ladder. 
Then a shadow fell across him and he looked up 
again to see Grandsir standing on the brink, his 
back to the cellars, his heels almost over the edge. 
“You get away from me!” the old man shrieked, 
his voice cracking with terror. 
And then there was a rush of air, of hot, fetid air 
laced with a biting acid stench like nothing Arlian 
had ever smelled before, and a deep, deep sound 
that was neither growl nor cough nor roar nor 
rumble nor bellow, and Grandsir let out a scream 
and fell backward into the cellars, pulling the ladder 
down with him, knocking Arlian down and landing 
atop him, the ladder wedged across the passageway 
over both of them. 
Somewhere above, flames blossomed into roaring 
brilliance. 
The boy’s head hit the stone, and again Arlian 
was dazed; pain shot through his head and neck, 
and he tried to contract his spine, to pull himself 
inward in self-defense, but he was unable to move. 
He lay sprawled on the stone, and Grandsir was 
sprawled atop him; the back of his grandfather’s 
head was pressing down on his right eye, blocking

his vision on that side. With his left eye he could see 
the burning ceiling far above, now pierced by 
widening flame-lit cracks, the remaining ceiling 
black between the lines of fire. Swirls of gray smoke 
filled much of the ladderwell now and dimmed the 
light, even though the flames were bright and the 
ceiling was splitting and crumbling. He could see 
the left side of his grandfather’s face, more or less, 
but it was so close he had difficulty focusing on it. 
Grandsir’s weight on Arlian’s chest was so much, 
and the smoke so thick, that he couldn’t get his 
breath to speak—and Grandsir did not speak. 
Even if Arlian had been able to speak, and 
Grandsir to hear, he wasn’t sure he would be heard. 
Above them the pantry and the surrounding village 
were roaring chaos, a constant hammering of 
undifferentiated sound—flame and wind and terror. 
Grandsir did not move to get up, did not stir, did 
not raise his hands or shift his feet. He lay still. 
Arlian thought he might be dead, but that blurry, 
out-of-focus bit he could see did not seem 
lifeless—Arlian could see motion, as if Grandsir 
were blinking, or twitching. 
But then he managed to blink the smoke from his 
eye and get a clearer look, and realized that what he 
could see was not Grandsir’s own face moving, but 
something on his face—something liquid, 
something that seethed and steamed and roiled. 
Arlian desperately wanted to shriek at the sight 
of that, but he couldn’t get enough air; he let out a 
strangled moan and struggled to free his left 
arm—his right was too securely pinned under 
Grandsir’s body. 
Red and gray fluid was bubbling up where 
Grandsir’s left eye should have been; a bright, sharp 
stink scorched through Arlian’s nostrils, making it 
even harder to draw the deep breath he desperately 
needed. Arlian’s mouth was wide open as he sucked 
frantically for air.

He watched in sickened horror as the thick red 
fluid oozed down Grandsir’s cheek. 
That was not just blood. Blood would have been 
bad enough—to have his grandfather lying atop 
him, perhaps dead, perhaps dying, with blood 
welling up from his eye socket, would have been 
terrible enough to give Arlian nightmares for years. 
But this was not just blood; human blood did not 
steam and bubble, and was never so viscous. 
Arlian knew what had happened. The third 
dragon had looked into the pantry and seen 
Grandsir there, and Grandsir had shouted defiance. 
The dragon had listened for a moment, then grown 
annoyed. It had been unable to reach into the stone 
pantry with fang or claw, had not wanted to trouble 
itself with smashing down the stone walls, so it had 
breathed its fiery venom at Grandsir. 
But the dragon had been so close to the old man 
that the venom would not burn, so close it had not 
time to ignite; instead it had struck Grandsir full in 
the face as a toxic spray. Some had burst into flame 
when it struck the hot ceiling or the back wall of the 
ladderwell, but the liquid that had hit Grandsir had 
remained venom, rather than fuel. 
And if the stories were right, it was eating the 
flesh from his grandfather’s bones. 
Arlian almost hoped Grandsir was dead, for his 
sake— but for his own, he hoped the old man still 
lived, and might somehow help them both survive. 
Survival did not seem very likely for either of 
them, though. The smoke was growing denser, the 
roar of the flames louder, and Arlian thought the 
whole cellar might yet cave in upon him. 
And that thick red trickle moved slowly down 
Grandsir’s cheek, and finally dripped down, the first 
fat drop landing squarely in Arlian’s open, gasping 
mouth.

3 
Lord Dragon 
The shock of that impact on his parched tongue, 
the indescribably vile taste, the unbearable stench, 
the corrosive burning that seemed to be tearing the 
lining from his mouth and throat, the knowledge of 
what was happening, was more than Arlian could 
bear; he fainted. 
He awoke choking in the dark, coughing up 
slime, and in his convulsions threw his 
grandfather’s body off him; the ladder that had 
pinned them both down snapped free and rattled to 
one side, one rail broken off short. 
Arlian rolled over and vomited up everything he 
could bring up, vomited until his chin dripped with 
stinking ooze and his elbows rested in a widening 
pool of acidic detritus. His eyes filled with tears, 
both from the agony in his gut and the awareness of 
utter disaster; the knowledge that his home and his 
family had been destroyed. He pulled himself clear, 
away from the corruption his body had expelled, 
away from the ladder and Grandsir, into relatively 
cool darkness and sweeter air. There he fainted 
again. 
He was awakened again, after how long he did 
not know, by voices, by laughter. He blinked and lay 
still, trying to remember where he was, what had 
happened. 
He was in the cellars, he remembered. He could 
see that he was still in the cellars, looking at the 
bottom shelf of one rack of preserves. Daylight 
filtered down from above, daylight thick with 
drifting dust. 
He was alive—the fire had passed over him and

the cellars had not fallen in. 
He heard footsteps somewhere above, heavy 
footsteps that crunched as if walking on the black 
ash the volcano sometimes spewed. 
Daylight in the cellars —the roof was gone. Arlian 
remembered the fire, the smoke, the heat. He 
remembered the dragons; he remembered the third 
one’s face when it peered into the pantry, its eyes 
huge and alien and knowing. 
It had been the eyes that frightened him into 
stepping back and falling, far more than anything 
else. The fangs, the jaws, the dripping venom—he 
had hardly noticed those. He had seen only those 
great dark eyes, bottomless and terrifying. 
He had fallen; he remembered that now. And his 
grandfather had fallen. 
And Grandsir had been struck by the dragon’s 
acid venom. 
Arlian sat up, moving convulsively. He gulped air, 
choked and gasping, and turned. 
Grandsir lay beside him on the stone floor—or 
rather, Grandsir’s corpse lay there. 
There could be no doubt that he was dead; the 
venom had eaten his flesh away, exposing bone in 
half a dozen places, from a patch of skull where his 
forehead should be to the protruding parallel curves 
of bare ribs above the blackened, ruined remains of 
his chest. 
Arlian’s empty stomach contracted painfully. He 
had nothing left to bring up. He moaned, and 
blinked as his eyes filled anew with tears. 
His grandfather was dead. His parents were 
gone, almost certainly dead. His brother, as well. 
His entire life had been destroyed, suddenly and 
swiftly, with no warning—at least, none beyond a 
spell of bad weather. 
Something burned deep within him—not pain, 
not an emotion, but a strange sensation he had

never felt before. He remembered how he had lain 
trapped while his grandfather’s venom-corrupted 
blood dripped into his mouth. 
He moaned again, slightly louder. 
The footsteps overhead stopped. 
“Did you hear something?” an unfamiliar voice 
asked— not the voice of any villager, Arlian was 
sure. 
Arlian could hear another voice respond, but 
could make out none of the words. He looked up, 
startled, and blinked the tears from his eyes. 
Who was up there? He had assumed there were 
survivors, people he knew—but these voices spoke 
with an odd lilt, an accent unlike anything he had 
ever heard. Even the people who lived in the farms 
and villages down by the river did not sound like 
that. 
The opening at the top of the ladderwell was 
larger than it should have been; wooden flooring, 
doors, and ceiling had burned away, and parts of 
the stone walls had tumbled. Arlian could see hazy 
blue sky, but not much more than that. 
“From that chimney, maybe,” the first voice said. 
Arlian swallowed, trying to think clearly despite 
the overwhelming grief and shock that filled his 
mind. There were strangers in the ruins of his 
family’s home—who were they? What should he do? 
Two other voices spoke, and then the footsteps 
sounded again, moving closer. A moment later a 
man’s face appeared over the top of one of the stone 
walls, looking down at him. 
“It’s no chimney,” the man shouted. “There’s a 
cellar down here! And people, and one of them’s 
alive!” 
“Help,” Arlian called weakly. “Help me!” 
“You wait right there, boy,” the man said, 
grinning down at him.

Arlian stared up at the man for a moment. That 
grin didn’t look quite right, somehow. 
Then there was a series of thumps and crashes, 
and someone was leaning over the ruined remains 
of the pantry floor, looking down at him. It was a 
man, a man wearing a sleeveless brown leather coat 
despite the heat; he held an iron pry bar in one 
hand. His face and coat were smeared with soot; his 
hair and beard were black, so the soot didn’t show, 
but they were disheveled. 
Arlian had never seen him before; whoever these 
people were, they definitely weren’t from the village. 
Perhaps, despite their odd speech, they were 
rescuers from the river towns? Arlian had only been 
down off the mountain two or three times in his 
life; perhaps he didn’t know as much about the 
river-folk as he thought. 
An almost-cool eddy of air stirred Arlian’s hair, 
and he wondered how long he had lain unconscious; 
judging by that breeze the long hot spell, the dragon 
weather, had apparently ended at last. That could 
happen suddenly, but he feared he had slept for 
days or even weeks, and been left for dead by his 
family. 
But the dragon weather had passed, and the 
dragons it had brought were gone; the worst was 
surely over. 
“What’s down there, boy?” the stranger asked. “Is 
there anyone but you?” 
Arlian glanced at his grandfather’s corpse, then 
swallowed. 
“Just me,” he said. 
“And what else? Is there treasure? Obsidian?” 
Arlian blinked, confused. 
“There’s cheese,” he said. “And preserves, and 
wine…” 
“So you wouldn’t starve if we left you, then?”

“Don’t leave me down here!” Arlian shrieked. 
The man frowned. “It’s not up to me, boy,” he 
said. “It’s Lord Dragon’s decision.” 
Arlian’s jaw sagged, and he slumped back against 
the shelves. “Lord Dragon?” he said. 
“Yes, that’s what we call him,” the man said. 
“What we call him.” Arlian relaxed slightly; then 
it was a man after all, and not a dragon. For a few 
seconds there he had had nightmarish images in his 
head of one of those black dragons still here in the 
village, giving these people their orders. He had 
thought that perhaps all the dragons had awakened 
from their slumbers and come to reclaim the Lands 
of Man and restore their ancient empire. 
But it was just a man. 
Arlian remembered what his parents had told 
him, how it was the custom many places not to use 
real names in the ancient tongue, but common 
words—Lord Stick, Lady Flower, or the like. 
But who would dare call himself Lord Dragon? 
Just then the man straightened and turned away 
from Arlian, and spoke to someone Arlian could not 
see. The boy was unable to make out the words, but 
the voice answering was cold and deep. 
Then the two men, the one in the pantry and the 
one peering over the broken wall, both vanished. 
Arlian called, “Hey! Where are you?” 
“Shut up, boy,” said that cold, deep voice. 
Arlian shut up. 
If they left him it wouldn’t be all that bad, he told 
himself. He did have plenty of food, and eventually 
he could get the ladder back in place, or use the 
shelving to climb out. 
Who were these men? What were they doing 
here? They weren’t rescuers of any sort, from their 
behavior. 
And then two men appeared where the pantry

had been, the man in the brown leather coat and 
another in a smoke-stained canvas vest; the one in 
the vest was carrying a coil of rope. They were 
stepping carefully—Arlian guessed that the pantry 
floor was largely burned away, and they were wary 
of falling through. 
Then the coil of rope was flung down into the 
cellars, one end still secured somewhere out of 
sight; the man in the vest grabbed hold of it and 
lowered himself cautiously down, carefully avoiding 
stepping on the gory corpse at the foot of the ladder 
well. 
At the bottom he stopped and dusted off his 
pants as he looked around. He grimaced at the sight 
of Grandsir’s remains, then beckoned to Arlian. 
“Come on, lad,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.” 
Arlian scrambled to his feet. “Thank you!” he 
said. 
The man picked him up and hoisted him, and 
Arlian stretched out his hands; the other man, the 
one in the leather coat, caught them and hauled. A 
moment later Arlian was standing in the ruins of 
his family’s kitchen. 
He looked around in horror. 
The walls and roof and most of the furnishings 
were gone save for scorched, fallen beams and 
drifted ash; the stone floor was strewn with debris. 
The rest of the village had fared no better; Arlian 
looked out on a blasted, blackened wasteland, 
scoured of every sign of life, as dead as the crater at 
the mountain’s peak. No structure still stood any 
higher than his head; the fragmentary walls of the 
pantry were among the tallest remaining. 
A strong wind was blowing, carrying away 
lingering dust and smoke and heat. The air was still 
warm, but no longer thick and hot. 
Half a dozen people were moving through the 
ruins. Behind Arlian, the man in the leather coat 
was talking to the man in the canvas vest; nearby,

the man who had peered over the wall was poking 
through the crumbled remains of Arlian’s parents’ 
bedroom. Three other people, a man and two 
women, were scattered about the village on foot, 
and one was seated upon a horse in the little plaza 
at the center of town, overseeing everything. Over at 
the head of the path down the mountain stood a 
wagon, unattended at the moment, with a pair of 
draft horses in the traces. 
Arlian had never seen a horse-drawn wagon 
before; that established beyond question that these 
people were not from the vicinity of the Smoking 
Mountain. Around here wagons were pulled by 
oxen; no one would waste horses on such a task. 
“Where is everybody?” Arlian asked, his voice 
unsteady. His eyes were wet again, stinging with 
lingering smoke and tears. 
The man on horseback turned to stare at him. 
Arlian stared back, and started trembling. 
This must be Lord Dragon, he realized, and the 
man’s intense wordless stare did indeed remind 
Arlian of the expression he had seen on the face of 
the dragon that killed Grandsir. 
The horseman was finely dressed in black 
trimmed with elaborate gold embroidery, from tall 
leather boots to the dashing, broad-brimmed hat 
cocked to one side and trailing golden feathers 
down behind one shoulder. His face was thin and 
dark, and his right cheek, the one partly concealed 
by the hat, was heavily scarred—old, ugly scars that 
looked as if a handful of flesh had once been ripped 
away and left to heal untreated. He wore no beard, 
an affectation Arlian had heard of but never seen 
before, and his mustache was trimmed to a narrow, 
curving black line. A black scabbard slapped 
against one of his thighs and the horse’s flank, and 
Arlian realized that the man carried a sword. 
Arlian had never seen a sword. Only lords and 
professional guards carried swords, and the village

had had neither. 
This black-garbed man was clearly an actual lord. 
“Come here, boy,” the horseman said in a cold, 
deep voice that Arlian recognized, the voice that 
had told him to shut up. 
Hesitantly, Arlian picked his way across the 
kitchen floor and out into the village street, until he 
stood by the rider’s boot, looking up at the scarred 
face. 
“Your village is dead,” the horseman said. “Don’t 
get your hopes up that your friends or family might 
still live. Dragons allow no escapes. Unless there are 
other cellars or tunnels, you are the only survivor.” 
Arlian could not find a reply. 
“We’re counting skulls, when we find them,” the 
rider said. “We may miss some, but you’ll know that 
most of them died, at the very least. Take my word 
for it, boy— they all died. One survivor is a miracle; 
two would be impossible.” 
Arlian felt tears running down his cheeks, but 
still couldn’t speak. 
“Now, do you know where any valuables might 
be? Where was the chief workshop? I have uses for 
obsidian back in Manfort. Or perhaps your village 
sorcerer might have had a few precious 
possessions?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian managed to say. His voice 
was a husky whisper. 
The horseman frowned. “You don’t know where 
they worked the black glass?” 
Arlian pressed his lips tight to keep from wailing 
and shook his head. 
“Hmph.” Lord Dragon looked up and scanned the 
ruins quickly. Arlian dropped his gaze, and a 
teardrop rolled down his nose and dropped to the 
dust at his feet. 
His family was dead—his mother, his father,

Korian… 
And Grandsir, of course. He had seen Grandsir’s 
body and knew beyond question that the old man 
was dead. The other deaths didn’t seem real yet, but 
he had seen the house, had seen the village, had 
heard Lord Dragon’s words. 
And who was this Lord Dragon? Arlian looked up 
again, and as he did caught sight of a sack lying by 
the horse’s front hooves. He turned and glimpsed 
part of its contents through the open top—and 
recognized some of the items. 
Old German’s golden plate, now smeared with 
wet black ash but still unmistakable. Beronil’s 
crystal cups, handed down in her family for a 
century or more. The obsidian clock face Kashkar 
had been working on. 
They were all thrown in together, and Arlian 
suddenly realized who Lord Dragon and his men 
were. 
Looters. Human vultures, come to pick clean the 
bones the dragons had left. 
He looked up, and his eyes met Lord Dragon’s 
gaze. 
The horseman’s eyes were deep and dark, sunken 
in their sockets, with dark brown iris and almost no 
whites visible. They were cold and empty eyes that 
seemed to be studying Arlian as if he were no more 
than a stone in the path. 
“What’s going to become of me?” Arlian asked. 
“Unless you have rich kin somewhere who might 
pay a ransom,” Lord Dragon replied calmly, “I 
believe we’ll sell you. You look strong enough, and I 
know a mining company that can always use 
another strong back.” 
“But I’m not a slave!” Arlian protested. 
“You are now,” Lord Dragon replied, in a voice 
like the boom of the warning bell that now lay 
broken and half melted a hundred yards away.

Outrage welled up in Arlian’s heart. He had done 
nothing wrong; he had been born free, and did not 
deserve slavery. “But I’m…” 
“You’re ours, by right of salvage,” Lord Dragon 
said, cutting him off. “This village and everything in 
it has been abandoned, and so, by ancient custom, 
belongs to whosoever first claims it. I am claiming 
it—and thereby, I claim you.” 
“But…” 
“Now, boy, unless you have something to offer me 
in exchange, I’ll hear no more argument. You’re 
mine, and this village is mine.” Lord Dragon 
straightened in the saddle. “Do you have anything 
to offer me? Are there hidden treasures, perhaps? A 
secret cache in that cellar of yours?” 
“No,” Arlian admitted. 
“But you do know where the workshops were, I’m 
sure. Now, will you tell us readily, or must we beat 
it out of you?” 
Arlian hesitated, and was suddenly aware that 
the man in the brown leather coat had come up 
behind him and was standing not a yard away. 
“I’d tell him,” the man said. 
Arlian hesitated, looking from Lord Dragon to 
the man on foot and back. He glanced at the bag of 
stolen valuables, at the horse standing placidly, at 
the long slim sword on Lord Dragon’s left hip and 
the long heavy knife on his right, and at the 
merciless calm of Lord Dragon’s expression. 
“I can show you,” Arlian said. 
He had no choice. 
It was not that he feared a beating, or even 
death—if Lord Dragon killed him at least it would 
be over, and he would not be facing the prospect of 
a life spent laboring in the mines somewhere. 
No, it was that if he died, he could never do 
anything to fix what had been done here.

The dragons had swept in and destroyed 
everything, slain everyone, for no reason; no one in 
the village had ever harmed or threatened them in 
any way. No one there had deserved to die—but 
they had died all the same. 
And this man, this Lord Dragon, had no right to 
come up here and claim everything as his own. He 
had done nothing to earn this place, he had taken 
no risks, he had not sweated and labored to wrench 
the black stone from the mountain and shape it to 
human use. He had not sired Arlian, nor raised 
him, nor even purchased him, yet he now claimed 
him as mere property. 
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And it was Arlian’s 
duty, as the sole survivor of those who had been 
wronged, to fix it, to make it better somehow. His 
parents had taught him that since he was a 
baby—wrongs had to be put right somehow. 
Arlian saw it clearly. Lord Dragon and his looters 
were stealing, and someone had to punish them for 
it. The three dragons had killed innocent people; 
someone had to kill them to make it fair. His 
mother had said there were no more dragons; 
Arlian wanted to do anything he could to make that 
belief come true. 
He had no idea how it might be done, no real 
hope of ever accomplishing it, but somehow he 
knew he must do something to fix it all—and he 
couldn’t if he were dead. His job would be harder if 
he were crippled by beatings. 
So, for now, he would do as he was told, and 
someday he would have his chance. Someday, he 
would find a way to repair this wrong. 
“This way,” he said, and he led the man in brown 
to where the village workshops had stood. 
4

The first Journey 
It was surprisingly difficult to walk with his 
hands tied. Logically, Arlian didn’t see why it made 
much difference, but all the same he found himself 
stumbling and awkward much of the way down the 
mountain, and could only attribute it to having his 
hands bound behind his back, where he could not 
use them to help maintain his balance. 
His eyes stung with tears as he staggered along, 
and he did not know whether to attribute that to 
pain or grief or anger—or if it even mattered. 
His captors displayed no sympathy for his. 
discomforts, but they were in no great hurry, so he 
was able to keep up without being dragged, and 
without being run over by the heavily laden wagon. 
He wondered whether they would put him in the 
wagon with the other loot if he collapsed and 
refused to walk. 
One of the looters, a woman called Dagger, 
glanced at him as he stumbled again. Arlian didn’t 
know whether she noticed his tears, but she deigned 
to address him. 
“You’re probably thinking that Fate’s been cruel 
to you, aren’t you?” she said. “You being sold into 
slavery, and all. But look at it this way—if we just 
left you there, all alone, what would become of you? 
If you didn’t want to starve you’d have to come 
down the mountain anyway, sooner or later, and 
beg in the streets—and if you did, you might have 
been caught by slavers anyway. And it’s not all bad. 
At least slaves know where their next meal will 
come from.” 
Arlian stared at her without speaking, his eyes 
drying. 
“And you may think it’s hard luck that your

family all died,” the woman went on, “but you 
survived, didn’t you? There’s good and bad in 
everything, lad, if you know how to look.” 
Arlian didn’t say anything aloud, but his 
thoughts were clear. 
Good luck or bad didn’t enter into it. The 
dragons had chosen to destroy his village. The 
looters had chosen to scavenge in the ruins. They 
had chosen to do the terrible things they had done. 
They could have left the village alone. It wasn’t ill 
chance that had destroyed the village and carried 
Arlian into slavery; the destroyers did it on purpose. 
Fate had not been cruel. The dragons had been 
cruel. Lord Dragon had been cruel. The other 
looters had been cruel. 
And if Arlian ever had the chance to repay that 
cruelty, he would—but for now he would just go on 
as best he could, in hopes that chance would come. 
He blinked away his tears and stared silently back 
at Dagger. 
“Not speaking to us, eh?” she said. She shrugged. 
“Please yourself, then.” 
They stopped at one of the river towns that night, 
but Arlian saw almost nothing of it, and had no 
chance to speak to any of the townspeople. Before 
they passed the village gate he was gagged, his 
ankles bound, and he was thrown into the wagon, 
covered over with a blanket. 
He lay there, thinking miserably of his family and 
the monstrous injustice of it all, and didn’t notice 
when he fell asleep. 
In the morning he was too stiff to walk. After he 
collapsed twice in a dozen yards he was flung back 
into the wagon and left there, to bounce and bump 
helplessly as the wagon rattled its way along the 
muddy road—this stretch was not paved as the 
mountain road had been. His gag was removed 
after they had gone a mile or so, and his hands 
freed, so he could eat. He was given bread and

water, which he consumed without tasting it; his 
hands were then tied again. No further attempt was 
made to get him to walk. 
This set the fashion for the rest of the journey. 
On the fourth day they stopped early in the 
afternoon, and Arlian was hauled out of the wagon 
and dumped unceremoniously on hard-packed 
earth. He looked up, and found himself meeting the 
gaze of a stranger. 
He had gotten to know the seven looters by face 
and voice, and had heard names—though not true 
names—for all of them; this man was not any of 
them. He was white-haired, fat, clad in gray wool 
and white linen with his beard halfway down his 
chest. He smelled of onions and sweat. 
“I’m asking twenty ducats,” Lord Dragon’s voice 
said. 
The stranger snorted. “Five,” he said. 
“Shamble, just toss him back in the wagon,” Lord 
Dragon said. “This man doesn’t want to be 
serious…” 
“Eight, then.” 
“Eighteen? Perhaps I might consider that.” 
“I said eight, not eighteen!” 
“Ah, you’re still wasting our time with your 
nonsense. Shamble…” 
“And what are you going to do with the boy 
elsewhere, my lord?” the fat man asked, turning his 
gaze away from Arlian, presumably to meet Lord 
Dragon’s eyes. 
“Oh, I think a handsome young fellow like this 
would have his uses almost anywhere,” Lord Dragon 
said. “I couldn’t possibly part with him for less than 
sixteen ducats.” 
“You’ll have to haul him a long way to get that 
much. I’ll give you ten.” 
“Perhaps, as a personal favor, I could settle for

fifteen, though you’d certainly owe me a favor in 
return…” 
“Eleven.” 
“Shamble, look at the boy and tell me whether 
you think our friend here has gone mad to offer less 
than fourteen.” 
“I’m not one to say, my lord,” Shamble replied. 
He was one of the looters—the biggest of them, but 
not one of the brighter ones, judging by what Arlian 
had seen of them. 
“Eleven, I said,” the fat man said. 
“Twelve, and that’s my final offer.” Lord Dragon’s 
tone had shifted, become colder—he had tired of the 
banter, Arlian guessed. The fat man could hardly 
fail to notice the change. 
“Twelve it is, then,” he said, his tone noticeably 
less confident. “The money’s in the strongbox.” 
“Then let us brook no delay in opening this 
strongbox,” Lord Dragon said. 
The fat old man departed, leaving Arlian staring 
up at the sky—and at a cliff of yellow-brown stone. 
He could not move much—his hands and feet 
were tightly bound, and his neck horribly stiff from 
his mistreatment— but Arlian turned enough to see 
that he was surrounded by Lord Dragon’s six 
henchmen while the lord himself accompanied the 
old man to the strongbox. They were standing easily 
on stony ground, the wagon at one side. The cliff 
blocked out almost half the sky, dark against the 
bleached-out pale blue of a hazy summer afternoon, 
but Arlian could see no houses or shops, no sign of a 
farm or village where the fat man might live. He 
looked at the looters, trying to memorize their faces 
so that he would know them someday when he 
tracked them down. 
There was Shamble, big and stupid and vicious, 
eager to please Lord Dragon however possible. 
There was Hide, the man in the sleeveless leather

coat who had pulled Arlian from the cellar. He had 
had little to say on the trip down the mountain to 
this place, and stood slightly apart from the rest. 
Cover, a tidy young man who had worn a vest and 
climbed down into the cellars, was carefully not 
looking, at Arlian. He seemed uneasy. 
Stonehand, who had peered over the wall and 
first seen Arlian, was grinning at something the 
woman called Dagger was whispering to him. 
And Tooth, presumably called that because so 
many of her teeth were missing, was staring at 
Arlian with a crooked, unkind smile on her ugly 
face. 
“I’ll remember you all,” Arlian mouthed silently. 
Then he heard the returning footsteps of the 
others, Lord Dragon and the fat old man, and he 
turned his head just in time to see Lord Dragon set 
a foot in his stirrup. 
“Come along,” he said. 
The six of them came, and a moment later the 
wagon rattled away amid a flurry of hoofbeats and 
shouted comments, leaving Arlian alone with the 
white-haired stranger. 
“Welcome to Deep Delving, boy,” the man said, 
prodding Arlian with the toe of a heavy boot. “I’d 
suggest you look at the sky while you can—you’ll 
never see it again.” 
Arlian stared silently up at that long white beard 
and wrinkled face. 
I will see it again, he promised himself. 
Then the fat man grabbed Arlian by one arm and 
hoisted him upright. Despite his girth he was no 
weakling; he lifted the boy as if he were made of 
straw. 
“Come on,” he said, breathing the smell of onions 
in Arlian’s face. “Let’s get you underground where 
we can take off those ropes without worrying about

any silly attempts to escape.” Carrying Arlian easily 
under one arm, the old man marched along the cliff, 
and then into it, through a hidden doorway. 
Abruptly Arlian was plunged from the familiar 
world of air and sunlight into a broad, torchlit stone 
corridor, awash in shadows and smoke. Memories 
of the smoke-filled cellar where his grandfather had 
died flowered suddenly, and he began to struggle 
and thrash in unthinking panic. 
The fat man dropped him abruptly. Impact with 
the stone floor knocked the wind out of him, and his 
struggles weakened.. 
The fat man stared down at him. “What’s wrong 
with you, boy?” 
“The torches,” Arlian gasped. With one final 
convulsive shudder he forced the fear away and lay 
still. 
The fat man did not so much as glance at the 
torches mounted on the walls; instead he kept his 
attention focused on the boy. 
“What about them?” he demanded. 
“My family,” Arlian said. “Our house burned, and 
they all died. I was trapped in the cellars.” He didn’t 
mention the dragons; he had no clear reason in 
mind why he should not, but it somehow didn’t 
seem wise. 
“And the torches brought it back?” 
Arlian nodded. 
“Well, that’s one fear you’ll get over,” the old man 
said. “At least, if you want to eat.” He stooped and 
picked Arlian up again and slung him over one 
shoulder, almost smashing the boy’s head against 
the stone ceiling in the process. Without further 
conversation he marched onward, down the long 
sloping passageway. 
Most of the tunnel was dark, with the torches 
spaced widely enough that at the midpoint between 
any two there was just barely enough light for

Arlian to make out his captor’s feet in the gloom. 
After a couple of hundred yards the torches gave 
way to dim oil lamps, which were no better, and the 
darkness seemed to deepen as they descended. The 
width of the passageway varied; the fat man stayed 
close to the right-hand wall, where the lights were 
mounted, and while at times the left-hand side 
looked almost close enough to reach out and touch, 
at other times it vanished in the gloom, at least 
twenty feet away. 
Arlian was in no condition to make a close study 
of his surroundings, but he did notice, when they 
passed close by the lights, that the walls had not 
been built, but carved out of the living rock—he was 
being taken deep into the earth. The walls were 
rough yellowish stone, with occasional ribbons of 
gray laced through it. Here and there a bit of quartz 
glittered faintly in thepoor light. 
Down into the earth… down where the dragons 
slept? He shuddered again. 
But no, he wasn’t being taken to the dragons. 
Lord Dragon had mentioned a mining company; he 
must be in a mine, a mine far deeper than the pits 
where the people of Obsidian had dug out the 
slivers of black volcanic glass that gave their village 
its name. 
This was no mere pit. This was nothing like the 
mines Arlian had visited before. 
Then the fat man stopped suddenly. From his 
position on the man’s shoulder Arlian could see the 
tunnel they had just descended, and the broad 
expanse of the man’s back, but nothing of what lay 
ahead. He had no idea why they had stopped. 
“Ho, Bloody Hand!” the man called. “I’ve got a 
fresh one for you!” 
Then Arlian felt himself being heaved off the fat 
man’s shoulder and tossed; the world seemed to 
wheel wildly about him, a mad patchwork of light 
and shadow and glimpses of stone and thick

timbers and blackened ropes, and he found himself 
plunging down into a pit after all… 
But only for perhaps a second; then he had 
landed hard on a pile of rags, knocking the wind out 
of him. 
A young man was standing over him, looking 
down at him. 
“It’s just a boy!” he called. 
“He’ll grow,” the fat man’s familiar voice called 
back. 
“If we let him,” the young man said. He sighed. 
“You won’t get much work out of him at first, you 
know.” 
“That’s not my problem,” the fat man replied. 
“I’ll be back when the Gaffer gets here.” 
Then Arlian heard footsteps retreating up the 
stone passage. 
The young man glared down at him for a 
moment, then pulled a knife from his belt and 
reached down to cut the boy’s bonds. 
Freed at last, Arlian tried to sit up, but found 
himself too weak and stiff to manage it until the 
young man grabbed him roughly by one arm and 
pulled him upright. 
“Welcome to your new home,” the young man 
said. 
Arlian looked around. 
He was at the bottom of a deep round pit, dimly 
lit by three of the little oil lamps. Two black 
passageways opened off it, roughly at right angles to 
one another. The passageway by which he had 
arrived, however, was not one of them; that tunnel 
was on a higher level. Arlian could see now that he 
had been casually flung some fifteen feet or more off 
a ledge; had the huge pile of rags not been here he 
might well have been killed. 
Also at that upper level, in the mouth of the entry

tunnel, he could see a complex of ropes, beams, and 
pulleys, and what appeared to be a large bin of 
some sort. All the ropes had been carefully tied up 
out of reach, he saw—there was no way to climb up 
out of the pit, no ladder, no steps, no dangling 
ropes. 
A row of four ugly little wooden carts stood along 
one side of the pit, full of gray rock. Somewhere in 
the distance Arlian could hear a clinking, rattling 
sound. 
“Where am I?” Arlian asked. “Who are you?” 
“You’re in a mine, half a mile from the town of 
Deep Delving,” the young man replied. “You’re here 
to dig ore. If you dig enough, you get fed; if you 
don’t, you starve. If you cause trouble…” He hefted a 
whip in one hand, the knife he had used to free 
Arlian in the other. “I can use whichever of these I 
think is appropriate to the occasion,” the man said. 
“Or my fists, or a club, or whatever other tool it 
takes to get the ore out.” 
“What ore?” 
“It’s a stone called galena,” the man said, waving 
at the row of carts. “It’s gray, darker than the 
limestone.” He then gestured at the walls; Arlian 
supposed that this meant the pale stone around 
them was limestone. “When it’s smelted it yields 
lead—and sometimes silver, which is what makes it 
worth the trouble.” 
Arlian stared at him for a moment, trying to 
think what else he should ask. This was all 
happening too fast, it was all too harsh, to take in 
properly. 
The young man did not wait to hear what else 
Arlian might have to say, however; he sheathed his 
knife and grabbed the boy by one arm, then 
gestured. 
“Get that lamp,” he said. 
Arlian obeyed, and held the lamp high as he was

dragged into one of the dark tunnels opening off the 
pit.
The clinking noise grew louder as the two made 
their way down the tunnel, through widened areas 
and past side-tunnels, until Arlian could see light 
ahead. 
Then the man released him and snatched the 
lamp away. 
“Go on and join them,” the man said. “They’ll tell 
you what to do.” 
Arlian hesitated, and the man shoved him 
forward with the hand that still held the whip. “Go 
on!” 
Arlian stumbled forward into the darkness, and 
tried to focus on the light ahead. He headed toward 
it, and finally staggered into a relatively open area 
lit by several oil lamps, an area where half a dozen 
ragged, pale-skinned, long-bearded men were 
working—four of them were hacking at a wall of 
gray stone with picks, while the other two collected 
the broken pieces with wooden shovels and dumped 
them into a wooden cart that stood nearby. A 
second cart was pushed up against a wall, just 
below one of the lamps. The clinking Arlian had 
heard had been the sound of iron on stone. 
One of the loaders spotted him as he approached, 
and stopped his work; the other loader noticed, and 
stopped as well. In a moment, all six men had 
turned to stare at Arlian. 
“Fresh blood,” someone muttered. 
“They didn’t give him a pick,” another remarked. 
“Then he’s a loader,” a third said. “He can do the 
handwork and push the cart.” 
“He doesn’t look strong enough to push it!” a 
fourth protested. 
“Where am I?” Arlian asked. 
One man snorted derisively; another laughed.

“You’re in the Old Man’s silver mine,” a third 
said an older man who spoke his words oddly, with 
a singsong rhythm. 
“The Old Man? Who’s that?” 
“He’s who owns this mine,” the man with the 
peculiar accent said. “Now you know as much about 
him as we do.” 
“Was he the one who bought me and brought me 
down here?” 
The men exchanged glances and grins. “Now, 
how would we know?” one of them asked. “We 
didn’t see who brought you.” 
“A big fat man, who smells of onions?” Arlian 
asked. 
“Could be,” one miner admitted. “If he’s been 
eating onions.” 
The others laughed, but Arlian ignored that. 
“And the one with the whip…” he began. 
Expressions turned grim, and one man spat to 
the side. 
“Bloody Hand,” one miner said. 
“Is that his name?” Arlian asked, and 
immediately regretted it—how could it be a name? 
“It’s all the name he needs,” the miner replied. 
“Why is he called that?” Arlian asked, dreading 
the reply. 
“Because of what he did to poor Dinian,” another 
miner said angrily. “Whipped him until the blood 
sprayed everywhere. Cut him open to the bone.” 
Arlian swallowed. “Did he die?” 
“Eventually,” the oldest miner said. “Not of the 
whipping itself, but his wounds festered, and he 
took fever and died. And Bloody Hand didn’t do a 
thing for him.” 
One of the miners turned away and hoisted his 
pick.

“You can tell him your stories later,” he said, as 
he swung the pick and bit the point deep into soft 
gray stone. “If we want to eat tonight, we need to fill 
that cart, and two more after it, before the Gaffer 
gets here. The boy’ll have the rest of his life to listen 
to us talk.” 
The others mumbled agreement and lifted their 
own tools; one of the shovel-wielders beckoned to 
Arlian. 
“You get the pieces we miss,” he said. “Throw 
them in the cart. Keep the floor clear, so she’ll roll. 
Understand?” 
“I understand,” Arlian said. 
It was simple enough, after all. He could do it; it 
was honest work, not harming anyone. 
There would be plenty of time for escape and 
vengeance later. He was just a boy. He had his 
whole life ahead of him. 
And he would not spend it all here in the mine! 
5 
In the Mines 
Arlian hauled on the rope, and the mine cart 
tipped up, spilling its load of ore into the waiting 
hopper. Wark leaned over with the rake and 
scraped out the stones and dust that hadn’t slid out 
on their own; powder swirled up in dark coils that 
cast shadows on the walls of the pit. 
When Wark raised the rake to signal that he was 
done Arlian let the cart fall back on its wheels; then 
he unhooked the heavy rope. 
“One more,” Bloody Hand said.

Arlian and Wark didn’t bother replying; Wark 
was already pulling the empty cart away from the 
hopper while Arlian crossed to the remaining 
loaded cart and braced himself to push it into 
position. 
They didn’t need to be told what to do; they had 
been doing it for longer than Arlian cared to recall. 
He didn’t know how long he had been in the 
mine—years, he was certain. There were no seasons 
down here, no heat in the summer nor cold in the 
winter; there were no days or nights. He had not 
kept count of the shifts worked—and he did not 
even know whether there were really two shifts a 
day, as most of the miners assumed, or whether 
that might vary. Time did not matter to the miners. 
But he had grown to man-height here, and was 
now one of the taller miners, with a respectable 
beard that reached to his chest, so he knew years 
had passed. He was sure he must be at least sixteen 
by now, and feared he was over twenty. He wasn’t 
the biggest man in the mine, by any 
means—Swamp, named for his foul odor, was a 
head taller and a handsbreadth wider across the 
shoulders—but Arlian was tall and strong, and in 
the prime of life. 
Of course, part of that height came from 
standing straight; many of the men in the mine 
were bent and stooped from years of labor, or from 
imperfectly healed injuries. Arlian had been lucky 
in that regard; he had never yet been struck by a 
runaway cart, nor injured by flying chunks of ore 
from a badly aimed swing of the pick, nor suffered 
any other serious mishap. Oh, he had burned 
himself with spilled lamp oil or by carelessly picking 
up a hot lamp, and he’d had his share of cuts and 
bruises, but he had never broken a bone or lost a 
finger, and his injuries had always healed rapidly. 
When the fever had spread through his team he had 
only had a very mild case and had recovered quickly 
to help nurse the others.

Not everyone had been so fortunate; Arlian 
frowned at the memory. Old Hathet had died of 
that fever. Arlian had been there, wiping the old 
man’s forehead with a wet rag to ease the pain, 
when it had happened. Hathet had been talking in a 
thin whisper about his distant and perhaps 
mythical homeland of Arithei, far to the south, 
when he had begun coughing, and his mouth had 
filled with bright red blood, and he had spasmed 
and choked and died. 
Arlian had cried off and on for days after that, 
even while he tended others who had taken ill; right 
from that first day, when Arlian had been dumped 
into the pitshaft and left in Bloody Hand’s care, 
Hathet had been his best friend among the miners, 
a font of wisdom, guidance, and companionship 
despite his peculiarities. Hathet had been the one 
who taught Arlian the systems under which the 
mine operated, so that he had been able to settle 
into work right from the start—many new arrivals 
took days before they learned enough to earn their 
meals, as only those who met their quotas’ of ore 
delivered to the pitshaft were fed. 
Most of the miners were too busy earning their 
own keep to help out a beginner, but Hathet had 
taken the time to show Arlian the ropes. 
Hathet had also told any number of stories of his 
past that Arlian thought were lies, but his 
instructions about the mine had all been sound. 
Arlian had done his best to pass that on to 
newcomers, as he had tried to use the rest of what 
Hathet told him. Some of the others—Rat, and 
Bitter, and Stain—had made fun of Hathet’s 
manner of speech and called him a crazy old man, 
but Arlian, while accepting that some of what 
Hathet said was probably nonsense, had found a 
great deal of wisdom in the old man’s chatter, and 
had taken comfort in his presence. His death had 
been hard. 
Nor was Hathet the only one of Arlian’s fellow

miners who had died. The old man the others had 
called Wrinkles had simply not woken up when 
called for his shift one day. The big, stupid man 
called Fist had gotten careless in a fit of temper 
after an argument with Rat and Swamp, and a wild 
swing of his pick had brought a chunk of tunnel 
ceiling down on his head, dashing out his brains. 
Wark’s brother Kort had sickened and died, taking 
a long time about it—Wark was still grateful to 
Arlian because Arlian had never lost his patience 
with Kort during that slow decline, had never tried 
to steal Kort’s share of the food and water. 
Disease, age, and accidents had killed dozens of 
slaves, while Arlian had grown from a lost, 
frightened boy into a man who knew everything 
there was to know about tunneling, digging and 
hauling ore, and working the various systems that 
bounded his life. He had absorbed what Hathet had 
taught him and learned more on his own. 
And through it all he had never once accepted 
that this was where he would live out his life. 
Someday he would be free, someday he would hunt 
down Lord Dragon and his looters, someday he 
would find a way to punish the dragons for what 
they had done to his family and the rest of 
humanity. Someday he would have justice. 
Justice—he had learned a great deal about justice 
in the mines, and about injustice. He had come to 
understand that the world was not the fair and 
balanced place he had believed it to be when he was 
a child; he had heard a hundred stories from the 
other miners about wrongs left unpunished, 
courage and goodness left unrewarded. His horror 
and outrage at the unfairness of it all had faded— 
but had never died completely. 
He had seen events play out in the enclosed world 
of the mines that taught him by example what the 
stories of the outside world described. He had seen 
how a crime left unavenged would rankle, would 
fester in the victim’s heart like a disease, would

make the offender harder and harsher, would cut 
them both off from the tiny society in which they 
lived. He had seen how just retribution would bring 
together the miners—except perhaps the criminal 
against whom the retribution was taken—content 
that justice had been done. He had joined the 
others in restraining Rat’s worst swindles by 
stealing back extorted belongings, in keeping Fist 
from beating miners whose only crime was to be in 
the wrong place at the wrong time, and he had seen 
that life was better because these wrongs were 
prevented or avenged. Even Rat, well after the fact, 
usually acknowledged as much. 
There were rules, and when men understood and 
obeyed the rules, life was better. That was true in 
the mines, and true in the outside world. 
The world might be an unfair place, but Arlian 
swore he would do everything he could to make it a 
little fairer, either here in the mines, or when he 
once again found his way out. Someday he would 
punish those who had destroyed and looted his 
home, and any other wrongdoers he found. 
Someday. 
He pushed the cart into place and snugged the 
hook securely into place under the handlebar. 
“Ready?” he called. 
“Pull,” Bloody Hand ordered, his hand on his 
whip. 
His hand was always on that whip when he gave 
orders, but in fact he used it less than Lampspiller, 
the other overseer. The general opinion was that 
this was only because he wasn’t often given an 
excuse to use it. Everyone in the mine knew the tale 
of how Bloody Hand had flogged poor Dinian to 
death, and nobody cared to risk a similar fate… 
Arlian had begun to wonder, some time back, 
whether Dinian had ever really existed, or whether 
the tale had been started by Bloody Hand himself, 
long ago, to cow the workers into obedience. He had

asked one of the older surviving miners at the 
time—Hathet and Wrinkles were dead by then, but 
Oineor was still around—whether he had actually 
seen the infamous flogging. 
“By the dead-gods, boy, I did!” Oineor had told 
him. ‘“Twas the very first day that red-handed, 
black-hearted bastard set foot down here. He hadn’t 
yet troubled to tell us his name, just set to ordering 
us about, and didn’t know the first thing about 
what he was doing. Dinian tried to tell him how the 
cart rotation works, and Bloody Hand wouldn’t hear 
a word—he ordered Dinian to shut up and do as he 
was told, and when Dinian wouldn’t he said he’d 
flog him if he didn’t get down the tunnel where he 
belonged.” 
“And Dinian didn’t?” 
“Of course not! He didn’t have a cart to fill, and 
he knew he wouldn’t get supper if he didn’t, so he 
tried to argue— and Bloody Hand lashed him across 
the face. That bastard was so mad he was trembling 
with rage, and Dinian hadn’t done anything 
wrong!” 
“Then what happened?” Arlian had asked. 
“Then Dinian tried to grab the whip, and Bloody 
Hand hit him again, and again, and around the 
third or fourth blow Dinian realized he’d better give 
up. He went down on all fours and covered his head 
and tried to wait it out, but Bloody Hand just 
wouldn’t storj—he flogged Dinian’s tunic to rags, 
and then flogged his back to tatters as well, and 
didn’t stop until there was blood everywhere and 
Dinian was just a heap on the stone.” 
Arlian had shuddered, and had stayed well clear 
of Bloody Hand for weeks after that—but with time 
he had begun to wonder again. 
Maybe Hand had been more frightened than 
angry, alone down here with a score of men who 
had reason to hate him. Maybe he had misjudged. 
Maybe he had been too scared to try to do anything

for Dinian. 
The others all said Hand was a cruel, vicious 
creature who took delight in the suffering of others, 
that he’d beaten Dinian to death for fun—but Arlian 
had never seen Bloody Hand hit anyone, despite 
frequent threats. If he enjoyed tormenting the 
miners, why had he held off so completely for all 
these years? 
Hathet used to say that there were usually two 
explanations for everything, the obvious one and 
the true one; Arlian suspected that this applied to 
Bloody Hand. 
But sometimes the obvious explanation was the 
only one. For example, whatever Bloody Hand’s 
motives might be, Lampspiller enjoyed hurting 
people, and made no attempt to hide the fact. His 
name came from a little game he had invented, not 
long after the day he had first turned up instead of 
the Gaffer for the second shift, where he would 
secretly pour the oil out of a miner’s lamp, and then 
send the man alone down one of the tunnels on 
some invented errand. The light would go out, and 
the miner would find himself in utter darkness, 
unable to find his way back. He would call for help, 
and Lampspiller would forbid anyone to respond 
until he heard a satisfactory note of genuine terror 
and desperation in the victim’s cries. 
More often than not, it was Lampspiller’s 
laughter that guided the lost miner back. 
Several of the miners had felt Lampspiller’s whip; 
he had never flogged anyone to death, but he often 
used a little sting of the lash to hurry men along. 
Most of the miners were only too glad to curse both 
overseers, and to bemoan the day the Gaffer had 
retired—if he had; no one knew for certain what 
had happened to the old man. One day Lampspiller 
had come down the pit instead of the Gaffer, and 
none of the slaves had ever seen the Gaffer again. 
Arguing who was worse, Bloody Hand or

Lampspiller, was a popular pastime. 
In Arlian’s opinion, Lampspiller won easily—but 
he knew that Dinian’s ghost might well think 
otherwise. 
The final ore cart tipped up, and the gray stone 
spilled into the hopper—or began to, at any rate; 
the hopper was now full enough that Arlian had to 
hang on the rope for two or three minutes, holding 
the heavy cart up, while Wark raked out the ore. 
At last it was done, though. Arlian unhooked the 
cart and pulled it clear; he and Wark stepped back. 
“Go on,” Hand said, waving them back. He didn’t 
need to explain what he wanted; they knew the 
rules. No slave was allowed in the pit while the 
hopper was being raised up and the ore transferred 
to the waiting wagons. 
Wark and Arlian retreated toward the mouth of 
their home tunnel and watched as Hand signaled to 
the teamsters on the upper level. 
“Hyaah!” someone shouted, unseen, and the two 
young men heard the crack of a whip, followed by 
the rattle of chains and the creaking of ropes and 
wood as. the mules began hauling. The hopper 
shifted, ore clattering and ropes twanging, and 
began to lift. 
Arlian watched as it rose. They didn’t have to 
wait here; it would be a good half-hour before the 
ore had been transferred and the hopper lowered 
again with tonight’s supper in it. There were empty 
carts available, and the two of them could easily 
have returned to work at the rock face in Tunnel 
#45 and perhaps filled half a cart before returning 
for their ration. Still, Arlian preferred to watch. 
For one thing, if he ever intended to get out of the 
mine, he would probably need to get up that shaft 
to the entry tunnel. Virtually the only alternative 
would be to tunnel up to sunlight somewhere 
without being spotted by the overseers, and Arlian 
remembered how far down he had come when he

was first brought here, and that the entry had been 
at the foot of a cliff. He was deep inside the 
earth—he didn’t know how far, but he knew it was 
deep. 
The possibility that someday they might tunnel 
into a natural cave or cavern had occurred to him, 
but it seemed unlikely—and if it did happen, 
everyone knew that dragons lived in deep caverns. 
Much as he wanted to destroy those dragons, he 
didn’t care to face them barefoot and armed only 
with a pickax. 
Up the shaft—that was the only sane way out. 
So he watched the lifting operations with intense 
interest, trying to devise some way that he might 
get up to that entrance tunnel. The hopper was 
always carefully stored up at the top, with all the 
ropes pulled up out of reach; the stone walls were 
angled inward as they rose and polished smooth, 
making a climb impossible. The pile of rags used as 
a buffer for the hopper, and also as a stockpile for 
the miners’ clothing, was too low to be of any real 
help. 
The hopper was almost invisible now, above the 
area lit by the mine’s lamps and not yet into the 
glow of the torches and lamps used by the wagon 
crews. Arlian leaned out of the tunnel mouth to peer 
upward. 
He saw the jerk an instant before he heard the 
snap; one corner of the hopper dropped abruptly, 
then caught a few inches lower. 
Then a second snap sounded, and the entire end 
of the hopper dropped, swinging down; two of the 
four cables had broken. 
The top layer of ore spilled from the hopper with 
a thunderous roar that echoed deafeningly from the 
limestone walls; a hundred jagged head-sized 
chunks of heavy gray stone poured in a torrent. 
And Bloody Hand, who had stepped forward to 
watch the hauling better, was standing directly

underneath. 
He raised his arms to shield his head and tried to 
dodge, but not in time—a stone struck him squarely 
on the temple, and he crumpled sideways, landing 
on the rag heap. 
Arlian started out of the tunnel, then caught 
himself. 
This was Bloody Hand, the overseer, the man 
who had flogged Dinian to death. And the hopper 
was still mostly full and swinging about wildly as 
the teamsters at the top tried to regain control; at 
any moment the rest of the ore might spill out. Only 
a tiny fraction had fallen as yet. The remainder was 
hanging by a thread. 
A single chunk of stone the size of a man’s chest 
had killed Fist instantly, and that dancing hopper 
held several tons of ore. 
But Bloody Hand was still a fellow human being. 
Dinian aside, the rumors and stories aside, Arlian 
had never seen him deliberately harm anyone. 
And Arlian had seen too many men die in the 
mines. He had no desire to see another death, not 
even Hand’s. 
He ran forward and grabbed the dazed Hand 
under both arms, hauling him free of the little heap 
of scattered stone. Arlian pulled him toward the 
nearest tunnel mouth, walking backward and 
dragging Hand along as quickly as he could. He was 
halfway to the safety of the tunnel’s mouth when he 
heard a twang, and another snap, and saw an 
avalanche of gray stone pouring down out of the 
darkness. 
6

The Price of Mercy 
Arlian was coughing, choking on the clouds of 
rock-dust, as he staggered backward; he had 
dropped Bloody Hand, but the dust in his eyes was 
so thick he couldn’t see where. All he wanted for the 
moment was to get clear himself, so he could wipe 
his eyes and see what was happening. 
“Ari!” 
Arlian recognized Wark’s voice. “Here!” he 
shouted in return. 
Other voices were shouting somewhere; Arlian 
paid no attention to them as he stumbled into a 
tunnel mouth and cleared his vision. 
A few seconds later Wark was there beside him, 
wiping away dust; Arlian turned and peered out 
into the pitshaft. 
The lamps on one side had gone out, so that great 
black shadows reared up—and some were moving, 
dancing, as the now-empty hopper, dangling from 
one line, swung crazily. A great heap of gray ore 
covered the rag pile, half obscured by slowly settling 
black dust. Miners stood in all the tunnels, staring 
out into the opening, but none had ventured out. 
Most of the shouting was coming from above. 
And then a rope was flung down, and a man 
came sliding down it, hand over hand—a man 
wearing thick leather, with a sword on his belt. He 
jumped free and immediately drew his blade. The 
sword was shorter and broader than Arlian 
remembered a sword being, and he had to stop and 
think where he had ever seen a sword before. 
On Lord Dragon’s belt, he realized. This was only 
the second sword he had even glimpsed, and the 
first he had seen out of its sheath. It gleamed in the 
dim orange light, and Arlian stared at it, fascinated, 
studying the way the stranger held it.

“All right, stand back!” the swordsman bellowed. 
“Where’s the overseer?” 
Half a dozen voices answered, and several fingers 
pointed. The man turned and spotted Bloody Hand, 
lying half covered in dust and rubble. 
“What about our dinner?” someone called. 
“You’ll get your food,” the swordsman snapped, 
as he strode over to Bloody Hand. He knelt, but kept 
the sword ready and didn’t look down as he felt the 
downed overseer’s throat, but instead kept a 
watchful eye on the slaves in the tunnels. 
“He’s breathing,” the swordsman shouted up the 
shaft. “I don’t see much blood. I think he’s all right.” 
“Can he hold a rope?” a voice called from above. 
“Not a chance,” the swordsman replied. “Send 
someone down!” 
Arlian watched silently and saw that Bloody 
Hand was blinking, and trying to raise his right 
hand free of the rocks. By the time another man had 
clambered down the rope from the ledge above the 
swordsman was helping Bloody Hand to sit up. 
Arlian and Wark watched as the new arrival 
helped the overseer to the dangling rope. The 
swordsman stood guard as the others clung to the 
rope while it was hauled up; then the rope was flung 
down again, and the swordsman sheathed his blade 
and ascended. 
Then the rope was pulled up. 
For a moment nothing more happened, though 
Arlian could hear voices. Then the hopper, still 
dangling by its one corner, was lowered. 
“Where’s our supper?” someone shouted, and 
several other voices joined in protest at seeing the 
hopper descend without the customary contents. 
“Wait a moment, will you?” the swordsman’s 
voice called down. 
A chorus of angry voices replied incoherently,

and at last the miners spilled out of the tunnels into 
the pitshaft. Arlian saw Swamp shaking an angry 
fist at the invisible figures in the upper tunnels. 
Then a heavy burlap sack came sailing down the 
shaft, to land with a thump atop the heap of spilled 
ore. Swamp and the others ran to open it. 
Arlian stepped out into the pitshaft, Wark at his 
heels. The two of them made their way up the 
mound of ore to where Swamp and Bitter were 
distributing the usual food from the sack—coarse 
bread, tasteless dried-out cheese, some dried fruit 
to prevent scurvy. 
Arlian held out his hand, and Swamp started to 
pass him a slab of bread, when Stain spoke up. 
“Not him! He’s the one who saved Bloody Hand’s 
life! You don’t want to feed him!” 
Swamp hesitated, and looked at Rat. 
Rat, a small man known for his quick wits, looked 
at Arlian. “You’re the one pulled him out from 
underneath, Arlian? Or was it Wark?” 
“It was Arlian,” Wark said. 
“I did it,” Arlian admitted. 
“Trying to get on the bosses’ good side, are you?” 
Rat snarled. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone?” 
“You know the rules, Rat,” Arlian said—he wasn’t 
exactly slow himself, and had no intention of 
admitting he had acted out of genuine concern for a 
fellow human being. “If we don’t deliver a live 
overseer at the end of each shift, we don’t get fed.” 
“You risked your life over one meal, boy?” Rat 
sneered. “It’d be worth skipping a meal to see 
Bloody Hand’s brains bashed out, if you ask me!” 
“Hey, where’s Lampspiller?” someone asked 
before Arlian could reply. “He didn’t come down!” 
That created a stir of concern—the miners did 
know the rules. Each overseer stayed for a single 
shift—probably twelve hours each—then was

replaced by the other. Bloody Hand had been 
hauled up, but Lampspiller had not come down for 
his shift. 
And if there were no overseer, there would be no 
food at the next shift change. 
Arlian’s saving of Bloody Hand’s life was 
forgotten for the moment as the miners argued and 
shouted. Arlian ignored the debate and took the 
bread from Swamp’s hand; Swamp didn’t resist, 
but simply shrugged, handed Arlian a wedge of 
cheese, and went back to distributing food. 
Lampspiller did finally descend, by rope, a few 
minutes later, and promptly laid about himself with 
his whip, clearing out the pit; Swamp and Bitter 
hauled the largely empty food sack into one of the 
tunnels to continue handing out its contents. By 
that time Arlian had retreated down toward his 
own sleeping niche in Tunnel #32, gnawing on his 
bread and cheese. 
He sat on the rags he used as a bed, chewing 
slowly, and tried to think. 
Had he done the right thing, saving Bloody 
Hand? Hadn’t the overseer deserved to die for what 
he did to Dinian? 
He had acted almost without thinking, though. 
He wondered, for the first time, whether when 
the time came he would be able to carry out the 
revenge he had planned for so long. What if 
someday he escaped the mine, and tracked down 
Lord Dragon and his men, and then was overcome 
by compassion and could not bring himself to slay 
them? 
He had never imagined that possibility before, 
but now that he had saved Bloody Hand’s life, at the 
risk of his own, he had to consider it. 
Was he too soft, still a child rather than a 
warrior? 
“Traitor!”

The word was whispered, so he did not recognize 
the voice, and spoken from behind the shelter of a 
corner in the passage; Arlian looked up, startled, as 
an open and lit oil lamp was flung onto his bedding. 
The ancient, soiled rags caught, and Arlian 
hurried to stamp out the blaze as quickly as he 
could. The smoke affected his already dry throat, 
and he found himself coughing uncontrollably even 
after the fire was out. By the time he was himself 
again, able to take his own lamp and go looking for 
his attacker, there was no sign that the assailant 
had ever been there. 
He stood in the corridor for a moment, then 
returned dejectedly to his bedding and settled down 
cross-legged upon it. He poked idly at the scorched 
part—he would probably want to replace that, he 
thought. 
The rag pile was under tons of rock, though, so it 
would have to wait. 
Rags and rock and his oil lamp, and a small 
collection of mementos of dead companions, were 
all he really owned down here. Some of the miners 
had managed to make a few things from broken 
tools or odd scraps, but Arlian had never bothered. 
He had no paintings on the limestone where he 
slept, no carved tokens, no knife or spoon or pen; he 
had spent what little free time he had talking to 
others, learning everything he could, thinking about 
ways he might escape and avenge his family. 
He had told the others of his plans at first, and 
been laughed at for his troubles; no one else 
believed that escape was possible. As for an escaped 
slave avenging himself against a lord, that was 
equally absurd, and the idea of killing the dragons 
went beyond absurd to insane. Even Hathet had 
sorrowfully told Arlian it was foolish, and Arlian 
had quickly learned to keep his plans for vengeance 
to himself—but he had never given them up, and 
was always alert to learn as much as he could, in 
hopes of discovering some fact that might show him

a way out of the mine. 
The owners of the mine provided rags—Arlian 
didn’t know where they came from, but bundles 
were tossed down every so often, added to the heap 
in the pitshaft. The miners made their clothing and 
bedding and assorted other things from the 
rags—sacks, wallets, wicks, lampshades, and 
whatever else they could devise. A few miners made 
a point of collecting white fabric, or when there was 
no white the lightest colors available, and writing 
upon it in ink made of charcoal and water—Arlian 
had never seen much point in that, though he had 
read a few of the memoirs and stories thus 
recorded. 
Rags, tools, food, water, and lamp oil—the owners 
sent those down, and the slaves sent back ore. A 
very simple economy, but one that had functioned 
smoothly for years. 
And there was almost nothing in it Arlian had 
considered worth saving. Bitter had a stack of 
whitish rags a foot high, covered with his rants 
about how he had been wronged and mistreated, 
while Olneor had set down his family’s history going 
back four generations, and Verino had written a 
philosophical treatise on humanity’s place in the 
cosmos; Swamp had covered a wall with 
surprisingly subtle and beautiful drawings of his 
home village, while Stain had drawn crude and 
thoroughly obscene pictures of women in various 
corners. Rat was reputed to have a stash of food, oil, 
and knives securely hidden somewhere. Wark had 
made dolls and other toys out of knotted fabric. 
All Arlian had was his collection of mementos. 
He had been brought here with nothing at all of 
his own but the clothes on his back and the ropes he 
had been bound with, ropes that were promptly 
stolen by other miners. He had nothing by which to 
remember his family, and he had quickly come to 
feel that lack keenly. His life had a hole in it where 
his family should have been, and he thought that

while nothing could ever fill that hole, some 
memento, some little trinket that would connect his 
life in the mines to his old life outside, might have 
helped to cover it, to soften its sharp edges. 
When he first saw another miner die, he had 
resolved that he would keep something to 
remember him, as he had been unable to do for his 
village, and with each death after that he had added 
to his collection. Most of the additions were just 
scraps of cloth—the dead had often been new 
arrivals who had owned nothing but the clothes 
they wore. 
There were a few other things, though. He had a 
braided necklace Kort had worn, woven of human 
hair. He had a chunk of rock stained with Fist’s 
blood. And he had Hathet’s purple stones. 
They were his most prized possession, and now 
he reached into the niche in the rock wall and 
pulled the bag out to look at them. 
The miners sometimes found bits of other stone 
in with the limestone and galena; Hathet had 
collected one particular variety, a sort of purple 
crystal he called “amethyst.” Hathet had claimed 
that in his homeland of Arithei, a dream-infested 
land far beyond the Borderlands in the mysterious 
and magical realms of the unexplored south, these 
stones were considered gems and were highly 
valued. They had, Hathet said, magical properties 
that could protect their owner. 
Hathet had also said Arithei was full of 
magicians, that dreams became real there and 
stalked the streets every night, and any number of 
other absurd things. 
Arlian had never believed most of Hathet’s 
stories; even though he had admired the old man, 
and had taken to heart a great deal of what he said 
about how a man should live and how the world was 
best dealt with, Arlian had always thought Hathet 
was not quite right in the head, and many of his

tales were clearly just wishful thinking. 
Hathet had claimed that he had been sent to 
Manfort as the Aritheian ambassador, and was 
waylaid by bandits on the highway, bandits who 
had sold him into slavery here— and how likely was 
that? What sort of bandit could be so stupid as to 
sell an ambassador as a mine slave, rather than 
ransoming him? 
Hathet’s attempt at explanation, involving 
complicated palace intrigue and high treason, had 
made no sense to Arlian or the others, and they had 
concluded that the old man had made it up on the 
spot. He probably wasn’t from Arithei at all. A 
miner called Brown who claimed to have visited the 
Borderlands said that the road to Arithei had been 
closed for years, and all trade blocked, so there was 
no way Hathet could have come from there. Brown 
had arrived just after Hathet died, and had then 
died in a fall himself, so no details were available, 
but why would he lie? 
So Hathet had probably made it all up, and the 
pretty purple stones were probably just pretty 
purple stones, of no real value to anyone—but 
Hathet had collected them carefully, and now Arlian 
kept that collection. He had counted one hundred 
and sixty-eight stones, ranging in size from mere 
specks to the size of his thumb. 
He saw no sign that they provided any magical 
protection, but they were pleasant to look at, and 
served as a reminder of poor Hathet. Once he got 
out of the mine perhaps he could find Hathet’s 
family, in Arithei or wherever they really were, and 
give them the stones as a memento of their lost 
kinsman. 
“Traitor!” 
Arlian looked up, unsure whether he had really 
heard another whispered imprecation or merely 
imagined it. No lamp followed the word this time. 
The threat was there, though. Whether it had

been the right thing to do or not, saving Bloody 
Hand had plainly marked him down as an enemy 
for many of the miners. Nothing he owned would be 
safe if left unattended; he still remembered the sick, 
stricken expression on Elezin’s face on that occasion 
years before when Elezin had returned from 
working the ore to find his little hand-carved 
limestone shrine smashed to powder and gravel. 
Elezin had angered Fist the shift before, and Fist 
had taken his revenge. 
Arlian understood the need for revenge very well 
indeed, and understood why the others would want 
to retaliate for his saving of Bloody Hand, but he 
did not intend to make it any easier to hurt him 
than it had to be. He gathered up the hair necklace 
and a few fabric scraps and tucked them into the 
bag with the amethysts, then twisted a rag into a 
crude rope belt and tied the bag to his waist. He did 
not want to come back here in a shift or two and 
find his mementos gone. 
This was normally his off shift, but he was in no 
mood to rest; he got to his feet, and with the bag 
thumping against his hip made his way down to the 
rock face to work off his nerves by digging out ore. 
7 
The Return of Bloody Hand. 
Three shifts later the hopper was repaired, and 
the slaves began shoveling the heap of spilled ore 
back into it. 
Lampspiller was in charge of the operation; his 
shift was ending, and rumor had it that Bloody 
Hand was waiting in the tunnel above, ready to

return. His previous shift had been taken by a 
stranger the miners had dubbed Loudmouth, a big 
brawling man with sun-darkened skin who had 
disdained the whip and had instead thoroughly 
beaten Swamp with his bare fists to establish his 
authority. The others had watched as Swamp was 
thrashed for a minor, possibly imagined offense. 
Had they joined forces they could easily have 
defeated Loudmouth—but then what? How would 
they get up the pitshaft to escape? So they had 
stood by and done nothing as Loudmouth asserted 
his authority, and they had obeyed Loudmouth’s 
bellowed orders. 
Arlian had stayed well out of Loudmouth’s 
way—and as much as possible out of everyone else’s 
way, as well. He had been tripped three or four 
times while working during the past three shifts; a 
“mis-aimed” pickax had missed his foot by inches; 
chunks of ore had been “accidentally” flung at his 
head. His bedding had disappeared completely at 
one point, and he had had to dig down through the 
spill to replace it from the ragpile. 
Even Wark was avoiding him—and Arlian 
couldn’t blame him; anyone who was seen 
befriending the outcast would be outcast himself. 
He hoped the others would get over their anger 
soon. While he had never been the most popular of 
the slaves, he had always gotten along well enough, 
and had made no real enemies—until now. 
Maybe, he thought as he shoveled, this would 
mark the end of his harassment. With the hopper 
back in operation and the spilled ore gone, with 
Bloody Hand back on the job, perhaps things would 
return to normal. 
Or perhaps when the backlog of ore was 
gone—every cart in the mine was filled to 
overflowing, and more ore was piled at the rock 
face, since there had been no way to haul it up the 
shaft. Maybe when that was gone he’d be forgiven 
his act of misplaced mercy.

He wasn’t counting on it, though; the bag of 
mementos was still securely tied in place on his belt, 
and would stay there. He didn’t trust anyone at this 
point. 
He glimpsed something moving and ducked as a 
shovelful of ore flew past his ear. 
“Sorry,” Bitter said, his tone utterly insincere. 
“I wonder if it’s occurred to anyone,” Arlian said, 
not addressing anyone in particular, “that if Bloody 
Hand had died, he might have been replaced by 
someone even worse.” 
“And I wonder,” Bitter retorted, “whether anyone 
really could be worse, and whether Dinian’s shade is 
as angry at the missed chance for vengeance as I 
am.” 
“Shut up,” Lampspiller roared, “or I’ll show you 
that I can be worse than your worst nightmare!” 
“My nightmares are about dragons,” Arlian 
muttered. 
The whip cracked across his back. “You think I 
can’t be as bad as a dragon?” he bellowed. 
Arlian turned and stared at him, ignoring the 
welt rising on his shoulders. He didn’t say anything; 
he’d been ordered to shut up, after all. He simply 
looked at Lampspiller. 
The overseer faltered, then lifted his whip. “Get 
back to work!” 
Arlian returned to his shoveling. Some of the 
other miners had paused at the mention of dragons; 
many felt a superstitious awe of the legendary 
creatures that had once ruled the world, and Arlian 
was sure that they thought Lampspiller had just 
invited evil by his careless retort. 
Maybe he had. Arlian had had more direct 
experience of dragons than anyone else in the mine, 
but he still knew almost nothing about them. 
Maybe speaking irreverently of them could bring 
bad luck. Maybe his own grandfather’s explanation

of dragon weather had brought about the attack on 
Obsidian. 
But Arlian didn’t believe that. And even if it were 
true, it was unjust. He would see the dragons 
punished someday, or he would die in pursuing it. 
“Fill this one right to the top!” Lampspiller 
ordered. “We’ve got an extra wagon waiting up 
above—we’ll be making up the missed shipments a 
little at a time.” 
“What if the ropes break again?” someone asked. 
“They won’t,” Lampspiller said. “Brand-new 
ropes all around.” He smiled crookedly. “But I won’t 
be standing underneath—some of us have more 
sense than that!” 
A few of the slaves smiled or even laughed briefly 
at that; Arlian did not. 
Ten minutes later the hopper was filled to 
overflowing, and Lampspiller sent the slaves to the 
tunnels before giving the signal to haul. 
He was as good as his word, and backed against 
the wall of the pit, well clear of the hopper as it rose 
upward, ropes crackling as they were stretched for 
the first time, pulleys and timbers creaking under 
the heavier-than-usual load. 
The slaves waited and watched, eager for their 
next meal and curious about whether the new ropes 
would, in fact, hold, and whether or not Bloody 
Hand would be returning. 
The hopper ascended into the darkness. Then at 
last came the old familiar sound of the support 
arms turning, swinging the hopper over to the ledge 
to be unloaded. 
The ropes hadn’t broken. Arlian heard shovels 
and rattling ore as the crew up above began 
transferring the ore to the waiting wagons. 
The other slaves began chattering among 
themselves, but Arlian stood apart, farther down 
the tunnel than the others.

Eventually the ore was gone, and a series of quick 
thuds could be heard as supplies were tossed into 
the hopper. The slaves, who had been resting 
against the walls or sitting on the stone floor, stood 
up and awaited the signal. 
The hopper began its descent, the rigging 
creaking anew—though less than before, since its 
new cargo weighed far less than the load of ore. 
Arlian peered out of the tunnel mouth and 
watched the huge iron tub creep downward. 
Bloody Hand was standing on one edge, 
steadying himself with one of the cables and 
watching everything as he was lowered down into 
the mine. 
That answered that question—Hand was back, 
and although he wore a bandage around his head 
and his face displayed a few cuts and bruises, he did 
not seem to have suffered any permanent damage 
from his misadventure. 
The injuries he had received were hardly enough 
to equal Dinian’s, Arlian knew that, but perhaps 
they would help to appease the other miners. 
Were they enough to salve his own conscience, 
though? Why had he saved Bloody Hand, instead of 
letting Fate collect the debt owed to Dinian’s shade? 
Then the hopper was down, and Bloody Hand 
and Lampspiller signaled to the nearest slaves. A 
moment later Rat and three of the others were 
heaving out the two barrels of water, the keg of 
lamp oil, and the sacks of food that would keep the 
miners alive for another day or so. 
Then the slaves were banished from the pitshaft 
again as Lampspiller rode the hopper up out of 
sight. 
The hopper was never left at the bottom for so 
much as a minute except under the direct 
supervision of one or both of the overseers, and only 
when there were men in the upper tunnel; the

owners feared that slaves might climb the robes and 
escape. At the end of each shift the procedure was 
the same—the hopper was lowered empty, and then 
filled; ore was hauled up and loaded into the 
wagons, and then provisions, adjusted according to 
how full the wagons were, were sent down, attended 
by the incoming overseer. The departing overseer 
then rode the empty hopper up, and made sure it 
was safely stowed. 
Several of the bolder slaves had argued that it 
would be more efficient to lower the provisions and 
incoming overseer first, and then haul the ore up, 
so that only one round-trip would be needed, but 
when the overseers bothered to reply at all the 
response was obvious: The slaves would fill the 
hopper faster if they knew the food would only 
arrive when they were done. 
When the hopper was gone Bloody Hand stood, 
alone in the pit, looking around. 
The pile of rags was still there, but sprinkled with 
dust and gravel; torn scraps of rope lay piled 
against one wall, the last remnants of the old, 
worn-out rigging that had been responsible for the 
accident. The water barrels and oil keg had been 
shoved to one side, as well. 
And two dozen slaves were slouched in the 
tunnels, sharing out their newly delivered meal. 
There were four other men in the tunnel with 
Arlian, with one sack of food; he waited while they 
each took what they wanted. 
One of them, Rumind, looked at Arlian, then at 
his companions, Wark, Olneor, and Elbows. 
“That’s all of us, isn’t it?” he said. 
Arlian straightened up. 
“Oh, give him his food,” Wark said. “The overseer 
won’t like it if we don’t.” 
“Oh, yeah, I forgot, Arlian’s the Hand’s special 
friend, isn’t he?” Rumind said with a sneer.

Arlian held out a hand, and Rumind threw the 
bag at his face; Arlian was able to duck the throw, 
but not catch the projectile. He had to retreat down 
the tunnel to fetch it. 
As he picked it up Rumind shoved roughly past 
him. 
“Excuse me,” Rumind said. “We’ve got work to 
do, and I don’t care for the company here.” 
Elbows jabbed at Arlian with his namesake joint 
as he passed; Olneor didn’t touch him, but 
muttered, “Thought you might have some potential, 
boy. Guess I was an old fool.” 
Wark simply walked past without comment. 
Arlian stood, the food sack in his hand, and 
watched them descend until they turned a bend in 
the passage and vanished. Then he sighed, settled to 
the floor, and opened the bag. 
He had just pulled out a heel of black bread and a 
handful of cheese crumbs when a shadow obscured 
the lamplight. 
“You,” Bloody Hand said, “Get up.” 
Arlian got up. 
“Your name’s Arlian, something like that?” 
“It’s Arlian.” 
“You’re the one who pulled me out before the 
whole thing came down, are you?” 
Arlian nodded. 
“You expect me to be grateful?” 
“No.” Arlian couldn’t really see Bloody Hand’s 
face, as the light was behind the overseer, but he 
thought he saw the man frown. 
“You made life harder for yourself, saving me, 
didn’t you?” 
Arlian shrugged. 
“Why did you do it?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 
“You know about Dinian?” 
“I’ve heard,” Arlian said. “I wasn’t here at the 
time.” 
“You saved me anyway?” 
Arlian shrugged again. 
“You didn’t make my life any easier, either, you 
know. Longer, yes, but no easier.” 
Arlian didn’t even bother to shrug in response to 
that. 
“It doesn’t look good, owing my life to one of the 
slaves. It’s trouble all around. I’d like to know why 
you did it.” 
Arlian hesitated; then he raised his eyes and 
looked directly at the shadows of Bloody Hand’s 
face. 
“I’d like to know why you killed Dinian,” he said. 
Bloody Hand snorted. 
“Would you?” he said. “Haven’t the others told 
you?” 
“They told me you killed him because you’re a 
heartless bastard,” Arlian said. “But I’ve been 
thinking about it. If you really were as heartless as 
that, you’d have been freer with the whip all these 
years I’ve been here. I don’t think that’s it.” 
“Maybe I tried it and decided I didn’t like it.” 
“Or maybe you didn’t mean to kill him at all,” 
Arlian suggested. “Maybe you just panicked.” 
Bloody Hand stared at him. “You think so?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian said. “I would like to know 
why you killed him, instead of guessing.” 
“So would I,” the overseer said. “It just happened. 
It wasn’t anything I decided to do. I was young and 
scared and needed to prove I was in charge, and 
once I started hitting him I couldn’t stop—I was too 

scared to stop.” 
“You think about it often?” Arlian asked. 
“Every night,” Bloody Hand said. He let out a 
sound half snort, half laugh. “The funny part is that 
it was wrong, it was evil, it was the worst thing I 
could do, killing an innocent man who was just 
trying to teach me something—and everything 
that’s come of it since has been good for me. It gave 
me that name I hear you men whisper. It frightened 
you all so much that I’ve never had to really beat a 
man since, and my shift still outproduces the other. 
There’s no justice in this world, Arlian, you know 
that?” 
“I know that,” Arlian said, his heart suddenly 
pounding as he remembered the sight of his village, 
burned and desolate, his family destroyed at the 
whim of three heartless monsters. “Not unless we 
make it.” 
“But you had your chance to make it,” Bloody 
Hand said. “You could have let me die for what I 
did to Dinian, and you didn’t. Why not?” 
Arlian hesitated again. He could have given all 
the explanations he had made to Rat and the others 
over the past three shifts, all the reasons it was 
better to keep Bloody Hand alive than to risk an 
unknown new overseer or tighter precautions in the 
mine, how he hadn’t wanted to miss even a single 
meal—but that was all lies, and right now he didn’t 
want to lie to this man, who had admitted what was 
unmistakably the truth about Dinian’s death, who 
had clearly been troubled by that death for years. 
“You were in danger, and I could help you,” 
Arlian said. “Who you were didn’t matter.” 
Arlian could see Bloody Hand’s brow lower at 
that, could almost hear him growl. The overseer’s 
hand lashed out and grabbed him by the beard, 
pulling Arlian forward. 
“It does matter,” he hissed. “You’ve seen that it 
matters! You saved someone’s life, and what did it

get you? I killed a man, and what did that get? It’s a 
sick, unjust world, Arlian, and it does matter who 
we are!” He released his hold and Arlian tumbled 
backward, catching himself against the tunnel wall. 
For a moment the two men stared silently at one 
another; then Bloody Hand turned on his heel and 
marched back out into the pit. 
“Get to work, slave,” he called back over his 
shoulder. “There’s ore to be mined!” 
8 
Into the Light 
Arlian was asleep in his niche when a booted foot 
kicked him awake. 
“Get up, slave!” Bloody Hand shouted. He stood 
over the sleeping miner, lamp in hand, boot ready 
to kick again. 
Arlian rolled aside and struggled lazily upright. 
It was his time off, his sleeping time—he had dug 
and carted his share for this shift, and was entitled 
to a few hours’ rest. He knew better than to argue, 
though. 
As he stood, Bloody Hand leaned forward, his 
mouth close by Arlian’s ear, and whispered 
confidentially, “If there’s anything you prize here, 
bring it.” 
Astonished by this sudden change in manner, 
Arlian blinked at him, then quickly snatched up his 
bag and belt. He reached for his lamp, but Bloody 
Hand shook his head and knocked his hand away 
from it. “Leave it,” he whispered. 
Arlian left it, and waited for orders.

“It’s time I settled with you once and for all!” 
Bloody Hand bellowed, stepping back, reverting to 
his usual bullying self and astonishing Arlian anew. 
“Come out and take it like a man!” 
Confused, still half asleep, Arlian staggered out of 
the niche and up toward the pitshaft, Bloody Hand 
close behind, shoving him forward every time he 
slowed or stumbled. He tied his belt in place as he 
walked. Other than the belt he was wearing only a 
tattered pair of breeches, and he wondered whether 
there was anything else he should have grabbed 
while he had the chance. 
Well, it was too late now. 
“What do you want with me?” he asked. 
“I’m going to ensure that you never lay hands on 
me again!” Bloody Hand roared. He snapped his 
whip. 
Arlian was baffled. He had saved Bloody Hand’s 
life; was a flogging to be his reward? Perhaps it was 
what he deserved for aiding a murderer, but he 
hadn’t expected it. Was this Bloody Hand’s way of 
showing Arlian that there was no justice in the 
world? 
It was hardly necessary; the dragons had done 
that long ago. 
Then they were in the pitshaft—and Arlian was 
surprised to see that it was almost totally dark. All 
the lamps had been put out; only the one Bloody 
Hand held remained to provide illumination. 
A faint glow came from above, as well, but Arlian 
wasn’t sure whether that was anything out of the 
ordinary or not. Perhaps there was always a light up 
there, and it simply wasn’t usually visible through 
the glare of the lamps. 
“Now!” Bloody Hand barked, as the two of them 
reached the base of the rag pile. He blew out the 
lamp he carried, plunging the already shadowy pit 
into near total blackness. Only the glow from above

alleviated the gloom. 
Arlian heard the sound of a rope uncoiling, and a 
thump—but it wasn’t the Hand’s whip. The sound 
had come from the other side. 
He turned and found something dangling close 
beside him, faintly visible, dull gray in the darkness. 
A rope. 
For a moment he couldn’t move; he stared at it in 
shock. The almost invisible rope seemed so out of 
place to his sleep-clouded mind that at first he had 
trouble accepting it as real, and wondered whether 
he was still asleep and dreaming this entire episode. 
He reached out and hesitantly, ready to snatch 
his hand away at the first sound from Bloody Hand, 
touched it. 
The rope was real. He could feel its rough texture 
clearly. He was awake. 
No rope should be there. No ropes were 
permitted except during the shift change, when the 
hopper was lowered and raised. What was this one 
doing there? 
Bloody Hand snapped his whip, and Arlian 
jumped. 
“Darkness for dark deeds,” the overseer said 
loudly. He laughed. Then, in a whisper, he added, “I 
can’t have you down here anymore.” 
“What?” 
“Keep your voice down!” Bloody Hand hissed. 
Arlian whispered, “What?” 
“I can’t have you down here,” the overseer 
replied, in a whisper so low Arlian could barely hear 
it. “It’s bad for everyone. The others hate you for 
what you did. You make me look weak—you remind 
them I’m human and mortal. You remind me I’m 
mortal—and how can I abuse the man who saved 
my life, and treat you like just another slave? You 
can’t stay.”

“But I am a slave…” 
“Do you deserve slavery?” 
“No, of course not,” Arlian said, confused. 
“As far as the others are concerned, I’m going to 
kill you, just as I did Dinian, for your effrontery in 
trying to help me. And if you don’t climb that rope 
and get out of here, I will kill you, I swear by the 
dead gods.” 
“Climb… ?” Arlian grabbed the rope, a sudden 
rush of hope rising in his breast. 
“There’s a guard at the top, but he’s my brother, 
Linnas—he’s ‘accidentally’ lowered the rope, and in 
a moment he’ll throw down a bundle of rags I’ll say 
is your dead body and throw in the hopper at the 
end of the shift. When you slip past him he’ll be 
away from his post, relieving himself. After that, 
Arlian, you’re on your own; and we’ll be even—I’m 
paying for my life with your freedom, and just as 
you might have been killed if the ore fell sooner, if 
I’m discovered at it I’ll be killed or enslaved.” 
“I don’t… I mean, thank you…” Arlian began. 
Bloody Hand cut him off. “You said there’s no 
justice unless we make it. I’m making my bit. 
Climb!” 
He cracked the whip against the rag pile, and 
Arlian, with sudden inspiration, screamed. He flung 
himself up the rope, clinging desperately with 
hands and knees—he had never climbed a rope 
before, although he had seen it done often enough. 
He managed to haul himself upward, little by 
little, as Bloody Hand flogged the heap of rags. A 
louder thump sounded from one side that Arlian 
guessed was the promised imitation corpse—and 
then Arlian felt the lash across his own legs, and 
shrieked. 
“Good,” Bloody Hand said. “Yell if you want, you 
poxy fool!” Then he stepped closer and whispered, 
“I need blood on the whip and rags if I’m to be

believed. I’m sorry.” 
“Don’t be,” Arlian whispered back, though the 
pain in his legs was intense. “Thank you, Hand.” 
“My name is Enir,” the overseer whispered back. 
“Go!” 
Arlian went. He panted with the effort of pulling 
himself up the rope toward the light, trying to 
match his gasps for air with the beating of the whip 
on the rags. Every so often he moaned or wailed. 
Then his hand struck stone, and a moment later 
he was scrambling up onto the ledge at the mouth 
of the entry tunnel, a tunnel lit by two bright lamps. 
A man was standing there, a man not in the rags 
of a miner or the leather apron of an overseer, but 
in a bright tunic, green worked with gold, over 
black velvet breeches. He wore a sword on his belt, 
and after a few seconds of confusion Arlian 
recognized him as the swordsman who had come 
down into the pit when the hopper lines broke. 
“I’m Linnas,” he said, holding out a hand and 
smiling. “You understand that we never saw each 
other, that if anyone asks I’d had a bit too much 
beer and stepped away from my post?” 
Arlian nodded warily, and took the proffered 
hand. 
“I wanted to thank you for saving Enir,” the 
swordsman said, as he grasped Arlian’s hand. Then 
he released it, stepped back, and lifted one of the 
lamps down from its place on the wall. He handed it 
to Arlian and said, “You’ll need this. Now, go on! 
Get out of here!” 
“Thank you,” Arlian gasped as he accepted the 
lamp. Then he staggered past Linnas and headed up 
the passage, limping on his sore, bleeding legs. 
When he had been brought down, years ago, the 
passage had been lined with lamps and torches, but 
he knew now that that had been in preparation for 
a shift change—the mules that pulled the wagons

didn’t like the dark. He didn’t know just what time 
it was now, but it was clearly the middle of a shift, 
when no one would normally be in this tunnel. 
His legs ached, and he wished that Hand… no, 
Enir… that Enir hadn’t insisted on real blood. He 
had had plenty of practice in working while sick, 
exhausted, or injured, though, and trotted on 
despite the pain. 
His lone lamp cast huge, flaring shadows as he 
made his way up the tunnel. Now he could see, as 
he had not as a boy, that the passage was an old 
part of the mine itself, that it followed the course 
and shape of a great seam of ore that had been dug 
out; he could see the marks of picks on the walls, 
the traces of galena too thin to be worth removing, 
the thick layers of smoke on the ceiling above, 
niches where lamps had been placed over and over. 
Seeing it thus was strange, almost dreamlike—he 
had lived for so long in the same slowly expanding 
network of deep, branching tunnels that a new, 
unfamiliar place didn’t seem entirely real. 
If it were a dream, he told himself, he didn’t want 
it to end; he wanted to be out of the mine, out in 
the sun and open air, free again, to lead his own life, 
make his own way, and in time find his revenge 
upon’Lord Dragon and his looters, and upon the 
dragons themselves. 
There were places the passage narrowed enough 
that Arlian wondered how the ore wagons ever fit 
through, but even so, it was always wider than most 
of the mine tunnels, and he already felt as if the 
world were opening out around him. 
And then he was at the top, at the end of the 
passage, and a heavy wooden door blocked his way. 
He hesitated. What if there were another guard on 
the other side? He had no weapon of any kind, not 
even a rock. What if that horrible fat old man who 
had carried him down the mine so long ago was out 
there?

His mouth tightened. If that fat old man was 
there, Arlian would wring his neck bare-handed. He 
was no scared child anymore. 
He had to stop and think for a moment to 
remember how to work the latch—he hadn’t used 
one in so long! There were no doors in the lower 
mine. It was simple enough, though, and he swung 
the door open. 
Blinding light poured in; he fell back, 
momentarily terrified. The brightness was so 
intense he thought he might go mad. He flung an 
arm across his eyes and squeezed them shut, and 
still the world was flooded in bright red light. 
He was seeing the inside of his own eyelids, he 
realized; the light outside the door, whatever it was, 
was so bright that it was shining right through his 
flesh. 
But his eyes were adjusting, and after a moment 
he dared to open one a crack. 
The light was the sun. He knew that. He had been 
down in the darkness of the mines for so long that 
his eyes were far too sensitive to handle the 
ordinary light of day. 
If he wanted to escape, though, he would have to 
face it, to venture out into that glare and find his 
way safely away from the mine before anyone 
realized he was gone. He stepped forward, his arm 
still up. 
The air moved about him, and felt somehow 
wrong. His skin crawled, and he shivered. 
That was wind, he realized—just the cool wind 
blowing. That wrongness was cold—he had been so 
long in the mine, where the temperature was 
constant year-round save for where the lamps 
heated the air, that he had forgotten the sensation. 
He moved forward, and tried to look around, 
while still shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. 
Everything looked washed out, almost white, the

colors faded and thin, but he could see the great 
yellow cliff towering above him, and wagon tracks 
in the dirt at his feet, and ahead the slope of a hill 
covered in lush green grass, falling away into a 
valley. Sunlight blazed down from almost directly 
overhead, so there were few shadows. 
To his left was a small cluster of buildings, low 
structures of stone and thatch—the mine 
headquarters, surely, where Lord Dragon had sold 
him to the mine’s owners. If someone were to look 
out one of the half dozen visible windows he would 
be spotted instantly, and could hardly be mistaken, 
given his ragged condition and pale skin, for 
anything but what he was, an escaped miner. 
He had to get away from those windows as 
quickly as possible. The wagon tracks led to the left, 
past the buildings, then down a dirt road cut into 
the slope, down and away from the cliff. 
That meant he didn’t want to go left, nor straight 
ahead. He turned right and began walking—he did 
not want to tire himself out too soon, so he didn’t 
run! He stayed close to the cliff, hoping to blend in 
with the stone, and found himself climbing slowly. 
Before long he had reached the end of the cliff, 
and stood shivering on a steep slope amid scattered 
young trees; he paused and turned around, his arms 
clutched around himself in a futile attempt to keep 
warm. 
He had not been sure whether it was early spring 
or late fall until he had noticed freshly fallen leaves 
scattered here and there, but now he knew it was 
autumn. He also knew it was definitely colder than 
he liked. 
And the world was so strange, so intense—the 
wind on his skin was a constant rippling of alien 
sensation, the light was so painfully bright, the 
colors so glaring and vivid; unfamiliar smells were 
filling his head, bringing back odd bits of childhood 
memory he hadn’t known still remained anywhere

within him. 
It was harsh and bright and cold and 
uncomfortable, the world almost hurt, but he never 
wanted to give any of it up, ever again. He thought 
he would rather die than go back down into the 
mine. 
And he intended to do everything he could to 
ensure that he never went back. That meant 
thinking, planning, not just wandering on aimlessly. 
He had to see where he was and decide where to go. 
To his left, as he stood there, was the forested top 
of the cliff, rising up to a peak and showing no signs 
of human habitation; to the right the land fell away 
from the cliff’s base in open fields, and he could see 
thatched rooftops in the distance. The sun had 
moved slightly, and appeared to have descended 
somewhat from the zenith, which meant it was in 
the west—and he had, he judged, been walking 
northwest. 
Although there was no sign of pursuit, he wanted 
to put as much distance as possible, and as many 
other barriers as possible, between himself and the 
mine. He thought that if he now turned due north, 
that would provide the ideal balance—no one would 
find him among the trees, and the cliff itself would 
be in the way of any search. Since the forest to the 
north appeared uninhabited, there would be less 
chance that he might be seen by anyone who would 
report a runaway slave. It would also be easier on 
his still-suffering eyes—the trees had lost most of 
their leaves, but they would still provide some 
shade, and shelter from the biting chill of the wind. 
Accordingly, he headed north. 
Hours later, when his eyes had adjusted and he 
barely had to squint even when looking west into 
the setting sun, he paused and looked around. He 
had put several miles behind him, across completely 
unfamiliar terrain; he had stayed clear of roads, 
houses, barns, and cultivated fields as much as he

possibly could, and had seen other human beings 
only from afar. The outside world was still 
wonderful, but already beginning to lose some of its 
intensity and strangeness. 
Now he was on a rocky hilltop, and it was time to 
stop and plan again. He had to do more than flee 
aimlessly. He was free of the mine, well clear of it, 
and it was time to choose a place to go to, rather 
than one to flee from. 
He scanned his surroundings, and saw little but 
bare trees and empty sky—the day was cloudless, 
the sky brilliantly blue, a color brighter than 
anything he had ever seen in the mine. 
He had crossed streams and taken a drink or two, 
but he was thirsty again, and hungry, and cold; 
winter was coming, and he had no coat, not even a 
shirt. He had no food, no shoes—his feet had been 
toughened by years of walking on stone, but the 
sharp twigs and pebbles had still been hard on him 
as he fled. 
And he knew he must look terrible. His hair had 
not been cut or combed in years; his beard had 
never been trimmed. His skin was either woefully 
pale or starting to redden from the sun, but 
certainly unhealthy. 
He needed things only other people could 
provide—but he also feared that anyone who saw 
him would instantly recognize him as a fugitive. He 
had no money, no family, his only possessions a 
crude bag of worthless mementos. And he had no 
idea where he was. His mouth quirked into a smile. 
By any practical measure he had been better off 
down in the mine, where he always knew exactly 
where he was and where his next meal would come 
from—but he would not have given up his freedom 
for anything. He would rather die of exposure this 
very night, he told himself, than live to be a 
hundred as a slave. 
But he had no intention of dying, in any case. He

intended to live, to make a life for himself, and to 
somehow avenge his family. 
Water was not a problem, as these hills produced 
plentiful fast-running little streams; the summer 
did not appear to have been dry. Food—he could go 
for days without food if he had to, he was sure, and 
had heard tales of people surviving on tree bark and 
insects. 
Clothing and shelter, though—he needed to find 
those before the weather turned any colder. Perhaps 
he could take shelter in a barn somewhere, steal a 
jacket. 
But where would he find a barn, or any other 
human habitation? He turned around slowly, taking 
in the endless parade of gray, leafless trees. 
And saw smoke. A thin line of distant gray smoke 
was rising in the east. 
For a moment he thought it might be the 
smoking crater of his own native peak; then he 
thought it was more likely to be just a hearthfire in 
some nearby home. 
Either way, though, that smoke meant people, 
and perhaps shelter. 
Well, then, he told himself, that was where he 
must go. He would, he promised himself, walk until 
he found what he sought, or until he could walk no 
more. 
And he set out to prove it. 
9 
Sanctuary 
The night was moonless, and after he had walked

into branches half a dozen times and stumbled a 
score, Arlian admitted that he could walk no 
more—painful as the bright light of day had been, 
he needed it to see where he was going. Even his 
dark-adapted eyes could not deal with the forest at 
night, so he dug himself into a pile of dead leaves 
for warmth and huddled there until morning. He 
did not sleep well in the cold and unfamiliar 
surroundings, and awoke before dawn had turned 
the eastern sky from gray to pink. He wasted no 
time in getting himself moving once again, and was 
pleased to see that the line of smoke he had followed 
the previous evening, until darkness had made it 
impossible, was still present—though it seemed no 
closer than before. 
Around midmorning he came upon a homestead, 
a house and three small barns set upon a few acres 
of fields; watching and listening carefully for any 
sign of the occupants, he crept into one of the barns 
and used the sharp end of an old hoe he found 
there, struck against a whetstone, to hack his beard 
down to a more reasonable length. It was still 
ragged and unkempt, but he had been working his 
fingers through beard and hair almost constantly as 
he walked, and he thought he might now look 
merely disheveled, rather than completely wild. He 
used a discarded bit of leather to tie his hair 
back—it wasn’t a proper braid, by any means, but it 
was better than nothing. 
He looked at his reflection in a half-filled trough 
and thought that if he had had a blouse and sandals 
he would be willing to allow himself to be seen. 
There were no shoes or shirts to be found in the 
barn, though. He did fish a handful of dried corn 
from the bottom of an abandoned trough and carry 
it away, nibbling it one or two grains at a time. 
That first homestead was not an isolated outpost 
in the wilderness; rather, Arlian realized when he 
crept out of the barn and looked squintingly 
eastward, it stood at the end of a narrow road, and

other small farms adjoined it. He had crossed back 
over the line between the forested wilderness and 
civilization. 
He hoped that he had put enough distance 
between himself and the mine that this would be 
entirely a good thing. He didn’t dare use the road 
openly, as yet, but instead crept along behind the 
houses and barns and smokehouses. Staying close 
to the buildings also served to shelter him from the 
worst of the cold winds that seemed almost 
constant. 
He fed himself from livestock feed as he went, 
stealing a handful of grain here, a few dried fruit 
there; he resisted the temptation to break into a 
smokehouse or creamery for anything more 
substantial. He had eaten no meat since the day his 
parents died, and the scents that drifted from the 
smokehouses were almost overwhelming, both 
tempting and nauseating, driving him to hurry past 
as quickly as he could. 
He made his way onward, eastward, for another 
several days, sleeping in barns or woodsheds, living 
on animal feed and drinking from untended wells, 
perpetually cold and hungry, shivering as he 
walked. Several times he saw people, and a few 
times he was seen; whenever that happened he 
veered away but kept walking, so as to appear an 
ordinary traveler. Twice someone called to him, but 
on both occasions he ignored the hail and kept 
walking, and both times the other decided against 
pursuit. 
He passed villages occasionally, but skirted well 
around them. 
On the fourth day after his night in the woods he 
came across laundry hung out to dry, and took a 
man’s linen blouse, promising himself that someday 
he would pay the rightful owner back. When it had 
dried it provided some significant comfort against 
the cold, but he still dared not let himself be 
seen—after all, not only was he still suspiciously

shaggy and barefoot, but the shirt’s rightful owner 
might recognize it. 
On the fifth day he could no longer resist 
temptation, and stole a ham; he was sick that night 
as his stomach rebelled at the unfamiliar food. 
The next morning there was frost on the fields, 
and between that and his upset digestion he was 
somewhat slower than his usual in setting out. He 
took the time to study that column of smoke that he 
had followed for so long. 
That was no mere chimney, nor even a village, he 
realized, but the smoke of a great city. 
Manfort, almost certainly. 
He had always wanted to see Manfort. What’s 
more, if he wanted to find Lord Dragon, to avenge 
the desecration of his village, Manfort was the 
logical place to start looking—but he could hardly 
walk all the way into that famous city in his present 
condition, wearing nothing but ragged breeches 
and a stolen blouse so close to the onset of winter. 
Well, it was still some distance away, he was 
certain. He was well clear of the forest now, making 
his way across gently rolling hills where one farm 
blended into the next and the next and the next for 
as far as the eye could see, where the road led from 
one village to another at intervals never exceeding 
twenty miles and often crossed or joined other 
roads in the process, but it was still countryside, 
and he had yet to glimpse a single watchtower or 
turret. 
Still, he could hardly proceed in his current 
manner indefinitely; some time before he reached 
the walls of Manfort he would have to find a way to 
clean himself up and obtain proper clothes. Then he 
could present himself at one business or another, 
looking for honest work, to get himself a living 
before he began his pursuit of revenge. 
He gave the matter some thought as he rambled 
onward, past farms and villages.

Perhaps, he thought late one chilly afternoon as 
the sun was reddening behind him, he could simply 
present himself as a traveler down on his luck, one 
who had been beset by bandits but escaped, and 
offer to work for his keep at an inn. He had no 
special skills, but he had learned to swing a pick in 
the mines, and he thought that he could use that 
experience in splitting firewood. 
He remembered Grandsir saying that bandits 
never came this far north, but he could hope that 
either the old man was wrong, or times had 
changed while he was in the mine, or whoever he 
approached might not know as much as his 
grandfather had. 
He blew on his hands to warm them and rubbed 
the palms together, and decided that the time had 
come to try. He would have to rejoin the human 
race eventually, and this seemed the right time. He 
was approaching the biggest town he had seen yet, 
one so large that it could scarcely be called a village, 
much larger than his own childhood home. He was 
also nearing Manfort; that thin line of smoke had 
become a broad tapestry streaking up the eastern 
sky, and on those rare occasions when he caught an 
unobstructed view to the east he thought he could 
see the tops of towers in the distance. 
He was not about to march on into the city, but 
this town seemed suitable. He decided to risk 
inquiring somewhere within it—but he could not 
yet bring himself to walk openly down the main 
streets. Instead he crept into the town through the 
alleys, skirting the denser areas, looking for the 
back of an inn—he thought that if he presented 
himself in the stableyard he might be more 
acceptable than he would be at the front door. 
Then, when he had circled almost halfway around 
the town’s heart, he saw a building some three 
stories in height, of dressed stone trimmed with 
carved wood and all roofed in tin, with a dozen 
curtained, well-lit casement windows. A coach

stood by the side door, with four horses yoked to it 
and a driver sitting impatient at the front, clearly 
waiting for someone who had gone inside. The yard 
behind the main building held more horses, rather 
than oxen or mules, and the whole complex was off 
to one side of the main highway, outside the town 
itself. 
That was surely an inn, and a very respectable 
one from the look of it. He crept toward it. He did 
not want the coachman to see him yet, so he circled 
around toward the other side, and at last emerged 
between the stable and a woodshed into a muddy 
yard. 
The inn’s back door was closed and dark. He 
frowned, and looked up at the windows. 
As he did, a casement on the second floor swung 
open, the curtains were pulled aside, and a young 
woman leaned out, flapping one hand as if to drive 
away an unpleasant odor. 
Arlian stared. 
Except for a few quick glimpses from a distance 
over the past few days, he had not seen a woman 
since he was a boy of eleven. Many times over the 
years in the mines, as he grew to manhood, he had 
been very much aware of this lack, but he had been 
in no position to do anything about it; since his 
escape he had been too busy, too concerned with 
other matters, to give it any thought. 
Now, though, all those years of deprivation 
caught up with him at once, and he stared 
open-mouthed. 
The woman’s features seemed impossibly delicate 
to him, her eyes huge and alluring; her dark hair 
was long and elaborately curled, hanging in graceful 
curves around her face. Her arms were bare and 
slender, her skin fair. 
And she was naked—or at least, all he could see of 
her was. Her exposed breasts were plainly visible in 
the pinkish glow of sunset, the nipples large and

dark. 
Arlian’s breath caught in his throat; his clothes 
suddenly seemed to constrict, strangling him. 
Then she stopped waving and closed her eyes for 
a moment, tipping her head back and taking a deep 
breath of the cool outside air. Her hair fell in sliding 
coils down her back and flowed around her 
shoulders, shining in the lamplight that spilled out 
around her, and Arlian swallowed hard. He was 
feeling sensations he had no name for, things he 
had never felt before. He took an uncertain step 
forward. 
As he did the woman opened her eyes and looked 
down into the stableyard. Arlian froze, but it was 
too late; her gaze locked with his, and her eyes 
opened wide in surprise. Arlian stood, rooted by 
terror and shame and lust, his thoughts buried in a 
conflicting tangle of fierce, unfamiliar emotions. 
For what seemed forever the two of them stared 
at each other. Then the woman smiled down at 
him—not just a smile, but a grin. She made no 
move to cover herself; instead she cast a quick 
glance back over one shoulder, then leaned out 
farther and beckoned to him. 
Arlian took another step forward, then 
hesitated—what was he doing? Who was this 
woman, displaying herself so brazenly? Could she 
really want him to approach? An urge to turn and 
run began to build—but at the same time he 
couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. 
“Come on,” she called down to him. “Do you like 
what you see?” 
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He 
tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly too 
dry. His hands clenched into fists. 
She was just a person, another human being. He 
had spoken fearlessly to women as a child; why 
should it be a struggle now?

Of course, none of the village women had been 
naked, and so far as he could recall none of them 
had been so beautiful. 
“I like it,” Arlian managed to croak, and he took 
another step. 
“Then can you climb? If you can get to the 
window I’ll let you in, and you can look all you want. 
You can do more than just look!” 
Arlian was utterly confused now, but for a 
moment the desire to get closer to her, and the 
desire to get out of the cold, completely overcame 
his shyness and uncertainty; he trotted across the 
yard and flung himself atop a handy barrel, then 
jumped for the sill of the open window. His fingers 
caught the edge, but could not hold, and he slid 
back down, missed his footing on the barrel, and fell 
to the ground. 
The woman laughed, a musical, watery sound 
that filled him with a great swelling urgency and a 
ferocious embarrassment. He leaped to his feet and 
looked around the yard. He didn’t dare look at her; 
he was certain his face was bright red with shame, 
and that the tightness of his pants was obvious and 
offensive. 
“I’m sorry,” she called from just above and 
behind him. “I shouldn’t laugh. Can’t you find a way 
up?” 
He turned and looked up at her. He licked his 
lips, then cleared his throat and tried to speak. He 
got a strangled noise out, then had to stop and 
cough. He looked down to collect his wits, then back 
up.
“I take it I can’t use the door,” he said, actually 
getting the entire sentence out cleanly. 
“Oh, no!” she said, her smile vanishing. “Not 
dressed like that! They’d beat you half to death.” 
“Ha!” he said, though even then he could not 
possibly have explained why he would react to such

a threat with bravado instead of caution. The 
possibility that he might be doing something foolish 
and dangerous occurred to him, but it simply didn’t 
matter; he desperately wanted to get in that 
window, get at that woman. 
At the same time he wanted to run away, but he 
fought that impulse down. He looked around for 
something he could use to mount the wall. 
Inspired, he ran to the unlocked woodshed and 
pulled out a good-sized chunk of unsplit firewood, 
hoisting it up on his shoulder—he realized after he 
had it up that it was solid oak, or perhaps 
ironwood, and must have weighed at least fifty 
pounds, but nonetheless he hauled it across the 
yard and thumped it down onto the barrelhead, 
standing it on end. Then he leapt up on the barrel, 
stepped up onto the log, and thrust himself upward 
at the window. 
This time he was able to get his chest onto the 
win-dowsill and his arms through the casement, his 
fingers clutching at the inner edge of the sill. The 
woman had moved back at the last possible 
moment to avoid his lunge, but now she leaned 
forward and grabbed the back of his stolen shirt, 
helping him haul himself upward and into the 
room. 
She was not totally naked after all, he saw as he 
tumbled in, but clad in a lacy white skirt slit up the 
front, and a golden girdle wrapped around her 
waist. She was kneeling on a windowseat. An 
elegant glass and brass lamp on a wall bracket was 
burning brightly, lighting her face beautifully. He 
was lying on a fine parquet floor, looking up at her 
and at gauzy curtains behind her. The air around 
him was warm, and thick with a cloying, sweetish 
smell—and with a confusion of other scents as well, 
including lamp oil and sweat and several he didn’t 
recognize. 
“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re in my room,” she said, with an impish, 
irresistible smile. She settled into a sitting position, 
her legs tucked underneath, and looked down at 
him. “Now, who are you? What sort of desperate 
creature have I just invited in?” 
“My name is… is unimportant,” he said, staring 
hungrily at her, almost in awe of this gorgeous 
creature. He had caught himself at the last 
moment; his name would probably mean nothing to 
her, but he did not want to risk it. Word, of an 
escaped slave named Arlian might well have spread 
this far. 
She was so small, he thought as he 
stared—smaller than any of the miners, even Rat. 
He had forgotten that women were so small and 
delicate looking. And her skin was impossibly 
smooth and soft, her face and chest utterly hairless. 
She laughed at him. 
“Ah, then, Unimportant,” she said, “welcome to 
my humble home! Might I call you something 
shorter, perhaps? Trivial, or Minor?” 
“Not Minor,” he said. It was too close to terms he 
did not want to be associated with. He was vaguely 
aware that he ought to come up with a name for her 
to use, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to 
suggest one. 
“But Trivial is acceptable? Or just Triv?” 
“Triv would be fine,” he said, as he untangled 
himself and sat up. He was breathing heavily, and 
not entirely from the exertion of getting in the 
window. 
He shifted, but his breeches remained 
uncomfortably tight. 
She shifted her own position, as well, and his 
breath came out in a shudder. 
“Tell me about yourself,” she said. 
“I don’t…” he began. Then he asked, “Where am 
I? Is this an inn?”

“An inn?” She laughed again. “Not exactly, no.” 
Just then he heard a shout from outside, and the 
rattle of harness—that coach at the side door was 
leaving. She looked up, and out the casement. 
“Did you see any other horses out there, or 
coaches?” she asked. 
“There were horses in the stable.” 
“How many?” 
He blinked uncertainly. “I didn’t count.” 
She frowned slightly. “Did you see any other 
coaches, though?” 
“No,” he replied, puzzled. 
“Good. Then we should have some time.” She 
swung the casement shut and latched it, and 
dropped the hooked-up curtain back in place. 
Arlian watched her breasts bob as her arms 
moved, and had to struggle to keep his hands on the 
floor, rather than in his breeches or on her—though 
he wasn’t sure he would have had the nerve to touch 
her. 
Then, she turned back to face him, and swung 
her legs out, so that she was sitting upright on the 
windowseat. Arlian saw with a shock she had no 
feet—both legs ended at the ankle in neat pink 
stumps. 
“Now,” she said, “what am I going to do with 
you? Am I going to get a straight answer out of 
you?” 
“I don’t…” Arlian began. Then he stopped and 
swallowed hard, staring at her. 
It was too much. He could no longer find words 
at all. He was too tangled up in confusion and lust. 
She laughed. 
“I think,” she said, “that you’re too distracted to 
tell me anything. And I also think that I know how 
to solve that. If you’d just carry me over to the bed,

I’m sure we can take care of the problem.” She 
pointed over his shoulder. 
“Bed?” he gasped. He turned, and saw a great 
pink featherbed atop an oaken frame; a pink silk 
coverlet lay askew atop it, and pink lace bedcurtains 
hung from a pink silk canopy. Round silver mirrors 
were set into each corner of the canopy, angled to 
face the center of the bed. Another glass-based oil 
lamp stood on a bedside table amid a clutter of 
fancy bottles and jars, casting a warm glow across 
the entire arrangement. 
He made a wordless noise. 
“Please?” she said, holding out both her delicate 
arms, palms turned up beseechingly. 
He rose unsteadily to his feet, reached hesitantly 
for her—and then, when he felt her soft skin and 
saw her welcoming smile, his reservations faded 
away; he snatched her up in his arms, whirled 
about, and plunged with her into the waiting bed. 
Before he had even gotten both his feet off the floor 
she was untying his breeches. 
And then he was lost in an unfamiliar but 
delightful sea of perfume and flesh and sensation. 
10 
Sweat 
He let his breath out in a long, contented sigh 
and lay a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. 
Then he turned to look at her grinning, 
heart-shaped face as she lay propped on one elbow 
beside him. 
“Where am I?” he said. “Who are you?” He

wanted to ask why she had seduced him, as well, 
but couldn’t think of any decent way to phrase it. 
“You’re in the House of Carnal Society,” she told 
him. 
“The what? ” he asked. 
She giggled. “It’s a brothel, silly! Hadn’t you 
guessed?” 
Arlian looked at her in embarrassed confusion. 
“What’s a brothel?” he asked. 
“Oh, my dear… where are you from? Well, never 
mind, you’ll tell me that in a moment, I’m sure. A 
brothel—well, among other things, men come here 
to pay for what you’ve just had as a gift.” 
Comprehension finally burst upon him—he had 
encountered the concept in conversations in the 
mines, under a cruder name, but had had no idea 
how numerous such institutions were, or where 
they might be found. Certainly there had been none 
in his home village. 
Apparently they did exist here, wherever he was. 
“Ah!” he said. “And you…” 
“I live here,” she said. “I’m called Sweet.” She 
grinned and tilted her head entrancingly. “You can 
judge for yourself whether the name fits.” 
He smiled back at her. He was warm for the first 
time in days, and feeling just fine in other ways, 
though he was still dirty and underfed. “I’d say it 
does.” 
“Well, good. Thank you. Now, who are you, and 
how did you get here?” 
Arlian hesitated. “I’m from a village on Smoking 
Mountain,” he said. 
She looked puzzled. “There’s a village on Smoking 
Mountain?” 
“Well, there was,” he said. “But dragons 
destroyed it, and my family was killed.” 
“Oh, you’re from Obsidian?” she exclaimed. “But

that was seven years ago, and I thought everyone 
there was killed! Were you away when it 
happened?” 
He shook his head—and his voice shook as well as 
the memories poured back. He had not spoken of 
the disaster, or his family, in years—not since 
Hathet died. Some of the other miners had mocked 
him whenever he mentioned his past, refusing to 
believe that he had survived seeing dragons, 
sometimes refusing even to believe he had ever been 
free, or knew who his parents had been, and in 
time, to avoid their mockery, he had stopped 
speaking of his former life. 
But this woman knew about the attack, knew his 
village’s name—and knew it had been seven years. 
Seven years in the mines. So he was eighteen, then? 
“I hid in a cellar,” he said. 
“And you lived? The dragons didn’t find you? 
How wonderful!” 
He looked at her face, at the sincere interest and 
pleasure he saw there, and realized that Sweet was 
younger than he had first thought—she was perhaps 
no older than he, not much more than a girl. 
“But how did you get here?” she asked. “What 
have you been doing all this time?” 
“I was… I was working in the mines, in Deep 
Delving,” he said. He didn’t see any need to mention 
that his stay there had been involuntary. She might 
already know that the mines were worked by slaves, 
but he did not care to be the first to mention it. 
“Oh—that’s why you’re so pale, then, where you 
aren’t burnt?” she asked. 
He nodded. 
“But you left?” 
He nodded again. “And came here,” he said. 
“To Westguard? But why?” 
He shrugged. “It seemed as good a place as any.”

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. 
“You don’t like it here?” 
She snorted derisively. “Oh I just love my work, 
of course! Catering to every sick whim of any man 
who can pay the fee…” 
“Oh,” he said, his warm comfort suddenly 
vanishing. He sat up and looked at her. “You’re not 
here by choice?” 
“Of course not!” she said angrily, pulling away 
from him. “We’re all slaves here; didn’t you see 
that?” She lifted one leg and pointed at the stump 
of her ankle. 
“What happened to it?” he said stupidly, unable 
to stop himself even as he realized what must have 
happened. 
“They don’t want us to run away,” she said 
bitterly. “So they cut our feet off. They couldn’t do 
that if we were free. Now I not only can’t get away 
from the customers, no matter what their demands, 
I can’t ran anywhere—even if I had somewhere to 
run to, which I don’t. I’m not fit to make my living 
any way but as I do. That’s what happened.” 
“I’m sorry,” he said, well aware of the inadequacy 
of his words. A tight knot had formed in his gut. 
How could anyone have deliberately maimed 
anything as beautiful as this woman? How could 
anyone do something like that to anyone? 
“There’s no justice in this world,” Bloody Hand 
had said, and here was more proof of his bitter 
words. 
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Arlian said. “I’ll go if you 
want me to.” 
“Oh, you didn’t hurt me,” she replied. “You didn’t 
know any better, I guess—though I don’t know how 
anyone could be so naive.” 
“I just spent the last seven years in a hole in the 
ground,” Arlian said wryly. “I’m sure there are

thousands of things you take for granted that I’ve 
never heard of.” 
She nodded. “You were a miner?” 
“I was a slave,” he said. “Like you. Except if 
they’d cut our feet off we couldn’t have dug the ore, 
so they just kept us down a hole, where we couldn’t 
see the sun or feel the breeze. More than a score of 
us.” 
The words caught in his thoughts for a moment— 
“see the sun and feel the breeze.” The breezes he 
had felt the last several days had been cold and 
biting, but he still cherished them. 
“You escaped?” Sweet asked. 
He nodded. 
Enlightenment widened her eyes. “So that’s why 
you were out there barefoot in the cold, with no 
coat!” 
He nodded again. “I just got away a few days ago. 
You’re the first person I’ve talked to since I left the 
mine.” 
“You did more than talk,” she said, smiling 
again. 
“You’re the first woman I’ve seen since my 
mother died, seven years ago,” he said 
apologetically. 
Her mouth opened in surprise; then she grinned 
again, and flexed her body. “I hope you like what 
you see,” she said. 
“Very much,” he said. He reached a hand out to 
stroke her shoulder; she allowed it, and pressed her 
cheek against his hand. 
“Why did you invite me in?” he asked a moment 
later. 
“A whim,” she said. “I wanted a little fresh 
air—my last customer reeked, and splashed 
perfume everywhere on top of it—and when I 
opened the window and saw you there, staring at

me, it tickled my fancy to invite you in for a closer 
look. They’re so determined that only the paying 
customers will see us that I like to show myself to 
anyone I can.” She shrugged. “And I was 
curious—we don’t often have dirty, ragged strangers 
wandering the streets here. The guards don’t allow 
it.”
Arlian felt suddenly cold again. “Guards?” 
“Well, of course—the lords and ladies post 
well-paid guards in all the major towns around 
Manfort, to keep the peace and make sure ho one 
interferes with their investments. You’re lucky they 
didn’t catch you.” 
“Oh,” he said, looking at the window—which was 
tightly closed, a fact he found somewhat 
comforting. 
“Of course, if Mistress or one of the lords finds 
you in here with me, that might be even worse for 
you,” Sweet said thoughtfully. “Sending you back to 
the mines would be the least they would do. Feet 
aren’t the only thing they’ve been known to cut off.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said again, and again he glanced at 
the window—but this time he was considering it as 
an escape route. 
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll hide you. There’s 
a closet, or you could squeeze under the bed. And 
we can get you cleaned up so you’ll pass for a 
respectable citizen when you go; the guards won’t 
bother you then.” 
“But why would you… we?” 
Sweet grinned at him. “Of course, ‘we’,” she said. 
“I think the other girls would be very pleased to 
meet you.” 
Just then someone knocked on the door. 
“Ten minutes!” a woman’s voice called. 
“Oh, dear,” Sweet said. “A customer. Help me 
straighten things out a bit, would you? Then I’m 
afraid it’s into the closet with you.”

Arlian blinked at her. “Are you…” 
But Sweet wasn’t listening; she was looking 
around the room. 
“It’s not bad,” she said. “Lord Drisheen wasn’t 
interested in anything but me and the bed and his 
horrible perfume. Could you straighten those 
curtains, and give me a hand with the coverlet?” 
Arlian hurried to the window to adjust the 
curtains, still slightly askew from his entry; he 
turned to find Sweet on her knees atop the pillows, 
pulling the disarrayed coverlet into place. He 
hurried to assist her. 
“Hand me my jacket, would you?” she said, when 
the bed was reasonably straight. She pointed at a 
little heap of white satin on the carpet by the bed. 
While Arlian fetched it Sweet took a brush from the 
bedside table and, with the aid of a handheld 
mirror, began fixing her hair. The table held an 
assortment of cosmetics, and between brush strokes 
Sweet tallied the little bottles.. “Kohl, rouge, talc…” 
Arlian cleared his throat. 
She looked up at him, and for a moment he was 
overcome by her charm, the delicacy of her face, 
and could not speak. 
“Yes, Triv?” she asked. 
“The closet,” he said. “I don’t want to open the 
wrong door.” 
“Oh!” She pointed to a panel upholstered with 
pink silk. “It’s right there. There’s a stool, so you 
won’t need to stand; you must be tired.” 
Arlian started to ask why there was a stool, then 
thought better of it and hurried to the closet door. 
In his past experience, which had been limited to 
one mountaintop village, “closets” were small, 
rough storerooms; his family had had none, but the 
two largest homes in Obsidian had boasted one 
closet apiece, off the master’s chamber. Arlian was 
rather startled to discover that Sweet’s closet was

another matter entirely. It was small, not much 
more than a cupboard, and made to seem smaller 
still by the gowns and robes hung on hooks on 
either side. The rear wall held half a dozen large 
drawers. 
And everything, the walls, the drawers, the inside 
of the door, even the ceiling, was covered in rich red 
velvet; the floor was hidden by the smallest, thickest 
carpet Arlian had ever seen, woven in a floral 
pattern in a dozen shades of red. Two fine white 
tapers, unlit but half burned, were mounted in 
golden sconces on the rear wall, to either side of one 
of the drawers. 
And as Sweet had promised, a stool stood in the 
center of the tiny room—a stool upholstered, like 
the walls, in red velvet, its black wooden legs 
adorned with golden filigree. 
Arlian stared, trying to imagine why anyone 
would waste such appointments in a windowless 
storage compartment, then remembered himself 
and stepped inside. He turned to close the door, and 
stopped dead. 
The closet was not entirely windowless after all. 
The door had a window set into it, a little window 
completely hidden from the outside by the pink silk 
covering. 
Sweet glanced up just then and noticed his 
puzzlement. 
“Sometimes we have customers who just want to 
watch,” she explained. 
“Oh,” Arlian said, blinking as he tried to absorb 
this completely unfamiliar notion. He found it 
troubling; he settled slowly onto the stool and pulled 
the door shut. 
He found himself looking out through the silk, 
with a good view of most of the bedroom; Sweet 
and the bed were in the center of his field of vision. 
The filtering silk gave everything a pinkish cast, as 
if seen though a rosy mist, and the pink bedclothes

consequently tended to fade into the background 
while Sweet’s pale skin and black hair stood out 
sharply. 
She smiled at him, then tugged her satin jacket 
into place, gave her hair a final pat, and sat waiting 
on the bed. 
Arlian thought she was heartbreakingly beautiful 
there, dark curls spilling over her shoulders, 
wearing only the light jacket, lace skirt, and golden 
girdle. 
And then the door opened and a man stepped in, 
a man dressed in fine clothes, with rings on his 
fingers and plumes in his hair; Sweet bowed her 
head and murmured, “My lord.” 
The man backhanded her cheek. “I gave you no 
leave to speak,” he said. 
Arlian started from his seat at the sound of the 
blow, but caught himself. He clenched his fists and 
forced himself to sit back down. 
Sweet did not speak again while her customer 
was there; the customer addressed her only to give 
curt orders that she hastened to obey. 
Arlian watched what followed in sickened 
amazement—or sometimes could not bear to watch 
and turned his head aside, eyes tightly closed, 
trying not to hear the sounds from the bedchamber. 
He bit his lower lip until it bled to keep himself 
from shouting out in protest; his fingernails dug 
into his palms, his knuckles white. 
He found himself praying to the dead gods that it 
would stop. Had Sweet called for help he knew he 
would have been out of the closet and upon the 
customer in an instant, even if it meant his capture 
and execution. 
But she did not call out, and eventually it was 
over. The customer tied his breeches, straightened 
his velvet jacket, and left without another word. 
And Arlian fell out of the closet and staggered to

the bedside, desperate to do what he could to 
comfort Sweet after such abuse. He struggled for 
words and could find none as he reached out to 
touch her cheek. 
She sat up, startled, and looked at him dry-eyed. 
“He hurt you,” Arlian said. 
“No more than usual,” she replied calmly. She 
picked up the mirror from the bedside table to 
study the shallow scratches on her face, left by the 
man’s rings. “Mistress isn’t going to like that,” she 
said. “She’ll probably charge him extra.” Then she 
looked at Arlian and saw the expression on his face. 
“Oh, Triv!” she said, “you look so surprised! 
What were you expecting?” 
Arlian could see her struggling not to laugh at his 
stricken appearance. She seemed so utterly 
untroubled by what she had just been through that 
he began to doubt his own memory of what he had 
seen. 
“Did you enjoy that?” he asked. 
She snorted. “Of course not,” she said. “If I had, 
he wouldn’t need to pay for it, would he?” She 
smiled at him. “You poor boy,” she said. “You do 
have a lot to learn. I didn’t like it at all, but I’m not 
as delicate as I look.” 
“So I see,” he said, struggling to control the 
seething tangle of emotions he felt. 
She stared at him for a moment, and tears 
started in her eyes. “You’re so sweet, to worry about 
me!” she said. “You should be Sweet, and I should 
be Trivial!” 
“Never,” he said. “You could never be 
unimportant.” 
“Oh, you’re silly!” she said. She blinked away her 
tears and gathered herself. When she was composed 
she said, “We should have a little while now, at the 
very least, before anyone else comes in, and we may 
have all night—let’s see about getting you cleaned

up!” 
11 
Rose. 
There were sixteen slaves in sixteen rooms on the 
upper floors of the House of Carnal Society; 
crippled as they were, and kept busy by customers, 
they ordinarily saw little of one another. 
Arlian’s presence changed that. On the very first 
night he was there, long after midnight, after the 
lanterns by the coach door had been doused, after 
the lamps in the hallways were out, after the guards 
had. taken their nighttime post and the dreaded 
Mistress had retired to her ground-floor chamber, 
Sweet threw her arms around Arlian’s neck and had 
him carry her out into the hallway and up the stairs 
to the first door on the third floor. “I could walk,” 
she said, “on my knees—that’s what I usually do. It’s 
hard work, though, and slow. It’s much more fun 
this way.” 
They moved slowly in the dark, and Arlian tried 
to be as quiet as he could; fortunately the stairs 
were stone, and did not creak. Sweet did not seem 
to be particularly concerned about maintaining 
silence, but she wasn’t trespassing, and she was 
valuable property. If they were caught she could 
claim to have been carried off against her will. 
They were not caught; they reached the door 
Sweet had indicated, and Sweet took one hand from 
Arlian’s shoulder. She knocked, and then knocked 
again. 
The motion unbalanced them, and yielded no 
reply. Finally, at Sweet’s whispered insistence,

Arlian took over the task and rapped on the 
polished wood until a voice from within called, “At 
this hour?” 
“It’s me, Rose,” Sweet called. “Let me in!” 
“Sweet? Why?” Rose asked sleepily, but a 
moment later the door swung open, spilling light. 
At first Arlian stared right over Rose’s head; after 
a moment’s confusion he remembered that of 
course Rose would be female and therefore shorter 
than himself to begin with, and unable to stand 
because her feet were gone. He looked down and 
found her kneeling in the doorway—a redhead, a 
little taller and older and plumper than Sweet, with 
an oval face and green eyes, wearing a gauzy 
nightgown. She held a candle. 
“Who’s this?” Rose asked. 
“Rose, this is Triv. Triv, this is Rose, my best 
friend here and the only person I’m absolutely sure 
we can trust,” Sweet said. “May we come in, Rose?” 
“What’s he doing here?” Rose demanded, but she 
moved aside and let Arlian step inside and deposit 
Sweet on the bed. 
Where Sweet’s room was decorated in pink silk, 
Rose’s was decorated in dusky red velvet; where 
Sweet’s room held four glass lamps, Rose’s had fat 
candles perched in a dozen places. Arlian took a 
quick glance around, then asked Rose, “Shall I give 
you a hand?” 
“You’re not a customer, are you?” Rose asked, 
looking up at him. “Nor a guard, dressed like that.” 
She didn’t answer his question, but raised her arms 
toward him, the candle foremost. 
Arlian took the hint. He placed the candle on a 
nearby table, then carried Rose to the bed, setting 
her beside Sweet—who immediately leaned over 
and gave Rose a hug. 
“It’s been so long since we had a chance to talk!” 
Sweet said. “Why did they ever move you up here?”

“What’s he doing here?” Rose asked, ignoring 
Sweet’s question. “Is he a friend of yours?” 
Arlian decided that more light would be a good 
idea, and began lighting more candles from the one 
Rose had provided. 
“I was looking out the window, and I saw him in 
the stableyard,” Sweet said. “I invited him to climb 
up, and he did!” She giggled. 
Rose turned and eyed Arlian appraisingly. “You 
know, if they catch you in here you’re in serious 
trouble.” 
“I’m in serious trouble anyway,” Arlian said, 
looking up from his third candle. 
Rose looked questioningly at Sweet. 
“He’s an escaped slave,” Sweet explained. “From 
the mines in Deep Delving.” 
Rose frowned. “If anyone asks, he broke in here 
uninvited, right, Sweet?” she said. “And we poor 
helpless crippled women couldn’t do a thing to stop 
him.” 
“Of course!” Sweet agreed, nodding 
enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely. We couldn’t even 
scream for help, with the thick walls—no one would 
hear us. He was unstoppable. And he raped me, 
too.” She giggled again. 
Rose threw Arlian a glance. “Did he?” 
“More the other way around,” Sweet said. 
“Not that I minded,” Arlian added, as he put a 
fifth candle back in its place and decided that 
would do. 
“Anyway,” Sweet said, getting down to business, 
“I thought we could clean him up, give him some 
real clothes, so he won’t have to hide all the time.” 
“We could,” Rose admitted. 
“And maybe somehow I can help you, in 
exchange,” Arlian said, setting down the candle he 
had started with.

Rose snorted. “Help us?” she asked. “Help us how 
? Unless you’re a wizard who can grow us new feet, 
what can you do?” She shook her head. “No, we’ll be 
here until we’re too old to please the customers, and 
then we’re dog food.” 
Sweet bit her lower lip. “Don’t say that,” she said. 
Arlian stared at the two women. “Dog food? You 
don’t mean that literally, do you?” he asked. 
“I don’t want to think about it,” Sweet said, 
clapping her hands over her ears. 
“It’s one possibility,” Rose told him. 
Arlian stood staring stupidly at her, unable to 
think of anything he could say to such an outrage. 
For a few seconds no one spoke. 
Then Sweet recovered herself and said, “Let’s 
start with his hair.” 
Rose hesitated. “Sweet,” she said, “letting him in 
here is one thing. We can say he forced us. But 
fixing his hair? What if someone finds us?” 
“Then we’ll be dog food that much sooner,” Sweet 
said. “What’s the difference, if that’s how we’ll wind 
up anyway? Come on, it’ll be fun!” 
Rose frowned at Arlian. 
“Why would anyone check on us?” Sweet asked 
cajolingly. “They never do—that’s the whole point of 
cutting our feet off! The guards only watch for 
people breaking in, they don’t see what we do in 
here.” 
“Mistress does.” 
“She’s asleep downstairs! And Triv’s here, and we 
can’t just send him out into the cold the way he is! 
If we hear someone coming he’ll hide.” 
“Where?” 
“Wherever you like. Under the bed, in the 
closet…” 
“In the attic?”

Sweet blinked. “There’s an attic?” 
Rose pointed at a panel in the ceiling of her 
room, its edges hidden by gilt trim. “That lifts up,” 
she said. “Mistress was thinking of putting in a 
peephole, but decided against it.” She looked at 
Arlian. “Think you can get up there?” 
“I think so,” he said, gauging the height of the 
ceiling carefully. “If I have something to stand on. 
That chair would do.” He pointed. 
“Well, put the chair where you need it, just in 
case,” Rose said. 
Arlian nodded and moved the chair; while he did 
the two women whispered together. When he was 
satisfied with the chair’s location he turned back to 
them. 
“Come on,” Sweet said. “We’re going to fix you 
up. When we’re done you’ll be the most beautiful 
man in Westguard!” 
“At least,” Rose agreed. “Give me a hand, would 
you?” 
Rose, Arlian discovered, did not have the same 
small bedside table Sweet did; instead one corner of 
her room was equipped with a vanity table, two 
stools, three mirrors, and a huge quantity of 
cosmetics, as well as a pair of brass lamps to 
provide steadier illumination than candles could. 
Arlian set one woman on each stool, then knelt 
between them. 
Rose untied his scrap of leather and began 
vigorously brushing out his tangled hair; Sweet was 
more direct and snatched up a pair of scissors. 
“I liked the way Lord Inthior wore his, didn’t 
you?” she asked. 
Rose looked up from Arlian’s tangled curls and 
frowned. “You mean swept back in the center and 
cut short on the sides? I don’t know…” She studied 
Arlian, took his chin in her hand and tilted his face 
up.

Arlian had no idea what they were talking about, 
of course. He had never heard of any Lord Inthior, 
and had little concept of hairstyling. He was hardly 
inclined to resist, though; being alone here with two 
beautiful women, in these warm and perfumed 
chambers, was so wonderful he could scarcely 
believe it was really happening. If he just had 
something to eat, and no concerns about discovery, 
he thought this would be complete perfection. 
Rose turned his head and he found himself 
staring up into her intense green eyes. 
She was beautiful, no question, but he found 
himself looking critically at her face, noting all the 
tiny ways in which Sweet’s was preferable. 
Then Rose smiled at him. “Inthior’s style it is,” 
she said. “I think you’ll like it, Triv.” She turned to 
the table and found a metal comb, which she 
handed to Sweet. 
Sweet had already started clipping at Arlian’s 
dangling locks, but she accepted the comb and 
began tugging it through the tangles. Rose, 
meanwhile, found another comb and scissors and 
attacked Arlian’s beard. 
In time Rose traded her scissors for assorted 
cloths and powders and began cleaning Arlian’s 
face, while Sweet continued working on his hair. It 
took an hour, and much fussing and fraying of 
tempers, before the two women declared themselves 
satisfied and sat back. 
“Take a look,” Rose said, gesturing at the biggest 
of the three mirrors. 
Arlian looked. 
The face that confronted him was one he could 
hardly credit as his own. His beard had been 
trimmed, shaped, and slicked down with some 
unfamiliar waxy substance, and was now reduced 
from the chest-covering chaos he had seen reflected 
in windows and ponds to a short, almost triangular 
affair that reached a graceful point just an inch or

two below his chin. His hair had been cut away and 
swept back from his forehead, leaving a point at the 
center of his forehead that seemed to echo the 
beard, and showing bare skin at either temple. Dark 
curls wrapped neatly around his ears. Wax and 
powder had concealed his sunburn, and his 
complexion was now unnaturally smooth and clear. 
And the face thus adorned was straight and 
strong, with clear dark eyes and firm, full lips 
surrounding a long and elegant nose—a nose like 
Grandsir’s—eyes like his father’s, and his mother’s 
mouth. 
The result was nothing like the face of the village 
boy he remembered; he looked instead like an 
aristocrat. 
“That’s amazing,” he said. 
Sweet leaned over and kissed him on the now 
exposed temple. Rose just smiled. 
“Now,” Rose said, “I think it’s time to get some 
sleep before they wake us for breakfast.” 
“Should I go, then?” Arlian asked, gesturing at 
the window. 
“Must you?” Sweet asked. 
Arlian hesitated. “I don’t want to be caught,” he 
said. 
“Then you don’t want to leave yet,” Sweet said. “If 
you go walking the streets with a lord’s head above 
a farmer’s best shirt and that filthy pair of 
workman’s breeches and your own bare feet, the 
guards will be very curious about who you are and 
what you’re doing in Westguard.” She pointed at 
the attic and asked Rose, “He can sleep up there, 
can’t he?” 
“Go ahead,” Rose said resignedly. 
Sweet smiled. “And tomorrow we’ll see about 
fixing you up below the neck!” 
Arlian smiled back at her.

This was wonderful, being here; the tin-roofed 
attic would surely be at least as comfortable as the 
barns and sheds he had been sleeping in, and the 
risk of discovery would be less. These women were 
providing him with what amounted to a perfect 
disguise—no slave-catcher searching for an escaped 
miner would bother a man with his hair trimmed 
and oiled and his face powdered. 
And being around women was a pleasure he had 
never before experienced—just enjoying their 
company, quite aside from Sweet’s unorthodox 
welcome. That welcome, of course, was another, 
and much more intense, pleasure he had never 
known until tonight. 
If only he had something to eat… but surely 
Sweet would think of that in the morning, and they 
would manage something. Maybe he could slip out 
long enough to find something, then return. 
Or if necessary he could simply wait until his 
disguise was complete. He was hungry, but not 
starving. 
“Go on, then,” Rose said. “Take Sweet back to her 
room, and then get up there.” 
Arlian, perhaps inspired to extra courtesies by 
the lordly image he saw in the mirrors, rose 
gracefully and essayed a bow. Then he picked Sweet 
up.
“He’s a strong one, isn’t he?” Rose remarked, 
upon seeing how easily Arlian lifted her friend. 
“Seven years hauling ore,” Arlian explained as he 
held Sweet in one arm and opened the door with 
the other. 
A moment later he had deposited Sweet back in 
her own bed; then he turned away and hurried back 
up the stairs. 
In his last glimpse of Sweet’s face he had thought 
she looked somehow disappointed, but he couldn’t 
think why she would be—perhaps she’d noticed

some flaw in his appearance? He didn’t dare take 
the time to think about it, though; he wanted to get 
safely into hiding in the attic. 
He had left Rose’s door open; now he strode 
briskly in, closed it behind him, climbed up on the 
chair, and lifted the attic trap. 
A jump, and his elbows caught the edges of the 
opening; then he hauled himself up, trying not to 
kick anything as he did. At last he tumbled into the 
attic. 
It was dark, and much cooler than the room 
below, but still nowhere near as cold as the outside 
world. Immense beams ran across it, dividing it 
into bands; he lowered himself carefully into one of 
these troughs and found himself on rough planking. 
He could see nothing of what he sat upon, as the 
faint light that leaked up through the open trap did 
not reach that far, but a brief exploration with his 
hands found what seemed to be solid wood—and 
also a band of stone, presumably the top of the wall 
between Rose’s room and the corridor. 
“Close it!” Rose called. 
Arlian started, then hastened to obey, lowering 
the trapdoor back into place, closing himself in and 
shutting out the light. 
That done, he sat alone in cool, silent darkness. 
He feared that his concealment might not be 
perfect; if he stepped on the wrong board it might 
sag visibly below, or even break, sending him 
tumbling through someone’s ceiling. The beams, 
wide as they were, were not so wide that he could lie 
down upon one to sleep. Accordingly, he settled 
onto that band of stone, bracing himself against the 
beams on either side. He lay there, intending to 
review his situation and make plans for the future. 
But then, despite the cold and the dark and his 
awkward position, exhaustion overcame him and he 
fell asleep.

12 
Decisions 
Arlian awoke in utter darkness, and for a 
moment thought he was back in the mines, that his 
escape had all been a dream. Then he shivered with 
the cold, and knew he was outside—the mines were 
never so chilly. He reached out and touched wood 
instead of stone, the rough wood of a heavy beam, 
and remembered where he was. He raised a hand to 
his head and felt his neatly cut hair, then stroked 
his short-trimmed beard. 
The events of the previous night had been real, 
then. He was hidden in the attic of a whorehouse. 
He winced at the word, one he had learned in the 
mines; it was so harsh! And he couldn’t bring 
himself to think of Sweet or Rose as “whores.” It 
was unquestionably an accurate description, but it 
simply didn’t seem right. Sweet’s own word, 
“brothel,” was not much better. 
He sat up, and found that the windowless attic’s 
darkness was not absolute; faint sunlight seeped in 
through the eaves, enough to make out dimly the 
massive beams, the sloping rafters overhead—and 
not much else. 
He couldn’t guess at the time; the trace of light 
was far too diffuse to show him the sun’s angle. He 
hesitated, trying to think what he should do. 
He was hungry—hungry and thirsty—but where 
could he find food or water? He frowned. 
Food could wait, he told himself, but he needed 
water soon.

And a chamberpot or privy would be welcome, 
too. He didn’t dare simply use a corner of the attic; 
it might seep through, and even if no one found that 
suspicious it might send someone up for a look at 
the roof. 
He could scarcely just open the trap and drop 
down, though; what if Rose were with a customer? 
He clambered cautiously over the intervening 
beam, knelt, ran his fingers along the boards until 
he found the edges of the trap door, then put his ear 
to the wood and listened. 
He heard voices—one he thought was Rose, but 
he didn’t recognize the other. 
Whoever it was, Arlian knew he would have to 
wait. He sighed and sat up on the beam. 
He remembered that before going to sleep he had 
intended to make some plans, but had dozed off; 
well, now he was awake, and not going anywhere. It 
was time to give some serious thought to his future. 
He was free of the mines; if the women carried 
through on their plans to dress him, once his 
disguise was complete no one would ever recognize 
elegant young Triv as the escaped slave Arlian. 
Escape, his first goal, was largely accomplished. He 
need merely cooperate with Sweet and Rose and 
avoid being spotted by the brothel’s guards or the 
dreaded Mistress, and he would be free to move on 
wherever he chose. 
Ensuring his continued survival had to be his 
next priority; he needed food and water, and some 
way to earn a living. He was a healthy young man, 
big and strong—surely he could find work. 
That would require some thought, though. 
Perhaps the women would have some useful 
suggestions. 
And his third goal was justice—vengeance for the 
murder of his family and the destruction of his 
village, vengeance for the looting of the ruins and

his own enslavement. 
And the mine—was that just? Was it right that a 
score of men led such a miserable existence as that 
he had fled? Was it right that Lampspiller and 
Bloody Hand had power over them? 
His thoughtful frown deepened. There were 
undoubtedly many injustices in the world; he could 
scarcely hope to end them all. 
But surely, he had to do what he could. As he had 
told Bloody Hand, people could make their own 
justice, and he was obliged to at least try. 
Below him even now, he realized, was a massive 
injustice; what could Sweet or Rose or the others 
possibly have done to deserve being crippled? Did 
they really face the possibility of someday, when 
they ceased to be profitable, being murdered and 
fed to the dogs? 
That couldn’t be allowed. He would have to find 
some way to prevent it. 
But how? And how could he find the looters, or 
the dragons? How could he destroy the dragons? He 
was just a man—scarcely more than a boy. He knew 
little of the world; obsidian carvers and silver 
miners had no need to know of much beyond their 
own limited surroundings. He had no weapons, and 
no money; even his clothes weren’t fit to be seen on 
the streets. 
He had his little bag of keepsakes, but that was 
all—a few scraps of fabric, a crude necklace, and a 
handful of pretty stones. What sort of justice could 
that buy? 
Hathet’s stones… might they really be worth 
something, beyond the Borderlands in far-off 
Arithei? 
Was Hathet really even from Arithei? Did Arithei 
even exist? 
If it did and Hathet was genuinely Aritheian, 
Hathet might have family there, people who had

been wondering all these years what had become of 
him. Perhaps they would appreciate word of their 
lost kin. 
Arlian swallowed, wishing his throat weren’t 
quite so dry—and that his bladder weren’t quite so 
full. 
He had intended to go to Manfort, in part to 
track down and confront Lord Dragon—for surely, 
even if Lord Dragon did not live in Manfort, most of 
the great lords and ladies did, and they might know 
who dared to use the name “Dragon.” 
Now, though, Arlian had second thoughts. He 
was just a youth, with no friends, no family, no 
funds—how could he hope to destroy a lord, a man 
who could casually buy and sell men and women? 
He remembered what that man had done to Sweet 
the night before, and how Sweet had not dared to 
resist or even speak, and how he had simply 
watched, not daring to act. He was not ready to 
fight such men. Perhaps he should go seeking 
Arithei to find Hathet’s family… 
Or perhaps he was afraid. 
He bit his lip. Was that it? Was this simply 
cowardice? 
All those years in the mines he had dreamed of 
the day when he would be free, and could confront 
Lord Dragon and strike him down. In the few days 
since his escape, though, he had learned a little 
more of the ways of the world, and of himself—he 
had not even dared confront ordinary farmers. Even 
now he was hiding in an attic, lest he be seen by 
mere guards. 
He had told himself that because right was on his 
side, in the long run he could not fail—but was that 
true? Perhaps justice must triumph in the end, as 
he very much wanted to believe despite all he had 
seen and heard, but need he live to see it? Had Fate, 
or the gods, told him so? 
If he were to head to Manfort and march boldly

into Lord Dragon’s home, did he really think that he 
would be able to kill Lord Dragon? Wasn’t it more 
likely that Dragon would run him through with the 
sword he carried? Or simply laugh, and call a dozen 
guards, who would deal with this intruder? 
And that assumed he could even find Lord 
Dragon’s front door. 
But his memory of the looters pawing through 
the; wreckage of his home, the memory of being 
hauled to Deep Delving and sold as if he were a bolt 
of cloth, would not allow him to give up the idea. 
He must avenge himself somehow! 
He would need to work at it, to find some way 
other than simply walking in the front door. 
He needed to know more about Lord Dragon. He 
needed to know more about Manfort. He needed to 
know more about everything. 
And the women here might know a few things. 
They might know of Lord Dragon; he might even be 
a regular customer. He would, at the very least, 
want to ask them a few questions before he left and 
went on his way toward Manfort. 
And he might want more than that, if the women 
could provide it. There were many things he needed 
to learn about the outside world. 
Just then he heard a voice call, “Triv? Are you 
awake?” 
“Rose?” he called back quietly. 
“It’s clear!” Rose replied. 
Arlian hastened to dig his fingernails into the 
crack around the hatch and lift the trap open; then 
he lowered himself down until he hung from his 
hands, and let himself drop the last foot or two. 
Then he looked up at the black square, and 
hurriedly fetched the chair, climbed up on it, and 
slid the door back into place. 
Then he turned to Rose, who was sitting up in

her bed, eating breakfast from a tray on the bedside 
table. The room was dim, lit only by what light 
filtered through the drawn curtains, but otherwise 
just as he remembered it. He stepped to the 
bedside. 
“Care to join me?” she asked. 
“In a moment,” he said; he felt along the side of 
the space under the bed with his toes, and found a 
chamberpot. Then he stood awkwardly for a 
moment, looking at Rose. 
She looked at his face, then down. Then she 
pointedly turned her back. 
“I won’t look,” she said. 
She didn’t, and a moment later, when the 
chamberpot was safely stowed away again, he was 
nibbling a sweet roll and drinking cider, sharing 
Rose’s cup. 
The food was excellent, but there wasn’t much of 
it. Rose noticed Arlian gazing hungrily at the empty 
plate and said, “They don’t want us to get fat; most 
of the customers like their women rounded, but not 
fat.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. 
“We probably eat better than most slaves,” Rose 
said. “Maybe Sweet has more.” 
Arlian was at a loss for how to reply to this until 
Rose added, “Why don’t you go see? Careful going 
out in the hall, though—make sure no one’s 
collecting the trays yet.” 
Arlian nodded. He crossed to the door, opened it 
a crack, and peered out. 
The hallway appeared deserted. He slipped out, 
crept down the stairs and along the corridor to 
Sweet’s door, and knocked. 
“Come in!” she called. 
Like Rose, she had saved a portion of her 
breakfast for him; between bites he thanked her for

her thoughtfulness. 
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, reaching up to pluck 
a cobweb from his hair. “Look at this! You’ve gone 
and messed up all our work. We’ll have to teach you 
to take better care of yourself!” 
“I’d like that,” he said. “Perhaps there are other 
things you can teach me, as well.” 
“I’m sure there are,” she said, putting her hand in 
his lap and leaning her face toward his; he started, 
scattering crumbs across the bedside table. 
She giggled, and slid her hand in the waistband 
of his breeches. “I told them I wasn’t feeling well,” 
she said. “Unless someone asks for me specifically 
and won’t take no for an answer, we should have at 
least an hour. And you’ve already mussed your 
hair.” 
Half an hour later, as they lay side by side on her 
bed, he remembered himself enough to ask, “Have 
you ever heard of someone named Lord Dragon?” 
“Not by that name,” she said, running a finger 
across his chest. “Why?” 
“I need to kill him,” Arlian told her. 
Sweet propped herself up on one elbow and 
stared at him. “Could you explain that, please?” 
Arlian explained; in fact, once he began talking 
he found it hard to stop, and he poured out 
everything—his happy childhood on Smoking 
Mountain, the long, hot months of dragon weather 
and their horrific end, his discovery by the looters, 
his years in the mine, his long conversations with 
Hathet, his rescue of Bloody Hand and the 
overseer’s repayment, his dreams of vengeance and 
justice. 
It took more than half an hour, but Sweet made 
no move to stop him; she listened intently to all of 
it. 
He ran through all of it, his life story to date, then 
began to fill in bits he had skimmed over at first.

When he described lying trapped under Grandsir’s 
corpse, Sweet shuddered and asked, “You swallowed 
his blood?” 
“I choked on it,” Arlian answered. 
“Was there venom in it? They say dragon venom 
is powerful magic.” 
“What kind of magic?” he asked. For years, he 
had tried not to think about that horrible moment; 
now he suddenly tried to recall every detail. 
And he remembered what Grandsir had told him, 
that human blood and dragon venom were 
supposed to bestow long life. Did that mean that he 
could expect to live a century or more? Somehow, in 
seven years in the mines, he had never really given 
the matter much thought—time and age didn’t 
seem important down there in the dark. 
Sweet shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “We 
hear stories about dragons sometimes, 
though—some of the lords like to talk, and 
sometimes they talk about the dragons. They seem 
to admire them.” She shuddered again. “What does 
that say about them, that they admire monsters?” 
And what did it say about Lord Dragon, Arlian 
thought, that he had taken his very name from a 
monster? 
And what did it say about him that his face was 
so hideously scarred? That was no clean cut left by a 
sword stroke, nor the marks left by pox. 
“Have any of your customers here had a scarred 
right cheek?” he asked. Perhaps Sweet knew Lord 
Dragon by another name. 
She laughed, a high, sweet sound. “Oh, dozens of 
them are scarred!” she said. “At least one in ten, 
perhaps one in five. And the right cheek is as 
common a place as any.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said, disappointed and confused. 
Several of the men in his home village had been 
scarred, but most commonly on the hands or legs or

chest, rather than the face. 
“I’m sorry I don’t know who your Lord Dragon is, 
Triv,” she said. “But we’ll fix you up, and teach you 
everything we can, so that when you go looking for 
him you’ll have a better chance.” 
“Thank you,” Arlian replied. “I wish there were 
some way I could repay you.” 
She waved that away. “Just knowing there’s 
someone out there trying to right some wrongs is 
enough for me,” she said. 
“I’ll do my best, then.” He sat up and looked at 
his clothes, lying bunched up at the foot of the bed. 
“What were you planning to do with those, wash 
them? I don’t know if those breeches will ever come 
clean…” 
“Those?” Sweet kicked at them with the stump of 
an ankle. “We’ll give those to the first beggar who 
asks, and make you some real clothes!” 
Arlian blinked, startled. “Make me clothes? 
Today?” It took more than a day to make a decent 
suit of clothes. 
She laughed. “No, not today, silly!” 
“But I thought I’d leave today or tonight…” Arlian 
began, puzzled. 
“Have you looked out a window?” Sweet asked, 
grinning. 
Arlian looked at her playful expression, then got 
up wordlessly and crossed to the window, where he 
pulled back the curtains to reveal a dim world of 
gray and white— gray skies, drifting white flakes, 
and white ground. 
He blinked and stared. “It’s snowing,” he said 
stupidly. 
“So Eahor told me,” she said. “When he brought 
my tray. I made him open the curtains so I could 
see.” 
“But I could still go,” Arlian said.

“You’d freeze,” Sweet said. “And more 
importantly, you’d leave tracks, and tracks go both 
ways. You are not going to leave a trail back to my 
window, Lord Trivial! I’m in no hurry to meet those 
dogs Rose mentioned.” 
“You want me stay until the snow melts? But that 
might be days!” 
“It might be until spring,” Sweet said, smiling 
wickedly. “And that wouldn’t bother me at all.” 
Arlian turned to stare at her. “You think you can 
hide me here until spring?” 
“I think it will be fun to try!” Sweet told him. 
Book II 
Triv 
13 
Departure 
Arlian fluffed his pillow, settled down onto his 
bedding, then blew out his lamp. He groped for his 
coverlet in the dark, started to pull it up, then 
hesitated. 
The attic was warm tonight, almost 
uncomfortably so; he didn’t need the coverlet. He 
left it folded at his feet. 
He might never unfold it again. This was to be 
his last night here in the brothel’s attic. The snows 
had finally melted, and he had been planning his

departure for several days now, discussing possible 
destinations with Sweet and Rose and the 
others—he had been introduced to all fourteen of 
the other whores in the House of Carnal Society, 
one by one, over the course of the winter, and all of 
them had heard his story and made suggestions 
about what he should do with himself after he left. 
After considering and discarding several other 
possibilities, from Arithei to the Eastern Isles, just 
about everyone had finally agreed that he should go 
to Manfort, at least at first. The great city was less 
than a full day’s travel to the east. 
Arlian intended to set out the next day and head 
in that direction. 
Sweet was still trying to talk him out of leaving so 
soon, claiming that footprints in the mud would be 
just as bad as footprints in the snow and that there 
was still too much he didn’t know, but Arlian was 
resolved; he couldn’t stay here, the pampered pet of 
a dozen or so whores, forever. He needed to make 
his own way in the world—and to avenge the 
injustices visited upon him and his family. 
Besides, Mistress, the dreaded manager of the 
House, had almost caught him the other day. He 
had barely gotten the closet door closed when she 
had marched in with the guards behind her and 
begun upbraiding Sweet for being too openly 
unenthusiastic about Lord Jerial’s fancies. 
Arlian had seen the marks Lord Jerial had left; he 
had had to fight down the urge, unarmed as he was, 
to leap out and defend Sweet. 
Sooner or later, if he stayed, either someone 
would discover him accidentally, or he would give in 
to one of his impulses to confront those who abused 
the occupants of the House of Carnal Society. In 
either case, he was likely to be killed without 
accomplishing anything. 
In the morning he would leave; he would slip out 
a window and be gone, bound for Manfort. It

shouldn’t be too difficult for a charming, 
well-dressed, well-muscled young man to make his 
way there. The girls had spent the winter making 
his wardrobe, teaching him etiquette, explaining 
everything they knew of human nature, training 
him out of his rural accent, and educating him in 
many other ways, as well, in preparation for 
whatever he might encounter in his search for 
revenge on Lord Dragon. 
His strength had been built up by years in the 
mines, and he had kept his arms and back strong by 
carrying the poor crippled women hither and yon; 
he had not let himself go soft despite the luxury of 
his surroundings. 
Even his attic was luxurious now; obtaining 
bedding that was deemed too stained to remain in 
use downstairs had been easy, and his lamp was 
dented and had therefore been discarded, but was 
still entirely serviceable. He would bundle it all up 
and bring it with him, one more small addition to 
his fortune. 
He had a few other additions, as well. 
Occasionally the whores were given coins or other 
tokens by their customers, and Sweet, Rose and 
Hasty had collected a modest sum and bestowed it 
upon him—as prisoners here, they had nothing they 
cared to spend money on. 
Furthermore, Rose had taken him aside one 
night and whispered a secret to him. 
“Sometimes our customers tell us things,” she 
said. “Many of them come here drunk, after all, and 
then when they’ve had their fill of us they’re often 
relaxed and careless.” She added bitterly, “And after 
all, what harm can it do to tell us? We’re trapped 
here.” 
“I understand,” Arlian said soothingly. 
“Well, one night when Lord Kuruvan was 
exceptionally drunk and sentimental, he told me he 
was one of the owners of this place—one of my

owners—and that if anything ever went wrong, he’d 
come and get me, and we could flee into exile 
together. And he said he had money hidden away, 
so that we could live in luxury even then. And he 
told me where it is.” 
Arlian looked at her warily. “I’m not a thief,” he 
said. 
“I earned that money for him, Triv,” Rose said 
fiercely. “I, and the others here. He never lifted a 
finger for it. And if we can’t have it, then I’d rather 
you did.” 
“I’d rather that you did,” Arlian replied. “After 
all, as you say, you earned it, not I.” 
“But I’ll never be able to get it, Triv, and someday 
you might.” 
Arlian frowned thoughtfully. 
“You do what you think is right, Triv,” she said. 
“You always do.” 
“No,” he said, “or I would have left long ago. I 
owe you all more than I can repay.” 
“Well, you can repay me by taking that money 
Lord Kuruvan hid!” she said. “He’ll probably never 
even know it’s gone. It’s in a keg marked ‘sour wine’ 
in the northeast corner of the cellars under an inn 
called the Blood of the Grape, on the road to 
Manfort.” 
“I’ll remember,” Arlian had told her. 
He still hadn’t decided whether or not he would 
actually try to find Lord Kuruvan’s little cache; he 
was already so far in Rose’s debt that he quite 
literally saw no way he could ever repay her, and 
that troubled him. Still, she wanted him to find it… 
Well, he would decide once he saw how he fared 
in the outside world. The money, if it was there at 
all, had stayed hidden for years; it could wait awhile 
longer. 
With or without that cache, he was ready to

move on, but he knew he would miss the women 
here, all of them— beautiful Sweet with her joyful 
laughter, practical, motherly Rose, Daub the 
amateur portraitist who was constantly studying 
his face, poor bewildered Hasty, moody Sparkle… all 
of them. 
Sweet most of all, of course. The thought of 
leaving her here, not seeing her again, was 
painful—his heart ached every time he looked at her 
and remembered that they would be parting. He 
hoped he could come back for her someday—but 
still, he had to go. There were things he had to do if 
he was to live with himself. 
He lay back on the downy bedding, ready for 
sleep— when a thump and a bang sounded from 
below, and he snapped his eyes wide, suddenly alert. 
He heard Rose complaining sleepily, though he 
couldn’t make out the words through the ceiling 
and closed trap door; then he heard Mistress’s 
harsh bellow. 
“… been hiding someone! At first I thought I was 
imagining it, but the more I thought about 
it—bedding is missing, and you’ve been using up 
fabric without new gowns to show for it, and food’s 
cost more this winter than it should. So it’s been 
going on for months! And you haven’t been 
sneaking him in and out—I’ve changed the guards, 
and there weren’t any tracks. So you’ve been hiding 
him, but I couldn’t think where he could be—until 
ten minutes ago I remembered the attic…” 
By the time she got this far in her speech Arlian 
was squatting on one of the beams, all his 
belongings gathered into a hasty bundle. He 
wrapped them in a small roll of canvas Daub had 
provided out of her painting supplies, and bound 
them with a pair of leather belts as he considered 
his options. 
“I know he’s up there,” Mistress shouted. “Is he 
armed? Tell me!”

Arlian could not make out the words of Rose’s 
reply— unlike Mistress, Rose was not yelling—but 
he could tell from her tone that she was feigning 
innocence. 
Mistress undoubtedly had at least two of her 
guards with her. He might be able to surprise them, 
and in the mines he had learned something about 
brawling, but they would have swords and know 
how to use them, and there might be more than 
two. The brothel employed six at various times, and 
for something like this Mistress would have 
summoned all of them. 
He would have no chance of defeating six armed 
men, and even escaping them seemed unlikely. 
He could surrender—and be put to death. Even if 
he was never identified as an escaped slave, he was 
a thief and a trespasser. 
That wouldn’t do. 
There was a third alternative, however. If he 
avoided the guards entirely, went around them, he 
might well be able to flee with his skin intact. And 
he had an idea how he might accomplish that. He 
rose—not to his full height, which would have 
slammed his head into the rafters overhead, but to 
a crouch—and began to move quickly away from the 
trap door. 
Rose was still protesting, but Arlian didn’t listen. 
He was searching. 
During the long winter he had spent many long 
hours, both day and night, hidden away in this 
attic. He had, simply out of boredom, explored it 
thoroughly. The walls were solid stone; the roof was 
good tin over heavy planking; there were no 
windows. The only vents were under the eaves, and 
quite aside from the thirty-foot drop they were far 
too small for him to squeeze through. 
The floor, however, had weak spots; it had never 
been intended as a floor at all, but merely as a 
ceiling for the rooms below. Arlian had noted them

only to avoid them, for fear of detection, but now he 
deliberately sought out a board that was half eaten 
by ants and rot. Apparently the roof about it had 
leaked at one time, and the moisture had done its 
work. The roof had been repaired; the damaged 
ceiling had not. 
He stepped from beam to beam in the dark, 
moving by feel and memory, until he knew he had 
reached the right area. He heard the muffled sound 
of a blow, and knew someone had struck Rose, 
knocking her against something; his mouth 
tightened, but he did not stop. He moved along the 
beam, pressing his foot on the boards below until he 
found the rotted one. It was low under the sloping 
rafters, just where Arlian had remembered. 
Mistress was shouting again, but he was far 
enough away now that he couldn’t hear her words. 
The trap door flew open and rattled against the 
beams, and light fountained up. A guard’s head 
appeared, lit from below, scanning the attic. Arlian 
set both feet on the rotten board, braced his back 
against the roof and pushed. 
The ceiling crumbled beneath him, and he 
plunged through feet-first, the jagged broken ends 
of the boards tearing at his clothes and his bundled 
belongings. His right elbow slammed painfully onto 
still-solid wood, and he flung his arm upward to 
free himself, dropping farther into the unlit room 
below. 
Someone screamed, a loud, high shriek of terror. 
Arlian’s plummeting feet struck the edge of 
something soft, something he couldn’t see in the 
darkness, and slid off to one side, throwing him off 
balance; he sprawled sideways, tumbling onto the 
floor in a tangle. 
He rolled free of whatever he had struck and 
clambered to his feet, still clutching his bundle. 
The room’s occupant screamed again.

“Hush!” Arlian called. “Where’s the door?” 
Even as he asked he thought better of it. The 
moon was up, and the curtained window was faintly 
visible, a square of dim gray light in the blackness. 
“Triv?” a voice asked wonderingly. 
Arlian did not bother answering; instead he ran 
full-tilt for the window, knocking aside a table that 
happened to be in his path. 
He recognized the voice as Sparkle’s and now 
realized that when he fell he had landed on the side 
of her bed and slid off onto the floor, but he had no 
time to worry about such things. He could already 
hear heavy footsteps in the corridor outside her 
door. 
Sparkle’s room was at the far end of the corridor 
from Rose’s and faced the street, rather than the 
stableyard; that was good. 
He didn’t bother opening the casement; he 
slammed against it with his bundle held in both 
fists, and the glass and lead shattered. He shoved 
the bundle through the opening and dropped it, 
then climbed up on the windowseat and turned 
around. 
Fists were pounding on the door of Sparkle’s 
room, and he could hear crunching in the attic 
overhead. He took hold of the windowsill and began 
lowering himself. 
“Good-bye,” he called to Sparkle—after all, it 
could do no harm at this point. “Give the others my 
love.” Then he was hanging by his fingers, his arms 
stretched to their full length, as far down as he 
could climb. 
He pushed off with his feet and let go. 
The fall seemed eternal, though he knew it was 
probably only a fraction of a second; then he 
slammed onto the mud of the street, flat on his 
back. 
He lay dazed and aching for a moment, the

breath knocked out of him; then he blinked and saw 
a dark shape leaning out of the now lit square of 
Sparkle’s window. 
He forced himself to move; he rolled over onto his 
knees, groping for his bundle. He found it, grabbed 
it, and pushed himself to his feet. 
His back hurt, and one knee didn’t seem to want 
to work properly, but he staggered on, choosing his 
direction at random. 
The cool night breeze smelled of fresh soil and 
woodsmoke. The mud was cold between his toes, 
and he realized for the first time that his feet were 
bare—but that was hardly surprising; after all, he 
had been preparing for bed, not for flight. He had a 
pair of velvet slippers in his bundle—the women had 
been unable to manage boots— but he was not 
about to take the time to put them on. 
Behind him lights were appearing in several of 
the brothel’s windows, and he heard several voices 
shouting; he struggled to pick up his pace. 
Before him the moonlight showed him the 
late-night streets of Westguard—shops and houses, 
porches and wooden sidewalks, and streets of dirt 
and mud, the only color anywhere the yellow 
lamplight in a few windows. The town looked 
lifeless and empty. 
The town’s hired guards were probably making 
their rounds, though, and he needed to avoid them. 
If Mistress decided to make enough of a fuss even 
the sheds and stables he had used before wouldn’t 
be safe. He had to find somewhere they wouldn’t 
look at all—or some way to keep them from 
recognizing him when they saw him. 
And that might not be too difficult to manage, he 
realized a hundred yards farther down the street, as 
he caught sight of a signboard depicting a man 
leaning heavily on a staff. His pursuers hadn’t seen 
him clearly, if at all; they would probably expect 
him to look like a vagabond, as he had when he

arrived. 
Sweet and Rose and the others had spent months 
making him look instead like a young lord, and he 
could capitalize on that. He limped up to the closed 
door below the sign and began pounding on it. 
“Ho, landlord!” he bellowed. 
The windows were dark, and the door was locked, 
but there could be little question that the place was 
an inn— probably the Weary Traveler, which he had 
heard mentioned a few times. 
An upstairs window opened, and a face 
appeared—but at the same time Arlian heard the 
jingle of armor and the crunch of boot steps. 
Fortunately, it came from the right; the House of 
Carnal Society was to the left. This was simply a 
guard making the rounds; Arlian ignored the sound 
and looked up. 
“Ho, there!” he called, doing his best imitation of 
the lordly manners he had observed at the House of 
Carnal Society. “I know it’s late, my good man, but 
my blasted horse threw me—have you a meal and a 
bed?” He glanced at the approaching guardsman, 
but did his best to appear completely casual, as if 
he knew he could not possibly have anything to fear 
from a mere guard.. 
The innkeeper glared down at him. “At this 
hour?” 
“Well, it wouldn’t have been this hour if the 
confounded beast hadn’t run off!” Arlian shouted 
back, exasperated. “I’ve been walking for hours 
—barefoot, since one boot caught in the bloody 
stirrup—will you look at the mess it’s made of me? 
Surely you won’t turn me out like this!” 
The innkeeper still hesitated. The guardsman had 
come up behind Arlian and was listening 
closely—though he was distracted by a commotion 
up the street, in the vicinity of the House of Carnal 
Society. Arlian turned to him and asked, “He’s an 
innkeeper, isn’t he? Doesn’t he have to let me in if I

ask?” 
“That’s up to him, sir,” the guardsman said. 
Arlian glared at him, a glare Rose had had him 
practice for hours. “Sir?” he said. 
“My lord,” the guard corrected quickly. 
Arlian nodded his approval and looked up at the 
innkeeper. “I’ll pay a little extra, if you like,” he said. 
“Then your funds weren’t all on your horse?” the 
innkeeper asked. “I won’t give credit.” 
“Do I look like a complete fool?” Arlian 
demanded. Then he held up a hand. “No, don’t 
answer that—I don’t want to know what I look like 
at this point! Yes, I have good coin, if your prices 
aren’t utterly savage.” 
The innkeeper hesitated for another second or so, 
then gave in. “I’ll be right down,” he called. 
“Good,” Arlian said, as the window closed. Then 
he turned back toward the brothel, as if just now 
noticing the noise. Two of the brothel’s guards were 
approaching at a trot. 
“Whatever is going on there?” he asked the town 
guardsman. 
“I don’t know, my lord,” the guard replied. 
“Does it have anything to do with that ragged 
fellow who went running past a few minutes ago?” 
The guard was suddenly alert. “What fellow, my 
lord?” 
“How in the name of the dead gods should I know 
who he was?” Arlian said. “He was a young man in 
dreadful torn clothes who went running that way.” 
He pointed away from the House of Carnal Society. 
“His nose was bleeding quite spectacularly. Do you 
suppose those two are looking for him?” 
“I don’t know, my lord; they might be.” 
“Well, why don’t you go ask them and see? I’d like 
to know.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said. He trotted 
obediently off. 
That, Arlian thought, would keep the brothel 
guards busy for a moment, explaining the situation 
to their compatriot, and it should give him time to 
get safely inside the inn. 
None of his pursuers had gotten a good look at 
him, he was certain, and he hoped the women 
would have the sense to lie about his appearance; 
his best chance, he was sure, was simply to insist 
that he was what he claimed to be and had no 
connection with the intruder in the brothel. 
Maintaining his imposture as a rash young lord 
would not be easy; for all he knew he had already 
made half a dozen slips. Still, he could not think of 
any better ruse. 
The door of the inn opened, and the scent of stale 
beer wafted out. Arlian slipped quickly inside. 
14 
Deceptions 
Arlian tensed as the inn’s door opened again and 
the town guardsman stepped in. He quickly forced 
himself to relax, to appear calm, as he took another 
bite of the slightly stale bread the innkeeper had 
provided. 
His bundle lay at his feet; he had had to open it 
to pay the landlord in advance, and the price of a 
bed and a meal had almost exhausted the money 
Sweet, Rose, and Hasty had given him. The meal 
before him was simply bread, cheese, a few dried 
plums, and a flagon of ale—the innkeeper insisted 
nothing else could be had at this hour, and Arlian

had not argued beyond the minimum he felt 
necessary to stay in character, for fear of wiping out 
his funds completely if the innkeeper did find 
something better. He chewed slowly and picked up 
the ale as the guardsman approached, with a 
half-formed idea that if necessary he could fling the 
beer in the man’s face and make a run for it. 
“My lord,” the guard said. “You wanted to know 
the cause of the disturbance.” 
Arlian swallowed the bread and washed it down 
with a mouthful of cold ale. “Yes, I did,” he said. 
“Whatever happened? Was someone murdered in 
his bed?” 
“No, no, nothing like that,” the guardsman 
assured him hastily. “It seems that one of the young 
women at, uh… a certain establishment was hiding 
someone from the management. He was discovered, 
and fled—making quite a mess in the process.” 
Arlian feigned astonishment. “Hiding someone? 
You mean inside the house?” 
“So it appears.” 
“Well, well.” He shook his head in amused 
dismay. “However did the young woman get this 
lover of hers inside in the first place?” 
The guard shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord. 
I don’t think anyone does—except the man himself, 
of course.” 
“So you think that might have been the fellow 
with the nosebleed that I saw?” 
“We think it likely, my lord, yes. Ah… could you 
tell us any more about the man you saw?” 
“Of course. He was, oh, about your own height, 
I’d say…” The guard was easily three inches shorter 
than Arlian himself. “Thinner, though, with a 
square-cut beard.” The guard’s beard was rounded, 
and Arlian’s triangular. “And his clothes were 
disgraceful—homespun, one sleeve half off. I 
couldn’t tell if they were gray or brown or what, in

the dark.” Arlian’s blouse was fine white linen, his 
breeches black wool. “Beyond that I really couldn’t 
say— it’s dark out there, and I was hardly 
considering asking him to sit for a portrait.” 
“Of course, my lord. Thank you.” The guardsman 
bowed and retreated, leaving Arlian to finish his 
meal in peace. 
And he did, marveling at how easy the deception 
had been. 
The whores had told him that deception was 
easy; they had all had plenty of practice, feigning 
the reactions that their customers wanted, whether 
it was love or fear, pleasure or pain. “People see 
what they expect to see,” Rose had told him. 
“People see what they want to see,” Sweet had 
corrected her. Arlian felt a pang at the memory; he 
had seen her just an hour or two before, and already 
he missed her. 
He wondered what was happening back at the 
House of Carnal Society. Was Mistress taking some 
sort of retribution against Rose? Had she realized 
that all the whores were involved? She knew it 
wasn’t just Rose, from what she had said. 
She couldn’t punish all of them. The women 
would be well enough, Arlian was sure. 
After all, they knew how to deceive. They had 
taught him, and here he was, safe in an inn, playing 
the lord. 
They had had him practice, play-acting various 
roles he might need if he wanted to move freely in 
Manfort and find ways to confront Lord Dragon. 
Here he had left the brothel less than an hour ago, 
his heart was still beating fast from the exertion of 
his escape, and he was already putting those lessons 
to good use. 
Fate was being kind to him—or perhaps merely 
playing with him; after all, where was the 
generosity in allowing his discovery mere hours

before his intended departure? Might he be on his 
way to some delightfully ironic catastrophe? 
He sat holding the flagon, sipping at the last of 
the ale, smiling to himself at his own foolishness. 
No one could know what Fate had in store, but the 
last few months had certainly been interesting, and 
he was not dissatisfied with where he was now. 
He finished the ale and made a face. 
He had never drunk ale before; it was odd stuff, 
strong-flavored, cool and burning at the same time. 
He wasn’t sure whether he liked it. In the mine he 
had drunk only water; in the brothel he had drunk a 
variety of beverages, including juices and watered 
wine, but never any sort of beer or ale. Mistress had 
considered it inappropriate for her charges. 
He would have to get used to ale, though; every 
young man of good fortune was expected to drink it 
in large quantities. He would also have to learn to 
tell good ale from bad; he hoped the innkeeper 
hadn’t expected any comment on what Arlian had 
just drunk. 
There were so many things he still needed to 
learn! His education so far had been, to say the 
least, unorthodox, and he was painfully aware that 
while he knew far more about the uses of pickaxes 
and cosmetics than most men, he was woefully 
ignorant of ordinary things. Ale was just one trivial 
example. 
Well, he would have plenty of time—especially if 
his grandfather’s stories were true, and dragon 
venom mixed in human blood extended life. 
That was a strange prospect, and one he had 
sometimes faced with dread, on those rare 
occasions he thought of it at all—the idea of living a 
century or more in the mine or as a fugitive had 
held very little appeal. 
Now, though, his life seemed to hold some 
promise— thanks to the finery and the training in 
deception that the girls had provided, he was now

giving orders instead of taking them. He put down 
the empty flagon and called, “Innkeeper! Where’s 
that bed?” 
The innkeeper showed him the way upstairs. 
Arlian’s room was small, tucked up under a gable 
on the third floor, but that hardly troubled him; it 
was equipped with niceties that he had done 
without since childhood, such as a window and a 
real floor. The bed was small and hard, the sheets 
rough—but Arlian really didn’t care, and settled 
into it blissfully. 
He slept late, and took his time in dressing—not 
because he had many choices to make, but simply 
because he wanted to do it well. He had three pairs 
of breeches and four assorted shirts to his name, 
counting those sorry specimens he had been 
wearing when he first arrived at the House of 
Carnal Society, but the night’s adventures had 
ruined one blouse and left one pair of breeches 
sadly in need of cleaning and repair, reducing his 
circumstances farther. He had no mirror, and the 
room did not include one, so he had done the best 
he could with his face and hair using the 
windowglass—fortunately, he did have some of 
Sweet’s castoffs, including a sparsely toothed comb 
and a thinning boar-bristle hairbrush. 
And he had two pairs of hose and his velvet 
slippers. It was a pleasure to slip them on—but one 
of his first purchases would have to be a pair of 
boots. 
He had a fine coat with silk facing, as well, one 
that Sweet had labored long and hard over, but he 
was not going to wear that recklessly; it was too 
precious to risk in everyday use. When the need 
arose, though, he would be able to look every inch a 
lord. 
By the time he was satisfied with his appearance 
the morning was well advanced, and most of the 
inn’s other guests already departed; Arlian had to 
make do with cold pastries for breakfast. He was

finishing his third and brushing the crumbs from 
his lap, vaguely aware of the innkeeper talking to 
someone in the hallway, when the door of the 
common room burst open and Mistress marched in. 
Arlian looked up, and struggled to hide any trace 
of recognition—although he had seen her through 
veils and peepholes several times, she had never 
before set her eyes on him, not even during last 
night’s flight. 
He wanted to ask her what had happened, 
whether Rose and Sweet and Hasty were all safe, 
but he knew he mustn’t. He said nothing at all. 
She glared around the room, and then at him. 
“Who are you?” she demanded. 
He blinked at her with exaggerated nonchalance. 
“Are you addressing me?” he asked. 
“Yes!” 
“Then I will thank you to do it politely,” he said 
coldly. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, 
fighting not to tremble. He felt cold just seeing her 
like this, with no concealment, nothing but his wits 
to protect him. 
She bit her lip, still glaring; he could see her 
forcing herself to hide her anger. He wondered 
whether she had slept at all since yesterday. 
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Could you tell me 
please who you are?” 
He flung the napkin on the table and stood up. . 
“My name is Lanair,” he said. “My family’s 
holdings are in orchards between Deep Delving and 
the Smoking Mountain, and I employ some eleven 
freemen in my own name, so I trust you will address 
me accordingly. Now, who are you?” 
“I am Madam Ril, of the House of Carnal 
Society,” she replied, only belatedly adding, “my 
lord.” Arlian nodded an acknowledgment, and she 
continued, “You are the man who arrived here late

last night, after the inn had closed?” 
“I am,” Arlian replied. 
“I understand you saw a man running in the 
street last night.” 
“I did,” Arlian acknowledged. 
“Lord Lanair, it is absolutely essential that this 
man be found,” Madam Ril said. “Can you tell me 
anything that might help?” 
“I gave a description to a guardsman last night,” 
he said. “I have nothing to add to that. Why is it of 
such importance?” 
Madam Ril—Mistress—was visibly struggling to 
control herself. 
“Because if we do not find who he was, and how 
he came to be there, the House will have to be 
destroyed,” she said. 
Arlian had to swallow hard before he could say, 
“Oh? Why?” He hoped she would think he was 
getting down the last of his meal, and not see how 
concerned he was. 
If the House was destroyed, what would become 
of the women? Rose’s phrase “dog food” echoed in 
his memory, and Bloody Hand’s statement that 
there was no justice in this world. 
“Because my clients expect safety and privacy in 
their visits there,” Ril replied. “If we cannot 
guarantee that, if there might be spies or assassins 
lurking… you understand, our clients are peculiarly 
vulnerable. We cater to the wealthy, the powerful…” 
“I know,” Arlian said. “I believe my cousin Inthior 
has patronized your establishment.” 
She nodded at the name. “Yes, then you must 
surely see—these are men with enemies. If I cannot 
assure their safety, I cannot operate.” 
“Indeed,” Arlian acknowledged. “Well, that’s 
most unfortunate, I suppose, but it’s hardly my 
concern. I told that guardsman everything I had to

tell.” 
“A nosebleed, you said.” 
“Yes.” 
“We found no blood.” 
Arlian remembered the long scratch on one calf 
that he’d received plunging through Sparkle’s 
ceiling and frowned. He had invented the nosebleed 
because he thought he’d left blood spots here and 
there, but apparently he had not. “I suppose he 
managed to catch it all on his shirt,” he said. 
“Really, I have no idea of any details; I merely 
caught a glimpse. He certainly appeared to have 
blood on his beard and running from his nose.” 
“Did you see what he wore on his feet?” 
“I’m afraid not. I was more concerned with my 
own just then; I lost my horse last night, you know, 
and my boots with him.” 
“I’m sorry to hear it, my lord. Your sword, as 
well? The guardsman said you did not have it with 
you.” 
“Yes,” Arlian said, realizing for the first time that 
that was a serious flaw in his disguise. A real lord 
would not travel abroad unarmed. The lords he had 
seen at the House of Carnal Society had left their 
weapons downstairs, of course, but undoubtedly 
they had all carried swords when walking the 
streets. He had sometimes risked a glance out a 
window at the streets, and seen as much. The lack 
of a sword at the breakfast table was unremarkable, 
but arriving at the inn without one… 
Well, his runaway horse was enough explanation 
for the moment. He should have mentioned it 
sooner, though, before it was questioned. 
“You can think of nothing more that might aid us 
in finding this man?” Mistress asked. 
Arlian shook his head. “Nothing at all,” he said. 
“I trust you will be able to apprehend him without 
my assistance.”

“I hope so,” Ril said. “I very much hope so.” 
She stared blankly at him for a moment, and he 
realized that the discussion was over; he turned 
away, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, and 
headed for the stairs. 
As he mounted the steps he frowned and mulled 
over just what he should do next. He had intended 
to head for Manfort and look for work after he left 
the brothel, but he had not expected to be a 
fugitive, or to be concerned about the welfare of 
Sweet and the others. 
His fugitive status seemed more urgent; surely 
nothing irrevocable would be done about the 
women until the escaped trespasser was found. His 
disguise seemed to be working reasonably well, but 
sooner or later someone might realize that his 
arrival, sans swords and boots, at the very same 
time the trespasser escaped was just a little too 
coincidental. 
Madame Ril might already be suspicious. 
Furthermore, now he was known here as Lord 
Lanair— what if he were to reach Manfort seeking 
employment, and be recognized as Lanair? Would 
he need to maintain this identity for the rest of his 
life? He didn’t mind the name, certainly—after 
months of answering to “Triv” he could scarcely 
object to a respectable name like Lanair—but 
sooner or later someone might turn up who knew 
that no such person as Lord Lanair had lived 
between Deep Delving and the Smoking Mountain. 
He might do better to go somewhere else for a 
while. 
Or perhaps he should go back to the brothel and 
try to rescue Rose and Sweet. Surely, none of his 
pursuers would expect that! 
He continued to think about it as he packed up 
his belongings and cinched tight the canvas bundle. 
By the time he had settled his bill the sun was 
almost directly overhead. He blinked at the

brightness as he opened the inn’s front door; his 
eyes were still more accustomed to darkness than to 
daylight. He squinted as he looked either way along 
the street. 
Then he stopped and stared. 
A crowd had gathered around the House of 
Carnal Society. Coaches stood at the brothel’s two 
doors and along the wall between them—perhaps 
half a dozen vehicles in all, each of them large and 
splendid. Arlian had never before seen so many 
coaches in one place. 
From what he could see of the gawkers around 
them, neither had anyone else in Westguard. 
He had still intended to head east, toward either 
Manfort or the Blood of the Grape, but now instead 
he strolled up the street, as casually as he could, to 
see what the excitement was about. 
As he approached he could hear voices arguing, 
loud, angry voices, both male and female. He could 
also see things being carried out of the brothel and 
loaded into the coaches, boxes and bundles of 
various shapes and sizes, and with a shock he 
realized that some of those bundles were the women 
who had lived there, wrapped in blankets. A few 
struggled and protested; most did not. 
A driver shouted a command, and one of the 
coaches pulled away, the horses straining—they 
looked tired, and Arlian wondered where they had 
come from. Had they pulled that coach all the way 
from Manfort just that morning? 
The coach came toward him, gathering speed, 
and he stepped out of its path. As it went by he 
glimpsed Hasty and another woman through the 
windows—the other might have been Kitten, but he 
couldn’t be sure. The passengers also included a 
well-dressed man and one of the brothel guards. 
The House of Carnal Society was being closed 
down, just as Mistress had said—and so quickly! 
Arlian had had no idea it would happen so fast.

At least the women were being taken away 
unhurt— though he worried about where they were 
being taken. 
Another coach pulled away but turned down 
another street, where Arlian could not see who it 
carried. 
He reached the edge of the crowd and tried to 
push his way forward—but the crowd pushed back, 
as two more coaches began rolling. 
A tall man was standing in the open door of one 
of the two remaining vehicles, facing the brothel’s 
open door— Arlian could see his back, but could 
make out no details. Mistress stood beside the door, 
shouting at him, pleading and threatening—Arlian 
could not make out her exact words, but the tone 
was plain enough. 
A fifth coach pulled away, leaving only the one 
where the tall man stood, and Arlian found himself 
abruptly pushed forward, closer to the scene at the 
brothel door. He could see two women in the 
remaining coach—Sweet and Dove, both sitting in 
terrified silence, huddled against the rear of the 
compartment. Arlian took an involuntary step 
forward at the sight of Sweet, then caught himself. 
No guard sat in that coach, but the driver was in 
place, reins and whip ready in his hands. Arlian 
dared not approach too closely. 
Sweet and Dove were alive and well, even if they 
were scared; he had no need to risk his own life in 
an attempt to intervene in whatever was happening. 
Two guardsmen appeared in the doorway—one 
wore the uniform of the brothel’s guards, while the 
other was in Westguard’s livery. They said 
something Arlian couldn’t catch, and the man in 
the coach ordered clearly, “Burn it.” 
The two hesitated, and Mistress screamed in 
protest. 
The man in the coach drew a long, slim sword

and repeated his order, steel blade naked in his 
hand. “Burn it, I said!” 
The two guards bowed a hasty acknowledgment 
and ducked back inside. 
Six coaches, Arlian saw, and in each one he had 
seen clearly there had been two women and one 
guard, as well as the driver and the coach’s owner. 
That accounted for twelve of the sixteen whores, 
and all the six guards. 
Where were the other four women? 
Why had the guards hesitated? 
“Oh, gods,” Arlian said, suddenly panicking. 
“Don’t let it be true!” He pushed forward 
desperately, trying to shove his way through the 
crowd. 
He had seen a few great injustices in his life, and 
he had loathed them, suffered from them; he could 
not stand idly by as another was perpetrated. He 
could not quietly allow four women to be burned to 
death because he had been sheltered among them. 
There must be some way he could prevent it. 
“Please, my lord!” Mistress shrieked, stepping 
toward the man in the coach, arms raised in 
supplication—even in his distress, a part of Arlian’s 
mind marveled at the sight of the dreaded Mistress 
so terrified. 
“Madam Ril,” the man in the coach roared back, 
“You were responsible for this. You failed in your 
trust.” 
The sword flashed, and for a moment the world 
froze. Arlian could not believe what he was seeing. 
Then time started again as Madam Ril crumpled 
to the ground, blood spurting from her throat; 
gasps and screams came from the crowd. The 
swordsman wiped his blade on a handkerchief and 
sheathed it just as the guards reemerged from the 
brothel door at a trot. 
“Get in,” the swordsman told the brothel guard,

as he himself bent and sank back into the coach, 
settling on one of the seats. Now, for the first time, 
Arlian could see the man’s face. 
The coach rocked as the guard climbed aboard 
and slammed the door, but Arlian saw that face 
clearly—that beardless face with the scarred right 
cheek, as if something had once gouged pieces 
away… 
“Lord Dragon!” Arlian called, without meaning 
to—the cry had been startled out of him by the 
shock of recognition just as Lord Dragon rapped on 
the coach’s ceiling and the driver shook out the 
reins. 
No one had heard, so far as he could see. 
Arlian struggled against the crowd—people were 
backing away in fear and confusion as Madam Ril 
lay motionless and bleeding on the street and wisps 
of smoke began to trickle from the brothel doorway. 
The coach started moving, and Arlian stared, 
torn. 
He had to stop the coach and get at Lord Dragon, 
he had to rescue Sweet and Dove, he had to avenge 
his family and all the other innocents, and even 
Madam Ril—monster though she was, how could 
Lord Dragon cut her down in broad daylight, before 
a hundred witnesses, and expect to get away with 
it?
But he had to get into the brothel, he had to find 
the other women. 
By the time he fought free of the crowd’s press 
the coach was fifty yards away and picking up 
speed, and smoke was bleeding from the brothel in 
a dozen places. The town guard who had helped 
start the fire was standing in the doorway, his short 
sword drawn. 
Arlian hurried up to him and then stopped dead 
as the guardsman raised his ugly blade. 
“Where do you think you’re going, my lord?” he

demanded. 
“I… I thought there might be someone still 
inside,” he said. “I thought I heard voices.” 
“You didn’t hear voices, my lord, and we’ll have 
no looting here. You did hear the owner ordered it 
burned.” 
“But really, I thought… you’re sure there’s no one 
inside?” 
“No one alive,” the guard replied. “There are four 
dead slaves, with their throats cut, just like this 
one.” He gestured at Madam Ril. 
“Oh,” Arlian said, stepping back. 
The coach was too far away to catch now—and if 
he had caught it, what would he do? He was alone 
and unarmed, and Lord Dragon and the guard had 
swords and clearly weren’t afraid to use them. 
Sweet and Dove might help, but… 
No, it was hopeless. 
But there would come another time, he swore to 
himself—he and Lord Dragon would meet a third 
time, and Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes. 
For now, though—could the guard be sure the 
other four women were dead? 
“Excuse me,” Arlian said, pushing his way back 
out through the crowd. 
A few minutes later he had slipped into the 
stableyard, just as he had months before. 
This time, though, smoke was billowing from the 
eaves and the windows were blackened, showing 
occasional flickers of bright orange where the glass 
was not yet completely obscured. Arlian dropped 
his bundle, then found a cast-off horseshoe and 
heaved it at a window. 
The glass shattered and flame puffed out. 
Arlian broke another, and this time only a swirl 
of thin gray smoke emerged; he positioned the 
barrel beneath that one, ran, and jumped. A

moment later he was inside, holding his blouse over 
his mouth as he struggled to see through the smoke. 
The room he had entered had been partially 
stripped— bedcurtains gone, furniture overturned. 
Smoke was a thick haze, but no flames were visible. 
The corridor beyond was like a glimpse into the 
crater— smoke rolling across the ceiling, flames 
licking the walls and spilling under the doors, 
horribly reminiscent of the scene in the pantry of 
his childhood home as the dragons burned 
Obsidian. Pushing the memories aside and 
crouching to stay below the smoke, Arlian hurried 
to check each bedroom. 
He found the first corpse in the second room he 
checked—Silk, one of the oldest of the women. Her 
throat had been slit from ear to ear, and she lay in a 
dried circle of her own blackened blood. 
The third room was empty, and he could go no 
farther down the passage; the rest of the second 
floor was awash in flame. He turned and made a 
quick dash up the stairs to the third, where he 
found one more body. 
Rose lay across her bed, naked head flung back, 
hair dragging on the floor, blood still trickling down 
her chin. 
And the smoke and flame were thickening 
rapidly; he fled down the stairs and escaped, 
climbing back out the window and dropping to the 
barrelhead. The other two were surely beyond hope, 
as well. 
Coughing and weeping, he jumped to the ground, 
found his bundle and stumbled away, bound for the 
Blood of the Grape. 
15

At the Caravansary 
Arlian frowned as he looked down at himself. He 
had put on his fine silk-faced coat, as the day had 
turned chilly, and that looked as elegant as he 
might ask, but underneath the coat his blouse was 
soaked in sweat and streaked with smoke, and his 
breeches were no better. His new slippers were 
scuffed. The canvas wrapping on his bundle of 
possessions, which he had not taken into the 
burning building, was cleaner than most of his 
garments, despite having been smeared with mud 
when he first fled. 
He needed to take better care of his clothes, 
obviously. 
He also needed to get more of them. This 
whorehouse finery was all very well, but not really 
suited to an active life, and he seemed destined to 
lead an active life. 
He really did need to find employment—or some 
other source of money. He wished that amethysts 
really were precious—months ago he had shown 
one of his larger ones to Sparkle, the brothel’s 
resident self-taught expert on gemstones, who had 
declared it lovely but worthless. 
At least in the Lands of Man; in distant, possibly 
mythical Arithei, who could say? 
Lord Kuruvan’s gold, on the other hand, would be 
good anywhere, and Arlian no longer had any 
compunctions about taking it. Lord Kuruvan had 
been one of the owners of the House of Carnal 
Society; that undoubtedly meant he had been in one 
those coaches, and had carried away two of the 
women… 
But not Rose. He had left Rose lying there with 
her throat cut. 
Perhaps he had had her killed because he had

told her where his money was hidden; perhaps he 
had simply tired of her, or liked the other two 
better. 
Or perhaps Rose had been killed because she had 
hidden Arlian in the attic above her room, and 
Kuruvan had had no say in it. 
It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, Rose was 
dead, and Lord Kuruvan was an accomplice in her 
murder. 
Arlian intended to collect a blood-price, if he 
could—if Lord Kuruvan had not thought better of 
his hiding place and moved the money elsewhere. 
Taking that money would be a start on avenging 
Rose. 
And there were a dozen women to be rescued, as 
well— Sweet among them. Arlian was determined to 
find and free them all—someday. He had no idea 
where they had been taken; the coaches had left no 
trails he could see. They were still alive somewhere, 
though, most probably in Manfort, and in time he 
would find them and rescue them. The thought of 
Sweet in Lord Dragon’s possession, forced to obey 
his every whim, haunted Arlian; somehow the idea 
of a single master abusing her was even worse than 
the casual mistreatment she had received from so 
many in Westguard. 
Kuruvan’s gold might be enough to buy the 
women free. If possible, Arlian promised himself, he 
would do that, and see them all safe, before he 
pursued his revenge. 
He would have revenge, though. 
The dragons that had destroyed Obsidian needed 
to be punished, but they had been acting within 
their own nature; looting the ruins was simple 
greed, and understandable, if reprehensible; but 
Lord Dragon, Lord Kuruvan, and the others had 
killed those five women and destroyed the House of 
Carnal Society on little more than a whim, so far as 
Arlian could see. Such callousness was beyond his

comprehension, and he could not permit it to go 
unchallenged. The mere thought of it set him 
trembling. Anything he could do to avenge that 
crime, anything, he would do. 
Stealing Lord Kuruvan’s gold, and perhaps using 
it to buy the women if he could find them, was all 
he could see a way to accomplish as yet, but he 
swore the day would come when he would do more, 
when he would see each of those six lords suffer for 
their evil. 
If Lord Kuruvan’s gold financed that revenge, so 
much the better. Arlian just wished he had some 
clearer notion of how that revenge might be 
brought about. As he neared Manfort he grew ever 
more aware of the size of the place, and the 
difficulties he might face in locating and destroying 
his enemies there; he seemed to see guardsmen 
everywhere as he drew closer to the city, and was 
uncomfortably aware that even in his deteriorating 
disguise as a lord he was still unarmed and 
untrained, with nothing to support him but his own 
wits and the guidance the women of the House of 
Carnal Society had given him. 
That hardly seemed enough. 
He looked up again as he rounded a bend in the 
road. Manfort was an immense presence ahead of 
him now—it was built on a hill, and he could see 
walls within walls rising up the slopes, a maze of 
buildings and fortifications, towers thrusting up 
here and there. A thousand plumes of smoke trailed 
up into the blue springtime sky, and he could make 
out, directly ahead of him but still a mile or two 
away, the tops of the great gray gates. 
Closer at hand, though, was a square, a place 
where the road widened into a broad plaza paved 
with stone—and that plaza was crowded with a 
variety of wagons, men, women, and oxen. A babble 
of voices reached him. 
He frowned. Who were all these people? What

was this place? 
Then between two of the taller wagons he caught 
sight of a sign at one side of the square—a board on 
which two crudely sketched green leaves, a black 
line for a stem, and a score of overlapping red 
circles represented a bunch of grapes, with red 
drops dripping from them. 
The Blood of the Grape. This was the inn where 
Rose had said Lord Kuruvan hid his gold. The 
wagons and oxen were presumably owned by 
patrons of the inn. 
Arlian tucked his bundle securely under one arm, 
raised his head, and marched forward. 
The crowd seethed around him; surely it couldn’t 
always be like this here! Something special must be 
going on. He tried to catch the words of those he 
passed. 
A driver was telling a woman to make sure their 
daughter stayed clear of certain individuals; two 
men lifting boxes from one open wagon to another 
were complaining about the weight of their 
burdens. 
Here was a man in a black leather tunic seated in 
the driver’s place on one of the simplest of the 
closed-in wagons, talking to a guardsman who 
stood by the wheel; Arlian slowed his pace and 
strained to hear. 
“… no, really! Do you want to spend the rest of 
your life rousting pickpockets and helping 
drunkards home and never get farther than 
Southwark or Westguard?” 
“Well, if I spend my life that way it’s likely to be a 
good bit longer than yours,” the guardsman 
retorted. “Sooner or later you’ll get a bandit’s arrow 
in the neck, or bad water in your gut, or some 
ghastly foreign disease in your heart, and I’ll be safe 
at home by my own hearth while you cough out 
your life in some stinking desert.”

“Oh, I won’t deny there are a few hazards on the 
road,” the man in the wagon said, “but how many of 
your comrades have gotten a knife in the back while 
breaking up a brawl? Life’s a risk anywhere, man! 
Your own wife might go mad and slit your throat 
while you sleep.” 
The guardsman snorted. “You’ll have to find your 
men somewhere else,” he said. “I’m not going 
anywhere.” 
“So I see,” the man on the wagon said. “Well, if 
you know anyone with a soul more adventurous 
than your own, send them to me—I’ll feel better 
with a few more blades along.” 
Arlian stopped dead and listened as the two men 
said farewells, and the guardsman ambled away. 
This leather-clad person, whoever he was, was 
hiring men. Arlian might well need an income; he 
couldn’t be sure Kuruvan’s gold was still there. He 
hesitated, then turned and stepped up to the side of 
the wagon. 
“Excuse me,” he said. 
The man in black leather had been scanning the 
crowd, but now he turned around and looked Arlian 
in the eye. “Yes?” he said. 
Arlian frowned, trying to phrase his question; the 
man in black leather mistook the reason for the 
frown and added, in a tone a real lord might have 
considered insolent, “My lord.” 
Arlian heard the insolence, but he was hardly 
about to quarrel with it; he was no lord, not really, 
and this man was not someone he cared to 
antagonize. The eyes gazing at him were a cold 
gray-blue, set in a weathered, scarred face between 
hair pulled back in a tight knot and a beard 
trimmed unfashionably short. One of the man’s 
hands rested on the hilt of a sword that lay on the 
seat beside him; the other gripped the hilt of a 
dagger sheathed on his belt. The fellow appeared 
ready for anything—but those cold eyes were

somehow not hostile; he was looking at Arlian with 
fair consideration. The youth had the impression 
that this was a man who really saw what he looked 
at and listened to what he heard, rather than 
perceiving what he expected to see and hear. 
“I couldn’t help overhearing part of what you said 
to that guardsman,” Arlian said. 
“My sympathies on your inability,” the man said, 
raising one corner of his mouth sardonically. “I 
sometimes think the gods erred in not providing a 
means to close our ears, as we close our eyes.” 
Arlian managed a weak smile in return. “Am I 
correct in believing you are hiring men?” 
The grip on the dagger-hilt loosened visibly. 
“Not precisely,” the man said. “I am aware of 
someone who is, however.” 
“Ah,” Arlian said. “And who would that be? I’d be 
grateful for whatever you might tell me of this 
matter.” 
“Would you, indeed, my lord?” 
Arlian nodded. “I’m a stranger here,” he said. 
The man in black considered Arlian for a 
moment. “It is my understanding,” he said at last, 
“that the caravan master has budgeted for a dozen 
guards for this trip, and as yet has hired only eight, 
myself included. For my part, I don’t think a dozen 
any more than adequate and I’d be glad if he found 
more.” 
At the word “caravan” understanding dawned 
upon Arlian; the confusion around him suddenly 
made sense, and old childhood dreams burst into 
renewed life. He remembered Grandsir’s tales of 
travel, and his own desire to emulate the old man. 
“A caravan!” he said. “Of course. And where does 
it go? What goods does it bear?” 
“We go east, to the port city of Lorigol,” the man 
said. “As for what we carry, we carry whatever the

investors choose to send—but I’d assume you’ll find 
bolts of cloth, jars of herbs, and the like in these 
wagons.” He took his hand off his dagger and waved 
in a gesture that took in most of the plaza. 
Arlian nodded. “And you need more guards?” 
“I’d say so,” the man said dryly. 
“And…well…” Arlian wasn’t sure what to ask 
next, and the guard took pity on him. 
“You’re thinking of signing on, then? Seeking 
adventure in the wide world?” 
“Yes, exactly!” Arlian said, smiling. He had 
intended to go on into Manfort in pursuit of his 
vengeance and Sweet’s rescue, but now he suddenly 
found himself with an attractive alternative. He was 
still determined to free the surviving whores, still 
determined to find some way to strike at the 
dragons that had destroyed Obsidian, but he was 
young, he had time, and the world was large and he 
had seen so little of it. From his mountainside 
village he had seen the land spread out before him, 
but most of what he had seen since had been stone 
walls or a stuffy attic. To get away from his past for 
a time, to breathe fresh air and see new lands… that 
would be good for him, he knew it. 
And he would make some money, learn more of 
life as a free man, give himself more of a grounding 
before he flung himself at his foes in his pursuit of 
vengeance. 
Of course, it meant that the women would 
remain in captivity somewhat longer—but he had 
no way to find them, nor means to free them, in any 
event. Perhaps a few weeks with a caravan would 
give him time to plan and prepare. 
“You’d be willing to serve as a mere guard?” the 
man in black asked, interrupting Arlian’s thoughts. 
“It’s hardly suitable work for a lord.” 
“My holdings are greatly diminished,” Arlian 
improvised. “I must take what I can find.”

“Can you fight?” 
“I can learn,” Arlian replied promptly. 
“Have you your sword? We leave tomorrow at 
dawn, or as close as we can manage with this many 
wagons—there’s no time to fetch your 
great-grandfather’s blade from the family vaults in 
Blackwater, or wherever it might be.” 
“I have no sword,” Arlian admitted. 
“Ah. Then you aren’t fully a lord yet?” 
“No.” Arlian could scarcely argue with that. His 
disguise, as he had feared, had a fatal flaw. 
“Have you any armor, perhaps?” 
“No,” Arlian said, seeing his dreams fleeing back 
into childhood fantasy. “Not so much as a 
penknife.” 
The man did not dismiss him, as Arlian had 
expected; instead he stared at Arlian with those 
intense blue eyes for a moment. “Could you use a 
sword if you had one?” he asked. 
Perhaps there was hope after all. “I could learn,” 
Arlian insisted. 
“My lord,” the man said, “If you want to learn 
swordsmanship, there are schools and 
tutors—signing on as a caravan guard is not the 
easiest way. Hasn’t your father offered to have you 
taught?” 
“My father is long dead,” Arlian said. 
“He left you no sword?” 
Arlian shook his head. “It’s lost.” 
“And your mother?” 
“Dead as well—and my brother with her.” That 
much was true—and if the man assumed that the 
family’s sword had been lost in the same 
catastrophe, Arlian would not disabuse him of the 
idea. 
“And the family business?”

“Gone as well.” 
“I begin to understand,” the man in black said. 
“Nothing left but your pride, eh, my lord?” The 
mockery that had been in his voice whenever he 
spoke the title before had been replaced by pity. 
“A little more than that,” Arlian said defensively, 
remembering Kuruvan’s cache. “I believe I can buy 
a sword and armor—and pay you to teach me their 
use.” 
“What makes you think I know enough to teach 
anyone?” 
“You didn’t get those scars on your face from a 
woman’s fingernails,” Arlian said. 
The man in black laughed. “No, those scars are 
on my back,” he agreed. 
“And I heard what you told that townsman,” 
Arlian continued. “If you have so little fear of 
bandits, then you must have confidence in your own 
skill, and you don’t look like someone easily 
deluded, even by himself.” 
The man nodded. “How much can you pay?” 
Arlian hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. The 
truth was he wasn’t entirely sure the money was 
there at all, or how he could get his hands on it if it 
was—the innkeeper was not simply going to let a 
stranger carry a keg out of the cellars, no questions 
asked. “I still need to settle a few accounts. You’ll be 
here until tomorrow’s dawn?” That would give him 
one night to get what he needed. 
The guard nodded. “But the caravan master may 
hire all the men he needs before that,” he warned. 
“In fact, I hope he does—I hate traveling with 
overconfident fools and insufficient defense.” 
Arlian’s expression turned woeful, and the man 
in black smiled. 
“There will be other caravans,” he said. “They 
gather here every so often. Perhaps instead of 
accompanying me to Lorigol you’ll find some other

teacher bound southward to the Borderlands, or 
west to the mountain tribes. Go get your sword and 
armor, and…” 
He stopped in midsentence and considered 
Arlian thoughtfully. 
“Do you know how to choose a sword?” he asked. 
“Or armor?” 
Arlian shook his head. “I was only eleven when 
my father died,” he said. 
“But you’ve lasted this long without him.” 
Arlian shrugged. 
The man in black studied him. Then he looked 
around the plaza. Finally his gaze returned to 
Arlian. 
“Do you have the money with you? Enough for a 
sword?” 
“No,” Arlian admitted. “But I should have it by 
some time tonight.” 
The man snorted, and gestured at the western 
sky, where the sun was much nearer the horizon 
that the zenith. “I can hardly hope to see you 
equipped by dawn if you don’t have the funds until 
tonight! But I don’t know that I like this caravan 
master that much in any case; he should have had 
his full complement of guards by now, and I 
shouldn’t have to do his recruiting. I’ll tell you what, 
my would-be lord—if this caravan doesn’t have 
twelve good men signed on by morning, I’ll stay 
here and take your money and see you properly 
fitted out, and we’ll join the next one that comes 
along, if it’s headed somewhere worth going. Would 
that suit you?” 
“I believe it would,” Arlian said cautiously. 
Indeed, it might prove ideal. If the next caravan 
did not depart until some days had passed, he 
might have time to learn some basic 
swordsmanship from this man, he might be able to 
rescue the women, and then carry them all away

with him when the caravan departed. 
He didn’t want to commit himself too completely, 
though; he might not be able to get the money at 
all, and he did not want to be responsible for 
costing this man his employment. 
The guard seemed confident that he could find 
another job readily enough, though, and Arlian 
didn’t doubt it was true; certainly, had Arlian been 
hiring guards, this man appeared formidable and 
experienced enough. 
“Well, then,” the man in black said. “Go and 
settle your accounts, and I’ll see you in the 
morning.” 
“And what name shall I give when I look for you?” 
Arlian asked. 
The guard smiled. “They call me Black,” he said, 
hooking a thumb under his leather tunic and 
displaying it. “And you?” 
“Lanair,” Arlian said—he thought that alias was 
still safe enough. 
“Then perhaps I’ll see you in the morning, Lord 
Lanair,” Black said. “Or perhaps not—I may be gone 
by the time you rise, if all goes well. Or you may be 
gone, if those accounts you wish to settle aren’t 
cooperative, eh?” 
Arlian managed a nervous laugh. “The morning, 
then,” he said. He essayed a quick bow, then turned 
and made his way through the crowd toward the 
inn. 
16 
The Blood of the Grape

The interior of the Blood of the Grape was as 
crowded as the plaza. Harried boys and women 
were carrying trays back and forth through the 
throng in the common room; every chair was 
occupied, and most had someone standing behind 
them, waiting for the present occupant to finish. 
Arlian had not anticipated anything like this 
when he heard Rose describe Lord Kuruvan’s hiding 
place; he had expected a quiet little inn like the 
Weary Traveler, not a vast and crowded 
caravansary. 
The caravan merchants would surely have made 
most of their preparations elsewhere—in Manfort, 
or on their estates, or in the surrounding towns. 
This was only a final gathering place for the wagons 
and travelers. 
The caravan’s personnel had certainly gathered, 
though, and they were obviously enjoying this 
chance to obtain food and drink in a civilized 
setting before venturing out into wilder lands. 
Although, Arlian realized, those lands might not 
be that much wilder; surely there were other inns, 
other caravansaries, on the roads to the east. The 
route to Lorigol could be peppered with such 
establishments, neatly spaced, each one day’s 
journey from the last—at least for part of the 
distance. If the entire route were safe, there would 
be no need to travel in caravans in the first place. 
Arlian knew little of geography beyond what he 
had been able to see from the Smoking Mountain, 
or what his grandfather had told him; he had no 
idea how far Lorigol was from Manfort, or what lay 
between, or where the ships that sailed from that 
port might trade. For the first time in his life that 
ignorance troubled him. He realized he didn’t have 
any very clear idea how long he would be gone if he 
signed onto a caravan. 
Those were all matters he could worry about 
later, he told himself; for now he needed to focus on

getting at Lord Kuruvan’s gold. He looked about, 
trying to think what he should do next. 
He had originally thought he would take a room 
at the inn—though that might have been difficult in 
any case, since his entire remaining fortune, after 
settling at the Weary Traveler, consisted of eight 
coppers and a tiny silver coin of uncertain 
value—and then sneak out of his room at night, find 
his way down into the cellars, and carry off the keg. 
If it was there. 
That was clearly not going to work; this place was 
full of people, and even if he could still somehow get 
a bed he was sure he wouldn’t get a room to 
himself. He doubted that he could move about the 
place, even in the middle of the night, without 
waking anyone. 
He found himself a corner in which to stand, 
dropped his bundle to the floor, and watched the 
crowds while he tried to puzzle out a plan. 
The steps were easy enough to spell out: He 
needed to get down into the cellars; he needed to 
find the keg; and he needed to get the gold out of 
the inn. 
He had intended to sneak down into the cellars 
by night, but it belatedly occurred to him that he 
might not have been able to do so in any case; the 
cellars were probably kept locked. If so, his original 
scheme wouldn’t have worked at all; he was vaguely 
aware that there were ways to open locks without 
the appropriate keys, but he certainly didn’t know 
any of them. 
That might complicate matters. 
At present he didn’t even know where the cellar 
door was, but that would be easy enough to 
remedy—he could just follow one of the servers. 
Once in the cellars, finding the keg should be 
fairly easy—how many kegs marked “sour wine” 
would there be? But getting it out through a crowd 
like this would not be so simple. He could not

possibly hope to get it out unseen. 
For a moment he considered ways he might 
simply carry it out openly—could he claim to be 
Lord Kuruvan’s representative, come to fetch it? 
No. The innkeeper would surely demand at least 
a letter from Kuruvan, and there might well be a 
prearranged password, or some other means of 
verifying his right to the keg. 
Could he switch it with another keg, and claim 
that he was a merchant in the caravan and it was 
his own property? 
No, there would almost certainly be paperwork of 
some sort. He couldn’t expect to get away with that. 
Carrying a keg out openly wasn’t going to work; 
someone would want to know who he was and 
where he was going. It would take an incredibly 
audacious thief to simply walk in and carry a keg 
away, but it wasn’t impossible that it had been 
tried. He’d been successfully audacious, back in 
Westguard, but he couldn’t rely on it. 
Besides, how big was this keg? How far could he 
carry it? Where would he take it? Would the 
innkeeper notice that it was gone? 
Then a thought struck him. He didn’t really want 
the keg at all; he wanted what was in it. Suppose he 
were to knock the bottom in, take out the gold, and 
leave the empty keg where it was? A real keg of wine 
would make a mess, but gold wouldn’t leak out on 
the floor. 
He had no tools to stave it in, but there would 
probably be something down there to tap the 
barrels of ale, after all. 
He prodded his bundled belongings with one toe. 
He had only a tiny purse, one intended for a 
woman, that Sweet had given him; that would 
surely not be big enough for the booty he was after. 
He had no proper sack or chest, but he ought to be 
able to find something he could wrap the gold in

quickly. One of his shirts, perhaps. 
If he knotted the sleeves, then tied the collar 
shut—or just used the sleeves as sacks… 
That might work. He might not be able to fit all 
the gold at once, if the keg were actually full—but 
that hardly seemed likely. 
Then another, better thought struck him. He had 
another pair of stockings, in addition to those he 
wore. He could use those as sacks. They might not 
hold very much, but then he didn’t know how much 
was there. 
He just needed to get into the right part of the 
cellars, and to be left alone there for a moment or 
two. 
He considered the crowds, then knelt, opened his 
bundle, found the hosiery, and tucked it into the 
waistband of his breeches. Then he rolled his 
belongings back up and replaced the belts. 
The next step was to hire an accomplice. He 
stood again and scanned the crowd. Then he 
stepped back to the door and looked out at the 
plaza. 
He saw no promising candidates inside, but 
outside there were several children scattered about, 
in various attire. Some were helping load wagons, 
or running back and forth, but a few were merely 
standing and watching. 
Arlian made his way toward a group of 
these—three of them, two girls and a boy, the oldest 
no more than ten, all three of them wearing little 
more than rags. As he drew near one of the girls 
happened to glance in his direction, and he caught 
her eye and beckoned. 
She quickly slipped away from the others and 
came near him—but stopped out of reach and 
looked up at him warily. She was no more than 
eight, he judged, and woefully thin and dirty. 
“Good evening,” Arlian said cheerfully. “Would

you be interested in earning a little money?” He 
held out one of his coins. 
She nodded enthusiastically. 
Arlian knelt, bringing himself down to her level, 
as he fished two more coins and added them to the 
first. 
“In a few minutes,” he said quietly, holding out 
the coins, “I’m going to go into the inn. After I do, I 
want you to count as high as you can—can you 
count to a hundred?” 
She nodded again. 
“Good. Then count to a hundred, or even more if 
you like. Then go to the back door of the inn and 
find someone who works there, and tell him that a 
man named Lord Inthior wants to speak to the 
proprietor right now. He can’t leave his wagon so 
he hired you to send the message. Do you 
understand?” 
She nodded. 
“Can you do that? Can you remember that, and 
say it?” 
She nodded. 
“Let me hear you say it, then.” 
“Lord Inthior’s at his wagon and he wants to talk 
to the innkeeper right now, and he’s really mad 
about something!” she piped, in a high, clear voice. 
Arlian smiled. “Very good.” 
“And I count to a hundred first, or more, so you 
have time to get somewhere.” 
The girl was clearly not stupid or naive. “And 
when the proprietor comes out, you don’t see Lord 
Inthior anywhere, he must be gone.” 
“I guess he got tired of waiting,” she agreed. He 
handed her the three coins. “Do this, and you’ll have 
three more later tonight. Fair enough?” She 
nodded.

“And in case you’re thinking this might be too 
dangerous and you’d be better with just the three, 
here’s the best part,” Arlian said. “If anyone 
suspects anything and gets mad, you can tell the 
truth and say I paid you. I’m Lord Inthior’s cousin. 
I’m not going to steal anything; I just want to check 
something while the proprietor’s not looking.” 
She smiled broadly, obviously relieved—until then 
her expression had been utterly serious. “Oh, good,” 
she said. “Thank you, my lord; I’ll do what you 
said.” The three coins disappeared; Arlian didn’t 
see what she did with them. 
“Good,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I’m 
counting on you.” 
She nodded; he smiled at her, then turned away 
and headed for the inn. 
Once inside it took longer than he liked to find 
the proprietor of the Blood of the Grape; the staff 
was busy, and not sure just where their employer 
was at any given time. At last, though, he found 
himself face to face with a formidable old woman. 
“Lord Kuruvan sent me,” Arlian said. “You may 
have heard about a recent disturbance in 
Westguard?” 
“I might have,” the innkeeper agreed. 
“Well, there was a disturbance,” Arlian said. 
“And as a result of that incident, my uncle is 
concerned about his investments.” 
“Everything’s fine here,” the woman said. “It’s 
busy tonight because of the Lorigol expedition, but 
we’ve had no trouble. You can tell your uncle he’ll 
have his rent on time.” 
Arlian hid his surprise and quickly revised what 
he had planned to say; it had not occurred to him 
that Kuruvan might own the inn, but of course it 
made sense. What better place to leave his cache 
than on his own property? 
And that explained how Kuruvan could be sure

the innkeeper wouldn’t get curious and investigate 
what was really in the keg—Kuruvan had probably 
brought the keg here himself when the innkeeper 
wasn’t around, and as the owner he would have had 
free access to the cellars—or anywhere else. The 
innkeeper probably didn’t even know the keg was 
there, let alone what was in it. 
That should make Arlian’s job easier. 
“Of course,” he said. “He was never in any doubt 
of that. However, he asked me to look around and 
make certain that everything is in order.” 
The innkeeper—not actually the proprietor at all, 
Arlian now realized—frowned. “Look where? At the 
accounts?” 
“No, no—he wouldn’t trust me to do that. Just to 
see that everything here is as it should be. He asked 
me particularly to make sure that no one’s hiding in 
the cellars—I understand some scoundrel had 
concealed himself most cleverly in Westguard, and 
my uncle is concerned lest that be repeated here. If 
you would permit me to see the cellars for a 
moment, I can satisfy myself that his fears are 
groundless and be on my way.” 
“Hiding in the cellars?” She plainly thought the 
idea was ridiculous. 
Arlian shrugged. “This fellow reportedly hid in an 
attic for several days in Westguard.” 
The innkeeper looked him in the eye, then 
glanced over his clothing. 
“You’re Lord Kuruvan’s nephew?” 
“Well, yes,” Arlian said. “My name is Lanair.” 
“Do you have a letter, or other credentials?” 
Arlian shook his head. “No. But I’m not going to 
take anything, or look at the accounts; I just want 
to poke around the cellars enough to satisfy Lord 
Kuruvan.” 
She stared thoughtfully at him.

He sighed theatrically. “I know my appearance is 
a disgrace, and I should have a letter,” he said. “But 
I don’t. My uncle insisted I come here immediately, 
lest the villain escape.” 
“Well, come on, then,” she said. “I don’t have 
time to argue about it. You’ll have to leave that with 
one of my staff, though.” She pointed at his bundle. 
“Of course,” he agreed. 
When that was arranged, she led the way to the 
cellar door. They had to step aside as a serving 
wench emerged with a tray of brimming mugs of 
ale, but then the innkeeper led the way down worn 
stone steps into the cool, lamplit gloom. 
For a moment, as they reached the bottom and 
stepped onto stone pavement, Arlian felt an 
unreasoning rash of terror; the stone walls and 
lamplight were so reminiscent of the mines that on 
some level he felt himself flung back in time, 
trapped and enslaved again. Then he recovered and 
looked about with interest at the barrels that lined 
either side of a passage ahead. 
In addition to wall-mounted fixtures, a shelf 
mounted between two barrels held four brass lamps 
similar to those used in the mine, all lit; the 
innkeeper took one of them down and led the way 
along the passage between the two rows of barrels. 
“Beer and ale and cider on that side,” she said, 
waving to the left, where a dozen huge tapped 
barrels were racked side by side against a stone 
wall. “Then the ordinary red and white over here,” 
she continued, indicating the right, where nine or 
ten smaller barrels, only two of them tapped, 
formed a barrier separating the passage from the 
unlit remainder of the cellars. Two gaps in the row 
provided access to that dark space beyond. 
Arlian nodded as he maneuvered past a serving 
maid drawing ale from a barrel, noting that a tap, a 
corkscrew, a hammer, and a crowbar hung from 
hooks below the shelf of lamps, each tool on a

leather thong. He stooped to glance under the 
framework supporting the barrels, acting out his 
ruse of searching for a concealed fugitive. 
He had expected the innkeeper to turn to the 
right and take them through one of those gaps in 
the line of barrels, into the main part of the cellars, 
but she did not. At the end of the passage stood a 
heavy wooden door; the innkeeper marched directly 
up to it. She transferred the lamp to her left hand 
and fished a key from her pocket with the right to 
unlock it. 
“The superior wines,” she said as the door swung 
wide. 
The room beyond was unlit, perhaps fifteen feet 
square, with only the single entrance. All four walls 
were lined with wine racks, most of them full; some 
of the bottles were clean and new, others gray with 
dust and cobwebs, and others at every stage 
between. Wooden cases holding more bottles were 
stacked chest-high in the center of the room, 
leaving only a narrow walkway around the sides. 
“No one in here,” the innkeeper remarked. 
Arlian, still acting out his role, insisted on 
stepping inside and tapping on the walls and floor 
and several of the boxes; the innkeeper waited 
impatiently while he played out the charade. 
They emerged from the wine vault; Arlian waited 
while the innkeeper carefully locked it. Then they 
turned aside, stepping between the wine barrels 
and into a maze of side passages, past vegetable 
bins and root cellars. Servers continued to fetch 
wine and beer, providing a constant background of 
moving shadows and the sound of footsteps and 
splashing beverages. 
As the search continued Arlian began to wonder 
whether that little girl had decided to settle for just 
the three coins after all. He tried to steer toward the 
northeast corner, but felt compelled by his role to 
poke at the produce and tap walls at every

opportunity. 
Then a boy came stumbling down the stairs 
calling, “Madam Innkeeper!” 
Arlian waited politely, a few steps away, as the 
boy told her that Lord Inthior wanted to see her 
outside right now. 
The innkeeper glanced at Arlian unhappily. 
“I’ll just look around a little more,” he said. “I 
won’t disturb anything. And I’ll wait for your 
return.” 
“Very well,” the innkeeper agreed. She followed 
the boy up the stairs. 
There was a temporary break in the stream of 
barmaids; no one wanted to be in the innkeeper’s 
way as she climbed the stairs. Arlian took 
advantage of this and snatched the hammer and 
crowbar from the hooks; he tucked them under his 
shirt and held them with one hand while he lifted a 
lamp with the other and made his way quickly back 
through the line of wine barrels, and through the 
labyrinth of pillars, bins, barrels, and boxes to the 
northeast. 
At last he reached a dead end, with solid stone 
walls ahead of him to both the north and the east. 
This corner was among the darkest and dustiest 
he had yet discovered. Three kegs stood along the 
north wall, one stacked atop the others. 
The top keg was open, and held nails; Arlian 
lifted it off and set it aside. 
The others were sealed. One was unmarked; the 
other had faint lettering, drawn with charcoal. It 
was too dusty to read, but Arlian thought it could 
say “sour wine.” He tipped it, listening closely. 
Nothing sloshed, and the weight did not shift like 
liquid. He turned it over and attacked it with 
hammer and crowbar. His mining experience came 
in handy; he was able to knock in the end quickly.

He thrust in a hand, squeezing it between the 
broken lid and the side, and grabbed. Then he 
pulled it out into the lamplight. 
Gold coins glittered in his palm. 
He smiled, pulled the stockings from the 
waistband of his breeches, and began stuffing them. 
When the stockings were full he tucked a few 
more coins into his tiny purse, then returned the 
keg to its place, the open end on the bottom where 
it wouldn’t be noticed as readily. 
The keg was still mostly full; he wished he had 
some way to get the rest out, but could not think of 
any way to smuggle it past the innkeeper and her 
staff. 
All the same, once he had secured the full 
stockings he had several pounds of gold hidden 
under his shirt, and that would have to do. He 
hurried to replace the keg of nails, then to put the 
hammer and crowbar back where they belonged. 
He was waiting at the foot of the stairs when the 
innkeeper returned. 
“I took the liberty of investigating further while I 
waited,” he said. “I’d say my uncle’s fears are 
groundless, Madam. I congratulate you on the 
efficiency and good order of your cellars.” 
She stared doubtfully at him, then looked at the 
door to the wine vault—still securely closed, of 
course. 
“Would you by any chance have a bed available, 
or has this throng taken all of them?” Arlian asked. 
She laughed harshly. “Oh, all of them and more, 
my lord,” she said. “I could rent you a space on the 
floor, if you have bedding.” 
“I think not,” Arlian said. “Thank you all the 
same.” He mounted the steps, trying desperately to 
move just as he had when there was nothing 
beneath his shirt but himself. The coins were 
packed too tightly to jingle, but they might shift…

But they didn’t, and a few moments later he was 
back out on the plaza with his bundle under his 
arm; a few seconds in a relatively quiet corner had 
let him transfer the heavily loaded stockings to the 
bundle. 
He had money at last, real money, but all was not 
yet perfect. The sun was setting behind the rooftops 
to the west, and he still needed to find somewhere 
to sleep. 
17 
Black 
“Accounts settled, then, my lord?” the guard had 
asked him as Arlian had roamed aimlessly about 
the plaza, trying to think what he should do. 
“Why, yes,” Arlian had said. “Quite successfully.” 
“The caravan master’s yet to find another man 
who knows one end of a sword from the other,” 
Black said. “I think I may be able to help you with 
those purchases after all.” 
“Excellent!” Arlian had said. “Now, if only you 
could help me find a bed!” 
“Can you pay?” 
And it had been as simple as that. 
He was awakened not by Black, nor by 
preparations for the caravan’s departure, but by a 
rude shaking. He opened his eyes to find the little 
girl standing on the wagon’s step, looking down at 
him. The sky behind her was just turning pale in 
preparation for sunrise. 
“She says you owe her money,” Black said from 
the wagon’s door.

“Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed, as he blinked sleep 
from his eyes. “Three-tenths of a ducat, I believe.” 
She nodded silently. 
Arlian sat up and found his purse, and extracted 
the promised coppers. He was pleased to see gold 
coins glittering in the morning light, reminding 
him of the previous night’s adventure. 
On an impulse, he pulled out the smallest gold 
coin he could find and gave that to the girl as well. 
“Thank you,” he said. “Your timing was 
impeccable.” 
“And they didn’t even ask me anything when they 
couldn’t find Lord Inthior,” she said cheerfully. 
“They believed the whole thing.” 
“That’s just as well,” Arlian said. “It keeps 
matters simple.” He patted her shoulder, and 
watched as she climbed carefully out of the wagon 
and ran off. 
He wondered whether the innkeeper had really 
believed the story; it might be unwise to let her see 
him again this morning. 
“I take it your business went well last night,” 
Black remarked, watching her go. 
“Reasonably well,” Arlian agreed. 
“If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go see whether our friend 
the caravan master was equally fortunate.” 
“Of course,” Arlian said. He squeezed to the side 
so that Black could descend the step to the ground. 
Black locked the wagon’s door, then stepped past 
his guest and headed away. Arlian watched him go, 
curious as to just where the caravan master was. 
Black, however, almost immediately disappeared 
around the corner of another wagon. 
Arlian hesitated, unsure what he should do. He 
looked out across the plaza. 
Men and women were rising, going about the 
business of making their wagons ready; on all sides

oxen were being led into position and hitched in 
place, awnings furled, cargo strapped down. Arlian 
watched the bustle for a moment, wondering 
whether he should perhaps ride out with these 
people even if Black did not—though he had nothing 
to trade but gold, no skills to offer… 
On the other hand, perhaps, whatever Black did, 
he should just go on into Manfort, in pursuit of 
Lord Dragon, and the twelve surviving women, and 
those looters who had accompanied Lord Dragon in 
picking Obsidian’s bones, and the five other lords 
who had so casually participated in the destruction 
of the House of Carnal Society and the murder of 
one-fourth of its inmates. 
And information about the dragons themselves. 
Manfort would unquestionably be the best place to 
start any attempt to track down and destroy the 
three dragons that had slaughtered his family. 
Sweet was probably somewhere in Manfort. Rose 
was dead, but Sweet and Dove had been carried off 
alive. But finding them, in that great metropolis, 
and freeing them from Lord Dragon, would take 
time and skill and whatever other resources he 
could muster. Perhaps, rather than heading directly 
into the city, he should stay here and see if he could 
find a way to get the rest of that gold. 
But Black had offered to help him buy a sword 
and learn to use it, and he shouldn’t be hasty in 
passing that up… 
“Stay, then, blast you!” someone bellowed, 
disturbing the peaceful scene; Arlian saw a dozen 
people start, and a cat jumped from somewhere and 
dashed for cover at the sound. “We’ve nine brave 
men and true, and that’s more than enough!” 
Arlian smiled wryly; it appeared Black would not 
be traveling with the caravan after all. He got to his 
feet and brushed himself off. 
A moment later Black reappeared, frowning 
slightly. Another man walked beside him—a big,

black-haired, bushy-bearded fellow in brown 
leather, with a sword on his hip. 
“My lord,” Black said as he approached, “I must 
ask you to remove yourself from that wagon.” 
Startled, Arlian gathered up his bundle and 
climbed down. “Is there a problem?” he asked. 
“It would seem that I will not be going to Lorigol 
with these gentlemen,” Black said. “And this wagon 
is the caravan’s property, rather than my own, so I 
am required to turn it over to Bonecrusher, here, 
forthwith.” 
“Ah, I see,” Arlian said, stepping out of the way. 
“Do you, indeed?” Black said as he mounted the 
step. “And they say today’s young men have no 
understanding of the deeper issues.” He vanished 
into the wagon’s interior. 
Bonecrusher waited on the ground, standing a 
foot or two from Arlian’s side; Arlian looked him 
over and decided against any attempt at 
conversation. 
Half an hour later the ox-drawn wagons of the 
caravan were moving slowly out the eastern side of 
the plaza, one behind another, while Arlian and 
Black, also headed eastward, walked easily past 
them. Black’s belongings, intended to keep him 
adequately supplied for the trip to Lorigol, were in 
an immense pack he carried on his back. 
As they walked Black cast a glance backward at 
the wagon he would have driven had he stayed with 
the caravan; it had not yet begun to roll. 
Bonecrusher stood at the driver’s seat, exhorting 
the other guards to get themselves and their 
possessions aboard quickly. 
“I wish them well,” Black remarked, “but I can’t 
say I’m impressed. That wagon should be at the 
front of the column. If I were driving it would be at 
the front, and any guards who weren’t aboard it, or 
astride horses, would ride with the master.”

Arlian asked, “What does it matter, so close to 
Manfort? Surely there are no bandits here!” 
“It’s a matter of discipline, lad! You must keep 
order, or the caravan isn’t a caravan so much as a 
lot of wagons that just happen to be traveling the 
same direction.” 
Arlian blinked; he had more or less thought of a 
caravan heretofore as “a lot of wagons that just 
happen to be traveling the same direction.” 
No, he corrected himself, he had thought of it as 
a lot of wagons traveling together, and he now saw 
that that really wasn’t the same thing. Black’s 
distinction was important. He remembered times 
in the mines when teamwork had been important, 
when the miners had had to work together, not just 
in the same place. 
“I see,” he said. “You want everyone to know his 
place, and stay in it, so that everyone will know 
where to be and what to expect if they do find 
trouble later.” 
Black glanced at him. “You’re quick,” he said. 
Arlian shrugged. 
“Or maybe I’m just accustomed to fools,” Black 
said, with a shrug of his own. 
Arlian smiled a little to himself. They were 
passing the lead wagon now, and he asked, “So the 
guard wagon should be here? Not the master?” 
“The master’s place is at the back,” Black 
explained. “That way no one can fall behind without 
his knowledge. The guard wagon goes here to be the 
first to meet any trouble that might be encountered 
on the road. There should be at least four men in it, 
and at least two more in the master’s wagon, and 
horsemen riding up and down on either side of the 
column, ready to investigate anything out of the 
ordinary; the master of this particular caravan has 
decided to dispense with the riders. Which means 
he’s dispensed with me—I’ve no horse, but that

doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate their value.” 
Arlian nodded. 
“I understand your horse ran off?” Startled, 
Arlian glanced at Black. How had he heard that? 
That was a stupid question, Arlian realized; 
gossip had a way of spreading, and while the story 
of Lord Lanair’s arrival at the Weary Traveler was 
hardly a very exciting tidbit, it was something that 
Black could easily have picked up. 
He hesitated, then admitted, “Actually, I had no 
horse to begin with.” 
“Ah,” Black said. “And were you perhaps resident 
in Westguard for several days, then?” 
“Perhaps,” Arlian admitted. He eyed his 
companion warily, wondering if he would need to 
flee. 
“You’ll have heard, my lord, that an intruder was 
discovered at the House of Carnal Society?” 
“Why, yes,” Arlian said. 
“It’s a curious thing, that no one has found any 
trace of him since his escape, in his brown 
homespun and bloody beard.” 
“Well, he’d certainly have washed the blood out 
by now,” Arlian said. 
“Indeed. And he might well have trimmed the 
beard, as well. And changed into a good white 
blouse and black breeches, and grown a few inches.” 
Arlian studied Black, but saw no sign that the 
man intended any hostile action. “You think so?” he 
asked. 
“Why, I’d venture that at this very minute, he’s 
on his way to Manfort to buy a sword,” Black said. 
“But I admit to wondering why he wants a sword, 
and why he would head for Manfort, rather than 
some more isolated area.” 
“Well, perhaps he intended to elude pursuit by 
joining a caravan to some distant land, and needs a

sword for that. Or perhaps he wants a sword the 
better to disguise himself as a lord. And where 
better to find a good sword, and news of a caravan, 
than in Manfort?” 
“You don’t think it more likely he’d have headed 
off in some other direction, where he might buy a 
sword in some outlying town and join a caravan as 
it passes through?” 
Arlian replied, “I can think of two—no, of three 
reasons he might have preferred to turn toward 
Manfort instead.” He ticked them off on his fingers. 
“First, it would scarcely be expected, would it? And 
to do the unexpected is surely wise when one wishes 
to avoid pursuit and capture. Besides, where is it 
harder to find a dropped straw—on the road, or in a 
haystack? Tracking a man through a crowd must 
surely be more difficult than tracking him through 
a forest.” 
Black nodded. 
“Second, perhaps this person has some business 
to attend to in Manfort, some matter of which we 
can scarcely be expected to know.” 
“It’s possible,” Black agreed. 
“And finally,” Arlian said, “If this person has 
never before visited Manfort, what could be more 
natural in a young man of normal curiosity than to 
wish to see the great city?” 
“I see,” Black said. “Then you think our fleeing 
felon intends to buy his sword, attend to his 
business, see the city, and then join a caravan and 
depart for places unknown? Is this not a risky 
course of action?” 
“Perhaps this person has been a trifle 
overconfident,” Arlian agreed thoughtfully. “After 
all, if we can so readily imagine his plans, those who 
are seeking him might do as well.” He turned and 
looked back at the caravan; they were almost at the 
fork where the caravan would turn to make its way 
around the city, while they would proceed on to the

gate. 
“Do you suppose this young man might have 
acquaintances who would hide him in the city?” 
Arlian asked. “Perhaps someone he met only 
recently.” 
“And what would induce any sensible person to 
take such a risk?” 
“Why, gold, of course.” 
“Of course,” Black agreed. He smiled. 
Together the two men passed the fork and 
started up the slope toward the city gates. 
18 
Lord Ornisir’s Sword 
“It should balance about here,” Black said, 
resting the sword across two fingers. “It should be 
light enough that you can use it without tiring, 
strong enough to pierce your foe without bending or 
breaking.” He tossed the weapon in the air and 
caught it in one hand. “The hilt should fit your hand 
comfortably,” he said. “Remember that a good 
sword is a tool, something to be used—it’s not just 
for show. Lordlings such as yourself sometimes 
forget that.” He took the blade in his left hand and 
passed the sword to Arlian, hilt first. 
Arlian accepted it, closing his hand around the 
grip. He hefted the sword, feeling its weight, then 
slashed tentatively at the air. 
“You realize, of course, that all the blades you see 
here have been rejected,” Black said, waving a hand 
to take in the entire interior of the swordsmith’s 
shop. “These are noblemen’s blades, not the cruder

tools customary for an ordinary guardsman like 
myself. Every fine sword is made to a customer’s 
specifications—but the customer may not be 
pleased with the results, in which case the 
swordsmith tries again, and the rejected weapon is 
sent here, to be sold to the likes of us, who know 
better than to buy the cheap cutlery some people 
would palm off on buyers, but who lack either the 
time or the money to commission our own.” 
Arlian looked at Black, startled, but before he 
could reply the swordsmith spoke up. 
“And sometimes,” he said, “the swords are sent 
here because the buyers who ordered them never 
came to collect their purchases—sometimes out of 
negligence or inconsideration, but sometimes 
because the buyer suffered a severe reversal of 
fortune, perhaps died, before the sword was ready.” 
He pointed at the weapon Arlian held. “That blade 
was made for the late Lord Ornisir.” 
“Ah,” Arlian said, looking at the sword. 
It had a hilt bound in black leather and silver 
wire, a bell guard of steel inlaid with petals of 
mother-of-pearl, a long, slim, straight blade, and a 
pommel of lead caged in silver. It was indeed clearly 
a weapon meant for a nobleman. 
Arlian glanced at the sword on Black’s belt. That, 
too, was a nobleman’s sword, though older and 
worn—but Black was clearly no lord; he was 
employee, not employer. 
“And who are we to deny that it was made for 
Ornisir?” Black said sardonically. “Of course, some 
would consider it ill fortune to purchase a sword 
intended for a man who was slain in his bed by 
assassins.” 
“And they’d be fools,” the swordsmith said with a 
shrug. “Lord Ornisir never set his hand on it, and 
it’s a fine weapon.” 
“I like it,” Arlian said.

“There are a dozen others to inspect before 
making any decisions,” Black pointed out. 
“Of course,” Arlian agreed. 
All the same, an hour later it was that same 
sword in his hand when they left the shop. 
“Do you think it was really intended for this Lord 
Ornisir?” he asked, as he slid it awkwardly into the 
new leather loop on his belt. He almost tripped over 
it before he got the hang of walking with the blade 
at his side. 
Black shrugged. “It might have been; it seems a 
good blade. Even if it was made for someone else 
and rejected, that doesn’t mean there’s anything 
wrong with it—it might not have fit his hand well, 
or perhaps he thought the chasings didn’t match 
the color of his eyes. If it suits you, then all’s well 
enough—though you won’t know its true quality 
until you’ve fought for your life with it.” 
Arlian nodded. “And your own sword? You’ve 
fought with it?” 
“Often,” Black said. 
“Did you buy it here?” 
Black shook his head. “I took it off a dead man, 
years ago,” he said. “It’s served me well.” Arlian 
nodded again. 
“But of course, a sword is only as good as the 
man who wields it,” Black said. “Or the woman, for 
that matter, as I’ve seen a few women who could use 
a blade as well as most men.” He pointed at Arlian’s 
new acquisition. “That’s truly a lord’s sword you 
just bought, and a good one, but even if it’s the 
finest blade ever forged I’d rather face you with that 
sword than a real fighter with a butcher knife any 
day.” 
Arlian grimaced. “I know,” he said. He looked up 
the street ahead. 
They were in Manfort, and the city was still 
strange and new for Arlian. It smelled of smoke and

sewage and baking bread, and when the wind was 
right or he walked the right streets he could smell 
the tanneries and dye houses along the eastern wall. 
Mangy dogs and wary cats foraged in the gutters 
and alleys, and crows circled overhead or roosted on 
rooftops, but except for the overcast sky Arlian 
thought he was nearly as enclosed in stone as ever 
he was in the mines of Deep Delving. The bustling 
streets and squares were all paved, either in cobbles 
or flags, and lined with shops and houses, two or 
three stories in height, all built of stone and roofed 
in tile. Since passing the gate he had seen not a 
single exposed timber nor thatch, nor anything 
green and growing. 
He had remarked on this, and Black had told 
him, “Stone doesn’t burn. Dragons spit flame. This 
place was built as our fortress against the dragons. 
You’ll find plenty of wood and other tinder inside, 
but not out in the open.” He had nodded up the hill. 
“In the Upper City the great lords have torn out 
pavements and buildings to put in gardens here and 
there, but the common folk down here are happy 
with the stone.” 
Manfort was also vast; the streets wound on as 
far as Arlian could see in every direction—though 
that was not far, given the curving streets, high 
stone walls, and overhanging upper stories. They 
had stopped at Black’s rented room to deposit their 
belongings, startling the landlady, who had thought 
Black was gone with the caravan; Arlian had been 
thoroughly lost by the time they reached the place. 
The city was a maze, and while Arlian was sure he 
could learn his way around quickly enough, he knew 
he was not yet ready to attempt to find Lord Dragon 
or his captives. 
And he knew he was not yet ready to fight Lord 
Dragon. He remembered the speed and ease with 
which Dragon had drawn his sword and cut Madam 
Ril’s throat; he thought he could manage something 
not too greatly inferior against an unarmed foe, but

he had the imagination to see that matching the 
attack was not enough. He saw that he must also 
defend himself against such attacks, and he knew 
he could not possibly do so effectively. 
“Maybe I should have had a sword made new,” he 
said. Any advantage he could buy, he wanted. 
“It wouldn’t make much difference,” Black said. 
“It’s how you use it that really matters. A new sword 
would be more expensive and would take at least 
ten days, probably more—I thought you wanted to 
find another caravan as soon as possible, and one 
might form by then. I intend to join the first one I 
can.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. 
“Besides, there’s no reason to think one made for 
you would be any better, and you don’t yet know 
enough to be able to say what would work best for 
you. Not to mention that the chances are good that 
if you’re serious about learning to use it, that sword 
will get broken at some point in your training.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said again. Even this leftover sword 
had cost more than he had ever imagined a simple 
piece of steel could cost—and now Black was saying 
it might break? He obviously still had a great deal 
to learn. “Now, most of the lords don’t bother with 
armor,” Black said, changing the subject. “After all, 
if you use your sword only to punish unarmed 
subordinates, or in formal duels, or to defend 
against assassins who will have done their best to 
catch you unprepared, armor really isn’t going to be 
worth the discomfort and expense. However, we 
lesser mortals, who carry weapons for money, can 
expect to encounter bandits or other unfriendly 
folks who are very definitely armed, have no interest 
in formalities, and who haven’t the patience of real 
assassins. They may be using clubs or cutlasses, 
arrows or arbalests—their armament tends to be 
quite varied and imaginative. A well-padded helmet 
can save your life when escorting a caravan; a mail 
shirt or breastplate is heavy, but turning an arrow

is worth a little weight.” 
“Of course,” Arlian agreed. 
“And therefore, let us visit the armorer around 
the corner here,” Black said, taking Arlian’s elbow 
and turning him. Caught off guard, he almost 
collided with an old woman before getting himself 
headed the right direction. 
The swordsmith’s shop had been spare and 
elegant, the walls draped in cloth, the smith’s forge 
and workshop hidden away in the back; the 
armorer’s shop was a startling contrast, crude and 
cluttered, with weapons and armor stacked 
everywhere and a rough wooden workbench 
standing in the very center. 
Arlian was amused to see a rack of 
swords—surely, these were the “cheap cutlery” Black 
had mentioned. They were shorter and heavier than 
the weapon he now wore on his belt, with broader 
blades; some of them curved. He picked one up and 
hefted it while Black spoke to the armorer. He felt 
the blade, tried to flex it. 
The feel of the metal was different, with little 
spring to it; this was clearly inferior stuff. He 
suspected that it would be easy to notch, bend, or 
break a sword like this. 
“My lord!” Black called, and Arlian started. He 
put the sword back on the rack and turned his 
attention elsewhere. 
Two hours later the two men finally emerged 
from the shop, Arlian carrying a bundle that 
contained a mail shirt, a helmet, a set of greaves, 
and three assorted blades. 
Two of the blades were knives—an ordinary belt 
knife and a dagger. The third was something Arlian 
had never heard of before, which Black called a “left 
hand,” or “swordbreaker,” though once he had 
gotten a good look at it Arlian realized he had seen 
at least one, long ago.

Lord Dragon had worn one on the right side of 
his belt on that day almost eight years ago, when he 
had sat astride his horse looking down at Arlian 
amid the smoldering ruins of Obsidian. 
It was, in fact, constructed much like a sword, 
with a hilt and guard, but the blade was only about 
a foot long, and there were two four-inch steel 
spikes parallel to the blade, one on either side. 
“Catch a sword in one of those,” Black had 
explained, “and you can just twist your wrist and 
snap the blade right off.” 
Arlian had stared at the device in wonder; the 
maneuver Black described should indeed work. 
“Every lord has one now, and those who do any 
serious fighting know how to use them,” Black had 
said. “I have one myself, though I don’t parade it 
about.” 
“It just snaps the blade?” Arlian had asked, 
twisting the swordbreaker to demonstrate. “Just 
like that?” 
Black had laughed at him. “It’s catching it that’s 
the hard part!” 
Difficult to use or not, Black had strongly advised 
him to buy the thing, and he had. 
They returned to Black’s room, a stuffy, dim little 
place high under the eaves of a bakery. 
“A good day’s work,” Black said, as he opened the 
door at the top of the stair. “At least you’re properly 
equipped now, even if you haven’t any idea how to 
use any of it. Tomorrow we’ll start teaching you the 
basics, and see if there are any caravan notices 
posted.” 
“Thank you,” Arlian said, as they stepped into the 
room. “You’ve been very kind.” 
Black glanced at him as he closed the door. “I 
have, haven’t I?” he said. “You know, I’m not sure 
why.”

Arlian started to say something, thought better of 
it, and coughed on his own saliva as the words 
caught in his throat. 
“I think, my lord, that it’s time you told me more 
about yourself,” Black said. “Let us start with my 
suspicion that you have somehow availed yourself of 
a sorcerous glamour.” 
Arlian’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “What?” 
he said. He had been expecting questions and 
suspicions, but not that one. He had seen no magic 
of any kind since he entered the mine, and had 
almost forgotten such things existed. 
“Well, my lord, you must admit that there’s 
something peculiar about your circumstances,” 
Black explained. “You seem to have been 
exceptionally fortunate in deceiving your 
pursuers—I understand that the town patrols in 
Westguard questioned Lord Lanair, and never once 
suspected that he might be the fugitive they 
sought.” 
“I wasn’t what they were expecting,” Arlian 
protested. “A woman taught me that—people see 
what they’re expecting to see.” His throat thickened 
at the mention of Rose, as he remembered how he 
had last seen her, lifeless and bleeding. He 
swallowed. “So I made sure I wasn’t what they 
expected,” he continued. “They were looking for a 
fleeing vagabond, not a young nobleman 
demanding lodging.” 
“And a good ruse it was, surely…” 
“You saw through it quickly enough, though, 
didn’t you?” Arlian interrupted, suddenly troubled. 
“Indeed. If I were easily fooled I’d have been dead 
years ago. But on the other hand, my lord, consider 
that you and I are both here, in my lodgings, when 
by rights I should be twenty miles east of here on 
the road to Lorigol, leaving you to make your own 
way in Manfort. Why is that?” 
“Do you think I ensorcelled you?” Arlian asked,

flabbergasted. 
“The thought had crossed my mind—and much 
later than it should have.” 
“I haven’t,” Arlian said. “I know nothing of 
sorcery.” 
“Then we have a mystery.” 
“Perhaps I’ve just been lucky,” Arlian said. “Fate 
is being kind to me at last.” 
“Perhaps,” Black conceded. “I tend to think it’s 
something more than that, though. There’s 
something in your eyes, and your manner—you have 
a certain charm about you, and I find myself 
wondering whether it might be a literal charm, 
rather than a figurative one.” 
“If it is, it’s none of my doing.” 
Black nodded, and stared at him thoughtfully. 
“You know,” he said at last, “I’ve seen it before, I 
think. In certain of the nobility. There’s an air about 
them, as if they were born to command those 
around them. It’s hard to doubt you, or to deny 
you.” 
Arlian snorted. “If you see that, then it’s sheerest 
artifice, and a recent acquisition.” 
“Oh, I see it,” Black said. “No one could doubt 
your noble birth. It’s a strength, a power—in lords 
or warriors they call it the heart of the dragon, and 
men who have it make great leaders.” 
“‘The heart of the dragon’?” Arlian’s gorge rose as 
the words suddenly brought back the memory of 
lying on the cellar floor, pinned beneath his 
grandfather’s corpse, with that blood and venom 
dripping into his mouth. He could almost taste the 
ghastly brew… Was there a connection? 
“I’m not of noble birth,” he said, more to distract 
himself than anything else. “I was born to a family 
of freeholders. Tradesmen and artisans.” 
“Oh?”

“They’re all dead,” Arlian said. “I was sold into 
slavery.” 
“Yet you look every inch a lord.” 
“I was taught to look like one, and act like one,” 
Arlian said. “By women. And they’re dead now, 
some of them. Or gone.” He thought of Sweet, 
carried off in Lord Dragon’s coach, and wondered 
where she was—was she somewhere in Manfort? 
Was she nearby, perhaps? 
Would he ever see her again? He ought to be out 
searching for her—but he needed to know how. He 
couldn’t simply roam about the city at random. 
“If that’s all it is, then they did a good job,” Black 
said. “I suspect there’s more to it than that. And 
why did these women choose to teach you?” 
Arlian shrugged. “A whim.” 
“You said you were a slave; how did you get free? 
You must have had help.” 
“I saved an overseer’s life,” Arlian said. 
“And he freed you, in gratitude?” 
“Yes.” 
“In my experience gratitude is an emotion more 
common in children’s tales than in everyday life.” 
Arlian frowned and said nothing. 
“It seems to me that whatever else may have 
happened, there is something about you that 
prompts others to your aid,” Black said. “You say 
it’s not sorcerous; very well, I believe you. 
Nevertheless, call it nobility, or the dragon’s heart, 
or the urging of Fate, I think it’s real.” 
Arlian remembered the taste of his grandfather’s 
blood. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “It’s not of my 
choosing, but if it aids me in the pursuit of my 
destiny I’ll not quibble.” 
“You think you have a destiny, do you?” Black 
asked.

Arlian glanced at him, expecting to see sardonic 
amusement in his face, but found only a thoughtful 
expression. 
“Yes,” Arlian said. “Or at any rate, I have sworn 
an oath I mean to fulfill, if it takes all my life.” 
“And what would that oath be?” 
“To destroy the dragons who destroyed my 
village, and to bring justice to others who have 
wronged me and those about me,” Arlian replied. 
Black stared at him silently for a moment. 
“Dragons,” he said at last. 
“Yes,” Arlian said defiantly. He knew that his 
oath sounded stupid, a child’s overblown 
fantasy—no one had ever killed a dragon. Still, he 
intended to try. 
“Your home was destroyed by dragons?” 
“Three of them,” Arlian said. “I saw them.” 
“You speak our tongue like a native, and you are 
too young to be from Starn, in the Sandalwood 
Hills,” Black said, “so you must mean Obsidian, on 
the Smoking Mountain.” 
“Yes,” Arlian said. He swallowed. It was odd to 
hear that name again after so long. 
“Was your family there?” 
“My parents, my brother, my grandfather,” 
Arlian said. 
“And you? Where were you?” 
“I was there,” Arlian said. “I hid in a cellar. 
Looters found me, and sold me to the mines in Deep 
Delving.” 
“So you saw the dragons?” 
Arlian nodded. “I looked one in the eye,” he said. 
“Before I hid.” 
“Perhaps that’s it, then,” Black said 
contemplatively. “You looked Death in the eye and 
lived; perhaps that’s what it is.” He frowned. “But

I’ve faced death at times, and while it changed me, I 
haven’t the dragon’s heart as you do. Maybe it’s the 
dragon itself that makes the difference…” He sank 
into silent thought for a moment. Then he roused 
himself and said, “And you’re resolved to waste your 
life hunting dragons? Then why come to Manfort?” 
“Many reasons,” Arlian said. “First, where better 
to go to learn about dragons? This is where men 
first defied them, isn’t it?” 
“True enough,” Black agreed. “The secrets are 
still kept secret, though.” 
“Then I’ll still learn them somehow.” 
Black nodded. “And another reason?” 
“I need to know more about everything, if I’m to 
have any chance of success,” Arlian explained. 
“And where better than Manfort?” 
“Exactly.” 
“You seem to be more concerned with learning 
the sword than with sorcery, though, and surely 
magic is your best chance against dragons.” 
“I’m leaving the dragons until last,” Arlian said. 
“I’m not a complete fool; I know I probably can’t kill 
them. I intend to try, but I know I’ll probably be 
killed myself. So I’m going after the others first.” 
“Others?” 
“The looters,” Arlian explained. “Lord Dragon 
and the six he brought with him.” He shuddered at 
the memory. “They took me from the ruins before 
I’d had a chance to mourn. They sold me as a slave. 
They took everything we owned that the dragons 
hadn’t destroyed—the obsidian, my mother’s 
jewelry, even the cheeses from our cellars! They’ll 
pay for that—and payment’s long overdue.” 
“By eight years, or thereabouts,” Black agreed. 
“Now, that’s a goal I can believe in.” 
“And Lord Dragon ordered Rose killed,” Arlian 
said, beginning to lose control of himself. “He had

Sweet’s feet cut off. He had the House burned. He 
cut Madam Ril’s throat. He and Lord Kuruvan and 
the others…” He gasped for air, and burst out 
weeping. 
He had held it in for so long, but he could do so 
no more; it was all too much. He had never had a 
chance to mourn any of them properly—not his 
mother, or his grandfather, or his father, or his 
brother, or Hathet, or Rose, or Silk, or the two 
others dead in the brothel. He didn’t even know 
which two they were. He didn’t know where Sweet 
was, whether she was alive or dead, or what had 
become of all the others. He stood and wept 
uncontrollably. 
Black embraced the youth and let him cry, and 
the two men stood together for a long time. 
No further mention was made of Arlian’s 
supposed sorcery. 
19 
The Merchant Lords 
Black stopped dead in his tracks as the two 
walked down the Street of the Wainwrights, and 
flung his arm across Arlian’s chest. 
“What is it?” Arlian asked, startled, as he, too, 
came to a sudden halt. 
Black pointed at the notice tacked to the crazed 
green paint on a provisioner’s door. “At last!” he 
said, 
Arlian looked, and read. 
CARAVAN the parchment read in big blue letters 
at the top. Just below, in smaller print, it said to the

southern borderlands. 
And in black, below that, “Seeking Merchants to 
Join the Expedition, and Men at Arms to Escort 
Us.” At the bottom were instructions for contacting 
the caravan masters— three partners’ names were 
listed, with the address of an office on the Street of 
the Silk Merchants. 
Arlian read this with mixed emotions. Black had 
been seeking employment with a caravan all along; 
while he accepted the gold Arlian paid him for 
lessons in swordsmanship, he had made plain that 
he considered this a stopgap and had no intention 
of being a mere tutor. 
“There are things you won’t learn on the practice 
ground, boy,” Black had said one night as they 
drank ale at the tavern around the corner from 
Black’s room—Black had undertaken to teach Arlian 
to tell good ale from bad, along with his other 
tutelage. “I don’t know who this ‘Lord Dragon’ of 
yours is, but if he’s as formidable as you make him 
sound, you’ll need to know more than I can teach 
you here in Manfort!” 
Arlian was not entirely convinced. Lord Dragon 
was here in Manfort, he was certain; it seemed 
wrong, somehow, to spend a year or so deliberately 
going elsewhere— and he now knew that a caravan’s 
journey out and back, with stops for trade along the 
way and at the end, could easily last a year or more. 
But on the other hand, he knew he still had much 
to learn before he could face Lord Dragon, even if he 
found him. 
He had not had to make a choice before, as no 
caravans were in the offing—but now this notice 
meant he would have to decide, and quickly. 
“The Borderlands,” he said, as they stood before 
the provisioner’s door. “That’s a long way, isn’t it?” 
Black glanced at him. “Very long,” he said. “Could 
be two years, all told, before we’re back here.”

Arlian frowned. He was thinking that Sweet 
might be alive somewhere in Manfort. He had asked 
a few questions, made a few brief excursions into 
the broad avenues of the Upper City, where the 
city’s nobles made their homes, but had found no 
trace of her, nor heard any mention of any lord 
calling himself Dragon—but they might still be here. 
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s a long time.” 
“You’re young, lad,” Black said, as he turned away 
from the door. “You’ve plenty of time for your 
revenge. And you’ll learn more about the world this 
way, not just about swordsmanship; when you come 
back you’ll either be ready to take vengeance or 
you’ll know you’ll never be.” 
“You seem very sure of that,” Arlian remarked, 
turning to follow. 
“I am sure of it,” Black replied, setting a brisk 
pace. “If it were Lorigol, or one of the other ports 
like Benthin or Sarkan-Mendoth, or if it were into 
the western mountains, or if it were any number of 
other routes, then maybe not. But the 
Borderlands—you visit the Borderlands, boy, and 
the lands beyond the border, and you’ll come back 
with a proper respect for dragons, and for the 
people who took their places.” 
“Why?” Arlian asked. “What do dragons have to 
do with the Borderlands?” 
Black turned to stare at him as they walked. “You 
know why they’re called the Borderlands, don’t 
you?” 
“They’re the farthest extent of the Lands of Man,” 
Arlian said. “So?” 
“So, my boy, think about it! The Lands of Man 
are the lands we took away from the dragons, yes?” 
“Yes.” 
“And all the dragons are gone, yes?” 
“Well, they’re sleeping in the caverns,” Arlian 
said. “They aren’t dead. I saw them.”

“Then what lies beyond the Borderlands, my 
young lord?” 
Arlian stared at him blankly. 
Black sighed as they turned a corner onto the 
Street of the Coopers. “Think, boy! You’ve just all 
but said that what lies beyond is the lands ruled by 
neither men nor dragons. So what do you think 
does rule there?” 
Arlian’s stare was no longer blank, but shocked. 
He stopped in his tracks. “I don’t know,” he said. 
“Gods?” 
“Maybe some places,” Black conceded, as he, too, 
stopped and turned to face his young companion. 
“Gods here and there, perhaps, and certainly a few 
magicians elsewhere, but mostly… mostly it’s other 
things. Things that neither men nor dragons 
conquered.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. 
“And what’s more,” Black continued, “they’re 
things that couldn’t conquer the dragons. And 
we’re going there to trade with them—or at least 
with their subjects. When you see what’s beyond the 
borders, maybe you’ll see a little more of why I think 
that’s important, and what it says about the 
dragons.” 
“I know about dragons,” Arlian said. 
“You know everything about them?” Black asked. 
“Can you tell male from female? Do they lay eggs or 
bear their young alive? How long do they live?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted, taking a step 
down the sloping street. 
“Neither do I,” Black said. “No one does, so far as 
I know. But you said you know about dragons.” 
“I know enough!” Arlian said angrily, turning 
away and marching on. 
“How do you know you do?” Black insisted, 
pursuing. “Isn’t it good sense to know everything

you can about your enemy before you go to fight 
him?” 
“All right!” Arlian said, throwing up his hands in 
surrender. “All right. I’ll come with you to the 
Borderlands—and you’ll teach me to fight. Every 
day.” 
“Every day,” Black agreed. He glanced 
thoughtfully back toward the notice. “And if you 
have any sense, boy, you’ll take that gold of yours 
and you’ll buy a wagon of your own, and stock it 
with trade goods, and you’ll sign onto the caravan 
as a merchant, not a guard.” 
Arlian stopped, thunderstruck. 
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. 
He had been slightly concerned of late at how fast 
his supply of gold was dwindling; he still had more 
than enough to fill any purse, but after arming 
himself and paying Black’s teaching fees he was no 
longer sure that his stolen fortune would be enough 
to live on indefinitely. 
He hadn’t worried about it, really. After all, he 
could always go back to the Blood of the Grape and 
fetch out more of Lord Kuruvan’s gold, and that 
would be enough to live on for a very long time. 
But if he invested it in a caravan—especially if he 
took all the gold from the broken keg and invested 
all of it… 
Everyone knew that caravans were risky, but 
highly profitable. He might well return to Manfort 
really rich, a real lord instead of a fraud, rich 
enough to hire men to hunt down the looters, buy 
the twelve women free, and hire an army to hunt 
the dragons. 
Or if disaster struck, he might return to Manfort 
penniless—or not at all. Still, if he was going to 
accompany Black in any case, it seemed worth 
trying. 
He would need to get the gold out of the inn’s

cellars. He would be able to handle the operation far 
more effectively this time, since he knew just where 
the keg was and he had the time and money to 
prepare properly, but he would still need a 
distraction. 
Black had stopped beside him; now Arlian turned 
to face the older man. 
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know much about 
wine?” 
The next night, while Black spent half an hour 
choosing exactly the right expensive wine for an 
imaginary occasion, thereby keeping the innkeeper 
busy in the vault, Arlian told the rest of the inn’s 
staff, “I’ll just get my own ale, thanks!” and strolled 
down the cellar stairs, mug in hand. 
No one argued with the impeccably dressed 
young lord. He wore his hair brushed back in the 
latest style, his beard neatly trimmed to a point; he 
wore a beautiful sword on his belt, and had a fine 
leather pack slung on one shoulder. He simply 
reeked of wealth and confidence. 
And if he took a long time fetching his ale, and 
the pack looked a little heavier when he emerged, 
what of it? He tipped each of the staff a gold 
half-ducat, even the pot-boy, and it wasn’t as if 
anything in the cellars other than the rare wines in 
the vault would be worth such a man’s efforts to 
steal. 
On the dusty walk back to Manfort he asked 
Black, “What should I buy?” 
“A wagon and two yoke of oxen, to start with,” 
Black said. 
“I know that,” Arlian said, nettled. “I mean, what 
do we take to sell?” 
Black shrugged. “I’m no merchant,” he said. 
“But you’ve been to the Borderlands before, 
haven’t you?” 
“Twice,” Black acknowledged. “The merchants

brought wool and silk and other fabrics, and 
northern wines, and certain herbs, and traded for 
talismans, gems, dyes, rare woods, drugs and 
potions, strange foodstuffs, and for still other 
fabrics. Oh, and exotic pets—there was a fashion for 
lizards at the time, though it had all but passed by 
the time we returned.” 
Arlian nodded and shifted his pack to a more 
comfortable position. “And if we were bound for 
Lorigol?” 
Black looked at him, startled. “Why?” 
“I’m just curious.” 
“Wool and silk and wine, and we’d come back 
with oil and salt and spices, with dyes and pearls 
and curiosities made from seashells.” 
“And the western mountains?” 
“Well, we wouldn’t take wool!” Black said with a 
snort of laughter. “Theirs is better than ours. We’d 
take oil and grain and spices, and we’d bring back 
brass and chalk and dyes and herbs. And other 
things; I don’t know. Merchants are always trying 
new goods.” 
“And isn’t that where the most money is to be 
made?” 
“Or lost, if you misjudge what people want to 
buy.” 
Arlian nodded, thinking hard about gold and 
what it could buy. The best goods were obviously 
things that were small, so that more could be fit 
into a wagon, and cheap to buy but precious at the 
other end of the caravan’s route. And best of all 
would be something that no one else in the caravan 
had brought, so that you and the other merchants 
would not undercut each other. 
What gold could buy… 
“Do they make good swords in the Borderlands?” 
Black looked thoughtful. “No, they don’t,” he said.

“They hardly work metal at all. That’s one reason 
we go there, rather than their merchants coming to 
Manfort— they make their wagon fittings of wood 
and leather rather than iron, and arm themselves 
with arrows, spears, and slings, and the wagons just 
don’t last that well.” 
“Then… well, is there some reason no one takes 
swords and ironmongery to sell?” 
“I don’t know,” Black said slowly. “I believe… well, 
remember, many of the lands beyond the border are 
ruled by magical creatures of one sort or another. 
Such beings are said to dislike silver and cold iron; I 
know that all the coins in the southern lands are of 
gold or copper, never of silver. Perhaps iron and 
silver aren’t allowed there.” 
“Then wouldn’t that make them all the more 
precious?” 
Black smiled. “Most likely,” he agreed. 
Arlian was careful not to say anything more on 
the subject until the following day, at the office on 
the Street of the Silk merchants, after Black’s 
employment as commander of the caravan’s 
contingent of guards was settled and the contracts 
signed. Then, when that was irreversible and Black’s 
position secure, he announced what he proposed to 
sell. 
The three caravan masters, seated in a row 
behind their polished black table, were shocked. 
“Selling iron is forbidden in the magical realms,” 
Lord Drens said. 
“Most of them,” Lord Sandal, seated on Drens’s 
left, corrected. “Not in Arithei or Stiva.” 
Arlian, standing before the table, started at the 
mention of Arithei; this was the first time since 
Hathet’s death he had heard the name spoken 
aloud. And it was spoken by someone who had been 
to the Borderlands, and would know the truth. That 
meant it did exist.

It didn’t mean any of the rest of Hathet’s story 
was true, though. He was probably mad, not an 
ambassador at all, and his amethysts were probably 
nothing but pretty stones. 
“But who can get to Arithei or Stiva?” Drens 
retorted. “Not I! The roads are closed, and the 
native guides are gone, and the only routes are 
across the Dreaming Mountains. I have no desire to 
live out my life beset by nightmares, to never again 
have an untroubled night’s sleep!” 
“Really, my lord,” Lady Thassa, at the right end of 
the table, said, addressing Arlian directly again, “I 
would not advise bringing ironwork. Our wagons 
and swords are not permitted in certain areas as it 
is; we bring them over the borders only under 
severe restrictions.” 
“What about silver?” Arlian asked, pushing 
Arithei out of his mind. 
“Banned in Shei, Furza, and Tirikindaro,” Lady 
Thassa replied. “Out of favor in the neighboring 
lands and of no use as currency, but not forbidden.” 
“Is it more valuable there than here?” 
Thassa, Drens, and Sandal exchanged glances. 
“I don’t know,” Sandal admitted. 
“And what if I were to sell my goods on this side 
of the border?” 
“We can hardly object to that,” Sandal said. 
“Trade within the Lands of Man is free and open.” 
Lord Drens started to protest, and Lady Thassa 
interrupted him; a moment later the three were in 
the midst of a full-blown argument. 
Their clerk sent Black and Arlian away, with 
instructions to return the next day. 
They did, and learned that the vote was two to 
one in Arlian’s favor; Lord Drens yielded with poor 
grace, but he had yielded. 
Now he glared across the table at the

troublemaker. “Always remember, Lord Ari,” Drens 
said, using Arlian’s latest alias, “that we reserve the 
right to expel you from the caravan at any time 
should we decide that your continued presence 
endangers the rest of us.” 
“Understood, my lord,” Arlian said with a bow. 
“And you understand our contracts? That each 
member shares in the expenses?” 
Arlian nodded. The contracts were quite 
complex, and rather daunting, as they covered any 
number of possible contingencies, including 
provisions for what would happen to his goods if he 
died at various points in the expedition, and how 
any proceeds would be shared between his heirs (if 
any) and the other members of the caravan. 
Arlian understood this, and since he was going 
more to continue his education than to make a 
profit and had no heirs, nor any intention of dying, 
he was untroubled by the terms. 
“They are quite satisfactory,” he said. 
The three masters nodded, and the papers were 
brought out for Arlian’s signature, concluding the 
negotiations. 
When the caravan assembled in the plaza before 
the Blood of the Grape two days later, Arlian’s new 
wagon held some three dozen fine swords—the 
complete stock of four swordsmiths’ shops—and 
hundreds of good daggers. A large part of his wealth 
had been transformed from gold to silver, as well. 
He had also acquired all the usual requirements 
for a long journey—clothing, bedding, 
nonperishable foods, extra harness for his four 
oxen, a huge quantity of grain, water, wine, lamp 
oil, hundreds Of feet of rope, and so on. He had even 
equipped himself with a bow and a dozen 
arrows—not that he knew how to use them 
effectively. 
In addition, he brought two pairs of practice

swords— low-grade steel with no edge and blunt 
points, but with the weight and balance of a proper 
sword. 
Although he was a merchant and a full member 
of the caravan, Arlian was also contracted as a 
guard in training, an unpaid apprentice, and as 
such he was assigned the second position, directly 
behind the lead wagon Black shared with seven 
other guards; that suited him well. He hired one of 
the other guards, a man called Quickhand, to teach 
him to tend and drive oxen, and to drive for him 
until the lessons were learned. 
There were three more guards at the rear, in the 
masters’ large and elegant wagon, and four on 
horseback who also slept at the rear—fifteen guards 
in all. That was deemed adequate by all. 
The two wagons that were to hold guards—the 
lead wagon and the masters’ oversized 
conveyance—both had large shutters on either side 
that could be swung back, opening the sides to let 
in air and light, or to allow the occupants to survey 
their surroundings; the other wagons, intended 
primarily for keeping goods safe, were far more 
solidly built. Arlian’s was little more than a large 
wooden box on wheels with a platform on either 
end and a bench seat at the front, all painted a rich 
blue and trimmed with varnished bamboo. 
And on a fine bright day in late spring Arlian sat 
beside his hired driver as the caravan rolled out of 
the plaza and headed south, toward the 
Borderlands. 
20 
The Road South

“This is Benth-in-Tara,” Quickhand said, as the 
wagon rolled past a stone marker toward the 
sprawling town ahead. “We’ll be stopping here for a 
day to trade with the locals.” 
Arlian frowned at the name; he knew he 
remembered it, but couldn’t quite place it. The long 
fertile valley of Tara Vale was familiar enough, of 
course… 
Then it came back to him; Benth-in-Tara was 
where Grandsir had been headed when he saw the 
ruins of Starn, the village in the Sandalwood Hills 
that the dragons had destroyed. 
Arlian turned to the southwest, peering into the 
distance. 
Those hills were surely the Sandalwood Hills, 
then— though he was seeing them now from the 
other side, and as a result there was little familiar 
in their appearance. The shadowy spike on the 
horizon would be Skygrazer Peak, and the distant 
smoke rising from a humped peak beyond the hills 
would be from the Smoking Mountain, where he 
had been born. 
When he was in the mine he had often dreamed 
of returning there, and now, if he chose, he 
could—who would stop him? 
But why should he? Nothing remained of 
Obsidian but ruins. Sweet had told him, one long 
night last winter when he and she had exchanged 
reminiscences, that the village was never rebuilt; a 
place that dragons had destroyed was considered 
cursed, forever unsafe. 
The thought of Sweet troubled him; he seemed to 
see her face in the western sky. He felt guilty that he 
was here, rather than back in Manfort searching for 
her. 
He could never have found her and rescued her as 
the ignorant naif he had been before meeting Black,

though. He was not yet ready to make his bit of 
justice in the world, not yet ready to free her and 
avenge poor Rose. Thinking about Sweet could only 
distract him from more immediate concerns; he 
would come back for her in time. 
He once more turned his attention to the town 
they were entering. 
So this, he thought, was Benth-in-Tara, where his 
grandfather had long ago come to trade. And now 
here he was, following in Grandsir’s footsteps—but 
nobody here would be interested in swords or 
daggers. 
He had not thought of that when stocking his 
wagon; of course the caravan made other stops on 
its way south, and he had brought nothing to sell at 
any of them. 
That might be an expensive oversight. He 
frowned. 
“A day here,” he said. “What’s the next trading 
stop, then?” 
“Jumpwater, I think,” Quickhand said. 
“And after that?” 
Quickhand thought for a moment, then ticked off 
the names on his fingers. 
“Blasted Oak, Sadar, Cork Tree, Stonebreak,” he 
said. “Then we get to the Desolation, and from there 
there’s nothing until we reach the Borderlands, and 
where we go depends on what road the masters 
choose.” 
“There’s more than one road?” 
“There are at least three routes across the 
Desolation, and they branch further on the other 
side.” 
“And what determines which route we take?” 
Quickhand shrugged. “News and rumor in 
Stonebreak, the weather, any signs or omens we 
might encounter… whatever the masters hear and

see.” 
Arlian frowned. It all seemed too vague and 
poorly planned for his liking. 
“It’s in the southern part of the Desolation that 
Black and I are going to earn our pay,” Quickhand 
remarked. “That’s bandit country, where the roads 
come down off the high plateau and wind through 
the canyons.” 
“Not until then?” 
Quickhand shrugged again. “Oh, maybe,” he said. 
“If we weren’t here there would probably be 
burglars and sneak thieves slipping into the wagons 
in every town, but who would dare tackle a group 
this size, even if they were just merchants?” He 
gestured at the long line of wagons trailing behind 
them. “Even merchants can put up a fight, after 
all.” 
“But then how do the bandits in the Desolation 
operate?” Arlian asked. “How can there be enough 
to attack this large a group, but few enough that a 
dozen or so guards can handle them?” 
“The canyons,” Quickhand explained. “They can 
block the road, trap the whole caravan, with just a 
few men, and then starve the caravan into 
submission. A dozen good fighters can drive them 
away and keep them away while the others clear the 
road.” He paused, then added, “Usually. They have 
other tricks, as well—they’ll try to split the caravan, 
or disable a few wagons so they can loot them, or 
take a few prisoners they can ransom.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. Just then he caught sight of a 
curious structure ahead, at the very heart of 
Benth-in-Tara—a single vast roof supported on a 
forest of pillars, its sides and interior open. “What’s 
that?” he asked. 
“The marketplace,” Quickhand explained, as he 
steered the plodding oxen directly toward it. 
The caravan rolled into the marketplace and

formed up in three lines beneath the roof—one 
along either side, and one down the shady center. 
The guard wagon, which had no goods to display, 
was in the center—and Arlian’s own wagon was 
right next to it. 
When they had stopped, as the other wagons 
were still rolling into position, Arlian leaped to the 
ground and greeted Black, who had already 
disembarked. 
“Nothing to sell here?” Black asked. 
Arlian shook his head. “I didn’t think of it,” he 
said. “Foolish of me.” 
“Ah,” Black said. “And here I thought you’d done 
it deliberately, so I’d have more time to thrash you 
tomorrow.” 
Arlian smiled; sure enough, he realized, if he had 
nothing to trade on trading day, he could devote the 
time entirely to his swordsmanship. 
Word of the caravan’s arrival was spreading 
rapidly through the surrounding farms and villages, 
and the next day brought hundreds of people 
flooding into town, eager to see what treasures the 
caravan might be carrying—even though most of 
them couldn’t afford to buy anything. Arlian and 
Black left the crowds behind and found an open 
field just outside town, left fallow this year and now 
green with weeds and sprinkled with wildflowers. 
There Arlian took up a dull-edged practice sword 
and a wooden swordbreaker, and faced off against 
Black, blinking in the bright summer sun. 
The day after, as the last straggling customers 
headed homeward and the caravan began rolling 
again, Arlian was no longer smiling; Black had 
indeed thrashed him, figuratively and almost 
literally. They had fought only with blunted practice 
blades, but Arlian still had a dozen cuts on his chest 
and arms, all of which had been treated with 
brandy and bandaged. He also had a scratch across 
one cheek deemed too small for bandaging, as well

as innumerable bruises received not only from the 
practice weapons, but when dodging had slammed 
him against a tree or rock, or when he had dodged 
or parried a stroke of Black’s blade only to receive a 
punch or kick, or when he had fallen to get out of 
the path of Black’s blade. 
He had thought he was making progress in his 
lessons, but the day spent in Benth-in-Tara had 
shown him how far he still had to go. For the first 
time Black had moved beyond the basics and a few 
simple practice moves into real fencing, and he had 
demonstrated that he was able to cut Arlian at will, 
while turning aside every assault Arlian attempted. 
Arlian overcame his initial resentment at this 
brutal treatment by reminding himself that Lord 
Dragon might well be as good a swordsman as 
Black, or better, and Lord Dragon would not hold 
back, would not stop his blows as soon as they cut 
cloth or drew blood. He knew that Black, in his 
brutality, was really doing him a kindness. 
But as he sat on the seat beside Quickhand, the 
cuts stinging and bandages tugging with every 
bounce the wagon took, it didn’t feel like a kindness. 
The evening lessons on the road returned to the 
less-strenuous mode of demonstration and practice, 
rather than actual combat, but at Jumpwater, six 
days later, another trading day meant another 
all-out training session. 
Jumpwater had no covered market like 
Benth-in-Tara’s, but a series of three broad terraces 
on the road that wound down the slope toward the 
Forest River. The wagons lined up on those terraces 
above the town, and merchants were able to display 
their goods to the entire population of Jumpwater 
simultaneously. 
Arlian still had no goods to display. The road out 
of Jumpwater now led across a sturdy wooden 
bridge, but Black took Arlian down to the rapids, 
and they fought on the stones that had once been

the only way across the river and which had given 
the town its name. 
Arlian’s only consolations were that he received 
significantly fewer cuts and bruises, and two of the 
three times he fell in the water he was able to pull 
himself out before Black could come to his aid. 
Ten days after that, at Blasted Oak, while the 
merchants did their business in the great central 
square around the shrine that supposedly sheltered 
the stump of the blasted oak itself, Arlian met Black 
in a field behind the brewery. There he actually 
managed to counter one of Black’s lunges and draw 
blood from the back of the older man’s 
hand—whereupon Black announced that Arlian was 
getting too familiar with his opponent’s style, and 
set the other guards to taking turns in sparring 
with Lord Ari when they weren’t occupied in 
keeping order at the caravan market. 
None of the others attacked as fiercely as Black, 
but Arlian discovered that Black had been 
right—several of the others were able to get past his 
guard by making moves that Black had never tried. 
As he lay on the thin mattress in his wagon that 
night, wishing he had paid the money for a 
featherbed at the local inn so that his bruises 
wouldn’t hurt quite so much, he began to wonder 
whether he would ever be a real swordsman. There 
was so much to learn! How could anyone ever learn 
to counter every possible move, in every possible 
style? Black insisted that wasn’t necessary, that 
there were patterns he could learn, but Arlian did 
not yet see them. 
At Sadar he began to see them. 
Sadar had no true marketplace, and they were 
out of the forest once more and onto an open plain; 
the caravan simply lined up along the road south of 
town. Black led Arlian out onto the empty plain to 
practice amid the tall grass. 
Summer was just past its peak, and the weather

had grown steadily warmer as they moved further 
south, so the fighting there was done bare-chested 
and dripping with sweat. Arlian found that this 
made defense easier; he could see his opponent’s 
muscles start to tense before the sword itself moved. 
Perhaps that was the extra bit of information he 
needed, or perhaps something simply fell into place, 
but he found himself moving his own sword to 
parry his opponent’s before he was consciously 
aware that Black had attacked. It simply felt right. 
Up until now exchanges had mostly been quick— 
typically feint, parry, thrust, parry, and then a 
touch or a break. Now, though, Arlian found 
himself launching into sustained bouts, where his 
blade and Black’s would dart and clash for minute 
after minute before one of them left an opening or 
stepped back to regroup. 
Arlian received only a single cut after that, and 
few bruises. 
A fortnight later, at Cork Tree, while the 
merchants did what business they could in pouring 
rain, Arlian and the other guards fought in dripping 
shirts in the yard behind a slaughterhouse. At 
midafternoon, Arlian left a red welt on the side of 
Black’s neck. 
Black smiled at him. “If you’d been using a real 
sword I’d be dead or dying,” he said. He touched 
Arlian’s forehead with the tip of his own mock 
weapon and flipped a lock of wet hair aside. “See 
why I keep mine short?” 
“I’ll cut it later,” Arlian said with an exhausted 
grin. 
At Stonebreak the caravan set up along the base 
of the cliff, and the masters demanded that the 
guards stay close by, and maintain a careful 
watch—while this wasn’t yet bandit territory, the 
locals were not entirely trustworthy. 
Arlian and Black were therefore only able to 
manage an hour or two of practice, no more than

on most evenings when the caravan was traveling. 
Black and Quickhand were now working 
together, so that Arlian could practice fighting 
multiple opponents; after all, bandits didn’t usually 
stage formal duels. 
From Stonebreak the caravan made its way up 
the ravine, into the Desolation. Rumors passed up 
and down the chain of wagons as to which route the 
masters would choose when they emerged onto the 
plateau. 
Everyone agreed that the direct route, the 
straight line across the high desert, would not be 
safe—the summer had been fairly dry, and the 
Midway Waterhole would almost certainly be 
empty, which would mean dead oxen and disaster. 
That left the Low Road, around the western rim 
of the plateau, safe but slow, and the Eastern Road, 
much shorter and reasonably well watered but 
through rough country. 
Arlian hoped for the Eastern Road; he was 
impatient to get back to Manfort. He knew that he 
was now at least an adequate swordsman—still no 
expert, but adequate—and wanted to get on with 
his plans for rescue and revenge. 
The trail up the ravine was hardly a road at all, 
Arlian noticed; there were no wheel ruts to be seen, 
nor any sort of marker. It was simply the route 
where there were no rocks in the path big enough to 
stop a wagon. He commented on this—he had to 
speak loudly to be heard over the wind that howled 
overhead, above the ravine. 
Quickhand shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing up 
here but the Desolation,” he called back, “and 
nobody goes through the Desolation except the one 
or two caravans a year bound for the Borderlands. 
That’s not enough to make a real road.” 
“And the roads across the Desolation…” 
“They’re like this. The Low Road has a few

markings so people won’t lose the path; the Desert 
Road doesn’t. I’ve never been on the eastern route.” 
Arlian nodded. They rode on, until they finally 
emerged from the top of the ravine and Arlian saw 
the Desolation. 
He stared out at it in dismay. 
For as far as he could see there was nothing 
ahead of them but brown stone and golden sand; 
the thin stream that had cut the ravine was hidden 
in its stony bed, showing only as a black line across 
bare stone. Not a single blade of grass, not a single 
speck of green, could be seen anywhere. Hot wind 
swept across it, stirring the sand. 
Arlian leaned to the side and looked back, past 
his own wagon, past the caravan. The ravine’s 
curves hid the route they had followed to reach this 
height, but he could see across the stony plateau to 
the cliffs. 
Beyond those cliffs the world below was still 
green; he could see green faintly through the 
summer haze. That was a comforting reminder. 
He turned forward again. 
Black had stopped the guard wagon by the crack 
in the stone, and was climbing down. Quickhand 
directed Arlian’s own wagon to stop beside him. 
“We’ll want to top off every water barrel,” Black 
called. “And while we’re doing that the masters can 
settle our route.” He turned and squinted at the 
wasteland. “Doesn’t seem too bad,” he said. “I’ve 
seen it worse.” 
Arlian swallowed; his throat was suddenly dry. 
“How could it be worse?” he called. 
Black looked up at him. “The wind could be 
stronger, the sun brighter, the air hotter. If we’d 
been here earlier, at midsummer, I’m sure it would 
have been worse.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said.

“It’s a tricky matter, timing a southbound 
caravan,” Black remarked. “Too soon, and the 
summer heat will kill you. Too late, and the streams 
will have dried up and you’ll die of thirst. I think 
we’ve hit it about right.” 
Arlian looked out at the aptly named Desolation. 
“Oh,” he said again. 
If this was right, he hoped never to see wrong. 
21 
The Eastern Road 
They took the Eastern Road. 
Arlian thought calling it a “road” was sorely 
misleading; “taking the Eastern Road” just meant 
circling around the utterly barren sands at the 
heart of the Desolation on the eastern side until 
they reached one of the defiles leading down from 
the plateau. 
This route would bring them to the eastern 
Borderlands; a few of the merchants grumbled that 
they’d have made a better profit to the west, but 
most were pleased. Arlian didn’t know enough to 
have an opinion either way. 
Navigation on the Eastern Road was simple 
enough, even though there were no markers; keep 
the sands always on your right, and stay on bare 
stone. Boulders, rockslides, and breaks in the stone 
too wide for a wagon wheel to cross—and all three 
were numerous—meant detours. In several places 
the “road” led across immense, tilted slabs of rock; 
some of the upward-sloping examples of these were 
steep enough that the oxen couldn’t manage them

unaided, and the riders had to get out and push. A 
few were so extreme that oxen had to be shared and 
the wagons hauled up the slope in shifts. On 
downward slopes the wheelbrakes were used to keep 
the wagons from running away and running into 
their own oxen, and riders would walk alongside, 
ready to grab if the brakes started to slip. When 
anyone spotted a hole in the stone the entire 
caravan would come to a halt while buckets 
dredged up the trapped water. 
Arlian wondered how these holes had formed, but 
no one had an answer. They were simply part of the 
Desolation; each spring the rains filled them, and 
until they dried out they made it possible for 
caravans to get across without dying of thirst, and 
without hauling insanely huge quantities of water 
up the ravine from Stonebreak. The limited water 
supply was the reason only a single caravan each 
year could rely on safely crossing the Desolation by 
each of the three routes. 
The caravan traveled as far and as fast each day 
as the oxen and the terrain would allow; there was 
no reason to linger in this ghastly wasteland. By day 
the sun and hot wind baked them dry; by night the 
wind was cooler, almost pleasant, and most of the 
caravan’s personnel slept out on the rocks, under 
the stars, rather than in their stifling, overheated 
wagons. 
It never rained in the Desolation in the summer. 
The more experienced travelers laughed at the very 
idea. Rain fell heavily enough in the cold months, 
sometimes flooding dangerously across the stone 
and turning the sand into treacherous muck, but in 
the summer the Desolation was always utterly dry. 
The sun beat down relentlessly from the cloudless 
sky, and despite the heat Arlian began wearing a 
broad-brimmed coachman’s hat to shade his face 
from that withering glare. He had bought the hat 
back in Manfort, at Black’s urging, but had never 
expected to use the thing; now he found it

indispensable. As usual, Black had been right. 
As the days passed the terrain grew even worse, 
and more detours were required; they passed 
broken stones that Arlian thought might be ruins of 
some sort—but who would ever have built anything 
here, in the Desolation? 
He also found odd marks in the stone on 
occasion. At one point he noticed a set of three 
parallel grooves, almost like claw marks—though 
they were too large for claw marks, and what could 
claw solid stone? 
Other than dragons, of course. 
Some of the waterholes were not mere holes, but 
caves, reaching deep into the stone beneath their 
feet. One day, as they were pulling water up from 
one of these, Arlian remarked, “I wonder if any of 
these connect to the caverns where the dragons 
sleep?” 
Black threw him a sharp glance. “I doubt it,” he 
said. 
Another guard, a smaller man who went by the 
name Stabber, pointed to the east. “The big caves 
are over there,” he said. “I saw some of them once 
when I was with a caravan that got off course in a 
sandstorm.” 
Arlian looked where Stabber pointed, then 
noticed Black staring at him. 
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to go 
dragon hunting yet.” He returned his attention to 
hauling water. 
After that, however, every so often he found 
himself gazing eastward. 
Some of the oxen, which had plodded on all this 
way without protest, began to weaken as the 
journey across the waste stretched on; a few 
became too feeble to continue pulling, and were 
unhitched and allowed to walk behind the wagons 
on ropes. Most of these recovered their strength; a

few did not, and were butchered, cooked, and eaten, 
thereby extending the human food supply while 
conserving the grain the oxen ate—and incidentally 
providing the only meat most of the people aboard 
the caravan had had since leaving Stonebreak. 
Arlian’s own team of four was reduced to three; 
he rotated them, two pulling and one ambling 
alongside, thereafter. 
A guard’s horse stumbled on the stone and broke 
a leg, and that, too, provided a brief addition to the 
supply of meat while conserving grain. The guard 
was transferred to the masters’ wagon, leaving only 
three horsemen to ride alongside. 
One of the older merchants died in his sleep, and 
was buried beneath a cairn of stones before the 
caravan rolled on. As required by contract his goods 
were divided among the survivors, with the masters 
taking the largest share and the wagon itself. His 
heirs back in Manfort would receive a refund of his 
initial investment, plus the proceeds from the sales 
he had made so far at the various stops along the 
way, plus a percentage of whatever profit the 
masters eventually wound up with. 
Arlian had lost count of the days when at last he 
saw Black pointing at something ahead. He shielded 
his eyes with his hand and stared, trying to see 
what Black was indicating. 
The horizon was very slightly nearer than it ought 
to be, Arlian realized. They were finally within sight 
of the southern edge of the plateau. 
They were almost out of the Desolation, and the 
water and food had not run out. 
They celebrated that night, roasting another of 
the dead oxen and consuming a case of the dead 
merchant’s wine. Divided among the forty-two 
surviving merchants, the three masters, the fifteen 
guards, and some fifty assorted drivers, servants, 
and family members, that came to little more than 
a few sips for each, but it was the spirit that

counted, not the quantity, and no one was inclined 
to waste any more of their trade goods in such a 
manner. 
Besides, they were all tired and ready to sleep, 
and most of them still had to inspect the wheels and 
traces to make sure nothing needed repair before 
the next day’s journey. Any wagon that delayed the 
caravan to replace a broken wheel would be fined by 
the masters. 
At midmorning the next day Arlian was sitting 
beside Quickhand at the front of his wagon when 
one of the horsemen, a fellow called Knobs, rode up 
alongside. 
“Ho, there!” Arlian called. “How goes it?” 
“Well enough, my lord,” Knobs called back. “I 
think I see another hole in the rock ahead.” He 
pointed. 
Arlian leaned out to see where Knobs was 
looking—just as something dark whipped out of the 
opening in the stone. Knobs gave a wordless cry of 
surprise and pain and clapped a hand to his 
shoulder. 
Then Knobs, Arlian, and Quickhand were all 
staring at the black wooden shaft that protruded 
between Knobs’s fingers. 
“Whoa!” Arlian bellowed, yanking at the reins. 
The arrow was as long as a man’s arm, bearing 
two black feathers and one red, and had struck 
Knobs just below his left shoulder. The tip now 
made a visible bulge in the back of his shirt, and 
red was beginning to stain the white fabric—Knobs 
had not been wearing any sort of armor in the fierce 
heat of the Desolation, still miles from where 
anyone had ever encountered bandits. 
“By the dead gods,” Knobs said thickly, as he 
stared at the wound. 
Arlian stared as well, sick with horror, but even 
so he did not permit himself to be shocked into

inaction. “Get down!” he shouted. “You’re a target 
there!” He stopped his team and set the brake, then 
snatched off his hat—it could only get in the 
way—and flung it back into the wagon; then he 
grabbed for his sword. 
Another arrow whickered past, brushing Knobs’s 
horse on the flank before smacking against the side 
of the next wagon back and glancing off; the horse 
shied, and Knobs swayed drunkenly in the saddle. 
“Shouldn’t we keep moving?” Quickhand asked, 
as he groped for his own weapons. “A moving 
target… and Black didn’t give an order…” 
“I gave an order!” Arlian snapped. He’d found his 
sword; now he drew it, tossed the sheath back into 
the wagon, and leaped to the ground. Another 
arrow buzzed past him and thumped into his own 
wagon, burying its barbed metal head in the wood. 
“But you’re not even a guard!” Quickhand 
protested. Arlian ignored him. 
The lead wagon had stopped as well, and Black 
was also on the ground, sword in hand—and 
swordbreaker in his left; Arlian had not taken the 
time to find his, and his left hand was empty. 
“Keep apart!” Black shouted. “Come at him from 
different sides!” 
“Where is he?” Arlian bellowed. 
Another arrow flew, and this one caught Knobs’s 
horse in the flank, behind the left foreleg; the 
animal reared, and Knobs, already dazed with pain, 
tumbled from its back to the stone. 
The desert air was full of shouts and screams 
now, as the rest of the caravan became aware of the 
attack; some wagons stopped, but others turned out 
of line and kept moving in various directions. Some 
were trying to loop around and turn back, away 
from the ambush; others seemed to be trying to 
charge forward. 
One of the other horsemen was approaching at a

gallop, and Arlian had to dodge aside to avoid being 
trampled. 
A fifth arrow missed the galloping horse’s face by 
inches, and it veered aside; its master struggled 
with the reins and spurs, trying to regain control. 
Knobs’s mount, wounded, was galloping off 
across the stony ground, its saddle empty. 
Arlian now knew where the archer was, though; 
he had seen the last arrow emerge, as if from the 
earth itself. Their attacker was hiding in one of the 
waterholes, popping up only long enough to aim 
and loose. 
A moment later he and Black knelt over opposite 
sides of the yard-wide opening, peering down into 
the darkness, ready to kill the archer if he dared rise 
to fire again. 
He didn’t. 
“Get a lantern,” Black ordered. 
“Quickhand!” Arlian shouted. “A lantern! Now!” 
Quickhand had been helping Knobs to his feet; 
still supporting the injured man, he turned and 
bellowed, “Somebody get a light, blast you all!” 
A moment later Stabber hurried over, lamp in 
hand. 
Black and Arlian looked at each other. 
“He could be waiting for us,” Black said. 
“I know,” Arlian replied. “Give me the lamp.” 
Stabber obeyed after only the briefest glance at 
Black. Arlian got down flat on his belly on the hot 
stone and crept toward the opening, sword in one 
hand and lamp in the other, until he was close 
enough to lower the light down into the hollow in 
the stone. 
Nothing happened, and he saw nothing but bare 
stone. He crept closer, until he could lean down and 
stick his head down into the cave.

He found no one—but it was obvious that 
someone had been here. The hole in the stone was 
roughly spherical, and about fifteen feet in 
diameter; it smelled unmistakably of human sweat 
and urine. In the center was a rough wooden 
platform, perhaps ten feet high, with a ladder up 
one side—plainly, the now vanished archer had 
stood atop this to fire at the approaching caravan. 
But the platform was by no means the only 
man-made object in the cave. Looking past it Arlian 
saw a bedroll lying open on the stony floor to one 
side of the platform’s base, a blanket bunched at 
one end; an empty wineskin lay beside it, and an 
earthenware mug atop the wineskin. Half a dozen 
candle stubs were perched on irregularities in the 
cave walls, and the stone above each was streaked 
with smoke stains, and half a dozen more were set 
on the framework supporting the platform. Orange 
rinds and crumbs of bread and cheese were 
scattered everywhere. Even a chamberpot stood in 
one corner—all the comforts of home, Arlian 
thought. 
He peered a bit more intently into the gloom, and 
noticed something he hadn’t seen at first—two of 
those black arrows were thrust point-down into the 
chamberpot. He grimaced in disgust; that was a 
nasty touch! 
It was no mystery where the archer had gone; a 
wide opening gaped in the south wall of the little 
cave, about six feet high and three feet wide—and 
Arlian, after seven years in the mines, knew at a 
glance that that opening was not natural. 
“There’s a tunnel,” he called. “He’s gotten away.” 
“Can’t you go down after him?” Stabber asked. 
Arlian lifted his head back out, and had to squint 
against the sunlight; he momentarily regretted 
leaving his hat in the wagon. He glanced at Stabber, 
then at Black. 
“He knows the tunnel and we don’t,” Arlian said.

“He can hear us coming, and his eyes will be better 
adjusted to the darkness. And he may have friends 
down there—he didn’t cut that tunnel 
single-handed.” 
Black nodded. “It would be suicide,” he agreed. 
“We can cover the opening, though,” Arlian said. 
“With what?” Stabber asked. 
“Anything,” Arlian said. He happened to look 
between the wagons and glimpse Knobs’s horse just 
then; it was out on the sand, weaving unsteadily, 
head bobbing up and down, the arrow still 
projecting from its flank. “A dead horse, maybe.” 
Stabber followed his gaze. “She’s not dead,” he 
protested. 
“Not yet,” Arlian said. 
“She’s not going to be! We can fix her up well 
enough.” 
Arlian opened his mouth, intending to describe 
the contents of the chamberpot in the cave, then 
saw the expression on Stabber’s face and thought 
better of it. 
“Some junk, then,” Arlian said. “An unused chest, 
maybe.” He peered back down the hole. “And we’ll 
want to wreck that platform, while we’re at it:” 
In the end, Arlian was lowered down into the 
cave with a rope about his chest, ready to be 
snatched back up if anyone emerged from the 
tunnel. He collected the bedroll, blanket, and 
wineskin, snapped the two arrows in half, then 
flung the contents of the chamberpot—he judged it 
as at least two days’ accumulation—as far down the 
tunnel as he could. 
Then, with the aid of ropes and several willing 
helpers, he disassembled the platform and 
framework and hauled the pieces out of the cave. 
Once out, he and the others rebuilt the platform 
over the opening, sealing it up.

While he had been doing this, others had 
captured the wounded mare and had tended to her 
injuries. Knobs, too, had been carefully ministered 
to.
For Knobs, the shaft was broken off short and 
pulled out through the back of his shoulder to 
minimize the damage the barbed head would cause. 
For the unfortunate horse no such method was 
possible; the barbs had to be cut out of the animal’s 
flank. She screamed and reared wildly as this 
operation was performed, despite the efforts of a 
dozen men restraining her. 
“It’s all no good,” Arlian told Black quietly when 
he had emerged from the cave and had seen what 
had been done. “The arrows were poisoned.” 
The two men were walking beside the caravan, 
seeing that all the wagons were back in line. “You’re 
sure?” 
Arian felt ill as he nodded. “Smell them,” he said. 
“You’ll probably be able to tell.” 
As it happened, the arrow that had glanced off 
one of the wagons lay on the stone not far from 
where they were walking; Black stooped and 
retrieved it. He held it gingerly as he sniffed the 
head. 
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Simple, but probably 
effective in the long run.” 
Arlian nodded again. “Slow, though.” 
“Knobs is a strong man,” Black said as he tossed 
the arrow aside. “He may survive it.” 
“I hope so,” Arlian said. He swallowed, sickened 
by the memory of that shaft through Knobs’s 
shoulder and the spreading stain on his shirt. They 
took another few steps, and then he added, “I take it 
we can expect more of this.” 
“Maybe,” Black said. “I don’t know; I’ve never 
heard of anything like it. Tunnels through the 
stone?”

“Then it’s not the usual method?” 
“Not at all. Usually there’s no trouble at all until 
the wagons start down the slope at the southern 
rim; then you’ll have rock slides, deadfalls, anything 
they can do to slow us down, maybe cripple a wagon 
so it has to be left behind.” He looked thoughtfully 
at the nearest wagon, a gaudy red-painted 
construction trimmed with gilt. “It’s almost as if 
they want us to turn back.” 
“But we can’t,” Arlian protested. “There’s no 
water— not if we follow the same route. We used it 
all.” 
“I know,” Black said. “And they probably know it, 
too. So they know we won’t turn back, but they’re 
trying to discourage us.” 
“To convince us to surrender without a fight?” 
“Probably,” Black said. “He aimed for a 
horseman—he was after guards, not merchants.” 
“And the poison… that’s to slow us down, too. 
Burden us with sick companions.” 
Black nodded. They were nearing the rear of the 
caravan. “I think a few words with the masters are 
in order,” he said. 
“I’ll come with you,” Arlian said. 
Black put a hand on Arlian’s chest to stop him. 
“You’re not a guard yet,” he said. “You’re a 
merchant, and a very junior one.” 
“My wagon’s at the front of the caravan,” Arlian 
said. “I think I have a right to express my concerns 
to the masters.” 
Black looked him in the eye, then shrugged. 
“Have it your way,” he said, dropping his hand. 
22

The Bandits Strike 
The caravan finally began moving again around 
the middle of the afternoon, inching forward 
cautiously. People who had previously walked 
alongside, chatting easily with one another, now 
huddled in their wagons; the two remaining 
horsemen did not continue their regular trots up 
and down the caravan’s length, but instead dodged 
about, scouting for sinkholes or other hazards and 
staying much farther from the wagons than the 
norm. 
Everyone knew now that they had lost the first 
round of the gamble every caravan faced. Bandits 
had found them. They were walking into an 
ambush—but what choice did they have? They 
couldn’t turn back. To the west lay mile upon mile 
of empty, lifeless sand; to the east the terrain grew 
ever more rocky and broken until it ended in 
immense cliffs above the Ocean Sea, where waves 
twice the height of a man smashed relentlessly 
against the jagged stone. 
Bows were strung, oilcloth bundles of arrows 
unwrapped, swords polished, swordbreakers 
readied, helmets and breastplates donned, and 
maces brandished. 
Arlian was annoyed to discover that his hat 
would not fit over his helmet, and the helmet 
provided no shade for his eyes. After some debate 
he settled on wearing the helmet. 
As the others readied themselves, poor Knobs lay 
on his bedding in the masters’ wagon; his mare 
followed wretchedly behind, at the end of a long 
tether. Every trace of the previous evening’s 
jubilation was gone. 
They trudged on much later than usual as the 
sunlight faded in the west, in an attempt to make 
up for lost time; there would be no chance to

practice swordsmanship unless Black wanted to see 
what his pupil could do by firelight. 
Arlian scanned the horizon, shading his eyes with 
his hand, when the call to stop was finally passed 
forward from the masters. “Where do you think 
that tunnel comes out?” he asked Quickhand. 
The guard looked at him blankly. “I don’t know,” 
he said. “Does it have to come out somewhere?” 
“Well, of course…” Arlian began. 
Then he stopped. What if it didn ‘t come out 
anywhere? What if it were just long enough for the 
archer to hide in? They might have trapped him, 
had they known. 
But no—that made no sense. Who would have 
built such a trap? 
But where could the tunnel go? Not the southern 
slopes, surely; the bandits couldn’t have burrowed 
under ten or fifteen miles of stone. The archer must 
have come out somewhere not far from the 
caravan—yet they had seen no sign of him. 
Arian frowned. He didn’t like any of this. These 
bandits were being altogether too clever. 
He slept in his own wagon that night, despite the 
heat; no one was inclined to risk bedding down on 
the stone. It took him an unusually long time to 
doze off. 
He was awakened in darkness by a shout and the 
bellow of a wounded bull; he knew instantly that 
dawn had not yet come, yet he heard voices calling. 
He climbed to his feet and made his way out of the 
wagon by touch. 
The moon had risen while he slept, and its light 
was eerily bright on the sand to the west; to the east 
the occasional patches of drifted sand shone palely 
against the dark stone, and shapes were distorted 
and hard to recognize in the maze of light and 
shadow, but he could see someone running. 
Then the running figure vanished, just as two

more figures appeared, pursuing the first. 
Arlian leaped down, sword in hand. 
The two figures slowed to a walk, moving forward 
cautiously; Arlian could see that they, too, held 
drawn swords. They came to a stop near the point 
where the first had vanished and conferred 
inaudibly, then turned and headed back toward the 
caravan. 
“What happened?” Arlian called quietly. 
One figure veered toward him, and he recognized 
Black. 
“The bastard picked off two of our oxen,” the 
head guard said in disgust. “The sooner we get off 
this plateau and out of these rocks and meet these 
blackguards openly, the better I’ll like it.” 
“Another tunnel?” Arlian asked, pointing toward 
the spot where the fleeing figure had disappeared. 
“So it seems,” Black said. Then he realized who 
he was addressing. “Go back to bed, my lord,” he 
said. “We should reach the southern slopes 
tomorrow afternoon, and that’s when we can expect 
to face something more than a few arrows. You’ll 
want to be rested.” 
Arlan looked at the colorless landscape, at the 
black emptiness where the bandit had vanished. 
There was nothing useful he could do; reluctantly, 
he obeyed Black’s command. 
He awoke at dawn, as usual, and the caravan was 
rolling again before the sun had cleared the horizon. 
One ox was bandaged but mobile; another was 
dead, and was unceremoniously dumped atop the 
opening where the archer had vanished. 
The ground was sloping downward now, and 
treetops were visible in the distance—but trees 
unlike any Arlian had ever seen before, with long, 
slender trunks supporting clusters of immense 
fronds. They grew steadily nearer as the day wore 
on.

The rough stone turned gradually into something 
resembling a real road as the morning 
progressed—they were moving down a 
gravel-bedded wash between two stony ridges. The 
sand was no longer visible to the west. 
Around midday a man appeared, strangely 
dressed in a flowing robe, strolling easily across the 
gravel toward them; Black beckoned for a horseman 
to go meet this new arrival and report back. 
The rider conferred briefly with the stranger, 
then rode back to report. Arlian handed the reins to 
Quickhand, jumped down from his own wagon, and 
ran forward to hear what was said—not merely for 
his own information, but so he could pass the word 
to the other merchants while the rider reported 
directly to the masters. 
“He’s offering us safe passage,” the horseman 
explained. “For one-fourth of everything we carry.” 
Black nodded. “Go tell the masters,” he said. The 
rider saluted and rode off. 
“One-fourth?” Arlian exclaimed, shocked, still 
walking alongside the guard wagon. 
“That’s the point of those archers,” Black replied. 
“If we’d come this far unmolested we would have 
just laughed at such a demand. Now at least some 
of us will want to consider it.” 
“I won’t,” Arlian said. 
“And of course that settles it,” Black said. “I 
hadn’t realized you were the caravan master; when 
did that happen?” 
Arlian flushed, and said nothing more. Instead he 
turned and began walking back, calling out the 
news to each wagon as he passed. 
At last he came to the masters’ wagon; the side 
shutters were open, and the masters were arguing 
in the center. Knobs lay abed at the rear; two 
guards were on the rear platform, and two—one of 
them driving the oxen—on the front bench.

“I’ve passed the word,” Arlian said. 
Lord Sandal turned to look at him. “And what are 
the sentiments of our fellow merchants?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “I didn’t take 
time to ask.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t 
want to give in to extortion.” 
“That’s one,” Lady Thassa said. 
“Out of forty-two,” Lord Drens said. “It proves 
nothing.” 
“Are you proposing we take a vote?” Sandal 
demanded. 
“No, of course not,” Drens said. “But it would do 
no harm to know what the merchants think.” 
“Might I remind my lords,” Arlian said, “that my 
cargo is primarily fine weaponry. Turning 
one-fourth of it over to outlaws does not strike me 
as wise.” 
“I told you we shouldn’t have allowed him to 
bring those things!” Drens exclaimed. 
“Sometimes,” Thassa said angrily to Drens, “I 
wonder why we brought you.” 
“As the voice of caution, as I recall,” Sandal said 
wryly. 
“A role I do my best to fill,” Drens retorted, “since 
neither of you seems to have any sense of 
self-preservation!” 
Sandal sighed. “I had hoped we would be able to 
preserve the appearance of unity,” he said, “and 
present everyone with a unanimous decision. I take 
it, however, that this isn’t going to be possible.” 
“Not unless the two of you suddenly regain your 
sanity,” Drens said. “One-fourth of our goods is not 
worth my life.” 
“You put little faith in Black and his men,” 
Sandal said dryly. “Not to mention our own 
capabilities with missile and blade.”

“I know my own abilities,” Drens said. “And one 
of those abilities is the ability to die if struck 
through the heart by one of those arrows!” He 
gestured at Knobs. 
“And you seem far more able than I to trust these 
bandits to keep their word,” Thassa replied. “Why 
should they settle for a fourth, when by a simple 
betrayal they can have all? These are men who have 
already fired upon us from ambush, after all. I vote 
to refuse.” 
“As do I,” Sandal agreed. 
“Shall I tell Black?” Arlian asked. 
“That’s my job,” called a horseman. He urged his 
mount forward. 
By the time Arlian reached his own wagon Black 
and the other guards in the lead vehicle were in 
their full armor, helmets, breastplates, and mail, 
their weapons at ready. Out ahead of them the 
bandits’ representative was walking, pacing the 
advancing caravan at long bowshot. 
“Give him our reply,” Black ordered, pointing. 
Half a dozen men raised bows, and half a dozen 
arrows flew. 
“But he’s unarmed!” Arlian protested—too late. 
The outlaw fell, screaming, with an arrow in his 
thigh. 
“By all the dead gods!” Black exclaimed. “You hit 
him! Good shooting!” 
Arlian ran up alongside the lead wagon. “But he 
was just a messenger!” he called. 
“He’s a bandit,” Black said. “Besides, I just 
thought we’d scare him away—I didn’t expect a hit 
at this range!” He marveled again at the sight of the 
wounded bandit lying on the gravel, clutching his 
leg. 
“He can’t take our response back to the bandits 
now,” Arlian said.

Black turned to stare at him. “And you think 
that’s bad?” he said. “You want them to be 
warned?” 
Arlian opened his mouth, then closed it again. He 
stopped walking, letting the wagon pull away. 
Black turned to the horseman, ignoring Arlian. 
“Go see if he wants to surrender,” Black ordered. 
“And kill him if he doesn’t.” 
“Should I retrieve the arrows, if I see them?” 
Black shook his head. “You’d have to dismount. 
We’ll get them when the caravan reaches them.” 
Arlian’s own wagon came alongside him, and he 
jumped aboard. He hesitated, and then instead of 
seating himself next to Quickhand he ducked inside 
and found his helmet and mail. 
The, bandit surrendered and was lifted aboard 
the lead wagon, where Black questioned him 
intently—but quietly; Arlian could not overhear 
anything of the discussion. 
Word was passed, though. 
“They’ll attack tomorrow,” Stabber told Arlian 
and Quickhand. “He swears he doesn’t know exactly 
when, but Black says it’ll probably be right after 
dawn, before we get out of this defile into open 
country. They’ve got plans to trap us and disable the 
wagons, but this boy didn’t know any details.” 
Arlian nodded, and Stabber moved on to the next 
wagon in line. 
Quickhand sighed with relief. “Tomorrow,” he 
said. “That gives us time to prepare a little.” 
Arlian nodded—but frowned. 
When the messenger didn’t return, wouldn’t the 
bandits realize their man might have been captured 
alive? Would they really expect him to have kept his 
mouth shut? 
Arlian knew that had he been the bandit leader 
he would have had an alternate plan. He would

attack tonight. 
But Black and the others must surely have 
thought of that. 
For the next half hour they rode on in silence, but 
the thought that they were riding into a trap 
nagged relentlessly at Arlian, and finally he could 
stand it no more. He dropped to the ground and ran 
forward to catch Black’s wagon. 
Black listened calmly to Arlian’s concerns, then 
nodded. 
“You may be right,” he said. “But if they’re 
planning to trap us, then they must have set it up 
well beforehand, and I doubt it could readily be 
moved. Still, we’ll want to be very careful tonight.” 
That did very little to allay Arlian’s worries, but 
he reluctantly returned to his own wagon. He 
couldn’t tolerate doing nothing, though, so despite 
the sweltering heat he again donned his mail shirt 
and helmet. 
It was less than an hour later, while the sun still 
hung high above the western ridge, that the trap 
was sprung. 
The gravel road had turned into the bed of a 
steep-sided canyon, sloping steeply downward 
between jagged, uneven stone walls; even with 
brakes set the wagons tended to slide forward on 
the loose gravel, and the oxen were holding the 
wagons back as much as pulling them, squalling 
unhappily about it. The animals could undoubtedly 
be heard for a mile in either direction, Arlian 
thought—and perhaps that had been what allowed 
the bandits to carry out their attack with such 
perfect timing. 
Arlian had been watching his own oxen 
struggling to keep their footing, and keeping an eye 
on his wagon to make sure it wasn’t going to slide 
out of control, when he happened to catch sight of a 
rock on the canyon wall that appeared to be moving 
under its own power.

He started to say something, to call a warning or 
a question, but then the rock tumbled free and a 
rope sprang up from beneath it, snapping taut. 
More rocks tumbled, and more ropes appeared, 
and the gravel ahead of Arlian’s oxen suddenly 
showered upward as an immense net burst up from 
concealment—between Arlian and the lead wagon. 
Even as the oxen struggled to turn aside before 
plunging into this unexpected barrier, and the 
wagon slewed sideways on the gravel, Arlian saw 
what the bandits had done. Heavy ropes had been 
run up either side of the canyon, hidden behind 
outcroppings, stuffed down into crevices, or covered 
with loose stone, and on cue these ropes had been 
pulled, hard, snapping them up out of their hiding 
places. 
And these cables supported a gigantic rope mesh 
extending the entire width of the canyon; when the 
ropes were pulled the top of the net sprang up to a 
height of ten or twelve feet, while the base remained 
hidden in the gravel. This net had been completely 
buried under the loose stone of the road, impossible 
to detect until it was too late. 
On the other side of the net most of the guards 
had leaped from their wagon, which Black was 
struggling to stop; now they ran up to the net, 
blades naked in their hands. 
But on the north side, where Arlian was, bandits 
had appeared along the ridgetops, arrows nocked, 
bows raised and ready—at least a score of them, all 
in those flowing red-and-white robes. 
“Get down!” Quickhand barked, ducking back 
into the wagon. Arlian barely heard him over the 
lowing of frightened oxen and the shouting of angry 
men. 
One of the bandits was making his way carefully 
down the slope toward the caravan; he appeared to 
be shouting something, but Arlian couldn’t 
distinguish his voice over the din.

On the other side of the net Black was standing in 
the open-shuttered and now halted guard wagon, 
holding the wounded captive upright by the front of 
his shirt. 
“You lied to us, you little bastard!” Black 
bellowed, in a voice that somehow carried clearly to 
Arlian over the chaos. 
The prisoner said something in reply, but Arlian 
couldn’t hear it. 
The other guards were hacking at the huge net, 
but making little progress; the ropes were as thick 
as a man’s forearm and tarred with something that 
stuck to sword blades. That, and the springiness, 
made it almost impossible to cut through. 
Arlian jumped to the ground, sword ready. He 
refused to hide in his wagon. 
Someone farther back in the line was shouting 
for quiet, and the voices, both human and ox, were 
dying away as the caravan came to a full stop, the 
situation became clear, and the confusion began to 
fade. 
“Surrender!” the bandit on the slope called. 
“We’ll take half your goods as toll, and then you’re 
free to go!” 
“Half?” Arlian wasn’t the only one to shout that 
back angrily. 
“You have until I count ten, and then my archers 
will loose!” the bandit spokesman cried down. 
Arlian ignored him, and turned to the net. 
Trapping seven of the guards on the other side 
was clever—but not that clever. “Climb over!” Arlian 
shouted. “Two of you hold it steady for the others, 
then two steady it from this side for the last two!” 
“Do as he says!” Black called. 
“Five!” the bandit shouted. 
“Quickly!” Arlian screamed. “And dive for cover 
when you’re over! Under the wagons!”

“Eight!” 
Arlian suddenly realized that he should take his 
own advice—but if he ducked inside his wagon he 
would be trapped there, pinned down. 
He would take his chances, he resolved. Perhaps 
whatever Fate had propelled him this far from 
Obsidian and Deep Delving would protect 
him—Fate, and the armor he wore. 
“Ten! Loose!” the bandit cried—diving to the 
ground himself as he did. Bowstrings snapped, and 
a hail of arrows soared down into the canyon—but 
none fell near Arlian. 
That made sense, he realized as he watched the 
shafts rattle off wood and stone; there were perhaps 
thirty archers, at most, shooting at forty-five 
wagons—forty-four, if the lead wagon wasn’t 
included. 
The guards were still struggling with the 
net—climbing it was apparently far more difficult 
than Arlian had realized, since men on the ground 
could not steady the top few feet. “Up the slope!” 
Arlian called, waving frantically. “It’s not as high up 
there!” 
The bandits, having fired, were advancing down 
the slope as they drew fresh arrows from the quivers 
on their backs; each took two or three steps before 
nocking the next shaft, and then two or three more 
before drawing. At that rate they would reach the 
caravan after another half dozen volleys—which was 
undoubtedly the idea. 
“If we have to come down there and fight,” the 
bandit spokesman called, “we’ll show no mercy!” 
A bowstring snapped, and an arrow sailed past 
the spokesman, missing by several feet. Someone 
intended to resist, at any rate. 
Arlian thought his own bow was still somewhere 
in his wagon; he had no idea how to use it and knew 
it, so he had no intention of going back for it.

Instead he intended to use his sword—if he could 
get close enough to the bandits. 
They were moving down the slopes on either side, 
but they were also converging toward the center of 
the caravan, several wagons back from Arlian’s own 
position; he began to run and dodge up the sloping 
road, changing his direction sharply whenever he 
heard a bowstring. 
An ox bellowed as an arrow struck meat. 
The bandit strategy was becoming clearer; they 
were using the arrows to keep the merchants 
cowering in their wagons while they were collecting 
into a group that would attack the central wagons 
one by one. The guards, isolated at either end of the 
line, might be unable to reach them in time. 
Arlian wasn’t about to allow them to attack 
unhindered, though; he might be just one man, but 
he could do something. 
And he saw now that he wasn’t alone—at least 
two of the guards from the masters’ wagon were on 
the ground and moving down the road to meet the 
bandits, and one of the horsemen was charging, 
sword drawn, up the canyon side toward the 
approaching marauders. 
The bandits shouted to one another, and the next 
ragged volley of arrows was concentrated on the 
horseman; his mount suddenly stumbled and went 
down, a shaft projecting from its neck. 
One of the faster-moving bandits had reached the 
side of the caravan; he dropped his bow and pulled 
a heavy mallet from beneath his robe and ran up to 
the nearest wagon’s rear wheel, mallet swinging. 
Arlian understood that tactic well enough; the 
bandits wanted to cripple some of the wagons so 
badly that the caravan would abandon them, trade 
goods still aboard. With a wordless yell, Arlian ran 
at the hammer-wielding southerner with his sword 
raised in an overhand attack.

At the last instant the man dropped his mallet 
and turned; at the last instant the horror of what he 
was doing suddenly registered in Arlian’s mind; but 
it was too late. His sword plunged forward and 
down, into the unprotected hollow at the base of the 
bandit’s throat. His forward motion pushed the 
blade deep and thrust Arlian up against the bandit, 
so close he could smell the man’s stinking breath. 
The bandit’s eyes flew wide, his mouth sprang 
open as if to vomit, but nothing came forth but a 
sort of choking gasp. 
Then Arlian heard a sound behind him; he 
whipped his blade free and turned, and the bandit 
tumbled forward, blood spurting, to land at his 
killer’s feet. One hand slapped limply against 
Arlian’s shin. 
But another bandit was upon him, this one with 
a wooden spear in hand, and Arlian was too busy to 
think about the man at his feet. 
It was only later that he realized that for the first 
time, he had killed a man. 
He could kill if he had to. When the time came, 
he could strike Lord Dragon down. 
Somehow, that knowledge failed to cheer him. 
23 
Aftermath 
The fight was long and bloody; the caravan 
guards were outnumbered, but better armed and 
better trained. The merchants for the most part 
proved to be useless as fighters; most were unable 
even to defend themselves.

Arlian was the exception; he fought side by side 
with the guards, doing his part to even the odds. In 
the chaos of wielding sword and swordbreaker 
against spears and clubs, so completely different 
from the one-on-one sword fights of his practice 
bouts, he was unsure whether he killed anyone after 
that first assault. He knew that he drew blood many 
times, but beyond that he could not be certain just 
what effect his blows had. 
He shouted for the merchants and their families 
and hirelings to come out and fight, did everything 
he could to urge them to join in their own defense, 
but to no avail. Most remained huddled in their 
wagons and were completely useless even there. 
This was demonstrated several times by one of 
the bandits’ favorite tactics, which was for half a 
dozen men to charge into a wagon with clubs and 
spears and slaughter everyone aboard, then to use 
the wagon as a miniature fortress against the 
guards. The guards, outnumbered as they were, 
could not defend the entire long line of wagons at 
once and were unable to prevent these captures. 
It was Black who came up with the 
counter—station a man at each end of the captured 
wagon with orders to kill anyone who set foot 
outside. Two men could bottle up half a dozen 
bandits this way, and in fact roughly one-third of 
the entire raiding party was trapped in this fashion. 
Another third was killed or incapacitated. 
And the final third, realizing that their attack 
was a failure, fled up the slopes into the gathering 
night, dragging those of their wounded who were 
unable to walk. 
Some of the wounded bandits who were not 
dragged were barely able to limp away, and could 
easily have been caught and killed, but Black called 
out to let them go. “Let them be a burden to the 
others!” 
Three guards had been slain outright, as well,

and two more seriously wounded. Black took a gash 
on the side, but insisted it wasn’t serious and 
refused to relinquish his command of the caravan’s 
defenders. One horse was killed by a spear, and 
several oxen received minor injuries. 
Five merchants and their families had been 
butchered in their wagons. 
When the fight was over the guards turned their 
attention to the three wagons still occupied by 
bandits. Black stood, holding one hand to his 
injured side while his sword dangled from the 
other, staring at the first of the wagons. 
Lord Drens came up, a lantern in his hand, 
looking worried. He had already set merchants and 
drivers to repairing broken wagons and smashed 
wheels, Arlian noted with approval, and was now 
coming to attend to the remaining bandits. “I think 
we had best…” he began. 
“Shut up,” Black barked at him. “This is my 
business still, not yours.” 
Drens stopped in his tracks, shocked; he looked 
at the blood seeping through Black’s fingers, at the 
guards standing around him spattered with blood 
and dirt, their swords still in their hands, and 
decided against making any protest. “As you say,” 
he agreed. 
“What are you going to do with us?” a bandit 
called from the wagon. 
“You might as well let us go,” another added. “We 
won’t bother you again.” 
“And if you don’t, we’ll wreck everything in here!” 
a third called. 
“What do I care if you spoil someone else’s 
property?” Black bellowed in reply. “You already 
killed the owner, you murdering bastards!” 
“You can’t kill us in cold blood!” the first voice 
said. 
Several of the guards muttered in reply to that,

and Arlian knew all of them were thinking the same 
thing he was: Why not? 
But his gorge rose at the thought. He didn’t want 
any more deaths. 
“Who said anything about killing you?” Black 
called back. “We aren’t going to kill you if you come 
out peacefully, with empty hands raised above your 
heads.” 
“You’ll let us go?” 
“I didn’t say that, either—but I’ll release you, 
most of you, under certain conditions.” 
“What conditions?” 
“No, no,” Black said. “You don’t hear the 
conditions until after you surrender.” 
Utter silence fell for a moment as the bandits 
considered that; then one called, “Go feed the 
dragons!” 
“Maybe someday I will,” Black retorted, “but I 
assure you we won’t feed you.” 
“But there’s plenty of food stored in there,” Arlian 
whispered to Stabber, who stood nearby. 
“They may not know that,” Stabber whispered 
back. 
They could all hear what happened next—the 
bandits argued quietly among themselves, and then 
came the sound of a blow, and a body falling. 
“I surrender!” called a voice, and the first bandit 
came out, hands up. 
A moment later the entire wagon was empty of 
bandits; at Black’s direction each was securely 
bound. 
A similar scene was then played out at each of 
the other two disputed wagons, until ten bandits 
huddled on the ground, hands and feet tied, 
surrounded by the caravan’s guards. 
“Now,” Black said, “we will let you go, one by

one—but first we’ll make sure none of you can draw 
a bow against peaceful merchants ever again.” He 
pulled the first bandit up, and with four other 
guards holding the man securely in place and using 
a wagon’s end platform as a chopping block, he 
used an ax to amputate the man’s left hand. 
The other bandits—and Arlian—stared in horror 
as the crippled marauder screamed and the guards 
struggled to bandage the bleeding stump. 
“I hope you weren’t left-handed,” Black said. He 
raised his voice and called to the others, “Are any of 
you left-handed?” 
One man, weeping with terror, barely able to get 
the words out past his tears, said that he was. Black 
took him next, so as not to risk forgetting, and 
removed his right hand. 
Then the others, one by one, were dragged to the 
improvised chopping block. 
Black chased away any member of the caravan 
who came to either watch or protest, insisting that 
they should attend to their own affairs—including 
getting the caravan ready to move. He also sent four 
guards up the canyon walls to cut the ropes holding 
the net. 
When each bandit had been dealt with and each 
fresh stump had been bandaged, that man was 
given a push and sent scrambling as best he could 
up the side of the canyon; most collapsed, moaning 
or screaming, a few yards away. 
When the last had been shoved away Black 
turned to the ashen-faced Lord Drens and 
announced, “The threat has been dealt with, my 
lord, and we’ll have that inconvenience”—he 
gestured at the net—“out of your way shortly. Might 
I suggest that despite the darkness, we press on for 
another mile or so?” 
Arlian stared at the two men in the lamplight 
and realized that both of them were unnaturally 
pale. Drens was uninjured, so his color was surely

just from his reaction to the attack and its 
aftermath, but Arlian feared Black’s pallor was due 
to loss of blood. 
“As you say,” Lord Drens agreed. 
It took another twenty minutes to straighten out 
the mess and finish minimal repairs. The bodies of 
the dead members of the caravan were hastily 
wrapped in sheets and loaded aboard wagons; the 
bodies of dead bandits were flung out on the 
roadside. Guards took charge of the five wagons 
that no longer had living drivers. 
By the time they began rolling, with 
lantern-bearers on foot walking ahead to light the 
way, Black had collapsed into the lead wagon, 
slumped against one side, while a volunteer from 
one of the merchant families set about cleaning and 
bandaging the gash in his side. 
By the time they reached the mouth of the 
canyon, less than a mile from the site of the 
ambush, Black was unconscious. Stabber took 
charge and chose their campsite, on a level, sandy 
area by a stand of those strange southern trees. 
Arlian slept late the next morning—but so did 
almost everyone. He arose and climbed out of his 
wagon to see a new and wondrous landscape spread 
out before him. 
They had camped atop a long slope, below the 
broken cliffs that marked the southern edge of the 
Desolation. Now Arlian had a clear view down that 
slope, past groves of unfamiliar trees—not the tall 
ones bare for most of their height, but almost 
normal ones, low, spreading trees bearing orange 
fruit—to a town of yellow brick and red tile, 
gleaming in the sunshine. Green leaves and bright 
flowers were everywhere, and the air was thick with 
the sweet smell of ripe fruit. 
After the stark and ugly terrain of the Desolation, 
this lush display of beauty and color was 
overwhelming. Arlian stared wordlessly for a long

moment, drinking it in. 
“The Borderlands,” Quickhand said, appearing 
beside him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” 
Arlian nodded. “Where are we?” he asked. “What 
town is that?” 
Quickhand squinted, then shaded his eyes with 
his hand and peered at the collection of buildings at 
the foot of the slope. “I don’t know,” he admitted. 
“The Eastern Road shifts somewhat with the sands, 
and we could have come down any of at least three 
different canyons. That might be Sweetwater.” 
“The name’s in our tongue?” 
“Oh, yes,” Quickhand said. “We’re still in the 
Lands of Man. The border is at least three days 
farther south.” He pointed at the southern sky. 
“Look at the clouds.” 
Arlian looked, then closed his eyes. He rubbed 
them, then opened them again. 
It didn’t help; the clouds above the distant 
horizon were still impossible to see clearly. Arlian 
glimpsed purple and a sort of pinkish gold moving 
through gray masses, but he could not make out 
details, and after a second could no longer be sure 
he had seen what he had thought he saw. 
There were things flying through those 
clouds—not birds, nor even dragons, but vast dark 
shapes and flashes of bright color, all somehow 
indistinct, more so than mere distance could 
explain. 
“It’s magic,” Quickhand said. “You don’t want to 
study it too closely.” 
Arlian remembered how Grandsir, long ago, had 
told him that in the Borderlands one could see wild 
magic flash across the sky. He had not realized just 
how literally the old man had meant it. 
“Is it always like that?” he asked. 
“No,” Quickhand told him. “Sometimes it’s

worse, but usually there are just clouds.” He smiled 
crookedly. “It’s never entirely clear, though.” He 
pointed to the spot where the clouds were thickest. 
“I’m told there’s something down there that doesn’t 
like the sun, and has the power to do something 
about it.” 
Arlian glanced to the east, at the golden southern 
sun, and asked, “If it doesn’t like the sun, why does 
it live here, instead of in the north?” 
“Because the dragons drove it from the north, 
thousands of years ago,” Quickhand replied. 
“But the dragons are gone,” Arlan said. He 
grimaced. “Mostly,” he added. 
Quickhand said, “Maybe it hasn’t noticed that 
yet.” 
“What is it?” Arlian asked. 
Quickhand shrugged. “I don’t know. It lives in 
Tirikindaro, and the people there are its slaves—and 
now you know as much about it is as I do.” 
“Does it have a name?” 
“Not that anyone dares speak aloud—unless its 
name is Tirikindaro. Really, my lord, that’s all I 
know.” 
Arlian nodded, and after staring a moment 
longer turned his attention back to the town. “And 
that’s Sweetwater? We should be there by midday, I 
think.” 
“It might be Sweetwater,” Quickhand corrected 
him. “I’m not sure. But yes, I’d say we can be there 
by midday.” 
Arlian leaned to the side and peered back at the 
other wagons. “Is there a market?” he asked. 
“If it’s Sweetwater or Orange River there is.” 
“So we’ve reached our destination? We’ll be 
trading everything here?” 
Quickhand shook his head. “No, my lord. It’s just 
another way station, like Stonebreak or Cork Tree.”

He pointed at the horizon. “It’s down there, at the 
border or beyond, that the real money is made. 
Around here… well, we’re still in the Lands of Man, 
even if we are past the Desolation.” 
Arlian considered that. 
Quickhand hesitated, then added, “By the way, 
my lord—don’t be surprised if you see some 
one-handed farmers in the orange groves, or if you 
meet one-handed townspeople with the bandages 
still fresh.” 
Arlian turned to stare at him. 
“Well, where did you think those bandits came 
from? You can’t really make a living off banditry,” 
Quickhand said. “Not the sort you’d rely on to keep 
a family. It’s a sideline, a risky way for the rowdy 
young men in the area to take a chance on maybe 
getting rich.” 
“But they’d come openly into the town while 
we’re still there?” 
“Why not? What are we going to do? If we try to 
accuse them, who do you think the locals will side 
with—the rich strangers, or their own friends and 
neighbors?” 
“But… but how can we trust anyone here, then?” 
Quickhand shrugged. “We can’t, really. But they 
don’t want to drive us off entirely; they don’t want 
the caravans to stop coming, and they don’t want to 
anger the lords in Manfort enough to send an army 
down here. They won’t bother us in the towns or on 
the main roads; it’s only in the badlands that they’ll 
try to steal everything we have.” 
“But last night we were fighting them,” Arlian 
protested, trying to grasp the situation. “We were 
fighting to the death! I killed one of them!” 
“I wouldn’t say anything about that in town if I 
were you. You might be talking to one of his 
relatives.” 
Arlian blinked in amazement. “It’s insane!”

“It’s the way it is.” Quickhand hesitated, then 
added, “I did have another reason for mentioning 
this.” 
“My cargo,” Arlian said. 
Quickhand nodded. “This wouldn’t be the best 
place to sell it,” he said. 
Arlian looked at the open-sided wagon ahead 
where Black lay, still unconscious. Sell swords and 
daggers to the men who had wounded him, the men 
who had killed three of the guards and slaughtered 
five merchants? 
In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he 
wanted to sell those blades anywhere in the 
Borderlands. He wished the masters had brought 
this up back in Manfort, when they had tried to 
convince him to carry a more conventional cargo. 
“I agree,” he said. “I agree entirely.” 
24 
The Borderlands 
The town was indeed Sweetwater. While most of 
the merchants traded with the townsfolk, the three 
masters debated what route to take from here. 
With Black in no condition to move, let alone 
fight, Arlian was concerned that the masters might 
be excessively timid—or might do something 
foolish. Leaving his own wagon securely closed, 
locked, and guarded, Arlian tried to eavesdrop on 
the masters’ conversation, but with limited success. 
The shutters of their wagon were closed, and guards 
were posted, so that he could not put his ear right 
to the side. 
But their words were audible through the cracks, 
all the same. Arlian had always had good ears, and

now he put them to use. 
“Tirikindaro does not appear safe at present,” 
Lord Sandal admitted, even before Lord Drens 
could bring up the question. “We might wait it out, 
or we might head east to Pon Ashti.” 
“The Blue Mage is said to be unusally quiet just 
now, though,” Lady Thassa pointed out. “If the 
other powers are quiet as well, there are any 
number of possibilities. Even the road to Arithei 
might be open.” 
Arlian, who had been slouched comfortably 
against one of the strange trees he now knew were 
called “palms,” jerked upright at that. His hand fell 
to the pouch he still carried on his belt, the pouch 
that held Hathet’s purple stones. He had thought of 
the possibility that the caravan might try for 
Arithei, but had decided it was too much to hope 
for.
The next thing he heard confirmed that. 
“Arithei?” Lord Drens protested. “Are you mad?” 
“Optimistic, perhaps, but scarcely mad,” Thassa 
replied. “Travelers have made the passage 
sometimes—I met the Aritheian ambassador at one 
of the Duke’s banquets a few years back, and he 
assured me the hazards are exaggerated—real, but 
exaggerated. He seemed eager for trade.” 
“The old road is closed,” Drens said. “The native 
guides no longer venture into the Borderlands. 
Sahasin came through before that happened, and I 
doubt he’s been home since—he’s as much an exile 
as an ambassador.” 
“That wasn’t my impression,” Thassa said. Before 
Drens could argue further, she admitted, “But it 
was years ago that we spoke.” 
“Arithei lies beyond the Dreaming Mountains,” 
Drens said, “and I have no intention of crossing that 
range without a known route and a magician as 
escort. You may not be mad now, but you most

likely would be by the time you returned thence.” 
“Arithei is too risky for me,” Lord Sandal agreed. 
“Why do we need to cross the border at all?” 
Drens asked, his tone wheedling. “Why not simply 
work our way along the border towns, and leave the 
realms beyond alone?” 
“Because beyond the border is where the real 
wealth lies,” Sandal replied. “You know that as well 
as we do— beyond the border we can trade for 
magic, real magic, magic you can’t get anywhere in 
the Lands of Man. Why else come here?” 
“For the exotic fruits and strange wines and rare 
woods, the sapphires and emeralds, the bright 
dyes,” Drens replied. “We have our own sorceries 
back in Manfort; why should we meddle with the 
unnatural forces beyond the border?” 
Sandal and Thassa exchanged glances. “Our little 
sorceries are hardly the same as southern magic,” 
Thassa said. 
“Perhaps we should split up,” Sandal suggested. 
“I have no wish to drag Lord Drens places he’d 
rather not go.” 
“Divide the caravan?” Drens said, shocked. 
“Only temporarily,” Sandal assured him. “We 
would regroup here in Sweetwater in, say, two 
months’ time, and head north together. I’ve no 
more desire to go up that canyon into the 
Desolation without sufficient numbers than you 
do—maybe those men can’t draw bows anymore, 
but they probably have cousins eager for revenge.” 
“What would we do for wagons?” Drens asked. 
“We share this one.” 
“We have six left unmanned,” Sandal pointed 
out. “By contract those are ours, to dispose of as we 
see fit, once the goods within have been dealt with.” 
Drens nodded thoughtfully. 
“Is it safe enough even here in the Borderlands?”

Thassa asked. “After all, we’ve lost almost half our 
guards, either dead or wounded.” 
“I’d say so,” Sandal said. “After all, divided even 
three ways, if we each take a different route, we’d 
still have more than a dozen wagons apiece. We can 
hire locals as guards.” 
“I wouldn’t trust locals as guards,” Drens said. 
“But I don’t expect any trouble so long as I stay in 
the border towns.” He nodded. “If you two are 
determined to cross the border, and the merchants 
are willing, then we’ll split up.” 
Thus it was settled, and the word was passed to 
the merchants. That evening the destinations were 
announced— Lord Drens would proceed to the 
southwest and visit the border towns from Redgate 
to Skok’s Fall; Lord Sandal would head east to Pon 
Ashti, then return— by way of Tirikindaro, 
conditions permitting. The wounded and ill, or 
those too timid to venture further, could stay in 
Sweetwater; accommodations were being arranged. 
And Lady Thassa would venture south, to the 
foothills of the Dreaming Mountains, choosing her 
exact course only when she knew more of the 
situation beyond the border. 
“To Arithei?” Arlian called. 
Lady Thassa shook her head. “No,” she said. 
“Without a full complement of guards, or a hired 
magician, that’s too dangerous.” 
Arlian did not argue—but he also did not give up. 
After overhearing the masters’ plans he had spent 
the rest of the day talking to the townspeople, 
inquiring about Arithei. He had no way of knowing 
how much was exaggeration, how much outright 
lies, but there were certain points of universal 
agreement. 
Arithei lay to the southeast, but to reach it one 
first had to head southwest, as the only road circled 
around the west of Tirikindaro before turning 
eastward across the Dreaming Mountains. The

hazards along the way were trivial— the road 
avoided the various magical demesnes—until 
reaching the mountains. 
The Dreaming Mountains, however, were 
haunted, awash in magic—not the feeble controlled 
and regulated magic of the northern sorcerers, or 
the limited spells of the human magicians to the 
south, or the personal power of the godlings and 
spirits like the one that ruled Tirikindaro, but feral, 
chaotic magic.There were things dwelling in those 
mountains, things both tangible and intangible. 
Most people who dared climb those slopes simply 
vanished; a few returned safely, usually with tales of 
narrow escapes and horrendous nightmares. A 
handful came back dazed or insane, either babbling 
wildly or unable to speak, and of these, about half 
eventually returned to their senses. 
All of them, if they could speak at all, talked 
about dreams. 
Arlian did not fear dreams. As for monsters and 
ghosts and magic, he had his sword, and magical 
things were said to fear cold iron; he had silver, and 
the dead were said to fear silver. 
He stared at the southern horizon, thinking. 
Hathet had said that Arithei was a land of 
magicians, that the people there had to use magic 
simply to survive in that land. 
Magic was precious and rare in the Lands of 
Man, as Arlian had overheard Sandal say. If he 
wanted to trade his swords and daggers for 
something that would be valuable back in Manfort, 
he could scarcely do better than to go to Arithei and 
buy magic with them. 
He didn’t know enough about magic to guess 
what form that magic might take, but there would 
be time for that in Arithei—if he got there. 
Magic would bring him wealth and power back 
in Manfort. It would help even the balance between 
Lord Dragon and himself. It might even provide a

means to strike at the dragons themselves; after all, 
while the dragons had kept the wild southern magic 
out of the Lands of Man, the wild southern magic 
seemed to have kept the dragons out of Arithei, as 
well. 
And Hathet—if he had told the truth, then his 
family was somewhere in Arithei, unaware of what 
had befallen him. 
Arlian still had the bag of amethysts—one 
hundred and sixty-eight of them. If Hathet had told 
the truth, and they had some protective magic, 
those might be worth more in Arithei than the 
swords were! 
Arlian had doubted that Arithei existed; it did. 
He had doubted that there was any Aritheian 
ambassador to the Lands of Man, but Lady Thassa 
and Lord Drens had met one. He had doubted that 
the southern lands were as magical as Hathet said, 
but he could see the magic in the southern skies for 
himself. Perhaps everything Hathet had said was 
true, no matter how absurd it had sounded. 
Arlian owed that old man a debt, and he wanted 
to pay it. Here was an opportunity to do that. If 
Hathet had told the truth about his origins, then 
Arlian could go to Arithei and tell Hathet’s family 
what had become of him, and give them the 
amethysts. The stones were theirs, by right, as 
Hathet’s own blood, and not his. 
Lady Thassa was heading in the right direction, 
but would not cross the Dreaming Mountains. 
Arlian could not stand the idea of coming so very 
close, and then turning back. He owed it to Hathet 
at least to try to reach Arithei. 
The road had been closed for years, too 
dangerous for passage—everyone agreed on that. 
But had they tried it? 
Arlian resolved to head for Arithei—on his own, if 
he had to. Aside from his debt to Hathet, he wanted 
to sell his weapons where they would not fall into

bandits’ hands. 
“Only a madman would attempt it without a 
guide and magicians and guards,” Lady Thassa told 
him when he asked her to reconsider. 
“I’m going, whether with you or alone,” Arlian 
said. 
She shrugged. “Then you’re mad, and I’ll have no 
part of it. But you’re free to do as you choose.” 
When she had gone Arlian sat thoughtfully for 
some time, considering the situation. 
Thassa wouldn’t attempt the Dreaming 
Mountains without a full complement of guards, 
but Arlian thought he would do better traveling 
alone; he might be able to hide from the worst 
dangers, and what good would guards be against 
magic? 
He talked to Quickhand about his plans, as the 
two of them inspected his wagon for any damage 
that might need attention. 
The guardsman looked troubled. “I don’t want to 
go to Arithei,” he said. “I’ve no business there.” 
“I’m not asking you to accompany me if you don’t 
want to,” Arlian said. “I can drive and tend oxen 
well enough now.” 
“The masters pay me to guard the caravan, my 
lord; if you leave the caravan, you leave me.” 
“Fair enough,” Arlian said. 
Quickhand hesitated, then said, “I think you’re 
making a mistake, Lord Ari.” 
“I’m sure you do,” Arlian said. “And maybe I 
am—but I have business in Arithei.” Hathet had 
made his early years in the mines bearable, had 
taught him so much—the best he could do toward 
repaying the old man was to go to Arithei. 
And the possibility that he might turn his 
wagonload of weapons into a fortune did nothing to 
discourage him.

“I wish you’d talk to Black before you go.” 
“He’s ill,” Arlian said. “I won’t trouble him.” 
More accurately, he feared that if anyone could 
talk him out of going, it would be Black, and he 
didn’t want to risk it. Instead he devoted himself to 
preparing for the journey. 
He had only three oxen left to draw his wagon, 
which left too small a margin of error; he hastily 
used a part of his share from the six dead 
merchants to buy a fourth. 
The following day at dawn, as the three masters 
sorted out the wagons, Arlian set his four oxen, new 
and old together, on the road south. He rode alone; 
Quickhand was traveling with Lord Sandal. 
The journey was uneventful at first, but Arlian 
knew, four days later, that he had crossed the 
border and left the Lands of Man behind; the wind, 
which had been blowing hard from the west for 
more than a day, no longer howled but laughed. The 
sky above was streaked with orange even at midday. 
He glimpsed things from the corner of his eye, but 
when he turned to look at them they were gone. 
It was strange and unsettling, but he saw no real 
danger in any of it, and pressed on. 
The worst part, at that point, was the tedium of 
traveling alone. The oxen moved so slowly that the 
scenery did not change quickly enough to be 
interesting, and he had no one to speak to. He met 
travelers on the road occasionally, and for the first 
few days he often passed farms and villages, but he 
made camp alone each night, sleeping in the wagon, 
rather than finding lodging; he did not trust these 
people. 
When he did speak to someone—at wells or 
village markets, when he stopped for 
provisions—the conversations were hardly 
satisfying; the southerners spoke with strange 
accents that made it hard to follow their words, and 
seemed wary of him.

That was hardly surprising; they were 
brown-skinned and dressed in loose multicolored 
robes, while his skin, even after his travels, 
remained relatively pale, and he wore a white shirt, 
tight blue breeches, and a broad-brimmed black 
hat. 
They gave him directions when asked, though, 
and assured him that he was still on the right road. 
Since he had seen no other routes he had been fairly 
sure of this, but confirmation was welcome. 
The road was overgrown in places, clearly used 
little, if at all, in recent years, but he was able to 
follow it well enough. 
A week after he crossed the border, one foggy 
evening when he was onto the lower slopes of the 
central ridge of the Dreaming Mountains and had 
not seen another human face for two days, the first 
attack came. He was making camp for the night 
when something black and shapeless leaped at him 
out of the darkness. 
He saw it coming from the corner of his eye, and 
dodged, diving to one side. He drew his sword as it 
wheeled and came at him again; he never saw it 
clearly in the mist and gathering gloom, but had a 
vague impression of great smothering arms, 
gleaming fangs, and a black, furry chest. He thrust, 
plunging his blade into it. 
It burst and melted away at the touch of steel, 
leaving nothing but a wet smell and a damp smear 
on the ground. 
Arlian stared into the night, astonished at the 
ease with which he had defeated the thing. 
“That can’t be the sort of monster that everyone’s 
scared of,” he said aloud. 
The wind laughed derisively overhead, and he 
looked around uncomfortably. The monster had 
been absurdly easy to destroy—if it was really 
destroyed—but he had been awake, with his sword 
on his belt. What if another attacked while he slept?

He had no one to stand guard; the best he could 
hope for would be that the oxen would be disturbed 
and awaken him with their bellowing. 
He didn’t have much choice at this point, though. 
He slept in the wagon with his sword by his hand, 
and was awakened from uneasy dreams once that 
night—not by the oxen, but by a slithering sound 
close by. He slashed at it, but didn’t hit anything so 
far as he could tell. 
For the rest of his journey he never had a good 
night’s sleep. The nightmares he had anticipated 
never came; his dreams were never worse than 
vaguely disturbing. Strange sounds and sudden 
attacks became commonplace, though, and not all 
monsters were as readily defeated as that first one. 
Cold steel did indeed repel some, or destroy them by 
its mere touch, but others had to be fought and 
butchered as if they were common beasts, rather 
than magical horrors. 
That they were magical horrors Arlian had little 
doubt, given that many changed shape or vanished 
when slain. The worst in that regard was the 
poisonous spider-creature that became a girl of 
twelve or thirteen when he beheaded it; Arlian was 
ill after that, and wept intermittently for the next 
few days whenever her dead face returned to his 
thoughts. 
The hardest to kill were the venomous black 
rat-things, simply because of their size and 
numbers; they left only glowing bones that dissolved 
when the sun rose. 
He considered turning back—but he had already 
come so far! He decided to keep going. 
The condition of the road continued to 
deteriorate; now and then he had to stop and hack 
down a sapling that had sprung up between the two 
faint ruts, and the oxen grew accustomed to simply 
trampling anything smaller. 
On the eighteenth night after leaving Sweetwater

something got one of the oxen. Arlian never saw it, 
nor heard it, nor knew what it was, but when he 
arose the next morning he found nothing but the 
ox’s empty skin wrapped around dry bones; the 
flesh and blood had been sucked out through half a 
dozen gashes. 
The three remaining oxen were terrified but 
unharmed, and Arlian pressed on; he was now 
descending the southern slopes of the Dreaming 
Mountains, far past the point where turning back 
would make any sense. 
That was the last serious threat, however; the 
following two nights were troubled only by sounds, 
fleeting apparitions, and something large that 
moved invisibly but audibly through his camp, 
extinguishing the fire and tarnishing the brass 
wagon fittings as it passed. The quality of the road 
seemed to be improving again, as well—he no longer 
had occasion to stop and poke through the 
underbrush to find the faded traces when the way 
was unclear, but could simply follow the obvious 
path. 
Two days later his wagon rolled through black 
iron gates into the first Aritheian village, where the 
natives greeted his arrival with astonishment and 
delight. Children ran shrieking and pointing 
alongside; adults gaped openly as he passed. 
He had developed a very definite set of priorities 
in his travels; he ignored the attention until he had 
stopped at the trough in the village square and 
watered his surviving oxen. The villagers kept a 
respectful distance as they stood and stared at him, 
whispering to one another. 
Once the oxen were drinking, Arlian turned to 
look at his new hosts. 
They were dressed strangely, all of them, men, 
women, and children in short, loose gowns dyed in 
bright colors— not the flowing pale robes of the 
Borderlands, but abbreviated garments in much

more intense hues. Their legs were bare, their feet 
sandalled. He realized that his white blouse, blue 
breeches, and broad-brimmed black hat must look 
as peculiar to them as their garb did to him; no 
wonder they stared! Had someone walked into 
Obsidian robed, in scarlet, yellow, and parrot green 
when he was a boy, he would have stared just as 
rudely—and in fact, except for staring, these people 
were being quite polite. No one had shouted at him 
or tried to touch him, his wagon, or his oxen. 
That was promising. 
He could not make out a word anyone said, 
however, which was not quite so encouraging. 
“Excuse me,” he called. “Does anyone speak my 
language?” 
No one replied. A few of the villagers exchanged 
unintelligible words among themselves; two or 
three men slipped away, presumably tiring of the 
spectacle. 
He shrugged, and returned to tending his oxen. 
Half an hour later the interpreter arrived. 
25 
Arithei 
Arithei, the interpreter, was a young man—older 
than Arlian himself, by at least a year or two, but 
far less sure of himself. Although he appeared to 
speak Arlian’s native tongue fluently it took some 
time before Arlian was able to make his intentions 
clear. 
“I have come to Arithei to find the family of a 
man named Hathet,” Arlian repeated, as the two of

them stood by the trough where Arlian’s oxen were 
placidly drinking. 
“I know of no one named Hathet in the House of 
Slihar,” the interpreter said. 
That was an improvement over his first two 
replies, but still not very satisfactory. Did that mean 
that Hathet had been lying after all, and had not 
come from Arithei? Or did it mean that this 
interpreter was too young to remember the old 
man? Or did it merely mean that there was still 
some sort of confusion about what Arlian wanted? 
Arlian sighed and looked around at the crowd 
surrounding them, wishing somebody else here 
could speak Man’s Tongue. Evidently no one else 
did, and he had to make do with what he had. 
“What is the House of Slihar?” he asked. “Is that the 
name of this town?” 
“No, no,” the interpreter said. “This town is 
Ilusali. Slihar is a House. A… a family of families.” 
“And there are other Houses?” 
“Yes, yes. Eleven Houses. Slihar and ten more.” 
The interpreter tapped his orange-robed chest. “I 
am Meriei, of the House of Slihar.” 
“Then perhaps Hathet belonged to one of the 
other Houses,” Arlian suggested. “Or to no House at 
all—does everyone belong to a House?” 
“Everyone belongs to a House,” the interpreter 
agreed. “It is the House of Slihar that traded with 
the lands beyond the mountains. This is why I know 
your tongue.” 
“And no other House has ever sent anyone to 
Manfort?” 
Meriei was clearly struggling with the unfamiliar 
language—he knew it, but Arlian suspected he had 
had little use for it until now. “It is the House of 
Slihar that traded with the lands beyond the 
mountains,” the interpreter repeated. 
“Hathet was not a trader,” Arlian said.

The interpreter merely looked more confused 
than ever. 
Arlian could stand it no longer. “Take me to 
someone from another House,” he said. “I’ve come 
to find Hathet’s family, whether it’s Slihar or not.” 
“It is the House of Slihar that trades with people 
from beyond the mountains!” Meriei insisted. 
“I am not trading!” Arlian shouted. “I’m looking 
for Hathet’s family!” Meriei looked at the wagon. He 
said nothing, but his expression was plain enough. 
“Trade later,” Arlian said. “After I find Hathet’s 
family, and not until then!” 
“You do not trade with Hathet?” 
Arlian started to explain that Hathet was dead, 
but then bit the sentence off before the first word 
was out of his mouth. “I do not trade with Hathet,” 
he agreed. “I seek Hathet’s family, but not to trade.” 
“When you are done, you trade with the House of 
Slihar?” 
“Maybe,” Arlian said. 
The interpreter hesitated, then shrugged. “We 
must go to Theyani to find all eleven Houses,” he 
said. “Only six Houses are in Ilusali.” 
Arlian frowned—why not start with those six? 
“What is Theyani?” he asked. 
“It is…” The interpreter struggled, obviously 
looking for the right word. “It is the chief city. The 
center of Arithei.” 
“Ah!” That sounded promising; after all, if 
Hathet had been sent as an ambassador for all of 
Arithei, he had presumably come from the capital. 
“Yes,” Arlian said. “Take me to Theyani.” 
The interpreter looked at the sky; the sun was 
brushing the mountaintops to the west. 
“Tomorrow?” he asked. 
“Tomorrow,” Arlian agreed.

The interpreter smiled. “Can we both ride?” he 
asked, pointing at Arlian’s wagon. 
“Of course.” 
“And tonight…” 
“Tonight I’ll stay right here,” Arlian said. 
The interpreter bowed deeply in 
acknowledgment. “I will see you in the morning,” he 
said. 
Arlian bowed in response, and the interpreter 
turned away. 
Arlian clambered back into his wagon, and 
settled himself comfortably. The village of Ilusali 
might well have an inn, but if it did he had not 
recognized it, and attempting to deal with an 
innkeeper without speaking his language was more 
than Arlian cared to handle—he was exhausted 
from his journey over the mountains and his 
awkward conversation with Meriei. Sleeping in his 
familiar wagon would be fine. 
At least here he wouldn’t need to worry about 
magical monsters. The worst he would expect here 
would be human thieves, and even those seemed 
unlikely. He looked out at the villagers who stood on 
all sides, staring. 
If they stayed there he wouldn’t need to worry 
about thieves at all, since he’d have half a hundred 
witnesses to any attempted depredations. He 
sighed, and leaned back against one side of the 
wagon, thinking and planning. 
Some of the villagers were still gawking when, 
hours later, he blew out his lamp and retired for the 
night. 
The village square was deserted when he awoke 
the next morning—apparently even the most 
determined gawkers had eventually grown bored— 
but it filled quickly as the sun climbed the eastern 
sky, and he and Meriei had an audience of dozens 
when the wagon finally rolled southward, out

another iron gate onto the road to Theyani. 
The entire length of that road was lined with iron 
posts—not an actual fence, but isolated posts, one 
every hundred feet or so, each one the height of a 
man and as thick as Arlian’s forearm. Each shaft 
was plain, but the top of each post was wrought 
into fantastical shapes—bizarre faces, wings, talons, 
or blossoms, seemingly at random. Arlian pointed 
one out to Meriei and asked, “What are those?” 
“Ditiae,” Meriei replied. “They keep away evil 
magic.” 
Arlian looked around at the surrounding 
countryside. The air overhead rippled with strange 
colors; to either side of the highway shadows moved 
in impossible ways. Orange trees bent and twisted 
in various directions, as if they were struggling 
beasts. He could hear whisperings and rustlings 
that did not sound like wind blowing through leaves 
or grass, no matter how much he wished they 
would, and strange smells, like hot metal one 
moment and heavy perfume the next, reached his 
nose. This land wasn’t as fierce or wild as what he 
had seen in the mountains, but it was still a hostile, 
unnatural place. 
Keeping away magic seemed like a very good 
idea, and the iron posts seemed to work. The bare 
yellow dirt of the road stayed in place, retained its 
natural color, and produced no sounds except the 
occasional crunch of hooves or wheels on pebbles. 
He tried to converse with Meriei after that, to 
pass the time and to distract them both from their 
eerie surroundings, but every attempt to discuss 
anything more complex than the weather quickly 
broke down in confusion. Eventually Arlian gave up, 
and they rode in silence. 
At each human habitation they passed people 
stopped what they were doing and stared at the 
strange wagon and its foreign driver. It was quite 
obvious that regardless of what the House of Slihar

might claim, no one had traded with the north for 
some time—or at least, Arlian corrected himself, no 
foreigners had come to Arithei; Aritheians might 
have ventured into the outside world. 
Arlian had expected the journey from Ilusali to 
Theyani to take several days; accustomed to his 
vastly more spacious homeland, he had badly 
misjudged the size of the crowded little land of 
Arithei. They arrived at the ornately worked gates 
of the capital while the sun was still high in the 
west. 
These gates were iron, of course, and part of a 
black iron wall surrounding the city. At a shout 
from Meriei the gates swung open, and Arlian’s 
oxen plodded unhindered onto the pavement 
beyond. 
The city was tiny compared to Manfort, but still 
larger than any other town Arlian had seen, with 
several large, fine buildings, most of them 
constructed of white or yellow stone with black iron 
fittings—iron gutters, iron shutters, and so on. Long 
streaks of rust stained most of the walls. The streets 
were of brown brick, but so covered in yellow dust 
as to almost appear unpaved. The entire place 
smelled of heat and dust. 
Arlian had no idea where to go once they were 
inside the walls, and looked to Meriei for guidance. 
“That way,” the interpreter directed, pointing 
across, a broad plaza to a white stone building. 
A few moments later, while the oxen waited 
placidly outside, Arlian found himself standing 
more or less ignored in a large, elegant room while 
a dozen Aritheians argued with Meriei and each 
other. Every so often another person would enter 
the room, take one long, surprised look at Arlian, 
and then plunge into the ongoing discussion. 
Arlian admired the room—it was largely open on 
two sides, with broad blue awnings providing shade 
while admitting every breeze, and the rich scent of a

garden wafted in from somewhere. The furnishings 
were suitable for a dining hall or conference 
chamber, built all of thick dark wood, simple but 
not in the least primitive. The brown tile floor had 
half a dozen small, brightly colored rugs scattered 
across it, giving it a festive touch to counter the 
heavy appearance of the massive wooded table and 
chairs. The whole place was unlike anything Arlian 
had ever seen before, but it seemed practical and 
comfortable. 
Every so often as he stood there looking about 
Arlian heard the name “Hathet” spoken by one of 
the Aritheians. Other than that he could 
understand nothing at all of what was said, and 
could do nothing but wait. 
Finally one tall old man stepped out of the crowd, 
and the others fell silent. 
“I am Hirofa, of the House of Slihar,” the old man 
said in flawless, almost unaccented speech far 
better than Meriei’s command of Arlian’s tongue. 
“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” 
“I am Lord Ari of Manfort,” Arlian said, bowing. 
Hirofa bowed in acknowledgment. “And why 
have you come to Arithei?” 
“I have come to pay a debt to a man named 
Hathet, who befriended me when I was a child,” 
Arlian replied. 
“Hathet is a name from the House of Deri,” 
Hirofa said. “The House of Deri does not trade with 
Manfort. How did you come to meet this man?” 
Arlian hesitated. He had had some time to think, 
and had remembered that Hathet had claimed his 
enslavement was the work of his political enemies. 
The House of Slihar might well be those enemies. 
To tell the whole truth might be unwise. 
“I nursed him when he was dying of fever,” Arlian 
said. “He wanted his family to know that he would 
not return. He was too ill to tell me their names, or

how he came to be in Deep Delving, where I met 
him, but I promised to find them, and to tell them 
how he died.” 
“He told you no names?” 
“None,” Arlian said. 
Actually, Hathet might have named names, but if 
so, none of the other miners had paid any attention, 
and Arlian didn’t remember them. 
Hirofa turned away and conferred briefly with 
the others, then turned back to Arlian. 
“To refuse a deathbed promise would dishonor 
our House,” he said. “I will tell Hathet’s family of his 
death.” 
Arlian frowned. “I promised I would tell them 
myself,” he said. 
“You do not speak Aritheian.” 
“I will need an interpreter,” Arlian agreed, “but I 
want to see them with my own eyes, and hold their 
hands to share their grief.” 
“Very well,” Hirofa said. “I will take you to the 
House of Deri.” 
Several of the others protested—apparently 
others besides Meriei and Hirofa knew Man’s 
Tongue. Hirofa turned and spoke a single sharp 
sentence, and the protests stopped. Then he 
beckoned to Arlian. 
“Come,” he said. 
Arlian obeyed, and the two men made their way 
back out onto the plaza. Hirofa started to lead the 
way down a nearby street, but Arlian stopped by his 
wagon. 
“You can leave that where it is,” Hirofa said. 
Arlian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am a 
stranger here, and you must forgive me my 
customs. I will bring my wagon with me.” 
Hirofa obviously didn’t like the decision, but

made no further objection as Arlian led the oxen 
alongside. 
By the time they reached the rust-streaked 
golden palace Hirofa indicated as the House of Deri 
a crowd of curiosity-seekers was following them, 
staring at every motion Arlian and his oxen made. 
Hirofa led Arlian up to a central archway and 
turned a handle set in the red-and-gold-enameled 
door; somewhere inside a bell rang, barely audible. 
A moment later the doors swung open, and an 
Aritheian in an all-red gown stepped out. He and 
Hirofa exchanged a few words—but Arlian did not 
hear the name “Hathet.” 
“I’m here about Hathet,” he called. 
The man in red glanced at him, startled. 
“Hathet,” Arlian repeated. 
Hirofa turned and glowered at him briefly, but 
said nothing. 
The man in red glanced back and forth between 
Arlian and Hirofa, then at the crowd of onlookers. 
He said something, beckoning to Arlian—Arlian 
didn’t understand the words, but the message was 
clear enough. 
Arlian pointed at his wagon. “Can someone guard 
this?” 
The man in red understood the question, even if 
he didn’t recognize the words; he held up a hand to 
indicate that Arlian should wait, then turned and 
shouted to someone inside. 
A moment later three men emerged, clad not in 
the customary short robes of ordinary Aritheians, 
but in brown leather with strips of black iron across 
their chests—armor, of a sort. They had no swords, 
but carried wooden staves, each almost six feet 
long. They took up positions around the wagon and 
oxen. 
Satisfied, Arlian turned and looked questioningly

at the man in red, who beckoned him inside. 
He followed. 
Hirofa also started to follow, and the red-clad 
steward, if that was what he was, looked 
questioningly at Arlian. 
Arlian shrugged, and the steward held up a hand 
to prevent Hirofa’s entrance. 
Hirofa protested, and the two men argued loudly 
for several minutes before Hirofa turned away in 
disgust. With that settled, Arlian followed the 
steward through an elegant antechamber, down a 
long stone passage, and into a lushly appointed 
room. 
There a woman in a blue-and-green robe was 
sprawled comfortably on a rattan settee. She looked 
up at Arlian’s arrival and sat up straight. 
The steward spoke to her for a moment, while 
Arlian waited; then the woman rose and addressed 
the foreigner directly, in his own tongue. Her 
speech was clear, if not as free of accent as Hirofa’s. 
“You are from the Lands of Man?” she asked. 
“Yes,” Arlian said. 
“You have news of Hathet?” 
“Yes.” 
“Then you must see Grandmother. I am to 
prepare you.” 
“Good,” Arlian said. 
26 
The House of Deri

A dais at one end of the reception chamber held 
three chairs, all of them occupied; a handful of 
other people, all of them well fed and handsome, 
stood to either side. 
This room was larger than the one where he had 
met Hirofa, and only open on one side, but similar 
in design. The awnings were green instead of blue, 
and the chairs were all pushed back against one 
wall, but the floor tiles were the same shade of 
brown, and the furniture made in the same style. 
Presumably this was the norm for Arithei—or at 
least for the headquarters of the great Houses. 
As instructed, when he had crossed the room 
Arlian knelt before the three people on the 
dais—two women, one young and one old, and an 
old man—and made the gesture of respect the 
interpreter had taught him—hands pressed 
together palm-to-palm before his face, head tilted 
back. 
The old man spoke, in Aritheian. 
“They welcome you to the House of Deri,” the 
interpreter explained. 
“Please tell them that I am Lord Ari of Manfort, 
and I am honored to be here,” Arlian said. 
The interpreter relayed the message, heard the 
reply, and told Arlian, “They ask your business 
here.” 
Arlian looked up at the old couple. He asked, 
“You are the family of Hathet, who was sent as 
ambassador to Manfort many years ago?” 
His interpreter quickly translated the question 
into Aritheian, and the tall, white-haired woman 
replied with a few brief words. 
“They acknowledge the relationship,” the 
interpreter said. She gestured at the tall woman. 
“Grandmother Iriol was Hathet’s sister.” 
“Then I regret to say I bring sad news,” Arlian 
said. “Lady Iriol, your brother Hathet is dead. I was

present when he died, and held him in my arms.” 
The interpreter relayed this, and received 
another question from the tall woman in response 
while the half dozen others in the room whispered 
excitedly to one another. 
“How did he die?” she asked. 
“Of a fever,” Arlian said. “I tended him in his 
illness, and did all I could for him—he had been 
kind to me.” 
When the interpreter had translated this several 
of the Aritheians spoke at once, though the tall 
woman remained thoughtfully silent; the 
interpreter looked lost as she tried to decide whom 
to listen to. 
“What are they saying?” Arlian asked her. 
“They want to know where it happened, whether 
you are a northern physician or perhaps a sorcerer, 
when this happened… everything.” 
Arlian waved for the family’s attention, then 
began his story, pausing after each sentence so that 
the interpreter could do her job. 
“As a boy, I was captured by slavers,” he said. “I 
was sold and sent to a mine in Deep Delving, and I 
met Hathet there. He befriended me, protected me 
and taught me. He said that he had been sent from 
Arithei as your ambassador, but no one believed 
him, not even I. He said he had been waylaid by 
bandits on the journey north—he had made it safely 
into the Lands of Man, but was taken captive in the 
Desolation, the wasteland between the Borderlands 
and Manfort. He believed this capture was the 
doing of his political enemies, because he was not 
held for ransom, as he expected, but was instead 
sold as a slave and taken to the mine where I met 
him.” 
Several people muttered as this was translated. 
Arlian hesitated, then admitted, “We did not 
believe this story— we had never heard of Arithei,

and we could not see why bandits would neither kill 
nor ransom him. At any rate, he lived out the rest of 
his days working in the mine; he caught the fever 
there, weakened, and in time died.” He reached into 
the waistband of his breeches and pulled out the 
crude little pouch he had carried for so long. “He 
had collected these in the mine— in the Lands of 
Man they’re worthless, nothing but pretty stones, 
but he said they were precious here. When he died I 
took them to remember him by, not knowing I 
would ever find Arithei, but now that I am here I 
believe you should have them.” He opened the 
pouch, still kneeling, then poured the purple stones 
out onto the dais. 
A sudden hush fell; the whispering that had gone 
on while he spoke ceased completely, and it seemed 
the Aritheians had even stopped breathing as they 
stared. 
“Amethystoi,” someone said at last. 
“Amethysts,” Arlian agreed, looking around at 
the stunned observers. Obviously, Hathet had not 
exaggerated the value of his prizes. 
The interpreter had been staring at the jewels as 
intently as anyone; now she looked up at Arlian. “I 
begin to understand how you got here,” she said. 
Arlian made no attempt to hide his puzzlement. 
“What?” 
“The dreams have been strong lately, and the 
wizards careless; no one had dared cross the 
Dreaming Mountains for years, not even those of 
the House of Slihar, until you arrived. When we saw 
you we all wondered how you managed to reach 
Arithei alive—some of us suspected you were a 
wizard, or a demon, or a homunculus, rather than a 
true human.” She gestured at the dais. “Now I see.” 
“See what?” 
“The amethysts—don’t you know why they’re 
precious?”

“No,” Arlian said. “Hathet said they could be 
used for some sort of protective magic, and I 
thought they were prized for their rarity and 
beauty, but that’s all I know.” 
The interpreter made a curious jerk of the head 
that Arlian was beginning to realize indicated 
denial in Arithei. “They are not merely used in 
magic,” she said. “They are magic, in themselves. 
An amethyst placed in a cup and a simple spoken 
word will cure drunkenness. They resist madness of 
any kind, and they keep bad dreams away.” She 
gestured toward the direction whence Arlian had 
come. “In the mountains, bad dreams can kill. 
These kept you safe.” 
“Those, and my own sword, perhaps,” Arlian 
said. “I encountered certain difficulties on the way.” 
“Yes, your sword,” the interpreter agreed. “Cold 
iron. We use iron for protection here.” She looked at 
the hilt on Arlian’s belt and added, “And silver?” 
Arlian looked down at the silver filigree of his 
sword’s pommel. “Silver and steel, yes,” he said. 
“The creatures of darkness fear silver,” the 
interpreter said. “The creatures of air cannot abide 
cold iron. And the creatures of dream cannot pass 
near amethyst. You are protected as few ever are.” 
Arlian thought back to the things he had seen 
and fought on the road across the mountains, to 
what had remained of his fourth ox, and 
shuddered—if that was what it was like when he 
carried magical protection, what would have 
happened had he been without such defenses? 
Obviously, he would have died. No wonder so 
little traffic passed between Arithei and the Lands 
of Man! And no wonder the Aritheians had placed 
iron fences around every town, and those strange 
posts along their roads. 
And he had just given away all his amethysts; the 
journey back north might well be his last. He could 
scarcely reclaim them now, though…

The tall woman spoke. 
“She’s asking if this is all Hathet gave you,” the 
interpreter reported. 
“Yes,” Arlian said. “That’s all.” 
The tall woman then stooped and chose the 
largest of the purple stones, one as large as the top 
joint of Arlian’s thumb. “Then keep this,” she said, 
speaking slowly in Arlian’s own tongue. “For 
nursing my brother in his illness.” 
Arlian hesitated, trying to decide whether he 
should argue or not, but the memory of those things 
in the mountains decided him. “Thank you,” he 
said, accepting the stone. 
“Wear it around your throat,” she said. “More 
effective that way.” 
Arlian bowed in acknowledgment of this advice. 
The tall woman then addressed the interpreter in 
Aritheian. 
The interpreter listened carefully and asked 
questions before finally turning back to Arlian. 
“She says you have the protection of the House of 
Deri any time you may need it, and she wishes to 
know whether Hathet ever mentioned any names, 
anyone he thought might have been involved in the 
plotting against him.” 
“No,” Arlian said. “He never mentioned any 
names.” 
“Then she wishes me to tell you that nonetheless, 
from events after Hathet’s departure, and the events 
surrounding your arrival, she has a fairly strong 
suspicion of who was involved, and how. Your 
arrival has brought not merely news, but wealth…” 
She gestured at the gem-strewn dais. “… and the 
prospect of vengeance and a restoration of the 
former prominence of the House of Deri. You 
managed to bring this to us, to Hathet’s House, 
despite the interference of those you first 
encountered. You came here even though you had

met others who surely did not wish you to. For this, 
the House is greatly in your debt.” 
Arlian noticed that the interpreter did not 
mention the House of Slihar by name, but he did 
not doubt that she was referring to them. Although 
he knew almost nothing of Aritheian society, it was 
easy enough to guess that the House of Slihar and 
the House of Deri had competed for control of trade 
with the Lands of Man, that the Slihar had been 
responsible for Hathet’s abduction, and that his 
disappearance had allowed them to dominate—for a 
time. 
“I merely did what seemed right,” Arlian said. 
“Hathet was kind to me when I needed kindness.” 
The tall woman said something without waiting 
for the translation—obviously, while she preferred 
to use the interpreter, she knew something of 
Arlian’s language. 
“Yet you came to Arithei to bring us this,” the 
interpreter said, gesturing at the amethysts. 
“I also came to Arithei to sell swords,” Arlian 
said. “And to buy goods to sell in the north. I have 
silver to pay.” 
The interpreter and the tall woman stared at 
him. 
“Swords?” Hathet’s sister said. 
“Silver?” the interpreter said. 
“That’s right,” Arlian said. 
“Silver cannot pass Tirikindaro,” the interpreter 
said. 
“No one stopped me,” Arlian said. “Tirikindaro 
was quiet when I passed.” 
“But…” The interpreter groped for words, then 
began again, speaking slowly. “Our ancestors fled 
from the dragons long ago and came to Arithei,” 
she said, “but later they found that they were 
trapped here by the magic that surrounds this

place. We have remained here ever since. We live 
confined by the dreams, the wizards, the creatures 
that live in the mountains, unable to leave this one 
safe valley because we lack protections from the 
magic in the hills. We found iron, all the iron we 
needed, to build our ward-fences, but none of us 
had the knowledge of making steel for swords, and 
iron alone is not sufficient against the creatures in 
the mountains. We have found no silver anywhere, 
though we have looked. We had a few amethysts our 
ancestors had brought from the north; these were 
carried by our traders and ambassadors, but they 
have gradually been lost over time as their bearers 
fell to the other hazards around us—Hathet carried 
the last stone our House possessed, and no doubt 
some bandit gave it to his children to play with. The 
House of Slihar had three or four more stones that 
allowed them to send their ambassador, and their 
traders, for a few years after Hathet disappeared, 
but those, too, have now been lost. We were 
confined here, without hope.” 
She sighed, then said, “The people of the lands 
beyond the mountains did nothing to help us, but 
we do not fault them for this. We dared not tell 
them the secret of using amethysts to cross the 
Dreaming Mountains for fear of invasion, and they 
knew we had a secret we would not share. 
Mistrusting us in return, they would not sell us steel 
or silver.” She made a gesture of dismissal. “We do 
not blame them; we gave them no reason to trust 
us.” 
Arlian started to protest, then thought better of 
it. The interpreter continued, “For centuries we 
have resigned ourselves to living in isolation here, 
behind our iron walls, and of late we have even 
resigned ourselves to having no contact with the 
outside at all—and now you come here, unbidden, 
with all these precious things, and offer us the 
world!” 
The effusive gratitude that concluded the

explanation made Arlian uncomfortable. “I owed 
Hathet a debt,” he said. 
Hathet’s sister reached out and put a hand on 
Arlian’s shoulder. 
“My friend,” she said slowly, “your words, and 
these stones, paid that debt many times over. If you 
have brought us silver and steel as well, you will be 
very rich.” 
27 
The Trade Delegation 
Black looked at his empty mug, debating whether 
to order another cup of wine. They watered it here, 
of course—these southerners always did—but even 
when he knew he was paying for as much water as 
wine, it was still far cheaper than decent beer in 
Sweetwater. 
He was tired of watered wine. He was tired of 
constant sunlight. He was tired of Sweetwater. He 
had been stranded here for months, and he was 
quite thoroughly tired of everything about it and 
eager to be moving again. He was completely 
recovered, his wounds healed and the infection long 
gone, but two of the caravans weren’t yet returned, 
and Lord Drens wasn’t about to head north until 
they were back. 
He could hardly cross the Desolation by himself, 
but he very much wished that those other two 
caravans would hurry up and arrive. 
The door of the inn opened, and Black turned at 
the sound—any interruption at all of the usual dull 
routine would be welcome.

A figure was standing in the doorway, silhouetted 
by the afternoon sun—a tall man in a 
broad-brimmed hat. He stepped in, and Black 
recognized him. 
“Ari!” he said. 
“Hello, Black,” Arlian said, smiling broadly. “Lord 
Drens said I’d find you here.” 
“Ari, it’s you!” Black repeated, as he got to his 
feet and started toward the new arrival. 
“I may not want to use that name anymore,” 
Arlian said. “I haven’t decided, but I think 
something more elegant may be appropriate.” Then 
he fell silent for a moment as the two men 
embraced. He clapped Black on the back as they 
separated. 
“They told me you’d headed across the Dreaming 
Mountains, bound for Arithei,” Black said. 
“I did,” Arlian said. 
“Alone, they said,” Black said. 
“That’s right.” Arlian grinned at him. 
Black grinned back. “You do realize the 
contradiction between this and your current 
presence here, still alive, don’t you?” 
Arlian smiled. “I made it to Arithei alone,” he 
said. “There’s no contradiction; I had protection 
you didn’t know about.” The smile twisted awry. 
“For that matter, I didn’t know about it, either.” 
“I see,” Black said. “And this mysterious 
protection also saw you safely back to Sweetwater? 
Or am I to understand otherwise from your 
phrasing?” 
“Oh, I had other protection on the way back,” 
Arlian said. He gestured toward the door. 
Black peered out into the sunlight and saw a 
dozen men and women, all dressed in strange, 
bright costumes, all wearing broad leather sword 
belts that looked out of place on the garish robes,

and with glittering silver medallions on chains 
about their necks. 
“The Aritheian trade mission,” Arlian explained. 
“They escorted me back.” 
Black was well aware that there had been no 
trade with Arithei in a decade or so, but he had no 
reason to doubt Arlian. He had never seen an 
Aritheian, but he had no reason to think these 
strangers were anything else. 
“Of course,” he said. He stepped up to the door 
and looked out. 
Arlian’s familiar, battered wagon stood in the 
town square, just behind the Aritheians, but four 
more exotic wagons stood beyond it, each 
open-sided and roofed with red-dyed canvas 
stretched over a wooden frame, each drawn by a 
pair of fine horses. Another horse, a big black 
gelding, stood nearby, tied to a palm tree. 
All five wagons seemed somehow indistinct, and 
a trifle brighter and more colorful than they should 
be. Black had been in the Borderlands long enough 
to know what that meant. 
“Magic,” he said. 
“Quite a bit of it, yes,” Arlian said. “It’s what the 
Aritheians do best, and I think they were quite 
generous with me.” 
Black nodded. “You found a market for your 
weapons, then. Good for you, my lord.” 
“And a market for the silver, too. I brought the 
metal that made those pendants.” 
Black studied the nearest Aritheian’s necklace. A 
purple stone was set in it, he noticed. “Excellent.” 
Arlian glanced at the wagons. “Let me introduce 
you,” he said. 
“If you like,” Black said, as he followed Arlian out 
into the sun. 
The Aritheian names were strange, and Black

doubted he would remember them all. The head of 
the Aritheian delegation was a thin, eagle-eyed man 
called Thirif, but a plump, smiling woman named 
Hlur was to serve as the new ambassador to 
Manfort. 
“I wasn’t aware a new ambassador was needed,” 
Black remarked. 
“Sahasin is…” Arlian began. He hesitated, then 
said, “Well, let us just say that I think a new 
ambassador will be needed.” 
Black did not ask for further explanation; he 
continued with the introductions. It became clear 
that only about half the Aritheians had even a 
smattering of Man’s Tongue, but all of them smiled 
and nodded and seemed pleased to be in the Lands 
of Man, and pleased to meet Black. 
The wagons were so full of magic that even 
standing near them made Black’s skin prickle; he 
could not resist looking in the open side of one at 
the bundles and boxes. 
Arlian noticed his glance. 
“That’s all prepared enchantments,” he said. 
“Thousands of them. Powders and potions and 
gems, decoctions of herbs and dreams in iron 
cages—all of them things unknown in the Lands of 
Man. I’ll have something to sell at every town on the 
road north, from Stonebreak to Benth-in-Tara, and 
should still have most of it left when we reach 
Manfort.” 
“Indeed,” Black said in a noncommittal tone. 
“The Aritheians tell me that even the greatest 
magician can’t make magic from nothing in 
Manfort,” Arlian said. “There’s something lacking 
in the air or earth. But they can bring these 
prepared magicks there to sell.” 
“Sorcerers seem to manage,” Black pointed out. 
Arlian waved that away. “The Aritheians don’t 
seem to consider our sorcery to be true magic,” he

said. “They tell me that these are all spells that 
sorcerers can’t make.” 
“What sort of spells?” 
“Oh, any number of different ones,” Arlian said, 
as the two man strolled around the wagon, looking 
in at its contents. “Poisons and protections and 
aphrodisiacs, love philtres and enthrallments, 
illusions and glamours—I don’t know all of them 
myself. The House of Deri had been stockpiling 
them for twenty years against the day they found a 
way to reopen trade.” 
“And are all these yours to sell, then?” 
“Most of them,” Arlian admitted. “My old wagon 
and two of the others are mine; the other two 
belong to the House of Deri. Allies of mine.” 
“And these Aritheians who came with you?” 
“Well, Shibiel and Isein and Qulu work for me,” 
Arlian said. “The others are merely traveling with 
us. Thirif and Hlur and one or two of the others 
plan to join the caravan and accompany us to 
Manfort—after all, an ambassador would hardly be 
any use anywhere else. The rest have already had 
enough of adventure in getting this far, and prefer 
not to cross the Desolation—I can scarcely blame 
them for that! They’ll be staying here in the 
Borderlands, trading for the things Arithei lacks.” 
Black nodded. “Those first three you mentioned 
are your slaves, then? You bought them?” 
Arlian stopped dead, shocked. He turned to stare 
at Black. 
“No,” he said. “I would never own slaves. I have 
been a slave, and lived among slaves—I won’t hold 
another in bondage. These are free people in my 
employ.” 
“Employees?” Black said. “Then you are truly a 
lord now, and not merely playing the part.” 
“Yes,” Arlian agreed. “I am a lord. And I think,” 
he said, “that at last I’m ready.”

Black looked at him inquiringly. 
“I’m a grown man now,” Arlian said. “I’m strong 
and whole, and have, you say, the heart of the 
dragon. I’ve learned the manners of a lord, and 
found the money to establish my claim to the title 
beyond question. You’ve taught me the basics of 
swordsmanship, and on the roads I’ve killed a man 
and a dozen monsters. The Aritheians have 
provided me with more magic than almost anyone 
else in Manfort could possess. I believe that in wits, 
courage, and capabilities I’m a match for most 
men.” He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. 
“The time has come,” he continued, “to return to 
Manfort and find Lord Dragon and his looters, and 
punish them for their wrongs. No more delays. The 
time has come to find Sweet and free her, and any 
of the other women who aided me who may yet 
survive, and to punish all the owners of the House of 
Carnal Society for their wrongs. And when that is 
all done it will be time to seek out the dragons in 
their caverns beneath the earth, the beasts who slew 
my family, and destroy them.” 
“Oh, is that all,” Black said. “Overthrow a dozen 
lords and wipe out the dragons—child’s play!” 
Arlian grinned at him. Black glowered back. 
For a moment the two of them stood silently by 
the wagon; Black turned to look over the boxes and 
bundles once more. 
He knew that even a simple love philtre was 
worth a dozen times its weight in gold, and here 
Arlian had three wagonloads of magic. The boy was 
not merely a lord, but a very wealthy lord indeed. 
His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough. 
He turned back to his friend. 
“Have you ever considered giving up your career 
in the caravan trade?” Arlian asked. “Why?” Black 
asked warily. 
“Because a proper lord must have a household, of 
course, and I’ll need a bodyguard and steward. I

value your counsel and your friendship, Black—I’d 
be pleased if you’d take the job.” 
Black stared at him silently for a moment. 
“You must think I’m a fool,” he said at last. 
“I’ll pay time and a fifth your present contract,” 
Arlian said. 
“You will?” 
“Yes.” 
“In gold?” 
“Of course.” 
“In that case, my lord,” Black said with a bow, “I 
am a fool. The moment my current contract is 
completed, I will be entirely at your service.” 
BOOK 
III 
Lord Obsidian 
28 
Rumors 
Coin looked up as the door flew open and the 
spring rain blew in. The man in the doorway was of

moderate height, dark-haired, and clad in black 
leather. 
She closed the ledger and asked, “May I be of 
service?” 
“I understand you manage certain properties in 
the upper city,” the man in black said. 
“I do,” Coin acknowledged. 
“I represent Lord Obsidian,” the stranger said. 
“He has sent me ahead while he tends to certain 
other business in Westguard. He seeks suitable 
accommodations for an extended stay in Manfort.” 
“I might have a suite of rooms…” Coin began. 
The man in black smiled crookedly. “No, no,” he 
said. “Suitable accommodations for Lord Obsidian. 
We require a house and garden, at the very least.” 
“And at the most?” 
The man’s smile broadened. “I doubt very much 
that anything you have could be more than we can 
use. Or more than Lord Obsidian can afford.” 
Coin snorted. “As it happens, I have charge of the 
old ducal palace—the one abandoned by the 
grandfather of the present Duke of Manfort when 
the Citadel was completed. I scarcely think…” 
“That would suit us perfectly,” the man in black 
interrupted. “If I might see it? Immediately?” 
Coin stared at him for a moment, trying to 
decide whether the man was a fool, or deranged, or 
joking, or simply unaware of what such an 
establishment would cost. She had never heard of 
any Lord Obsidian, so far as she could recall, and 
surely she would have heard of anyone who could 
afford the Old Palace. 
But then, “Obsidian” might be an alias—perhaps 
for Lord Enziet, or another of the city’s elite, who 
had grown bored with more modest 
accommodations. She rose. 
“I’ll get the keys,” she said.

The watchman thought the stranger staring at 
the New Inn looked familiar, but could not place 
him. His yellow silk shirt and lush wool coat, the 
sharply trimmed hair laid bare when he doffed his 
plumed hat, the fine sword on his belt, and a dozen 
other details marked him as a wealthy man, but his 
black boots were scuffed and showing wear, the hair 
just slightly wrong for the current fashion. 
Curious, the watchman ambled over. It was a 
quiet day, and he had nothing in particular he 
should be doing other than simply remaining visible 
on the street, so no one could object if he offered the 
young man a bit of advice, and maybe asked a few 
questions. 
The stranger did not look around as the 
watchman approached; instead he continued to 
study the New Inn, as if trying to identify the 
individual stone blocks of the facade. His coat 
flapped in the chill wind, and the hat under his arm 
struggled to escape. 
“They’ve not chosen a name yet, or put up their 
sign, but it’s an inn, my lord, if you’re seeking 
lodging,” the watchman offered. 
The young man turned. “An inn?” he asked. “Just 
an inn?” 
“That’s right.” 
“I had been told that a rather different 
establishment might be found here.” 
“Ah,” the watchman said. Matters were 
becoming clearer. “Well, there was one, until about 
two years ago— the House of the Six Lords, some of 
us called it. It’s gone, burned down.” 
“Oh? Burned? How did that happen?” 
“One of the six lords had it done.” 
The stranger frowned. “Really? That’s hardly 
usual, is it, to deliberately burn down a building in

the middle of town?” 
“Not usual at all, my lord,” the watchman agreed. 
“And we might have protested, but he had come 
with a letter from the Duke of Manfort, granting 
him full authority to do as he pleased, and ordering 
all of us in the guard to obey him.” 
“Indeed! Now, that’s not usual either, is it?” 
“No, my lord.” 
“Could it have been a forgery, do you suppose?” 
“He had the Duke’s seal on it, and one of the 
Duke’s own guards with him, my lord.” 
“Who was this man, then, that had so much of 
the Duke’s favor?” The question was perhaps a trifle 
more eagerly asked than might have been expected. 
“I don’t know, my lord; he gave no name.” 
Arlian tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh, but 
surely someone must have recognized him!” 
“Not to my knowledge, my lord.” 
“Was he masked, then?” 
“No, he was not—but really, my lord, who here in 
Westguard would know all the lords of Manfort by 
sight?” 
“Are you telling me you didn’t know who any of 
these six lords were?” 
“Not a one of them, my lord. After all, the 
tradesmen and housewives of Westguard are hardly 
likely to attend the palace balls in Manfort. I 
couldn’t put a name to more than a dozen 
lords—why, I’d scarcely know the Duke himself if he 
were to walk by! For example, you’ve a familiar air 
about you, but I can’t pin it down…” 
Arlian smiled. “I’m no one you’d know,” he said. 
He turned and walked away, clapping his hat 
back on his head and holding it against the wind. 
The watchman hesitated, but did not pursue. 
Prying into the affairs of the wealthy was no part of

what was expected of him—on the contrary, it could 
be very unwise. 
And really, the handsome young lord was 
probably just reluctant to have it known that he had 
come seeking an infamous brothel. 
Word of the mysterious Lord Obsidian’s 
impending arrival spread quickly through Manfort. 
The city’s tradesmen watched as men and wagons 
arrived, both local and foreign, and the work of 
restoring the Old Palace to habitable condition 
began. Several of these tradesmen found their way 
to the postern to inquire whether the household 
might need their services. 
The steward, a formidable man who called 
himself Black, was cautious in making his choices; 
grocers, butchers, chandlers, stablemen, and the 
like were questioned about their terms, and then 
about who they might recommend in trades other 
than their own, and were then sent away with polite 
but noncommittal replies. 
The one exception was a slave trader who came 
to the postern. He introduced himself, then began, 
“Naturally, while I don’t know Lord Obsidian’s 
particular desires, we can provide almost anything 
he might require—all ages, both sexes…” 
“Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” the steward 
replied disdainfully. “All our staff will be free.” 
“Ah, but surely there are certain roles…” the 
slaver wheedled. 
The steward did not allow him to complete the 
sentence. “Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” he 
repeated. 
The slaver frowned and suggested, “Then perhaps 
you might be interested yourself…” 
“No.” 
“Lord Obsidian need not know.”

“I said no.” 
“If I might have a word…” 
“That’s enough,” the steward barked, his hand 
falling to the hilt of his sword—a nobleman’s sword, 
the slave master noticed, hardly appropriate for a 
steward. “Get out!” 
The slaver hesitated, but then shrugged and left 
without further protest. 
Later he mentioned the incident to a few friends. 
Word spread, and others, curious, began to ask 
discreet questions of the steward. 
“Lord Obsidian does not hold slaves,” Black told 
them. “Nor do I. That’s all. It is his choice, and 
mine.” 
Interest in Lord Obsidian, widespread ever since 
Coin first reported that she had found a buyer for 
the Old Palace, heightened as this odd quirk 
became known. Obviously, Obsidian was not one of 
the established elite of the city, since none of them 
had ever had any compunctions about slavery—he 
was a stranger, an outsider. 
Some inhabitants of Manfort joined Obsidian’s 
staff, and the rumors grew… 
Obsidian himself had reportedly not yet arrived 
at the palace, but in addition to the steward and the 
people hired locally there were half a dozen 
foreigners in residence— people not merely from 
outside the city walls, but from somewhere beyond 
the Lands of Man entirely, four men and two 
women. They spoke among themselves in some 
unknown tongue, and spoke Man’s Tongue haltingly 
or not at all, and often dressed in bizarre, 
outlandish robes. 
The wagons that brought supplies to the palace 
were heavily guarded, and some of them carried 
freight that was promptly hidden away in locked 
storerooms. 
The steward was said to be asking questions

about more than where he might find the best 
suppliers of fresh produce or clean lamp oil; he was 
rumored to be interested in sorcery, and in volcanic 
glass—presumably Lord Obsidian’s choice of name 
had something to do with that. He reportedly 
inquired after those knowledgeable about dragons, 
as well, and about all the lords of Manfort. 
But all this was hearsay. All that reached the 
streets was rumor and gossip, no hard facts, and 
the people of Manfort waited for Lord Obsidian’s 
arrival with great anticipation. 
Black could hardly be unaware of this, and one 
evening, as he stood gazing out the window in one 
of the upper rooms, he remarked, “The whole city is 
curious about you.” 
Arlian answered, “That was the idea.” 
Arlian was seated comfortably in a 
velvet-upholstered chair, a glass of good red wine on 
the table at his side. He had arrived a few days ago, 
along with those of the Aritheians who had chosen 
to come to Manfort. Arlian had driven his own 
wagon, and now wore the garb of a coachman, 
rather than a lord—anonymity had its uses, and a 
coachman’s broad-brimmed black hat kept his face 
shaded, so that later, when Lord Obsidian had 
made his grand appearance, the facial similarity 
would not be too obvious. Ari the teamster would 
get a very different reaction than Lord Obsidian 
among the shopkeepers of Manfort, and Arlian 
thought both might be useful. 
“I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea,” Black 
replied. 
“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Arlian 
asked. “Search the city street by street in hopes of 
spotting Lord Dragon or one of his henchmen? In 
Westguard I couldn’t find anyone who would admit 
to knowing anything about him. I heard a few 
rumors, got some support for my suspicions as to 
the names of the others among the six lords, but

nothing more about Lord Dragon—and I can’t be 
sure of any of those names. Rose told me one of 
them, but he could have lied to her. No, if I’m to 
find those I seek, I’ve got to make them come to me 
.” 
“So you’re asking about dragons,” Black said? 
“What if your Lord Dragon never used that name 
again? Suppose he took it entirely at random, just 
that once, or if not at random, simply because he 
was intent on looting a dragon-ravaged village? 
Then who would come to you with word of him?” 
“No one,” Arlian replied, “but as you said 
yourself, I have time. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try 
something else. I’ve already tried something else, 
and I’ll try more. Several somethings, in fact.” 
Black glanced at his employer. “Like the 
obsidian.” 
“Yes.” 
“It’s been almost ten years since the obsidian was 
stolen, Ari, and so far we haven’t seen a single piece 
you could say for certain came from your 
village—do you really think any of it can be traced 
back to the looters?” 
“Why not? We’ve hardly tried yet. Once we start 
buying pieces, and asking where they came from, 
why would anyone fail to tell us?” 
“Perhaps because he doesn’t know. A piece could 
have changed hands a dozen times by now.” 
“How often does a physician’s knife or a piece of 
frippery change hands?” Arlian asked. 
“How long does a physician remember where he 
bought each of his tools?” Black countered. 
“How often does a woman forget where she 
obtained each of her baubles?” 
“So you learn that Lady Whatever bought her 
pendant from a particular shop in the Street of the 
Jewelers—what if the shop is five years gone, or 
six?”

“What if it is? I’ll keep searching.” 
Black sighed, and changed tack. “And this gala 
you’re planning— I assume you’ll leave the old 
Aritheian ambassador to the Aritheians, but 
suppose Lord Dragon does attend, and he 
recognizes you? Might he not decide to kill you 
before you can confront him? Might he not flee?” 
“How would he recognize me?” Arlian laughed 
bitterly. “I was a boy of eleven when we first met, 
and he probably thinks I’m still hacking away at 
stone walls in Deep Delving. I doubt he even saw me 
in Westguard two years ago, nor would he know me 
to be anything more than a gawking passerby if he 
did.” 
“You’re assuming he’s an ordinary man.” 
Arlian took his time in answering, “No. How 
could an ordinary man have known that dragons 
would destroy Obsidian, and leave it open for 
looting? And in Westguard he had the Duke of 
Manfort’s grant of unlimited authority, apparently 
legitimately. I have no doubt that Lord Dragon, 
whoever he may actually be, has access to 
knowledge beyond the commonplace. He may well 
be a sorcerer. But he’s still a man, not a god; nor 
even a dragon; I do not think him infallible, and the 
Aritheians have taught me that sorcery has limits, 
and rather narrow ones. I assume Lord Dragon, 
whoever and whatever he is, has as much curiosity 
as anyone. I think he’ll attend the festivities, and I 
do not think he’ll know me.” He shrugged. “If I’m 
wrong—well, then Fate is unkind, and I’m wrong.” 
“And if you’re wrong you may well wind up 
dead.” 
“True enough. And while it’s kind of you to be 
concerned, that’s really my business, isn’t it? Why 
are you so determined to talk me out of risking it?” 
“Partly just my natural perversity, but also 
because I think you’re being a fool, throwing away a 
wonderful life. You’re young, handsome, rich—yes,

you were wronged as a child, you were sold as a 
slave, but you’re free now, and you have so much. 
Why risk everything in pursuit of some abstract 
justice? It seems foolish to me. When a man has 
wronged me, I don’t seek him out; I avoid him, and 
go on about my business.” 
“I can’t do that,” Arlian said. “You and I are 
different in that, Black. I can’t ignore what was 
done to me.” 
“Not even for a year or two, until you know the 
city better?” 
“Black, every day I think about Lord Dragon and 
his gang, and about the dragons. Every day I’m alive 
I remember that dragon’s face. I can’t wait a year.” 
“So you’re going to get yourself killed.” 
“Perhaps.” 
“I can’t say I like the idea. If you wind up dead, I 
won’t get paid.” 
“Assuming you don’t wind up dead beside me.” 
“Exactly. Not that I intend to allow anything of 
the sort to happen.” 
Arlian smiled crookedly. “I have no heir, Black; if 
I die, and you live, all I have here is yours.” 
Black blinked at that. 
“Oh,” he said. 
Arlian’s grin broadened. “And now I suppose I 
need to watch my back around you.” 
Black snorted. “Hardly. As long as you pay me 
enough, I’ll be content to play steward—given the 
popularity of dueling and assassination I suspect 
stewards usually live longer than lords around here. 
And furthermore, I don’t think I would care to be 
hanged as a murderer.” 
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Arlian sipped wine. “And 
how are the preparations going?” 
Black sighed, and began an accounting of

everything that was being done to ready the 
once-elegant old palace for the planned debut of 
Lord Obsidian in Manfort’s high society. 
Arlian listened carefully. 
He was aware that Black’s criticisms of his plan 
might have some truth in them, but he could think 
of no better way to locate those members of 
Manfort’s elite whom he intended to destroy—as 
well as Lord Dragon, there were the other five lords 
who had owned the brothel. He only knew one 
name, that of Lord Kuruvan; he knew that Lords 
Inthior, Drisheen, Salisna, and Jerial had been 
patrons, and might have been owners, and he 
intended to get a good look at each of them. He also 
wanted to know about any others who had been 
involved in the creation and destruction of the 
House of Carnal Society. That might well be a 
significant portion of the city’s elite. 
An unrelated member of the elite who Arian 
thought deserved attention, as Black had 
mentioned, was Sahasin of the House of Slihar, the 
Aritheian ambassador whose faction had almost 
certainly been responsible for Hathet’s enslavement. 
Locating the ambassador and dealing with him was 
no problem—the Aritheians who had accompanied 
Arlian and Black to Manfort would tend to him, and 
there was no reason for any natives of the Lands of 
Man to involve themselves. 
Black, at Arlian’s order, had sent a direct 
invitation to Sahasin, urging him to attend the 
upcoming festivities. He doubted the man would 
refuse. 
The rest were not so simple. If Arlian attempted 
to hunt those six lords who had owned the brothel 
down individually, to find and free Sweet and the 
rest of those poor crippled whores and to avenge 
their four dead comrades, he could scarcely expect 
to deal with more than one or two of the lords 
before the others realized what was happening and 
fled or joined forces against him. They might use

the women as hostages against him, or hire 
assassins to deal with him, once they knew he was 
in pursuit. That would, at the very least, endanger 
the women and make his vengeance more difficult. 
What better way to gather them together, so that 
he could confront all of them, than to throw a party 
they could not resist? With any luck he would be 
able to identify them simply by asking a few 
questions, and once that was done he could meet 
them, speak with them, judge their weaknesses, all 
on his own ground, on his own terms, and then take 
action swiftly and appropriately. 
And as for the six looters who had worked with 
Lord Dragon—Shamble, Hide, Stonehand, Cover, 
Dagger, and Tooth—how else could he find them, 
other than by tracing the goods they had stolen? 
If he had simply tried to track those people down 
by name, by inquiring after their present 
whereabouts, word would surely have gotten back 
to them. They might hide, or flee, when they knew 
someone was looking for them. 
Besides, Arlian suspected that half the would-be 
assassins in the city called themselves Dagger. Even 
though most of them would be male, where he was 
after a female, that would not make matters any 
simpler. 
Sooner or later, though, Arlian promised himself, 
he would find them all. He would locate each of the 
looters, each of the six lords who had owned a share 
in the House, and he would see that each of them 
received what he or she deserved. He would rescue 
as many of the dozen women as he could. He would 
let Hathet’s own clan deal with the usurper 
ambassador, but the others were his. 
And if he lived long enough, and the opportunity 
arose, there were other old enemies he might want 
to find. Lampspiller might deserve some attention 
eventually, and the Old Man, too—using slaves to 
work a mine was no crime by the standards of the

Lands of Man, but the Old Man was a little too 
careless in how he acquired his workers— neither 
Arlian nor Hathet should have been there—and 
Lampspiller was far more brutal than necessary. 
And when all that was done, he would seek out 
the dragons in their deep caverns—and probably 
throw away his life in doing so, but still, he felt that 
he had to do it. 
He had asked the Aritheians if they knew of any 
way to kill a dragon, of any magic that would work 
against the great beasts, but they knew no more of 
dragons than he did—perhaps less. He would be on 
his own in finding the caverns and destroying their 
occupants, but he could not rest until he had done 
so.
And after that… 
Well, there probably wouldn’t be any “after that.” 
If there were, he would worry about it when it 
arrived. 
29 
Stammer 
Black opened the door only a few inches, trying to 
keep the rain and the wind outside. Spring was well 
advanced, but the weather was still unseasonably 
cool and raw. “Yes?” he asked. 
The woman huddled on the postern doorstep 
looked up at him. “Your… your pardon, my lord,” 
she stammered. 
“I’m not your lord,” Black said, as he glanced 
around in the wet gloom of gathering twilight. The 
woman was far too ragged to be pursuing any

honest trade, and he saw no cart or companion; she 
might be a beggar, or she might be bait. 
He saw no one lurking in the shadows, ready to 
pounce when the door was opened—but an attacker 
might just be well hidden. And even if the woman 
were not part of a gang of thieves intent on looting 
the palace, a would-be burglar might happen along 
at any moment and seize the opportunity if Black 
stood there with the door open on such a miserable, 
dark day as this. 
“I’m so… I’m sorry,” she said, ducking her head 
and spilling water from the hood of her cloak onto 
Black’s boot. 
“Get in here,” he said, grabbing her by the 
shoulder and yanking her inside. 
He slammed and barred the door, then turned to 
her, half expecting to see a drawn blade in her 
hand. 
Instead she had fallen to her knees and was 
cowering on the stone floor of the entryway, 
clutching her cloak about her. 
Black frowned. 
Beggars were rare in Manfort—very rare. Just 
about anyone who slept unguarded in the streets or 
missed enough rent payments, no matter how 
decrepit, was likely to be taken by the slavers and 
sold. Still, this woman probably was a beggar, he 
decided, one the slavers hadn’t caught yet, drawn to 
the Old Palace by the local gossip, looking for 
somewhere to get out of the rain and get a bite to 
eat. Anything else was just his morbid imagination, 
driven by the miserable weather and the 
uncertainties of his present situation. The 
announced date of Lord Obsidian’s “arrival” and 
reception was approaching rapidly, and it was 
getting on his nerves. 
The woman was almost certainly harmless. Her 
obvious terror was probably because she expected 
him to sell her into slavery, despite the rumors, not

the result of nervousness about her involvement in 
some dire scheme. 
“Get up,” he said. 
She hesitated. He reached down and snatched 
away her cowl, revealing short-cut hair and a bony, 
half-starved face that might have been attractive if 
better fed. It was hard to judge, given her condition, 
but he guessed she was perhaps thirty, no more 
than forty. 
She cringed. 
“Get up, I said.” He grabbed her arm and hauled 
her upright. 
She stood unsteadily, looking up at him. 
“Now, what did you want?” he asked. “Food? A 
drink?” 
She shook her head, and fumbled with the inside 
of her cloak. “I heard…” she began. “I heard that 
you… that Lord Ob… Obsidian would pay…” 
And her hand emerged from a hidden pocket 
clutching something. She held it out, and opened 
her hand. 
It was a brooch, an oval of carved and polished 
obsidian set in elaborately worked gold, all of 
archaic design. A black velvet backing that would 
keep it from chafing appeared to have been added 
later. 
It was almost certainly stolen, Black thought—the 
woman’s cloak was ancient, stained and ragged, 
and what he could see of the dress beneath was no 
better. This woman could hardly have come by so 
fine an item honestly. It was probably a family 
heirloom she had snatched from an unguarded 
room somewhere. 
Still, it was obsidian, and perhaps she could be 
convinced to say where she had stolen it. He and 
Arlian had looked at two dozen pieces already, 
brought to the door by jewelers, merchants, and 
people of less obvious employment, and had noted

down half a dozen names for further investigation; 
one more would do no harm, and chasing the poor 
creature back out into the rain seemed 
unnecessarily cruel. 
“Come on,” he said. “Let me get you something to 
eat, and you can sit by the fire while I see if Lord 
Obsidian’s jeweler is available.” 
He settled her on a stool beside the kitchen 
hearth, with a heel of bread and a cup of tea to 
dunk it in—he hadn’t gotten a look at her teeth, but 
they were probably in bad shape. 
If she opened the door before he got back and let 
in a horde of thieves, it would serve him right for 
being too soft-hearted, Black thought as he 
hastened up the stairs to fetch Arlian. If the palace 
had had a full-time staff in place he would have put 
a guard on her, but so far only he, Arlian, and the 
six Aritheians who had made the long journey to 
Manfort slept there; for now the locally hired 
servants all worked days, and returned to their 
homes at night. That made it easier to maintain the 
fiction that Lord Obsidian had not yet arrived. 
Black looked forward to the day after the grand 
gala— once that was over and done with he could 
hire a proper household staff. 
A few minutes later, when Black and Arlian 
returned to the kitchen, the woman was still there, 
huddled on her stool, her cloak steaming in the 
warmth of the fire. Black hurried past her to check 
on the postern, and found the door still securely 
barred. 
“Let me see the brooch,” Arlian said, holding out 
his hand. He wore coachman’s livery in black piped 
with white—the colors he had chosen for himself, 
representing the black of obsidian and the white of 
justice. He doubted this woman would recognize his 
attire as inappropriate for a jeweler. 
She set down her empty teacup and fished out 
the brooch. “I… It’s all we have left,” the woman

said as she held it out. “It was my betrothal gift.” 
Black was just reentering the kitchen when 
Arlian accepted the brooch and got his first good 
look at it. Black saw the young lord’s jaw drop, his 
eyes snap wide open; he saw Arlian’s body tense, his 
back arching as if he had been struck. 
“Sorcery!” Black said, his sword in his hand; 
suddenly he was at the woman’s side, the blade at 
her throat. 
“No!” Arlian said, holding up a hand. “No—no, 
I’m fine.” His voice was rough; he blinked away 
tears. 
“Then what…” 
“The brooch,” Arlian said, holding it up. The gold 
sparkled redly in the firelight. 
Black did not lower his sword, but kept it at the 
woman’s throat, his left hand on the back of her 
neck. He could feel that she was rigid with terror. 
“What about it?” he demanded. 
“It’s my mother’s,” Arlian said. 
The woman gasped, then let out a low, sobbing 
moan. 
Black was not yet entirely convinced there was no 
sorcery involved; his hands did not move. “You’re 
certain of that?” he asked. 
“See for yourself,” Arlian said, turning the bauble 
over and peeling away the velvet backing. 
“Don’t… !” the woman said, starting to snatch at 
the brooch—but Black’s sword held her in place. 
Arlian held up the golden surface thus revealed 
and pointed at an inscription. “It’s hard to read, 
with the glue on it,” he said, “so look for yourself, 
and tell me whether it says, ‘To Sharbeth, with all 
my love.’” He looked at the woman. “Sharbeth was 
my mother.” 
“He st… but…” 
Black released his hold on the woman’s neck and

accepted the brooch. He had to squint to make out 
any of the inscription, as it was clogged not just 
with glue but with dirt and ash and bits of black 
velvet, but the lengths of the words were right, and 
the longest word did look like “Sharbeth.” 
“So it’s your mother’s brooch,” Black said. “It 
would seem I may have been overly pessimistic 
regarding your plans—but now what?” 
“Where did you get it?” Arlian demanded, staring 
the woman in the eye. 
She turned an imploring gaze on Black. “The… 
the sword,” she said. 
“Sheathe it,” Arlian said. 
Black frowned, but obeyed. It would seem no 
sorcery was involved after all, and in that case two 
strong men should be able to handle one beggar 
woman. He slid the blade into its sheath, but kept 
his hand on the hilt. 
“Now,” Arlian said, stepping forward and 
stooping to look the woman in the eye, “where did 
you get that brooch?” 
“My husband,” she said. “It was my betrothal 
gift. We… we didn’t know it was stolen, I swear! The 
velvet was… it was there…” 
“Who is your husband?” Arlian demanded. “ 
Where is he? Still alive?” 
“He… he’s sick. Very sick. That’s why I needed 
money. He didn’t want… all these years…” She 
stared at the brooch in Arlian’s hand. 
“What’s your husband’s name?” Arlian 
demanded. “Where is he?” 
“His name is Yorvalin, but everyone calls him 
Cover,” she said. “He’s in our room on Broom 
Street.” 
“Cover?” Arlian straightened, and he and Black 
stared at each other over the woman’s head. 
“It can’t be that easy,” Black said.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Arlian agreed, “but 
sometimes Fate is kind, as I know better than 
almost anyone.” 
“What are you talking about?” the woman asked, 
looking from one man to the other. “What is easy?” 
“What’s your name?” Arlian asked. 
“I’m… I’m called Stammer,” she said, flushing. 
“Of course,” Arlian said, with audible distaste. 
‘Sometimes he didn’t think much of the cognomens 
people bestowed upon one another. “Well, 
Stammer,” he said, looking down at her, “I want to 
talk to your husband.” 
She hesitated, clearly wishing she hadn’t said as 
much as $he already had. “You won’t hurt him?” 
Arlian sighed. “I can’t promise that,” he said. 
“I won’t… then I won’t take you.” 
Black raised his sword hilt an inch or two from 
the scabbard, but Arlian gestured for him to put it 
back. 
“Stammer,” he said, kneeling and looking up into 
her eyes, “do you know just how bad your position 
is? You’ve come here uninvited and tried to sell me 
stolen merchandise. From the look of you it’s 
obvious you have no money, no family, no 
patron—and here you are in Lord Obsidian’s home, 
arguing with his staff. Black could kill you, and 
claim he caught you stealing from us, and no one 
would ever doubt it. We could call a slaver in and 
sell you—and you’re still young and pretty enough 
that there’s no telling where you’d wind up as a 
slave. Now, we don’t want to do anything like 
that—we don’t want to harm you at all—but we do 
want to find your husband. You’ve already said he’s 
in your room on Broom Street—we’ll find him 
eventually, no matter what you do. You can save us 
the trouble of searching. And it’s your home—if we 
released you we would follow you, and sooner or 
later, wouldn’t you go back to your husband?” He

fished in his pocket and pulled out a gold ducat. “I’ll 
pay you for your trouble, if you like—or not, if you 
think that would be too much like selling him.” 
She stared down at the coin. “I… I’ll sell you the 
brooch,” she said. 
“The brooch is mine by right,” Arlian said coldly. 
“It’s not yours to sell. Your services as a guide, 
though, are your own.” 
She looked from Arlian to Black, but found no 
support there—Black’s expression showed only 
detached interest, Arlian’s intense determination. 
“Give me the money,” she said, snatching the 
gleaming coin. 
Arlian let her take it. “Now take us to Cover,” he 
said. 
Stammer nodded. She got to her feet, and Arlian 
straightened up to follow. 
Black raised a hand to halt him. “It’s raining,” he 
said. “Perhaps you should change your clothes, or at 
least put on a hat.” 
Arlian looked down at himself, and agreed. 
An hour later Arlian saw the first of the intended 
targets of his revenge, stretched out before him in 
the wretched dwelling he now inhabited, close up 
under the roof of a crumbling, narrow tenement. 
There was no bed; Cover lay on a pile of rags on 
the bare planks that served as a floor. The entire 
room had clearly been improvised—the planks lay 
loose across the tie beams, creating a little wooden 
island seven feet above the attic’s true floor, 
accessible only by a rickety ladder. There were no 
windows or other means of ventilation, and the air 
was chokingly thick, stifling hot, and horribly still, 
full of the scents of wood and mildew and sweat. 
Light came from a single candle on a table below, 
and from the lantern Black held. 
Most of the family that lived in the attic proper 
watched silently as Arlian, now clad in nondescript

traveling garb rather than his coachman’s livery, 
climbed up to Cover’s niche, his hat in one hand; 
Black, in his customary leather and carrying a 
drawn sword in his right hand with the lantern in 
his left, stood guard at the foot of the ladder. 
Stammer watched nervously from one side. 
The mother of the attic family sat in one corner 
with her youngest at her breast, ignoring the entire 
affair, and two of the other children were too busy 
squabbling to pay attention, but Arlian still had half 
a dozen pairs of eyes focused on him. In 
consequence he moved more slowly, and with 
greater caution, than he might otherwise have. He 
was eager, very eager, to see whether this was in 
fact the Cover he had met all those years ago in the 
ruins, the man who had lifted him up out of the 
cellar where Arlian’s grandfather had lain dead. 
The man on the rag pile did not look at Arlian as 
he rose into view—or at anything else. He lay on his 
back, his eyes closed, his breath rasping feebly. His 
skin was mottled with patches of unhealthy red, 
plainly visible even in the dim, uneven light. 
Arlian swung himself off the ladder, stooping 
under the rafters, and stepped across the platform 
so that he leaned over the sick man. 
“Cover,” Arlian said. 
The man licked his lips, but otherwise did not 
move. 
“Look at me, Cover,” Arlian demanded. 
The sunken eyes opened, and the head turned, 
and Arlian knew that this was, indeed, the same 
man. He had lost weight, a great deal of weight—his 
flesh was stretched tight over his bones, and Arlian 
could count his ribs through the filthy, frayed shirt 
that covered his chest—but it was Cover. 
Despite the heat of the stuffy attic, Arlian 
shivered. For years he had intended to punish this 
man for his crimes, for robbing the innocent dead 
of the village on the Smoking Mountain and for

allowing Lord Dragon to sell Arlian into 
slavery—but what could he do to punish this pitiful 
creature who lay before him? 
“How did you come to this?” Arlian asked. “When 
last I saw you you were well and strong, working for 
Lord Dragon.” 
Cover stared at him for a long moment, then 
spoke. “It’s you?” he asked, his voice faint and 
breathy. “The boy from the cellar?” 
“You recognize me?” Arlian asked, startled. 
“Dreamed of you,” Cover said. “I’m so sorry.” 
Arlian stared at him silently. He had not 
expected contrition. And the dreams… were they 
simply reflections of Cover’s own concerns, or did 
the man have the gift of prophecy? After his 
experiences in Arithei Arlian no longer doubted 
that some dreams were more than just the sleeping 
mind at play. 
Had someone sent the dreams? 
Had Cover really dreamed of him at all? Perhaps 
the man was delirious. 
“How did you find me?” Cover asked after a 
moment, when Arlian still had not spoken. 
“Your wife tried to sell me my mother’s brooch,” 
Arlian replied, forgetting about the dreams. 
“Her brooch? She shouldn’t have done that. I told 
her she must never sell it. I gave it to her…” He 
coughed, cutting off his speech. 
“She had nothing else left to sell,” Arlian said. 
“But it wasn’t ours, not really. I never told her, 
but I knew you’d come for it someday. I gave it to 
her for our betrothal so she would never part with 
it.”
“How could you know I would come?” Arlian 
demanded, suddenly angry. “Why didn’t you tell her 
it was stolen?” 
“I couldn’t,” Cover said. “I’m a coward. Couldn’t

stop thinking of you, and your village. I wouldn’t 
work for Lord Dragon after that—that was my first 
job, and I couldn’t stand it. Saw your face 
everywhere after that—I knew sooner or later justice 
would catch up with me, that I’d be punished for 
what we did.” 
That explained why Cover remembered Arlian so 
clearly—if he had never again joined in looting or 
raiding, the one event would stand out. 
“What did you do, then?” 
“I looked for other work:—but I didn’t know a 
trade. And I couldn’t get work from any of the lords 
after that, once I had told Lord Dragon no—the 
Dragon Society cast me out, marked me as 
unclean.” 
“The Dragon Society?” 
“Lord Dragon’s friends. The other lords. They 
wouldn’t help anyone he frowned upon.” 
“You didn’t beg for forgiveness? You never went 
back to work for him again?” 
“Couldn’t find him. And I didn’t want to.” Tears 
began to well up in Cover’s sunken eyes. “I married 
Stammer, and did what work I could find, but it 
was never much. We stayed one step ahead of the 
slavers—and then last year I got sick.” 
“And you never tried to find me, in all those 
years, to make amends?” Arlian asked. “You never 
came to the mine to buy me free? You never tried to 
return the brooch or any of the rest of it?” 
“No,” Cover said weakly. “I didn’t dare. And I 
needed my share of the money to live on.” He held 
out a trembling hand. “I’m sorry.” 
Arlian stepped back toward the ladder and did 
not reach for the hand. 
“So am I,” he said. He gripped the hilt of his 
sword—but he hesitated, and did not draw the 
blade.

He could not punish this man—Cover had already 
punished himself far more effectively than Arlian 
could. Killing him would be no worse than letting 
him live. 
Arlian was wealthy; if he chose he could take 
Cover in, feed him, give him a home—the illness 
might well be caused as much by malnutrition as 
anything else. Furthermore, the Aritheians knew a 
great deal of magic, and while they said magic 
could not heal everything, some diseases could be 
treated with their herbs and amulets. Perhaps they 
could cure the wasting disease that was eating 
Cover alive… 
But why should Arlian help? Cover had never 
done anything to atone for his crimes. He had never 
sought out Arlian; by his own admission he had 
never even tried. 
No, Arlian owed Cover nothing—neither 
vengeance nor succor. 
But that didn’t mean he had no further business 
here. 
“Are you going to kill me?” Cover asked, 
interrupting his thoughts. 
“No,” Arlian said. “I am going to leave you here, 
unharmed—and unaided. I am going to take my 
mother’s brooch, which is rightfully mine, but there 
may be something else you can sell me—if not for 
your own benefit, for your wife’s.” 
“What is it?” 
“I want to find the rest of your party of looters,” 
Arlian said. “Shamble, and Dagger, and Hide, and 
Tooth, and Stonehand. And I want to know 
everything you can tell me about Lord Dragon—is 
that how he’s generally known?” 
“I can’t… I…” 
“I will pay one ducat for each of your former 
comrades I locate through your information,” 
Arlian interrupted. “And I will pay five ducats for

Lord Dragon’s true name.” 
“I don’t know his true name!” Cover gasped 
desperately. “I don’t know where they all are 
anymore—I haven’t seen any of them in years.” 
“Tell me what you can, then,” Arlian said. “Tell 
me what you can, and it may be enough.” 
30 
Cover 
Cover had been an eager, if foolish, young man 
when he hired on with Lord Dragon. The younger 
son of a farmer of no great wealth, he had sold his 
birthright to his elder brother and come to Manfort 
seeking his fortune. 
He had, instead, found taverns and gaming and 
bad companions—and one good one, the girl 
Stammer, whom he had befriended when others 
mocked her. 
But then the money had run low, and his friend 
and drinking companion Hide had offered him 
employment with Lord Dragon. He took the job 
gladly, and he and the others had followed Lord 
Dragon out of Manfort to the south and west, and 
up the slopes of the Smoking Mountain. 
The sight of the burned-out ruins and the 
scattered bodies had changed Cover. The horror of 
it had settled into his heart. He had looked upon the 
devastation the dragons had left behind, and at the 
other looters, and he had realized that his 
companions were blind to the evil he saw there; 
they saw only unguarded valuables waiting to be 
taken.

When he and the others had pulled Arlian from 
the cellar, Cover had seen it at first as a sign that 
they were not simply thieves desecrating the 
dead—they had saved a boy, they had done 
something good, something to redeem themselves 
and to balance what they stole. 
And then Lord Dragon had sold the boy as a 
slave, and Cover’s hopes of redemption were 
dashed. 
Later, when they were almost back to Manfort, 
Lord Dragon had told them he had another job for 
them, in the east—and Cover had refused. He had 
demanded his share of the profits and returned to 
his old haunts in the city. 
At first everything had been fine—but then the 
others had completed whatever task they had had 
in the east and come back to Manfort, and word 
had begun to spread. Cover never learned just what 
was said, but he found that his credit had been cut 
off at the taverns, the odd jobs he had done for 
spending money were no longer offered, and he was 
not welcome among people who had been his 
friends. One of those former friends mentioned that 
Shamble had spoken a few words of warning; others 
would not give even that much reason. 
Stammer had stayed with him, though. 
Throughout it all she had remained loyal and true. 
He had married her, giving her his only remaining 
thing of value—Sharbeth’s brooch—as a betrothal 
gift. 
“Why did you stay in Manfort, if you could find 
no work here?” Arlian asked. 
“Where else would I go?” Cover replied. 
Arlian had seen enough of the world that he 
could easily have listed a dozen places, but he did 
not bother. “Go on,” he said. 
That was really all there was to it. Cover and 
Stammer had survived as best they could, finding 
whatever work was available. They had had a

daughter, their only child, who had died of a fever 
when she was three. 
And then Cover had begun to sicken, and the last 
of their money had run out. 
The last Cover had heard of Shamble had been 
four years ago; Shamble had continued to work for 
Lord Dragon or his wealthy friends, doing whatever 
unpleasant tasks might need doing. 
Stonehand had joined the Duke’s personal guard 
some six years past, and for all Cover knew was still 
there. 
Tooth had disappeared long ago; there had been 
rumors about involvement with a sorcerer. 
Dagger had killed a well-connected man two 
years after the destruction of Obsidian, and had fled 
from Manfort. Cover had heard nothing of her 
since. 
And Hide… Hide had saved up proceeds from his 
work for Lord Dragon, and had opened a 
fashionable little shop in the Upper City, dealing in 
baubles and curiosities. Cover and Stammer had 
never spent much time in the Upper City, and 
ragged and ill-fed as they were they had not dared 
venture there in years, but Cover believed the shop 
was still there. “And Lord Dragon?” Arlian asked. 
“You want his real name,” Cover whispered. “I don’t 
know it.” 
“Do you know where I can find him?” Cover 
shook his head, which triggered a coughing fit; 
when he had recovered and taken his hand from his 
mouth Arlian saw bright blood smeared across the 
fingers. 
“No,” Cover said. “I only knew of him through 
Hide. I know he goes by several names, and that 
he’s important, very rich—he has the Duke’s ear, I 
think, and knows something of sorcery. It’s said he’s 
a master in one of the secret societies—maybe there 
really is a Dragon Society. I meant it as just a turn 
of phrase, to describe those around him, but

perhaps it’s the truth.” 
Arlian frowned. He had known, from his stop in 
Westguard, that Lord Dragon had more than casual 
contact with the Duke of Manfort; this confirmed it. 
As for the rest… “Secret societies?” 
Cover waved a hand helplessly. “Rumors. There 
are said to be secret societies throughout the Lands 
of Man, but most particularly here in Manfort. 
Societies of lords, societies of sorcerers…” He began 
coughing again. 
“A society of whores,” Arlian muttered under his 
breath. He suddenly understood that the name of 
the House of Carnal Society might be a joke of sorts, 
a cruel parody of these supposed secret societies. 
“And in which society did Lord Dragon claim 
membership?” Cover, still coughing, shook his head 
helplessly. 
He didn’t know. All he could provide was rumors; 
Arlian saw that now. “I will pay for Stonehand and 
Hide,” he said. “Two ducats. The others—we’ll see.” 
Cover managed to speak again through a foam of 
bloody spittle. “Thank you,” he said. “Forgive me.” 
“Perhaps in time I will,” Arlian said. “For now I 
will merely withhold judgment.” 
He turned and climbed carefully down the ladder. 
At the bottom he tucked his hat under one arm 
as he opened his purse and drew out two ducats, 
which he handed to Stammer. 
“You earned the first that I gave you before,” he 
said. “Your husband earned these others.” 
She stammered, and he held up his hand. 
“Go to him,” Arlian said. “He’s very ill; I don’t 
think he has much longer.” 
She gasped, and hurried to the ladder. 
Arlian did not watch her climb; instead he 
beckoned to Black, and the two men started down 
the stairs.

“He’s dying?” Black asked as they descended. He 
walked a pace behind, holding the lantern high; the 
stairwell had no other light. 
“He’s coughing up blood,” Arlian said. “I never 
saw a man do that for long and live. Oh, a few drops 
from a scratched throat, perhaps, but this blood 
was bright and red…” He shook his head. 
“I take it you feel no need to hasten his end, 
under the circumstances.” 
“None whatsoever,” Arlian agreed. 
They had reached the third floor landing; they 
wheeled onto the next flight down, and continued in 
silence. They had just started down from the second 
floor to the first when Black spoke again. 
“I take it you feel no need to make any attempts 
at healing him, either.” 
Arlian did not answer immediately; in fact, they 
were on the front stoop, just a step from the street, 
when he replied. 
“I thought about it,” he said, clapping his hat on 
his. head and tugging his collar up to keep out the 
drizzling rain. “I’m still thinking about it.” 
Black grimaced. “And if you did heal him, would 
you then slay him?” 
“No,” Arlian said immediately. “I’m not so 
vindictive as that. He robbed the dead of my village, 
but he’s been punished for it ever since, by his own 
conscience, and he has not otherwise wronged 
me—nor anyone, to my knowledge.” He stepped out 
into the street and turned toward the Upper City. 
“Ah—he’s repented?” 
“Maybe. He may know what’s in his heart; I 
don’t.” Black looked at the younger man’s face. “And 
do you know what’s in yours, my lord? You seem 
troubled—isn’t it an easing of your burden to know 
that you’ve found this man, and he has suffered for 
the wrongs he committed? While you toiled away in 
the mine and drove your wagon across the

Desolation and fought through the Dreaming 
Mountains to Arithei, he was not making merry 
with his ill-gotten gains, but was instead suffering 
as well. And now, when you are free and rich and 
able to do as you please, he lies dying on a heap of 
rags in a Manfort attic. This would seem to me to 
be a fine display of justice, of Fate working out 
matters as we would choose, rather than in the 
perverse and unfair fashion it so often prefers.” 
“I suppose,” Arlian agreed unhappily, as they 
ambled up the sloping street toward the Old Palace. 
A scavenging dog hurried out of their way, 
unnoticed. 
“Then why do I see you with a face more suited to 
a merchant assessing losses than one counting 
profits?” 
Arlian stopped walking and turned to look at his 
companion. 
“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps I am assessing 
losses.” 
“Is revenge so sweet, then, that you regret the 
missed opportunity?” 
“No,” Arlian said, resuming his pace. “No, that’s 
not it. I am thinking, rather, of Stammer’s loss—she 
had no part in any wrongdoing that I know of.” 
“And she’s free to leave Cover, should she choose 
to,” Black pointed out. 
“But she loves him. I’m almost tempted to try to 
help him, just for her sake—but I swore 
vengeance…” 
“A family is a risk, my lord; we all suffer when 
those we love suffer, whether through their own 
fault or not, and the entanglements of concern and 
affection weave everywhere. There’s no scheme of 
justice in all the world so complex that it might 
untangle all the strands that bind the innocent to 
the guilty, the wronged to the blessed.” 
“There should be,” Arlian said.

“But there isn’t—unless Fate and the gods are 
subtler than we know. I’ve learned to live with that; 
you should, too.” 
Arlian shook his head. “It’s all so complicated,” 
he said. “I could show mercy, have the Aritheians 
look at Cover— perhaps they could heal him, or 
perhaps not. But what would come of it?” 
Black shrugged. “We never know what’s to come, 
my lord; we can only make our best guess.” 
“And that’s often wrong. When I saved Bloody 
Hand’s life, it brought me hatred—and my freedom. 
I still haven’t decided whether I was right or wrong, 
or whether he was right or wrong.” He sighed. “I 
had thought my vengeance would be simpler. 
Looting Obsidian in the dragons’ wake was an evil 
thing—I don’t think any could question that. Selling 
me as a slave, rather than letting me make my own 
way as best I could, was wrong. I had thought that 
the people who did those things, when I found 
them, would be evil, that by killing them I would be 
ridding the world of a continuing threat to the 
well-being of innocents—and instead I find Cover a 
sick, harmless beggar who seems to have hurt no 
one in years, who is clearly loved by his wife. What 
if the others are the same?” 
“What if they are?” Black responded. “Does that 
wipe out the wrongs they did?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian said quietly. 
“Ah,” Black said. For half a dozen paces neither 
man spoke; then Black suggested, “Perhaps, if 
you’re still determined upon your vengeance, you 
should concentrate on those six lords, then. The 
mutilation of sixteen young women, and the murder 
of four, is surely harder to forgive than a mere 
looting and enslavement.” 
“Five women murdered, not four,” Arlian said. 
“Lord Dragon slew Madam Ril with his own hand.” 
“Ah, indeed, five it is—though she was herself a 
party to crimes against the others, was she not?”

“Yes,” Arlian said. “And if I had killed her, for 
those crimes… but Lord Dragon cut her throat for 
failing him, not for abusing her charges.” He bit his 
lower lip. “She would be just as dead in either case; 
does it really matter who killed her, or why?” 
“Not to me,” Black said. “You are, of course, free 
to form your own opinion, but I say that dead is 
dead. And whether she deserved to die or not, there 
were still the other four.” 
“It’s so very tangled,” Arlian muttered. 
“Indeed,” Black agreed. “Life generally is.” 
They walked the rest of the way in silence, 
Arlian’s shoulders hunched against the rain. 
31 
Lord Obsidian’s Debut 
Arlian made no attempt to locate Hide or 
Stonehand over the course of the next few days; 
instead he threw himself into the preparations for 
the feast and dance that he was to host, as Lord 
Obsidian, to celebrate his arrival in Manfort. 
He put some effort into his own appearance, even 
considering asking his Aritheian employees to 
throw a glamour on him, though in the end he 
settled for the more natural methods he had learned 
during his stay in Westguard. 
He did, however, teach the Aritheians an 
elaborate code of signals that he would use, should 
he have any need of their services during the gala. 
He taught Black the same cues. 
“Do you think,” Black asked, after a final review, 
“that perhaps you’ve taken rather too much upon

yourself?” 
Arlian frowned. “How do you mean that?” 
“I mean that you are one man—a strong and 
clever man, with the heart of the dragon, but a 
single man—yet you’re determined to take on at 
least seven enemies.” 
“I’m not alone,” Arlian protested. “I have you, 
and Thirif and Qulu and Shibiel and Isein.” 
“And the lords will undoubtedly have their own 
hirelings and allies.” 
Arlian shrugged. “The six lords and Ambassador 
Sahasin and the looters and the mine’s overseers 
may or may not be too much for me; we’ll see. But 
they’re just the start.” 
“You speak of the dragons.” 
Arlian nodded. “The world is not safe for anyone 
so long as those monsters still live.” 
“You stand no chance against any dragon, 
Arlian,” Black said resignedly. He had told Arlian 
this before, many times. “No man has ever slain a 
dragon. It’s not even known whether they can die.” 
“I know,” Arlian said. “So I’ll probably die 
horribly in some cave somewhere.” He waved it 
aside. “We all die sometime, and if no one ever tries 
, we’ll never know whether there is a way to kill 
dragons.” 
“You’re mad, you realize.” 
Arlian grimaced. “Quite possibly. Seeing one’s 
family slaughtered, spending much of one’s life as a 
mine slave, crossing the Dreaming Mountains, 
drinking human blood and dragon venom—I’d 
suppose that to be enough to drive a man mad.” 
“You didn’t see them killed, save your 
grandfather,” Black corrected. 
Arlian smiled wryly. “Literalist. It was close 
enough.” He clapped Black on the shoulder. “Come 
on, let’s get on with it—I want this party to be

perfect.” 
The first coach arrived at midday. A handful of 
early arrivals, people who had come on foot but who 
had been milling about the gates, reluctant to be 
first to enter, took this as their cue. 
Black greeted the arrivals at the great front door, 
ushering them through the entry hall into a long 
mirrored gallery some hundred feet long and two 
stories in height. The servants were waiting with 
wine and sweetmeats amid a vast display of fine 
tapestries, elaborate drapery, and artful 
arrangements of flowers. Perfume had been added 
to the water in the vases, to enhance the flowers’ 
own scents, and a lutenist played unobtrusively on a 
central balcony. 
Arlian stood out of sight behind the draperies of 
another balcony, listening to his guests; he intended 
to withhold his grand entrance for some time yet. 
From this post he caught only snatches of 
conversation, but he found them informative. 
“… place cleaned up nicely…” 
“… finally have a chance to meet the 
mysterious…” 
“… from the south somewhere. I understand his 
people have been selling…” 
“… probably hasn’t been in here since his 
father…” 
“Eccentric, definitely. I wonder how long he’ll last 
in Manfort?” 
“Dead or fleeing in a month, I would…” 
“I don’t remember that picture on the 
ceiling—was it there before?” 
“I would assume, from the name, that he’s 
dark…” 
“You know your mother would never…” 
Arlian noted that at least some of his guests had 
been in the Old Palace before—that was hardly

surprising. Speculation about their host was also to 
be expected. He had hoped for more gossip about 
the other guests, and remained in place, listening. 
Perhaps when they had had a bit more time to 
exhaust the most obvious subjects he would hear 
more. 
He knew more coaches were arriving; the crowd 
below was growing steadily. 
Then there was a stir, and normal conversation 
died away in a rush of whispering. Arlian risked 
leaning out for a quick glimpse. 
A white-haired man attired in a fine blue coat 
and white shirt was entering, attended by half a 
dozen guards in white livery. The crowd backed 
away, making room for this new arrival. 
From the response and the whispers he caught, 
Arlian realized that this was the Duke of Manfort 
himself—the hereditary warlord, the only lord 
whose position bore no relationship to his wealth or 
business, the person nominally in charge only of the 
city’s defenses but in practice the closest thing to a 
ruler the Lands of Man possessed. 
The Duke waved to the other guests and looked 
around. 
“And where is our host?” he asked. 
Arlian backed away from the draperies, tugged 
his sleeves straight, then turned and hurried for the 
stairs. He had not expected the Duke to 
appear—certainly not so early! It would be very bad 
form to keep the warlord waiting any longer than 
absolutely necessary. 
On the way across the landing he signaled to a 
waiting servant, and as he descended the stairs he 
signed to Isein, the Aritheian woman who was 
waiting near the bottom. Both hurried away to 
prepare his entrance. 
A moment later Arlian stood ready at the corner 
just beyond the end of the long gallery. The lutenist

ended his piece with a flourish, and four trumpeters 
stepped out on the other balconies and began a 
brief fanfare. 
The skin at the back of Arlian’s neck tingled, and 
he knew the Aritheians were invoking the spells he 
had asked them to ready. He stepped forward, 
striding into the gallery. 
Sure enough, images of brightly colored birds 
were dancing in great swirling patterns overhead; 
Arlian had seen such birds in the Dreaming 
Mountains and knew the species really existed, but 
to anyone who had never ventured south of the 
Desolation he guessed they would appear the exotic 
creation of fevered dreams, with their vivid green 
and red and yellow feathers and their long, curling 
tails. 
Tiny lights, like fireflies, flickered from nowhere 
in the air above the heads of his guests. The scent of 
roses filled the hall. The fanfare ended in an 
arpeggio of crystalline tones that Arlian was quite 
sure never came from any mere piece of brass. 
And then the birds and lights froze, the music 
stopped, and silence fell. Arlian paused in the 
archway entrance to the gallery, raised his hands, 
and bowed elaborately. “My friends, new and old,” 
he called, “I am Lord Obsidian. Welcome to my 
home!” 
Someone laughed nervously, and somewhere the 
delicate clap of a woman’s hands sounded. Speech 
returned in a rush amid scattered applause, and 
men and women in multicolored finery pressed 
forward to meet their host. The lutenist strummed 
a chord and began a new air. 
Arlian accepted a woman’s hand and kissed her 
fingers, then said, “Your pardon, my lady, but I 
believe I must attend another.” He gestured. 
The crowd’s eyes followed his wave and saw the 
Duke of Manfort approaching at a brisk pace, three 
guards on either side; the throng parted swiftly for

him. Overhead the “fireflies” faded away and the 
bight birds vanished. 
“Lord Obsidian!” the Duke called, as he 
approached. “A pleasure to meet you at last!” 
Arlian bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Your 
Grace.” 
The Duke let out a bark of laughter. “I’m sure! 
Well, let us enjoy ourselves, then—tell me about 
yourself.” He held out a hand for Arlian to clasp. 
“Where did you get the disappearing birds?” 
Arlian took the Duke’s hand and looked at him. 
He had had a wild notion that perhaps the Duke 
of Manfort himself was Lord Dragon, but any such 
thought was plainly absurd. This man was shorter 
than Lord Dragon— shorter than Arlian 
himself—with short-cut white hair and a square, 
smooth face paler than Lord Dragon’s could ever be. 
His cheek was unscarred, and his watery blue eyes 
nothing like Lord Dragon’s dark ones. His hand was 
soft and damp, his smile broad and slightly foolish. 
The possibility of an illusion had occurred to 
Arlian, and he glanced up at Thirif, the Aritheian 
who now stood on one of the balconies. 
Thirif gave the hand sign for “no magic in use.” 
“In Arithei, Your Grace,” Arlian said. 
“You’ve been to Arithei? Yourself? By the dead 
gods, my boy, how very remarkable!” 
“My business is trading in magicks and sorcery, 
Your Grace; Arithei is the very foundation of my 
fortune.” 
The Duke looked disconcerted. “Indeed,” he said. 
Arlian hid a smile. It was not done, to speak 
openly of magic or sorcery in Manfort. 
“Arithei is not so distant or strange as all that, 
Your Grace,” Arlian said, as if misunderstanding 
the Duke’s reaction. “I understand that the 
Aritheians sent an ambassador to Manfort some

years back.” 
“Yes, of course! Sahasin—a fine fellow! I think I 
saw him as I entered.” He gestured vaguely at the 
crowd behind him. “But I don’t believe he’s been 
home to Arithei in a decade or more. It’s not a safe 
journey.” 
“Indeed, Your Grace, for most it is not,” Arlian 
agreed. “I have been very fortunate.” 
“Ha! Indeed, you must have been, to be able to 
afford this old pile! You know, one reason my 
grandfather moved into the Citadel was that it was 
simply a nuisance, trying to keep this place from 
falling down around his ears, and yet you’ve made it 
look quite splendid.” 
“Your Grace is too generous.” Arlian bowed 
again, with a flourish. 
The Duke stared at Arlian for a moment, then 
waved in dismissal. “Well, it has been a pleasure, 
my lord, but you have your other guests to attend 
to—I mustn’t monopolize your time!” He turned 
away, immediately turning his attentions to a 
buxom young lady in lavender velvet. 
Arlian bowed one last time, and when his head 
came up again found himself looking at the back of 
the Duke’s close-cropped head and blue silk collar. 
He kept his face expressionless as he turned to his 
other guests. 
How, he wondered, did that insipid twit manage 
to keep order in Manfort? Was he really the fool he 
appeared to be, or was it a carefully cultivated act? 
That someone had managed to get a letter out of 
the old fool giving him freedom to do anything he 
pleased in Westguard no longer seemed quite so 
surprising. Instead it seemed surprising that the 
entire city of Manfort had not devolved into 
anarchy. 
But the Duke had advisers, of course, and 
presumably they were the ones who actually

maintained order. Arlian had heard a few of their 
names during his stay in Manfort—Lord Enziet, 
Lady Rime, Lord Drisheen. 
Arlian had almost met Drisheen on occasion in 
Westguard, two years before; certainly he had 
smelled the man’s perfume. Rime and Enziet were 
unknown to him beyond their names and 
association, with the Duke, however. He wondered 
whether any of those advisers were present. 
Well, there was one person he wanted to meet 
who almost certainly was present; it was just a 
matter of finding him. Arlian noticed a 
worried-looking young man, roughly his own age 
and dressed in gaudy red-and-gold velvets, whose 
attention seemed to be focused on the Duke. He 
tapped this man on the shoulder, then bowed—a 
restrained little bow, not the grand production he 
had performed for the Duke. “Excuse me, my lord,” 
Arlian said. “I am Lord Obsidian; I don’t believe I’ve 
had the pleasure of your acquaintance.” 
“Ah,” the young man said. “Of course. I’m Lord 
Rademi, and I’m delighted to meet you, Lord 
Obsidian.” He bowed sketchily, but was clearly still 
trying to get the Duke’s attention. 
“The Duke mentioned the Aritheian 
ambassador,” Arlian said. “Sahasin, I believe the 
name was?” 
“Yes, what about him?” Rademi replied. 
“Why, having visited his homeland, I’d like to 
meet him,” Arlian explained. “Could you point him 
out to me? I don’t see anyone in Aritheian attire…” 
“No, he’s dressed like anyone else,” Rademi said. 
He pointed. “Over there.” 
“Thank you,” Arlian said. Now that his attention 
was directed properly he could see that the 
indicated individual did indeed have the darker 
complexion and rounded features of an Aritheian. 
He had deliberately chosen the distracted youth

to avoid being drawn into a long conversation, and 
Rademi was ready enough to let him go, but not 
everyone was so cooperative; as he made his way 
across the gallery to the man Rademi had pointed 
out Arlian found himself accosted by various lords 
and ladies eager to make his acquaintance. 
One woman introduced herself and her husband 
as Lady Joy and Lord Jerial; Arlian immediately 
recognized the latter name and took a closer look at 
the fellow. 
Yes, this was indeed the man who had abused 
Sweet while Arlian watched from the closet. Arlian 
suddenly contrived to sneeze, thereby, avoiding the 
customary handclasp as his right hand was instead 
employed in dabbing his nose with a lace 
handkerchief. 
“Your pardon, Lord Jerial,” he said, as he 
returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Lady Joy, 
a pleasure to meet you.” 
Lady Joy was a plump little woman who could no 
longer honestly be called young, and who had 
probably never been beautiful; she appeared to be a 
little older than her husband, and Arlian wondered 
why Jerial had married her. 
For money, probably. His activities in Westguard 
had made it plain that he was not particularly 
devoted to her; perhaps he restricted his violent 
tendencies to other women so as not to antagonize a 
source of funds. 
“I have heard so much about you,” Arlian 
continued, addressing Lady Joy. He lifted one of her 
hands in his own. “I really do hope we can become 
better acquainted— perhaps we might dine 
together one night?” 
Joy blushed with pleasure. “I would be 
delighted,” she said. “We really must make some 
arrangement at the first opportunity!” 
“The pleasure will be all mine,” Arlian said, 
touching her fingers to his lips. “If you’ll forgive me,

though, I have other guests I must attend to just 
now. I do hope we’ll have a chance to speak again 
soon.” He released her hand and swept on. 
And finally, he reached the man who had been 
pointed out as the Aritheian ambassador. He was a 
gray-haired man of sixty or more, of medium 
height, running to fat. 
“Lord Sahasin?” Arlian inquired. 
“Just Sahasin,” the other corrected him, as he 
turned to face his host. “I own no enterprises, make 
no investments.” 
“Oh, but surely, as the representative of your 
homeland, you are entitled to be addressed 
honorably!” Arlian protested. 
“If my lord pleases,” Sahasin said with a smile. 
“You know me?” 
“I have heard of you,” Arlian replied. 
“And how have you heard of me, then? The 
rumors say that you dabble in sorcery and the 
buying and selling of magicks—are your from the 
Borderlands, perhaps?” 
Arlian said, “Rather, I trade with Arithei.” 
The ambassador’s smile faded somewhat. “Oh?” 
“Indeed. I was there just last year.” 
The smile vanished completely. “But the road has 
been closed…” 
“It is closed no longer,” Arlian interrupted. 
“Are you sure? Why have I received no word?” 
“I am quite certain—and I have brought word 
with me.” 
He raised his left hand, fingers spread in one of 
his prearranged signals. 
The ambassador looked up at Arlian’s hand, then 
past it, at one of the balconies—where an Aritheian 
was just disappearing through the draperies. He 
paled.

“What sort of word?” Sahasin asked. “Who are 
you?” 
“I am a friend of Hathet,” Arlian said. “As for 
what word, his family and the House of Deri would 
like to discuss that with you.” 
“What… is this a threat?” 
Arlian shook his head. “I make no threats,” he 
said. “However, there are six representatives of the 
House of Deri, six of Hathet’s kinsmen, who wish to 
speak to you regarding certain suspicions they hold 
regarding the House of Slihar—your House. If you 
satisfy them, then I am satisfied. If you do not, 
well… they will have the opportunity to deal with 
you first. If that does not end the matter—are you 
familiar with our custom of dueling?” 
“This is ridiculous,” Sahasin said. “Hathet was 
killed by bandits in the Desolation! I had nothing to 
do with it!” 
“Your house profited from it, or you would not be 
here,” Arlian pointed out. 
“Yes, of course,” Sahasin said, “but there’s no 
crime in that! Someone had to take his place, and I 
was available, and my House had the means to send 
me, as the Deri did not!” 
“And if that’s all there was to it, then you have 
nothing to fear,” Arlian told him. “You need merely 
convince six Deri magicians that you are telling the 
truth.” 
Sahasin looked up at him, terror-stricken, then 
turned, saying, “I won’t have it! I’m innocent!” and 
began making his way toward the door. 
Arlian made no move to stop him; at least four of 
the six Aritheians would be waiting for him at the 
entrance, and as Arlian had said, as Hathet’s family 
their claim to vengeance took precedence over his 
own. 
And it might well be that Sahasin was telling the 
truth after all, that he was merely an innocent

beneficiary, in which case the others would do him 
no real harm. They had brought the necessary 
magic to interrogate him quite thoroughly. 
Several people had overheard all or part of this 
conversation; others noticed Sahasin’s indecorous 
flight. For a moment a pall of silence fell over the 
crowd; then a renewed chatter burst out. 
That was one matter dealt with, Arlian thought. 
First Cover, now the ambassador—he was making 
progress. 
He wished he could find Lord Dragon, though. He 
looked out at the crowd but could see no one who 
might be the tall, scarred lord. 
Well, there were still others to deal with. 
“Your pardon, my lady,” he said to a nearby 
woman. “By any chance would you know whether 
Lord Kuruvan is here?” 
32 
The festivities Continue 
Lord Kuruvan was there—a tall, thin man with 
thick black hair and a nervous smile, elegantly clad 
in maroon and buff and smelling ever so faintly of 
musk. As with Jerial, Arlian managed to avoid 
shaking his hand or making the usual polite 
proclamations of pleasure while still establishing 
friendly relations and insisting that they must meet 
again. 
“I believe I heard your name mentioned in 
Westguard,” Arlian said. “Something about a 
building you owned there having burned down?” 
“I don’t know what that would be about,”

Kuruvan said, but his expression, while remaining 
nervous, ceased to be a smile. “I own an inn outside 
the city walls, but it isn’t in Westguard.” 
“Oh, this wasn’t an inn, and was definitely in 
Westguard,” Arlian said. “Perhaps you only owned a 
share in it?” 
Kuruvan turned up his hands. “I’ve invested in a 
good many ventures,” he said. 
“Ah! Well, perhaps we might compare notes one 
day,” Arlian said. “I might know of a few enterprises 
where another partner would be welcome—if not 
yourself, then perhaps one of your friends.” 
“Perhaps,” Kuruvan said uneasily. “I can’t speak 
for them.” 
“Of course,” Arlian agreed. He studied the man’s 
face, trying not to be obvious about it. 
Lord Kuruvan was by no means the vapid fool the 
Duke appeared to be, but he scarcely seemed a 
mastermind, either. He had been clever enough to 
buy that inn, clever enough to put aside a keg of 
gold coins against some future emergency—and 
careless or stupid enough to tell a slave who hated 
him where that money was hidden. Surely, there 
was some way to get the names of the other five 
owners of the House of Carnal Society out of him. 
Not here, though, amid the crowd and the 
festivities. 
Arlian leaned close. “Seriously, my lord,” he said, 
“there is a matter I would discuss with you in 
private, a matter concerning a mutual 
acquaintance and a large sum of money. Might I 
perhaps call on you at your home—soon?” 
Kuruvan frowned. “How soon?” 
“Tomorrow?” 
He shook his head. “Impossible—and surely, 
you’ll scarcely want to conduct business the day 
after hosting such an affair as this!”

Arlian laughed. “A very good point, my lord. 
When would you be available, then?” 
Kuruvan studied Arlian’s face just as Arlian had 
studied his, then shrugged. “Not tomorrow, but the 
day after I will be home—in the afternoon, of 
course, not the morning.” 
“Then I will do my best to see you then,” Arlian 
said. “Ah… but I am new to Manfort, and as yet 
unfamiliar with the Upper City; could you perhaps 
see that my steward knows where your home is to 
be found?” He beckoned to Black, who had been 
standing unobtrusively nearby. 
Kuruvan glanced at Black and his drab black 
livery with distaste: “My coachman is outside,” he 
said. “He wears maroon and gold.” 
Black bowed, and hurried away. 
“You are kindness itself, my lord,” Arlian said. “I 
look forward to spending more time with you.” 
Kuruvan frowned again. “I hope you do not 
mistake me, Lord Obsidian,” he said. “I am an 
ordinary man.” 
“Oh, surely more than merely ordinary! But 
perhaps you mean rather that whatever your 
virtues, you do not stray too far from the natural 
pursuits of mankind? Wine, women, and the clink 
of gold coins?” 
“Exactly,” Kuruvan said, visibly relieved, and 
Arlian realized that the references to the brothel 
and other secrets had worried the man. Perhaps he 
had thought Arlian intended to blackmail him by 
accusing him of perversion—or that Arlian was 
himself a pervert, seeking a partner in vice. 
And perhaps Kuruvan was a pervert, though 
Rose had not mentioned any actions on his part 
that were out of the ordinary for her clients. That 
might explain his caution. 
Arlian had no very clear idea just what the 
debauched lords of Manfort might consider a

perversion, though. He snatched a wineglass from a 
nearby tray and handed it to Kuruvan. “I can 
provide you with wine readily enough,” he said, 
“and we’ll speak of gold another day, but I’m afraid 
that you’ll have to find your own women.” He 
gestured at the crowd. “There are certainly beauties 
here—is there any that takes your fancy? Are you 
married?” 
“I’m not,” Kuruvan replied. “I’ve never found a 
woman who suited me for long. And yourself? You 
must realize that half of Manfort is wondering 
about you.” 
Arlian’s teeth clenched—no, Rose hadn’t suited 
him for long, and he had left her lying there with 
her throat cut. At least when he killed Kuruvan he 
would not leave behind a grieving widow. 
And if Kuruvan was, as Arlian believed, one of the 
erstwhile owners of the House of Carnal Society, 
what had become of the two women he had carried 
off when that establishment was destroyed? He 
hadn’t married either of them, obviously—were they 
still alive? 
Arlian forced a smile. “No, I have not yet found a 
wife,” he said. “I’m still young, and I have generally 
devoted myself to business to the exclusion of all 
else.” 
The business of survival and revenge, he added 
silently. 
“Then perhaps I might introduce you to 
someone,” Kuruvan said. He turned and indicated 
one of the handful of people who had gathered 
around him as he and Arlian spoke. “This is Lady 
Fiala…” 
“Fan-Fan,” the woman—scarcely more than a girl 
really—said eagerly, stepping forward and offering 
her hand. “Call me Fan-Fan. Everyone does.” 
Arlian bowed and kissed the girl’s fingers. She 
smiled delightedly and curtseyed in return, then 
said, “I understand you are a great traveler, my

lord.” 
“I have traveled,” Arlian admitted. 
“Oh! I have scarcely been outside the city gates. 
Tell me where you’ve been.” 
A moment later Arlian found himself describing 
Arithei to a growing and appreciative audience—an 
audience that did not include Lord Kuruvan. After 
that he fell into a discussion of the Desolation, and 
the best routes and methods for crossing it, with a 
Lady Irmir. 
The presence of beautiful women eager to know 
him better was distracting, but Arlian had had to 
learn to resist such distractions in order to survive 
his stay in the House of Carnal Society. He 
reminded himself that he was not here to enjoy 
himself, but to pursue his revenge against those 
who had wronged innocents—the memory of 
Sweet’s face as he had last seen it from a distance, 
as she sat terrified in Lord Dragon’s coach, 
insulated him from the charms of these other faces. 
In time he tore himself away from the little knot of 
listeners and made his way through the throng, 
meeting more of the city’s nobility, and always 
looking for some sign of Lord Dragon. 
A buffet supper was served in the two dining 
halls— there were too many guests for a seated 
meal—and the party spilled from the gallery into 
those rooms. Thence it spread to the ballroom, 
where pipes, drums, a virginal, and a shawm 
provided music for dancing. Wine flowed freely. 
Whenever spirits showed signs of sagging Arlian 
signaled to one of the remaining Aritheian 
magicians, and some new display would be 
forthcoming—a rain of flowers, a forest growing up 
the walls and then vanishing, rainbows playing 
across the room. Each was greeted with applause 
and laughter. 
The final display, launched at midnight, was one 
that Black had counseled him to drop, but Arlian

had insisted— the image of a great black dragon 
appeared in the air above the heads of the crowd, 
flew the length of the gallery, then vanished. 
There was no laughter that time, and only 
halfhearted applause. Arlian knew that Black had 
been right—the image of a dragon was in poor 
taste. He had hoped, though, that it might stir a 
reaction from someone, that something in the 
crowd’s response might give him a hint about Lord 
Dragon. 
His hopes were dashed; no one seemed to 
associate the image with anything but mankind’s 
traditional enemy and ancient overlords, the 
dragons themselves. 
After that the party began to break up; in ones 
and two the revelers drifted away, out to waiting 
carriages or the city streets. When the Duke of 
Manfort took his leave the trickle became a flood, 
and within an hour Arlian and Black were standing 
alone in the gallery. 
Arlian had been introduced to dozens, perhaps 
hundreds, of the city’s elite, including several tall 
scarred men—but he had seen no sign of Lord 
Dragon. He had not identified anyone else 
associated with the House of Carnal Society except 
Kuruvan and Jerial. Lords Inthior, Drisheen, and 
Salisna had not made their presence known, if they 
had been there at all, nor had Arlian learned 
whether any of them had in truth owned shares in 
the House of the Six Lords. 
He had made a date with Lord Kuruvan, though, 
and Sahasin, the Slihar ambassador, had been dealt 
with. 
He stood for a moment, thinking over the 
evening, then asked Black, “Is the Duke as great a 
fool as he appears?” 
Black hesitated, considering, then said, “He has 
been accused of wisdom to his face, but behind his 
back? Never.”

“Then why is he still seen as the master of 
Manfort? Why has no one usurped his position?” 
“Who says no one has?” Black asked. “The Duke 
remains the Duke because he makes a useful 
figurehead, but I’ve no doubt the real power lies 
elsewhere.” 
“Where?” Arlian asked. “Who was here tonight 
who wields real power?” 
Black shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “There 
are the secret societies—I suspect they do more to 
determine what actually gets done than the Duke. 
And of course, the Duke has his advisers—fool or 
not, he’s smart enough to take their advice. If he did 
not he might wake up one morning with his throat 
cut, or find some interesting toxin in his wineglass.” 
“Who are his advisers, then?” 
“My lord, what does this have to do with your 
revenge?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “But I’m 
convinced that Lord Dragon must be a very 
powerful man, one close to the Duke—who better 
than one of his advisers?” 
Black sighed. “I don’t know who all his advisers 
are. I’ve heard a few names mentioned, just as I’m 
sure you have—Lord Hardior, Lord Enziet, Lady 
Rime—but whether those are all of them, or what 
their positions really are, I couldn’t say.” 
“I met Lord Hardior tonight,” Arlian said 
thoughtfully. “I hadn’t known he was one of the 
Duke’s advisers. I didn’t meet anyone called Enziet 
or Rime—I did know those names, and I would have 
remembered.” 
“I don’t know whether they were here at all, but if 
they were you might have met Rime under her true 
name, or Enziet under some other cognomen,” 
Black said. 
Arlian stroked his beard. “I might have, at that.” 
He tried to remember how many men he had met

who had not given their true names. One would 
hardly give a false name at an affair of this sort, but 
plenty of people had been introduced only by 
nickname. 
Manfort was very fond of nicknames, more so 
than almost anywhere else Arlian had visited—a 
relic of the long struggle against the dragons, when 
the human resistance to draconic authority dared 
not give true names for fear of reprisals. Ordinarily 
this was a pleasant and harmless habit, one Arlian 
had taken advantage of himself, but there were 
times when it could be confusing or inconvenient. 
Arlian began pacing the length of the gallery—but 
then Black’s outstretched arm caught him across 
the chest. He looked up, startled. 
“Ari, it’s late,” Black said. “Rest. Sleep. You can 
look for Lord Dragon in the morning.” 
Arlian stared at him blankly for a moment, then 
glanced out the gallery’s tall windows at the night 
sky. Thick clouds hid the stars; a thin crescent of 
moon shone dimly through the overcast. 
“You’re right,” he said at last. “You’re quite right. 
To bed. We’ll start fresh in the morning.” 
Black smiled at him. 
33 
Lord Wither 
Arlian, unsurprisingly, slept late. By the time he 
arose and broke his fast the sun was approaching 
its zenith. 
When he had eaten he ambled down the great 
gallery, noting the debris that the servants had not

yet cleared away and the sour smell of spilled wine 
that still lingered, and spotted Thirif in one of the 
side-chambers. He paused, and then, momentarily 
overcome with curiosity, he asked, “What did you 
do with Sahasin?” 
The Aritheian looked up. “You do not want to 
know,” Thirif replied. 
Arlian hesitated, and decided that Thirif was 
right—at least for now he did not want to know. It 
was enough that the House of Deri, Hathet’s family, 
was satisfied. 
He still had plenty of others to concern himself 
with. He would see Lord Kuruvan tomorrow, and 
that would be his chance to get the names of the 
other lords—including Lord Dragon! And once he 
had dealt with the six of them, once Sweet was free 
and Rose avenged, he could track down Stonehand 
and Hide and the rest. 
He started to turn away, but Thirif called after 
him. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. “A man was 
here this morning with a question that may interest 
you.” 
Arlian turned back. “Oh?” 
“He spoke to me, as he came to buy magic and 
the others were not yet available,” Thirif said. “He 
wanted to buy dragon venom.” 
Arlian smiled. “Did he, indeed?” There were any 
number of reasons a person might want dragon 
venom—as a poison, or as a drug, or as an elixir of 
life. This inquiry might mean nothing—or it might 
lead back to Lord Dragon. Kuruvan would probably 
give him all the names he needed, but it would do 
no harm to have a second path to the information 
he sought—and even if this failed to provide any 
such link, it might well teach him more about 
dragons, and give him information that would be 
useful when he sought out the monsters in their 
caverns. “Who was he?” 
“A servant. He wore homespun, not livery, and

would not name his employer.” 
“What did you tell him?” 
“That I could not sell dragon venom without 
consulting you, and that you would undoubtedly 
prefer to deal with his master. He is to return later 
today.” 
“Excellent! When he comes, I want to speak with 
him.” 
Thirif bowed. “As you say. Thank you, my lord.” 
Arlian walked on, feeling cheered. Things were 
starting to happen. He had put events into motion. 
At long last he was pursuing his vengeance. There 
might still be distractions and side paths along the 
way, but he was headed the right direction. The day 
when Lord Dragon would pay for his crimes and 
Sweet would be free was drawing nearer. 
Either that, or the day Arlian would die at the 
hands of one of his foes was approaching. The 
chances of punishing all his enemies, human and 
draconic, and surviving it all, were still slim. 
Odd, Arlian thought, that even knowing he might 
be on the way to his death failed to counteract the 
pleasure he felt in knowing he was closer to his goal. 
Death or justice—he was nearing one, but he had 
no way of knowing which. 
He spent the next few hours on housekeeping and 
business—his agents, Aritheian and otherwise, were 
continuing to invest his assets, both financial and 
thaumaturgical, and Black and his subordinates 
were finally employing a proper full-time staff for 
the Old Palace. 
Those little magicks he had brought from Arithei 
and used so freely at the previous night’s festivities 
brought fantastic prices, Arlian knew, but just how 
fantastic still surprised him. He was seated in his 
study, totting up his profits in frank amazement, 
when a servant knocked at the door. 
“A caller, my lord.”

Arlian looked up and smiled to himself. This 
would be the person seeking dragon venom. Arlian 
and the Aritheians had no dragon venom to sell, of 
course—the magic they sold all came from Arithei, 
where no dragon had ever breathed. There was no 
need to admit this, though. 
“Show him in,” he said. He turned to face the 
door, but did not rise; as a lord he had no need to 
stand when greeting a messenger. 
When the door opened, however, Arlian got to his 
feet, startled. The man who stood there was clearly 
no mere messenger. 
Lord Obsidian’s guest was slightly below average 
height, and somewhat stooped. His face was thin 
and wrinkled, and seemed shrunken, almost buried 
beneath a great mop of gray hair that was pulled 
loosely back into a thick ponytail—neither the 
traditional workman’s braid nor the nobility’s usual 
custom of unbound and stylishly cut hair. His 
physical appearance, while hardly impressive, was 
not that of a messenger. 
His attire was impressive; he was dressed in 
green silk embroidered in spun gold, trimmed at 
throat and cuffs with lace and pearls. A belt of black 
leather set with emeralds supported a beaded 
scabbard; his sword hilt, hung for a left-handed 
draw, was chased with silver and adorned with 
pearl and diamond. This was clearly a nobleman’s 
sword. 
Gorgeous as the visitor’s clothing was, Arlian 
hardly gave it a glance; instead he found himself 
caught by his guest’s green eyes, deep-set but 
unnaturally bright, staring at him with an intensity 
Arlian had rarely seen. 
“Lord Wither,” the footman holding the door 
announced. 
Arlian had been so focused on the stranger that 
he had forgotten the servant was there. Thus 
reminded, he started to wave for the man to go,

then paused. 
Lord Wither should not be wearing his sword in 
another lord’s home—not when Arlian’s own sword 
was elsewhere. He should have surrendered it, and 
the servants should have kept it by the door, to be 
returned when Wither departed. 
On the other hand, meeting those eyes, Arlian 
suspected that it would take a brave man to 
demand anything of Lord Wither that Lord Wither 
did not care to give. Arlian was not paying footmen 
for their courage. 
He waved, and the footman left. 
“Welcome, Lord Wither,” Arlian said, holding out 
a hand. 
“Lord Obsidian,” Wither said, in a deeper voice 
than seemed appropriate to his size. He ignored the 
hand, and for the first time Arlian realized that the 
man’s right arm was crooked, misshapen and 
shorter than it should be; the loose silk sleeves and 
drooping lace cuffs hid this deficiency well, and had 
presumably been designed to do so. 
That explained the name, the left-handed sword, 
and perhaps more—buckling and unbuckling a 
sword belt one-handed was perhaps more than 
courtesy could ask, and unsheathing the sword 
under a host’s roof would hardly be suitable. 
Arlian lowered his hand and said, “It is a 
pleasure to meet you, my lord. Did you attend last 
night’s festivities? I do not recall…” 
“I wasn’t there,” Wither said. “I’m too old for that 
sort of nonsense.” He spoke sharply, biting off his 
words. 
“As you say,” Arlian said. “Nonetheless, I am 
pleased to meet you now. How can I be of service to 
you?” 
“You sell magic,” Wither said. “Sorcerous 
baubles, spells, potions.” 
“Indeed I do,” Arlian agreed. He gestured to a

chair. “Would you care to sit down?” 
“I’ll stand. It’s simple enough. I want to obtain a 
small amount of fresh dragon venom—a thimbleful 
would suffice. Can you oblige me?” 
“I would need to know the use you propose for 
this substance,” Arlian said. “Forgive me, my lord, 
but dragon’s venom is a most potent fluid, as I’m 
sure you know. It’s said that’a single drop can, if 
properly administered, enthrall a man, or kill a 
dozen. It can reportedly shatter locks, corrode the 
will, intoxicate even the mad.” 
“It can extend life, as well as end it,” Wither 
replied. 
“Ah! You wish to extend your life? Certainly a 
reasonable…” 
“Not mine,” Wither interrupted. “My mistress.” 
Arlian stopped, bemused, as he considered that. 
Wither was an old man; how old could his mistress 
be; that he was concerned with her longevity? A 
man of his obvious wealth could surely have any 
number of young women at his beck and call; who 
was the woman he sought to preserve? 
Did he think dragon venom could preserve or 
restore a woman’s youth? If so, was he right? Arlian 
had no idea just what the stuff could do—he had 
only rumors, legends, and hearsay to rely upon. 
“Do you have it or don’t you?” Wither demanded. 
“I don’t have any on hand,” Arlian admitted 
slowly. “I may have a source where I can obtain it. 
May I ask, perhaps, who the intended recipient is, 
and how you intend to apply it?” 
“She’s called Opal; you haven’t met her. I intend 
to mix it with human blood and let her drink it,” 
Wither said impatiently. “That’s the only way it 
works, so far as I know.” 
Arlian nodded. “And the blood…” 
“Anyone’s. It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay someone to

donate it. That part’s easy.” 
“And you don’t want enough for both of you?” 
Wither snorted. “I’ve had mine, Obsidian. Long 
ago, probably before your grandfather’s grandfather 
was born. I was one of the founders of the Dragon 
Society, back when Manfort was all we had and 
Duke Roioch was still alive. Look into my eyes and 
tell me you can’t see it for yourself.” 
Arlian started at the mention of the Dragon 
Society— Cover had spoken of it, but had not known 
one really existed. Then Arlian caught Wither’s 
eyes, as instructed, and stared. 
He knew the name for what he saw there. “The 
heart of the dragon,” he said, more to himself than 
to Wither. 
“Of course. You’ve got it yourself, don’t you?” 
Arlian, without thinking, nodded. 
“I’d scarcely believe you could have the venom if 
you didn’t,” Wither said. “Now, do you have any 
venom, or can you get it?” 
Arlian held up a hand and turned away, forcing 
himself to look away from those fearsome green 
eyes. “A moment, please,” he said. He fixed his gaze 
on the floor, trying to clear his thoughts. 
Those eyes had a power to them, a ferocity—and 
Wither said that was the dragon’s heart that Black 
had spoken of, that he had it himself. 
And he said it came from drinking dragon’s 
venom and human blood. He said it as if he knew, 
beyond question, that it was so. 
Was that why Black had agreed to teach Arlian 
the sword, and become his companion? Was that 
why Sweet had invited him in and taught him so 
much? Was that why Bloody Hand had set him 
free? Had those accomplishments been bought with 
his grandfather’s life? 
Arlian could hardly doubt it; looking into

Wither’s eyes he could hardly deny anything the old 
man said. And that ferocity—was his own gaze as 
fierce as Wither’s? 
He could not imagine that it was—yet Wither saw 
the heart of the dragon in him. Perhaps not as 
strong, as he was so much younger, but that same 
power lay within him, fallen there in his parents’ 
cellar all those years ago. 
And it surely lay within Lord Dragon as well. 
Even after nine years Arlian could remember the 
intensity of those dark eyes. 
Wither and Cover had both mentioned the 
Dragon Society, as well—that was another mystery 
that must be explained. 
“My lord,” Arlian said, not meeting Wither’s 
glance, “bear with me. I have only recently come to 
Manfort from Arithei, and while I know much of 
matters you would consider arcane, I know little of 
your homeland. Would you be kind enough to 
answer a few questions from me, before I answer 
yours?” 
“If that’s what it takes to get the truth from you,” 
Wither said. “What do you want to know?” 
“Several things,” Arlian said. “Let me take it one 
step at a time. Am I to understand that long ago, 
you chanced to imbibe a mixture of dragon’s venom 
and human blood?” 
“Of course I did, you idiot,” Wither said. “Didn’t I 
just tell you that? It was in one of the early defenses 
of Manfort, when the dragons had not yet resolved 
to abandon the fight for the city. One of them bit 
into my shoulder, and then made the mistake of 
flinging me into a pit where it couldn’t reach me. I 
wiped the blood from my wound with my hand, 
then licked my hand before I lost consciousness, 
and the deed was done. My arm was withered and 
my shoulder ruined forever, but I recovered from 
my fever and lived.” 
“That was centuries ago.”

“Yes, of course. Eight hundred years, more or 
less.” 
Arlian nodded, still not meeting Wither’s eyes. 
“I had heard that this mixture could prolong life, 
but not that anyone who had actually drunk it still 
lived.” 
Wither snorted. “Of course we do! Oh, it’s rare 
that anyone survives a meeting with a dragon, but 
it does happen, and those of us who have tasted 
venom and blood don’t die. Naturally, then, some of 
us are still around.” 
“And you believe that I, too, have drunk this 
elixir?” 
“Of course. I don’t know when or how, but I can 
see it in your face. You have that air of authority, of 
certainty. I’ve never seen it in anyone who hadn’t 
tasted the venom.” 
Arlian stroked a finger across his cheek as he 
thought this over. “And now you ask me to give this 
same gift to someone else?” he asked. 
“Marasa,” Wither said. “She calls herself Lady 
Opal.” 
“You love her?” 
Wither frowned. “I don’t want her to die,” he 
said. “I’m tired of watching my women grow old 
and die. I’ve had a dozen wives and a score of 
mistresses, and I don’t want to ever see another 
wither away while I watch.” 
“I can see that,” Arlian said. The image of Rose 
sprawled across her bed with her throat cut came 
suddenly to mind. “I can understand that quite 
well.” 
“I’ve tried before,” Wither said. “I’ve tried spells 
and potions. I tried feeding Vorina my own blood, 
in hopes it would carry the magic, and instead it 
poisoned her—she died writhing in agony.” He let 
out a shuddering sigh. “That was unpleasant— 
worse than unpleasant; when she died I felt as if I

should now be the one writhing in agony. I had 
never imagined, in all those centuries, that my own 
blood could be toxic.” 
Arlian blinked and looked down at his own hand, 
at the veins faintly visible beneath the skin. Was his 
blood similarly tainted? 
“It’s been years—decades—since Vorina died,” 
Wither continued. “I had said I would do without 
the love of women, rather than see another person I 
cared for die, and resolved to restrict my attentions 
to the purely physical, but then I met Marasa, and I 
was lost. 
“I won’t risk killing her. No more experiments. 
The only thing I know will work safely is the same 
mixture that worked for me, and for all the others 
in the Dragon Society. Blood and venom.” 
“Blood and venom,” Arlian said. “The Dragon 
Society—you mentioned that before. What is it?” 
“Just what it sounds like,” Wither replied. “Those 
of us who have drunk the venom aren’t hard to 
recognize, not once you’ve met a few of us, and long 
ago we formed a society, a place where we could 
gather privately with our own kind, and need no 
longer pretend to be ordinary mortals, need no 
longer be, willingly or no, the dominant figure in 
any gathering by virtue of the power in our blood. A 
place where no one would stare at—or so obviously 
avoid looking at—our deformities, for of course 
most of us bear the scars inflicted upon us by our 
draconic benefactors. You’re fortunate, in that your 
face and hands are unmarked—are there scars 
elsewhere, perhaps? Or did you in truth find some 
way to obtain venom without a fight? It was when I 
heard you carried the dragon’s heart yet bore no 
obvious scars that I thought to seek you out, in 
hopes of preserving my Marasa.” 
Arlian remembered Cover’s belief that Lord 
Dragon was the master of the Dragon Society, and 
that his secret society controlled much of what went

on in Manfort. “This society,” Arlian asked, “is there 
a person who calls himself Lord Dragon?” 
Wither shrugged. “I have heard several of us use 
that name, now and again. I do not attach it to any 
one person. Now, boy, I’ve answered enough 
questions—can you help me, or not? Did you find a 
way to get the venom without facing a dragon’s 
wrath? How did you drink it yet remain 
unscarred?” His voice shook with eagerness. 
Arlian shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he 
said. “I drank my grandfather’s blood as I lay 
trapped beneath his corpse. I will not deceive you 
further—I have no venom, nor the means to obtain 
it, at present.” He cleared his throat. “I do have the 
services of half a dozen Aritheian magicians, and I 
will set them to seeking what you want, if you like.” 
Wither stared at him for a moment, then 
growled, “May the dragons blast you for leading me 
on!” His left hand fell to the hilt of his sword. 
“My apologies, my lord,” Arlian said, standing up 
straight. He recognized, with a sudden thrill of 
excitement and horror, that he was facing a 
challenge—his first since attaining sufficient status 
to be entitled by tradition to duel. “I am unarmed; 
if you wish to avenge this slight upon my flesh, I 
pray you let me fetch my blade.” 
“No,” Wither said in disgust, his hand dropping. 
“The fault is not worthy of such a cost, and further, 
I might well be violating my oath by slaying you 
here.” 
Arlian frowned, relieved to know he was not 
going to be forced to fight this fearsome old man, 
but also puzzled. “How is that, my lord? What oath 
do you speak of?” 
“The oath of the Dragon Society, required of each 
member upon joining, is that none of us shall 
attempt to slay another member within Manfort’s 
walls,” Wither explained. “With more than a score 
of us gathered in one place for centuries duels

would be inevitable, without that restriction—and 
what a waste to cut off a life that might, for all we 
know, last millennia! And so few new members ever 
appear that in time we would destroy ourselves, I’m 
sure.” 
“I am not a member, though,” Arlian pointed out. 
He very much wanted to be one, though, now that 
he knew the Dragon Society really existed, for surely 
the man he knew as Lord Dragon was a part of it, 
even if not the master Cover had believed him. 
“Oh, you are a member in all but name,” Wither 
said with a wave of his good hand. “I don’t concern 
myself with needless formalities. You can merely 
present yourself, undergo our little initiation, and 
swear to the oath, and you’ll be as much a member 
as I. The only difficult requirement is the first, the 
elixir that renders one suitable, and the mark of 
your eligibility is plain.” 
Arlian considered that. “I was going to ask that 
the price of setting my magicians to searching be 
your sponsoring my application to join,” he said. 
Wither shook his head. “You needn’t bother. You 
can join at any time simply by answering the ritual 
questions and swearing the oath.” 
“Yet I owe you for the honest answers you’ve 
given me,” Arlian said. “I will set my magicians 
their task—though I cannot promise any result.” 
“A kind gesture, sir,” Wither said. “Thank you.” 
He bent his head briefly in acknowledgment. 
“Ah, thank you!” Arlian replied. “I have but one 
last request.” 
“Ask it, then, and I’ll be on my way.” 
“How am I to find this Dragon Society, should I 
choose to join?” 
“Simple enough. Go to the intersection of Citadel 
Street and the Street of the Black Spire, and walk 
down the Street of the Black Spire toward the city 
gates until you come to a black door with a red bar

across it. That is the Society’s hall; knock, and when 
the doorkeeper sees your face you’ll be admitted, I 
have no doubt.” 
“Thank you.” Arlian bowed. 
A moment later Lord Wither was gone, and 
Arlian settled into his chair, thinking hard. 
This was his chance, surely—this Dragon Society 
could be the key to everything he sought. Everything 
was going as well as he could have hoped, as if fate 
itself was on his side. 
Only belatedly did it occur to him that he had not 
inquired whether Wither had owned a share of the 
brothel in Westguard, but he shrugged that aside. 
There would be plenty of time to ask the old man 
later. 
Arlian did see at least one potential problem 
ahead, however. 
If he joined the Dragon Society and swore the 
oath, and found that Lord Dragon and the others he 
sought were members, then he could not try to kill 
them—at least, not within the city walls. Would he 
ever have a chance to meet Lord Dragon outside 
Manfort? 
There were other questions remaining, as 
well—questions of timing, of strategy… 
And the questions of preparation. Was he truly 
ready to meet Lord Dragon in combat? 
He would know soon enough, he told himself. One 
way or another, now that he knew of the Dragon 
Society, he would find Lord Dragon. When he saw 
that hated face he would know whether or not he 
was ready to act. 
34

Lord Kuruvan 
As Arlian climbed into the coach the next 
afternoon he had still not decided how and when he 
should approach the Dragon Society. He had spent 
the previous evening running various plans and 
schedules through his mind, until at last he had 
made his way to bed having decided only that the 
meeting with Lord Kuruvan would come first. 
For one thing, the possibility had occurred to 
him that Kuruvan might be a member of the 
Society himself, and he wanted to satisfy himself on 
that account before proceeding further. 
He arrived at the gate of Kuruvan’s palace 
without incident and clambered from the coach, 
throwing Black, his driver, a quick salute. He was 
greeted by a pair of footmen, and escorted into a 
salon paneled in unfamiliar reddish wood. He 
surrendered his hat and sword to a maroon-robed 
slave girl, silver chains jingling on her wrists as she 
carried them away. 
Before he could take a seat a handsome, 
gray-haired man in a more elaborate version of 
Kuruvan’s maroon-and-gold livery appeared and 
bowed. “If you would accompany me, my lord?” 
Arlian had assumed the meeting would be in the 
salon, but he made no protest as the steward 
showed him down a passageway and into a smaller, 
more cluttered room where Lord Kuruvan was 
waiting. 
“Lord Obsidian,” Kuruvan said, rising from his 
chair. “A pleasure to see you again!” 
Arlian bowed in acknowledgment, forestalling 
any offered hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he said. 
Kuruvan gestured toward a chair, and a moment 
later the two men were seated facing one another. 
Arlian studied his foe, looking for some sign of the

intensity Black and Wither called the dragon’s 
heart, but found none. 
“Now, my lord,” Kuruvan said, “I believe you said 
you wished to discuss a private matter?” 
“Indeed,” Arlian agreed. “Before I explain myself 
further, however, I really must ask for the names of 
your five partners in the House of Carnal Society in 
Westguard. I believe this matter concerns them, as 
well, though in a lesser degree.” 
He tried to appear calm, but this was a decisive 
moment for Arlian. He had Rose’s word that 
Kuruvan had claimed to be one of the six lords who 
owned the House, but while he trusted Rose, 
Kuruvan might have lied to her. His reaction now 
would show Arlian whether or not Rose had been 
deceived, whether or not he had found one of her 
killers. 
Kuruvan sat back and stared at Arlian; his 
fingers fidgeted on the arms of the chair. He 
laughed nervously. “You have me at a 
disadvantage,” he said. “You obviously know 
something about me, while I am in utter ignorance 
of your own history and connections. I don’t know 
your true name…” 
“I deal in magic,” Arlian interrupted. “I dare not 
give my true name.” He did not let his relief show, 
but Kuruvan’s response removed any doubts—this 
was one of the men Arlian had sworn to kill. 
Kuruvan nodded an acknowledgment. “Fair 
enough. Can you tell me nothing about yourself, 
though?” 
“I will trade you, fact for fact, if you like,” Arlian 
suggested, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “To 
begin the exchange, I will tell you that while I was 
born and raised in the Lands of Man, I never set 
foot in Manfort until two years ago. Now, tell me 
the name of one of your partners— by preference, 
the dark-haired man with the scarred cheek who 
cut down Madam Ril and carried a letter from the

Duke granting him immunity from the 
consequences of that act.” 
Kuruvan, his hands now motionless, stared at 
him. “You know the oddest details,” he said. “You 
know about Ril, and the letter, but you don’t know 
Lord Enziet’s name?” 
“I do now,” Arlian said, his blood pounding. “I 
had heard the name, but did not know him by sight, 
and had not made the connection.” 
Now he had, though, and pieces began to drop 
into place. Lord Enziet, chief adviser to the Duke of 
Manfort, was Lord Dragon. He was certainly a 
member of the Dragon Society, as well, scarred as 
most of the members of the Dragon Society were 
scarred, with that dragon’s gaze that let him 
command others as he had commanded the looters 
so long ago in Obsidian—and that undoubtedly let 
him command the Duke and many of the other 
lords of Manfort. 
That he had not told the looters his identity, nor 
revealed his true name in connection with the 
ownership of a brothel, now made perfect 
sense—someone so highly placed would naturally 
want to keep his distance from anything so sordid. 
And that no one in Westguard had recognized him 
also became understandable—Lord Enziet was 
known to be reclusive; he spoke with the Duke and 
the Duke’s other advisers in private and was rarely 
seen in public. 
Killing Lord Enziet would not be easy. He was 
said to keep largely to himself, staying within his 
own manse just to the east of the Citadel, behind 
dozens of guards, but he was no coward, no helpless 
fop—he just didn’t want to be disturbed. He was 
said to have fought a dozen duels, invariably killing 
his opponent. He was rumored to be a sorcerer, as 
well. He was famous for his cold brilliance and 
ruthless efficiency, both in his advice to the Duke 
and his own affairs. He had no known family, and 
few real friends.

This, Arlian thought, would be a worthy 
challenge. “It is, I would say, your turn to ask a 
question,” he said. 
Kuruvan considered him. “And I take it that I am 
not yet entitled to an explanation of this private 
matter you came to discuss?” 
“Not until I have the other four names,” Arlian 
said. “True names, if possible, not just nicknames.” 
“I have little patience for these games, O 
mysterious guest; I’ll give you the names, and you’ll 
tell me what this is about, and then you’ll owe me 
three further answers on subjects of my choice.” 
“Good enough,” Arlian said. “Though I have 
another question of my own, I’ll want to ask, in 
time. The names?” 
“Drisheen, Toribor, Stiam, and Horim.” 
Arlian was disappointed to realize he knew only 
one of them by name—Lord Drisheen had visited 
the House on occasion during Arlian’s residence in 
the attic, and was reputed to be a sorcerer and an 
adviser to the Duke, though one of the lesser ones. 
Except for an overindulgence in scents Drisheen 
had not been extravagantly unpleasant in his 
treatment of the women in Westguard, nor had he 
otherwise made the thought of killing him easier to 
handle— but the six lords were all enslavers and 
murderers, and Arlian would kill them all if he 
possibly could. He had sworn as much. 
“Thank you,” he said. 
“And the matter you wished to discuss?” Kuruvan 
demanded impatiently. 
“Ah,” Arlian said. He considered asking his other 
important question, but decided he really did need 
to give something in return before he could expect a 
reply. “You own an inn called the Blood of the 
Grape, I believe.” 
“Yes,” Kuruvan agreed. “What of it?” 
“You stored a keg of gold there, long ago, against

the eventuality that you might someday wish to flee 
Manfort.” 
Kuruvan sat bolt upright. “Who told you that?” 
“Someone who is now dead,” Arlian said. “You 
need not worry that any of your other secrets might 
escape.” 
“You owe me three more answers, Obsidian, and 
that must be one of them—who told you that?” 
“Rose,” Arlian said. He found himself trembling 
as he said her name, though he could not say 
whether he shook with grief or fury or something 
else entirely. “A crippled whore called Rose.” 
“She’s the mutual acquaintance you mentioned?” 
Kuruvan rose from his chair. 
Arlian nodded. 
Kuruvan took a step toward Arlian, fists 
clenched. “What else did she tell you?” 
Arlian looked up at him and struggled to remain 
calm in the face of Kuruvan’s rage. “I spent a 
considerable amount of time in Rose’s company, 
and we spoke a great deal. Could you be more 
specific?” 
“What else did she tell you about me?” 
“That you were one of the owners of the House of 
the Six Lords,” Arlian said. “That you can’t hold 
your liquor. That you had promised to take her with 
you if you ever fled Manfort.” He shrugged—which 
took a real effort in his tense condition; his 
shoulders were more inclined to shake than to rise 
and fall. “That’s all, really. No more secrets.” 
“And my gold?” 
“It’s gone,” Arlian said. “Taken by the youth who 
called himself Lord Lanair.” 
“Him! The one at the inn down the street?” 
Kuruvan started to turn away, to pace the floor, 
then stopped. He turned back. “You’re Lanair, 
aren’t you? You made yourself rich with my gold?”

“I was Lanair,” Arlian agreed. “And I invested 
your gold in a caravan to Arithei, which was one 
element in how I became wealthy enough to be 
here, your fellow lord, today.” 
“Have you come to pay it back, then, as if I’d 
made you a loan? Or are you here to taunt me for 
my foolishness in telling that faithless bitch where I 
hid it?” 
Arlian rose and faced Kuruvan from mere inches 
away, looking up into Kuruvan’s bright brown eyes. 
“I am here to avenge her death, Kuruvan,” he 
said. “I needed the names of the other owners, and 
you’ve been kind enough to provide that; now, will 
you tell me where the two women you took from the 
House are, or will I need to search for them after 
I’ve killed you?” 
“You mean to kill me?” Kuruvan stared. “Over a 
whore? A slave?” 
“Over a woman you wronged, and for a dozen 
other crimes.” 
“You, a thief, call me a criminal?” 
“And you, who had women enslaved for your 
pleasure, and mutilated and murdered them at 
whim, dare deny it?” 
“Of course I deny it! Those women were bought 
openly, and what we did with them was entirely 
within our legal rights!” Both men were shouting 
now, standing nose to nose, Arlian’s head tipped up 
and Kuruvan’s tipped down. 
“Within your power, perhaps, but no law can 
make it right,” Arlian replied. 
“You think you’re above the law, then?” 
“I think you have abused the very concept of 
law!” 
Kuruvan stepped back, making a visible effort to 
calm himself. Holding his voice to a normal 
conversational level he asked, “And you intend to

kill me? Have you a knife tucked in your boot, then, 
or were you planning to use your Borderlands 
magic?” 
Arlian lowered his own voice to match Kuruvan’s. 
“I intend to meet you fairly, sword in hand, at a 
time and place of your choosing, and convenient to 
us both.” 
“A duel?” Kuruvan sneered. “You think yourself a 
nobleman, and not a mere assassin?” 
“I am no assassin,” Arlian replied. “I own 
businesses that are run for me by others—does that 
not entitle me to the rank I claim?” 
“You bought them with stolen money!” 
“Nonetheless, I own them. Choose where and 
when we shall meet, Lord Kuruvan, and I’ll take my 
leave until the appointed time.” 
“You’re an unarmed thief, here in my home—why 
should I meet you honorably? Why should I not 
have you slain on the spot?” 
Arlian smiled a tight little smile. “I see at least 
two reasons,” he said. “Firstly, if we do meet fairly, I 
will bring with me a keg of gold equal to what I took 
from you at Rose’s behest—and in return I ask that 
you bring the two women, the survivor to claim all.” 
“And…?” 
“And secondly, I have friends and retainers 
awaiting my safe return, including half a dozen of 
Arithei’s most powerful magicians, who do not 
consider me a thief; do you really want to risk their 
vengeance?” 
Kuruvan stared at him. 
“Were I the assassin you think me, you would 
already be dead,” Arlian said. “You may have heard 
what happened to Sahasin.” 
Kuruvan considered that before replying slowly. 
“You intend to fight me fairly? And you think you 
can kill me?”

“Indeed I do,” Arlian said. 
“I’m twice your age. I have trained with the 
sword since I was a beardless child.” 
“Then perhaps you will kill me,” Arlian said. 
“Either way, my need for vengeance will be at an 
end, either satisfied or destroyed.” 
“You must be mad,” Kuruvan said. “You seek me 
out, confess to robbing me, then challenge me to 
fight to the death over a dead slave. You boast of 
complicity in the assassination of the Aritheian 
ambassador…” 
Arlian interrupted. “On the contrary, I do not 
even know whether Sahasin is truly dead. 
Otherwise, yes, you’ve stated the case 
accurately—and perhaps I am mad. You’re not the 
first to suggest it.” 
Kuruvan stared at him a moment longer, then 
said, “Very well, I will face you. Tomorrow, at my 
own gate at midday.” 
Arlian smiled broadly and bowed. “I will be 
there,” he promised. 
Then he turned and marched out. 
35 
A Meeting at Swordpoint 
“Remember, you’ll have raw speed and strength 
on your side,” Black said, leaning down from the 
driver’s seat of the coach, “but he’s far more 
experienced than you are, as he said. He’ll probably 
react faster simply because he won’t need to think 
about it.” 
Arlian nodded, then opened the door of the

coach. He felt cold and stiff, as if the blood were 
cooling and thickening in his veins. He had fought 
before, and he had killed beasts, monsters, and even 
a man—creatures in the Dreaming Mountains had 
perished on his sword, and the bandit on the 
southernmost edge of the Desolation had died at his 
feet. 
But despite all his plans and dreams of 
vengeance, he had never before deliberately set 
himself in front of another human being with the 
intention of killing him in cold blood. It felt 
different. It felt wrong. 
He glanced at Thirif, who sat silently in the 
coach, but the Aritheian said nothing. 
“He’s taller than you,” Black said, as he climbed 
down. “He’ll have a longer reach. Don’t let him use 
it; stay in close or get clear, don’t fight at full 
extension.” 
“You told me that,” Arlian said. 
“I know I did—I want you to remember it!” Black 
retorted. “I want you to live through this.” 
Arlian didn’t answer as he stepped out of the 
coach. He stretched, straightened his jacket, 
straightened his sword belt, and faced his enemy’s 
home. 
The air was warmer than it had been in days, but 
still cool and redolent of spring; vines twined up the 
gateposts, and blue flowers bloomed splendidly on 
one side, catching the bright light of midday. The 
gate of Lord Kuruvan’s mansion was closed, as it 
had not been when Arlian arrived the day before; 
guards wearing the maroon and gold of Kuruvan’s 
household, including gold-trimmed breastplates, 
stood on either side outside the fence. They held 
pikes. 
There was no sign of Lord Kuruvan, or of the two 
women he had carried away from the brothel in 
Westguard. Arlian glanced up; the sun was straight 
overhead, so far as he could tell.

Had he put too much faith in Kuruvan’s honor 
and respect for tradition? Had the man perhaps 
fled, rather than face him? After all, Kuruvan had 
once made preparations to flee Manfort on short 
notice. 
The guards were still there, though. Why would 
they stay if Kuruvan had fled? 
Then the grand front door swung open, and 
Kuruvan’s gray-haired steward emerged. He strode 
to the gate with smooth assurance, then bowed, his 
head almost scraping the black iron bars. 
“Lord Obsidian,” he said. 
“Sir,” Arlian replied. He stepped forward and 
stopped a yard from the gate. “I believe I have an 
appointment with your employer.” 
“Indeed,” the steward said, straightening. 
“However, Lord Kuruvan has asked me to speak 
with you briefly first.” 
“Has he? Why?” Arlian placed a hand on the hilt 
of his sword, not so much as a threat as simply to 
indicate his impatience. 
“In hopes, my lord, of preventing unnecessary 
bloodshed. While he has no fear for his own safety, 
he hesitates to deprive Manfort of a man of your 
own obvious intelligence and courage, and therefore 
hopes that this quarrel can be composed by more 
peaceful means.” 
“And has he some proposal for atoning for his 
crimes?” 
“Indeed,” the steward said. “He proposes to give 
you the two slaves you sought, in exchange for the 
gold you took from him. He will lay no claim to any 
interest or profit upon the stolen funds.” 
“And what about the four women he helped 
murder— Rose, and Silk, and the others? What 
about mutilating a dozen women for the sake of 
pleasure and profit?” 
The Stewart frowned. “I know nothing of that,

nor do my instructions cover it. Lord Kuruvan 
assures me that he broke no law in the matters you 
accuse him of.” 
“The women were slaves—but they were still 
women, not beasts.” Arlian hesitated. He did not 
want to kill anyone, not really—but Kuruvan was a 
murderer. Slaves were human beings, and no one, 
owner or not, had the right to maim and kill them 
with impunity. 
Still, if he could be made to pay some other way… 
“I propose a counter-offer,” Arlian said. “If Lord 
Kuruvan frees every slave in his possession, and 
swears never again to hold a person in bondage, I 
will consider our quarrel settled and justice done. 
He cannot give those four women back their lives, 
nor the others their feet, but if he grants life and 
freedom to others, perhaps the scales will be 
balanced.” 
The steward hesitated. “I must consult with my 
lord,” he said. He bowed and turned. 
Arlian watched him go. Black stepped up beside 
the younger man. 
“Thirif says he senses no magic anywhere 
nearby,” Black whispered. “And if I were you, I’d 
have taken the deal he offered.” 
Arlian shook his head. “And leave him free to 
torment and kill others who had the mischance to 
be taken by slavers? I don’t think so.” 
Black shrugged. “Please yourself.” 
“Get the gold ready,” Arlian told him. 
A moment later the door of the mansion opened 
and Lord Kuruvan stepped out and strode across 
the small paved yard. He wore a sleeveless tunic of 
thick oiled leather and a nondescript pair of leather 
breeches, not at all like the finery Arlian had seen 
him in before—these were serious fighting clothes, 
and the sword and swordbreaker on his belt were 
plainly meant for use, not show. Arlian reached for

the clasp of his own cloak. 
“Not yet,” Black advised. “Give him a moment. 
He may yield yet.” 
“And if I give up my right to own slaves,” 
Kuruvan shouted without preamble, well before he 
reached the gate, “what then? Will you carry this 
insane crusade of yours on to my friends and 
associates? Do you mean to stamp out the entire 
institution of slavery, so that the poor will starve in 
the gutter while vital work goes untended?” 
“I would like to, yes,” Arlian called back. “I doubt 
I shall live long enough, but indeed, an end to 
slavery would suit me very well.” 
“If I make peace with you, you’ll go on to pursue 
this mad vengeance of yours? You’ll challenge 
Drisheen and Enziet and the others?” 
“Yes, I will,” Arlian said. 
“You are mad, then,” Kuruvan said, “and I 
cannot in good conscience accept your proposal. I 
can’t trust a madman to keep his word, or not to 
come up with some other wild scheme, some other 
imaginary crime that must be avenged. You, sir, are 
a menace to society, and it is my duty to remove 
you.” 
“Or die in the attempt,” Arlian said, hoping that 
Kuruvan would back down. His own nerves were 
raw with anticipation. 
“Ha!” Kuruvan signaled to the guards, then drew 
his sword and swordbreaker as the gate began to 
swing open. 
“Wait!” Arlian said, his voice cracking. “Where 
are the women?” 
Kuruvan called over his shoulder, “Bring them 
out.” The door of the mansion swung wide, and two 
footmen appeared, each carrying a naked 
woman—Hasty and Kitten. They blinked in the 
bright sunlight. 
Kuruvan pointed, and the footmen seated the

women side by side on a stone bench beside the 
arched doorway. They looked about in obvious 
confusion. Kitten tried to tuck her ankles under the 
bench, to hide the fact that she had no feet; Hasty 
made no such effort. Although the outside air was 
cool, neither seemed troubled by her lack of 
clothing—though Arlian was. He tried not to stare. 
He remembered how accustomed he had become to 
casual nudity during his stay in the House of Carnal 
Society and tried to recall that indifference—but it 
had been two years. 
The two women had been little altered by the 
intervening time, though. Both wore their hair 
differently, and Hasty’s belly was somewhat more 
convex than Arlian remembered, but those were no 
great changes. Their faces were as lovely as ever. 
The sight of them brought back a flood of 
memories, and Arlian’s heart ached. He suddenly 
wished he were fighting Lord Enziet, rather than 
Lord Kuruvan, so that he could see Sweet again, 
rather than these two. 
But he was here, and they were here, and Sweet 
would have to wait just a little longer. This pair 
seemed almost untouched by the passage of two 
years; Arlian could only hope that Sweet was 
likewise unharmed. 
Then Hasty spotted Arlian. “Triv?” she said. 
“Kitten, it’s Triv!” She pointed. 
Kitten turned and saw Arlian. Her jaw dropped. “ 
Triv?” 
“It appears they do, in fact, know you,” Kuruvan 
remarked. “Interesting. Now, I believe you have 
something of mine?” 
Arlian signaled to Black, and Black brought out a 
keg, deliberately made as much like the one in the 
cellars beneath the Blood of the Grape as Arlian had 
been able to contrive, even to having the words 
“sour wine” chalked on it. He set the keg on the 
ground.

Arlian doffed his cloak and handed it to Black; 
then he drew his own blades and moved forward. 
Kuruvan stepped back. “Come in,” he said. “Let 
us duel like the nobles we are, not brawl in the 
street like ruffians.” 
Arlian nodded and stepped warily through the 
gate onto the paved courtyard, his sword held 
ready. 
The guards backed away; the footmen who had 
brought out the women vanished. Only the two 
swordsmen stood in the square of pavement 
between gate and door. 
“Take your first stroke, if you will,” Kuruvan said, 
moving his sword into a guard position. 
Arlian was not fooled; he knew better than to 
charge in directly against a foe with arms and blade 
longer than his own. He waited, his own sword 
raised, swordbreaker poised at his waist. 
As he stood he found himself wondering if he was 
being a fool. He was risking his life—he knew he was 
a good swordsman, but how could he be sure 
Kuruvan wasn’t a better one? Certainly, Kuruvan’s 
leather showed a greater sense of self-preservation 
than his own black silk. He had dressed for elegance 
and freedom of movement, and given no thought at 
all to turning his foe’s blade. 
And he had been offered a chance to free Hasty 
and Kitten without bloodshed—what right did he 
have to turn it down and pursue some abstract 
concept of justice? 
Might he not just as well have simply tried to buy 
free the dozen surviving women? He glanced at the 
two of them, sitting naked there on the bench… 
And saw the stumps of Hasty’s ankles at the same 
instant that Lord Kuruvan, seeing his opponent 
distracted, lunged forward. 
Arlian dodged, parried, but missed the riposte 
completely. He staggered slightly as he moved to the

right, away from Kuruvan’s blade—and then that 
blade was withdrawn, shifted, thrust again, before 
Arlian had fully recovered. His parry was awkward, 
almost slapping away Kuruvan’s sword rather than 
turning it with any grace or skill. Kuruvan smiled 
thinly and pressed his advantage. 
Arlian started to retreat, then realized that the 
iron fence was less than a yard behind him—he had 
no room to retreat without being cornered. He 
ducked and ran to the side instead. 
Kuruvan whirled and took a step forward, but not 
quickly enough to maintain contact; the two men 
once again stood apart at twice a sword’s length, 
facing each other. No blood had yet been drawn. 
“You are a fool, as well as a madman,” Kuruvan 
said. “Not half the swordsman you thought yourself, 
eh?” 
Arlian made no answer, but he was silently 
cursing himself. He could not afford doubt or 
hesitation; however it had come about, and 
whatever the wisdom or foolishness in bringing 
himself to this, he was fighting for his life. 
And for justice. The image of Hasty’s ruined legs 
dangling from the bench was fresh in his mind, 
reminding him of the injustice to be avenged. The 
image of Rose, lying naked on her bed beneath a 
thickening cloud of smoke, throat cut and eyes 
staring blindly at nothing, returned to him as well. 
“There’s still time to end this peacefully,” 
Kuruvan said, as the tip of his sword moved 
threateningly. “I’ll still trade those two for the gold, 
and your oath to trouble me no more. I think you 
may have learned a lesson here—and let me assure 
you, Lord Obsidian, or Triv, if that’s your name, 
that I am by no means the best swordsman of the 
six you’ve chosen as enemies.” 
He might have intended to say more, but midway 
through the word “enemies” Arlian strode forward, 
ducking, trying to get his blade under Kuruvan’s

guard. 
Kuruvan was not caught off guard that easily; he 
caught Arlian’s blade on his own and turned it 
aside. His swordbreaker came up, but not in time, 
as Arlian withdrew. 
But he did not withdraw fully; instead he thrust 
again, this time aiming for Kuruvan’s right thigh 
and stepping in closer. 
Again, steel clashed on steel as the swords 
crossed; Arlian’s left hand whipped out, and the tip 
of his swordbreaker slashed across the leg of 
Kuruvan’s breeches, scarring but not piercing the 
leather. This time it was Kuruvan who retreated a 
quick two steps, breaking contact. 
Arlian, suspecting a trap, did not pursue 
immediately; he stepped back as well and began to 
circle to the left. 
As he did, one part of his mind considered 
Kuruvan’s words. In fact, it was quite likely that 
some of the other lords were better swordsmen than 
Kuruvan. Enziet, in particular, with his dragon’s 
heart and fearsome reputation, might well be more 
formidable. 
For that matter, some or all of the other four 
might also be members of the Dragon Society. 
Whether that would really matter Arlian didn’t 
know. Certainly his own supposed draconic gifts 
didn’t seem to have intimidated Kuruvan. 
And he needed to intimidate Kuruvan. It was too 
late now to do anything but kill or be killed, and 
Arlian had no intention of dying. 
Arlian suddenly stopped his leftward circling and 
charged to the right, lunging, trying to catch 
Kuruvan unaware, evade his sword and strike at his 
left side. 
Kuruvan’s swordbreaker swept up, but Arlian 
dodged it. His blade slashed across the bare skin of 
Kuruvan’s left arm midway between shoulder and

elbow—not the truly damaging blow he had hoped 
for, but first blood, all the same. 
And Kuruvan’s own sword was sweeping in from 
Arlian’s own left, high and wide, headed for his ear; 
Arlian’s left hand snapped up, swordbreaker ready, 
as he ducked his head. 
Kuruvan’s blade cut through Arlian’s hair, and a 
sudden warmth on his scalp told Arlian that he had 
been wounded, but then he heard the click of steel 
as his swordbreaker slid around Kuruvan’s weapon. 
Arlian smiled, and twisted—and Kuruvan’s blade 
slipped free, apparently undamaged. 
And Kuruvan’s own swordbreaker was coming up 
toward Arlian’s heart; in his stooped position, 
escaping the sword, he could see the approaching 
dagger blade clearly. 
Already aslant, Arlian threw himself back and 
further to the right, right knee bent and left leg 
straight, and the swordbreaker slashed up across 
his left shoulder, ruining fine black silk but drawing 
no blood. Arlian’s sword swept up, behind 
Kuruvan’s swordbreaker, aimed at Kuruvan’s 
throat. 
Kuruvan flung himself backward, and the two 
men staggered apart. 
Kuruvan’s left arm was bleeding steadily, Arlian 
saw, and while his sword was not broken, it was 
very slightly bent. 
Arlian’s own weapons were undamaged, but his 
left shoulder felt bruised and the cut-open shirt was 
sliding down onto his left arm in a most distracting 
fashion. He knew he was bleeding from his scalp, as 
well, but that was well back on the left, too far back 
for the blood to get in his face and interfere with his 
vision, so he ignored it. 
Arlian thought that all things considered, he had 
gotten the better of that exchange. He wondered if 
Kuruvan knew his sword was bent; swordsmen were

trained to watch their opponents‘ swords, not their 
own. If he hadn’t noticed, Arlian might be able to 
use that. 
But he would only be able to use it once before 
Kuruvan discovered it, and the sooner the better. 
Arlian launched into a direct attack, turning his 
body to present a smaller target as he thrust his 
blade forward. 
This was the sort of attack that Black had warned 
him against, the sort where Kuruvan’s greater reach 
was an advantage, and sure enough Kuruvan’s 
sword met his own in what should have been a 
deadly parry and riposte—but slid harmlessly aside, 
across Arlian’s chest, as Kuruvan misjudged where 
his bent blade would go. Arlian stepped forward, 
inside Kuruvan’s guard, his own sword arm pulling 
back for a lethal thrust— but Kuruvan’s 
swordbreaker came up, catching the tip of Arlian’s 
sword. 
Arlian twisted, swinging his sword free, and 
stepped forward again. Now Kuruvan’s right arm 
was outstretched across Arlian’s chest, and his left 
pinned by Arlian’s right; there was nothing to stop 
Arlian’s left arm as he rammed the point of his 
swordbreaker through oiled leather into Kuruvan’s 
belly. 
Arlian had thought that was a killing blow, and 
that the duel was over; he expected Kuruvan to gasp 
and crumple, as that bandit in the Desolation had. 
But Kuruvan pulled away, still upright, still 
fighting, and slashed with his sword, drawing a 
bloody line across Arlian’s left arm and chest, 
slicing through black silk into flesh. 
Arlian stabbed again with his swordbreaker, but 
this time the two were angled differently and not 
quite so close, and the thick leather turned the 
blow. Kuruvan’s swordbreaker cut across Arlian’s 
right arm as the two men pulled apart. 
And then Arlian’s shorter arms worked in his

favor; as they drew back, his sword came free, and 
he was able to thrust it forward and down into 
Kuruvan’s side. It was not a deep cut, but it was 
another telling blow. 
Kuruvan gasped and staggered, but broke free 
and brought his sword up to guard. 
“Stop it!” someone shrieked—Hasty, Arlian 
realized. “Stop it, both of you!” 
Neither man paid any attention. They were 
intent on one another. 
Kuruvan was apparently no longer interested in 
speaking, or in attacking; he appeared to be having 
difficulty breathing, though his weapons did not sag 
nor his movements falter. He was bleeding several 
places, and his face was unnaturally pale. 
Arlian was bleeding as well, but was convinced 
his own wounds were all superficial, while at least 
two of Kuruvan’s were not. That meant time was on 
Arlian’s side; Kuruvan would weaken with every 
passing moment, every drop of blood he lost. 
The two men stood facing each other, neither one 
ready to attack, for what felt like hours; then 
Kuruvan’s eyes rolled back in his head, his weapons 
fell from his hands, and he collapsed upon the 
pavement. 
Arlian started to move forward, to attack; he had 
been awaiting an opportunity so long that it took 
him a few seconds to realize that any other action 
was possible. Then he caught himself and stopped, 
his sword almost at Kuruvan’s throat. 
There was no honor in killing an unconscious 
man; in fact, to strike now would be murder under 
the dueling laws. Arlian stepped back, and realized 
he was panting and trembling. 
Footmen in maroon and gold were hurrying 
forward to attend to their master; Arlian stepped 
back again, giving them room. He glanced down at 
himself, at his own bloody chest and arms; he

tugged at the tatters of his silk blouse with his 
thumb, then noticed the blood on his sword. He 
blinked. 
Dazed. He was dazed, he realized. The duel had 
only lasted a few minutes, and hadn’t really been so 
very strenuous, but still, he knew he was not 
thinking clearly anymore. 
“Black!” he called, starting to tremble 
uncontrollably. 
And then his steward, his friend, was there, 
handing him a cloth. Arlian dropped his 
swordbreaker to accept it, then wiped his sword 
carefully, struggling to keep his hands steady 
enough for the task. He sheathed the sword, then 
retrieved the swordbreaker and cleaned and 
sheathed that, as well. 
Then he stood, still shaking, his mind 
momentarily a blank. 
“I’m glad to see you have your priorities 
straight,” Black said, putting one arm around 
Arlian, “but we’ll need to get you cleaned up, too.” 
Arlian nodded. His thoughts were beginning to 
clear. “The women,” he said. “Get them in the 
coach. And the gold.” 
“And you,” Black said. “Come on, now.” 
Arlian allowed himself to be led away. 
As he sat in the coach, still trembling, waiting for 
Hasty and Kitten to be carried over from the bench, 
he saw Kuruvan being carried inside. The 
gray-haired steward gave Arlian one last hate-filled 
look; then the mansion door slammed shut. 
Arlian stared at that closed door, trying to think 
whether he hoped Kuruvan would live or die, and 
utterly unable to decide.
36

Tending to Wounds 
Despite his battered condition, Arlian later 
remembered every detail of the ride home—the two 
naked women staring at him, Thirif sitting silently 
beside him, the worry in Black’s voice as he called to 
the horses, the stinging when a cut on one arm 
brushed against the upholstery. He had wanted to 
speak to the women, to reassure them, but the 
shifting expressions on Hasty’s face deterred 
him—she seemed angry as much as frightened, and 
as scared of him as of anything else. He couldn’t 
find the words to speak to her over the creaking of 
the coach, the rattle of harness, the beating of the 
horses’ hooves, and his own weary confusion. 
Kitten’s expression was closed and unreadable. 
Arlian had never known Kitten well to begin with, 
but Hasty had been his friend, and her antagonism 
worried him. 
The ride was a short one, in any case, and when 
they pulled up at the door of the Old Palace Arlian 
had still not said a thing. 
He opened the coach door and climbed out 
before Black could dismount, then turned, with the 
idea of carrying one woman inside while Black 
fetched the other. 
Thirif looked meaningfully at his chest, and 
pointed at the blood on his arms, and Arlian 
thought better of carrying anyone. Instead he stood 
aside as Thirif and Black brought Hasty and Kitten 
into the small salon. 
“Where are we?” Kitten asked, craning her neck 
to look at the gilding, tapestries, and fretwork. 
“Home,” Arlian said. “Welcome home!” 
Hasty stared at him. “Triv, are you insane?”

Arlian, very much aware of his injuries, was in no 
mood to argue with anyone. He frowned at her. 
“Why do people keep asking me that?” 
“Because you’re acting like a madman!” Hasty 
squeaked. “What’s going to happen to us when the 
owner of this place comes back?” 
“I am the owner of this place,” Arlian said 
patiently. He gestured at Black and Thirif. “Ask 
them.” 
“If he’s mad, it’s nothing as obvious as that,” 
Black Said. “He’s the true Lord Obsidian, all right, 
and he does own this palace.” 
“But he’s just Triv!” Hasty protested. “He’s an… 
he’s nobody!” 
“Not anymore,” Black told her. He glanced at 
Arlian. “Someday you’ll have to tell me why they call 
you Triv.” 
Arlian shrugged. “It’s not important.” He smiled 
to himself at this answer. 
“I’ll agree with that,” Black said. “What’s 
important is cleaning and dressing those wounds 
before any of them turn poisonous.” 
Arlian glanced down at himself. 
“Black speaks wisely,” Thirif said. 
Arlian yielded. “Get these two some clothes,” he 
told Thirif. “And food. Whatever they want.” 
The Aritheian nodded, and Arlian allowed 
himself to be led away. 
An hour later, heavily bandaged and attired in 
fresh new clothes, Arlian returned to the salon. 
Hasty and Kitten were seated on two settees; 
Kitten wore a black silk tunic that reached just 
below her knees, while Hasty was wrapped in a 
velvet robe. 
“We have no women’s clothing on hand, my lord,” 
a footman explained before Arlian could remark on 
this garb.

“That’s fine,” Arlian said. He crossed the room 
and stooped to kiss Hasty on the forehead. The 
scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and he smiled 
broadly. “It’s good to see you again!” he said. 
“It’s good to see you, too, Triv,” Hasty said, 
looking up at him, “but why did you do it?” 
“Do what?” Arlian asked. 
“Fight that horrible duel! You could have been 
killed! You might have killed Vanni!” 
Arlian stared at her, a puzzled frown upon his 
face. “He was holding you prisoner,” he said. 
“Vanni? Oh, he was sweet,” Hasty protested. 
“He’s a poor silly boy!” 
“Lord Kuruvan, you mean,” Arlian said, baffled. 
“Yes, Lord Kuruvan. Vanni.” 
“Lord Kuruvan is a poor silly boy? He must be 
forty years old.” 
Hasty shrugged. “He’s still a boy,” she said. 
“He was holding you in bondage,” Arlian pointed 
out. 
“Well, but he wasn’t hurting us!” Hasty replied. 
“He was one of the owners of the House of Carnal 
Society,” Arlian said. “He was one of the six men 
who put you there and had your feet cut off.” 
“But the House is gone!” Hasty protested. “That’s 
all over!” 
“It is now,” Arlian said grimly. “For you two, at 
any rate.” 
“But it was over years ago! For two years we 
haven’t had to please anyone but poor Vanni. And 
he was hardly ever rough, and when he was he’d feel 
bad afterward and give us candy and wine to 
apologize.” 
Arlian stared silently at her for a moment. Hasty 
had always been prone to confusion and 
thoughtlessness—that was where her name had

come from, after all—but this seemed more than 
Arlian could deal with. 
“Hasty,” he said, “he ordered your feet chopped 
off! He agreed to have Rose and Silk murdered! He 
had to be punished for those crimes.” 
Now it was Hasty’s turn to stare in 
incomprehension. 
“Murdered?” Kitten said. “Rose and Silk are 
dead?” 
“When the House was closed,” Arlian told her. 
“Each of the six lords took two women, and then the 
guards cut the throats of the other four and burned 
down the house.” 
Hasty’s confusion turned to shock. For a moment 
she and Kitten sat motionless, staring at Arlian. 
“We didn’t know,” Kitten said. “And Kuruvan didn’t 
abuse us. We… it wasn’t a bad life there, really.” 
“You were slaves,” Arlian said. 
“Well, of course,” Kitten replied. “We always have 
been. We still are.” 
“No, you aren’t,” Arlian said. “Lord Kuruvan 
wagered your freedom on that duel. You’re free.” 
Hasty’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. “But we 
can’t be!” she wailed. “What will I do if I’m free? I’m 
a cripple, with no feet! I may be carrying Vanni’s 
child, and I’m not married! I need to be a slave. I’ve 
never been free, I never asked to be free! I don’t 
know how!” She flung herself forward, wrapping her 
arms around Arlian’s waist and burying her face 
against his belly. 
Arlian tried to comfort her, and looked at the 
other, woman for guidance. 
Kitten’s expression was somber. “I’m glad to be 
free, Triv,” she said, “but Hasty has a good point. 
What will become of us? Neither of us knows a 
trade, and who would marry a cripple?” 
“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you

please,” Arlian said, as he patted Hasty 
comfortingly. “I made my fortune with money Rose 
gave me, money she said should have belonged to 
the women in that brothel—to me, that means that 
one-twelfth of my wealth is at your disposal, each of 
you. I took that money to avenge the injustices you 
and the others suffered.” 
“So we’ll be parasites instead of slaves?” Kitten 
asked. 
The day’s accumulated stresses finally broke 
Arlian’s calm. “Would you rather be dog food when 
your Lord Kuruvan tired of you?” he demanded. 
“You earned that money! You paid for it by giving 
up the ability to walk! And if you don’t think so, 
then go ahead and learn a trade—a seamstress 
doesn’t need to walk, does she?” 
Hasty snuffled miserably. 
“You’re right, Triv,” Kitten said. “I’m sorry. This 
was so unexpected! We had settled into our lives 
with Kuruvan, and we were comfortable 
there—though you’re right that it probably wouldn’t 
have lasted long. You meant well.” 
Arlian stared at her for a moment. 
Meant well? 
He had risked his life to see that justice was done 
for these women. He had fought down his fears and 
misgivings and had crossed blades with an 
experienced swordsman, he had shed his own 
blood, and still faced the very real possibility of 
wound fever. The duel with Kuruvan had been no 
elegant display of skill, but an ugly, awkward, messy 
brawl that ended not in a clean death for one that 
left the other unscathed, but in numerous wounds 
and great pain on both sides. Arlian had gone 
through all that not for himself, but to have justice 
for these women, and he had carried away Hasty 
and Kitten, not to keep them, but to give them their 
freedom. 
He had thought they would be grateful.

He hadn’t fought for their gratitude; he had 
fought because it was the right thing to do, because 
it would serve the cause of justice. Still, Hasty and 
Kitten were the immediate beneficiaries, and he 
had thought they would be grateful. 
He hadn’t expected to be told he had meant well. 
He should have known better, he told himself. He 
remembered Bloody Hand, back in the mine, 
shouting at him for having dared to save him from 
the falling ore. 
He had done what was right. He had saved 
Bloody Hand’s life—and he had tried to take 
Kuruvan’s. He had tried to make a little justice in 
the world. 
He frowned as he stroked Hasty’s hair. Why was 
it right to save Bloody Hand, and to kill Kuruvan? 
Because it was. Bloody Hand had killed Dinian, 
yes, but by accident. He had not been a sadist like 
Lampspiller. He had been trying to survive as best 
he could, to do the job he had been given. 
Kuruvan had maimed and killed women because 
he wanted to, because it was convenient and 
profitable. 
That was wrong. No matter how pleasant he had 
been to Kitten and Hasty afterward, it was wrong, 
and Kuruvan had done nothing to make amends. 
Perhaps now he would—assuming he survived his 
wounds. Arlian resolved to check on Lord Kuruvan, 
if he recovered, to see whether he still considered 
himself free to kill slaves. 
But first, there were five more lords to deal 
with— Stiam, Horim, Toribor, Drisheen… 
And Lord Dragon. Lord Enziet. The man who had 
looted Arlian’s home and sold Arlian into slavery, 
the man who had killed Madam Ril and ordered the 
House of Carnal Society burned, the man who had 
carried Sweet and Dove away with him. 
Arlian would deal with them all, including Lord

Dragon, and would rescue Sweet and the other 
women— and from now on he would not expect 
gratitude. 
He disentangled himself from Hasty and set her 
back on the settee. “I’ll have someone show you your 
rooms,” he said. “If you want anything, my servants 
will get it for you.” 
Then he turned and headed for his own 
chambers, to rest—and to plan. He knew now who 
all his enemies were—the six lords, the looters, the 
dragons. He had wounded Kuruvan, forgiven 
Cover… 
He paused on the stairs. Was he finished with 
Kuruvan, then? Should he go back and finish him 
off?
And that offer he had made, to let Kuruvan go 
unscathed if he forswore all future connection with 
slavery—where had that come from? Was that truly 
what he sought? Did he think that the institution of 
slavery was something that must be abolished? 
That was not any task he had consciously set 
himself. He had been seeking justice; was slavery 
then inherently unjust? Was it any more unjust 
than the rest of the world? 
Would Hasty be happier free than she had been 
as Kuruvan’s slave? Certainly he was happier free. 
And Rose would still be alive had she been free. 
He was not ready to say that slavery was always 
wrong. He was convinced that it was abused, that 
Lord Dragon— Lord Enziet!—had been wrong to sell 
him to the mine, that the six lords had been wrong 
to maim their whores and kill four of them. 
They had demonstrated that they could not be 
trusted with slaves—that was why he had made his 
offer to Lord Kuruvan. The question of whether 
anyone could be trusted with slaves he would leave 
open for now. 
That decided, he continued up the steps.

As for whether Kuruvan had paid sufficiently for 
the evil he had done—well, perhaps he should leave 
that to Fate. If Kuruvan recovered from his wounds, 
and committed no more atrocities, then Arlian 
would let him live. 
After all, he had the others to deal with. 
Lord Enziet would be next, of course. He was the 
one Arlian was most determined to see punished, 
now that he knew who Lord Dragon was; the others 
could wait. Enziet was also the one who held Sweet. 
Arlian dared not risk getting himself killed fighting 
one of the others, leaving Lord Dragon untouched 
and Sweet still in his possession. 
He would have Black visit Enziet’s mansion and 
arrange a meeting, and when he was sufficiently 
recovered from his own injuries he would pay Lord 
Dragon a visit. 
And he wouldn’t leave Enziet alive, as he had 
Kuruvan. 
He would question him about his knowledge of 
dragons, how he had known that Obsidian would be 
available for looting—and for that matter, why the 
village had been worth looting in person, for surely 
a man of Enziet’s prominence could have sent an 
employee to attend to it. 
He would learn everything Lord Dragon could tell 
him, he would finally know why his family and 
childhood had been snatched away, why his life had 
been twisted into an obsessive quest for 
revenge—and then he would kill him. 
That settled, Arlian tumbled onto his bed, 
exhausted— but elated, as well. 
He was making progress. Cover and Kuruvan 
were done, and Lord Dragon was next! At last, after 
all these years, Lord Dragon was next! 
37

Approaches to Lord Dragon 
Black marched in the doorway of Arlian’s study 
and crossed to the writing table where Arlian sat. 
“He won’t see you,” he said without preamble. 
Arlian put down his quill and blinked up at his 
steward. “What do you mean, he won’t see me?” 
“I mean he won’t see you,” Black repeated. “I 
delivered your message, and I recited it myself, just 
to be sure, as well as handing over the written 
copy—‘Lord Obsidian wishes to call upon Lord 
Enziet at Lord Enziet’s convenience about a matter 
of some importance to them both, and would 
appreciate a word as to when that might be 
possible.’ They told me to wait at the gate, and a 
footman brought me back the reply—that Lord 
Enziet has no intention of seeing Lord Obsidian at 
any time, and that henceforth I am not to inflict my 
presence further upon any member of his 
household, at any time.” 
“You protested?” 
“Of course I protested. Loudly. And I was told to 
wait again, and someone fetched this.” He handed 
Arlian a folded sheet of paper. 
Arlian accepted it and opened it, and read, “Lord 
Enziet busies himself with the Duke’s business and 
his own concerns, and has no time to waste on 
social niceties. Let Lord Obsidian amuse himself 
elsewhere.” 
“This verges on deliberate insult,” Arlian said, 
looking up from the little square of paper. 
“I’d say so,” Black agreed. 
“Do you think Enziet knows why I want to see 
him?” Arlian asked.

“It’s entirely possible,” Black said. “After all, Lord 
Kuruvan had time to talk at some length before the 
fever set in.” 
Arlian frowned at the reminder. 
That Kuruvan’s wounds had festered and brought 
on a fever was hardly surprising, but Arlian was not 
happy about it. His own injuries had healed well, 
but they had been far more superficial. Kuruvan 
had been stabbed in the belly, and while to Arlian’s 
surprise the wound itself had not been fatal, it had 
turned foul; the reports that had reached the Old 
Palace said that Kuruvan was now bedridden and 
delirious, burning up with fever, his abdomen as 
swollen and red as an overripe peach. He was not 
expected to live much longer. 
It was a slow, nasty way to die. Arlian had 
wanted Kuruvan dead, but would have preferred a 
quick death—he wasn’t interested in inflicting 
suffering upon the guilty so much as in removing a 
menace from the world. 
But that was in regard to Kuruvan; Arlian would 
be pleased to see Lord Dragon suffer. He had hoped 
to bring that suffering about. 
Instead, Enziet was insulting him, defying him. 
And of course, why shouldn’t he? Lord Obsidian 
was nobody—rich, yes, but with no serious 
commercial ties in Manfort, no known family, no 
powerful friends. 
That still did not entitle Lord Enziet to be openly 
rude to a fellow nobleman, and perhaps that was all 
the excuse Arlian needed. He opened a desk drawer 
and found a sheet of paper. He took up his quill, 
dipped it, and wrote, “I find the tone of your 
message inappropriate, and must ask that you 
apologize. It is essential that I speak with you.” 
He signed it “Obsidian,” with a flourish, then 
blotted it, folded it, and handed it to Black. 
Black had read it over his shoulder. “It may not

do any better,” he said. 
“You’re welcome to make suggestions.” 
“You’re the lord here,” Black said with a shrug. 
“Anything else?” 
“Check on Kuruvan,” Arlian said. “See if you can 
find out, without being obvious, whether he did 
communicate with Enziet.” A thought struck him. 
“And check on Cover, too. Perhaps he knows 
something useful—where did he meet Lord Dragon, 
all those years ago? Did he have any way to send 
Lord Dragon or any of the others a message?” 
Black nodded and tucked the note inside his 
tunic. 
Arlian watched him go. 
It seemed clear what had happened. The duel 
with Lord Kuruvan had hardly been secret—duels 
couldn’t very well be kept secret. The reason for the 
duel would surely have become known, as 
well—Kuruvan would have had no reason not to 
speak of it. That meant that the other proprietors of 
the House of the Six Lords all knew that Lord 
Obsidian meant them ill. Furthermore, the fact that 
Kuruvan, a very respectable swordsman, had lost 
his duel meant that they would probably not be 
eager to face Arlian openly. He would be unlikely to 
catch any of them off guard, and luring each of 
them into a duel might well be impossible. 
But perhaps he could still bully them into 
fighting. Demanding that Lord Enziet apologize was 
a first step in that direction; by the code of honor 
the lords of Manfort observed, if Enziet refused to 
apologize Arlian could escalate the conflict until 
Enziet had no choice but to fight. 
And if he did apologize, well, Arlian could insist 
the apology be made in person, and matters could 
proceed from there. He was not yet stymied. 
He might be in danger himself, though. Lord 
Dragon had had no hesitation about killing Madam

Ril when she displeased him. While Ril had been a 
mere employee, not a fellow lord, might he not 
attempt to kill Arlian by some method less open 
than dueling? Assassination was not legal, but if 
happened. Arlian had no idea how one went about 
hiring an assassin, but he was sure Enziet did. 
And that didn’t even consider the fact that Enziet 
was reputed to know something of sorcery. Arlian 
frowned and rose from his desk; he left the study 
and trotted down the stairs to the office where 
Thirif conducted his business. 
The Aritheian was seated cross-legged on a mat 
in one corner, meditating. He looked up as Arlian 
entered. 
Arlian quickly explained the situation—that he 
had intended to visit Lord Enziet and challenge him 
to a duel, but that his polite request for an audience 
had been met with an insulting refusal. 
“I believe my enemies may be aware of my 
intentions,” he concluded. “I also suspect they may 
attempt to take action against me by dishonorable 
means.” 
Thirif asked, “Do you mean assassins?” 
“Or sorcery,” Arlian said. 
Thirif nodded. “Do you want me to place wards?” 
“I’m not sure,” Arlian said. “I’ve heard the word, 
but could you explain what you mean?” 
“A ward is…” Thirif frowned. “I know no other 
word for it in your tongue. It is a device or magic 
that surrounds a place and turns aside malign 
influences. The iron fences in Arithei serve as wards 
against wild magic, but would not stop any mortal, 
nor a properly made spell; for that we have magical 
wards. Any who try to enter a magically warded 
place while wishing the inhabitants harm will feel a 
compulsion to turn aside—a strong will may resist 
this compulsion, though. Hostile magic cannot 
enter a warded place unless it is stronger than the

ward. If an enemy enters despite the ward, the 
magician who placed the ward will feel it and know 
what has happened. If the ward is broken by 
stronger magic, that, too, will be felt.” 
“That sounds ideal,” Arlian said. “Can you do 
that here?” 
“Of course. We brought many wardings with us, 
and they have not sold well—your northern 
sorcerers can create wards of their own. It is one of 
the few things that sorcery can do well—had we 
known that, we would not have brought them.” 
“But you did bring them?” 
“Yes.” 
“Then by all means, place wards around the 
palace immediately. Strong ones.” 
“As you wish.” Thirif unfolded his legs and rose 
from his mat. 
“Thank you,” Arlian said. 
Thirif bowed an acknowledgment, then departed. 
Arlian stood gazing thoughtfully after the 
Aritheian for a moment. There was so much he 
didn’t know about magic! Wards were clearly a 
basic spell, yet he had needed an explanation. 
And there was so much he still didn’t know about 
Manfort, and about the city’s lords. 
And so much he didn’t know about dragons, 
about Lord Dragon, about the connections between 
Enziet and the dragons. Maybe Lord Enziet had not 
been told anything by Lord Kuruvan, but had 
known Arlian meant him harm by other means. 
How had Lord Dragon known that the dragons 
would destroy Obsidian, and that he could loot it? 
Enziet was a mystery. Was Sweet safe in his 
hands? Lord Dragon had taken her—what had he 
done with her, and with Dove? Were Sweet and 
Dove still alive? Hasty and Kitten were safe and 
well, but Lord Dragon was not Lord Kuruvan.

At that, Arlian’s thoughts turned to his two 
houseguests. Kitten seemed to be settling in 
reasonably well—she had not yet taken up learning 
any sort of skills, but she professed to be thinking 
about it, and she had discovered the library. Arlian 
had not had time to use it himself, but the Old 
Palace had a library, and it had been furnished with 
a modest collection of books when he bought the 
place. These were presumably the books not 
considered worth the trouble of moving to the 
Citadel, but Kitten apparently found them 
interesting enough. She spent much of her time 
there. 
Hasty, on the other hand, had no interest in 
books— Arlian was not sure she knew how to read. 
Instead, during the several days Arlian had spent 
recovering from his wounds, she seemed to have 
devoted herself to harassing Arlian’s servants, 
demanding to be carried hither and yon for no 
reason, deliberately seducing and then abandoning 
one young man after another. 
He supposed she would get over it—especially if 
she was correct in suspecting that she was pregnant 
with Kuruvan’s child. 
As for himself, he had kept busy through his 
convalescence with his household and business. He 
had now sold off, through his agents, a significant 
fraction of the magical artifacts he had brought 
north from Arithei, and his income from those was 
augmented by investments he had made with the 
money thus generated. Keeping track of those 
hundreds of thousands of ducats was a considerable 
task, and working at it kept his mind off his plans 
for revenge, plans that could only circle endlessly 
and pointlessly in his head until he was again fit to 
fight. 
Now, while Thirif set wards and Arlian waited for 
Black’s return from the errands Arlian had assigned 
him, Arlian returned to his study to go over the 
latest business records once again. Until he had

more information there was little else he could do. 
He had closed the account books and eaten 
supper, and was sitting in the salon, glass in hand, 
when Black returned. Arlian looked up from his 
wine expectantly as the steward stood over him. 
“Cover is dead,” Black said. “Five days ago.” 
That was not really a surprise—if anything, he 
had lived somewhat longer than Arlian had 
expected. “And Stammer?” 
Black shrugged. 
“If she can find nothing better, offer her a job 
here,” Arlian said. 
Black sighed. “As you say,” he said. 
“And Enziet?” 
Black hesitated. 
“Lord Enziet,” he said, “spoke to me at some 
length. To be specific, at sword’s length.” 
“What?” Arlian put down his glass. 
Black sighed again. 
“Sit down,” Arlian said, “and tell me all about it.” 
He gestured at the decanter and an empty glass. 
Black sat and poured himself a drink. He downed 
it in a gulp, then poured another. 
“I was kept waiting for some time after I gave 
your note to a footman,” Black said, “but at last 
Lord Enziet himself came to speak to me.” He 
grimaced. “Not alone; he had half a dozen guards 
with him, and his own sword ready in his hand.” 
“What did he say?” 
“I remember his very words,” Black said. “He told 
me, ‘Your master has nerve, demanding an apology 
from a man he intends to murder.’” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. 
“He went on at some length, as I told you,” Black 
said. “He is aware that you consider yourself

wronged by the proprietors of the House of Carnal 
Society; he has no interest in the truth of such 
accusations, or for that matter in any sort of justice, 
fairness, or revenge. Instead he wants me to warn 
you that if you harass or harm him or any of his 
surviving partners further, or attempt to enter his 
home, he will kill you—and not in anything so 
formal as a duel. If I return, he will kill me. If you 
send any other messenger, he will kill the 
messenger. He is not concerned with rules or 
custom, and is confident that his hold over the 
Duke is more than enough to ensure he won’t suffer 
any legal consequences for any of these deaths 
should he choose to bring them about. He strongly 
advises you to leave Manfort and go back wherever 
you came from. That he hasn’t already killed you, 
he says, is only because he does not care to 
antagonize your Aritheian allies—but having now 
warned you, that won’t stop him if you persist. He 
assumes that once you’re dead the Aritheians can 
be made to see reason. Furthermore, if by some 
chance you do kill him, he has made arrangements 
to ensure that you will be killed in return.” 
Arlian swallowed. 
“He also says to tell you that the wards won’t stop 
him. I don’t know what that means, but I assume 
you do.” 
“Yes,” Arlian said. 
“Ari,” Black said, “I had never met Lord Enziet 
before. Remember not long after we met, I told you 
you had the heart of the dragon in you? Well, Enziet 
has the heart, soul, liver, and lights of the dragon. I 
don’t doubt for a minute that he means exactly 
what he says, and can do it.” 
“I don’t doubt it, either,” Arlian agreed. He 
picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of his 
wine. The heart of the dragon, he thought. 
Credentials for membership in the Dragon Society. 
Lord Enziet was undoubtedly a member.

“He may decide to go ahead and kill you even if 
you don’t harass anyone,” Black said. “I think 
maybe you should go home. Or back to the 
Borderlands.” 
“No!” Arlian flung his glass away; it shattered 
against the wall as Arlian got to his feet. “This is my 
home! Dragons destroyed my first home; Lord 
Dragon burned the next; this is my home now, and 
they won’t take it away from me!” He grabbed Black 
by his shirt. “I will kill that bastard somehow! If he 
won’t let me do it openly and honorably in a duel, I 
will find another way!” 
“If he doesn’t kill you first,” Black said, locking 
his hands around Arlian’s wrists. “It would seem to 
me that you ought to concern yourself with staying 
alive before you worry about killing someone else. 
I’d point out that even if you do somehow get 
Enziet, that leaves at least four others who’ll want 
you dead—not even counting the Duke, once he’s 
deprived of the man who tells him what to do.” 
Arlian released Black’s shirt and stepped back. 
He looked thoughtfully at his friend. Staying alive 
was indeed a prerequisite for any planned revenge, 
and Lord Enziet was clearly a powerful man—Arlian 
remembered the casual way Lord Dragon had 
slashed Madam Ril’s throat with a single sweep of 
his sword, how he had paid no attention to the 
bright blood that had spurted from the wound, how 
no one had dared to step forward and oppose him 
or hinder him in any way. 
A man who could kill like that, a man who had all 
Manfort’s resources at his disposal… Arlian knew 
that if Lord Dragon were to decide Arlian must die, 
then Arlian would die, unless he took drastic 
measures to protect himself. 
Bodyguards, soldiers—he could afford them, but 
could he trust them? Did he want to live 
surrounded by them? 
He could flee the city, as Enziet suggested, but

that would be defeat; it would mean giving up any 
chance at vengeance, and on a much less exalted 
level it would mean losing a significant portion of 
his fortune, since he could not hope to sell the Old 
Palace readily. He had paid far more than he should 
have to buy it and restore it, in the interests of 
impressing and intriguing the city’s nobility and 
advancing his planned revenge. 
And it would mean leaving Sweet and Dove in 
Lord Dragon’s clutches. 
What other means of protection could he find, 
then? Enziet had already discovered the wards 
Thirif had placed and dismissed them as 
inadequate, and Arlian did not think he was 
boasting. From what he had seen and heard, Lord 
Dragon had never struck him as boastful. Was there 
other, stronger magic he could employ? 
He could think of none. He was no magician. He 
would talk to Thirif, but he doubted that salvation 
lay in that direction. Both the Aritheians and his 
own people had told him that magic was deceitful 
and untrustworthy stuff, as likely to destroy you as 
preserve you. 
The best solution would be somehow to change 
Enziet’s mind, to convince him that killing Arlian 
would be a bad idea—and there might, Arlian 
realized, be a way to do that. 
“You spoke with him,” Arlian said. “Do you think 
he’s a man of honor?” 
“No,” Black said promptly. “But he may think he 
is.”
“Would he break an oath?” 
“Probably. It would depend on the 
consequences.” 
The obvious next question, not spoken aloud, was 
whether he, Arlian, Lord Obsidian, would break an 
oath, given sufficient incentive. 
He wasn’t sure of the answer.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to. Perhaps he could 
find a way around it. 
But regardless of the oath, the time had come to 
walk down the Street of the Black Spire to a black 
door with a red bar. It was too late now, but come 
morning, he would go there. 
That was where he could find Lord Dragon and 
confront him without need for any invitation into 
anyone’s home. And that was where he could at 
least make it expensive for Lord Dragon to kill him, 
make him an outcast and oath breaker if he carried 
out his threats. If Arlian joined the Dragon Society, 
Lord Dragon would be sworn not to kill him within 
Manfort’s walls. 
That Arlian would be required to swear in return 
not to kill Lord Dragon was a matter he would deal 
with later. 
38 
Behind the Black Door 
“Wait here,” he told Black. 
The other man nodded and leaned back 
comfortably against a gray sun-warmed stone wall. 
Arlian stepped up to the black door. It was 
riveted iron, blackened, unpainted save for a broad 
red stripe across it. The handle was cast in the 
shape of a beast of some sort, but so worn that 
Arlian could not be sure just what it was meant to 
represent. It might have been a dragon. 
The building around it was gray stone, like so 
much of Manfort, but larger than most. There were 
few windows, and those there were were tall and

narrow and horizontally barred with black iron. 
He reached out and touched the metal door; it 
was cold and slightly damp, rough with a thin layer 
of rust, and felt very solid. He pressed a palm 
against it, then made a fist and rapped. 
The resulting sound was so faint he was sure it 
couldn’t be heard inside the building. He looked 
around for a bell pull or knocker, but found none; 
he tried the latch, but it did not yield. Seeing, no 
alternative, he shrugged, then pounded on the iron 
door with his fist. 
This time it rang, a deep, dull sound. 
Arlian waited, and a moment later the latch 
rattled and the door swung open, revealing a small, 
dim antechamber. A heavily built man dressed in 
dark green finery stepped around the door and 
looked Arlian in the eye. 
“Yes?” 
Arlian bowed. “I am Lord Obsidian,” he said. 
“Lord Wither tells me that I might be welcome 
here.” 
The man in green stared at him, studying 
Arlian’s face in a way that would ordinarily have 
been objectionably rude; Arlian stared back. For a 
moment the two men stood, eye to eye. 
“You’re very young for this place,” the man in 
green said at last, “but the mark does seem to be 
there.” 
Arlian snorted. “Lord Wither had no doubt of it, 
and he didn’t have to count my eyelashes.” 
And for that matter, Arlian had not needed to 
stare as long as he had to recognize the dragon’s 
mark on the man in green—the doorkeeper was 
presumably a member, not merely a servant or 
slave. That explained his attire, which was far 
richer than any servant would wear. 
“Lord Wither is an exceptional man,” the 
doorkeeper said. “I don’t have a tenth his

experience. And I must be sure before I let you pass 
the inner door.” 
“Are you sure, then?” 
“I believe I am. You wish to join the Dragon 
Society, then?” 
Arlian took a deep breath. “I do,” he said. 
“If you enter, you must join,” the man in green 
warned him. “Once inside you cannot change your 
mind; you join or you die.” 
Arlian hesitated. He had not expected that. Lord 
Wither had said it was easy, though, for one with 
the heart of the dragon. 
“It’s not too late to turn back,” the doorkeeper 
said, in reassuring tones. 
“No,” Arlian said. “I’ve come this far. I’ll join.” 
“You’re certain?” 
“Certain enough.” 
“Enter, then.” The man stepped back, ushering 
Arlian inside. 
“I have my steward…” Arlian began. 
“No,” the man in green said firmly. “Only 
members and applicants pass through this door.” 
Arlian shrugged; he waved a farewell to Black, 
then stepped inside. The doorkeeper closed the 
heavy iron door behind him, shutting out the 
sunlight. 
For a moment he was in utter darkness and 
near-total silence, broken only by the scuffling of 
the doorkeeper, and he feared that his enemies had 
arranged a trap, that Lord Enziet had foreseen an 
attempt to join the Dragon Society and arranged to 
prevent it; then the inner door opened. 
The room beyond was vast, rich and strange, and 
brightly lit—not by sunlight, though it was a 
cheerful cloudless morning outside, but by dozens of 
assorted candles, perched on tables and shelves or

mounted in wall sconces and candelabra. Thick 
carpets covered the floor, and where not hidden by 
shelves or cabinetry the walls were polished wood 
panels; the high ceiling was coffered and gilded. 
Chairs, sofas, and tables, all heavy and elaborately 
carved, were so numerous as to make the chamber 
seem cluttered and mazelike, despite its size; 
perhaps a dozen of the chairs were occupied. Most 
of those occupants were busy with their own 
concerns and did not look up at the new arrival. The 
air smelled of dust and candle smoke. 
The room’s truly strange features were neither 
the people nor the furnishings nor the unnatural 
lighting, but the knicknacks and curiosities that 
filled the cabinets and shelves and stood on several 
of the tables. Most of them seemed to have been 
collected and arranged without rhyme or reason. A 
row of human skulls adorned one ornate cabinet; a 
mummified hand lay upon a nearby table, ignored 
by the woman who sat at that table, reading an old 
leather-bound book. The complete skeleton of what 
appeared to be a large lizard, held together with 
bits of silver wire, stood on a shelf. Odd and 
unfamiliar devices of wood, wire, and glass glittered 
from various niches. 
The majority of the trinkets, however, were 
carvings or sculptures—wood, stone, metal, and 
glass, crude or sophisticated, all scattered about 
with no order that Arlian could see. A rough-hewn 
wooden phallus lay beside a golden eagle; a nude 
woman in white marble stood with her back to a 
jade monster; a glass dragon loomed over an 
architect’s model of a palace. 
And dragons, not usually depicted in the Lands of 
Man, were the most common subject for the 
carvings and other illustrations—paintings here and 
there, a small tapestry, embroidered upholstery, 
etchings, bas relief, and more. The dragons varied 
from stylized symbols to statuettes so detailed and 
realistic that Arlian felt uneasy merely looking at

them. He was not entirely free of the common 
superstition that representations of dragons were 
bad luck, and this place was full of them. 
The doorkeeper picked up a brass bell from a 
shelf by the door and rang it. The people in the 
room looked up, startled. 
“We have an applicant for membership in this 
august body,” the man in green announced. 
“Who is it, Door?” a dark-haired woman asked. 
“Lord Obsidian,” the doorkeeper replied. 
One man, a thin white-bearded fellow, smothered 
an oath; another, a barrel-chested bald man in an 
eyepatch, leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair. 
He drew his sword and stood at guard, facing 
Arlian. 
“Is Obsidian his true name, then?” another, older 
woman asked. 
“Who cares what his true name is?” the man with 
the sword demanded. “He’s the one who wants to 
kill me!” 
“And your name, my lord?” Arlian called, his 
hand on the hilt of his own sword. 
“Toribor,” the swordsman said. “That’s what 
Kuruvan told you, isn’t it?” 
“Then yes, I’m sworn to kill you,” Arlian 
acknowledged. “Would you care to attend to it 
immediately?” 
“Oh, stop it,” the first woman said, obviously 
disgusted. “Belly, if he joins, he can’t kill you—and 
you can’t kill him. And if he doesn’t join, well, he’s 
already dead. Put your sword away.” 
Toribor frowned; his sword lowered, but he 
hesitated. 
“A moment,” Arlian said. “As I understand it, if I 
join your Society as I intend, I must indeed swear to 
make no attempt to kill any of my fellow members 
inside Manfort’s walls—am I not correct in

believing that nothing is said about what might 
happen outside those walls?” 
“Oh, I like this,” the second woman said. “You’re 
sworn to kill Belly—that is, Toribor? But you’re 
willing to swear not to harm him in the city?” 
“Exactly,” Arlian confirmed. 
The woman laughed, and for a moment no one 
spoke. 
“That’s insane,” someone muttered at last. 
“Delightfully so,” the woman agreed. “I think I 
may enjoy this. Yes, Door, by all means, let’s have 
him join!” 
Toribor’s sword wavered. 
“I came here intending to join this Society,” 
Arlian said, “and that is still my intention. If Lord 
Toribor would prefer to fight me to settle the 
matter between us before I continue, I have no 
objection.” 
“If you won, you’d still need to join,” a man said. 
“Yes, of course,” Arlian agreed. 
“And if you lost, you’d die—even if Belly did not 
kill you cleanly,” the man continued. “You can’t 
leave this room alive unless you join, and you could 
not join were you too injured to continue a fight, 
nor would we provide medical attention. We would 
instead finish you off.” 
Toribor looked around. “You’re all standing 
about discussing this as if it were nothing!” He 
focused on the thin white-haired man. “Nail, aren’t 
you going to say anything?” 
For a second or two the others, including the 
man addressed as Nail, simply stared at Toribor; 
then the older woman said, “You’d need to fight 
right here, you know— young Lord Obsidian can’t 
leave this room except as a full member of the 
Dragon Society.” 
Arlian said nothing, but he couldn’t help glancing

around at the maze of furniture and the clutter 
everywhere. A duel in here would be absurd; he and 
Toribor would be stumbling over everything. 
“Well, I’m not cleaning up the mess if they fight 
here,” someone said. 
“The survivor would clean it up,” the woman 
replied. 
“There’d be breakage,” another woman said. 
“Something valuable might be smashed,” a man 
remarked. 
“Oh, may the gods rot you all,” Toribor said in 
disgust, sheathing his sword. “I won’t fight him 
here. Can’t we just kill him as an intruder?” 
“He’s eligible for membership,” Door said. 
“And I want him to join,” the older woman said. 
“He amuses me.” 
“He deserves the same rights as any other 
newcomer,” a man said. 
“He has stated his intention of killing five of us,” 
the man called Nail said in a whispery, unhealthy 
voice. 
“What of it?” the woman demanded. “That’s 
what the oath is for.” 
Toribor looked around and found no support for 
his suggestion. He growled, then said, “Fine, then. 
Go ahead and initiate him. If he swears the oath, 
that makes my life that much easier. But don’t 
expect me to shake his hand and laugh with him 
over the wine.” He turned away. “Nail? I’m 
going—are you going to stay and watch this 
travesty?” 
“I believe I am,” Nail replied. 
“Then may the dead gods spit on you, too,” 
Toribor said. He pushed past his neighbors’ chairs 
and stamped out; Arlian stepped warily aside to let 
him past. 
Toribor glowered at him but said nothing more,

and did not touch him nor draw a weapon. A 
moment later he was gone, and Arlian turned back 
to face the others. 
“Now,” Door said, “welcome, Lord Obsidian, to 
the Dragon Society. You have come here as a 
stranger, but after today you will be a stranger to us 
no more—you will be one of us, or one of the dead. 
Which of those options we choose will be 
determined by how you answer questions put to 
you. You must answer truthfully and completely, to 
the best of your ability. Do you understand?” 
“I think so,” Arlian replied. “Am I permitted to 
ask questions, as well?” 
“You are permitted to ask, but we are not 
required to answer,” the older woman said. 
“And many of your questions will probably be 
answered in the initiation process, in any case,” a 
man said. 
“Come in and take a seat,” Door said, “This may 
take some time.” He gestured for Arlian to step 
forward. 
Arlian moved warily into the room and found an 
unoccupied chair. He seated himself, being careful 
to keep his sword and swordbreaker from becoming 
entangled in the legs of the furniture. 
No one had asked him to remove them, nor had 
Toribor removed his; what’s more, looking around, 
Arlian saw that most of the men in the room wore 
swords. Even one woman had a knife on her belt 
long enough that it might generously be considered 
a sword. 
As he watched, the members of the Society came 
and seated themselves in a semicircle facing him, 
and Arlian looked them over. 
He counted fourteen—eight men and six women. 
All were significantly older than he was, but only 
Nail was white-haired. All wore expensive clothes, 
supple leathers or fine fabrics, but not all wore

them well—several garments were visibly frayed, 
faded, or wrinkled. 
Many of the members were maimed or visibly 
damaged in some way—no fewer than three, 
counting the departed Toribor, wore patches over 
ruined eyes; one man lacked a right hand, and one 
older woman’s left leg from the knee down had been 
replaced with a wooden peg, while several merely 
had masses of scar tissue one place or another. 
All of them, despite their disfigurements, had 
strong faces and piercing eyes, and being the focus 
of their attention was unsettling. Arlian found 
himself remembering that long-ago moment in his 
parents’ pantry when he had looked into the face of 
a dragon; these faces might be human, yet the 
resemblance was plain. 
The experience was far less intense, though. “The 
heart of the dragon” was not a wholly inappropriate 
name, but these faces did not show the heart so 
much as a faint, pale reflection of a dragon’s eyes. 
“Who wants to begin?” Door asked, as he took a 
place for himself to Arlian’s right. 
“I will,” the older woman said. She had taken a 
place at the center of the semicircle, directly in 
front of Arlian. Her hair was black streaked with 
gray, pulled back tightly into a long ponytail; her 
skin was rough and brown, but her face unscarred. 
Her eyes were dark and intense, but she was 
smiling. As she leaned forward over an oaken table 
she held an elaborately carved ebony cane in one 
hand, and a polished white bone in the other. 
The cane made a connection for Arlian, and he 
realized that this woman was the one missing half a 
leg.
Door bowed. “Lady Rime,” he said. “You may 
begin, then.”

39 
Initiation Rites 
The woman nodded an acknowledgment to Door, 
then met Arlian’s gaze across the table. “You have 
been permitted in this room,” she said, “because we 
believe you possess the trait we all share, the trait 
that sets us apart from the rest of humanity. Do you 
know what that trait is?” 
“I assume you refer to what my steward calls ‘the 
heart of the dragon,’” Arlian said. 
“And can you tell us how you acquired this trait?” 
“Not with certainty,” Arlian said. “My steward 
believed some people are simply born with it. On 
the other hand, Lord Wither said that it came from 
drinking human blood mixed with dragon’s 
venom.” 
“And have you drunk human blood mixed with 
dragon’s venom?” 
“I have.” 
“Tell us how that happened.” 
Arlian hesitated. He was not eager to share those 
memories with these strangers—and with Nail, in 
particular, who was presumably either one of the 
six lords himself or a close friend to some of them, 
and who might find a way to use any information 
about Arlian’s origins against him. 
But he had promised to answer fully. He drew a 
deep breath and began. 
“Dragons destroyed my home village,” he said. 
“At least three of them. They came nine years ago, 
during a long spell of dragon weather. I was in the 
family cellar, taking inventory to see how much we 
needed to add before winter, when they attacked.

My grandfather was killed by a blast of venom that 
failed to ignite, and he fell down the cellar ladder 
onto me as he died; his blood, and the venom, 
spilled into my mouth as I lay stunned beneath his 
corpse.” 
Rime asked, “Have you any witnesses?” 
“Of course not,” Arlian said. “I was the only 
survivor.” 
“Have you any scars left by the experience?” 
“Only on my heart, from my family’s death,” 
Arlian said. “The dragon’s venom itself did not 
touch me.” 
“Then can you provide any proof, any evidence at 
all, that you are telling us the truth?” 
“I will give you my word,” Arlian said. “Beyond 
that, how can I? Lord Wither said he could see it in 
my face; if that isn’t enough, what more can I do?” 
Rime nodded. “Good enough. Those are my 
questions, as required; now let me give you the first 
instruction. The Dragon Society takes its name 
from our origins, of course—all of us have drunk 
blood and venom, and received the dragon’s heart 
thereby—but also from its purpose. We are not 
questioning you merely for our amusement, but 
because the Society exists in part to study the ways 
of dragons, to learn everything about them that we 
can, so that someday, if we choose, we might 
destroy them, and free the world forever from their 
vile presence. It is because of this that we may ask 
you, over and over, to tell us every detail of your 
encounter with those dragons you say destroyed 
your village.” That said, Rime used the bone in her 
right hand to prod the man next to her. “I’ve had 
my turn, then—you’re next, Shatter.” 
The left side of Shatter’s head was a hairless, 
shapeless ruin, a mass of scar tissue, but he still had 
both his eyes, and he stared intently at Arlian. 
“What’s your true name?” he asked.

“Arlian,” Arlian said. 
“And your village, that you say was destroyed?” 
“Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain.” A few 
heads nodded at that; they had heard of the 
incident. 
“You call yourself Obsidian—why?” 
“After my home village.” 
“Have you used other names?” 
“Yes.” 
“What were they?” 
“I can’t be sure I remember them all,” Arlian 
warned. “I called myself Lanair a few times, I 
traveled with a caravan under the name Lord Ari, 
and there were several people who called me Triv 
for a time.” 
“Why did you use those other names?” 
Arlian shrugged. “It was convenient to do so.” 
“Had you a reason to refrain from using your true 
name?” 
Arlian frowned. “Yes. Need I explain it?” 
“Does it concern dragons?” 
“No.” 
“Then you need not.” Shatter leaned back in his 
chair. “My true name is Illis,” he said. “The custom 
of using false names is an old one, and most people 
don’t remember its origins, but some of us here 
were among those who first instituted it, in the 
ancient days when the dragons ruled over us. This is 
your second instruction—that we gave false names 
to one another so that if we were caught by the 
dragon’s human servants we could not reveal the 
true identities of our companions in the struggle for 
our freedom. Those servants are gone now, long 
dead, and so we all reveal our true names here, so 
that we know we can trust one another—but the 
dragons still live, beneath the earth, and we keep

the custom alive in case they ever return, and we 
must once again organize ourselves to oppose 
them.” He gestured to the next man in the circle. 
Nail. 
“Do you know who I am?” the old man asked, in 
that thin, harsh voice. 
“No,” Arlian said warily. “I heard you addressed 
as Nail.” 
“My name is Stiam; I believe you have announced 
your intention of killing me.” 
“I haven’t exactly announced it,” Arlian corrected 
him. “I revealed it to Lord Kuluvan.” 
“Whom you mortally wounded.” 
“I beat him in an honorable duel. I do not know 
whether his wound was mortal.” 
“And there were others you listed as your foes?” 
“Yes. Lord Enziet…” 
He paused as two or three of the members 
gasped at the name, but then collected himself and 
continued, “… Lord Toribor, Lord Drisheen, Lord 
Horim, and yourself.” 
Nail leaned forward across the table. “Are you 
aware that all of us save Kuruvan are members of 
the Dragon Society?” 
“Uh… no. I knew some of you were, and 
particularly Lord Enziet; I was not aware all of you 
were.” 
“Then you did not join the Society to find us?” 
“Not exactly.” 
“Why are you here, then?” Nail stared at him 
intently. 
Arlian looked around the circle, partly to escape 
that basilisk stare and partly to judge the mood of 
the others, then sighed. He did not dare try to lie to 
these people. “I recently tried to arrange a meeting 
with Lord Enziet—I admit I did so to further my

plans to destroy him, but I merely asked to meet 
with him. He not only refused this reasonable 
request, but threatened to kill me if I ever troubled 
him again. I have seen him kill a woman for failing 
in a commission he gave her, and I know he killed 
four others merely for being inconvenient; I did not 
doubt that he meant what he said. I also believed, 
from a conversation with Lord Wither, that he is a 
member of this Society, and that no member of the 
Society may kill another within the city’s walls, and 
furthermore that I, too, am eligible for 
membership. I therefore came to join to protect 
myself from Lord Enziet—while he is a ruthless 
man, I believe even he would hesitate to break your 
oath.” 
“Then you’re abandoning your grudge against us, 
whatever it was?” 
“Oh, by no means!” Arlian said. “I have every 
intention of eventually meeting each of you outside 
the city walls, when I can do so on even terms.” 
Nail stared at him for a moment longer, then 
blinked, straightened up, and said, “I’m not sure 
whether you’re a coward or a fool or something else 
entirely. You come here fleeing Lord Enziet, yet you 
fought Kuruvan and offered to fight Toribor. You 
openly admit to my face that you still intend to kill 
me if you can.” 
“I do not believe I’m a coward,” Arlian said. “Is 
not Enziet a powerful and dangerous man who does 
not hesitate to act as much from expedience as 
honor? Is he incapable of hiring assassins, or using 
dire sorcery? To defy him openly seems not courage, 
but foolhardiness. I will be glad to meet him, or any 
of the six of you, openly and fairly; I do not care to 
be waylaid on the street by Enziet’s guards, and left 
dying in an alley somewhere.” 
“You accuse him of such treachery?” Nail leaned 
forward again. 
“I certainly believe him capable of it. His warning

to me did nothing to convince me otherwise.” 
“And you don’t hesitate to say so?” 
“I am required to answer all the questions put to 
me here honestly and completely, am I not?” 
“You are a fool, then,” Nail said, slumping back 
into his chair. “Or at any rate, a very young man 
who has not yet learned when to hide the truth in 
sarcasm, or pretty words, or circumlocutions. I 
think Belly—Lord Toribor—was hasty, and having 
you here in the Dragon Society may be a good thing 
after all—the day may come when we meet outside 
the walls, but I’m in no hurry, and the longer we 
have to study each other, the more entertaining 
that day may eventually be.” He stared at Arlian for 
a moment, then sat up. 
“My instruction,” Nail said, “is this: The Dragon 
Society’s purpose, is in part as Rime stated it, to 
study our draconic foes; however, the original 
impetus was simply loneliness. You’re still very 
young, and you haven’t yet learned this, but we truly 
are a people apart from the rest of humanity. We 
are all tainted, we are all marked, we are all blessed 
and cursed. We have the power to influence others 
to some extent, to bend them to our will—but that 
sets us apart; the shepherd, however beloved by his 
sheep, is not a part of the flock. We live long lives, 
and are free of disease; we can walk unscathed 
through streets heaped with plague-ridden 
corpses—and this means that those around us age 
and sicken and die as we watch, and we can do 
nothing to prevent it. When Wither and I first met, 
centuries ago, and recognized one another as 
kindred beings, it meant an end to decades of 
loneliness, for we now had each other as 
companions—no matter what his failings, a fellow 
shepherd must surely be better company than the 
finest of sheep. And when Enziet found us, and 
Rehirian, and Sharrae, we gathered them to us 
gladly, and the Dragon Society was begun. We 
created the oath, and had this place built for us,

and bethought ourselves as to what goals we might 
set the Society. Others have found us over the 
centuries, and joined for their own reasons, just as 
you have—but in time, each one has come to see 
that whatever other purposes we may have, the 
simple need for the companionship of our peers is 
reason enough for the Society’s existence. In time 
you, too, will come to prize all of us, and if we have 
indeed wronged you you may find it in you to 
forgive us. When this initiation is done, let us 
speak, you and I, and see if we can work this out 
amicably, shall we?” 
Arlian hesitated. “Maybe,” he said. 
Nail nodded. “I can wait—and so can you, child.” 
He turned to the woman beside him. “Ask your 
questions, Flute.” 
Flute was tall and thin, with a long nose and a 
scar across the right side of her jaw; even 
unmarked, her face would have been far from 
beautiful. 
“What do you know of sorcery?” she asked, in a 
cool, distant voice. 
“Almost nothing,” Arlian said. “I have crossed the 
Dreaming Mountains to Arithei and back, so I have 
seen magic in many forms, and I have spent a great 
deal of time with Aritheian magicians, but I have 
not studied the arts myself. I deal in magical 
devices, potions, and other such things, but I am 
only the merchant, not the manufacturer, and 
besides, I do not believe this magic is properly 
considered sorcery—I brought my goods and my 
magicians from Arithei, and they dismiss our 
northern sorcery as a different and lesser sort of 
magic than their own. Like the rest of you, I am a 
nobleman—I own a business, I do not dirty my own 
hands with the labor of running it. I am therefore 
familiar with what Aritheian magic can do, and 
what the wild magic beyond the Borderlands looks 
like, but that’s all.”

“You learned nothing from your village elders or 
the local sorcerer as a child?” 
“Nothing at all. We had a sorcerer in Obsidian, 
but he and I rarely spoke, and even more rarely of 
his specialty. My grandfather told me a few tales, 
but nothing more.” 
“Do you know what I mean by sorcery, as 
opposed to mere magic?” 
“No.” 
Flute sighed. 
“Then my instruction, Obsidian, must be very 
rudimentary, for you haven’t the knowledge for 
more, and it may sound like mere nonsense. Long 
ago, very long ago, the legends tell us, the dragons 
dwelt amid chaos and were displeased by it. They 
drove the chaos back and imposed order; they drove 
it southward, for the most part, out of the lands 
they had chosen for themselves. Or another version 
has it that the gods accomplished this, and the 
dragons later usurped their place, but the point is 
unchanged: Chaos is at the very root of 
magic—instability, change, and deception, these are 
the core of magic, and the dragons dispelled them 
from the Lands of Man. 
“It may be that the dragons are themselves 
creatures of magic, and did not want competition. 
It may be that the dragons are somehow the 
opposite of magic. We don’t know. We do know that 
in the lands where the dragons once ruled, the lands 
that are now the Lands of Man, magic is a dry well, 
while south of the Borderlands it’s a flood. Perhaps 
the dragons drank the magic; perhaps they swept it 
away; perhaps they are this land’s magic. Whatever 
the reasons, beyond the Lands of Man magic runs 
rampant, and anyone with a little skill can learn to 
manipulate it— but no one can truly control it, for 
it’s too powerful, too wild. 
“And here, in Manfort, magic is so weak, so 
feeble, that it must either be brought in from

outside, as you are doing, in which case it’s strong 
and easy but flawed and fades over time, or it must 
be coaxed and teased out in tiny threads, and the 
skills to do this are so arcane, so difficult, that it 
takes a lifetime to master them. 
“These skills, the ability to use the thin traces of 
magic native to this land, are sorcery; what the 
Aritheians do is not, but is mere crude 
thaumaturgy. Sorcery is subtle and strong and 
lasting; thaumaturgy is bright and impressive, but 
unstable and untrustworthy. 
“And because sorcery takes so long to 
master—well, who do you suppose is best suited to 
study it?” She waved at the gathering around her. “ 
We are, we who can devote centuries to the task. 
Members of the Dragon Society are expected to 
learn at least the rudiments of sorcery— though 
there’s no need to hurry. You’ll have all the time you 
need.” 
“If Enziet doesn’t kill you,” a woman further 
around the circle muttered. 
“My lady, are you implying that our own Enziet 
might break his oath?” Door asked. 
“No,” the woman replied, “I’m suggesting that 
someday young Arlian may set foot outside 
Manfort’s gate.” 
Door could hardly argue with that, and it was not 
his time to speak; he subsided, and the man to 
Flute’s right asked, “Is it my turn? I don’t recall 
anything else essential, so I’ll ask what I’m sure 
we’re all wondering—why in the world are you 
determined to kill Enziet and the others in the first 
place?” 
Arlian had expected this. “He kidnapped me and 
sold me into slavery when I was a child,” he said. 
“And he and the others killed four women I cared 
for.” 
“Did he! Well, then, you must tell us all about it!”

Arlian sighed. He collected his wits for a 
moment, then began, “I was in the cellars with my 
grandfather when we heard screaming…” 
40 
Contemplating Eternity 
The iron door swung open and Arlian stepped out 
into the street. He was not surprised to find it dark; 
after all, he had just come from a candlelit chamber 
where he had lost all track of time. 
He was somewhat surprised to find Black still 
waiting for him, and said so. 
“This street’s as good a place as any to wait,” 
Black replied. “I had a chance to chat with Lord 
Toribor, for example.” 
“Did he say anything of interest?” 
“He thinks you’re completely mad; is that of 
interest?” 
Arlian grimaced. “It seems to be the consensus.” 
He clapped Black on the shoulder. “Come on; let’s 
go home.” 
The two men set out toward the Old Palace, 
making their way through the badly lit cobblestone 
streets; the moonlight was sufficient to see them 
through those areas where no torches, lanterns, or 
illuminated windows served. 
“If you’d brought a lantern…”Arlian began as he 
stubbed his toe on an uneven cobble. 
“If I’d brought a lantern I’d have been 
demonstrating a truly remarkable prescience,” 
Black retorted. “We came here at midmorning, 
remember? I hadn’t expected to stay all day. Had

you not emerged soon I might well have given up 
and gone home.” 
“As I thought you would have,” Arlian replied 
penitently. “Thank you for waiting, and forgive my 
unreasonableness.” 
Black waved that away. 
They walked on for a moment longer, and Arlian 
glanced sideways at his companion. 
Why had Black stayed? What had Arlian done to 
inspire such loyalty? He wasn’t paying Black for this 
sort of attention. 
But Black was his friend—whether because of the 
dragon’s heart Arlian possessed, or because of some 
more natural human magic. That was a gift Arlian 
appreciated, but sometimes, he thought, not 
enough. 
He thought over what he had heard in the 
Dragon Society’s hall. The questioning and 
instruction had dragged on and on; new members, 
beyond the original fourteen, had wandered in now 
and then, and had joined in, sometimes repeating 
things that had already been said—Arlian had not 
kept count, but thought he had met and spoken to 
perhaps a score in all. He was, he had been told, the 
forty-third living member whose current 
whereabouts were known. 
The eight skulls on that one shelf were some of 
the deceased members, all eight of whom had died 
violently at various points over the past seven 
centuries, in duels, accidents, assassinations, or 
other mishaps; a few others had died in such 
fashion that their bones were not recovered. The 
whereabouts of some members were not known, nor 
whether they were living or dead. 
There was no requirement that every member 
speak to him; only that those present at the time 
each question him, and each offer some instruction 
in exchange. They had done that.

Arlian had told them every detail he could 
remember of the destruction of Obsidian on the 
Smoking Mountain; he had admitted to being an 
escaped slave, and had described something of his 
stay in Deep Delving. That had not caught anyone’s 
fancy very strongly, though; the passage through 
the Dreaming Mountains, and his visit to Arithei, 
had gotten much more attention. He had also 
admitted his residence in Westguard. 
And in exchange he had heard a great deal of the 
Dragon Society’s history, how it had been part of 
the resistance against the dragons in the final days 
of their rule, how its members had been among 
Manfort’s rulers, how the traditions of secret 
societies, false names, and noble privilege had been 
established or preserved by the Dragon Society for 
the benefit of its members, the better to hide their 
strangeness from ordinary mortals. 
He knew now that the governance of Manfort was 
manipulated by the Society as a whole, most 
directly by Lord Enziet and the other advisers such 
as Rime and Drisheen but also by other means, for 
their own ends. The Duke of Manfort was not a 
member, might not even be aware the group 
existed, but most of his advisers belonged to the 
Society and were as interested in its welfare as that 
of the city as a whole. 
Chief among those advisers was Lord Enziet, of 
course—the man Arlian had known for years as 
Lord Dragon. Arlian had learned a little about 
Enziet, but not much; he had made no attempt to 
press, since the others were clearly reluctant to 
gossip about one of their senior members. 
Lady Rime had been present, but had said 
nothing of her own work with the Duke, and Arlian 
had no special interest in her. Lord Drisheen, 
another adviser who was also on the list of six lords 
Arlian meant to destroy, had not appeared, and 
Arlian had learned no more about him than about 
Enziet.

Arlian had heard a great deal about what the 
blood-and-venom elixir actually did, though. He 
knew now that he would probably never sire 
children—no member of the Dragon Society had 
ever produced offspring after joining, although a 
few had descendants from before their draconic 
encounters, and it was assumed that this lack was 
due to induced sterility, since there had been no 
shortage of opportunities for procreation. 
He knew that he need never fear disease or 
infection— that he had had even a mild case of fever 
in the mines startled the others, and he was assured 
that that could only have happened in his very 
earliest years after drinking the elixir. He had been 
assured that he could expect every wound that did 
not actually kill him to heal quickly and 
cleanly—only the injuries inflicted by dragons left 
scars. 
And he knew that he could expect to live for 
centuries— but probably not forever. The very 
oldest of those who had drunk the elixir were gone, 
and presumed dead—although each had left 
Manfort willingly, under his or her own power, they 
had never returned. Wither, Nail, and Enziet were 
the three oldest survivors, each approaching a 
thousand years of age. 
Wither had turned up briefly at one point, and 
had questioned Arlian viciously about whether he 
really knew where venom might be obtained. 
Enziet had not come, which was probably just as 
well— but it was also disappointing. It would have 
been satisfying for Arlian finally to see him face to 
face again, after all these years, and to see his 
reaction upon learning who Obsidian was, and to 
knowing for certain that he was bound by the same 
oath Arlian had sworn. 
“By whatever gods may hear, be they living or 
dead,” he had recited when the questioning was 
done, “I swear that I shall abide by the covenant of 
this society, to share whatever knowledge I may

have of our common foes, the dragons. I swear to 
make no attempt to do mortal harm to any other 
member while we are within the walls of this city, 
nor to aid or abet another in any effort to do such 
harm to any member.” 
That oath might prove inconvenient—but at the 
same time, it had given Arlian an opportunity to 
speak freely with Nail, and that had been 
worthwhile. 
Nail claimed that he had taken a share in the 
House of Carnal Society at Enziet’s urging, not on 
his own impulse; further, he was willing to set Lily 
and Musk free in Arlian’s care. “I tired of them long 
since,” he had said. “They’ve been working in my 
kitchens.” 
He had taken an interest in Arlian’s own 
humanitarian impulses and views on justice, but he 
hardly subscribed to them. “You’ll outgrow that, I 
fear,” he had said. 
Nail had seemed quite certain that Arlian would 
outgrow a great many things, that in time he would 
become more like Nail himself, more like most of 
the others—cool, cynical, unconcerned with the lives 
of people he would outlive anyway. 
Arlian hoped he was wrong, and noted Toribor’s 
anger and Wither’s devotion to his mistress Marasa 
as signs that neither great age nor dragon venom 
need quench all passions. 
But a general detachment from the rest of 
humanity seemed to have affected all the members, 
and Arlian wondered whether in time he too would 
grow cold. 
He studied Black as they walked. 
Would he eventually come to think of Black as his 
inferior, rather than his equal? As a thing to be 
used, rather than an adviser and companion? 
He could not easily imagine it—but then he 
remembered Lord Dragon’s face and voice telling

him that he was nothing but plunder to be sold, 
remembered Lord Dragon’s sword cutting Madam 
Ril’s throat. A natural man could not be so cold. 
He hoped that he would never become a creature 
like that. He thought he would almost prefer to die 
in one of the duels he intended to fight outside the 
city walls. 
But no one in the Dragon Society had seemed the 
least bit surprised or dismayed by his explanation 
of why he had sworn vengeance against Lord 
Dragon; they had all accepted Enziet’s actions as 
normal, if unpleasant. 
“He didn’t know you’d drunk the venom,” Nail 
had said. 
“And if he had, would it have made any 
difference?” Rime had asked, and the consensus 
was no, not for Enziet; he’d have done the same in 
any case. 
So Enziet was probably the worst, but all of them 
had something of the same cold detachment and 
ruthlessness. 
And presumably, in time, so would Arlian—if he 
didn’t already. He remembered how he had insisted 
on fighting Kuruvan. 
But he also remembered how he had felt when 
the duel was almost upon him, how he’d felt sick 
and scared and doubting; that had not been 
anything he would expect from a member of the 
Society. 
Maybe he was different. Maybe he would always 
be different. And maybe, if he did start to turn cold, 
he would notice the change and do something about 
it. 
But Black would probably be long dead by then. 
Black would be dead, and he would be living on, 
untouched by age. Maybe that was what turned the 
Society’s members cold—not the venom, but 
watching their friends and family age and fade and

die. 
Then a thought struck him, and he smiled to 
himself. 
He was being absurd. He wasn’t going to live long 
enough to turn cold. He had sworn an oath, after 
all; once he had disposed of Lord Enziet and the 
others he would hunt down the dragons themselves, 
and try to kill them. 
He wouldn’t need to commit suicide to keep from 
turning heartless; the dragons would undoubtedly 
kill him if Lord Enziet didn’t. 
He needed to find some way to get Enziet and the 
others outside the city, and away from their friends 
and guards, where he could meet them on even 
terms. 
With that, his thoughts began to slip back into 
older, more familiar paths, and concerns about his 
own nature faded away. 
He still had his vengeance to carry out. He had 
not yet met Lord Enziet, Lord Drisheen, or Lord 
Horim at the Dragon Society hall; Lord Nail was an 
old man who didn’t seem to be inclined to cause 
trouble, and Lord Toribor was a hothead who could 
probably be lured out easily. 
But there was no need to hurry, was there? He 
would have centuries in which to realize his plans. 
Centuries. That was a hard concept to accept. 
He was back to those new ideas, the new 
information about the Dragon Society and his own 
strange circumstances. 
There were still things he didn’t know, though. 
No one had explained how Lord Enziet had known 
that a village on the Smoking Mountain was going 
to be destroyed, or why a man as rich and powerful 
as Enziet would bother looting a ruined village or 
investing in a brothel. He had told them all what 
had happened to Obsidian, but no one had said 
anything about that.

At some point he would have to ask someone 
about those points. They might be important. He 
would go back to the Society’s hall tomorrow or the 
day after and see if anyone there could tell him. 
They were at the gate of the Old Palace now, and 
there were more immediate matters to attend to. 
“Have you eaten anything?” he asked Black. 
“No. Have you?” 
“Not really. So we’ll go to the kitchens—it’s too 
late for a proper meal.” 
Black nodded, and the mention of the kitchens 
reminded Arlian of something. 
“By the way,” he said, “we’ll want to have some 
rooms prepared—Lord Nail… that is, Lord Stiam 
will be turning two more women, Musk and Lily, 
over to our care.” 
Black glanced at him, startled. “That’s good,” he 
said. “How did you manage that?” 
Arlian thought for a minute, then said, “I’m not 
entirely sure.” 
Then the doorkeeper opened the great front door, 
and they stepped into the familiar foyer of the Old 
Palace. 
The following day found Arlian and Nail chatting 
again, as they had after Arlian’s initiation, but this 
time in the Old Palace rather than the Society Hall. 
“Why did the six of you establish the House of 
Carnal Society in the first place?” Arlian asked, as 
he poured wine. Musk and Lily were getting 
comfortably settled in their new home, none the 
worse for their two-year stay in Nail’s mansion; 
Nail had overseen their delivery personally, and at 
Arlian’s invitation had stayed for a drink. The two 
men were comfortably settled on the blue silk 
couches in the small salon, sharing a bottle of good 
red wine from Kan Parakor, in the western hills. 
“Surely you could have found better investments.”

Lord Nail pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t 
know that we could have,” he said. “Oh, financially, 
perhaps— though in fact it was quite 
profitable—but there were other uses.” 
Arlian’s own lips tightened. “You took your own 
pleasures there, I suppose?” 
Nail snorted. “I? No, I did not. Kuruvan did, 
certainly, and I believe Drisheen as well, and 
perhaps Toribor or Horim on occasion, but not I, 
nor Enziet.” 
“Then what uses do you refer to?” 
“Political uses, my boy,” Nail explained. “There 
are those in Manfort we find it expedient to control, 
one way or another, and inviting them to 
Westguard, as one hot-blooded nobleman to 
another, provided a means to accomplish that.” 
“Ah…” Arlian hesitated, but then asked his 
question bluntly—despite calling Arlian a young fool 
for his honesty, Nail did not seem to believe in 
wasting time with euphemism or indirection 
himself. “Bribery or blackmail?” 
“Both,” Nail said. “Sometimes at the same time, 
men being the odd creatures they are. Intimidation, 
as well. And other things—some men, after such an 
experience, find themselves saying things they 
would not ordinarily reveal.” 
Arlian could hardly doubt that, given what Rose 
had told him about Lord Kuruvan—whose death 
had been reported that morning; his wounds had 
indeed been mortal. 
And Arlian had killed him—an idea that was 
uncomfortable, frightening and satisfying at the 
same time. He wasn’t the first man Arlian had 
killed; that had been that bandit on the southern 
slopes of the Desolation. Kuruvan, however, was the 
first Arlian had deliberately hunted down, fought, 
and slain. 
He had surely deserved it, despite what Hasty

said; the image of Rose lying dead was always 
lurking in the back of Arlian’s thoughts, troubling 
his dreams. Still, it was odd to know that he was a 
killer himself, even a justified one. 
It was also odd to be sitting here calmly drinking 
wine with another of the men responsible for Rose’s 
death, both of them knowing that Arlian had not 
forgiven the crime and still meant to someday 
avenge it. 
“We put the House in Westguard for several 
reasons,” Nail said. “One was so that our guests 
would not be seen by their neighbors or family; 
another was so that there would be time, on the 
ride back to Manfort, for loosened lips to spill 
secrets.” He sighed. “And of course, that’s why it 
had to be destroyed,” he said. “We had too many 
people who could not tolerate the thought that they 
might be spied on there, or might have been spied 
on there. When we found out you’d been hiding 
there… well, it was safest to destroy it.” 
“Was it necessary to kill four of the women, 
though?” 
“No, I suppose not,” Nail said. “One gets out of 
the habit of thinking of slaves as human, 
though—or at least, I have. And their lives are so 
short and pointless anyway that… well, it doesn’t 
seem to matter if they die.” 
“It matters to them,” Arlian said. “Because they 
have so little, you feel free to take what they have? 
There’s no justice in that.” 
“No, there isn’t, is there?” Nail gazed into 
Arlian’s eyes. “You do have the dragon’s heart, but 
you haven’t yet lost your own. I’m not sure I can say 
the same anymore.” 
Arlian shifted uncomfortably. 
“You still want to kill me, to punish me for what I 
did to those girls, don’t you?” Nail asked quietly. 
“You saw them, being carried in here,” Arlian

said angrily. “None of them will ever walk again. 
And I don’t suppose you saw the others lying dead 
in the smoke, but I did—lying there with their 
throats cut as the flames spread…” He shuddered. 
“You did that. It’s only right that you pay for it.” 
“I suppose it is,” Nail mused, his face turning 
aside for a moment. He sipped his wine 
thoughtfully. “I suppose it is, at that.” He looked at 
Arlian again. “You’ll understand, though, that I’m 
in no hurry to do so. I’ve lived well over nine 
hundred years now, and while I do grow weary, I 
am not eager to end it. I’ve seen little justice in all 
those years; the good perish and the evil 
thrive—sometimes, at any rate. Other times the evil 
die and the good live, and throughout it all most 
people are neither good nor evil, but merely 
human.” He put down his glass. “I’ll tell you what, 
Lord Obsidian—I will meet you outside the gate, on 
even terms, my sword against yours, for a fair fight 
to the death, once you have dealt with my four 
surviving partners. I sincerely feel that my fault in 
this is less than theirs, for I was brought in out of 
friendship for Enziet, Drisheen, and Horim, not 
because I had any great interest in the benefits that 
might accrue. I have all the wealth I need, and little 
interest in power, but I do try to oblige my friends. 
You’ve seen I didn’t harm the two women I took; I 
doubt my partners can all say the same. And though 
I can’t prove it, I voted against the destruction of 
the brothel and the murder of those four. So I will 
meet you, but only when you have first met the 
others.” 
“And if I die fighting one of them, then you’ll go 
unpunished,” Arlian said. 
Nail smiled and shrugged. “You understand me 
too well,” he said. He picked up his glass again. 
“Life is not fair, my young friend, and justice is not 
always done.” Then he raised the glass in salute and 
finished the wine in a gulp. 
He stirred, evidently about to rise; he had clearly

meant that as his parting shot. Arlian, however, had 
more to say. 
“And will you help me coax the others out of the 
city?” he asked. 
Nail hesitated. Then he shook his head. 
“No,” he said. “I will not. Whatever love I may 
have for justice, I have more for my friends and 
myself. I do not deny we did wrong, but I find 
myself able to forgive and pardon our crimes. That 
you do not is certainly understandable, but I trust 
this is one failing on my part you will find equally 
understandable.” 
“Of course,” Arlian said. He stood as Nail stood, 
and watched as the old man departed. Then he 
turned to find Black standing in the other doorway, 
observing him. 
“You’re getting to like the old bastard, aren’t 
you?” Black asked. 
“After a fashion,” Arlian said. 
“But you still plan to kill him?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted. “I think so.” 
“Those two women, Musk and Lily, have nothing 
against him,” Black said. “After the first month they 
barely saw him.” 
Arlian shrugged. “That’s not the point,” he said. 
“Oh? You’re not in this for the sake of rescuing 
pretty women from horrible fates?” 
“Not really,” Arlian said. “I certainly don’t want 
any innocents to suffer horrible fates, but that’s not 
what I’m after. I’m trying to see that evil does not 
go unpunished, so that the world might be that 
much better to live in.” 
“And a man like Lord Nail does such evil that 
you’re sure the world would be a better place 
without him?” 
Arlian hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not a god, able to see 
past and future and look into people’s hearts. I only 
know that Lord Nail and the others did do wrong. 
They committed a hideous crime, and that crime 
calls out for vengeance, and I am the only one who 
might avenge it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the gods 
who still live, if there truly are any and they see us 
at all, will intervene, and make sure that justice 
prevails; perhaps they’ll show me a vision, or see 
that I learn something that will make me forgive my 
enemies. Perhaps the workings of Fate will ensure 
that I never touch a hair on Nail’s head. Left to my 
own devices, though, I intend to continue as I have. 
It’s not as if I’m murdering any of them in their 
beds, as they murdered Rose and Silk; we fought an 
honest duel, and Kuruvan might have killed me as 
readily as I killed him.” 
“You have the dragon’s heart, as Kuruvan did 
not.” 
“And who else among my foes is so bereft?” 
“A good point,” Black acknowledged. “So you’ll 
trust to Fate, then, to see that you aren’t butchered 
like a hog when you do coax Horim or Toribor 
outside the walls? These men have far more 
experience than you, after all.” 
“As you say,” Arlian said. “I’ll trust in Fate, the 
gods, your training, and my own skills.” 
“I don’t particularly like that idea,” Black said. 
“I’ve never found the gods to be much use.” 
Arlian shrugged. 
He was unsure whether there were gods guiding 
his destiny, or whether he was part of some fate 
working itself out free of divine meddling, or 
whether the only agents working upon him were 
natural and mortal, but he could not help but see, 
in his escape from the destruction of his village, his 
escape from the mines of Deep Delving, the vast 
fortune that had fallen into his possession, and his 
admission to the society of near-immortals, signs

that his life had a purpose beyond mere survival. It 
was plain to him that he was meant to pursue 
justice and revenge, that he had been spared and 
given power so that he might right the wrongs done 
to those around him. If he died in that pursuit, then 
at the very least he had lived longer than the rest of 
his townspeople, had tasted freedom before he died, 
had set an example in Lord Obsidian’s refusal to 
traffic in slaves, and had achieved at least a partial 
vengeance for Rose and Silk and the others. 
He would much prefer to live, of course, and to 
enjoy what Fate had given him, but if it meant 
simply accepting the evils done around him—no, he 
could not do that. 
“I don’t suppose you would be willing to ambush 
or assassinate the rest of them,” Black said. 
Arlian shook his head. “I won’t stoop to that,” he 
said. 
“The odds are that you’ll die before you’ve dealt 
with all of them,” Black pointed out. 
Arlian shrugged again. 
“I don’t want to inherit anything from you,” Black 
said. 
Arlian looked at him thoughtfully. Just yesterday 
he had been contemplating what had seemed the 
near certainty that he would outlive Black by 
centuries, yet here he was, facing the prospect of 
throwing away all those years. 
“I do intend to fight them all, and kill them all,” 
he said slowly, “but there’s no great hurry.” He 
remembered the duel with Kuruvan, how he had 
trembled at the outset, how the swordplay had 
degenerated into clumsy hacking and stabbing. 
“Would it comfort you if I asked you to continue my 
training with the blade, and put off any attempt to 
lure my opponents out of the city in the next few 
days?” 
“It certainly wouldn’t distress me,” Black said.

“Well, then,” Arlian said, “let it be so.” 
41 
Challenges Made 
Arlian was seated comfortably in a corner of the 
Dragon Society’s main hall, in a velvet-upholstered 
chair with each arm carved into a dragon’s head, 
his feet under a round oaken table. Diagonally 
across from him sat Lady Rime, and the two of 
them chatted amiably. 
“Are any of the members married?” Arlian asked. 
“I haven’t heard anyone but Lord Wither mention 
spouses.” 
“Lord Spider and Lady Shard are married,” Rime 
replied, leaning back in her chair, “though I don’t 
know how much longer it will last. They’ve been 
together more than a hundred years, and few 
marriages survive beyond that.” 
Arlian had met Lady Shard, but had heard no 
previous mention of Lord Spider. He had met most 
of the members now—his own initiation had taken 
place some four days ago, and he had come here 
every evening, when Black declared the fading light 
inadequate for further swordplay. 
He still had not encountered Lord Horim, Lord 
Drisheen, or Lord Enziet, however, save for one 
brief meeting with Lord Drisheen, a chance 
encounter on the Street of the Black Spire just 
outside the Society’s door as Drisheen left and 
Arlian arrived. Arlian had recognized Drisheen’s 
perfume first, and then his face, but by then 
Drisheen was around the corner, and Arlian had 
thought better of pursuit.

“Lord Spider’s true name isn’t Horim, is it? Or 
Enziet, or Drisheen?” Arlian asked. He did not like 
the idea of killing a married man. 
Rime shook her head. “No, no. Horim calls 
himself Lord Iron, and Enziet and Drisheen we 
simply call Enziet and Drisheen. Enziet has used a 
dozen other names over the years and we can’t be 
bothered to remember them, while Drisheen has 
never used any name but his own. Our Lord 
Spider’s true name is Dvios, and Lady Shard’s is 
Alahi.” 
“Is Lord Iron married, then?” 
“No. Nor is Enziet. Nor Drisheen, nor Nail, nor 
Belly. You needn’t worry about leaving any grieving 
widows.” 
“That’s just as well,” Arlian said. Then he noticed 
the curious half smile on Rime’s face, and the way 
she was watching him as she toyed with the bone 
she always carried. “Do I amuse you?” he asked. 
“In fact, you do, dear Obsidian,” Rime said. “You 
can’t seem to make up your mind whether you’re a 
warmhearted fool or a cold-blooded killer.” 
“I would prefer to be neither a fool nor 
cold-blooded,” Arlian said. 
“A warmhearted killer is something of an oddity, 
though, wouldn’t you say?” 
“And are we not all oddities here?” Arlian asked, 
taking in the entirety of the hall with a sweep of his 
hand. “For example, you say that none of the men 
I’m sworn to kill are married—surely, that’s rather 
odd, that none of a group of five men would have a 
wife?” 
“For ordinary men it might be odd,” Rime 
agreed, “but you’re speaking of five dragonhearts, 
and furthermore, five who once owned a brothel. 
Would a man with a wife at home invest in such an 
enterprise?” 
“Why not?” Arlian asked. “Do you think it would

offend a wife’s sensibilities?” 
“It very well might.” 
“Did it offend yours?” 
“In fact, it did.” 
“Yet you did nothing to stop it.” 
“What could I do? They broke no laws, defied no 
ducal edict.” 
“Yet you thought it wrong?” 
Rime sighed. “No. I thought it, at worst, 
inappropriate. It was none of my business, and 
unlike yourself, I do not generally choose to meddle 
dangerously in matters that do not concern me.” 
Arlian frowned and leaned back, unsatisfied; for 
a moment the two sat silently, Arlian motionless, 
Rime holding her bone in one hand and running the 
fingers of the other along its polished length. 
“You call them dragonhearts?” Arlian asked after 
a moment. 
“It’s a useful term,” Rime said. “And I call us all 
dragonhearts, my lord—you and myself as well as 
the rest.” 
Arlian nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And are 
Spider and Shard the only married dragonhearts, 
then?” 
“Oh, I believe three or four have mortal 
partners,” Rime said. “I couldn’t say which; I don’t 
keep track.” 
“Because they die,” Arlian said. He didn’t need to 
make it a question. 
“Yes, because they die. I have lived four hundred 
years, Obsidian; I can’t be bothered to remember 
details that may not last a score of years.” 
“And have you never married?” 
Rime’s fingers stopped their stroking, and the 
smooth white bone dropped to her lap.

“I was married,” she said. “I had a husband and 
four children when the miners from our village 
disturbed a dragon’s rest. I fell into our well, 
bleeding and aflame, as I fled from its anger, and 
the water put out the fire and hid me. My husband 
was not as clumsy as I.” 
“I’m sorry,” Arlian said, ashamed that his 
question had caused her pain. 
“The well was poisoned after that,” she said. 
“Venom, or the dragon’s foul breath, had tainted 
the water. I tasted it, and knew it was unfit to 
drink, so when I grew thirsty I sucked the blood 
from a gash on my hand.” She held out her left 
hand, and Arlian saw a faint white scar across the 
palm. “I’d cut myself on the stone as I fell in, you 
see, and venom must have gotten into it somehow, 
though I didn’t know that for certain until years 
after.” 
“And your leg—was that from the bad water?” 
“That?” She glanced down at the wooden peg 
below her left knee, then lifted the bone in her hand 
and studied it for a second. Arlian, who had 
heretofore considered the bone merely a minor 
eccentricity, like Black’s insistence on wearing 
black, suddenly realized that what she held was a 
human shinbone. 
And he had little doubt as to whose. 
“No, no,” she said, lowering the bone. “That 
happened years later, when I was snowbound in the 
Sawtooth Mountains. I was more or less intact 
when I climbed from the well and found what was 
left of my family.” 
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Arlian said. 
Rime shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” 
“And you’ve never remarried?” 
“Why bother?” she asked bitterly. “I can’t have 
any more children; what do I need with a husband? 
I’ve built a fortune simply by living long enough to

save and invest, so I don’t need a man’s money. 
Companionship?” She snorted. “Look around; do 
you see any of these men who would make a decent 
husband, knowing that we’ll both live for centuries? 
Oh, an affair or two, certainly, but a marriage? And 
as for anyone other than our fellow dragon-hearts, I 
don’t have any interest in growing to love a man, 
and then watching him age and die while I can do 
nothing to prevent it.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said. 
“And that’s why so few of us are married, 
Obsidian, because the dragons have made us 
cold-hearted, self-obsessed, and sterile.” 
“But are you all? You still speak with passion,” he 
protested. “Wither seems devoted to his Marasa, 
and Nail seems eager to befriend others.” 
“They’re struggling against the inevitable,” Rime 
said. “As I am. The longer we live, the colder we 
become—like Enziet, who is, I believe, oldest of us 
all. Wither, and Nail are old, too, but it may be that 
they’ve lasted as long as they have because of their 
passions—and Nail, at least, seems to me to be 
acting more from wistful memory than genuine 
warmth.” 
“But why? Is it just from weariness, from seeing 
so much suffering and death over the years?” 
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it’s long life 
alone that’s responsible,” she said. “Remember, 
though, how we became as we are. We have all 
tasted blood and drunk venom, and whether it 
pleases us to admit it or not—and most often, it 
does not—each of us has a bit of dragon in her 
heart. The human part of us cannot live forever; 
while our bodies survive, our hearts, with time, 
grow more like dragons, cold and hard and ruthless, 
taking as much pleasure from others’ pain as from 
any more natural delights.” 
Arlian frowned. “Do you think, then, that the 
venom has such an effect?”

Rime laughed at that. “My dear foolish boy, look 
at us! We cannot bear children—or sire them, in 
your case. We age at only the tiniest fraction of the 
normal rate. Our very blood is poisonous—surely 
Wither told you that? Now, does that sound more 
like men and women, or like dragons?” 
“Like…” Arlian began, but before he could speak 
a second word he was interrupted by a bellow. 
“You!” a deep voice shouted, a horribly familiar 
voice. “Arlian! Get up!” 
Startled, Arlian turned to see three men standing 
by the door, all still wearing hats and cloaks—and 
all with their cloaks flung back and their hands on 
the hilts of their swords. On the left was a short, 
stocky man he didn’t recognize, clad in brown, with 
a curious brass sheath on one arm; on the right was 
Lord Toribor, clad in green and silver—even his eye 
patch was green; and in the center was Lord 
Dragon, resplendent in black and gold. His 
feather-trimmed hat appeared to be the same one 
Arlian had seen him wear atop the Smoking 
Mountain, so long ago, and his thin, scarred face 
was likewise unchanged. 
Arlian pushed away from the table and rose. He 
felt himself starting to tremble at finding himself 
thus facing his elusive adversary, and fought it 
down. He looked at that grim face and remembered 
the smoking ruins of Obsidian, the bright blood 
spilling from Madam Ril’s throat, Rose’s dead eyes 
as she lay across her bed amid the flames. 
“Lord Enziet,” he said, his voice steady. “We meet 
again.” 
“Indeed,” Enziet replied. “And I am not pleased 
about it. Why are you here?” 
“I am a member in good standing of this society,” 
Arlian replied. 
“Why are you in Manfort?” Enziet demanded. 
“Why would I not be? My business is here; my

friends are here; and my sworn enemies are here.” 
“I advised you to leave,” Lord Dragon said. “I am 
not accustomed to having my advice ignored.” 
“I am not the Duke, nor any other of the fools you 
bully,” Arlian retorted. “I do as I see fit.” 
“You are an annoyance,” Enziet replied, “and I do 
not intend to tolerate your presence here.” 
“You are sworn to do me no mortal harm, I 
believe,” Arlian said. “How, then, do you intend to 
remove me?” 
“You spoke of your friends and your business,” 
Enziet said. “I am not sworn to leave them alive. I 
believe I have lives in my own possession you would 
prefer not to see snuffed out.” 
Arlian had managed to keep himself under 
control up to this point, but now his veneer of 
control cracked. “You would make these base 
threats against innocents?” 
“There are no innocents,” Enziet said. “We are all 
creatures of filth and disgrace, foul and stinking, 
festering in our cramped little lives and pretending 
we have some value. I am not deceived, though you 
may be; we are no more than beasts, and those who 
have not drunk the blood and venom are even less. 
Removing a few short-lived nuisances a decade or 
two before their inevitable demise would occur in 
any case does not trouble my conscience in the 
least, and if it will rid me of you, then yes, I will do 
it.”
Sincerely shocked, Arlian asked, “Have you no 
honor?” 
“I abide by my vows,” Enziet replied. “I recognize 
no other obligations.” 
“And if I heed these threats, what are you asking 
of me?” 
“That you leave this city forthwith. You may take 
your time in removing your household, but I want 
you outside the walls by sunset.”

“And if I refuse?” 
“One of your precious ‘innocents’ will die for each 
night you linger.” 
“You would not balk at such murders? You fear 
no retribution?” 
“You forget who I am, Arlian.” 
“No,” Arlian replied, “I will never forget that. You 
are a monster in human form, an aberration that 
must be removed from the face of the earth.” 
“I am chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort, and 
the eldest of the Dragon Society. I do as I please, 
and none dares defy me.” 
“I dare,” Arlian retorted. “And if you harm those 
I care for, I will return the favor—starting with the 
Duke himself.” 
He heard audible gasps at that, and even Lord 
Dragon seemed taken aback. 
He had answered without really thinking, simply 
making the first counter-threat he that occurred to 
him. Having said it he could hardly back down, but 
he had to struggle to hide his own doubts. The Duke 
was a harmless old fool; killing him would be 
wrong. His greatest evil probably lay simply in 
listening to Enziet, and that was mere weakness, 
hardly inexcusable in a mortal confronted with the 
dragon’s heart. 
And the Duke would certainly have guards on all 
sides—but there were ways. 
If his threat was to do any good at all, Enziet had 
to believe it. 
“I have magic at my command,” Arlian 
continued. “Not your fine northern sorcery, but wild 
southern magic from Arithei and the Dreaming 
Mountains. I have other weapons as well. Be 
assured, I can destroy the Duke if I choose. And 
while you might well ingratiate yourself with his 
heir, do you really want the inconvenience of doing 
so? And how would you explain that you cannot

order my execution for the crime?” 
“You would kill both the Duke and myself in your 
pursuit of this chimerical justice of yours?” Enziet 
asked. 
“I would,” Arlian replied instantly. 
“You would throw all the Lands of Man into 
confusion simply to satisfy your own lust for 
vengeance?” 
“I would,” Arlian repeated. 
Lord Dragon smiled bitterly. “So you care no 
more for order and authority than I do for 
innocence and honor.” 
“Precisely.” 
“There’s a legend that if the Duke’s line dies out, 
the dragons will return,” Enziet remarked. 
“There are many legends,” Arlian said. “I hope 
that one is untrue, but true or not, it doesn’t 
matter.” 
“You would risk overthrowing humanity’s 
freedom, then?” 
“I have no intention of killing the Duke unless 
you carry out your own vile threats,” Arlian 
retorted. “If this legend is genuine, then whatever 
comes of it will be as much your responsibility as 
my own.” 
“Charming,” Enziet said through clenched teeth. 
“So you propose to continue our stalemate, then?” 
“By no means,” Arlian said. “I would be pleased 
to meet you outside the walls in a duel, fought fairly 
and to the death. I would need your word that there 
will be no treachery, that none of your hirelings will 
strike me down from hiding…” 
“I’ll fight you,” the man in brown interrupted. 
“An even match, as you say. Better that than 
listening to you rave!” 
“Iron, remember,” Toribor said. “He killed 
Kuruvan.”

“Kuruvan was a mortal,” the man in brown 
answered, his eyes locked on Arlian. “He’s a 
dragonheart—but just a boy, for all that.” 
Toribor glanced at Enziet, who stroked his chin 
thoughtfully. 
“That might well solve the entire problem,” 
Enziet said. “If you want to, Iron, I am not inclined 
to object.” 
“Lord Iron, are you?” Arlian asked. “Also known 
as Horim?” 
“I am,” Horim replied. “Do you dare face me, 
child?” 
Arlian smiled. 
“I would be delighted,” he said. 
42 
Swords Beyond the Gate 
The city gates stood open, and Arlian marched 
steadily down the cobbles toward them. Horim 
walked in parallel several yards to Arlian’s left. The 
normal street traffic parted before them, and their 
assorted companions trailed behind. 
Black broke from the little crowd, trotted up 
behind Arlian, and whispered, “You know this is a 
trap, don’t you?” 
Arlian glanced over his shoulder at Lord Enziet 
and the rest of the party, coming along to observe. 
“No, not them,” Black said. “It’s Lord Iron. How 
do you think he got that name? He’s killed at least a 
score of men, and probably a few women as well. 
He’s one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Lands of

Man. I suspect Lord Enziet set this whole thing up 
to get rid of you.” 
Arlian glanced at Enziet again, then at Horim. He 
saw no sign of fear or even nervousness on either 
face. 
“You’re probably right,” he said. His mouth 
tightened into a frown, and his stomach knotted at 
the realization that he was striding boldly to 
near-certain death. “Then it seems I’m to die with 
my revenge incomplete,” he said, struggling to keep 
his voice steady. “I trust you to tend to my business 
and household, and see the women and the 
Aritheians to safety.” 
“You could still turn back,” Black suggested. 
Arlian smiled sadly. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t.” 
“Idiot,” Black said. 
“Maybe I am,” Arlian said. “I’m trusting in Fate, I 
suppose. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned back 
now.” 
“Ah!” Black threw up his hands in disgust. “Fine. 
Have it your way.” He turned aside, and Arlian 
marched alone through the city gates. 
He was scarcely past the outer edge of the wall 
when the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard 
warned him; he spun to find that Horim, also now 
just past the gates, had already drawn his blades 
and was charging across the cobbles toward him. 
Women screamed and the travelers and 
tradesmen in the gateyard scattered. 
The sword was in Horim’s left hand, 
swordbreaker in his right—Arlian had less 
experience against left-handed foes. He noted that 
detail even as he dodged sideways and unsheathed 
his own sword, barely in time to parry the attack. 
He recovered quickly; by Lord Iron’s second lunge 
Arlian had his own swordbreaker out as well. 
Oddly, he was not surprised or unsettled by the 
attack; in fact, he was relieved. He was committed

now. Perhaps Black’s warning was responsible for 
his calm acceptance. He felt none of the sick 
uncertainty he had felt in the duel with Kuruvan; 
Horim had challenged him and was seriously trying 
to kill him, whereas Kuruvan had been bullied and 
goaded into fighting. 
Horim’s left-handedness was an inconvenience; 
using the swordbreaker for anything other than 
parrying Horim’s became problematic. Arlian had 
practiced this sort of asymmetric swordplay, but 
not as much as he now wished he had;—he had 
known Lord Dragon was right-handed, and had not 
anticipated finding himself in his present position. 
Horim knew that, of course, and was trying to 
take advantage of it, making circular attacks that 
would have been stupid against a fellow left-hander, 
but which got handily around Arlian’s guard. Arlian 
dodged, but felt the sword blade tug at his velvet 
jacket. 
One of the watchers gasped. Arlian was only 
vaguely aware of the wide ring of people that 
surrounded the two of them; his attention was 
entirely on his foe. 
He remembered one ruse Black had shown 
him—parry and lock blades, but unevenly, so that 
his opponent would have an opportunity to use his 
swordbreaker in the way that gave it its name. 
Except while he was doing that, Arlian would be 
able to plunge his own swordbreaker into Horim’s 
side or belly, more or less as he had struck Kuruvan. 
It was a risky maneuver, but he was at a 
disadvantage here—he had the greater size and 
reach, but Horim was strong and quick, with far 
more experience at cross-handed combat. He made 
the attempt, deliberately parrying too far along his 
blade… 
Horim laughed aloud; he dropped his 
swordbreaker to guard even before Arlian moved to 
strike, and used the deliberately faulty position of

Arlian’s sword to force the blade aside and launch 
an attack of his own. Arlian had to turn and bring 
his swordbreaker up across his chest to deflect 
Horim’s sword. 
That left him in an awkward, half-twisted 
position, his swordbreaker locked with Horim’s 
sword, his own sword turned uselessly off to the 
right, and Horim’s right hand and swordbreaker 
free. Lord Iron tried to take advantage of this, 
plunging the swordbreaker toward Arlian’s side, but 
Arlian rammed his left elbow down and knocked the 
blade away, ducking under Horim’s sword. That left 
his shoulder open to a slash, but that would not kill 
him, where the point of either the sword or 
swordbreaker might. 
And it gave him a chance to bring his own sword 
back into position. 
That put the two men back on even terms, and 
too close together to fight effectively; both stepped 
back, almost simultaneously. 
Arlian saw that Horim was grinning; he was 
obviously enjoying himself. 
Arlian was not. 
Horim feinted, and Arlian parried. Horim 
slashed, and Arlian dodged. 
He needed a plan, Arlian thought. He needed to 
do something more than react to Horim’s attacks. 
His own stunt hadn’t worked at all; Horim seemed 
to have expected it. He was obviously familiar with 
the usual tricks used to counter a left-hander’s 
advantage. 
Arlian tried to think through the situation 
without distracting himself from the fight. He was 
younger, maybe faster, taller, with a longer reach; 
Horim was stronger and more skilled. 
Horim also wore that peculiar brass tube around 
his right arm. That puzzled Arlian; if it were meant 
as armor, shouldn’t it be on his left arm? And why

did a man called “Iron” wear brass? 
Attack, parry, riposte, counter, feint, parry, in a 
lightning exchange. 
Horim was vastly older than Arlian, and it might 
be possible to tire him out, wear him down—but he 
was a dragonheart, so it might not be. 
Feint, lunge, parry. 
What was that thing on his arm? Arlian could 
see that it was made in two pieces, hinged together 
on one side and overlapping in a sort of latch on the 
other. 
The two men circled each other, there on the 
pavement, in an open area roughly fifteen yards 
across encircled by the men and women watching 
the duel. 
That damnable brass gadget fascinated Arlian; it 
gleamed in the sunlight and he almost missed a 
parry. Angrily, he reversed his grip on his 
swordbreaker. 
Horim’s wolfish smile faded at that, and he 
looked puzzled. A swordbreaker held point-down 
was of no use in any normal fight. 
Then he shrugged and went into a high attack. 
Arlian parried it readily enough, but instead of a 
riposte or disengagement he charged in closer, 
locking the swords together so that they crossed at 
face-level. 
Horim’s right hand came up to block an attack 
with the swordbreaker, but Arlian’s short blade was 
pointing down, not at Horim’s throat or chest, so 
the block missed, and Arlian was able to ram the 
point down toward Horim’s arm and into that 
latch. 
He pried, and the brass tube snapped open and 
fell away with a tearing sound. 
Horim’s right hand spasmed, and his 
swordbreaker dropped from twitching fingers; he 
screamed, then retreated, tearing away as quickly

as he could, giving Arlian a chance to slash the tip 
of his sword lightly across Horim’s chest as they 
separated. 
Arlian did not pursue immediately; instead he 
took a good long look at his foe. 
Horim had gone pale; he was obviously in pain, 
unable to control the fingers of his right hand. His 
right forearm was a thin, sickly-white thing, 
nothing like the strong, tanned left; it was 
misshapen, gnarled and twisted. 
And Arlian saw why. Half of it was missing, and 
what was left was largely scar tissue, bearing the 
badly healed marks of gigantic teeth. Like so many 
members of the Dragon Society, Horim still bore 
the signs the dragons had left upon him. He had 
braced his ruined arm with metal— but that had 
probably weakened it further in some ways, as the 
flesh received no air or sunlight and the muscles 
could not move freely, could not exercise properly, 
did not support their own weight. With the brace in 
place he could use it—his grip was probably as 
strong as ever when his wrist wasn’t spasming—but 
without the supporting metal he was crippled. 
No sensible opponent would ever have bothered 
to attack the one place Horim was armored, as 
Arlian had; it had been a mad curiosity, rather than 
any conscious reason, that had prompted Arlian’s 
action. Still, it had worked very much to his 
advantage. 
Arlian kicked Horim’s dropped swordbreaker 
away and advanced. 
Horim still fought, but now he was on the 
defensive, and he was obviously unaccustomed to 
fighting without a swordbreaker. His right arm 
twitched and his empty hand flopped up whenever 
Arlian attacked on that side. 
His sword hand was still strong, though, and his 
skill had not deserted him; he parried attack after 
attack, retreating across the pavement. The

audience retreated as well, pulling away as Horim 
approached. 
Arlian was careful to keep Horim moving away 
from the gates; he was not about to lose this 
opportunity for vengeance to his Society oath. 
The duel dragged on for what seemed like hours, 
and both men began to weary. Swords flashed back 
and forth, darting at throat and chest but always 
turned aside. Arlian pressed forward on his left, 
Horim’s right, more than would have been wise 
ordinarily—but this was no longer an ordinary 
match, and Horim responded by twitching away. 
And then finally Arlian lunged in with his 
swordbreaker, and Horim brought his sword over to 
counter, and Arlian’s sword punched up under 
Horim’s jaw, through the soft flesh beneath his 
beard and up into his brain. 
Horim made an appalling gurgling noise; his eyes 
flew wide and blood spat from his open mouth, 
blood that seemed to shine unnaturally in the 
summer sun. Then he slumped to his knees, his 
head falling back, and as Arlian withdrew his 
reddened blade Horim crumpled lifelessly to the 
ground. Blood ran from his mouth and throat, 
pooling on the paving stones and shimmering as if 
blown by a faint breeze. 
Arlian felt no breeze; he thought that trace of 
movement must be from Horim’s fading pulse. He 
stepped back and waited, arms tingling with 
fatigue, as Lord Toribor dashed forward into the 
circle to attend to the fallen Lord Iron. 
Arlian could not imagine how even a dragonheart 
could have survived that thrust, but he did not 
leave, nor clean and sheathe his blades, until he 
heard what Toribor found. 
For that matter, he could scarcely trust Toribor 
not to carry on the fight himself so long as they 
were both outside the gates; he stood with steel still 
bare in each hand, waiting.

“He’s dead,” Toribor said, kneeling over the body, 
his hand behind Lord Iron’s ear feeling for a 
nonexistent pulse. “He’s cooling already; he must 
have been dead as soon as he hit the ground.” 
Arlian let out his breath in a long, wavering sigh. 
Then he turned and marched toward the city gates, 
his weapons sagging but unsheathed. 
As he did he listened carefully for any hint that 
Toribor was coming after him, and he scanned the 
crowd for Lord Dragon. He would not have been at 
all surprised to find one or both of them attempting 
to finish off the job Horim had failed at. 
No one moved to stop him, and no attack came. 
When he set foot on the threshold of the gates 
Arlian let out another sigh and slowed his pace. He 
sheathed his swordbreaker and groped for a 
handkerchief as he walked on into the city. 
Then Black was there beside him. “Not bad,” he 
said. 
Arlian let his breath out with a shudder and 
mopped his face with one end of his handkerchief. 
He sat himself heavily down upon the edge of a 
stone horse trough, then set to wiping his sword 
clean with the side of the cloth that was not already 
moist with sweat. 
Black stood beside him, watching the crowd 
warily. No one came near them; apparently no one 
wanted to congratulate the victor. Toribor and 
three others were hauling Horim’s corpse across the 
plaza and into the city, and the crowd was 
beginning to disperse; Lord Dragon was nowhere to 
be seen. 
“The women,” Arlian said. “Horim had two of the 
women. Who are his heirs? We’ll want to buy the 
women free.” 
Black didn’t reply; instead he remarked, “We 
have company.” 
Arlian looked up to see Lady Rime hobbling

toward him, cane and peg leg thumping and 
wobbling on the cobbles. He stood and sheathed his 
sword. 
“My lady,” he said. 
“Lord Obsidian,” she said. “My congratulations 
on your victory. An impressive performance—did 
you know about Iron’s arm, or was that luck?” 
“A guess,” Arlian admitted. “Or an experiment.” 
He hesitated, then said, “Lord Horim had 
possession of two of the women from the House of 
Carnal Society—I want them freed. Who are 
Horim’s heirs?” 
“I doubt he has any,” Rime said, with a crooked 
smile. “Have you forgotten everything I told you?”. 
“You don’t marry,” Arlian said. “And 
dragonhearts sire no children.” 
Rime nodded. “The custom, in fact,” she said, “is 
for us to leave our worldly goods to the Dragon 
Society itself. That would make you part owner of 
those slaves already, and I’m sure the rest of us will 
be reasonable in selling them to you, or simply 
freeing them.” 
Arlian, exhausted as he was, managed to smile at 
that. “Good,” he said. Then a thought struck him, 
and the smile vanished. “I can think of two or three 
members who may not be reasonable,” he said. 
Rime glanced up the street at Toribor and his 
companions, carrying the body to Horim’s home. 
“Enziet,” she said. “And Belly, and Nail, and 
Drisheen?” 
“I think Nail will be reasonable,” Arlian said. 
“But the others, yes.” 
“Enziet might surprise you,” Rime said, as she 
settled herself carefully onto the rim of the trough. 
“He’s as coldblooded as any of us, usually, and if he 
decides it’s easier to cooperate with you in some 
minor matter, he’ll do it.” 
Arlian looked doubtful as he sat beside her.

“Why is he so determined to be rid of you, 
Arlian?” Rime asked. “What secrets have you not 
told us?” She glanced up at Black, who suddenly 
took an intense interest in watching the crowd, 
rather than listening to the two nobles. Rime’s tone 
turned chiding. “You’re not supposed to keep 
secrets from the Society,” she said. 
“I’m not keeping secrets,” Arlian protested. “I 
told you, I’ve sworn to kill him for what he did to 
Rose and Sweet and Dove and the others, and what 
he did to me when I was just a boy.” 
“That’s why you want to kill him,” Rime agreed. 
“But why does he want to be rid of you?” 
He blinked at her, puzzled. “I’m sworn to kill 
him,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?” 
“No,” Rime said flatly, shaking her head. “Not for 
Enziet. I’ve known him for two hundred 
years—closer to three—and no, it’s not enough at all. 
You swore not to kill him as long as you were both 
in Manfort; that removes you as an immediate 
threat. Enziet is a patient man—or at least, he 
always has been before. He could easily have waited 
ten years, or twenty, until you set foot outside the 
walls on your own, and then ambushed and slain 
you; that he did not, that he risked Lord Iron’s life 
to dispose of you sooner, means that there’s 
something more involved, something urgent, 
something that meant he needed to be rid of you 
now.” 
Arlian stared at her. “But what could it be?” he 
asked. 
“I don’t know, child,” Rime said wryly. “That’s 
why I asked you.” 
“I don’t know either,” Arlian said, still staring. “I 
told you everything at the initiation, I swear it.” 
Rime rocked back and slapped her thighs, then 
reached for her cane. “Well, then,” she said, “that’s 
something to think about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Arlian agreed, not moving from where he 
sat. “Yes, it is.” 
43 
Conversations and Questions 
Horim’s steward sneered openly at them as Rime 
and Arlian stood on the tessellated marble floor of 
the dead man’s palace foyer. He made no pretense 
of welcome, or even courtesy, and did not invite 
them into another room, nor offer them seats, 
despite Rime’s obvious infirmity. “There are no 
women here,” he said, crossing his arms over his 
chest. 
“None?” Rime asked mildly. “In all the household, 
not a scullery maid nor laundress?” 
“None,” the steward asserted. “My lord did not 
choose to keep women around. Certainly no female 
cripples.” 
“He took this pair from Westguard two years ago, 
in the spring,” Arlian said, resting his left hand on 
the hilt of his sword—at least partly to keep himself 
from drawing it with his right. “I saw it myself. If he 
didn’t bring them here, what happened to them?” 
“Two years ago?” the steward said, startled. He 
raised a hand. “Ah! Now I understand. Those two.” 
“Yes, those two,” Arlian said, annoyed and 
resisting the temptation to grab the man by the 
throat. “Where are they? Did he sell them?” 
“No, he killed them,” the steward said. “Long ago. 
I think the second one might have lasted as long as 
a month.” 
Arlian’s hand tightened on. the hilt of his sword.

“Why?” he demanded. “In the name of the dead 
gods, why would he kill them?” 
“Because he had no use for them,” the steward 
replied. “Why waste money feeding a slave you don’t 
want?” 
“He could have sold them!” Arlian shouted. “Or 
set them free!” 
The steward shrugged. “They knew something my 
lord did not want known, I believe.” 
“So he simply killed them?” Arlian asked in 
disbelief. 
“Yes.” 
Arlian’s right hand balled into a fist, while his left 
gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles went 
white. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to 
turn away—striking the steward would not 
accomplish anything useful. 
“Do you know their names?” Rime asked the 
steward. “Did they have any family, and were their 
families informed?” 
“I have no idea,” the steward replied. 
Without turning back, Arlian said, “Sparkle. 
Amber. Cricket. Daub. Ferret. Brook. Velvet. 
Sandalwood. Are any of those names familiar?” 
The steward frowned. “Daub might be,” he said. 
“I’m not sure, though, and I don’t believe I ever 
heard a name for the other one.” 
Arlian’s jaw tightened again. Poor little Daub, 
dead? Merely because Lord Horim had had no use 
for her? That bastard probably hadn’t even known 
she could paint, or that she was expert with 
cosmetics and had a sly sense of humor. Horim had 
probably seen her as nothing but a crippled whore, 
not human at all. 
And the steward didn’t think he had ever even 
heard the other woman’s name! It could have been 
any of the others. Arlian knew that Sweet and Dove

had gone with Lord Dragon, but which of the others 
still lived, and where, remained a mystery. 
“Can you describe her?” Arlian asked through 
gritted teeth. 
“After two years?” 
“Did you assist in so many murders that these 
two don’t stand out?” Arlian growled. 
“I took no interest in them,” the steward said 
defensively. “I did nothing to them.” 
Arlian made a wordless noise of disgust. “You 
said one lived here, in your home, for almost a 
month!” 
“And I saw her only rarely,” the steward insisted. 
“She was not my concern. Lord Iron kept her locked 
away, out of my sight.” 
“And you didn’t care.” 
“Why should I?” 
“Lord Obsidian,” Rime said, interrupting before 
Arlian could say any more, “perhaps it’s time we 
went elsewhere.” 
Arlian stared at her for a moment, then glanced 
at the steward. 
“Yes,” he said. The steward was a hateful, 
uncaring wretch, in Arlian’s opinion, but the world 
was full of such people. He couldn’t change them all. 
He had to concentrate on the most important, most 
dangerous men—such as Lord Enziet. 
“Yes,” he repeated, “let’s go.” 
Together they were escorted to the door of the 
late Lord Iron’s manor, and a moment later they 
were again on the cobbled streets of Manfort. 
There they hesitated; then Arlian suggested, 
“Come home with me, and we’ll talk.” 
Rime nodded, and together they made their way 
toward the Old Palace. For the most part they 
walked silently, each lost in his or her own thoughts,

but at one point Arlian said, “He killed them.” 
“Apparently,” Rime agreed. “Unless they’re 
hidden away somewhere—but I can’t imagine why 
that would be so, and I don’t want to give you any 
false hopes.” 
“We should have asked what became of the 
bodies,” Arlian suggested. 
Rime shook her head. “If I judged Lord Iron’s 
character correctly, I think perhaps we’d be better 
off not knowing. He was a dragonheart, and no 
sentimentalist.” 
Arlian, remembering what Rose had said so long 
ago about what became of old whores, did not reply. 
Instead he said, “If I had come to Manfort at once, 
instead of going south with the caravan, I might 
have saved them.” 
“Might you?” Rime asked sharply. “How?” 
Arlian reluctantly admitted, “I couldn’t have. I 
had no money then, and no magic, and no sword, 
and I didn’t know how to use a blade if I’d had one.” 
“Then don’t trouble yourself about it,” she said. 
“Think rather about what you can do. You’ve saved 
four women, have you not? That’s better than what 
you’d have accomplished by getting yourself killed 
two years ago.” 
Arlian made no reply, but his teeth ground 
together in frustration. 
At the Old Palace Black welcomed them in from 
the cold, and the three of them settled themselves in 
the small salon with wine and a plate of fruit. 
When Black had been informed of the results of 
their visit to Horim’s estate, Arlian turned to Rime 
and said, “You said that you thought Enziet must 
have some other motive for wanting to be rid of 
me.” 
“Of course he does,” Rime replied. “He’s certainly 
had enough other brave young men wish him dead 
over the years, even if they weren’t dragonhearts,

and I’ve never before seen him involved in a scene 
like that one at the Society’s hall, nor has he ever 
before sent one of his friends to fight a duel on his 
behalf.” 
“Horim fought on his own behalf,” Arlian pointed 
out. “I was sworn to kill him, as well as Enziet and 
the others.” 
“Lord Iron did as Enziet asked, never doubt it,” 
Rime said. “He would never have challenged you if 
Enziet had not advised him to.” 
“You’re certain of that?” 
“I knew both men for two hundred years, Lord 
Obsidian. Yes, I’m sure. In the past Enziet has taken 
his time, waited for the right moment, let his 
opponents make mistakes that he could capitalize 
on; he hasn’t sent them threatening messages or let 
his companions fight them openly. He urgently 
wanted you removed, as he never did his previous 
antagonists. The question is, why? What is there 
about you that makes you a threat to him?” 
Arlian frowned. “I’m not keeping secrets,” he 
said. “I’m no more than I appear—a man seeking to 
right the wrongs I’ve seen done to those I care 
about.” 
Rime smiled. “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “I 
suspect there’s a great deal to you that isn’t 
obvious—perhaps there’s more to you than even you 
know.” 
“Well, the same could be said of any man,” Arlian 
protested. “I see nothing that would make me 
different from anyone else who sought revenge upon 
Lord Enziet— save perhaps that I am, as you say, a 
dragonheart.” 
“Did Enziet even know that?” Black asked. “Had 
he met you, and seen the signs?” 
“He hadn’t seen my face since I was a boy, there 
in the ruins of the Smoking Mountain.” 
“Someone might have brought him word,” Rime

suggested. 
“There’s a question,” Black said, “of just when he 
became determined to remove you. When I spoke to 
him as your messenger, after you fought Kuruvan, 
he was not inclined to oblige you, but he did not 
simply have you murdered, either. He warned you 
away.” 
“That’s true,” Arlian said. “That was why I joined 
the Dragon Society.” 
“Perhaps he had not known you possessed the 
dragon’s heart until you joined,” Black suggested. 
“He could have killed you easily at any time 
before you joined,” Rime agreed. “That he did not 
would indicate that the reason to remove you did 
not yet exist, or at any rate was not urgent, prior to 
your initiation.” 
“Then is it because I joined the Society?” 
Rime shook her head. “He has had enemies 
among us before,” she said. “He still does, though 
no others who have sworn to kill him. You probably 
noticed that he was never there when you visited 
the hall—there’s a reason for that.” 
“But what, then?” 
Rime thoughtfully tapped her shinbone on the 
arm of her chair. “Consider the timing,” she said. 
“He knew you for his enemy when you killed 
Kuruvan, but he merely warned you to leave him 
alone. That’s as he has always acted in the past. But 
then, at some time after your initiation, something 
changed—he came to the hall in the company of his 
friends, Belly and Iron, to confront you, to give you 
a chance to submit your will to his, or to leave the 
city, or to die. What had changed?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian said. “I swore an oath not 
to kill him while in Manfort—would that not make 
it less urgent?” 
“Of course it would,” Rime agreed. “In fact, I 
would have expected that to settle the matter as far

as he was concerned—he would have simply ignored 
you until business drew him out of the city, which 
might not be for years yet, and would have then 
arranged to kill you when you pursued him. There 
would be no need for a duel, no need to risk Lord 
Iron’s life—though I’m sure he thought it only a 
small risk, and indeed, it’s a wonder that it’s you 
who lived, and he who died.” 
“Then something else changed, besides the oath,” 
Black said. “But what?” 
“Something became a threat,” Rime said. “Now, 
what else had changed?” 
“I was forced to bide my time, as you say he 
does,” Arlian said. 
“And you came to the hall fairly often as you did 
it,” Rime pointed out. “You spoke with me, and 
with Nail, and with others there.” 
“Did he fear I would learn some weakness he 
possesses, that you might know of?” 
Rime snorted derisively. “He has no weaknesses I 
know of,” she said, “and if we knew of any, he would 
have found ways to remove that danger long ago. I 
told you he has other enemies among the Society’s 
membership.” 
“Then perhaps he feared that they would learn 
something from him,” Black suggested. “From Lord 
Obsidian, I mean.” 
“That fits,” Rime said thoughtfully. “He would 
have learned of this threat, whatever it might be, 
only when he heard the accounts of your initiation; 
if he did not know until then that you possess… well, 
whatever it is you possess…” Her voice trailed off as 
the bone in her hand tapped rhythmically against 
the polished wood of her chair. 
“What could this threat be, though?” Arlian 
asked. “You were there; you heard all I said. Did I 
speak of anything that could pose a greater threat 
to Lord Enziet’s life than my own sword?”

Rime stopped tapping. “His life?” she asked. “I 
don’t think we’re speaking of a threat to his life. I 
doubt that Enziet fears death after all these 
centuries.” 
Puzzled, Arlian asked, “What, then? What else 
could I threaten?” 
“What else does he value?” Black asked. “That’s 
always the trick in handling an enemy—know what 
he cares about and what he doesn’t.” 
Rime nodded. “That’s very true,” she said. 
“But what does Enziet care about?” Arlian asked. 
“You say he doesn’t fear death, so it’s not his life he 
values; what, then? His honor? His family?” 
“He has no family,” Rime said. “He never has, so 
far as I’ve seen or heard.” 
“And he has no honor, from what I’ve seen,” 
Arlian said. 
“It’s certainly not something he prizes greatly,” 
Rime agreed, “though I’ve always heard that he 
keeps his oaths. If he did not, the Dragon Society 
would probably have long ago come apart in a rain 
of blood.” 
“He’s chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort,” Black 
said. “Does he care about that?” 
“In a way,” Rime said. “I think he values power.” 
“But what could threaten his power?” Arlian 
asked. “The Duke himself is a harmless old fool—a 
man like Lord Enziet can’t possibly fear him.” 
“Of course not,” Rime said. “The Dukes have been 
the Dragon Society’s puppets for centuries, 
probably since before the dragons themselves 
departed.” 
Black cleared his throat. “I don’t think I heard 
that,” he said. “Please don’t repeat it.” 
“The dragons,” Arlian said slowly. “Does Enziet 
fear the dragons?” 
“I don’t know,” Rime said. “Certainly many of us

fear them. And more of us hate them, as I do, and 
as I think you do.” 
“I do,” Arlian agreed, “but does Enziet?” 
“What if he does?” Rime demanded. “Where 
would that get us? You’re hardly in a position to 
bring the dragons up out of their caverns to 
overthrow Manfort.” 
“Could that be possible?” Arlian asked. “The 
Dragon Society has been studying the dragons for 
centuries, hasn’t it? You must know a great deal 
about them.” 
“Nowhere near enough,” Rime replied, tapping 
her bone again. “And I’d have said that Enziet 
knows more about them than any of us. If there’s a 
way to wake them, he would know it—and he would 
know that the Society would not want to use it. If 
you did know a way, that would be no threat to 
Enziet—he need merely tell us you proposed 
something so insane, and we would all want you 
dead.” 
“You’re right,” Arlian said. “Not the dragons, 
then—but what else could threaten his power?” 
Black cleared his throat again. “You understand I 
don’t know anything about any secret societies,” he 
said, “or anyone who might have had undue 
influence on the governance of Manfort or the 
Lands of Man, but if there were such a secret 
society, working behind the scenes, couldn’t that 
society pose a threat to Lord Enziet?” 
“But he’s a member of the Dragon Society!” Rime 
said. “The senior member, in fact, and the one most 
concerned with politics.” 
“Does he think there’s some way I could turn the 
rest of the Society against him?” Arlian asked. 
Rime froze, the shinbone suspended at the top of 
its arc. She stared at Arlian. 
“Do you know something that could turn us all 
against him?” she asked. “Because I can’t think of a

more probable threat you could pose.” 
Arlian stared back. 
“I don’t know,” he said. 
“It would need to be something mentioned at 
your initiation,” Rime said. “Something we didn’t 
notice at the time, but which Enziet spotted.” 
“But what?” Arlian asked, baffled. 
“I don’t know,” Rime said, turning her chair to 
face Arlian more directly, “but I intend to learn. Tell 
me, then, Arlian of the Smoking Mountain, 
everything you said at your initiation.” 
Arlian gathered his thoughts and began 
speaking. 
He reviewed his discovery of the Dragon Society’s 
existence and his early childhood, and described the 
long spell of dragon weather that followed his 
eleventh birthday, culminating in the dragons’ 
attack on Obsidian. He went through every detail he 
could recall of the attack, his fall, his grandfather’s 
death, and how the vile mixture of blood and venom 
had dripped into his mouth. 
He went over waking up, and being rescued from 
the cellar by Lord Dragon’s men, and his meeting 
with Lord Dragon. 
Every so often Rime interrupted his narrative 
with questions, trying to elicit more facts, details 
Arlian had forgotten or seen no significance in. 
These sometimes jumped back and forth in the 
story, and in fact Arlian had begun on the unhappy 
journey down the Smoking Mountain toward Deep 
Delving when she frowned and asked, “How long 
were you unconscious, there in the cellar? Several 
days, I suppose?” 
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Arlian said wearily. He 
grimaced at the memory. “My grandfather’s body 
had not yet begun to stink when I awoke, and I was 
thirsty, but not seriously dehydrated. The ruins 
were no longer aflame, but still smelled strongly of

woodsmoke. The weather had broken and turned 
cool, but that could happen quickly up on the 
mountain. I would say that I slept at least several 
hours, but probably no more than a single day, or 
two at the most.” 
Rime frowned. “But then how could the looters 
have gotten there? Isn’t the Smoking Mountain at 
least five days’ ride from Manfort?” 
“Oh, more than that,” Arlian said. “Eight or nine, 
I’d say. I’ve wondered for years how Lord Dragon 
happened to be there so soon, and have assumed 
that he somehow knew the attack was coming. I 
understand he’s an accomplished sorcerer, so I 
suppose…” 
“Sorcery can’t do that,” Rime snapped, cutting 
him off. 
“Maybe he was in the area and saw the attack 
from a distance, and seized the opportunity,” Black 
suggested. “After all, why would someone like Lord 
Enziet bother looting a village?” 
“But Cover said that he was hired specifically to 
loot the village,” Arlian said. “So he must have 
known it would happen, and he did nothing to stop 
it. That’s all the more reason to seek revenge for his 
actions there.” 
“Why would he bother looting it?” Rime asked. 
Arlian shrugged. “He wanted the obsidian,” he 
said. “He asked me repeatedly where the workshops 
were.” 
“This is Lord Enziet we speak of,” Rime said. “He 
could have bought the obsidian, all of it. He could 
have bought the entire village.” 
“Why would he want obsidian, anyway?” Black 
asked. 
“It’s used in sorcery,” Rime said. “It has power 
against fire and darkness. But it’s not so precious as 
that!” 
Arlian nodded. “We had a sorcerer in the village

who worked in it,” he said. 
“It doesn’t seem to have protected the village 
against the dragons,” Black said, “and if they aren’t 
fire and darkness…” 
“They’re a good bit more than fire and darkness,” 
Rime said, “and sorcery is limited in what it can 
do.” 
“Then why would Enziet bother with this 
obsidian?” Black asked. 
“It’s better than nothing,” Rime said, shrugging. 
“And I suppose he didn’t buy it because he didn’t 
really need it, but when he found the village 
destroyed he decided he might as well take it.” 
“But he didn’t simply find the village destroyed,” 
Arlian protested. “He knew it would be destroyed, 
before it happened. It wasn’t anything he did, of 
course—the dragons did it—but he knew it was 
coming, or he couldn’t have been there so soon.” 
“But he couldn’t know,” Rime insisted. “I was 
assuming that he came there with his hirelings to 
get the obsidian— to steal it, since he wouldn’t need 
the others to buy it—and that he found the village 
destroyed.” 
“I’ve always thought he knew the dragons were 
coming,” Arlian said. “I assumed it was sorcery.” 
“Sorcery can’t foresee the future,” Rime said. “If 
he had known the attack was coming, then going to 
the village would make sense—he might have sought 
dragon venom or other traces of their presence, or 
simply more information about dragon behavior. 
That’s well within what might be expected of any 
member of the Dragon Society.” 
“But did anyone else go to the village, then?” 
Arlian asked. “The destruction of Obsidian was no 
secret.” 
“Oh, much later, some of us went for a look, yes,” 
Rime said. “I wasn’t one of them—I don’t travel 
easily, with this leg of mine. They didn’t learn

much; venom and some of the other traces fade 
quickly.” She frowned. “Enziet didn’t say he’d been 
there. No one mentioned that.” 
“He was there,” Arlian said. 
“Do you think that’s what he’s afraid you’ll 
learn?” Black asked. 
“I don’t know,” Rime said slowly. “It could be. Or 
maybe it’s something we haven’t gotten to 
yet—something in the mine at Deep Delving, or the 
brothel in Westguard. Let’s go back to your story.” 
Arlian obliged, resuming his narrative with an 
explanation of how Hide had pulled him from the 
cellars. Rime had him provide detailed descriptions 
of each of the looters who had accompanied Lord 
Dragon, but nothing in his account caught her 
attention. 
They broke for supper after that, and then 
returned to the small salon and resumed with an 
account of Arlian’s years in the mines. He told her 
everything he knew of Hathet, of Bloody Hand and 
Lampspiller, and of all his fellow miners. She 
questioned him at length about the amethysts, and 
about the possibility that the mine’s tunnels were 
approaching the caverns where the dragons slept, 
but none of them could connect these questions to 
Lord Enziet. 
He described his escape, his flight cross-country, 
and his arrival in Westguard. He described each of 
the sixteen whores in the House of Carnal Society, 
as well as the guards and the dreaded Mistress, 
Madam Ril. 
Rime took a special interest in his description of 
Rose, and coaxed out half-remembered details. Her 
expression hardened as he spoke. 
“Who actually killed her?” Rime asked. 
“Who held the knife?” Arlian asked. “I don’t 
know. She was killed at Lord Dragon’s order, 
though, I’m certain.”

Rime frowned, her mouth drawn tight. “Go on,” 
she said. 
Arlian continued his tale. 
By the time he was done the candles were burned 
down to stubs, all the servants but Black were long 
since abed, and every drop was gone from the 
decanter of wine they had brought. 
“We may be missing some key detail,” Rime said 
thoughtfully. “If we are not, I see two possible areas 
of concern for Enziet. One is a personal matter, and 
would mean both that he knows a secret I thought 
well guarded, and that he deliberately sought to 
harm me; I doubt that’s the case, and will assume it 
was mere mischance at work. The other is the 
mystery of how he came to loot the village on the 
Smoking Mountain so soon after the dragons 
struck—and that is a mystery.” She glanced at 
Arlian. “That best fits what we know. When you 
were merely Lord Obsidian, or Lanair, seeking 
vengeance upon the Six Lords, he did not seem 
overly concerned; when he learned you were Arlian, 
from the Smoking Mountain, you became an 
immediate threat. He wouldn’t know what befell 
you in Deep Delving after he sold you, but he would 
know what you saw in Obsidian. I’d say that must 
be what troubles him.” 
“But why?” Arlian asked. 
“That is, as I said, a mystery,” Rime replied. “And 
I think it’s one that deserves investigation.” 
Arlian, muddled with wine and fatigue, stared 
blankly at her. 
“Go to bed,” she said, reaching for her cane. 
“Think it over.” She rose, then hesitated. 
“Please, Lady Rime,” Arlian said, leaping to his 
own feet despite his weariness, “be my guest for 
what remains of the night—I won’t forgive myself if 
you venture out on the streets at this hour!” 
“Thank you,” she said.

Black took his cue. “I’ll show you to your room,” 
he said, taking Rime’s arm. 
The two of them departed, Rime leaning heavily 
on Black as she hobbled, leaving Arlian standing 
alone in the dim salon. One of the candles had 
guttered out, and others were fading. 
He looked around, reluctant to retire while so 
many questions remained unanswered, but he could 
see nothing more he could do in the salon. He 
sighed, and set his feet toward the stairs. His 
thoughts were far from clear as he made his way 
slowly to his own bed, but he was already planning 
further investigation. 
44 
Hide and Seek 
The following day Arlian put his plans into effect. 
If it was true that Lord Enziet desperately wanted to 
conceal something about his visit to the Smoking 
Mountain, then obviously Enziet himself wouldn’t 
say anything about it, and Arlian couldn’t see what 
it would be himself—but the two of them were not 
the only people who had been there on that day. 
There had been six others present. 
Cover was dead. The whereabouts of Dagger and 
Tooth were a mystery, and one or both of them 
might be dead, as well. Shamble was probably still 
working for Lord Dragon, and would almost 
certainly be impossible to approach without 
alerting Enziet. Stonehand had joined the Duke’s 
guard, and was therefore also still, at least 
indirectly, under Lord Dragon’s thumb. 
Hide, though, was reputedly a dealer in

gemstones and curiosities on the Street of the 
Jewelers, just a few hundred yards away from 
Arlian’s front gate. What could be more natural 
than that Lord Obsidian, known to be a collector of 
obsidian trinkets, should pay Hide’s establishment 
a visit? 
Accordingly, Arlian put on his best satin blouse, 
wrapped a fine velvet cloak about himself, clapped 
on a dashing feather-trimmed hat, and set out for a 
brisk walk to the Street of the Jewelers. Once there, 
however, he encountered a delay he had not 
foreseen, one so obvious that he cursed himself for 
not expecting it. 
He didn’t know which shop it was. 
There were signboards, of course, and even 
names painted on window glass, but he would 
hardly expect a jeweler to use the name Hide. 
Jewelry was meant for display, not concealment. 
He ambled down the street, glancing in windows, 
looking for some indication and trying to conjure 
up Hide’s image in his mind’s eye. 
It was still there—that moment when Hide had 
beckoned to him and said, “Come on, lad. We’ll get 
you out of here,” was burned into his memory—but 
it was not as clear as he might have liked. And of 
course, that was nine years ago—Hide would 
undoubtedly have changed considerably. 
Most of the shops, he noticed, did not make 
ostentatious display of their contents—but then, 
what jeweler could afford to keep enough stock on 
hand to make a grand presentation, and to risk 
showing it where a bold thief might break in and 
grab it? The displays Arlian saw were modest—one 
goldsmith had a single pair of ornate gilt 
candlesticks in his window, while a nearby jeweler 
made do with simply the tools of his trade. 
A silversmith by the name of Gorian, on the other 
hand, had an impressive decanter and matching 
goblets surrounded by lesser works—buckles,

brooches, even a silver-trimmed leather slave 
collar—in his window, behind heavy iron bars. 
And just beyond, Arlian saw, was an even gaudier 
display—crystal, mother-of-pearl, rare woods, onyx 
and jade, made into boxes and candelabra and 
statuettes. Arlian stopped and studied this 
assortment, hoping to catch a sight of the shop’s 
proprietor. 
A plump young woman emerged from the 
shadowy interior and called through the open door, 
“Is there something you’d like to see better, my 
lord?” 
“No, thank you,” Arlian said, tipping his hat. He 
turned away. She might be Hide’s wife, or sister, or 
even daughter, but she was certainly not Hide… 
But she might know where Hide could be found. 
Arlian turned back. 
“Excuse me,” he said. “Perhaps you could help 
me after all. Someone mentioned that an old 
acquaintance of mine who went by the name of 
Hide now has a shop on this street, but I’m afraid 
I’ve forgotten the details of how to find it. Might 
you know? He was a well-built fellow when I knew 
him, and had a sleeveless leather jacket he was fond 
of, but I can’t think of his true name at all.” 
She smiled charmingly at him. “He doesn’t use 
his true name,” she said. “And in truth, my lord, I 
think you’d know his new name when you saw it, 
even though it’s not Hide.” 
“Oh?” Arlian smiled back. “What is it, then?” 
“Seek,” she replied. 
“Oh,” Arlian said, grinning foolishly. 
“He specializes in finding unusual items,” she 
explained. “He and I have done business on 
occasion—when I’ve come across something so 
strange that he’d have an easier time selling it, or 
when he’s acquired a fine piece that isn’t 
sufficiently out of the ordinary for his customers.”

She pointed down the street. “I don’t think you’ll 
have any trouble finding him.” 
“Thank you, madam,” Arlian said, with an 
elaborate bow and flourish. “I am in your debt.” 
“Then perhaps you’ll pay that debt by sending me 
some trade, eh?” 
“I will, indeed,” Arlian said. “For now, though, I 
really must find Hide—or rather, Seek.” He made a 
second, smaller bow, then turned to go. 
“It’s on the right!” the woman called after him, 
and he waved his hat in acknowledgment. 
A moment later he reached his goal, and 
recognized it immediately. 
Seek’s shop was small but elegant; the signboard 
read simply Seek, Curiosities, and the window held 
nothing but a blue velvet cloth and a white card 
reading, “The Finest Exotica in Manfort.” The door 
was equipped with a glass bell that tinkled brightly 
as Arlian stepped in. 
He found himself in a small room furnished with 
two velvet-upholstered chairs and a counter faced 
with an unfamiliar wood. The walls were paneled 
with the same material, and polished to a silky 
gleam. Whatever the wood was, it had a grain that 
curled and twisted like nothing Arlian had ever seen 
before. 
There were three small shelves on the right-hand 
wall, providing the only display of merchandise to 
be seen. One held a set of four goblets made from 
inverted human skulls set on claw-shaped silver 
stems; the next bore a display of gemstones carved 
into detailed likenesses of various insects and 
spiders; and on the last sat an elaborate 
construction of gold wire, crystal rods, and orbs of 
multicolored glass that Arlian could make no sense 
of whatsoever. 
Arlian was looking at this last, trying to puzzle it 
out, when the blue velvet drapery behind the

counter parted and Seek stepped out. 
Arlian turned and studied him. 
It was a man of roughly the same size as Hide, 
and the right build, and the face was familiar, but 
Arlian was not absolutely sure it was the same man. 
This person was visibly older, visibly softer and 
plumper, and far better dressed than the Hide 
Arlian remembered—the shopkeeper’s hair and 
beard were trimmed and oiled and flawlessly 
arranged, his cream-and-gold vest was embroidered 
silk rather than leather, and his entire appearance 
generally that of a wealthy, sophisticated man. 
“May I help you, my lord?” Seek asked, resting 
his palms on the counter. 
“I hope so,” Arlian said. 
“If what you desire can be found, my lord, rest 
assured, we can find it for you,” Seek said. “It may 
take a significant amount of time and money, of 
course.” 
“I don’t think much time or money will be needed 
in my case,” Arlian said. “It may be that all I want 
will be certain information I suspect you may 
already possess.” 
“Oh? May be?” 
“That’s right; I haven’t yet decided whether there 
might be more I want of you.” He looked Seek in the 
eye, seeking some sign of recognition, some 
indication of what sort of man this was, that it was 
indeed the same Hide he had come looking for. 
Seek stared back, unperturbed. “And what would 
this information be?” he asked. 
Arlian hesitated for a second; Seek waited 
patiently. Finally, Arlian asked, “Nine years ago, 
when you were still called Hide, why did you go to 
the village of Obsidian, on the Smoking Mountain?” 
Seek’s eyes widened, but he showed no other sign 
of surprise or distress. “I was paid to go,” he replied 
calmly. “Five ducats, all expenses, and my share of

the loot. At the time that was more than sufficient 
to entice me.” He leaned forward across the 
counter. “I take it that you are Lord Obsidian? The 
one who disposed of Sahasin, Lord Kuruvan, and 
Lord Iron?” 
“I am known by that name, yes,” Arlian admitted. 
“And have you come here to kill me, too, to 
avenge the looting of that village?” 
“Should I?” Arlian challenged him. 
Seek smiled for the first time since he had come 
through the curtain, a crooked, sardonic smile. “I 
am, of course, biased,” he said. “But no, I think 
killing me would be disproportionately harsh. After 
all, who was harmed by the looting of ruins? Any 
heirs those villagers might have had would probably 
be no more than distant cousins, and stealing 
property they had not earned and might never have 
thought to claim at all simply doesn’t strike me as 
an offense deserving death.” He turned his palms up 
and shrugged. “Of course, your own view may differ, 
since you seem to have appointed yourself the gods’ 
avatar of vengeance for various wrongs. As I said, I 
am biased in my favor.” 
“And what of selling into slavery a free-born boy 
who had just been orphaned?” 
The smile vanished. 
“That was unfortunate, at the very least,” Seek 
agreed. “If you wish to make the punishment fit the 
crime, though, I would still not consider it 
deserving of death. Death is so very final. Wouldn’t 
enslavement be more fitting?” Before Arlian could 
respond, he added, “I compliment you on your 
sources of information.” 
“No compliments are called for,” Arlian replied. 
“Then you believe yourself deserving of 
enslavement?” 
Seek frowned. 
“That depends,” he said. “I concede that on the

most basic level of an eye for an eye, a life for a life, 
and so on, it would seem just that I serve a term of 
years as a slave in the mines of Deep Delving. I take 
it, though, that the boy did eventually regain his 
freedom, and that you know him? He’s alive and 
well?” 
Arlian nodded. 
“Then you see that death would be 
inappropriate—and enslavement would never quite 
match up properly, since he must have emerged 
from the mines still a young man with his life ahead 
of him, while I could not count on anything of the 
sort. And furthermore, am I really the foolish young 
man who helped loot that village? I’ve changed 
since then, my lord—not merely in appearance, but 
in any number of ways. I would not stand idly by 
now, as I did then; I would at the very least speak a 
few words of protest. Is it just to punish the man 
you see before you, the honest businessman, trusted 
by his clients and, I flatter myself, respected by his 
fellows, for crimes committed by a man desperate 
to find a place for himself, willing to do almost 
anything to make enough money to ensure he would 
not find himself in a slaver’s net? Had you 
apprehended me back then, why yes, enslavement 
would have been a fitting penalty for my 
crimes—but now? I am not so certain. Consider also 
what that boy might have become had we not 
allowed Lord Dragon to sell him—his family was 
dead, his home destroyed. We did not know 
whether he had kinsmen living elsewhere, or 
whether any such woujd take him in. Had we left 
him as we found him, might he not have starved to 
death? Or might he not have found himself in the 
clutches of other slavers?” 
“He might,” Arlian conceded, “but had he—had I 
no right to take that risk, if I chose?” 
“A child’s fate is never his own,” Seek said with a 
sweeping gesture. “He is always at the mercy of 
those around him, whether his parents or other

adults, as we are all at the mercy of gods, dragons, 
and Fate.” 
“We will never know what might have become of 
me had you not found me,” Arlian said. “I don’t 
think, therefore, that that should be weighed in the 
balance. Airy suppositions cannot be made to 
support anything.” 
“True enough.” Seek tipped his head and eyed 
Arlian. “So you were that boy? I’d never have 
recognized you.” 
“Oh? Cover did,” Arlian said. 
“Did he? Well, his memory must be better than 
mine. What’s become of Cover?” 
“Dead of a fever. He was dying when I found 
him.” 
“He saved you the trouble of punishing him, 
then.” 
“Maybe,” Arlian admitted. 
Seek studied him. “And you’re still considering 
killing me?” 
“Maybe,” Arlian repeated. 
Seek smiled his crooked, humorless smile again. 
“As I said, we are all at the mercy of Fate, and 
clearly Fate has brought you here, out of Deep 
Delving. Yet we are free to act or not, as we please; 
we can refuse the opportunities Fate thrusts upon 
us.” 
“You’re suggesting I should let you go 
unpunished?” 
“Well, naturally, I would prefer it,” Seek said with 
a shrug. “I would offer to pay compensation, but 
from what I understand, you have become wealthy 
enough that any payment I could make would be 
insignificant. I stood by and let Lord Dragon wrong 
you, and I concede that you are justified in thinking 
ill of me, but I question whether any penalty you 
might impose at this late date would be

appropriate. If the purpose of punishment is to 
ensure I never repeat my crime, why, then you need 
do nothing—I would never again do anything of the 
sort. I’m content with my lot here in Manfort, and 
have no intention of gallivanting about with a band 
of brigands, looting ruins, ever again. If the purpose 
is to discourage others, consider the possibility that 
you might merely convince the next man in my 
situation to kill any potential witnesses outright, 
lest they come back to haunt him, as you have 
manifested yourself here. And if the purpose is to 
ease your own mind and satisfy your own anger, 
then judge your own emotions carefully.” 
“And what if I seek to please the gods by seeing 
that justice is done?” 
Seek shook his head. “Surely whatever gods may 
yet survive know what justice is better than we 
mere mortals, and can take care of their own needs 
in that regard.” 
Arlian smiled wryly. “You speak convincingly,” he 
said. 
“I make my living by convincing people they need 
what I have to sell,” Seek said, with a wave of his 
hand. “Knowing that my life is at risk here impels 
me to do my best.” 
“By your own admission, though, you wronged 
me— does that put you in my debt?” 
“I will agree that it does,” Seek said. “Indeed, a 
chance to repay you would be welcome, if the 
payment is not exorbitant. Was there something I 
have that you wanted?” 
“Information,” Arlian said. “As you say, I have all 
the wealth I need—but not all the knowledge I 
need.” 
Seek bowed as low as he could while behind the 
counter. “I am at your service, my lord.” 
“Then tell me,” Arlian said, “every detail you 
remember of your expedition to the Smoking

Mountain. How did Lord Dragon recruit you? Did 
you know his true name? Do you know it now? Did 
he tell you where you were bound, and what you 
would find there?” 
Seek took a deep breath. “Well,” he said. “Let me 
see…” He scratched his head thoughtfully. 
He had been a boy when he started running 
errands for a man known as Parcel; the story Hide 
had heard was that he was called that because he 
was like several men bundled into a single package, 
and he had paid Hide a ducat to carry a message. 
Hide had then asked for more work, and Parcel, 
amused, had provided it. 
It hadn’t all been as harmless as carrying 
messages; he had thrown a rock through a lord’s 
window, stolen a lady’s dagger, spilled oil on 
pavement where a duel was to be fought, all at 
Parcel’s direction. As he had grown he had been 
trusted with other jobs, and one day Parcel had told 
him, “Follow me,” and he had followed, and he had 
met Lord Dragon, Parcel’s master, for the first time, 
in a rented room on the Street of the Roses. 
“An impressive man,” Seek said. “Even now, and 
to the lad I was then… well, I was proud just to be 
there.” 
“I can understand that,” Arlian said, 
remembering how impressive Lord Dragon could 
be.
“I met Tooth and Shamble that first time,” Seek 
continued. “They were already in Lord Dragon’s 
employ. Dagger came later, and I recruited 
Stonehand myself, to replace Parcel. And I 
suggested Cover, but he only joined us on that one 
errand—he seemed a likely candidate, but did not 
work out.” He grimaced. “I regret that.” 
He sounded sincere—but Arlian reserved 
judgment; as Seek himself had said, he made his 
living convincing people. “What happened to 
Parcel,” Arlian asked, “that you were called upon to

replace him?” 
Seek shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “One day 
he wasn’t there, and Lord Dragon told me he was 
dead. I asked how, and Dragon said it was none of 
my concern, and I didn’t dare press the matter 
further. He wasn’t the only one to disappear—Tooth 
vanished later, though in that case Lord Dragon 
never said whether she was dead or alive, merely 
that she was gone and I was not to worry myself 
about it. Nor were those I’ve named so far the only 
ones I worked with in Lord Dragon’s service; others 
came and went as the occasion arose.” 
Arlian nodded. “Go on,” he said. 
Lord Dragon had found plenty of work for Hide 
and the others, in Manfort and elsewhere. He rarely 
told them just what was going on, or why they were 
doing the tasks he had assigned them. Sometimes 
they were sent as a group, other times alone or in 
twos or threes; sometimes Lord Dragon would 
accompany them, and other times he would simply 
instruct them and leave it to them to carry out 
those instructions. Often months would pass in 
which Hide would not see Lord Dragon himself, but 
would only receive letters. 
“Did you know who he was?” Arlian asked. 
Seek shook his head. “Not then,” he said. “And he 
never told us. But I had my suspicions soon 
enough.” 
“Why?” 
“It wasn’t so very difficult to see who benefited 
politically from a particular rock through a specific 
window, or a note passed to a given lady. When I 
began working for Lord Dragon the Duke was said 
to be bored with Lord Enziet, and displeased with 
the counsel he had received of late; not long after 
that Enziet’s position was stronger than ever, and 
his rivals exiled, dead, or out of favor. And the 
descriptions matched—the rumor that Lord Enziet 
never appeared in public because his face was

scarred certainly fit.” 
“Tell me about the journey to the Smoking 
Mountain,” Arlian said. 
It was one muggy afternoon late in a long, 
appallingly hot summer that Lord Dragon had 
summoned his employees and told them to be ready 
to travel at dawn the following day. Hide had not 
bothered to ask where they were going; Dagger, 
however, had wanted to know, saying she needed to 
know what provisions to pack, and Lord Dragon 
had told them they were bound for the Smoking 
Mountain, and that tools for digging would be 
appropriate. 
“Weapons?” Stonehand had asked. 
“I don’t expect to find anyone alive,” Lord Dragon 
had said, “but please yourself. I suppose there 
might be hazards on the road.” 
Hide had had that in mind later that evening, 
when he spoke with Cover in a tavern on Gate 
Street. He hadn’t thought Cover would be much use 
in a fight, or for anything tricky or dangerous, but 
he seemed fit for digging— not that Hide had any 
idea what they would be digging for, or where. 
Cover had been complaining about his inability to 
find work, and Hide had suggested he join them at 
dawn, and see if Lord Dragon would take him on. 
Lord Dragon had, and the party had set out for 
the Smoking Mountain. 
The weather had been utterly miserable for most 
of that summer, and Dagger had complained about 
it on the road. Seek remembered hearing Lord 
Dragon’s reply. 
“Dragon weather,” he had said. And he had 
smiled as he spoke, a smile Hide hadn’t liked at all. 
Arlian shivered at the words, at the memories 
they evoked of his grandfather standing on the 
mountainside and staring at the sky. 
When they were within sight of the Smoking

Mountain, Seek remembered, they had actually 
seen dragons in the sky, far in the distance, and 
then, not long after, they had seen pillars of smoke 
pouring up from flames on the mountain. Dagger 
and Cover had wanted to turn back—Dagger had 
thought the mountain was erupting. “We can’t dig 
through hot lava!” she had protested. 
“You won’t need to,” Lord Dragon had told her. 
“I don’t remember his exact words after that,” 
Seek said, “but he made it clear that we were seeing 
a burning village, not the mountain’s own flame, 
and that we would be looting the ruins. ‘And it will 
be cooler then,’ he said, ‘so the digging won’t be too 
arduous.’” 
Arlian stared. “He knew that?” 
“Yes,” Seek said. “He knew.” 
For a moment neither man spoke; then Arlian 
said “Go on.” 
The remainder of the tale held no surprises; the 
weather had broken that night, and in the morning 
Lord Dragon had led his crew up the mountain, 
where they had systematically looted the 
smoldering wreckage of the village, gathering up 
the meager valuables the townspeople had owned, 
the cache of obsidian, the sorcerer’s talismans and 
devices—his papers had burned, which had irked 
Lord Dragon greatly. 
And they had found Arlian, of course, and carried 
him away. 
“He knew,” Arlian said. “He knew the dragons 
were coming. And he knew about the weather—but 
how could he?” 
Seek shrugged. “Sorcery, I would assume. Lord 
Enziet is known to dabble in the hermetic arts.” 
Arlian started to reply, then stopped. “Of course,” 
he said. 
“And have I earned my life and freedom, my 
lord?” Seek asked.

“Conditionally,” Arlian said. “I may require that 
you repeat this tale, under oath, to certain 
acquaintances of mine.” 
“I would have no difficulty in accommodating 
such a requirement,” Seek said. 
“Are you aware that in telling me this, you may 
have endangered your life anew?” Arlian asked. 
Seek cocked his had. “How is that?” 
“I suspect you have just told me certain things 
that Lord Dragon very much wished to remain 
unrevealed.” 
“I have said nothing I undertook to keep secret,” 
Seek protested. “I swore no oaths, made no 
promises.” 
“I would suppose that Lord Dragon did not feel 
such artificial restraints to be necessary. Surely, it 
was understood that certain things were not to be 
spoken of?” 
“Of course! But…” Seek frowned. “I had not 
thought any of this to be of great significance to 
Lord Enziet, but perhaps you know more than I of 
his concerns.” 
“Perhaps I do,” Arlian said. “Indeed, I think so.” 
“Then I may have forfeited to him what I gained 
from you?” 
“I hope not,” Arlian said. “I sincerely hope not.” 
“Fate is fond of these little jokes.” 
“Indeed.” 
And with that, Arlian took his leave and set out 
for the hall of the Dragon Society. 
45

The Truth in Flames 
Arlian found Rime and Wither in conversation in 
one corner of the Society’s candlelit main hall and 
joined them there, taking a seat at the table beside 
Rime, across from Wither, under the gaze of a small 
stuffed crocodile. 
It was a moment before they deigned to notice 
his presence; Arlian did not rush matters. He did 
not want to be seen as an overeager youngster, 
hurrying his elders, so he restrained his impatience. 
Eventually Rime turned and greeted him, and he 
was included in the conversation. Then it took only 
a few minutes to bring the discussion around to 
Arlian’s investigations, and after some prefatory 
comments Arlian said, “I have now learned, beyond 
doubt, that Lord Enziet knew beforehand that 
dragons would destroy my village.” 
Wither stared at him, frowning. “How could he 
have known?” he asked. 
“I don’t know,” Arlian said, “but I have a witness 
who is willing to swear to the truth of it—one of the 
people who aided Lord Dragon in looting the ruins.” 
Rime and Wither exchanged glances. 
“It’s not possible to predict the future,” Wither 
said. 
“Not reliably,” Rime agreed. “Knowledge of the 
future gives one the power to change it. That puts it 
outside the realm of sorcery.” 
“I’ve heard of prophetic dreams,” Arlian objected. 
“In Arithei they seemed to be fairly common.” 
“But that’s wild magic,” Rime said. “The 
Aritheians don’t control these dreams, do they?” 
“No,” Arlian said. “They just happen, when the 
winds carry magic down from the Dreaming 
Mountains.”

“Sorcery’s different,” Wither said. 
“Besides, are these dreams always accurate?” 
Rime asked. 
“No,” Arlian admitted. “They’re… well, they’re 
unpredictable. Sometimes they’re true, sometimes 
they’re not, and even when they are, they’re 
sometimes too vague or obscure to be of any use.” 
“So even if Enziet had somehow had such a 
dream, which is scarcely possible in Manfort to 
begin with, could he rely on it sufficiently to launch 
his expedition to the Smoking Mountain?” Rime 
asked. 
“Um… not if it were like the Aritheian dreams, 
no. But couldn’t he have found some sorcerous 
method to produce reliable prophecies?” 
Rime and Wither looked at one another. 
“It shouldn’t be possible,” Rime said, “but if 
anyone could make it work, it would be Enziet.” 
“If he has,” Wither said, “then he’s honor-bound 
to share it with the rest of us.” 
“He’s had nine years to do so, and he hasn’t said 
a word of this,” Rime said. 
“Maybe that’s why he wants me dead,” Arlian 
suggested. “So you won’t find out that he’s kept it 
secret. It could be very useful in controlling the 
Duke and the rest of Manfort, couldn’t it?” 
“It certainly could,” Wither growled. 
“But if that’s what he’s up to, then wouldn’t he 
have seen that you were a danger to him much 
sooner, through these very prophecies you think 
him capable of, and killed you long ago?” Rime 
asked. 
Arlian shrugged. “Maybe it’s not that reliable.” 
Rime grabbed her cane and pushed back her 
chair. “I want to meet this witness of yours,” she 
said. 
“As do I,” Wither agreed, rising.

“Gladly,” Arlian said, getting to his feet. “He calls 
himself Seek now, and has a shop on the Street of 
the Jewelers.” 
“Lead the way, boy,” Wither said. 
Arlian led the way—but even before they turned 
the corner onto the Street of the Jewelers he began 
to fear that something had gone wrong; he smelled 
smoke more strongly than usual. This was not 
merely Manfort’s perpetual background odor, but 
something sharp and fresh. He broke into a trot; 
Wither accompanied him, but Rime, hobbling 
along, could not. 
“You go ahead,” she called, with a wave of her 
cane. 
Arlian broke into a run when he saw the 
billowing smoke lit orange from beneath, and heard 
the crackle of flame. A crowd had gathered, 
blocking the street, and buckets were being passed, 
so that he had to stop and could only stare 
helplessly as Seek’s shop burned. 
“Did Seek escape?” he asked a man in the crowd. 
The man turned and glanced up at Arlian. 
“No,” he said. “He’s dead on the floor in there. 
Someone said his heart gave out, and he knocked 
over a lamp when he fell.” 
Arlian stared helplessly at the flames. The 
buckets of water being flung upon the blaze were 
having an effect; Arlian could hear the hissing as 
the fire was fought back. Through the smoke and 
the shattered remains of the storefront he could 
make out a dark lump on the floor. 
That was undoubtedly Seek; the fire might soon 
be under control, but it would be too late for him. 
Wither came up beside Arlian and asked, “That’s 
your witness?” 
“I’m afraid so,” Arlian admitted. 
“Quite a coincidence, his death.”

“It’s no coincidence,” Arlian said. “Lord Enziet 
killed him, I’m sure of it. He must have overheard 
somehow— more sorcery…” 
“More likely, if it’s as you say, he had men spying 
on you, boy, and saw you talking to this merchant. 
Wouldn’t need sorcery for that.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said, swallowing. 
In a way, then, he had himself killed Hide after 
all, even after deciding not to. 
He should have thought of the possibility that he 
was being spied upon, Arlian told himself. He bit 
his lower lip in angry frustration as he watched the 
flames. He had failed Seek and himself. 
His eyes began to tear—from the smoke, Arlian 
told himself. 
“That’s assuming, of course, that you’re telling 
the truth,” Wither said, interrupting Arlian’s 
thoughts. “And that you didn’t kill him yourself 
before you came to fetch us. It wouldn’t have been 
much of a trick to spill a lamp and set a candle in 
the puddle as a fuse.” 
“What?” Arlian whirled to stare at Wither. 
“Well, you said yourself that this was one of the 
looters you wanted revenge on,” Wither said 
conversationally. “And we have nothing but your 
word, now, that Lord Enziet’s done anything out of 
line, and we all know you want vengeance on him. 
So why should we take your word that it’s he, and 
not yourself, behind it all?” 
“But… but why would I kill my witness?” 
“Why, because he wasn’t your witness,” Wither 
said. “Supposing that it’s you, and not Enziet, who’s 
plotting and planning here, then this man Seek 
might have called you the liar you are, and thrown 
your whole scheme awry. Now you needn’t worry 
about that; a dead witness can’t change his tale. 
And if we believe you, then we condemn Lord Enziet 
as a murderer trying to cover his tracks, and cast

him out of the Society when he won’t reveal the 
secret of sorcerous prophecy—a secret that, 
assuming this is all the true situation, has never 
existed. Then you’ve broken his power and freed 
yourself of your oath not to kill him, and can pursue 
your revenge further.” 
“But that’s not what happened!” Arlian protested, 
as Rime hobbled up to join them. 
“What’s not what happened?” she asked. 
“I was just pointing out to the boy,” Wither said, 
“that with his witness dead, there’s no proof of his 
story. It might be Lord Enziet covering up 
treachery, or it might be Lord Obsidian casting 
blame on Lord Enziet where none should be.” 
“His man’s dead, then?” Rime asked. 
“Apparently,” Wither said. 
“That’s bad,” Rime said. She looked at Arlian. 
“Did you kill him?” 
“No!” Arlian said. “Enziet did, I’m sure of it!” 
“It couldn’t have been an accident?” Arlian, 
feeling very beset, was suddenly uncertain. “Maybe 
it could have been,” he said. 
That would relieve him of any guilt in Seek’s 
death—but it would also be an amazingly cruel trick 
for Fate to have played upon him. It was far easier 
to believe that Enziet or his underlings had 
murdered Seek and set the shop ablaze. “It might 
be best all around if we find out just what did 
happen,” Rime suggested. 
“And be careful about your accusations, boy,” 
Wither said. “I’ve known Enziet since the dragons 
ruled, and I’ve known you since last week. Enziet’s a 
cold bastard, I’ll give you that, but if I had to trust 
one of you, I think I’d take his side all the same.” 
“But… !” Arlian began. 
Rime cut him off with a raised hand. “For what 
it’s worth, I’d probably choose you over Enziet,” she

said, “but I can understand Wither’s position. 
You’re a stranger here, and you’re trying to tell us 
that a man we’ve known for centuries, the most 
powerful man in Manfort, has been deceiving to us, 
lying to us, all these years. We’re going to need 
something more than your word; are there any 
other witnesses? Ones that you might bring to us 
while they’re still alive?” 
“I can’t bring them to the hall,” Arlian protested. 
“Outsiders aren’t permitted.” 
“Then there are other witnesses?” Wither asked. 
“Four of them,” Arlian said. “If they’re still alive, 
and if I can find them.” 
“Then you find them, and take them to the Old 
Palace, and keep them there, well guarded, and 
send a messenger,” Rime said. “Don’t come 
yourself; don’t leave them with anyone else.” 
Arlian frowned. “Lord Enziet could kill the 
messenger,” he said. 
Rime’s mouth twisted into a wry half smile. “I 
suppose he could,” she said. “You’ll just have to be 
careful.” She reached up and patted Arlian’s cheek. 
Wither snorted. 
“If you’re telling the truth,” Wither said, “you 
find another witness. And be more careful than you 
were with this one!” He turned and stamped away. 
Rime smiled encouragingly, then she, too, turned 
away. 
Arlian watched them go, then turned back to face 
the fire again. 
Cover and Hide were dead, which left four 
witnesses, as he had said—but Dagger and Tooth 
had both vanished years ago. That meant there 
were really only two he had any hope of locating. 
Stonehand was in the Duke’s guards; somehow 
Arlian did not think he would be quite so 
cooperative as Seek had been, and threatening a 
guardsman to force a confession would be

dangerous, perhaps suicidal. 
Shamble, though, had still worked for Lord 
Dragon at last report. Arlian remembered him as 
big and stupid and vicious, and in his experiences 
in Deep Delving and with the caravan those traits 
often went along with cowardice; perhaps Shamble 
could be intimidated into testifying to Lord 
Dragon’s perfidy. 
And as someone who still worked for Lord Enziet 
Shamble might know other useful secrets, as well. 
And he might know Sweet’s present 
circumstances—Arlian was constantly haunted by 
the knowledge that she was still in Enziet’s 
possession, and ever since learning what Horim had 
done to Daub and her anonymous companion he 
had feared that Sweet and Dove might be long 
dead. 
But then, Enziet had made threats about the lives 
of innocents that Arlian had assumed were directed 
at Sweet and Dove. Enziet might have lied, but 
Arlian hoped the implications were true. 
There were many things he wanted to know 
about Enziet. He could hardly expect Enziet to tell 
him anything, but Shamble would be an ideal 
informant, if Arlian could get him to cooperate. 
The first part of dealing with Shamble would be 
to find him and capture him; getting him to 
cooperate, once captured, would probably be 
relatively easy. After all, Arlian was a lord, with the 
heart of the dragon, and Shamble was to all 
appearances a mere brute. 
But Arlian would need to get inside Lord Enziet’s 
estate to have any chance at capturing him. 
Well, then, he told himself, he would have to get 
inside Lord Enziet’s estate. Now, how could he do 
that? 
Lord Enziet was rich, powerful, and well versed in 
sorcery.

He was, from all Rime and Wither had said of 
him, a cautious, patient man, not given to taking 
careless risks. His home would undoubtedly be well 
guarded, and kidnapping someone out of it would 
require something special. 
It would call for magic, Arlian was 
certain—Aritheian magic. He had more of that than 
anyone else in all the Lands of Man, and this was 
the time to use it. 
He turned away from the dying flames and set 
out at a trot for the Old Palace. 
46 
Into the Lion’s Den 
Arlian walked past the ruins of Seek’s shop on a 
dank, misty morning in early autumn, and paused 
for a moment to study the remains. 
The place had been stripped of everything of 
value even before the fire was completely 
extinguished, he knew; the members of the bucket 
brigade had taken Seek’s treasures as payment for 
their services. Arlian had sent Black to the Street of 
the Jewelers after the fire to make sure that the 
body was given a proper burial, and had attended 
the brief graveside ceremony himself. Seek was 
undeniably dead and gone, and all that remained of 
the shop now was stone and wood and 
water-stained bits of cloth. 
Eventually someone would claim the site and 
build anew, but as yet no one had. The wreckage 
still lay untouched. 
All the same, that was past and done, Arlian told 
himself. He had no time to grieve over Seek—and

after all, Hide had been a scoundrel, a looter, a 
thief. His crimes had caught up with him, after a 
fashion. 
That fashion had not been what Arlian intended, 
of course; it had been one more of Lord Enziet’s 
crimes. 
And Arlian was determined to see that Lord 
Enziet’s crimes were also paid for. 
At that moment, Arlian knew, Lord Enziet was on 
his way to meet with the Duke of Manfort for a 
detailed review of various matters of state. After 
numerous delays Lord Obsidian had finally met 
with the Duke himself two days earlier for an 
informal luncheon—purely a social call, of course, as 
Obsidian was not one of the Duke’s advisers, nor 
did he seek to be. He had, however, talked with the 
Duke about various subjects, including the 
workings of the city’s governance, and he had 
managed to learn the date and time of the next 
policy conference with Lord Enziet. 
It had taken much longer than Arlian liked to 
obtain this meeting, and he had lived in fear that 
Enziet would act against him—that he would wake 
up one morning to find an assassin at his bedside, 
or that a messenger had delivered one of Sweet’s 
fingers as a fresh warning to leave Manfort. He had 
kept the wards around the Old Palace in place, and 
so far they had been undisturbed. 
Sweet was probably still alive—at any rate, Enziet 
had not admitted otherwise. The thought of the 
poor woman in Enziet’s hands was a constant 
nagging pain for Arlian, but there was little he 
could do about it. 
And Enziet had made no further attempt to use 
Sweet or Dove to blackmail Arlian. He was biding 
his time, as Rime had said he might. By killing Seek 
in such a way that made he and Arlian equally 
plausible murderers Enziet had created a fresh 
stalemate—anything Arlian could say was suspect

now that his supposed witness was dead. With the 
stalemate in place, Enziet could afford to wait and 
see what developed. 
But that couldn’t last forever; sooner or later one 
of them would find a way to gainsay the other, and 
Arlian intended to do it by capturing Shamble. 
When he had finally been able to arrange the 
luncheon at the Citadel he had jumped at the 
chance. That fool of a Duke had thought he was 
merely making idle conversation, answering 
Obsidian’s casual curiosity about how the Duke 
conducted his business. 
The curiosity he had satisfied, which was far 
from casual, had been about Lord Enziet’s schedule. 
If he was at the Citadel, then Enziet would not be at 
home, and if he was, as Arlian believed, the only 
sorcerer resident in his mansion, that meant the 
sorcerous wards that protected his estate could not 
readily be renewed if they were once broken. 
Replacing them could only be done once Enziet 
returned home. 
Thirif had felt those wards and informed Arlian 
of their existence; now he had instructions to break 
them by any means possible, so that Arlian could 
enter the house while Enziet was busy at the 
Citadel. 
Even Enziet could not simply walk out on a 
council with the Duke of Manfort when he felt the 
wards broken; Arlian would have some time. Not 
much, perhaps, but some. 
Shibiel, one of the other Aritheians, had provided 
Arlian with a glamour—not the sort that simply 
made a person more attractive and harder to 
refuse, but a magical disguise. To outward 
appearances he was no longer Lord Obsidian at all, 
but a thinner, darker man with a long nose and 
narrow jaw. If he were seen while trespassing no 
witnesses would recognize him, and while Enziet 
would certainly suspect the truth he would have no 
proof.

Arlian need merely allow Thirif enough time to 
work, and Lord Enziet enough time to become 
irretrievably caught up in affairs of state, and he 
could then slip into Enziet’s home in search of 
Shamble. 
Of course, he would still need to get past 
whatever walls and guards there might be, but he 
thought he could handle that. 
At the end of the Street of the Jewelers he turned 
right and marched up the slope, toward the modest 
mansion behind the Citadel. 
The thought of simply walking in the front gate 
occurred to him, but there were guards posted, and 
he had no desire to harm them; instead he made his 
way around to the back. 
Enziet’s home was small and old by the standards 
of Manfort’s elite, but taller than the norm. It stood 
three stories high, built of smoke-blackened stone, 
with slit windows in a style that had not been 
fashionable for at least a century. The house itself 
was surrounded by a narrow paved yard, which was 
in turn surrounded by a high stone wall; Enziet did 
not bother with such niceties as a garden, statuary, 
ornamental ironwork, or terraces. 
Arlian made his way to the alley behind the 
house, ignoring the locked and barred postern, and 
strolled slowly along the wall, studying the 
approaches. 
The wall was about eight feet tall, of rough-cut 
blocks of granite, with no openings of any kind save 
the two gates; it occurred to Arlian that this would 
mean the view from any room on the ground floor 
would be rather drab and limited. The faint 
lingering morning mist made it hard to distinguish 
any details, so he gave up any idea of choosing one 
climbing spot over another on the basis of finding a 
good hold; instead he found the section he judged 
to be least likely to be observed by Enziet’s servants, 
as far away from the stables, kitchens, gate, and

postern as he could manage. He pulled on his heavy 
leather gloves, took an Aritheian opal from his 
pocket, and waited, watching casually for anyone 
who might happen into the alley. 
No one did, and after a moment the opal flared 
white— Thirif’s signal. Arlian tucked the stone back 
in his pocket, gathered himself, then charged at the 
wall at an angle, leaping at the last moment and 
flinging his hands over the top. As he had expected, 
jagged edges cut into the leather gloves, but not 
deeply enough to do any real damage; he pulled 
himself up, and a moment later crouched atop the 
wall. 
Serrated iron blades had been set into the stone, 
edge-up—just the sort of precaution Arlian had 
anticipated. And, as he had also anticipated, no one 
had tended to the blades in decades, and their 
edges were blunted by rust and wind and rain, 
sparing him serious injury. 
The mist was thickening into drizzle, and he 
blinked away moisture as he peered across the 
pavement at the house. He was above the 
ground-floor windows, and below the second floor, 
but visible from any level if he stayed where he was, 
so he moved quickly, turning and lowering himself 
down the inside of the wall, then letting go and 
dropping the last foot or so. He landed with a slight 
splash, one booted foot in a small puddle. 
The yard was no more than twenty feet across, a 
drab expanse of bare stone; directly ahead of him 
stood the main house, while off to his right, at the 
far end, were the stables and carriage house. The 
postern and kitchens were also to his right—he 
doubted anyone had set foot on this particular 
stretch of pavement in years, unless Enziet was 
sufficiently wary that he had the entire yard 
patrolled. 
Which, of course, might well be the case, and 
with that in mind Arlian hurried across to the 
house and began looking for a means of entrance.

The slit windows were not wide enough for him 
to squeeze through, even if he knocked out the lead 
frames as well as the glass—which was probably the 
whole intent behind their design. All the doors into 
the house would almost certainly be guarded. He 
frowned. 
If he couldn’t go through the walls, he had to go 
either over or under them, and he didn’t have time 
to tunnel. Even a house this size would presumably 
still have a courtyard, or at least an atrium, and 
while the slit windows were too narrow to enter 
through, they provided fine footholds. 
Most of them were dark; he avoided any that 
showed the slightest bit of light, even if it seemed to 
come from a candle at least a room or two away, 
and chose his route to the roof. Then he ran forward 
and leaped upward. 
As he climbed it occurred to him that he had 
done this once before, almost three years ago, when 
he first arrived at the House of the Six Lords. That 
time he had been on his way to Sweet’s arms, where 
this time he intended to find Shamble—but the 
possibility of seeing Sweet was there this time, too. 
Lord Enziet had taken Sweet and Dove away in his 
coach, and either or both of them might be inside 
this house—or, he reminded himself, they might be 
on one of Lord Enziet’s estates outside the city, or 
they might be dead; he mustn’t get his hopes up. 
Of course, Shamble might also be elsewhere, or 
dead, he thought as he stood with one foot wedged 
into a second-floor window and stretched his hand 
upward, scrabbling for purchase on the third floor. 
This was hardly the time to think of that, though, 
and he might well find some other damning 
evidence here—if not a witness, then a diary or 
journal of some sort… 
The rough, damp stone was cold against his 
cheek as his fingers finally curled over the edge of a 
third-floor sill; he braced his free foot against the

side of a window-slit and pushed upward, and got 
his hand solidly into position. 
The edge of the roof was not as far above the 
third-floor windows as those windows were above 
the ones on the second floor, but the foot or so of 
overhang made the reach much trickier; Arlian 
could not keep himself pressed against the wall as 
he stretched upward, but instead had to twist 
halfway around and lean out. 
He was able to reach the underside of the 
overhang, and crawl his fingers outward before 
making a final lunge and grab. If he missed, he 
would fall thirty feet onto stone pavement… 
But he didn’t miss; instead he dangled from the 
overhang, both hands gripping the outermost tiles. 
He swung his leg up, trying to hook his foot up; his 
sword rattled in its scabbard. His foot missed, but 
the shifting weight let him throw one elbow up on 
the wet tiles. 
Another swing, and the toe of his boot lodged 
between tiles, and he was able to pull himself up. 
He paused for a moment to catch his breath and 
survey the situation. 
He was crouched upon the tile roof, safe for the 
moment—but he had a spectacular view of the 
Upper City, from the Citadel to the Black Spire; he 
could peer into the windows of a dozen palaces. 
And that meant he was visible to anyone who 
happened to look out any of those windows. He 
wasted no further time in clambering up the slope, 
looking for an opening. 
When he reached the ridgepole and peered over 
he saw that there was indeed a courtyard, and the 
windows looking into it were no mere slits; he 
hurried over the top and half crawled, half slid 
down the other side. Ten minutes after starting his 
climb he dropped onto a third-floor balcony and 
tried the door there.

It was locked—but the broad casement beside it 
was not; he pried it open and clambered quickly 
inside. 
He was in a lavishly appointed bedchamber, but 
one that had an unused air about it. He ran a finger 
across the bowl of the washbasin by the bed, and 
the tip came away gray with dust—no one had slept 
here in days, he was sure. 
He relaxed slightly—for the first time since he 
reached the alley behind the house he faced no 
immediate risk of discovery. On the other hand, he 
was trespassing, and at best Lord Enziet would 
know the moment he set foot through his gate that 
his sorceries had been broken. He might know even 
sooner; he might already have sensed their 
disruption. That depended on what his wards had 
been, and how successful Thirif had been in 
matching his skills against Enziet’s—Thirif was a 
powerful magician, but Enziet had centuries of 
experience and Thirif was working in an unfamiliar 
climate with limited tools. 
Enziet might well be on his way home right now, 
to seek out the intruder. And while he was sworn to 
do Arlian no mortal harm, he could not be expected 
to tell his servants not to kill a burglar. Arlian had 
no time to waste. He opened the door to the 
passageway cautiously, and looked up and down the 
corridor. He saw no signs of life. 
He slipped out into the hall and closed the door 
behind him, noting its location. Then he tried 
another door, and found another empty 
bedchamber. The next door was locked; the one 
beyond that was a storeroom full of linens. 
That brought him to a corner stair, but he passed 
it by, moving on into the next passage. 
A door at the far end was barred; curious, Arlian 
passed by the rooms along either side and crept up 
to this barrier. 
Whatever lay beyond, Lord Enziet obviously

didn’t want it to get out; the oaken bar was as thick 
as Arlian’s arm, and held by immense brackets of 
black iron. Arlian put his ear to the heavy wooden 
door. He could hear nothing—or at least, not with 
any certainty; he was unsure whether there had 
been some faint sound. 
This could scarcely be Shamble’s room, but 
Arlian found himself irresistibly curious about what 
Lord Enziet felt obliged to confine this way. He 
stepped back, drew his sword in case the room’s 
occupant was dangerous, then stepped forward and 
lifted the bar—it pivoted upward and fell against a 
waiting support. He tried the latch. The door was 
locked. 
Arlian frowned. He knew he should probably 
leave well enough alone; he might have very little 
time, and Shamble would not be here. Still, he 
wanted to know what was behind that lock. He ran 
his free hand along the top of the door frame and 
scanned the surrounding wall, but found no key; he 
wished the light were better, but the only 
illumination came from a single slit over the stairs 
at the far end of the corridor, and the day outside 
was still gray and overcast. He fished his own keys 
from his pocket and tried a few, and to his pleased 
surprise the third one, its one tooth a simple T 
designed to pass a single ward, worked. 
But then after all, he asked himself, why would 
anyone bother with an elaborate lock here? He was 
probably going to find nothing but dust and old 
boxes beyond; the door had probably been barred 
from habit. 
As the lock opened, though, he thought he heard 
a sob, but he was unsure where it came from; he 
raised his sword, lifted the latch, and pulled the 
massive door open. 
The smell hit him first—the smell of human 
waste, blood, and sweat, a thick, earthy smell. Then 
he saw her.

Sweet sat cross-legged on a straw-tick mattress 
in the center of a bare stone floor, staring at him. 
She was naked; yellow and purple bruises covered 
her arms and belly. Her thick black hair was a 
tangled, filthy, ropy mess; her face was smeared 
with dirt and tears. 
Still, it was Sweet. Arlian’s heart leaped, and he 
smiled broadly, while at the same time tears filled 
his own eyes. It was all he could do to keep from 
shouting. 
She stared up at him with no sign of recognition 
or joy. Her face showed only despair and 
resignation. Arlian’s smile vanished. He stepped 
into the room cautiously; he held a finger to his lips, 
signaling for silence. 
She sat, waiting. 
He hesitated, but decided against closing the 
door—that bar on the other side would be a serious 
obstacle, and he had no desire to join poor Sweet as 
a prisoner. 
“Are you all right?” he whispered. 
She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she 
said. 
Arlian glanced uneasily at the open door, then 
looked around the room. 
The room was large and mostly bare. The 
mattress was almost the only thing resembling 
normal furniture; a heavy table of rough wood 
splotched with dark stains stood to one side. Iron 
bolts were set in one of the stone walls, chains 
dangling from them, and two large padlocked 
chests were pushed up against another. Two 
wooden boxes stood atop one of the chests. A 
cracked chamberpot sat in one corner. The plank 
floor was bare, and stained in several places with 
various things; a fireplace occupied much of one 
end, but held only embers and ash. 
It was obvious that Enziet had not pampered his

captives as Kuruvan had. 
“Are you seriously injured?” Arlian asked. “I 
know you can’t walk—can you move?” 
“I can move,” Sweet replied, clearly confused by 
the question. She uncrossed her legs, showing the 
stumps of her ankles. “What did you want me to 
do?” 
Arlian stared at her, unsure how to answer. What 
he wanted her to do was to be safe and warm and 
happy, back at the Old Palace and away from this 
cold, harsh, malodorous place, away from Enziet 
and his ilk—but she didn’t even recognize him! 
Then he remembered the glamour he wore. 
“Sweet, it’s me,” he said. “Triv.” 
“What?” She looked up at him, more baffled than 
ever. 
“It’s a disguise,” he explained. “It’s really me. 
Don’t you know my voice?” 
She blinked at him. “Triv?” Arlian thought he 
heard a note of comprehension—but he still heard 
no hope. 
“I’ve come to rescue you,” he said. 
He hadn’t, of course; he had come looking for 
Shamble. Rescuing Sweet would be stupid and 
reckless—but he couldn’t leave her here after seeing 
her like this. 
“I don’t understand,” she said again. 
What had Enziet done to her? Arlian felt his 
chest tighten. “I’ve broken in here to rescue you,” 
Arlian said. “I have a safe place for you—Hasty and 
Kitten and Lily and Musk are already there. Do you 
know where Dove is?” 
“There,” she said, pointing at the larger wooden 
box atop the chest. 
Now it was Arlian’s turn to be baffled. He looked 
at the box.

Coaxing an explanation out of Sweet in her 
present condition might be difficult; instead he 
crossed the room and tugged at the box’s lid. 
It was locked; he drew his swordbreaker, slid the 
point into the crack, and pried. The lock snapped 
and the lid flew up. 
The box was full of bones—a human skull, half a 
dozen curving ribs, a broken chunk that might have 
been a human pelvis, and a litter of smaller bones. 
A brown something was stuffed down among them, 
and Arlian pulled it out. 
It was a woman’s dried scalp, covered with brittle 
brown hair—hair the exact color of Dove’s hair. 
“By the dead gods,” Arlian whispered. 
“That’s Dove,” Sweet said. “Or most of what’s left 
of her.” 
Arlian glanced at Sweet, at the flat, calm 
expression on her face, then opened the smaller 
box—it was unlocked. 
It contained two rolls of oddly textured 
parchment, a cake of soap, and a jar half full of 
something yellowish orange—grease or tallow… 
“That’s the rest,” Sweet said. 
Arlian slammed down the lid. 
“I have to get you out of here!” he said. “Now!” 
47 
A Belated Rescue 
Arlian had not come prepared to carry a naked 
woman through the streets of Manfort. He had 
expected to march Shamble out at swordpoint, if all

went well, but not to carry anyone. 
Still, he had to get Sweet away. His search for 
Shamble suddenly seemed unimportant by 
comparison. He swept her up in his arms. 
“Do you have anything here you care about?” he 
demanded. 
She stared at him blankly. 
“Forget it,” he said. “Hold on.” He slung her over 
one shoulder and trotted to the door. 
The hallway was empty. He hurried for the stairs 
without thinking. 
He made it down the first flight safely, but 
halfway down the second he heard footsteps below; 
he backed up a few steps. 
He felt Sweet’s body tense, and he whirled, 
thinking she had seen someone behind them. 
Turning so fast on the stairs, with Sweet’s weight on 
his shoulder—not that she was heavy; she was 
pitifully light—threw him off balance; he held Sweet 
with one arm across her thighs as he stumbled, and 
caught himself with the other hand, the fist holding 
his sword whacking the wall. The blade slapped 
against the stone with a metallic clang. 
The footsteps below paused briefly, then 
proceeded, fading away down the corridor. 
Naturally, in a house protected by sorcery, the 
occupants would not seriously worry about 
intruders. Whoever had been down there must have 
assumed the sound was the doing of one of the 
other servants, and none of his business. 
But Sweet was squirming now; he lowered her to 
the step and looked up the stairs, but still saw 
nothing. 
“What is it?” he whispered, looking at her. 
Her face was different now, more alive—not the 
old, playful Sweet he remembered, but not the 
listless thing he had spoken with in that ghastly

room on the third floor. She stared up at him. 
“You’re really Triv? You’re really rescuing me?” she 
asked. 
“Yes, of course!” he said. “I’m only sorry it took so 
long, and that I couldn’t be here in time to save 
Dove.” 
“But you can’t! He’ll kill you!” 
“Lord Enziet has sworn, before witnesses, to do 
me no mortal harm within the walls of this city.” 
“But I… but you can’t!” 
“I can’t leave you here!” 
Sweet looked back up the stairs, and seemed to 
collapse inward, back into the beaten creature he 
had first seen on the mattress upstairs. “You’re 
right,” she said. “Anything is better than that.” 
“Do you know a way out of here?” he asked, 
suddenly hopeful. “A way we won’t be seen?” 
“No.” She shook her head, the tangled hair falling 
unheeded across her face. “I haven’t been outside 
that room in… in I don’t know how long. Since I was 
brought here.” 
“Bleeding gods and goddesses,” Arlian growled. 
He looked around warily, but still saw no one. “I 
can’t take you over the roof, can I? And the front 
gate’s impossible, which leaves the postern…” 
“Why can’t you take me over the roof?” Sweet 
asked. “Is that how you came in?” 
“Well, because…” He stopped. Why couldn’t he 
take her over the roof? After all, it wasn’t as if she 
could walk, and it couldn’t be any more difficult 
than fighting his way out the postern gate while 
carrying her. The postern was locked and barred; he 
had seen that from outside. At least the roof was 
open. 
She couldn’t climb—she simply wasn’t tall enough 
to stretch the necessary distances—but he could 
wrap her up, lower her to the ground…

He lifted her back to his shoulder and marched 
back up the stairs, toward the unused 
bedchambers. 
She watched from the bare bed of the room with 
the balcony as he stripped sheets and curtains and 
knotted them together into makeshift ropes. 
He was not sure just what he would need for the 
job; he had not been planning on anything like this 
when he came in. He had expected to use Shamble 
as a tool or hostage to exit by one of the gates, so he 
hadn’t bothered to take note of exact distances, or 
the location of useful chimneys or other protrusions 
he might tie things to. He therefore intended to 
bring as much of his “rope” as he could. 
He had gathered fabric into a heap bigger than 
the miserable mattress Sweet had slept on for the 
past two years and was trying to estimate what he 
might need on the roof when Sweet suddenly said, 
“I love you, Triv.” 
“What?” He looked at her, startled. 
“I love you,” she repeated. “You came for me.” 
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “It took me more 
than two years,” he said. “I should have come for 
you long ago, guards or no guards. I had no idea he 
would treat you as he did—but I should have 
guessed. Especially when I found out that Lord 
Horim had killed the two he took.” 
“Who?” 
“Lord Horim—Lord Iron, he was called. He took 
two of you, and killed them both. Daub was one; I 
don’t even know who the other was. I failed them 
both, just as I did Dove. And only gods and dragons 
might know what’s happened to the two Lord 
Drisheen claimed.” 
“But Triv, you did come for us eventually. You 
came for me. That’s more than I ever expected.” 
“You probably saved my life back in Westguard,” 
Arlian said. “I had to save you!”

“And I love you for it.” 
He stared at her, baffled, for a few seconds, then 
turned back to the pile of fabric. “I think this should 
do,” he said. “I’ve made it all one big, long rope; I 
can cut it apart if I need to.” He hefted a loop of 
cloth, then looked at Sweet. “How strong are you?” 
“Not very,” she said. “I haven’t eaten well here. I 
can’t climb that thing, if that’s what you’re asking.” 
“I didn’t think you could,” he said truthfully. “But 
if I sit you in a loop of it, a sling, and then haul it 
up, can you hang on?” 
“I think so,” she said. 
“Good.” He crossed to the balcony and peered 
out. 
The courtyard was still empty, and most of the 
windows dark; after all, the cold, damp weather was 
hardly inviting. Most people who had a choice 
would be curled up in a warm bed, or huddled in 
front of a kitchen fire, in weather like this. 
That reminded him that Sweet was naked. 
Cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner, he 
grabbed a coverlet that had been too thick to make 
a secure knot, and handed it to her. 
“Wrap yourself in this,” he said. “It’s chilly.” 
“Thank you,” she said as she obeyed. She looked 
up at him again and forced a tentative smile, the 
first he had seen on her face since he had fled the 
brothel. “I do love you. Is… is that face permanent?” 
“What? No, it’s just a spell. It’ll break as soon as 
I’m safely home again.” 
“Oh, good. I like the old one better. I’m eager to 
see it again”. 
Arlian looked her in the eye, and saw afresh just 
how thin and pale and weak she appeared. A 
thought struck him. 
“How often did they feed you here?” 
“Once a day,” she said. “Every morning. They

had…” She hesitated. “Every morning,” she finished 
weakly. 
Arlian nodded and smiled. “Good. You wait right 
here, then.” He turned and hurried out of the room, 
down the corridor, and around the corner. 
The door of Sweet’s prison still stood open; he 
trotted down the passage, closed it, and dropped 
the bar into place. 
With any luck, they wouldn’t even notice her 
absence until morning. 
That done, he hastened back to the balcony. 
He couldn’t reach the overhanging roof without 
assistance, but pulling a chair out to the balcony 
was simple enough. He got that far, then paused, 
and hauled a second chair out, as well. He sat Sweet 
on this second chair, wrapped snugly in her 
comforter; then he tucked one end of his makeshift 
“rope” through his swordbelt, climbed atop the 
vacant chair, and jumped for the edge. 
A moment later he had pulled himself up on the 
roof and was hauling his “rope” up behind him. 
“Triv?” Sweet called, a note of panic in her voice. 
“Shhh!” he hissed, leaning over the edge. “Hush! 
What is it?” 
“I just wanted to be sure you were still there,” she 
said. “That you hadn’t left without me.” 
“Didn’t you see the rope moving? Just hold on; I 
won’t go without you, I promise.” 
She nodded unhappily, and he pulled himself 
back onto the roof and continued hauling 
“rope”—woolen counterpane, linen sheet, velvet 
drape, linen sheet, the cloth slid through his hands 
and piled up on the tiles. 
When the last of it came swaying wildly upward 
he looked around for an anchor point, and sported a 
stone chimney that looked suitable. He crawled over 
to it on hands and knees, looped a few yards of his

“rope” around it, and tied it tight. 
Then he measured out a generous loop in the 
other end, keeping both ends in his hands, and 
lowered the loop over the edge. 
“Grab it!” he called. “Sit on it, then hold on with 
both hands!” 
He felt the jerk as the sling was caught; he felt 
tugging and shifting. He leaned over to see what 
was happening. Sweet had obeyed; she sat in the 
loop of “rope,” looking up at him. 
“Hold on tight!” he said. Then he pushed himself 
back up the roof, sat up, and began hauling. 
He heard a tiny smothered noise, a suppressed 
whimper, as Sweet found herself pulled up out of 
her chair. 
He had her more than halfway when he realized 
this wasn’t going to work. The higher she rose, the 
worse his leverage; he simply could not pull her all 
the way up over the overhang onto the roof. 
“Can you reach the edge?” he called. 
“I don’t… you told me to hold on!” she said. 
“All right, hold on,” he said. “Look, I’m going to 
stick my leg out where you can see it; when I do, 
you hold on with one hand, and grab my leg with 
the other. Understand?” 
She didn’t reply, but he let himself slide down the 
roof as he hauled at the sling. He wrapped a length 
of “rope” around his chest, pulling it tight, so that 
he couldn’t slide too far from the chimney the other 
end was secured to— but he was uncomfortably 
aware that because of the angles involved, if he lost 
his grip on the roof completely he might well find 
himself dangling several feet below the edge, a 
dozen yards to the right of the balcony. 
That was still better than plummeting to the 
ground, of course. 
He worked his way down closer to the edge until

at last he was able to extend his booted foot over 
the edge. 
Almost immediately, Sweet’s hand reached up 
and grabbed at him; instinctively, he jerked away, 
and she wailed in terror. 
“Hush!” he called. “I’m sorry! Now grab it!” He 
thrust his foot out again. 
Her hand hooked over his ankle, and he leaned 
forward, letting the rope around his chest support 
much of his weight, and grabbed her wrist. 
“Now the other hand!” he called. 
The other hand appeared, and he grabbed that 
wrist, as well, and lifted. 
Her face scraped against the edge of the tiles as it 
came up above the roof, and he winced. “Gods, I’m 
sorry,” he said. 
“Don’t be,” she whispered, as she twisted herself 
away from further injury. 
He shifted his grip, pulling her further, and step 
by step, inch by inch, he managed to haul her up 
onto the roof. 
Her comforter had fallen away, though, leaving 
her shivering and naked on the tile. Arlian quickly 
hauled his entire rope up, and slashed a linen sheet 
from the end. “Here,” he said. 
She accepted it, but said, “I can’t crawl while I’m 
holding this.” 
“Oh, blood and death,” Arlian muttered. “Give it 
back, then.” She obeyed, and he tucked the sheet 
into his belt. “Let’s get you across here before you 
freeze, and you can put it on once we’re on the 
ground. Come on!” 
On hands and knees they clambered up the slope, 
across the ridgecap, and down the other side; Sweet 
was more practiced at this than Arlian and kept up 
easily, despite her weak and battered condition. The 
“rope” trailed behind, still tied around Arlian’s

chest. 
At the outer edge Arlian untied himself, wrapped 
the end of the line around Sweet’s chest, then 
directed her to lower herself over the brink. He sat 
up, braced himself against the tiles as well as he 
could, and held the “rope,” letting it out hand over 
hand as she descended. 
Once she was safely below the eaves, he began to 
lower much more quickly, until at last, after what 
seemed like an eternity, the tension eased—she had 
reached the pavement below. 
That done, he slid himself and the line over until 
he was directly below the chimney, then threw the 
rest of the “rope” over the edge and began lowering 
himself hand over hand. 
The knots held until he was almost past the 
second floor; he landed hard, but evenly and the 
right way up. He was momentarily dazed, but no 
worse—no bones were broken, his head had not hit 
the flagstones, and he was down, safe and sound. 
And Sweet was down, as well—she was crawling 
across the pavement toward him even before his 
head cleared. 
The rope had snapped right at the edge of the 
roof—the sharp tiles had cut into it, weakening it 
and allowing the knot just below the edge to 
unravel. Most of it had tumbled down around 
Arlian; now, as he got to his feet and brushed 
himself off, he looked at it and smiled. 
If they could just get out of this yard safely, and 
take that rope away with them, it might be hours, 
or even days; before anyone had any clue what had 
happened. 
Just then a commotion broke out somewhere off 
to their left; Arlian took one glance in that 
direction, then ran to Sweet and scooped her up. 
The end of the rope was still securely tied around 
her chest, so it would come with them if he carried

her; he threw her over his shoulder and ran for the 
far end of the house, away from the postern gate 
and the stables and the carriage house. 
Because he heard hooves, the rattle of harness, 
voices shouting—Lord Enziet’s coach had returned, 
and presumably Lord Enziet with it, and he would 
know, if he did not already, that his wards had been 
broken. 
When they were safely around the corner Arlian 
untied Sweet, wrapped her in the sheet, and began 
reeling in his line. He balled up one end, then threw 
it over the outer wall, so that they could pull it out 
after themselves; then he boosted Sweet up until 
she could pull herself up onto the top of the wall, 
with the “rope” and her wrap providing minimal 
protection against the iron blades. “It’s sharp,” she 
said. 
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” Then he took 
a running leap and pulled himself up beside her. 
A moment later he trotted down the mist-damp 
alley with an immense bundle of fabric on his back. 
Only the most observant would have noticed the 
bright pair of eyes peering out through a tiny 
opening in the tangled cloth. 
48 
Sweet’s Tale 
The small salon was pleasantly warm, heated by a 
roaring fire; steam rose from the heaped fabrics on 
the floor. Sweet lay sprawled on a blue silk couch, 
wrapped in a robe a servant had brought, with an 
elegantly garbed Musk kneeling beside her while 
Black and Arlian stood nearby.

“It’s not what I had planned,” Arlian remarked; 
“but she might know something.” 
Musk, who had been bent over a semiconscious 
Sweet gently wiping her face with warm 
compresses, looked up. “You aren’t planning to 
interrogate the poor thing, are you?” 
“Nothing strenuous, I promise,” Arlian said. “I 
don’t want to hurt her any more than you do.” 
Musk looked warily, at Black, standing behind 
Arlian. “What about him?” 
“He won’t hurt her, either, any more than he’s 
hurt you.” 
Black snorted. 
“Well, she’s in no shape to answer questions right 
now, anyway,” Musk said, returning to her nursing. 
“That woman with the wooden leg, Lady Rime, 
might be interested in talking to her,” Black 
suggested. “Maybe she should be here, too.” 
“A fine suggestion,” Arlian agreed. “She said to 
send a messenger for her if I found another 
witness.” 
“Is this a witness?” 
“She’s the closest thing I have right now, Black. 
Send someone to fetch Lady Rime.” 
Black shrugged. “I’ll go myself.” He turned and 
left the room, not running, but wasting no time. 
Arlian remained where he was, watching Musk 
tend to Sweet. Then he knelt on the floor beside her 
and asked tenderly, “How are you feeling?” 
Sweet opened her eyes and looked up at him. One 
of her cheeks was gashed, a broad, shallow gouge 
where she had scraped against the roof tiles; Musk 
had dabbed away most of the blood. Her other 
injuries were all older, but still visible. 
She smiled at Arlian. “You have your own face 
back!” she said happily.

That was true; as arranged beforehand, the spell 
had broken the moment Arlian crossed his own 
threshold again. 
“Yes, I know,” he said. “But how are you ?” 
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s so lovely to be warm 
again, and to just lie here! And Musk!” She looked 
up at her old friend, whose healthy face was such a 
contrast to her own. 
“Triv said you were alive, but I didn’t believe it. Is 
anyone else still alive?” 
“Lily and Kitten, and Hasty,” Musk said. “They’re 
all here and safe. I don’t know about the others.” 
“Rose and Silk and Daub are dead, and three 
others, but we don’t know which,” Arlian said. “The 
others—well, there’s still hope.” 
“Rose?” Sweet’s voice cracked. “I saw them kill 
her. And Velvet. I didn’t know about Silk or Daub.” 
“You saw?” Arlian asked. 
She nodded. “And Dove, of course. He made me 
watch that.” 
“He made you?” Arlian asked. “Why?” 
Sweet stared at him in surprise. “For fun, of 
course,” she said. “He enjoys watching people 
suffer. At least, he must enjoy it, because that was 
what he always wanted to do, but he mostly looked 
angry while he did it.” 
Arlian stared at her in silent horror, his fists 
opening and closing in frustration. 
“I will kill him,” he said at last. “Somehow, 
someday, I’ll kill him.” 
Sweet closed her eyes. “I don’t think anyone can 
kill him,” she said. “He’s a sorcerer, you know. He 
talks to the dragons as if he were a dragon himself. I 
don’t think he can die, any more than they 
can—maybe he is a dragon, in human form. Maybe 
it’s a disguise, like the one you wore.” 
Arlian continued to stare at her, but his hands

were still as frustration gave way to confusion. 
“He talks to the dragons?” he said. 
“I think that’s why he calls himself Lord Dragon,” 
Sweet murmured, her eyes closing. “He is a 
dragon.” 
Arlian looked around the room, as if for 
guidance—was Sweet speaking the literal truth, or 
was this simply the deranged imagining of a woman 
who had been subjected to two long years of torture 
and abuse? 
It was at that moment that a servant entered 
with a heavily laden tray of food and drink, 
providing a welcome distraction. “Set it there,” he 
said, pointing to a low table. Turning to Sweet, he 
asked, “Can you sit up to eat?” 
She started. “Is it morning already?” 
“No, of course not—you’re here, and can eat when 
you please,” Musk explained. “Come on, let me help 
you.” 
Together, Musk and Arlian got the exhausted 
Sweet sitting upright, and a glass of wine to her 
lips. 
She spluttered, then drank, draining the glass 
eagerly. 
A honeycake followed, then raisins, then more 
wine and a slab of cheese. She ate voraciously for 
several minutes as Arlian and Musk watched. 
Then abruptly she stopped, doubled over, and 
vomited onto the carpet. 
“Too much rich food, too fast,” Musk muttered. 
“She’s half starved, the poor thing!” She turned to 
the servant, still waiting in the corner, and said, 
“Fetch some broth—something fit for a sick child.” 
The servant bowed and started toward the door. 
“And send someone to clean this up,” Arlian 
added. 
The servant bowed again, and left.

When Rime arrived, half an hour later, Arlian 
and Sweet and Musk were settled in another room, 
a drawing room where Sweet was curled up in a 
velvet-upholstered armchair, wrapped in her robe 
and a blanket, sipping a mug of beef broth. Hasty 
had joined them, and been repeatedly shushed for 
arguing with Sweet—Hasty insisted that Enziet 
simply could not have been that much worse than 
Kuruvan. Hasty was now visibly pregnant with 
Kuruvan’s child, and determined to think well of the 
baby’s father and all his friends. 
Arlian stood when Rime hobbled into the room, 
and bowed respectfully; the three women could not 
rise, of course, but Musk attempted a partial bow. 
Rime waved her cane at them in acknowledgment. 
“So is this one of your four witnesses, or just 
another whore you’ve rescued?” Rime asked Arlian 
without preamble. “Black didn’t seem very certain 
on that point.” 
Wither had accompanied her, and now stepped 
into the room behind her; Arlian bowed again. 
Black, who had opened the door for the two guests, 
now hesitated. 
“Come in, all of you,” Arlian said, beckoning. 
“This is Sweet—and yes, she’s another of the women 
I sought to rescue, but she may be a witness to Lord 
Enziet’s treachery, as well.” 
“Treachery?” Sweet looked up, startled. “You said 
he spoke to dragons,” Arlian said gently. “What did 
you mean?” 
She looked up at Arlian, puzzled. “I meant he 
talks to dragons. He uses his sorcery and a bowl of 
water—I saw him do it once. I didn’t hear anything, 
but I saw the dragon in the water, and he told me 
what it said.” She shuddered. 
Wither leaned forward and studied Sweet 
intently; Rime leaned on her cane and stared. 
“You’re serious?” Rime said.

“Of course I am!” Sweet said, pulling the blankets 
closer around her. 
“What color was the dragon?” Rime demanded. 
Sweet hesitated, and glanced at Arlian. “Black,” 
she said. “But maybe that was the magic, because I 
thought dragons were green.” 
“They’re black,” Arlian said. 
“Some of them,” Rime agreed. “The biggest 
ones.” 
“Why did he show you this?” Wither asked. 
“And when?” Rime added. 
“He was… he was tormenting me,” Sweet said. 
“He was taunting me, saying I would spend the rest 
of my life as a plaything. I said that no, sooner or 
later I’d die, just as Dove did, when he got bored 
and killed me, and he said no, he would keep me 
alive until I was old and gray and even more 
helpless than I was then.” She swallowed. “I was… I 
was braver back then—it was, I don’t know, a long 
time ago, in the summer I think, but a long time 
after he brought me to Manfort. A hot day, I 
remember. Anyway, I said that he was older than I 
was, and would be dead before my hair turned gray, 
and he laughed and said he was a sorcerer and 
would live forever. And I didn’t believe him, so he 
took the bowl of water he used to wash off the 
blood, and showed me that he talked to the 
dragons.” She glanced at Arlian, and added, “I think 
he might be a dragon, in human form, but he never 
said that, I’m just guessing.” 
“He’s no dragon,” Wither said. 
“Not yet, anyway,” Rime added. “He seems more 
like one every year, though.” 
Wither looked at Rime. “Do you think it was an 
illusion?” 
“Probably,” Rime said. 
“But it would explain how he knew my village

would be destroyed!” Arlian said. “The dragons told 
him what they were going to do!” 
“It would, at that,” Rime agreed thoughtfully. She 
asked Wither, “Could you make a dragon’s image 
appear in a bowl of water?” 
“Not just like that,” Wither said. “Blood in the 
water… no, that wouldn’t help.” He looked at Sweet. 
“Did he use anything else? Any powders or 
devices?” 
“I don’t know,” Sweet said. “I didn’t see any.” 
“If he just wanted to make an illusion to prove 
he’s a sorcerer,” Arlian asked, “why would he choose 
the image of a dragon?” 
“Suppose he can talk to the dragons,” Wither 
said. “Why wouldn’t he tell us?” 
“He’s keeping it to himself so he’ll have resources 
we don’t,” Rime said. 
“But what could he do with it?” 
“Well, he knew when he could loot the Smoking 
Mountain,” Arlian pointed out. 
Wither waved it away. “How often would that be 
of any use?” 
“And even if he can speak to them, why would the 
dragons tell him that?” Rime asked. 
“Perhaps he can compel them to speak?” Black 
suggested. Rime and Wither turned, startled, as if 
both had forgotten that Black was still present. 
“Compel a dragon to do anything?” Wither 
countered. 
Black shrugged. “Well, you’d know more than I 
about that,” he said, “but didn’t someone, or several 
someones, compel them to leave humanity to its 
own devices, while they slunk off to their caves?” 
“It wasn’t…” Wither began. Then he stopped and 
frowned. 
“We don’t know why the dragons gave up and

left,” Rime said. She glanced at Wither. “Do we?” 
Wither didn’t reply, and after a few seconds of 
uneasy silence, Arlian suggested, “Maybe Enziet 
does know.” 
“Maybe Enziet knows a great deal he hasn’t told 
us,” Wither growled. Abruptly he turned and 
stamped out. 
The others stared after him, caught flat-footed by 
this sudden exit. “Wait a minute,” Rime called. She 
began to hobble after him, but gave up after a few 
steps—Wither might be old, and his arm a useless 
ruin, but there was nothing wrong with his legs, a 
claim Rime could not make. 
“Should I go after him?” Black asked Arlian. 
“And do what?” Arlian asked. “Drag him back 
here by force?” 
He shook his head. 
“I don’t think so. I don’t know where he’s going, 
but wherever it is, what harm can he do us? Enziet’s 
sworn not to kill him, or myself, or Lady Rime, and 
we have Sweet safe here with us, and the Aritheians 
to protect us all from Enziet’s sorceries. Let him go. 
If he tells Enziet what we’ve learned, what of it?” 
Rime had heard this as she gave up the pursuit 
and hobbled back. “You may be making a mistake,” 
she said. “Wither’s angry now, but he and Enziet 
have been friends for centuries.” 
They heard a distant door slam. 
“Well, it’s done now,” Arlian said. He looked at 
Sweet. “That’s why Enziet didn’t want me to visit 
him, I suppose,” he said. “He was afraid I might 
find Sweet and hear what she had to say.” 
“Oh, he probably just didn’t want to be bothered 
with you,” Rime said. “But letting this girl see what 
she did, and live—that was a mistake. And there’s 
the tale of your home’s destruction—it’s unusually 
careless of Enziet to make two such slips in a single 
decade, and unfortunate for him that they should

involve people who know one another.” She shook 
her head. “He’s been getting stranger and stranger 
of late.” 
Sweet shuddered. “He’s a horrible creature,” she 
said. “What he did to me, and to Dove…” 
“What did he do to you?” Rime asked curiously. 
Sweet looked up at her, and then around at the 
others— Hasty and Musk, Arlian and Black. “You 
don’t want to hear this,” she said. 
“If you want to tell us, we want to hear it,” Arlian 
said. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s 
fine, too. Whatever you want.” 
Sweet hesitated, then said, “I need to tell 
someone. And I need to tell it soon. When I had a 
particularly bad customer I used to tell Rose about 
it, and it made it easier to bear. And she would tell 
me. But Rose is dead.” She suddenly burst into 
tears, and Arlian hurried to comfort her. When she 
had calmed, she began to speak. “At first I thought 
it wouldn’t be any worse than the brothel,” she said 
in a dull monotone. “I thought it would be the same 
sort of thing, but with Enziet and his guests, rather 
than whoever paid Mistress. Dove and I told each 
other that in the coach, and the first night at the 
house it seemed we were right—he put us on a bed 
in an unused room. But then the next day he had 
the other room prepared, the room where you 
found me, Triv…” 
She spoke on and on; she had not even begun on 
Dove’s death by slow torture when Hasty could 
stand no more and asked to be taken away. Black 
obliged her. 
Musk wept frequently, and covered her ears 
during some parts of the recitation. 
Black returned after carrying Hasty to her room, 
but had to leave shortly thereafter, after the account 
of the disposition of Dove’s body, to empty his 
stomach.

Arlian felt ill several times, cried once or twice, 
but stuck it out. 
Rime seated herself at the beginning of the 
narrative, and simply sat and listened, not visibly 
moved, until Sweet had finished. 
She had begun not long after midday; by the time 
she finished the sun was down and candles lit. 
There had been a few brief interruptions, for food 
and other necessities, but she had spoken almost 
constantly for several hours. Her voice had grown 
faint and hoarse. 
“… I didn’t know him at first,” she said, reaching 
up to stroke Arlian’s hair. “He said who he was, but 
I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a new trick, a 
new way Lord Dragon had thought up to try to 
drive me mad. But it truly was Triv, and he carried 
me out and pulled me up over the roof and lowered 
me down outside the house and carried me here on 
his back. And I’ll love him for that as long as I live.” 
She pulled him down for a kiss. 
“Well,” Rime said, reaching for her cane, “I think 
that’s a good way to end the tale, and I’d better be 
going.” She pointed her stick at Arlian. “Tomorrow, 
midmorning, I expect to see you on the Street of the 
Black Spire. I believe there are a few things we’ll 
want to talk about there.” 
“Of course,” Arlian said, as he disentangled 
himself from Sweet’s grasp. “Midmorning 
tomorrow.” 
“Don’t bring her,” Rime said. “Keep her safe here, 
and maybe we’ll all come talk to her.” 
Arlian bowed an acknowledgment. 
“And I’d suggest,” Rime said, as she hobbled 
toward the door, “that all of you get some rest. I’m 
sure you’re going to need it.” 
49

The Calling of the Hearing 
The morning was foggy, but the sun’s light could 
be dimly seen overhead, and Arlian was fairly sure 
the mist would burn off in time—and of course, the 
outside world always seemed irrelevant once he was 
inside the Hall of the Dragon Society. 
He arrived at midmorning, as instructed, and 
found several members present, including Rime. He 
recognized Flute, and Shatter, and several others, 
and of course Door was guarding the entrance. 
Wither was not there, nor was Enziet, nor 
Drisheen, nor Toribor, nor Nail. Arlian frowned at 
that. The absence of all four of his surviving foes 
among the dragonhearts worried him; what if they 
were conspiring to kill Sweet, to destroy the 
evidence of their perfidy? 
Of course, that assumed that all of them had 
known of Enziet’s unique ability—whether it was 
prophecy or communing with dragons—and that 
might not be the case. 
“There you are,” Rime said, looking up. She was 
seated at a table near the center of the main room. 
“Come and sit, and let me explain a few things I 
couldn’t say openly outside these walls.” 
Arlian took a chair beside her and leaned over to 
listen. 
“The Dragon Society does not have very many 
rules,” Rime told him, “but it does have some, as 
you know. One of those is that knowledge of the 
dragons must be shared— that was in the oath you 
swore. Another, not quite so basic, is that 
knowledge of any new sorcerous technique must be 
shared. Enziet has apparently broken at least one of 
these rules. Nobody here will care that he tortured 
the girl and killed half a dozen others, but breaking

his member’s oath—that we take very seriously. At 
least in theory, it means that we must hold a 
hearing, wherein all interested members shall have 
the opportunity to interrogate him, as we do at 
initiations—and just as at an initiation, he must 
answer truthfully every question put to him. If he 
fails to do so, we have a choice—expulsion, exile, or 
death. In the eight hundred years the Dragon 
Society has existed there has never been such a 
hearing, so far as I know, but these are the rules as 
they stand. Given that it’s Lord Enziet, I can’t 
imagine we’d vote for his death, but either of the 
other choices would leave you free to attempt to kill 
him yourself.” 
“I suspected as much,” Arlian said. 
“Of course you did. However, don’t raise your 
hopes too high; Enziet hasn’t survived almost a 
thousand years by being foolish. I assume that he 
will answer the questions truthfully. It may be that 
he hasn’t broken the rules at all, though I can’t 
quite see how that would be so; it may be that he 
has, but that he will claim there were extenuating 
circumstances, and will beg the Society’s 
pardon—which will, in all probability, be granted.” 
Arlian gritted his teeth. “And we’ll be back to a 
standoff.” 
“Yes, you will. However, let me also bring up 
some other possibilities not covered by the official 
rules.” She glanced around to see if anyone else was 
listening, then said, “Enziet was one of the founders 
of the Dragon Society, with Sharrae, Wither, Nail, 
and Rehirrian. Wither, Nail, and Rehirrian were all 
a few years younger; that Enziet looks younger than 
Nail or Wither simply reflects their relative ages 
when they drank the elixir. Since Sharrae’s death 
three hundred years ago Enziet has been our most 
senior surviving member, which means he holds the 
highest rank possible within the Society—all three 
of the surviving founders are held in high regard, 
and Enziet is by far the most vigorous of them, the

most feared and respected. He is furthermore the 
chief adviser to the Duke of Manfort, and a sorcerer 
second only to Lord Drisheen. I am not at all sure 
that the Society as a whole has the courage to defy 
him, to expel him, exile him, or kill him. In fact, I 
think that merely calling a hearing may put an 
unbearable strain on the Society, and going through 
with it may shatter the Society—the entire system 
may break apart into squabbling factions.” She 
paused and looked Arlian in the eye. “Are you 
willing to risk that?” Arlian looked back. “Yes,” he 
said. He said no more aloud, but his thoughts were 
plain enough—he had no great love for the Dragon 
Society. He had not been a member long enough to 
grow dependent upon it; he saw no great virtue in 
it. He knew that the Society secretly dominated 
much of the governance of the Lands of Man, and 
that the members considered themselves a crucial 
force for stability, but he was by no means 
convinced of the validity of such a view. 
In fact, he suspected that the destruction of the 
Society might be a very good thing. Could it really 
be best for humanity to let dragonhearts run the 
affairs of ordinary mortals? Dragonhearts, cold and 
detached, without family, unconcerned with age, 
barely aware of the passage of time—what did they 
know of the best way to order the everyday world 
from which they were so estranged? 
Rime clearly considered the Society a beneficent 
institution, but Arlian disagreed. 
Rime was still studying his face, as if unsatisfied 
with his single word of reply, so he elaborated, “If 
the Society can be so easily broken, can it be worthy 
of preservation?” 
“Ah,” Rime said, sitting back. “You’re young. 
Often the most delicate things are those most worth 
saving.” 
“Lord Enziet is a criminal by any sane standard, 
including the rules of this Society he helped create,” 
Arlian said. “He must answer for his crimes.”

“Whatever the cost?” 
Arlian started to speak, then stopped. “No,” he 
said at last. “I won’t go that far. There are costs that 
would not be worth paying. The Dragon Society, 
however, is not one of them.” 
“Very well then,” Rime said, thumping her cane 
on the floor. She got to her feet, picked up her 
polished bone, and rapped the table. 
“Your attention, my lords and ladies!” she called, 
in a clear, carrying voice. 
The other members present in the room looked 
up at her with varying degrees of startlement. 
“A grave accusation has been made,” Rime 
announced. “A member in good standing accuses 
Lord Enziet of a betrayal of our trust and a breaking 
of his oath. Let us summon Lord Enziet to a 
hearing, that these charges may be made and 
answered!” 
“Enziet? Are you mad?” someone asked. 
Rime looked intently at the speaker. 
“The accusation has been made,” she said, “that 
Lord Enziet conspires with the dragons themselves.” 
“That’s insane!” 
“We have a witness,” Arlian interjected. 
“Who?” 
“She’s not a member and cannot enter here,” 
Rime said. “Three of us heard her story, however, 
and have reason to believe it to be true.” 
“If she’s not a member, who’s making the 
accusation?” 
“I am,” Arlian said, rising. 
Several voices spoke at once. 
“But you’ve only just joined!” 
“Aren’t you already sworn to kill Enziet?” 
“Why should we believe you?”

Rime raised her hands for silence. 
“Lord Obsidian is a member in good standing,” 
she said. “He has the right to call Lord Enziet to a 
hearing—and if the Society deems the accusation to 
be frivolous or made solely from personal malice, 
why, then we can call Obsidian to a hearing in 
reply.” 
Arlian looked at her, startled; she hadn’t 
mentioned that possibility. 
“I ask that Lord Enziet be summoned before this 
gathering!” Rime called. 
Lord Shatter said, “Door, that’s your job, isn’t 
it?”
“If no one else volunteers,” Door replied uneasily. 
“He shouldn’t go alone,” Lady Flute called. “Not 
for Enziet.” 
“I’ll go,” Shatter said. 
Several voices joined in. Arlian looked at Rime. 
“You’re the accuser,” she said. “You stay here. 
And by calling the hearing, I’ve appointed myself 
overseer of the event, so I stay here, too. If you’re 
worried that they’ll help him escape, though, you 
can ask someone you trust to go.” 
Arlian looked around, then shook his head. “I 
don’t see anyone I wish to send,” he said. 
Rime shrugged. “As you please.” She turned to 
see that Door was organizing a party to go collect 
Enziet from his home, and sat down. “Our part’s 
done for now; now we wait.” 
Arlian was restless, eager to be active, to be doing 
something—but there was nothing to be done; he 
had only to wait until Enziet was brought in. He 
watched Door’s gang of a dozen or so depart, then 
sat, trying to stay calm—but he couldn’t manage it. 
Almost involuntarily, he got to his feet and looked 
for something to do, somewhere to go. 
“You mustn’t leave the room,” Rime said. “It’s set

in the rules. In theory, this restriction is to prevent 
you from arranging an ambush.” 
“I could have set one up beforehand, if that was 
my intent,” Arlian pointed out. 
“That’s true enough,” Rime agreed. “I never said 
the theory was sound.” 
Arlian stared at her for a moment, then turned 
away. He thought about sending a message to the 
Old Palace, to check on Sweet and the others—what 
if Enziet tried to reclaim his “property”? After all, 
Arlian had stolen a legally indentured slave. 
There were no messengers at hand, though, so 
instead he moved about the room, looking at the 
dozens of peculiar artifacts gathered there, asking 
Rime and the other members questions about some 
of them. 
The minutes dragged by and added up, little by 
little, until Arlian was certain that hours had 
passed, if not entire days; then suddenly the door 
slammed in, and a babble of excited voices drew the 
attention of everyone present. The party that had 
gone to fetch Enziet spilled in—but Arlian saw no 
sign of Enziet, or Toribor, or Drisheen. Wither was 
there, though, and Nail. “He’s gone,” Door 
announced as he stepped into the room. “He and 
several of his guards and servants and hirelings, 
together with Lords Drisheen and Belly and parts of 
their households. They gathered at the Enziet’s 
manse at dawn this morning and left the city.” 
“But we found these two arguing at the gate of 
Enziet’s home,” someone added, pointing at Wither 
and Nail. 
“Then question them,” someone else called. “I 
want to know what the truth is here!” 
Wither turned and glared at the speaker. “By 
what right?” he bellowed. 
The chatter of the others stopped instantly. 
“By what right do you dare to suggest I be

questioned?” Wither continued. “Am I, too, accused 
of withholding information I am sworn to share? If 
so, show me my accuser!” 
“No one accused you of anything,” Door said 
wearily. 
“Then speak not of questioning me, as if I were a 
peculating servant or a naughty child!” Wither 
shouted, gesturing. “I am older than you all; I stood 
on this city’s ramparts and fought dragons before 
you were born!” 
Nail cleared his throat. Rime smiled crookedly at 
that, and whispered to Arlian, “No one’s sure which 
of those two is older.” 
“My lord,” someone called, “we demand nothing 
of you, but we would ask that you grant us the favor 
of telling us what you know of the case at hand—in 
your own way, and as you will.” 
A murmur of agreement ran through the 
gathering. 
“Fair enough,” Wither said with a nod. “Sit down 
and be still, and I’ll speak.” 
The various members, Arlian among them, found 
seats—all in all, more than a score of the Society’s 
members sat listening to Wither’s words. Nail sat 
close by Wither’s side; Door took a place behind 
him, blocking the doorway. 
“Yesterday,” Wither said, “Lord Obsidian came 
into possession of a slave who had been in Lord 
Enziet’s house. This slave, who Lord Obsidian knew 
years ago and believes to be truthful, told Obsidian, 
Rime, and myself that Lord Enziet had boasted to 
her of certain sorcerous powers unlike any known to 
the rest of us, and had demonstrated these powers 
for her. While Rime and Obsidian saw fit to make 
this the basis of their accusations against Lord 
Enziet, I chose instead to go to him yesterday 
evening, present the facts as I understood them, 
and demand an explanation.” He paused for breath, 
and looked around at roughly two dozen rapt faces.

“He had no explanation,” Wither said. “He told 
me that there were extenuating circumstances 
involved, circumstances unknown to me or to any of 
you, that had prevented him from telling any of us 
the truth—that an oath sworn prior to the founding 
of the Dragon Society had prevented him from 
telling us every little detail of his sorcerous 
knowledge, and continued to prevent him from 
revealing what was asked. 
“I told him that was insufficient, and he said that 
all he could do to appease me was to travel to a 
certain place and ask to be released from his 
ancient oath—that if I would allow him to do so, he 
would go, and would return promptly, and would 
then answer to the Society. I agreed, and he 
gathered his household, invited certain friends to 
join him, and early this morning he departed.” 
“Where is he going?” Flute asked. 
“I don’t know,” Wither said. “I asked, but he 
would not tell me. He said he would be gone for a 
considerable time, but would return—by spring, 
most likely, and certainly within a year.” 
“But he’s left Manfort,” a woman called Glass 
said, looking at Arlian. 
“Yes, he has,” Wither agreed. 
Nail snorted and rose. “It’s a trap, of course,” he 
said. “Enziet told me as much, and invited me to 
join him and the others. Oh, he’s off on some 
mysterious errand to satisfy Wither, that’s true 
enough, and I don’t know a thing more about that 
than Wither’s told you, but it’s no coincidence that 
this is a chance for Arlian and all his sworn foes but 
me to meet outside the city walls.” He looked 
directly at Arlian. “You can go after him if you like,” 
he said. “He expects you to—and he’ll be waiting.” 
Arlian stood and asked Wither, “Is this true?” 
“I suppose it is,” Wither admitted. “And the best 
thing all around is to get all of you out of here, so 
you can settle your disagreements once and for all

and leave the rest of us undisturbed. Yes, I expect 
him to kill you, but if you go after him and you kill 
him, I won’t weep—I’ll be surprised, but I won’t 
weep.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. 
“You’ve been stirring up trouble ever since you 
arrived, Obsidian, and I don’t like it. One way or the 
other, I want it settled, so that the Society can go on 
in harmony as it always has.” 
“Spoilsport,” Rime muttered. 
Arlian glanced at her, then turned to Nail. “And 
why didn’t you accept Enziet’s invitation? Why 
didn’t you go with him? I’ve sworn vengeance 
against you as much as the others.” 
“I’d prefer that you forsake that oath,” Nail 
replied calmly. “I’d much rather have your 
forgiveness than your blood; I have apologized for 
my crimes before, and I will do so again, if you so 
desire. I have made what amends I can, and will 
make what further amends may be reasonably 
required of me. If after that you still insist on 
slaying me, well, I won’t make it easy for you—I’ll 
stay within these walls as long as I can. Enziet may 
be determined to see you destroyed, and Wither 
may wish an end to this stalemate, but I would 
much prefer to continue as we are.” 
Arlian stared at him for a moment, then at 
Wither. 
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you 
warn him, and let him escape?” 
The old man leaned over to him and whispered, 
“Listen, Obsidian—you were right. Enziet speaks 
with the dragons. He admitted it to me. But don’t 
you see what that means?” 
“No,” Arlian said angrily. “Other than that he’s 
deceived us all.” 
“It means he knows where they are!” Wither 
hissed. “He can go to them, and they won’t kill him 
on sight, and he can fetch out venom!”

Arlian stared at him. “For your woman,” he said. 
“Yes!” Wither slapped the table. “For Marasa! 
And for your woman, if you have one! For anyone 
you choose! We can all be immortal!” 
“And in exchange for his promise to fetch you 
venom, you let him go free,” Arlian said bitterly. 
“Yes.” Wither sighed. “I didn’t want to see this 
opportunity thrown away. I didn’t want to see the 
Dragon Society destroyed by the feud between the 
two of you. So yes, I let him go, and when he 
returns, if he has the venom I intend to support him 
wholeheartedly.” 
“If he returns,” Arlian corrected. “What if I kill 
him first?” 
“That’s a risk I’ll take,” Wither replied. 
“Are you going after him?” Rime asked. 
“It is a trap,” Nail said. 
“But it’s also the opportunity you wanted,” 
Wither said. “Three of them, outside the walls.” 
Arlian looked from one to the other, trying to 
think. His enemies were vulnerable, outside the 
protection of his membership oath—but they were 
expecting him, prepared and guarded, and he 
would be grossly outnumbered. Wither had set it up 
so that he would try, and would die in doing so, 
ending the conflict within the Society—and getting 
dragon venom for his mistress as well. Wither 
admitted as much—he had arranged for Arlian to 
die trying to carry out his revenge. 
And back at the Old Palace, Sweet was waiting 
for him, still weak from her long ordeal—could he 
leave her? 
There were other matters to consider, as well: 
Had Drisheen and Toribor taken their captives with 
them? Were those four women still alive? He would 
have to investigate that—if he stayed in the city. 
But he had sworn to kill those three, and this was

his chance. 
But Sweet was in the Old Palace, in need of his 
care. 
Perhaps he could wait, and then follow later, and 
catch Enziet and the others off guard after all—but 
if he waited, how would he know which way they 
had gone? 
“Are you going?” Rime repeated. 
“I don’t know,” Arlian said, burying his face in 
his hands. “I don’t know!” 
50 
A Street Parting 
Arlian was troubled as he walked up the path to 
Lord Drisheen’s mansion; Sweet was not recovering 
as quickly as he had expected. In fact, she had 
looked weaker than ever when he left her to come 
here. 
He glanced at the guards on either side of him. 
He had arrived at the gate and asked after 
Drisheen, as if he had not already known the man 
was out of the city for an extended journey, and the 
gatekeeper had told him that Lord Drisheen was 
traveling, but had left detailed instructions of what 
to do if Lord Obsidian came visiting. 
That should have worried him, but he was too 
concerned with Sweet’s condition to think about it 
much. After all, Drisheen could not have ordered 
that any mortal harm be inflicted upon him. While 
the exact wording of the oath might possibly be 
interpreted to allow it, Drisheen must know that the 
rest of the Society would not stand for such trickery

in this case. 
He was being escorted up the front walk, between 
beds of bright flowers he barely saw, and into the 
foyer of the main house, a small room with windows 
of colored glass that streaked the marble floor with 
blue and yellow light. Here one of the guards who 
had accompanied him announced to a 
worried-looking housemaid, “This is Lord 
Obsidian.” 
“Oh,” the maid said. “The one who…” 
She didn’t finish the sentence, but looked 
questioningly at the guard. 
He nodded. 
This exchange penetrated Arlian’s distraction; he 
looked around, wondering whether Drisheen might 
have arranged some nonlethal trap. 
“This way, then,” the maid said, pointing and 
leading the way. 
Arlian followed her down a corridor, around a 
turn, and finally into a tall library, where a balcony 
some ten feet above the floor encircled the room, 
giving access to a second tier of bookshelves. 
Two naked bodies dangled from the balcony 
railing— two bodies with legs that ended in 
long-healed stumps, two women hanging from 
nooses around their necks. 
“He hanged them last night,” the housemaid 
said. “In a great hurry.” 
Arlian stared at the two dead women. 
Recognizing their twisted, congested features was 
not easy, but he knew them—Sparkle and Ferret. 
“He said it was a gift just for you, my lord,” the 
housemaid continued. “A going-away present, one 
we were to show you as soon as you came.” 
Arlian’s teeth gritted; without a word he turned 
and marched out. 
No one made a move to stop him, which was just

as well—his hand was on his sword hilt, and Arlian 
would have cut down anyone, no matter who it was, 
who got in his way. 
He had known that Enziet thought of other 
people, those who had not acquired the heart of the 
dragon, as unimportant, as things to be used or 
tossed aside as the whim took him; he had not 
realized that Drisheen shared that attitude. 
And two more innocent women were dead 
because he had not realized they were in danger. 
It might already be too late, but there were two 
more yet unaccounted for. Arlian was running by 
the time he left Drisheen’s land, and wasted no time 
in proceeding to Toribor’s more modest estate, on 
the southern edge of the Upper City. 
“I’m looking for two slaves,” he told the 
gatekeeper without preamble. “Two young women 
with no feet.” 
Startled, the gatekeeper stared at him. 
“Ah—would their names be Cricket and Brook?” the 
man asked. 
“Yes,” Arlian replied—by process of elimination, 
he now finally knew that the other dead women 
were Sandalwood and Amber; at last, all sixteen 
were accounted for. 
“I thought you must mean them,” the gatekeeper 
said. “They’ve lived here for years. They’re the only 
ones with their feet cut off.” 
At least Toribor hadn’t killed them long ago, as 
Enziet had killed Dove and Horim had killed Daub 
and her unknown companion—but he might have 
followed Drisheen’s hideous example. “Where are 
they?” Arlian demanded. 
“Lord Toribor took them with him,” the 
gatekeeper said. 
“They’re still alive?” Arlian asked, relieved. 
“Well, they were when they left,” the gatekeeper 
said, clearly puzzled by the question.

Arlian did not bother to assuage the fellow’s 
curiosity; he turned away without another word 
and headed home at a trot. 
Two more dead—but two still alive! He might yet 
save them. A smile of relief struggled to be born at 
the thought, but he fought it down. 
Cricket and Brook—he remembered them well. 
Cricket had been the very smallest of the women in 
the House of the Six Lords, and had been called 
upon to play the part of child in some customers’ 
games—a role she hated, so that at other times she 
tried very hard to act older than her modest years. 
And Brook had been named for her habit of 
humming and babbling quietly when working or 
when happy. 
Those two were yet another argument in favor of 
leaving the city in pursuit of his foes—but Sweet 
worried him. She seemed so ill. His stillborn smile 
vanished completely, and he quickened his pace. 
Home at the Old Palace he barely took time to 
toss his cloak aside before hurrying to Sweet’s 
room. He had given her a chamber in the east wing, 
with a fine view of the garden—though this time of 
year that was no great delight, as the flowers were 
all done for the year and the leaves going brown. 
Black met him in the passageway outside her 
room and said, “She’s no better. Ari, this isn’t the 
aftereffects of torture; should I sent for a physician? 
I’ve asked Thirif if there’s anything he or the other 
magicians can do, and he says there isn’t.” 
“Of course they can’t do anything,” Arlian said. 
“Magic is all deceit and destruction. It can’t heal. At 
best it could make her think she was well, and that 
would do more harm than good.” 
“Then should I summon a physician?” 
Arlian shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me 
talk to her first. She may know more than she’s told 
us.”

Black was clearly unhappy with this decision. “As 
you say,” he said. “I’ve told the servants that there is 
to be someone in the room at all times, ready to 
help if anything happens.” 
“Good,” Arlian said, clapping him on the 
shoulder. “Thank you, Black.” 
Black hesitated. “My true name is Beron,” he 
said. “I’ve meant to tell you that for some time now. 
What of the other women, though?” 
“Beron,” Arlian acknowledged. He sighed. 
“Drisheen hanged the two he held—they were called 
Ferret and Sparkle. Lord Belly took Cricket and 
Brook with him.” 
“But they’re alive?” 
“So far,” Arlian said. 
“Will you tell her?” 
“I’ll decide that when the occasion arises.” 
“Good enough,” Black said. With a nod, the men 
passed one another and Arlian entered Sweet’s 
chamber. He found her lying in bed, talking quietly 
with Kitten while a servant bustled about, dusting 
and straightening. Kitten was wearing a long blue 
gown intended to conceal the fact that she had no 
feet, and was perched on the edge of the bed, 
chatting happily. 
All three women heard him enter and glanced at 
the door. 
“Triv!” Sweet said, smiling broadly at the sight of 
him. She beckoned at him. Kitten turned and 
inched over to make room on the bed. 
Arlian took the place offered and leaned over to 
kiss Sweet’s brow. Her skin was clammy and 
sheened with sweat. When he straightened she 
raised a hand for him to hold, and he saw that it 
trembled. 
Black was clearly right, as Arlian had already 
feared— this was more than the aftereffects of her

long imprisonment. 
“How are you feeling?” he asked. 
“Wonderful, now that you’re here,” she said, 
beaming. 
He smiled back briefly, but then his concern 
forced the corners of his mouth back down. 
“Let me be blunt,” he said. “You don’t look 
wonderful. You look seriously ill. Should I send for a 
doctor?” 
Her smile wavered. She shook her head. “No, no. 
I’m fine.” 
“You’re not fine,” Arlian insisted. 
Her smile flickered, then vanished. She looked at 
Kitten, and at the servant, then up at Arlian. 
“Send them away,” she said. 
“Sweet!” Kitten protested. 
Arlian raised a hand to silence her. “I’ll be right 
back,” he told Sweet as he rose. 
He scooped a protesting Kitten up in his arms, 
her blue gown tangling around one wrist; she didn’t 
struggle, and threw her arms around his neck, but 
even as she did she was saying, “Triv, let me stay, 
please!” 
“No,” Arlian told her. “I’ll bring you back in a 
moment, I promise.” Then he turned to the 
housemaid, beckoning as best he could while 
holding Kitten. “Come,” he said. 
He carried Kitten down the hall to an adjoining 
chamber and set her in a chair there; the servant 
followed, and stood by, awaiting instructions. 
“Attend her,” he said, indicating Kitten. “I’ll 
return soon.” Then he hurried out. 
A moment later he was again seated on Sweet’s 
bed. 
“You know what’s happening to you, don’t you?” 
he said. “Tell me what you know.”

She smiled weakly at him. “I love you, Triv,” she 
said. 
“Then tell me,” he insisted. 
“It’s sorcery,” she told him. “Lord Dragon’s 
sorcery.” 
“What sort of sorcery? Has he cast a spell on 
you?” 
“In a fashion,” she said. She shuddered. “Every 
time he came to see me, he forced me to drink his 
blood.” 
Arlian stared at her. “But… but his blood is 
poison,” he said. 
“You know?” she asked, startled. 
Arlian did not know how to answer that; he was 
not eager to tell this woman he cared for that his 
own blood was likewise polluted and toxic, yet he 
was demanding secrets from her—did he have the 
right to keep his own? 
He nodded, but said nothing. 
“Do you know any more than that?” Sweet asked 
eagerly. “Perhaps there’s hope after all…” 
“Tell me what you know,” Arlian said, “and 
perhaps together we’ll see what’s to be done.” 
She frowned. “It started not long after he brought 
me to Manfort,” she said. “I would still fight him 
sometimes back then, and once I bit his hand, hard 
enough that blood showed on his skin. Angered, 
after he knocked me away he grabbed me by the 
hair and said, ‘So you like the taste of blood? Then 
blood you shall have!’ And he shoved his hand in my 
mouth and made a fist, so that the blood oozed up.” 
She trembled at the memory. “It tasted foul, Triv. 
I’ve tasted blood before, and this was different. It 
stank of corruption.” 
“I can readily believe it,” Arlian muttered. 
“But then he snatched it away and said, ‘No, 
that’s too easy. Spit it out.’ And I tried, I spat out all

I could, but the next day I woke up sweating and 
trembling…” 
“As you did today,” Arlian said. 
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Just as today. And 
he came and looked at me, and I could see he was 
thinking. Then he went away for a time, leaving me 
there, and then came back with a needle. I thought 
he meant to draw my blood, but instead he jabbed 
his own hand with it, then forced open my mouth 
and smeared a drop of his blood on my tongue.” 
“But why?” Arlian asked, puzzled. 
“An experiment, he called it. But it helped—the 
chills passed away, and I felt well again for a time. 
After a few days it happened again, and again he 
fed me a drop of his blood. It became a regular 
thing, a normal part of my existence in that house. 
He told me that I was addicted, that my body had 
been changed forever by the sorcery in his blood, 
and that if I went without it, if we were ever parted 
for more than a few days, I would die.” She smiled 
crookedly. “Only a single drop, though—more than 
that, he assured me, would kill me. After that I 
sometimes tried to cut or bite him, to draw more 
blood so that I might end my suffering, but I never 
managed it. Instead I got the one drop, whenever I 
needed it.” She grimaced. “That went on all the 
time I was there; I tasted that stinking blood of his 
a hundred times. I was expecting another visit 
when you came to rescue me.” 
“But you believe you’ll die of this?” 
“He said so,” Sweet said with a shrug. 
“But… by the dead gods, Sweet, why didn’t you 
say something? Why did you let me take you away if 
you knew you’d die without his blood?” 
She smiled up at him. “Because,” she said, “I 
would rather die here with you than live there with 
him.” 
Arlian stared silently at her for a moment as his

throat tightened and his eyes moistened. 
“You won’t die,” he said. “Not if I can prevent it!” 
After all, if she needed the blood of a 
dragonheart, that was easily come by. He was 
tempted to draw his sword-breaker then and there, 
prick his finger, and let her taste a drop of his 
blood—but that would mean revealing that he was 
as tainted as Enziet, and he did not want Sweet to 
see that, not yet. 
“I’ll be right back,” he said. He rose and stepped 
out into the hallway. There he drew his blade, 
jabbed the ball of his thumb, and squeezed out a 
thick drop of dark blood. 
He could not let her see that it came from him, 
though; he smeared it onto the back of his other 
hand, then sheathed the blade and returned to her 
bed. 
“Here,” he said, holding out his bloodied hand. 
“Lick this.” 
She stared at the red smudge, then up at his face. 
“He’s here?” she squeaked. 
“No, of course not,” Arlian said. “This came from 
another sorcerer.” 
Hesitantly, she lifted her head, closed her eyes, 
and thrust out her tongue, and Arlian pressed his 
hand to her lips. 
She licked, and then gagged. He snatched his 
hand away. 
“It’s different!” she said. “It’s… it’s not the same, 
not as vile. It’s foul, but different.” 
“It may work, all the same,” Arlian said, worried. 
“It may,” she said, obviously not convinced. She 
sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. 
Arlian stared down at her. “I’ll let you rest,” he 
said. 
He checked on her several times that night, and 
each time was the same—her brow damp with

sweat, her hands trembling, her face pale and skin 
cool. 
His blood had not been enough. 
He consulted with Wither the next day, at the old 
man’s home—Wither had seen and studied the 
effects of a dragonheart’s blood before, in his 
attempts to preserve his women. 
When Arlian explained the situation Wither’s 
expression turned grave. 
“I’ve never heard of anything like this,” he said. 
“It seems Lord Enziet had several secrets he 
neglected to tell us.” After some further discussion 
he came to the Old Palace, with a bagful of 
sorcerous equipment, to study Sweet’s condition. 
She allowed him to examine her, sampling her 
blood and saliva, only so long as Arlian was present. 
Arlian stayed with Sweet while Wither took his 
samples and sorceries away. 
When he was done he sent a servant to inform 
Arlian, and the two men spoke privately in the small 
salon. 
“It’s not just the blood that has affected her,” 
Wither explained. “It would appear that Lord 
Enziet is himself taking drugs, drugs I am not 
familiar with, and that he has passed on to this 
poor child in combination with his toxic blood.” 
“Can you do anything?” Arlian asked. “Can these 
drugs be duplicated?” 
Wither shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest 
idea. There’s no way to tell from what little we 
know.” 
“Who would know?” 
“Besides Enziet? I have no idea.” 
Arlian stared at him for a moment, then turned 
and called for his cloak and his sword. 
Moments later he stood with his blade at the 
throat of the guardsman unfortunate enough to be

at the gate of Enziet’s home. Moments after that he 
was face to face with Enziet’s steward. 
“He took his medicines with him, of course,” the 
steward explained. He was a thin, gray-haired 
fellow who did not seem particularly distressed by 
Arlian’s forced entry or by the questions put to him; 
Arlian supposed that he had seen any number of 
irregular and extraordinary things in Enziet’s 
employ, and had learned to take them in stride. 
“What are his medicines?” Arlian demanded. 
“What does he take?” 
“I don’t know,” the steward calmly replied. “It’s 
secret. Most of the household doesn’t even know he 
takes drugs, and none of us know what’s in them. 
He obtains the ingredients himself, makes up the 
dosage himself—none of us ever interfere. Prying 
into my lord’s affairs is extremely unwise.” 
Arlian stared at the steward angrily—but then 
released him. It was plain he was telling the truth. 
He returned home empty-handed. 
That night he lay beside Sweet in her bed and 
told her, “I don’t know what to do—should I go after 
Enziet and try to bring him back alive?” 
“No!” she said. “He’ll kill you.” 
“But you may die if he doesn’t return.” 
“I don’t mind,” she said. “As I told you, it’s better 
to die here than live…” She broke off and gasped 
suddenly and convulsively, then panted for a 
moment as Arlian leaped up and looked down at 
her helplessly. 
“I’m sorry,” she said, when her breathing had 
returned to normal. “I couldn’t help myself.” She 
laughed weakly. “I never did that before!” 
Arlian frowned. 
She might yet survive; she might fight off the 
poisons; but he could think of nothing more he 
could do. He could not imagine any way he could 
locate and capture Enziet and bring him back in

time to help. 
All he could do was make her comfortable and 
hope for the best. 
All thought of tracking and killing Enziet had 
been thrust aside; Sweet’s life was more important 
than his revenge. There would be time enough to 
deal with Enziet when she was recovered—or dead. 
“You shouldn’t have let me take you away from 
him,” he murmured as he lay down beside her. 
She smiled at him. “Don’t be silly,” she said. 
“I love you,” he said. 
“That’s silly, too,” she said. “I’m a footless, 
drug-addicted whore, and you’re Lord Obsidian. 
You’ll be better off when I do die.” 
“No,” he said, resting his hand on her heart. 
“You’ll live through this somehow.” 
They fell asleep there. 
Deep in the night, hours past midnight but long 
before dawn, Arlian awoke suddenly. Something 
had disturbed him, but at first he did not know 
what it was. Everything seemed utterly still. 
Then he realized that that was it—it was too still. 
The beating of Sweet’s heart beneath his hand, the 
gentle whisper of her labored breath, had stopped. 
For a day she lay there as Arlian roamed 
aimlessly about the palace, weeping at times and 
silent at others. On the second day she was buried 
in the garden beneath her window as thin, dry 
flakes of snow, the first of the season, blew through 
the city streets. 
And on the third day Arlian began preparations 
for the hunt, the pursuit, the fight that he was 
determined to win. He swore it over and over again. 
Lord Enziet would die.

BOOK 
IV 
Lord Lanair 
51 
In Pursuit 
“Still to the south,” Thirif said, studying the 
glowing crystal in his hand. 
“Toward the Desolation,” Arlian said. 
“Yes,” Thirif agreed. 
Once Arlian had learned that Lord Enziet had 
headed south he had guessed that his destination 
lay somewhere in the Desolation, and every 
subsequent check had confirmed this suspicion. 
Arlian reasoned that if Enziet had gone to fetch 
the venom that Wither demanded, leaving in early 
autumn, and if the dragons never emerged in cold 
weather, then he would have to go down into the 
dragons’ caverns. Those caverns were said to be 
scattered throughout the Lands of Man, but Arlian 
had given the matter some thought, and concluded 
that the entrances could only be in deserted places, 
in wastelands where humans would not see the 
dragons going to and fro. 
That could mean the steeper peaks in the western

mountains, or the frozen plains of the far north—if 
dragons could tolerate such cold even in the 
summer—or any number of places Arlian had never 
seen, but Enziet had headed south, and in the rich 
lands to the south, between Manfort and the 
magic-haunted Borderlands, it seemed most likely 
to mean the Desolation. 
Besides, Arlian remembered his earlier journey 
across that wasteland. He had seen signs that might 
have been left by dragons. 
And in the Desolation Arlian expected Enziet to 
follow the Eastern Road, as it was along the rocky 
eastern route that caves and sinkholes abounded. 
The sandy interior seemed an unlikely place to find 
caverns. On the way to the Borderlands, more than 
two years earlier, a guard called Stabber had told 
him that there were caverns to the east of the three 
caravan routes. 
Arlian had not been certain enough of his 
guesswork to simply head there directly, without 
further guidance, but the Aritheian magicians, 
working in concert and basing their spells on what 
they had learned from Sweet’s poisoned blood, had 
devised a way to track Lord Enziet. 
Due to his draconic taint, his great age and 
power, and the unique mix of drugs he took, Lord 
Enziet’s blood was like nothing else in all the world, 
and the Aritheians had modified a crystal meant to 
find lost things so that it would respond only to 
Enziet. Thirif now held that magical stone in his 
hand, checking its glow periodically for any sign of 
change. 
Four of the Aritheians had remained behind in 
Manfort. Hlur had been accepted by the Duke as 
the new Aritheian ambassador some time ago, and 
her husband had stayed with her, while Isein and 
Qulu, despite their poor command of the language, 
had agreed to stay and run Lord Obsidian’s trade in 
magic.

Thirif and Shibiel had come with him—and 
would, if circumstances permitted, continue on 
home to Arithei when either Arlian or Enziet was 
dead. 
Arlian had asked Black to remain behind as well, 
to look after his affairs and the Aritheians, but 
Black had refused. 
“You’ll need a guard,” he said, “Enziet isn’t 
traveling alone.” 
Arlian had argued, but in the end Black had 
prevailed; he now drove the wagon in which Arlian 
and Thirif and Shibiel—and Lady Rime—rode. 
Arlian had more or less expected Black’s 
behavior, but Rime’s insistence on accompanying 
him had been a complete surprise. 
“I know Enziet better than you do,” she said. 
“And I have my own reasons for wishing him ill.” 
“It will be dangerous,” Arlian had warned her. 
“We may very well all be killed by some ambush.” 
She had laughed bitterly. “I should have died four 
hundred years ago. I think you need a fellow 
dragonheart on your side, boy—Arlian’s got Belly 
and Drisheen, and you’ll have me. And I won’t do 
anything foolhardy—with this leg of mine I’ll hardly 
be able to. I’ll ride in the wagon and keep your 
magician company, maybe teach him a little 
sorcery.” 
“As you wish, then.” 
And now the five of them were seated around a 
table in a Sadar inn, while Thirif and Shibiel tested 
the air for traces of Enziet’s passage. 
They had left Manfort eight days behind Enziet’s 
party, half expecting to find them waiting in 
ambush just outside the gates, but while witnesses 
reported that Enziet had lingered in the area, he 
had not waited long enough for Arlian to find him. 
Eventually, days before Arlian set out, Enziet had 
moved on to the south.

Arlian’s party had followed, moving as quickly as 
an ox-drawn wagon could go. The road was too 
rough for a coach—those fine springs and elegant 
spokes would have given out in short order—and 
while horses could draw a wagon well enough, 
Arlian considered oxen more reliable. 
At Benth-in-Tara they were five days behind 
Enziet’s party, according to the innkeeper, and 
Arlian had worried that Enziet might have turned 
aside into the hills. 
At Jumpwater they had lost ground—Enziet’s 
lead had widened to six days—but were still on the 
right trail. Arlian attributed the growing gap to the 
snowstorm that had struck midway between the 
two towns. 
At Blasted Oak that gap was back to eight days, 
though no storm had intervened—in fact, the 
weather had seemed unnaturally warm, though the 
fields were brown and the trees leafless. Arlian had 
finally thought to ask the townspeople why Enziet 
might be moving more quickly, and had learned 
that Enziet’s party was entirely on horseback, rather 
than riding an ox-drawn wagon—the number of 
men was estimated at twenty or so, the number of 
horses at thirty. 
That was a great many horses, but Lord Enziet 
could afford them—as could Lord Obsidian, had he 
considered it. 
“I should have thought of that,” Arlian said, when 
he had told the others. “No wagon at all.” 
“Can you ride a horse?” Black asked. 
“I cannot,” Shibiel remarked. 
“It’s too late now, in any case,” Rime said. “I 
wouldn’t trust any mount I could find here. And 
after all, he’ll be coming back north eventually.” 
Arlian had not found that a very satisfactory 
thought. 
Now, in Sadar, they were nine days behind, but

Arlian was growing ever less concerned about the 
possibility of losing the trail. Enziet was clearly 
following the caravan route to the Desolation. If the 
weather held, a fortnight would bring Arlian and 
the others to Cork Tree, and another fortnight 
would see them past Stonebreak and into the 
Desolation. Horses would not do any better in that 
dry waste than oxen. 
“I’d say the ambush will be at Cork Tree,” Black 
said. “Probably just north of town, so we’ll be tired.” 
Startled, Arlian turned. “What?” 
“The ambush,” Black said. “You know, the trap? 
The attack?” 
“What are you talking about?” Arlian demanded. 
“If they were going to ambush us, wouldn’t they 
have done it long ago?” 
Black sighed. “Ari, Enziet is a sorcerer, isn’t he? A 
wily old man, known throughout Manfort for 
covering every detail?” 
“He’s right,” Rime said. “He’ll have been tracking 
you, just as you’ve tracked him. He’ll know we’re 
coming.” 
“How can he be tracking me?” Arlian asked. “He 
has nothing of mine to work from—no blood or 
magic.” He looked at Thirif. 
The Aritheian looked thoughtful. “I understand,” 
he said. “I thought I was mistaken, or seeing old 
dreams left behind.” 
“What?” 
“He cannot follow you,” Thirif said, suddenly 
businesslike, “but we are passing through places he 
has been, at a time of year when few travel. He can 
easily set sorcerous wardings behind him, wards 
that ordinary people do not disturb but that 
respond to the presence of our magic.” 
“He wouldn’t know I was bringing you two,” 
Arlian said.

“He wouldn’t need to,” Rime said. “Remember 
how we’re tracking him.” 
“The heart of the dragon,” Black said. “I still 
don’t know what it is, but it’s plain you and the 
Lady have it. That’s what he’s using.” 
“Yes,” Thirif said. “I have felt the wards breaking, 
like an unseen spiderweb, but I did not recognize 
them for what they were.” 
“Then he knows we’re following him,” Arlian said. 
“And how far behind we are,” Black agreed. 
“There’s no reason to take Belly or Drisheen up 
onto the Desolation with him,” Rime said. “He 
could leave them in ambush anywhere he wanted.” 
“But I say they’ll be just north of Cork Tree,” 
Black said, “because they’ll want to be based out of 
a town, where they can sleep in comfort and buy the 
food they need. Stonebreak is too obvious, and 
would leave no second chance if we somehow 
slipped past. They aren’t here in Sadar, and the 
villages in between are too small to hide them well. 
That leaves Cork Tree.” He grimaced. “Sadar would 
have been better, but maybe he didn’t think it 
through far enough in advance.” 
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” 
Black looked exasperated. “Because,” he said, “I 
thought you’d be bright enough to figure it out for 
yourself. After all, everyone’s said all along that you 
knew this was a trap. And up until we reached 
Sadar, I hadn’t thought out where the ambush 
would be.” 
“But I hadn’t thought they’d split up, and Enziet’s 
still far ahead of us! We might have walked right 
into it!” 
“Ridden,” Black said. “We haven’t been walking. 
And I’ve been doing the driving, and I’ve been 
watching.” 
“But…but what would you have done if you had 
seen it?”

“Stopped.” 
“And then what?” 
“I hadn’t gotten that far.” 
“Oh, that’s clever.” 
“I told you, I thought you were ready for it.” 
“Well, I’m not.” Arlian frowned. “But I should 
be.” He looked at Thirif and Shibiel. “They don’t 
know we have magicians with us, do they?” 
“How would I know?” Black asked, shrugging. 
“Enziet knows you have magicians working for 
you,” Rime said. “He’d assume you might have 
brought them, but whether he’d tell the others I 
can’t say.” 
“He wouldn’t,” Arlian said. “Not if he’s leaving 
them in ambush.” 
“You probably know him better than I do, but 
wouldn’t he want them to be ready?” Black asked. 
Arlian shook his head. “He’d want them 
confident. He might have told Toribor and 
Drisheen, but no one else; he wouldn’t want them 
scared.” 
Rime nodded. “I’d say you’re right.” 
“Then we have surprise on our side.” He turned 
to Thirif. “What can you do to aid us?” 
Thirif looked troubled. “You know the nature of 
magic, my lord.” 
“I know something of it,” Arlian agreed. “Not 
that much.” 
Thirif sighed. “Our power is weak here. The 
dreams are thin and pale, like mist, while the 
dreams of Arithei are deep water. We cannot create 
new spells here, but only expend those we brought 
with us. We have certain magicks I thought might 
be useful, some of which can be modified; we can 
work deceptions, or expand the senses, but not 
much more than that. At home we could shake the

earth, draw fire from the sky, summon beasts from 
the night— but not here. Here we have only the 
subtle magicks and preparations.” 
“Sorcery,” Rime said. “They’ve become 
sorcerers.” 
Thirif nodded in her direction. “In a way,” he 
agreed. “We still use our own methods—but those 
are not suited to this place. Lady Rime may be of 
more help to you than we are.” 
“But you worked magic in Manfort!” 
“We could use the magical things we brought 
with us,” 
Thirif said, “and we could work minor deceptions 
and small magics. No more.” 
“You set up wards.” 
“We had brought many wards with us; I told you 
as much.” 
Arlian knew that was true. “You cast a glamour 
on me,” he said, still hoping for more. 
“Also a small magic we had brought with us, and 
one in those categories I described. Wards are an 
expansion of the senses, glamour a simple 
deception. These take no great power. To quickly 
stroke down a foe—that takes great power.” 
“But who asked you to?” Arlian asked. “I asked 
what you can do, not what you cannot.” 
“Ah.” Thirif spread his hands. “We can do here 
what we could do in Manfort, no more or no 
less—save that we brought only a few potions and 
talismans with us, as we did not wish to deplete 
your stock-in-trade any more than necessary. I have 
the makings of a dozen wards and a score of 
glamours, a handful of illusions—nothing more.” 
“But you have glamours?” 
“Of course.” 
Arlian nodded. “Then disguise us,” he said.

Thirif frowned. “We cannot fool the wards Lord 
Dragon has set.” 
“We don’t need to fool them,” Arlian said. “We 
need to fool Toribor. And Drisheen. And the guards 
they brought with them.” 
“Ah,” Thirif said again. A rare smile appeared on 
his grim brown face. “I see,” he said. 
“You think they won’t know who we are?” Black 
asked. “They’re not caravan lords,” Arlian said. 
“They haven’t traveled this road often, if at all; how 
would they know what to expect? If they see five 
strangers riding in a wagon, will they think it’s the 
people they’re waiting for, or will they assume we’re 
just the local traders we’ll appear to be? They’re 
probably expecting us to be on horseback, just as 
they are.” 
“Are you planning to ride right past them, then?” 
Rime asked. 
“Yes,” Arlian said. “And then I mean to find 
Toribor and Drisheen, and kill them.” 
Black sighed. “I thought you wanted Enziet.” 
“I do,” Arlian said, “but I want Drisheen, too.” 
The image of Ferret and Sparkle hanging in 
Drisheen’s library loomed large in his memory, and 
his hand tightened on his mug until his knuckles 
turned white. “And Toribor—but I want Drisheen 
more. I believe I might even be willing to let Toribor 
live if it meant I could kill Drisheen, but I don’t 
think Toribor will agree to that, do you?” 
“I doubt the guards will, either,” Black remarked 
dryly. 
“And that’s your job,” Arlian said. “Keep them 
away long enough to give me a chance.” 
“To kill both of them? Skilled swordsmen far 
older than yourself?” Black threw up his hands. 
“Why don’t the rest of us just turn back now, if 
you’re so determined to die? This whole thing is 
pointless—I don’t know why I came!”

“I’m not determined to die,” Arlian said quietly. 
“But you’re going to give them a chance, aren’t 
you?” Rime said disgustedly. “You won’t just cut 
their throats while they sleep, will you?” 
“No, I won’t,” Arlian admitted. “But I’m not 
planning on duels, either. They had their chance to 
meet me honorably. They had their chance to make 
peace with me, as Nail did. And you’re all sure 
they’re planning to ambush me. I intend to kill 
them both.” He bared his teeth in an ugly 
expression. “I intend to give them a chance—more 
than they gave Rose, or Sparkle, or Ferret, or the 
rest—but not an even chance.” 
Black and Rime stared at him, then exchanged 
glances with one another. 
Then Rime smiled. 
“That’s better,” she said. 
52 
Ambush 
“We have just passed a ward,” Thirif announced. 
Arlian looked at him, startled, and was startled 
anew by the unfamiliar face he found—he had 
momentarily forgotten the glamour Shibiel had cast 
on her companion the night before. 
They were roughly a day’s journey north of Cork 
Tree, and had made preparations the night before 
for the ambush they expected to encounter later. 
That was for later, though, perhaps even the next 
day if they did not reach Cork Tree by nightfall; 
right now it was early morning, and they had just 
broken camp half an hour before.

Up until now, Thirif had only sensed wards in 
towns or at easily remembered landmarks; no such 
feature was anywhere in sight. 
“Out here?” Arlian asked. 
Thirif nodded. 
Black, on the driver’s seat, had overheard; he 
leaned back through the wagon’s door. “It’s to let 
them know to ready the ambush,” he said. 
It was odd for Arlian to hear Black’s words 
coming from the scruffy, long-haired, gray-clad 
figure that drove the wagon. “But Enziet set the 
wards, didn’t he?” Arlian asked. “And he’s in the 
Desolation by now…” 
“Drisheen is as practiced a sorcerer as Enziet,” 
Rime pointed out. The glamour had subtracted a 
dozen years from her already-deceptive appearance 
and transformed her wooden leg to a clubfoot—the 
limp could not be hidden, only disguised. 
“Oh,” Arlian said. “Thirif, how do I look? Is the 
glamour holding?” 
“Of course,” Thirif said. 
“Good,” Arlian said. He looked around at the 
others. 
He would certainly not have recognized them. 
The Aritheians’ exotic southern features had been 
replaced by utterly ordinary faces; Rime’s intensity 
was hidden beneath a moon-shaped visage and 
mousy brown hair; Black’s distinctive leather 
clothing and close-cropped black hair had been 
replaced by homespun wool and shaggy brown 
locks. 
A sorcerer of any talent would be able to see 
through the disguises, if he were close and made an 
effort—but why would Drisheen, or even the 
less-skilled Toribor, bother to look closely? 
“Good enough,” Arlian said. “Black—I mean, 
Gall— when do you expect we’ll reach them?”

“Midafternoon would be my guess,” Black 
replied, “but I can’t be sure.” 
“Good enough,” Arlian repeated. “Drive on.” 
They stopped to eat lunch and water the oxen at 
midday, but otherwise pressed on as quickly as they 
could. “If we arrive sooner than they expect us, 
they’ll be that much more likely to believe our 
disguises,” Arlian explained to Shibiel, who was 
nervous and unsure just what to expect. 
“But they’re expecting us on horses,” Rime said. 
“On horseback we’d get there even earlier.” 
Arlian frowned at that. “But they won’t expect us 
to arrive by wagon as soon as we will,” he said. 
As the day wore on and no ambushers appeared 
Arlian grew ever more nervous; he began talking 
compulsively to Rime in an attempt to calm 
himself. His chatter became sufficiently annoying 
that the Aritheians got out of the wagon to walk; 
Rime, with her wooden leg, could not practically 
avail herself of that option. 
She did not seem to mind, however, and when he 
began to run short of things to say was willing to 
oblige him with a few stories of her own centuries of 
life; she had roamed extensively, for more than a 
century, before finally reaching Manfort and 
discovering the Dragon Society. She had dozens of 
anecdotes to tell about those years of wandering. 
She told him about being pursued through the 
streets of Clearpool by a pack of hounds after she 
cut the throat of Lord Water’s son, who had raped 
her. She described how she came to be snowbound 
in the Sawtooth, where she smashed her leg in an 
avalanche and became so desperate for food that 
she amputated, cooked, and ate the ruined portion, 
saving the bone as a reminder. Despite his 
nervousness, she rendered Arlian helpless with 
laughter with her account of how it had once taken 
her three days to catch a cat that had stolen her 
favorite gloves.

During a lull in the conversation, though, Arlian 
realized that she had not mentioned one incident he 
was curious about. 
“You once said you had your own reasons for 
wishing Enziet ill,” he said. “What are they?” 
She glanced sideways at him. “Why do you ask?” 
“Mere curiosity,” he said, realizing a trifle 
belatedly that he was being a shade more 
inquisitive than was entirely polite. “If you would 
prefer not to say…” 
“I generally would,” she said, “but today, when we 
may all die in an ambush at any moment, I find 
myself willing to speak. You will recall, I trust, that I 
said I had a husband and four children when a 
dragon destroyed our village. I told you that my 
husband died, and let you think that my children 
died, as well—but in fact, my eldest daughter was 
not at home. She had married and moved away the 
year before, and when I had climbed from the well I 
made my way to her home and threw myself on her 
mercy. She took me in and cared for me, and I lived 
there for quite some time—but when her neighbors 
began to notice that she looked older than I did, I 
departed, before accusations of black sorcery arose. 
Still, I returned anonymously now and then to visit 
my grandchildren, and my great-grandchildren, 
and on through the generations.” She sighed. 
“The family survived, but did not particularly 
thrive; I have perhaps thirty living descendants 
today, hardly a large number after four hundred 
years. I would probably have several more, however, 
had not one branch of the family fallen into the 
hands of Lord Enziet’s hired slavers.” 
“But didn’t you…” Arlian began. 
“Protest?” She shook her head. “By the time I 
found out what had become of them it was too 
late—all but one were dead, and the last was 
mutilated, no longer fit for anything but the life to 
which Enziet had consigned her. I had told everyone

that like the other dragonhearts I had no family, so 
that no one could use them against me, or gain a 
hold over me by threatening them, and yet they had 
died nonetheless; once that had happened, and was 
over and done, what was the point in admitting my 
lies? No one would care that Enziet had destroyed 
half a dozen innocent lives—they were only mortals, 
whatever their ancestry, and Enziet is the senior 
member of the Dragon Society.” 
“I’m sorry,” Arlian said. 
“You knew the last of them, I think,” Rime said. 
“I believe she was called Rose, and was the Rose you 
knew.” 
Arlian sat in stunned silence for a moment, then 
swallowed. “Oh,” he said. 
“I don’t even remember how many generations 
lay between us,” Rime said. “In truth, I don’t 
suppose she shared any more of my blood than any 
of a thousand others, and the ties have grown weak 
over the long years— whether by nature or because 
the taint in my blood has turned my heart cold, I 
can’t say. Still, I had looked after my family as best I 
could for a very long time, and from the time I came 
to Manfort until Enziet’s actions, none of them had 
ever known any real want or serious hardship that 
wealth or influence might spare them.” 
“Oh,” Arlian said again. 
“I’d be glad to see Lord Enziet taught a lesson in 
arrogance and humility,” she said. “I had not 
thought I would ever be fortunate enough to see it.” 
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet,” Arlian said. 
“It’s begun,” Rime insisted. “That he is making 
his way into the Desolation in pursuit of dragon 
venom, rather than sitting safely at home plotting 
the governance of Manfort, is a beginning. You’ve 
uncovered his secrets, or at least a taste of them.” 
“Well, we know that he knows more about the 
dragons than he’s told the Society,” Arlian agreed,

“but we don’t know what he knows.” 
“He can apparently speak to a dragon,” Rime 
said. “We know that much. And a black dragon, at 
that.” 
“Is there some significance to its color?” Arlian 
asked. 
“Don’t you know?” She looked startled. “The 
black dragons are the eldest, the wisest and most 
powerful. A dragon’s color darkens with age. The 
youngest ever seen by men were said to be golden, 
though those were mere striplings by dragon 
standards, and never ventured out into the open 
air— they were reported by people who had been 
down into the caverns in the old days, when the 
dragons ruled the world. No one has seen one in… 
well, in a thousand years or more, I would say. The 
mature dragons are green—it’s said the green color 
appears first at the spine and then spreads until the 
entire beast is bright green. But then the color 
continues to darken, until at last the ancients of the 
dragon realm are utterly black, as black as their 
monstrous hearts.” 
. “The three who destroyed Obsidian were black,” 
Arlian said. “One still showed a trace of green, I 
think, but they were black.” 
“Then they were old,” Rime said. She frowned. 
“That’s curious, you know,” she added. “The one 
that destroyed my home was very dark, as well, 
though some green still showed. In all the old tales, 
though, the beasts that ravaged the countryside or 
fought against the liberators of humanity were 
green, and the black ones were said to lurk deep 
beneath the earth, directing their younger kin from 
afar.” 
“Perhaps there are no more green dragons,” 
Arlian suggested. “Perhaps only the black ones 
survive, down there in the dark, and that’s why they 
wearied of the fight and left the surface world to 
us.”

“But what would have become of the young 
ones?” She shook her head. “I doubt it’s anything so 
simple as that.” 
“I suppose not.” Arlian lapsed into silence, having 
finally exhausted his urge to babble, and having 
found things to think about other than the 
impending ambush. 
Just then Black called quietly, “They’re in the 
grove ahead of us, on both sides of the road.” 
Arlian and Rime exchanged glances; then Arlian 
turned and clambered toward the front of the 
wagon, so that he could see out the door. 
A big man had just stepped out into the roadway 
and was holding up his hands, signaling Black to 
stop. Black reined in the oxen. 
“That’s Shamble!” Arlian whispered, as he 
recognized that ugly face. 
“Shut-up,” Rime hissed back. 
“What do you want?” Black demanded. “Why are 
you stopping us?” 
“We just want to see who you’ve got in there,” 
Shamble replied, in his rumbling growl of a voice. 
As he spoke two other men stepped out of the trees, 
swords drawn and ready—one of them was Lord 
Toribor, and the other looked familiar as well. 
The two Aritheians, their disguises intact, 
ambled up beside the oxen, as well—the road was 
becoming almost crowded. 
“We want to get to Cork Tree before dark,” Thirif 
said. 
“Then let us look, and we’ll let you go,” Shamble 
said. 
“Look for what?” Black asked. 
“A sorcerer,” said the unidentified man, and the 
voice was the clue Arlian needed—he recognized 
him now as Stonehand. Three of his enemies stood 
here before him!

He resisted the temptation to say anything. 
“An outlaw sorcerer, fleeing from Manfort,” 
Stonehand elaborated. “He’s said to be heading this 
way. Have you seen him? He looks like a young 
man, fairly tall and strongly built; he’s probably on 
horseback.” 
Two more swordsmen had appeared now, but 
these two were strangers. Arlian could also see 
archers still more or less in hiding. 
“Haven’t seen anyone like that,” Black said. He 
asked Thirif, “You seen anyone like that?” 
Thirif shook his head. 
“Mind if we take a look in your wagon?” Shamble 
growled. 
Black looked at the four drawn swords and 
shrugged. “I can’t stop you,” he said. 
At that, three of the swordsmen approached the 
wagon. Shamble stayed where he was, though, and 
Toribor came more slowly, hanging back behind the 
others. 
Black slid aside to let the three climb aboard. 
“Good afternoon,” Arlian said, tipping his cap to 
the first guardsman. 
“Anyone else in here?” the intruder demanded, 
waving the blade of his weapon back and forth 
across the wagon’s interior. 
“Just the two of us,” Arlian said. “So who is this 
sorcerer? What did he do?” 
“Killed a man,” Stonehand said, as he squeezed 
inside and looked about. “He calls Himself Lanair, 
but he may use other names, as well.” 
“Who did he kill?” Arlian asked. “Anyone 
important?” 
Stonehand shrugged. “Important enough. A man 
called Lord Iron. He had the concession to supply 
equipment and training for the Duke’s guards.”

“The Duke is involved?” Arlian said, trying hard 
to look impressed. 
As they spoke the first swordsman was pawing 
through the supplies, moving the bundles and boxes 
about to be sure no one was hiding among them. 
Now he turned and said, “There’s no one here.” 
Stonehand frowned, and looked at Arlian and 
Rime. “If you two would be so kind as to step 
outside, where Lord Belly can have a look at you?” 
Arlian glanced at Rime, then shrugged. “Why 
not?” 
Actually, as he climbed out of the wagon he 
realized why not. If Toribor, who knew at least a 
little sorcery and knew both Arlian and Rime, 
stared at them closely enough with his one good eye 
he might penetrate their disguises. 
Arlian couldn’t see any way to avoid that risk, 
however. He dropped to the ground and waited. 
Toribor approached cautiously and looked at 
Arlian and Rime. 
“Know them?” Stonehand asked from the wagon 
door. 
Toribor shook his head. “The woman might be a 
bit familiar,” he said, “but it’s probably a chance 
resemblance. Certainly neither of them is Lord 
Obsidian.” 
“Who?” Arlian asked—and he immediately 
regretted it, because the timing of his question had 
been just slightly too slow, not quite natural. 
No one else seemed to notice his slip, however. 
“The man we’re looking for,” Toribor said. “It’s 
none of your concern.” He waved a hand in 
dismissal. “Get back in your wagon and go on.” 
“Thank you, my lord,” Arlian said, doffing his cap 
and bowing. 
A moment later they were rolling again, with 
Thirif and Shibiel back in the wagon along with

Arlian and Rime, while Toribor, Shamble, and the 
others had stamped back into the trees, out of sight. 
No one in the wagon dared speak at first, but 
when they had put a hundred yards or more 
between themselves and their enemies Arlian said, 
“I wonder where Drisheen was?” 
“In the trees to the left, I think,” Rime replied. “I 
thought I could sense him. I just hope he couldn’t 
sense us—if he felt the presence of sorcery he’d 
suspect something.” 
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Arlian said. He 
frowned worriedly. 
“What could you have done if you had thought of 
it?” Rime asked. 
Arlian had no answer for that. 
“Should I remove the glamour?” Thirif asked. 
“No!” Arlian said. “No, no. We’ll need it. After all, 
we’re staying in Cork Tree tonight—and I’m sure 
they are, too.” 
“Once they give up waiting for Lord Lanair,” 
Rime agreed. She smiled. “This could be very 
interesting.” 
53 
The Inn at Cork Tree 
There were no rooms at the inn in Cork Tree; 
Lord Enziet’s party had taken them all. Arlian and 
his companions were allowed to park their wagon in 
the stableyard, however, and to purchase the 
ordinary supper. The five travelers had eaten and 
drunk their fill when the disgruntled ambushers 
finally came straggling in.

“… sorcery, I tell you,” one man in Enziet’s livery 
was saying as he entered. 
“It probably was,” Lord Toribor agreed wearily. 
“He probably knew we were there and went around 
us, and is well on his way to Stonebreak by now.” 
Arlian turned to look at the new arrivals. 
“Shall we go after him?” Stonehand asked. 
“I don’t know,” Toribor said. “I’ll need to talk it 
over with Drisheen. For now, though—innkeeper!” 
The innkeeper appeared, a tray ready in his 
hands. “The ale’s still cold,” he said, “and I’ve kept 
your supper warm, but it may be the worse for the 
wait.” 
Arlian looked at his own empty mug. The ale was 
not exactly cold—the innkeeper presumably stored 
it in a deep cellar, so it was reasonably cool, but it 
was clear no magic was used, nor even a proper 
icehouse. It was not cold. It was good enough ale, 
but it would have been better were it somewhat 
colder. 
Arlian remembered wryly that less than three 
years ago he had never tasted ale, yet here he was 
casually passing judgment on the stuff. He thumped 
the mug down on the table and looked around. 
The dining room, which had been mostly empty 
moments before, was suddenly almost full. Most of 
the available chairs were occupied. Toribor and 
Stonehand were side by side at one table; Shamble 
was at the next. The inn’s entire staff—the 
innkeeper, his wife, and three young people who 
might have been either his children or hired 
help—was busily serving out mugs of beer and 
plates of gravy-soaked ham. 
Black belched contentedly, as if the sight of all 
that ham reminded him of the portion he had eaten 
himself. He leaned over and said quietly, “I count 
eleven.” 
“Not all fighters, though,” Arlian muttered in

reply—he could see a young boy among the others, 
and two women who looked too frail to be warriors 
of any sort. “Where’s Drisheen?” 
“I don’t see him,” Rime said. 
“Blast it!” Arlian replied. “Where is he, then?” 
Just then the door opened again and a 
guardsman entered, followed by an elaborately 
dressed lord, a feathered hat in his hand. 
“There he is,” Rime said. 
Drisheen paused in the doorway, nose in the air, 
and surveyed the room. Then he flourished his hat 
as if waving away an unpleasant odor and stepped 
inside. 
A faint scent reached Arlian, a sweet, cloying 
scent that was oddly familiar. He frowned, trying to 
place it. 
Then it came back to him, in a sudden wave of 
memory—falling in through Sweet’s window, 
tumbling onto the floor of a room that stank of 
perfume, where he had abruptly gone from the cold 
and empty outside world to the comforting warmth 
of a woman’s arms. 
Sweet had opened the window to air out the 
room, to get rid of the stench of Lord Drisheen’s 
perfume—and Lord Drisheen. 
He had smelled it again in Manfort, once or 
twice— most recently, very faintly, when he had 
seen Sparkle and Ferret hanging in Drisheen’s 
library. 
And that same smell was present now. In 
Westguard it had been diluted by the scent of 
powder and cloth and oil and of course Sweet 
herself, while here it was mixed with beer and 
bread and smoke and meat and sweat, but it was 
unmistakably the same smell. 
The memory of Sweet’s smiling face and cheerful 
giggle hung there for a moment, then gave way to 
the sight of her lying pale and still in the bed beside

him, eyes closed but mouth slack and open. 
He felt his teeth clench, a growl rising in his 
throat as his eyes followed Drisheen’s progress 
across the room. 
“Hush!” Rime hissed. 
Arlian caught himself. “Sorry,” he said. 
Drisheen had reached the table where Toribor 
and Stonehand sat, and was standing there as they 
turned to look up at him. Arlian strained to hear 
what was said. 
Thirif, across the table, crushed a tiny blue vial in 
his hand, and suddenly Arlian’s hearing sharpened. 
“I have placed wards on the road, on the trees, 
and on the entire town,” Drisheen said. “If any 
dragonheart enters this place, we will know it.” 
Arlian glanced at Rime, who mouthed, “We’re 
already here.” 
“Good,” Toribor said. “Have a seat, my lord, and 
eat something.” He gestured at an empty chair. 
“In good time. I would hear, first, whether you 
have any explanation for the failure of our trap. Do 
you think your men were so clumsy that he saw us 
before we saw him, and turned aside therefore?” 
Toribor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think 
he’s just cagy. He guessed that we might have set 
traps upon the high road, and found another route.” 
Drisheen frowned as he tucked his hat under his 
arm. “And what do you propose to do about this?” 
“I don’t know what we can do,” Toribor said with 
a shrug. “If you have suggestions I will be delighted 
to hear and consider them, but left to my own 
devices I’d say we’ve missed him, that he chose to 
bypass us and he’s now Enziet’s problem.” 
“And this doesn’t trouble you? We were put here 
to stop him. We have a dozen soldiers; Enziet is 
alone.” 
“Alone or not, do you really think he can’t handle

a stripling like Lanair?” Toribor gestured at the 
table. “Sit down and have a drink!” 
“You sound almost pleased to have avoided a 
fight,” Drisheen said, still standing. 
“I am—almost. I’d rather have it over with, but 
that boy has the luck of a dragon. Remember, he 
killed Iron and Kuruvan. Mishaps can happen 
anywhere, and even facing a dozen men he might 
have found a way to do you or me harm before he 
died.” 
“Yet you aren’t troubled about letting him find 
Enziet?” 
“Enziet has the luck of a dozen dragons,” Toribor 
answered. 
“Or the skill,” Drisheen said. 
“Or the skill,” Toribor agreed. “Now, I beg you, 
my lord, do sit down!” 
Drisheen reluctantly yielded; he circled around, 
tossed his hat on the table, and seated himself. 
“Do you have any suggestions, my lord?” Toribor 
asked, as Drisheen beckoned to a serving maid. 
“Only that we wait here, and send our best men 
to trail Enziet and warn him, or aid him against 
Lanair.” 
Stonehand glanced at Toribor, a motion that 
Drisheen noticed. “Yes, our best man would be 
you,” he said. 
Arlian considered that. It probably meant that 
Stonehand would be alone on the road… 
“Send him alone?” Toribor asked. “And what if 
Stonehand here happens upon Lord Lanair?” 
Drisheen shrugged. “Why would Lanair wish an 
ordinary soldier ill? I assume Stonehand is capable 
of discretion and stealth, and can defend himself if 
pressed.” 
“We could send another man with him…”

“And another, and another, and before you know 
it we’ll all be on the road, chasing after our 
murderous lordling, and probably missing him 
entirely. A man travels fastest when he travels 
alone.” 
Toribor frowned. “I suppose that’s true.” 
“I can handle him,” Stonehand said. 
“That’s what Lord Iron thought,” Drisheen said. 
“And Kuruvan before him. No, while you can take 
your chance if you see it, your first duty is simply to 
warn Enziet, then return and tell us what, if 
anything, you saw along the road. We missed the 
boy in one direction, but perhaps we’ll catch him 
going the other.” 
“As you say, my lord,” Stonehand said, bowing 
his head in obedience. 
“You don’t suppose Lanair could have been 
hidden in that wagon, do you?” Toribor asked. 
Drisheen held up his hand and pointed at Arlian, 
who tried hard to look as if he hadn’t been listening; 
Toribor glanced over his shoulder, then turned back 
to Drisheen and shrugged. 
Drisheen leaned forward and whispered to 
Toribor, and even with his magically enhanced 
hearing Arlian could not make out what was said. 
He turned his attention back to his own party. 
“Thank you,” he said to Thirif, who nodded a 
polite acknowledgment. 
Arlian resisted the temptation to turn and watch 
the others as they whispered; it would only draw 
suspicion. 
“What are you planning?” Rime asked quietly. 
“Stonehand will be alone on the road for a few 
days,” Arlian said. “I can catch him then, taik 
things over, and deal with him as seems 
appropriate. As for Drisheen and Toribor, well, as 
lords, they won’t be sleeping with the others; they’ll 
either have one room apiece, or one room between

the two of them, and we’ll probably be able to tell 
which because they’ll post a guard at the door. I 
think I’d like to settle matters with them right 
here—for Sparkle and Ferret. And Brook and 
Cricket may be here—if they are, I’d like to free 
them.” 
“So you intend to break into Drisheen’s room?” 
Black asked. 
Arlian nodded. 
“And you’ll know which room it is by the guard at 
the door.” 
“That’s right.” 
Black nodded. “And how do you plan to get past 
that guard?” he asked. 
“I’m working on that,” Arlian said wryly. “If you 
have any suggestions, I’d be pleased to hear them.” 
“Not a one,” Black said. 
“You wanted Shamble, too, didn’t you?” Rime 
asked. 
Arlian shrugged. “He’ll have to wait—which 
scarcely troubles me, as his crimes are already old, 
and he holds no hostages. I’d assume he’ll be 
sharing a room with the other henchmen, and we 
don’t want to fight them all.” 
“Ah, we don’t?” Black said. “I’m glad to hear that. 
And about getting past that guard?” 
“Could you find another way into the room?” 
Rime asked. “A window, perhaps? Or through the 
roof?” 
“The roof’s good, sound tile,” Arlian said. “I 
noticed that earlier. How could I get through that? 
And how would I get to an upstairs window without 
being seen? How would I get in when it’s 
shuttered?” 
“Excellent questions, all of them,” Black agreed. 
Arlian turned to Thirif. “Do you have any 
suggestions for getting past the guard? Could you

put him to sleep, or muffle his cries if he raises an 
alarm?” 
Thirif thought for a moment, then shook his 
head. “No,” he said. “Not with what I’ve brought.” 
“Maybe if Thirif got Drisheen involved in a 
discussion of the finer points of sorcery, you could 
creep up behind him and stab him in the back,” 
Black suggested sardonically. 
“I’m not a mere sorcerer,” Thirif said. “I am a 
true magician.” 
“And how much of a difference is there, really?” 
Black asked. “You both do your little tricks and 
petty miracles, waving your jeweled wands about.” 
Thirif did not deign to respond to that; he simply 
turned away in disgust. 
Arlian, however, looked at Black thoughtfully. “I 
don’t know much about sorcery,” he said, “but I 
suppose most people know even less.” 
“Probably,” Black agreed, startled. “What of it?” 
“Well, I think I have a way past Drisheen’s 
guard,” Arlian said. 
“Drisheen’s? What about Belly’s?” 
“Let’s take care of the one first, shall we?” 
Black shrugged. 
Three hours later most of the inn’s inhabitants 
had drifted off to bed. The innkeeper dozed in a 
chair by the hearth. Arlian and his party had 
retired to their wagon-—but now he reentered the 
dining room, with Black at his heels. 
The innkeeper started awake and stared at him. 
Arlian held up a small object that glittered gold 
in the firelight. “We found this in the stableyard,” 
he said. “I think that lord must have dropped it. 
The one with the fancy hat.” 
The innkeeper squinted. “I’ll take it,” he said. 
Arlian clutched the object to his chest. “I don’t

think so,” he said. “We found it, and we’re honest 
enough to return it—the reward’s ours.” 
The innkeeper snorted. “Fine, then.” He waved at 
the stairs. “Find your own way.” He leaned back. 
“I will,” Arlian said. 
Together, he and Black crossed the room and 
started up the stairs. 
“I saw Thirif give you that,” Black whispered, 
“but what is it?” 
“I have no idea,” Arlian said, “but it looks 
magical, doesn’t it?” He held it up so that it shone 
in the lamplight on the stairs. 
The object was a golden cylinder worked with 
runes and with a ring of small red stones set around 
one end; Arlian had chosen it from half a dozen 
implements in Thirif’s collection as looking 
appropriately sorcerous. 
“So you’ll tell the guard you want to return 
Drisheen’s trinket, and he’ll let you in—but what if 
he insists we leave our swords outside?” 
“Then we’ll find other weapons,” Arlian said. 
“Shut up and come on.” 
They arrived at the top of the stairs and found 
themselves facing a corridor with three doors on 
either side, and a door at the far end—and a big 
man in a guard’s uniform was leaning against the 
frame of that farthest door, eyes closed, arms folded 
across his chest. 
Arlian felt an odd twinge, and the thing in his 
hand felt suddenly warm, but he dismissed it as 
imagination brought on by the excitement of 
approaching danger. 
“That’s their room,” he said. “It must be.” 
Black didn’t bother to answer. The two men 
advanced down the passageway. At the halfway 
point Arlian felt another twinge, stronger this time, 
as if his heart had momentarily twisted in his chest.

He stopped, but before he could do anything the 
guard, presumably alerted by the sound of their 
footsteps, roused himself and dropped a hand to the 
hilt of his sword. 
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you 
want here?” 
Arlian held up his talisman. “We found this,” he 
said. “We think one of your lords must have 
dropped it.” 
That twinge troubled him. He had been nervous 
any number of times—when he was preparing to 
fight Kuruvan, for one—and he had never felt 
anything exactly like that before. Usually his hands 
trembled when he was nervous, but now they were 
as steady as he might ask. “Let me see it,” the guard 
demanded. Arlian snatched his hand away. “We 
found it! And we’ll be the ones who collect the 
reward!” 
“You want me to wake Lord Drisheen at this hour 
of the night?” 
“No,” Arlian said meekly. “You’re right; we’ll 
come back in the morning.” 
Black looked at him in open astonishment. “We 
will?” 
“Yes,” Arlian said. “Run!” He spun on his heel 
and ran for the stairs. 
The door at the end of the corridor slammed 
open, and Arlian ducked as a bow twanged, sending 
an arrow over his left shoulder. 
He and Black tumbled down the stairs, half 
running, half falling; behind them Arlian heard 
several voices shouting, doors slamming, and the 
clatter of boots, bare feet, and armor. 
“What the hell…” Black gasped as they dashed 
across the dining room. 
“Wards,” Arlian said. “On the stair and in the 
hallway. Drisheen knew I was there.”

The innkeeper started up from his chair, 
shouting, “What? What is it?” They ignored him 
and ran out the front door; Arlian could hear boots 
coming down the stairs behind them. 
When they were outside Arlian turned toward the 
yard where the wagon waited. The oxen were not 
hitched up, he remembered—keeping them yoked 
would have been too suspicious, should anyone 
happen to look out a window and see them. And of 
course, no one could seriously attempt escape in an 
ox-drawn wagon in any case; men or horses could 
easily catch up with the fastest oxen. 
Still, he had to warn Rime and the Aritheians. 
Once that was done, though, he intended to make 
life interesting for his pursuers. Simple escape on 
foot was impossible—he didn’t know the 
countryside, and he couldn’t realistically expect to 
outrun all his foes—but there were other things he 
could do. 
“See what you can do to protect the others,” 
Arlian gasped as they rounded the corner. He 
shouted, “Look out!” then ran past the wagon to the 
stables. 
He opened a stall door at random and grabbed at 
the mane of the horse inside. He was no horseman, 
but he had learned a few basics to suit his role as 
Lord Obsidian; he was able to swing himself up on 
the animal’s bare back before the beast was entirely 
awake. 
Startled, the horse bolted out of the stall into the 
yard, then slowed, confused. Arlian sat up and drew 
his sword; he hung onto his mount’s mane with his 
left hand. 
People were milling about the yard, their faces 
invisible in the darkness—the inn’s two stablehands 
were probably there somewhere, and Black, and 
Arlian’s other companions might be, as well, but 
there were others who were undoubtedly some of 
Enziet’s men.

“Light!” someone bellowed. “We need a light!” 
“Who’s that?” someone else called. 
Arlian dug in his heels, and the horse jerked 
forward, breaking into a canter; shadowy figures 
scattered out of his way as Arlian rode out of the 
stableyard onto the high road. 
Someone had relit the lanterns by the inn’s 
signboard, and a man stood near the door holding a 
torch; Arlian was plainly visible to the knot of 
people there as he rode past, and several voices 
added cries of, “There he is!” and “Get the horses!” 
to the mounting din. Lights were beginning to 
appear in the windows of neighboring houses now, 
as well. 
He prodded the horse into a gallop—which meant 
clinging desperately with both hands, the blade of 
his sword waving wildly in front of his face—and 
glanced back over his shoulder. 
People were pouring out of both the inn and the 
stableyard, shouting and running; some were 
chasing the fleeing horse while others seemed to be 
running around totally at random. 
Arlian hoped this would be enough distraction 
for Black and the others to find safety somehow. 
Then he turned his face forward again and buried 
his nose in the horse’s mane, hanging on for dear 
life. 
The animal slowed to a trot after perhaps two 
hundred yards, and Arlian raised his eyes. He saw 
only darkness ahead—a deeper darkness to either 
side, paler above. As the horse fell into a walk he 
looked back. 
The road had curved; he could see a glow that he 
knew must be the mob around the inn, but trees 
and houses hid everything else. 
They would undoubtedly be coming after him, 
though— he could still hear shouting, and it seemed 
to be coming closer.

Besides, he wasn’t interested in mere escape. 
They might expect him simply to flee, but it was not 
what he had planned. 
He was heading in the right direction to go after 
Enziet— but that was exactly the course of action 
Drisheen probably anticipated from him. Arlian 
was not ready to go after Enziet; he had 
unfinished-business here in Cork Tree. 
He slid from the horse’s back to the ground, 
landing awkwardly but scrambling quickly to his 
feet. He slapped the horse’s side, startling it back 
into a trot; as it continued southward down the 
high road he turned aside, into the brush beside the 
road, and once safely out of sight he began working 
his way back toward the inn. 
54 
The Sword of Vengeance 
Arlian wished he knew enough sorcery to alter his 
appearance anew, so that he would have neither his 
own face nor the one his foes had seen in the wagon 
and the inn. Unfortunately, he had no prepared 
spells with him, nor any idea how a glamour was 
cast, and Thirif and Shibiel were not there to help. 
As he walked through gardens and yards, 
climbing over fences and leaping ditches, he did 
rearrange his hair—in the wagon he had worn it 
loose, brushed forward at the sides, after the 
fashion of the local farmers. Now he combed it back 
with his fingers, and used his swordbreaker to cut 
away locks on either side, shaping it into something 
marginally more like a traditional Manfort 
style—not that he could see what he was doing, in

the dark with no mirror. He removed his homespun 
tunic, revealing the good linen blouse he had worn 
underneath—not so much because he anticipated a 
need to change his appearance as because he 
preferred the feel of the smoother fabric on his skin, 
the warmth of an additional layer had been 
welcome, and in his rushed preparations he hadn’t 
brought any silk undershirts. 
He was uncomfortably aware that he did not 
understand how a glamour worked, and that others 
might well see him completely differently from how 
he saw himself, so that these changes might be 
hidden; still, it was the best he could manage under 
the circumstances. He hadn’t even thought to learn 
how to remove the glamour. 
He stayed well away from the high road, taking 
cover when hooves drammed past, and again when 
a knot of yelling men marched by. In one yard a 
chained watchdog yapped at him, just once, and he 
froze for a long moment, but the bark was not 
repeated, no one responded to it, and he finally 
moved on. 
And eventually he arrived in the kitchen garden 
behind the inn. He had expected to find a guard he 
would have to circumvent, but the little yard was 
empty—his enemies had been too disorganized, too 
unprepared, to post anyone here. 
He made his way up the flagstone path to the 
little wooden stoop, where he pounded on the inn’s 
back door with the hilt of his sword. 
The innkeeper’s wife, looking puzzled, opened the 
door and peered out at him. “Yes?” 
“There’s no one out here,” Arlian said brusquely. 
“Is Lord Drisheen still inside, or has he gone off 
with the rest of them?” 
“Is Drisheen the thin one?” the woman asked 
uncertainly. 
“That’s him,” Arlian said.

“He’s in the dining room. The one-eyed fat one 
went out after the assassin.” 
“I need to speak to him,” Arlian said, not 
commenting on her descriptions—he wouldn’t have 
called Lord Toribor fat, exactly, though the name 
“Belly” did suit him well enough. There was a lot of 
muscle there. 
And Drisheen was not really excessively thin, 
either. Still it was one of several easy ways of 
distinguishing the two. 
The woman hesitated, then stepped aside and let 
Arlian in. “You go straight through, and don’t touch 
anything,” she said. 
“Thank you,” Arlian said. He obeyed her 
injunction, marching directly through the generous 
and cluttered kitchen and out through the swinging 
door. 
Sure enough, Drisheen sat at one of the tables, a 
boy and a woman occupying two of the other chairs. 
A single guardsman stood at the front door. 
The boy looked up when Arlian entered; the 
guard at the door was leaning out and peering 
down the street, while Drisheen and the woman 
were deep in conversation. The boy clearly had no 
idea who Arlian was, but the sight of the bare blade 
in his hand; and the mere fact that he wasn’t 
anyone from Enziet’s party, was enough to alarm 
the child. “My lord,” he said, tugging at Drisheen’s 
sleeve. 
Arlian wasted no more time; he bellowed, “Get 
away from him, both of you!” and charged at 
Drisheen, his sword arm at full extension. 
The boy leaped up; the woman turned, startled. 
Drisheen started to rise, reaching for his sword. 
Then Arlian’s blade plunged into Drisheen’s 
chest. Because of the furniture in the way, it was 
not the clean thrust through the heart that Arlian 
had hoped for, but it was almost certainly a fatal

blow. 
The woman screamed, and the man at the door 
finally reacted, turning to see what was happening. 
Drisheen looked down at the sword in shock. 
“I thought you…” he began, but he was unable to 
complete the sentence as his mouth filled with 
bright blood— Arlian’s sword had pierced a lung. 
Red streamed from Drisheen’s mouth and nose as 
he fell back in his chair, eyes wide, right hand 
tugging at’the hilt of his own weapon. 
“Fought fair, as I did against Kuruvan and 
Horim?” Arlian finished for him. “When I can—but 
against you, after what you did to Ferret and 
Sparkle purely to spite me, I’ll settle for butchery.” 
He yanked his blade free. 
Drisheen’s chest seemed to ripple unnaturally as 
blood gushed from the wound—Arlian blinked, 
unsure whether he was really seeing what he 
thought he was. 
Then Drisheen fell forward across the table, into 
a spreading pool of his own blood, and a thin wisp 
of smoke spilled from his gaping mouth. 
“Sorcery,” Arlian muttered. Then he looked up 
from his dead foe. 
The guard at the door was staring, pulling his 
own sword from its scabbard but making no move 
to attack. The woman and the boy were unarmed 
and seemed interested only in getting away. 
Behind him, the innkeeper’s wife had emerged 
from the kitchen; now she started screaming. Arlian 
whirled. 
“Shut up, or I’ll gut you like a fish,” he snarled. 
The screams died into a whimper. 
The guard took an uncertain step into the room. 
Arlian spun again, his sword spattering drops of 
Drisheen’s blood across the floor, drops that seemed 
to glow in the lamplight.

“You want to fight me?” Arlian asked, drawing 
his swordbreaker. “Drisheen’s already dead, and I’m 
the man who killed Lord Iron—are you sure you 
want to take me on all by yourself?” 
The guardsman dropped his sword, turned, and 
ran out the door. 
“Idiot,” Arlian said. Then he looked at the woman 
and the boy. “Get out of here,” he said. “Both of you. 
Right now.” 
The two of them staggered to their feet and 
obeyed, following the guard out into the street. 
That left the innkeeper’s wife. He turned and 
bowed to her. 
“My apologies, madam, for the mess I’ve made, 
but this man murdered two friends of mine back in 
Manfort.” 
The woman made a strangled noise. 
Arlian decided she didn’t pose any immediate 
threat. He could hear shouting in the street, 
though; at any moment he expected several armed 
men to burst in, intent on avenging Lord Drisheen. 
He didn’t want to be here when they arrived. 
He could go back out through the kitchen, of 
course, but if the people out there had any wits at 
all they would surround the building before making 
their move—there might already be men moving 
around to block that exit. 
Besides, Cricket and Brook were presumably here 
somewhere—probably upstairs, in one of the 
bedrooms. And Black and the others were 
somewhere, too—if they were still alive. Arlian had 
too much unfinished business to simply run off into 
the night. 
He sheathed his swordbreaker and picked up the 
sword the guard had dropped—while he didn’t 
know how to fight with two swords, someone else 
might need a weapon. He glanced at Drisheen’s 
body.

That hideous, unnatural movement of his chest 
had stopped, and the flow of blood subsided to a 
trickle; no more smoke had appeared. He was 
clearly dead. All the same, Arlian decided not to 
take his sword; the blood on the table and floor had 
a peculiar, inhuman sheen to it as a reminder that 
Drisheen had not been an ordinary man. His 
weapon might be enchanted. 
Arlian hefted his two swords and headed for the 
stairs, clattering up swiftly and swinging around at 
the landing, noticing as he did that the arrow he 
had dodged perhaps half an hour before was still 
stuck in the plaster above his head. 
He had hardly reached the top 
step—encountering no wards this time—when he 
heard the clamor of armed men entering below. He 
paused for a fraction of a second, listening and 
looking. 
He could hear the people downstairs shouting 
about the discovery of Drisheen’s death, and boots 
stamping—men were heading for the stairs after 
him. 
The corridor was unlit—the oil lamp that had 
illuminated it before had gone out—but Arlian 
could see that of the seven doorways before him, six 
stood open—presumably no one had bothered to 
close them in their rush to pursue him. The 
seventh—the second on the right—was another 
matter; it was shut tight. 
That was obviously the room he wanted, as his 
pursuers would know it was occupied and expect 
him to hide elsewhere. He stepped up and 
hammered on the door. “Open up!” he called. 
“Why? What’s going on?” a deep, harsh voice 
replied— Shamble’s voice; Arlian had heard it that 
afternoon, and recognized it readily. 
“Lanair’s got an army out here! We need 
everyone!” Arlian shouted. 
“Oh, blood and death,” Shamble muttered, barely

audible through the wood. 
“Hurry!” The first guardsman had turned on the 
landing and was scarcely twenty feet away, peering 
up into the darkness. 
The door opened, and Arlian charged it, pushing 
past a startled Shamble before the big man could 
brace himself. Then he turned and kicked hard, 
knocking the door out of Shamble’s hand and 
slamming it shut. 
Shamble growled and reached for his sword, but 
Arlian’s blade was at his throat. 
“Don’t try it,” Arlian said. “Lock the door.” 
Shamble snorted. “Not likely,” he said. Arlian 
pushed, and the tip of his sword drew blood. 
Shamble growled. 
“Lock it or get out of the way,” Arlian said. 
Shamble backed along the wall, away from the door. 
Arlian could hear voices in the hallway, but could 
not make out the words, as he threw the bolt with 
the tip of his other sword. He stole a quick glance 
around the room. 
There were four beds, two on either side of a 
fair-sized room; a shuttered dormer window broke 
the sloping ceiling opposite the single door. Bundles 
of baggage were scattered about, sheets and 
blankets in disarray. An oil lamp burned on a small 
table. 
Two of the beds were occupied—one by Cricket, 
one by Brook, both women clad in simple 
nightgowns. They were staring at him, clearly 
unsure what was going on. Arlian smiled. 
“Cricket,” he called, “catch!” Then he tossed his 
extra sword to her and drew his swordbreaker. That 
felt better, having the proper weapons in both 
hands again. 
She shied away, missing the catch; the sword 
tumbled off the bed. 
Someone was pounding on the door. “Shamble!

Open up!” 
Shamble growled, but stayed where he was, back 
against the wall and safely out of reach of the latch. 
“Move or speak and you’re a dead man,” Arlian told 
him conversationally. Then he looked around. 
Cricket was scrambling for the sword; Brook was 
still staring. 
“Brook,” Arlian said, hoping she would hear but 
the men outside would not, “tell them Shamble’s 
asleep, dead drunk.” 
“Shamble! Damn you, man!” the voice called. 
“What?” Brook asked. 
“Call out! Tell them he’s passed out drunk!” 
Arlian insisted quietly. 
Cricket had finally got her hands on the sword; 
now she held it up triumphantly and shouted, 
“Shamble’s asleep! He drank up all the wine and fell 
right over!” 
Brook looked at her, startled, then smiled and 
added, “And he stinks! I think he pissed himself!” 
Cricket giggled; Shamble started to protest, but 
Arlian applied warning pressure on the sword. 
Arlian could hear a mumbled conference on the 
other side of the door. He couldn’t make out all of it, 
but it was plain that his pursuers were arguing 
about whether to believe the women. 
“Let us in,” someone called. 
Cricket and Brook exchanged glances. Brook 
called, “Do we have to? I hate crawling that far.” 
“And Shamble’s leaning against the door,” 
Cricket added. “We’d have to move him, and he’s 
heavy!” 
“And there’s a puddle—don’t make me crawl 
through that!” Brook said. 
Arlian smiled broadly at them, admiring their 
quick wit. In a sudden inspiration he sheathed his

swordbreaker and undid his trousers. A moment 
later a malordorous seepage under the door 
provided added verisimilitude for Brook’s tale. 
Shamble stared at him with hate-filled eyes, but 
did not dare move or speak. 
That provoked disgusted exclamations from 
outside, and the pursuit moved on, searching the 
other rooms vigorously. 
“Are you going to kill me?” Shamble asked 
quietly. 
“Should I?” Arlian responded. “Do you deserve to 
die?” 
Shamble growled. 
Arlian did not take his eyes off his foe, but called 
to the others, “Cricket, what do you think? Should I 
kill him?” 
“Please yourself,” Cricket said. “I won’t weep for 
him.” 
“Brook?” 
“I don’t know,” she said. “Who are you?” 
“That’s a good question,” Arlian said. “Do you 
know, Shamble?” 
“Lord Lanair, I suppose,” Shamble said. 
“And do you know who Lord Lanair is?” 
“A lunatic who’s decided to destroy Lord Enziet 
and his friends, and cast Manfort into chaos.” 
Arlian nodded. “That’s one way of describing the 
situation,” he agreed. “It’s not my only one.” He 
shifted the tip of his blade upward an inch, drawing 
a bloody line on Shamble’s throat. “Do you 
remember looting a village ten years ago, Shamble? 
Do you remember finding a boy in a cellar there, 
the lone survivor?” 
Shamble’s eyes narrowed. “That was you?” 
Arlian smiled a nasty smile. “Good guess,” he 
said. “Yes, it was. And what happened to that boy?”

“We sold him to the mines at Deep Delving. So 
you’re an escaped slave, dressed up in a lord’s 
shirt.” 
“Again,” Arlian said, “that’s one way of looking at 
it. In fact, I am a lord, as I’m sure you know.” 
“Lord Lanair. That’s not your real name.” 
“Lord Obsidian. Which is as much my name as 
yours is Shamble. I haven’t called myself Lanair 
since I fled Westguard more than two years ago, 
and even there it was merely a temporary ruse.” 
“Lord Dragon calls you Lanair.” 
“He finds it convenient to do so,” Arlian agreed. 
“He knows my real name, I believe, but chooses not 
to use it.” 
Shamble had no answer to that. 
Arlian gestured at the women. “They knew me as 
Triv,” he said. “It’s short for ‘trivial,’ because I said 
my name was unimportant. They don’t recognize 
rne because I’ve used sorcery to change my face 
temporarily, but they know me.” 
“We do?” Brook asked. 
“Triv?” Cricket said, staring. “It’s you?” 
“So,” Arlian said, not looking at them, “now that 
we’ve established who I am, shall we establish who 
you are, and use that to determine whether you live 
or die?” 
Shamble stared angrily back, but did not reply. 
“Now,” Arlian said, “you helped loot my village 
when dragons destroyed it. You stood by without 
protest while I, a freeborn child and heir to much of 
that ruined village, was sold into slavery. Do those 
crimes deserve death?” 
“No!” Shamble protested. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” 
“You let me be sold.” 
“It’s not the same!” 
“Cricket? Brook?”

The women looked at one another. 
“I still don’t know,” Brook said. 
Arlian nodded. “I do intend to kill Lord Enziet,” 
he said, “as I’ve killed Kuruvan, Horim, and 
Drisheen. That’s because they were all participants 
in the ownership of the House of Carnal Society, 
responsible for maiming the sixteen women who 
lived there and for the deaths of most of them. Your 
Lord Dragon ordered the deaths of Rose and three 
others when that establishment was put to the 
torch, and later he tortured Dove to death, forcing 
Sweet to watch.” Brook gasped. “He poisoned 
Sweet, as well—she died in my arms. And he 
ordered the murder of Seek, who you’d known as 
Hide. Now, were you involved in any of that? I 
didn’t think to ask Sweet before she perished.” 
“I did as he told me!” Shamble protested. 
“Why?” Arlian demanded. 
“Because he paid me!” Shamble said. 
“And because you enjoyed it?” He had to struggle 
not to raise his voice to where it would be heard in 
the corridor. 
“Sometimes,” Shamble admitted. “But I wouldn’t 
have hurt Hide if he hadn’t betrayed Lord Dragon!” 
Arlian gritted his teeth. “But Lord Dragon 
wanted him dead, so you killed him?” 
“I had to!” 
“Did it ever occur to you to leave Lord Dragon’s 
employ, as Cover and Hide did?” 
“No. He paid well.” 
“You never once considered it?” 
“No!” 
That was enough; Arlian thrust forward, then 
slashed. Shamble’s hands flew to his ruined throat 
as he collapsed against the wall and slowly slid to 
the floor, but he could not cry out.

He fell back and went limp, the light fading from 
his eyes, hands still clutching his throat as blood 
poured freely down his chest. 
Arlian yanked his sword free. 
“You should have,” he growled. 
55 
Out The Window 
Brook gasped shudderingly at the sight of 
Shamble’s death; Cricket just nodded, as if she had 
expected it and was satisfied with what she had 
seen. “Now what?” she asked, as Arlian wiped his 
sword clean. 
“Now we need a way out of here,” Arlian said. He 
didn’t look at the women as he headed for the 
room’s single window; he slid his sword into its 
sheath as he went. 
“But we can’t walk,” Brook said. 
“I know that,” Arlian said. “I have a 
wagon—though getting you to it, and getting it out 
of here in one piece, won’t be easy.” He reached for 
the shutters, then hesitated. 
He could see light through the crack between the 
two shutters—red light. He frowned; it was much 
too early for dawn, and he had thought this window 
faced north. Was something burning, perhaps? 
He wouldn’t find out staring at closed shutters. 
He lifted the latch. 
Red light poured into the room as the shutters 
swung in—a baleful colored glow like nothing Arlian 
remembered seeing before. He peered out through 
the glass cautiously, staying far enough back that he

would not be readily visible to an observer on the 
street. 
Something was swirling in the air before him, not 
down on the ground nor high above, but directly 
before him, level with the second floor—something 
red and glowing. For a moment Arlian glimpsed a 
hideous, inhuman face, and there were definitely 
claws in the rotating mass. Without conscious 
decision he found he had drawn his sword again; 
that thing out there resembled a demon—an oddly 
familiar one. 
He heard both women draw in their breath; they 
did not have the straight line of sight he enjoyed, 
but both could obviously see something of the 
monstrosity outside. 
Whatever it was came no closer—it was not 
advancing to attack. Arlian stepped up to the glass, 
the better to study what he could see. 
The window looked out over the stableyard; 
below the glowing, whirling cloud-thing he could 
make out the stalls, the mangers and troughs, the 
tack shed, and his own wagon—and oxen; his draft 
animals were out of their pen and in front of the 
wagon. 
And standing on the driver’s seat of the wagon 
was a robed figure, waving one hand in the 
air—Thirif. A lantern hung above the driver’s seat, 
and Arlian could see the magician’s face clearly; the 
glamour was gone and his own features revealed. 
Arlian looked at the way the hand moved, and the 
way the demonic images above it moved, and 
grinned. He knew now why the “demon” resembled 
one of the nightmares he had had repeatedly in the 
Dreaming Mountains on the way north from 
Arithei. He hoped that none of his enemies down 
there knew that Aritheian magic could not truly 
summon demons, but only create illusions. 
Arlian had not known that Thirif had brought an 
illusion like this, but he was very glad to see it. It

ought to put a good scare into their enemies. 
The rest of the stableyard was almost 
deserted—almost; it was hard to see clearly, what 
with the darkness around and below and that 
seething red vapor in the way, but he was fairly 
certain he could see Black, still wearing his magical 
disguise, yoking the oxen. The wagon would be 
ready to roll in a few minutes, and Thirif’s illusion 
appeared to have frightened away all opposition. 
Drisheen wouldn’t have been fooled for a 
moment—but Drisheen was dead. 
Arlian frowned. Lord Toribor ought to be enough 
of a sorcerer to know that the thing was a harmless 
illusion; where was he? 
Well, wherever he was, he didn’t appear to be in 
the yard below. Arlian swung the shutters wide, 
then unlatched the casement and opened that, as 
well. He eyed the resulting space critically. 
Shamble would never have fit through it, and 
Arlian wasn’t entirely sure he could squeeze himself 
out that way, but Brook and Cricket were small 
enough. If he could lower them down… 
He turned and began stripping the linens from 
Cricket’s bed. It had worked getting Sweet out of 
Enziet’s house; it ought to work just as well here. 
“What are you doing?” Cricket asked. “Can we 
help?” 
“I’m making a rope,” Arlian explained. “I have 
friends down there with a wagon, and I plan to 
lower you down to them.” 
Cricket stretched up and tried to peer out the 
window. 
“But… but there’s that monster!” she said. 
“It’s just an illusion,” Arlian said. “Two of my 
friends are magicians.” 
Cricket hesitated—but then she saw that Brook 
was already pulling the sheets from her bed and

knotting them together. 
A moment later the rope was ready; Brook went 
first. 
“I don’t want to call from up here and let 
everyone hear me,” Arlian told her, as he looped a 
sheet around her back and under her arms, “so 
when you’re near the ground, call out for Black. 
That’s the man in charge down there.” 
Brook nodded, and looked back over her 
shoulder. “The man on the wagon?” she asked. 
“No, that’s Thirif the magician—don’t disturb 
him! Black’s on foot, by the oxen.” 
“I see him,” Brook said. Then she pushed herself 
over the sill and slid out the window as smoothly as 
an eel. 
Arlian leaned out, watching and listening as he 
let the rope down, hand over hand; Brook was 
almost out of sight below him when she called. 
Arlian could barely hear her, but Black looked up, 
startled. He spotted the half-clad woman and 
hurried over to her. 
Arlian heard none of their whispered 
conversation, but he saw Black untie Brook and 
carry her to the wagon. By the time Arlian had 
pulled the line of bedclothes back up and hoisted 
Cricket onto the windowsill Black was waiting at 
the foot of the wall. 
After Cricket was safely down it was his own 
turn; with the line securely tied in place he turned 
and began squirming, feet-first, through the 
window. 
He didn’t fit as neatly as the women had; the 
casement flammed back against the dormer, 
cracking the glass, as he tried to wiggle past it. He 
had to twist his shoulders up at a steep diagonal to 
squeeze through. 
At last, though, his head emerged from the 
warm, stuffy air of the inn into the cool crispness of

the night, and he half climbed, half slid to the 
ground. 
“Ari!” Black said, slapping him on the back the 
instant his feet struck the hard-packed earth of the 
stableyard. “You’re safe!” 
“Not yet,” Arlian replied. “Not until we’re out of 
this town and away from these people.” 
“Oh, Thirif’s put a scare into them,” Black said. 
“We were getting ready to go. They’ve promised us 
safe passage.” He grimaced, his expression visible 
even in the eerie red glow. “Only northward, 
though.” 
“I’m not going north,” Arlian said, as they began 
walking toward the wagon. 
“We could go a few miles, then double back, and 
go around the town,” Black said, “it’s only a minor 
delay.” 
“There’s no decent road around Cork Tree,” 
Arlian pointed out. “An ox could break a leg trying 
to drag us all across underbrush or furrowed fields.” 
“Well, Lord Belly thinks you’re headed south, and 
he doesn’t want us to rejoin you,” Black said, as he 
turned aside toward the stableyard gate. “He agreed 
to let us go north, but not south.” 
“You spoke with him?” Arlian asked, following. 
Black nodded. “He was commanding the party 
that went after that horse you stole,” he said. “After 
they found the horse, with you not on it, he sent one 
group on to the south, while he came back here. He 
went inside the inn for a little while, and then came 
out here. When most of them went galloping after 
you just four men stayed here, keeping an eye on us 
and blocking the gates so we couldn’t get the wagon 
out; we held them off readily enough while Thirif 
summoned our friend up there.” He pointed at the 
glowing illusion overhead, then pushed the gate 
open; the street beyond was dark and mostly quiet, 
though Arlian could hear shouting somewhere in

the distance. “Then Belly and his group got back, 
just about the time Lord Demon appeared, and he 
came to discuss matters with us. Some fool came 
running out of the inn shouting about a madman 
attacking Lord Drisheen, and Belly said we could 
go, and everyone went running inside. I hitched up 
the oxen, but I took my time about it, in hopes 
you’d be able to join us.” He turned back toward the 
wagon. 
Arlian nodded. “Good,” he said. 
“So you killed Drisheen?” Black asked, as he 
pulled himself up onto the wagon, forcing Thirif to 
step aside. Cricket and Brook were inside the boxy 
body of the wagon but leaning out the door, 
watching and listening. 
“And Shamble,” Arlian said. “They’d left him 
guarding these two.” He gestured at the women. 
Black glanced at them; Cricket smiled back at 
him. 
“Ah, that’s a good night’s work, then,” he said. 
“At least, if we can get out of here alive!” 
“It’ll do,” Arlian agreed, “but Lord Toribor still 
lives, and I wouldn’t mind a few words with old 
Stonehand.” 
“Oh, you hot-blooded young idiots are never 
satis… ” 
“Your pardon,” Thirif interrupted, “but I cannot 
keep this illusion much longer.” 
“I think it’s done its job,” Arlian said. “Let it go.” 
“Thank you,” Thirif said, lowering his arm. The 
demon-image dissipated into fading red smoke, and 
the lantern over the driver’s bench seemed to 
brighten. Black seated himself comfortably and 
shook out the reins, signaling the oxen to move. 
Thirif leaned past him, ducked, and stepped inside 
the wagon, pushing past the two women, who 
squeezed aside to make room for him but did not 
relinquish their place in the door.

“You’re heading north?” Arlian asked. 
“At least at first,” Black said. 
“That’s fine,” Arlian said. “Take the women back 
to Manfort, where they’ll be safe.” He jumped down 
from the seat as the wagon began to roll. “I’m going 
south,” he said. “Toribor won’t expect me to be 
behind him.” 
“Ari, you’re mad!” Black said, tugging the reins to 
halt the oxen before they had gone more than a 
couple of yards. 
“Quite probably,” Arlian agreed. “But mad or not, 
I’ve sworn to kill Lord Enziet, and he’s to the south, 
not the north.” 
“How will you find him, without the magicians?” 
Black demanded. 
“I don’t know,” Arlian admitted, “but I’ll manage 
it somehow.” 
Just then a loud, crash sounded above them; 
Black, Arlian, and the others looked up, startled, as 
an angry, bearded face appeared in the open 
window of the inn whence Arlian had escaped. 
“Obsidian!” Lord Toribor’s voice bellowed. “By 
the dead gods!” 
“Block the gate,” Arlian said to Black without 
looking back. Then he called, “Yes, Lord 
Toribor—I’m here.” 
“Hiding behind sorcery,” Toribor called back. 
“Too afraid to show your own face?” 
“And you’re hiding behind a dozen guards,” 
Arlian shouted back. “Afraid to meet me 
honorably?” 
“So you can butcher me as you did Drisheen and 
Shamble? Ha!” 
“So I can fight you fairly, as I did Iron and 
Kuruvan,” Arlian retorted. 
“Fair? You crippled Iron before you killed him!”

“I did nothing of the kind—he was already 
crippled. I merely removed the brace that hid it. 
And I remind you, he challenged me, and made no 
offer to yield!” 
“Lie’s and half-truths!” 
“No more than your own!” 
Lord Toribor’s one good eye glowered down at 
Arlian for a moment; then he turned and spoke to 
someone behind him. Arlian took the opportunity 
to see that Black had started the wagon forward, 
toward the stableyard gate. There were lights in the 
street beyond; Toribor’s men were on their way. 
“I don’t suppose Thirif has any more of those 
spells…” Arlian said. 
“He told me that was the only one he’d brought,” 
Black called back. 
Then Toribor was back in the window. 
“I’ll give you a chance to surrender,” he called. 
Arlian found himself smiling at that, though he 
was not entirely sure why. “And I’ll return the favor, 
and allow you to surrender,” Arlian called. “You tell 
me your terms, and I’ll tell you mine.” 
“Give yourself up into my custody, disavow your 
oath to slay me and Lord Enziet, and I’ll take you 
back to Manfort to stand trial before the Duke for 
Drisheen’s murder, and make no further claim on 
you,” Toribor called. “Your friends would be free to 
go.” 
Arlian almost laughed. “And the two women? 
Cricket and Brook?” 
Toribor made a disgusted noise. “Oh, fine!” he 
said, exasperated. “Take them as part of the 
bargain, if that’s what it takes to get you to give 
yourself up!” 
“It’s not enough,” Arlian called back. “Listen, 
Lord Belly, to my terms. You give me a horse, and 
your oath not to harm or molest in any way anyone

in that wagon until they’re safely back to the Old 
Palace in Manfort, and I’ll forestall my vengeance 
on you—not forgo it entirely, but merely put it off. 
I’ll give you a year before I seek you out to kill you, 
and you’ll be free to try to make your peace with me 
in that time. I’ll be busy hunting Lord Enziet for 
part of that time— and who knows, maybe he’ll kill 
me and you’ll be safe!” 
“Are you mad?” Toribor roared. “Do you expect 
me to agree to that?” 
“No more than you really expect me to agree to 
your terms!” Arlian shouted back cheerfully. 
“Listen, you little fool, you have no idea what 
you’re doing! I can’t take any risk that you might 
kill Enziet!” 
“Ari!” Black called, before Arlian could respond. 
Arlian turned to find guardsmen with drawn 
swords standing in the stableyard gate, blocking the 
oxen. “Thirif! Stand ready!” he called, as he drew 
his own weapons. Then he bellowed, “Do you men 
want us to summon the demon anew?” 
“There is no demon!” Toribor shouted. “It’s all 
just illusion! Sorcerers can’t summon demons!” 
“Thirif is no mere sorcerer, Belly!” Arlian 
retorted. “He’s an Arithein mage, from beyond the 
Dreaming Mountains.” 
The swordsmen looked at one another 
uncertainly. 
Just then Rime thrust her head out of the door; 
like Thirif, and unlike Black and Arlian, her 
glamour was gone. 
She clambered out and stood on the seat beside 
Black, unsteady on her woodenjeg. 
Toribor stopped shouting to stare at her, and 
Arlian turned to look. 
“You there!” she said, pointing her trademark 
bone at the nearest guardsman. “Just what do you

think you’re doing?” 
The guardsman lowered his sword. “Lady Rime?” 
he asked, baffled. 
“Yes, Lady Rime!” she shouted. “Who told you to 
block my wagon?” 
“Ah… he did,” the soldier replied, pointing up at 
Toribor. 
“And who gave him that authority?” 
“Lord Enziet, my lady. He said we were to obey 
Lord Drisheen and Lord Belly until his return.” 
“And do you think Lord Enziet meant you to 
interfere with me?” 
“No, my lady.” 
“Then get out of the way!” 
“No!” Toribor shouted. “Don’t listen to her!” 
Rime turned and glared up at him. “And why not 
?” she demanded. “I am an adviser to the Duke of 
Manfort, my Lord Toribor, as you are not!” 
“But you’re a traitor!” Toribor shouted. “You’ve 
been helping Obsidian!” 
Rime put her hands on her hips. “You dare to 
call me a traitor? You fled here and went through 
all this—setting up ambushes, chasing people about 
in the middle of the night—because you’re too much 
of a coward to face Lord Obsidian in an honest 
duel!” She turned back to the soldier. “Did Lord 
Enziet tell you anything about setting up 
ambushes? Did he say you were to trap Lord 
Obsidian?” 
“No, my lady; he just said to obey the other 
lords.” 
“So you’ll just blindly obey any order young Belly 
gives you?” 
“My lady,” the guardsman said desperately, 
pointing at Arlian, “that man, whether he’s Lord 
Obsidian or not, did murder Lord Drisheen.”

“And what happened before that? Might he have 
had cause to kill Drisheen in his own defense?” 
“I… I don’t really know,” the soldier admitted. 
“He meant to murder us both in our beds!” 
Toribor shouted. 
“I came to speak to you, and someone shot an 
arrow at me!” Arlian shouted back. He turned to 
the guard. “See for yourself—it’s probably still stuck 
in the stairway wall!” 
The guardsman looked helplessly from Rime to 
Toribor, saying nothing. 
Toribor called, “Rime, stop this! You don’t know 
what’s at stake here!” 
Rime stared up at him in disbelief. “I don’t? 
Besides your miserable life, you mean?” 
“No! It’s far more than that!” 
“What is at stake, then, that’s so precious?” 
“I… I can’t tell you here!” 
“And where could you tell me? And why haven’t 
you done so before? I seem to recall an agreement 
to share secrets, Lord Belly.” 
“I didn’t know!” 
“And did Lord Enziet? Is this some new lie he’s 
told you, or some secret he’s withheld?” 
“Rime, you don’t understand! Enziet had 
reasons…” 
“I understand enough,” she retorted, turning 
away. 
Arlian called up to Toribor, “Listen, Belly—once 
again, before witnesses, I challenge you to meet me 
in an honorable duel, to settle all matters between 
us!” 
For a moment Toribor stared down at him in 
speechless fury; then words exploded from him. 
“Blast you, Obsidian!” he shouted. “Fine, then! I’ll 
fight you, here and now!”

“In the street in front of the inn!” Arlian called 
back. 
“Done!” Toribor’s head vanished from the 
window. 
Arlian smiled, and turned back toward the 
wagon. 
“Good,” he said. 
“I hope so,” Rime said. She looked up at the 
empty window thoughtfully. “I do hope so.” 
56 
Crossed Swords 
The two opponents faced each other warily, 
about a dozen feet apart, swords and swordbreakers 
held ready. The sky was still overcast, the moon and 
stars hidden, so the only light came from a few 
windows and the lanterns hung to either side of the 
inn’s signboard; the fighters’ shadows stretched out 
across the street in an elongated tangle of gray and 
black, arms and blades crisscrossing. Despite the 
chill in the air Arlian saw sweat gleaming on Lord 
Toribor’s bald head. 
The audience consisted of two distinct 
groups—Toribor’s party, clustered in and around 
the inn’s front door or peering from the inn’s 
windows, and Arlian’s party, seated in the wagon 
fifty feet to the north, ready to move out on a 
moment’s notice. The few townspeople who were 
awake, including all of the inn’s staff, had joined 
Toribor’s group, swelling its ranks to perhaps three 
dozen people. 
Black had extinguished the lantern above the

driver’s seat of the wagon, and Arlian supposed that 
was to make it easier to slip away into the darkness 
unnoticed. 
“Kill him!” the innkeeper shouted. “I’m never 
going to get all those bloodstains out, and that door 
upstairs is ruined!” 
“We’ll pay for the damages,” Lady Rime called in 
reply. 
The innkeeper snorted in disbelief. 
Arlian watched Toribor closely, looking for some 
hint of an impending attack, but could see 
none—perhaps Lord Belly thought that time was on 
his side, and he intended to wait Arlian out, fight 
defensively until his opponent tired. 
Or perhaps he fought conservatively because of 
his missing eye—he was blind on his left side, and 
kept his head cocked at an odd angle to 
compensate, his right eye angled forward and 
focused on Arlian’s blade. 
Arlian tried a quick feint, just to see what would 
happen; Toribor’s blade flashed up to parry, but he 
made no counter. 
Arlian grinned; that suited him fine. He circled 
to the left, stepped in, feinted, then dodged right 
and attacked in earnest. 
Missing eye or no, Toribor was ready for him and 
warded off the assault easily—but he still made no 
riposte, no attack of his own. After a few seconds of 
clashing steel, Arlian stepped back. 
All the light came from the same direction, from 
the inn; it wasn’t bright enough to blind anyone 
who looked directly at the lanterns, though, so the 
old sun-in-the-eye trick was no real use. Getting in 
front of the light might make it harder for his 
one-eyed foe to see what he was doing, however, so 
Arlian moved in that direction. 
Toribor didn’t cooperate; he moved back and to 
the side, keeping Arlian and the light at an angle.

Arlian considered that. If Toribor kept that up he 
could be maneuvered pretty much wherever Arlian 
wanted him; all Arlian had to do was decide where 
that would be. He looked at Toribor’s tilted face, at 
how he was concentrating on Arlian, staring at him, 
and he thought he knew. 
Toribor had adjusted to his missing eye, but he 
wasn’t comfortable with the darkness; he had 
probably spent almost his entire waking life in 
daylight or firelight, and he could not close one eye 
to keep it adapted for darkness, while the other 
adjusted to light, as Arlian could. Arlian had both 
his eyes, and had spent seven years in the mines, 
with limited supplies of lamp oil; darkness did not 
trouble him, and he knew a dozen tricks to 
compensate for low light. 
If Toribor would not allow Arlian to block the 
light, perhaps Arlian could still drive him away 
from the light entirely. He charged, and in a flurry 
of steel Toribor retreated. 
They were moving away from the inn—and from 
the observers. As their blades slashed and clanged 
Toribor said urgently, “Listen, Obsidian—Arlian, 
Lanair, whatever your name is. You don’t know 
what you’re doing!” 
“Really?” Arlian laughed. “I thought I was trying 
to kill you.” 
“Beyond that!” Toribor said angrily, as he 
knocked aside another blow and stabbed his 
swordbreaker blindly at Arlian’s midsection. 
“I’m trying to kill Enziet, too,” Arlian said, as his 
own swordbreaker blocked the thrust. “Is that what 
you mean?” 
“Yes, blast you!” Toribor said, breaking free. “You 
can’t kill him! You mustn’t!” 
“Because he’s the Duke’s chief adviser and the 
real ruler of Manfort?” Arlian asked, as he waved 
his sword threateningly. “Because the whole city 
will be plunged into chaos by his death?” He

laughed again. “I think not. The city will survive 
without him, as it would without any man.” He 
lunged. 
Toribor parried and sidestepped and made a tidy 
riposte, which Arlian turned scarcely an inch from 
his own sleeve. For a moment the two fought 
without words, the clash of steel and the mutter of 
the now-distant crowd the only sound. 
“It’s not that,” Toribor said, as the two men 
separated and he caught his breath. “You’re right, 
that’s nothing; the Duke could have a hundred 
advisers anytime he called for them, and the 
Dragon Society has a dozen members who might 
rival Enziet’s abilities. But my lord, none of them 
know—if Enziet dies, the dragons will return.” 
Arlian had been preparing a fresh attack, but he 
paused, astonished. “What?” he demanded. 
Toribor attacked, and Arlian turned it and 
countered; it had not been a particularly skillful 
attack, and that, more than anything else, 
convinced him that Toribor was serious. Had he 
meant his outrageous claim as a mere distraction 
he would have followed it with his best, not a 
halfhearted overhand lunge. 
“It’s true,” Toribor said. “Or at least Enziet 
swears it is, and showed me evidence. Have you 
never wondered why the dragons gave up their 
hegemony seven hundred years ago, when all the 
fighting to that point only demonstrated that we 
could not harm them?” 
“Of course I’ve wondered,” Arlian said, with a 
quick little feint. 
“It was a bargain they made,” Toribor said, 
barely even bothering to parry. “Humans learned a 
great secret, and threatened to reveal it, and use it, 
if the dragons did not depart.” 
“What secret?” Arlian said, listening. 
“I don’t know,” Toribor admitted. “But Enziet

does— and he says he’s the last man alive who does. 
When he dies, the pact will be worthless, the secret 
will be lost, and the dragons will be free to return!” 
“And you believe him?” Arlian made a thrust at 
Toribor’s side; he dodged. 
“Yes, I do,” Toribor said. “He swore to me, by all 
the gods and by the dragons themselves, that he 
and he alone knows the secret that drove the 
dragons into their caverns.” 
Arlian considered that. 
It might even be true, he supposed; Enziet was 
perfectly capable of lying and breaking his word, 
Arlian was certain of that, but all the same, it might 
be true. Enziet was one of the oldest living beings in 
the world—perhaps the oldest, save the dragons 
themselves—and had certainly been around when 
the dragons still ruled. If there were such a secret, 
Enziet might well be its sole holder. 
But what could such a secret be? And would the 
dragons truly return when it was lost? 
Could the dragons actually return? 
And if they did, could a way be found to kill 
them? Might that perhaps even provide a route to 
vengeance for Arlian’s family and neighbors? If the 
dragons came to him, rather than if he went 
searching through endless caverns for them, he 
might actually accomplish his goal. 
That assumed, of course, that he could find a way 
to kill dragons. 
Perhaps that was the secret Enziet held, and 
perhaps he could be convinced to give it up before 
he died. 
“I swore to kill him,” Arlian said. “He murdered 
my friends, looted my home, and sold me into 
slavery.” 
“He’s done all that and more,” Toribor agreed, 
“but he keeps the dragons away. Isn’t that more 
important than vengeance, or justice?”

“He swore to share his secrets with the Society,” 
Arlian said. 
“He broke his oath; he admits it. But he had 
sworn to the dragons themselves not to reveal it.” 
Their duel had slowed as they spoke; now they 
still stood with weapons ready, but the fight had 
become a conversation. Arlian risked a quick glance 
back at the inn. 
No one had followed them; the audience still 
huddled under the lanterns, safe in the light, 
watching from afar. 
“Why hasn’t he told anyone else, then?” Arlian 
asked. “Why take the risk? What if he were killed by 
thieves, or in a fall from his horse? He’d let the 
dragons return?” 
“I never said Enziet isn’t a selfish bastard,” 
Toribor said. 
“He deserves to die,” Arlian growled. 
“He probably does,” Toribor agreed. “But we 
can’t afford his death, I tell you!” 
“So what do you propose I do about it?” 
“Just… just leave him alone, that’s all. And me. I 
don’t want to die; I don’t even want to kill you. If 
you’ll swear not to kill Enziet, I’ll let you escape into 
the darkness, and I won’t pursue.” 
“I can’t swear that,” Arlian said. “I will not break 
my vow, nor forgo my vengeance. Enziet poisoned 
the woman I love, and she died in the bed beside 
me, and he will pay for that, dragons or no!” He 
launched a ferocious attack, catching Toribor off 
guard—but not so off guard he didn’t manage to 
parry at the last instant as he retreated before 
Arlian’s assault. 
“You’d rather plunge all humanity back into 
slavery?” Toribor shouted as he backed away. 
“Yes!” Arlian shouted back. “If that’s what it 
takes! I’ve been a slave, and I survived! We drove

the dragons away once, and we can do it again, with 
or without Enziet!” 
“You’re insane!” Toribor yelped. 
“I’ll promise you this much, Lord Belly,” Arlian 
said as he lunged again. “I’ll try to learn Enziet’s 
secret before I kill him. I’ll try. And if there is a 
secret, and I learn it, I’ll use it.” 
Toribor did not answer. They were well away 
from the inn now, and Arlian had begun to force 
Toribor back into the utter darkness of a side 
street; he was too busy trying to see Arlian’s moves 
in the dark to speak any more. 
Arlian, on the other hand, could still see quite 
well enough to suit him. He had dug and hauled ore 
in no more light than this any number of times. A 
sword was nothing like a pick, but both could be 
used well enough in the dark if one knew how. 
He lunged, turned, and jabbed low with his 
sword-breaker; Toribor started back, and Arlian 
brought his sword across and down. 
It was a glancing blow, but he heard fabric tear 
and heard Toribor gasp in pain, and Arlian knew he 
had drawn first blood, cutting a gash in his 
opponent’s leg. 
“Blast you!” Toribor said, as he made a wild 
swing; Arlian ducked under it easily, and took the 
opportunity to strike again, this time plunging his 
sword deep into Toribor’s thigh. 
As he snapped back into position and withdrew 
the blade Arlian heard the hiss of indrawn breath. 
“Listen, Obsidian,” Toribor said, “listen to Enziet 
when you find him! It’s more important than your 
dead friends, or my life—listen to him!” 
Arjian paused, and stepped back. Toribor seemed 
to be conceding the duel; Arlian had not expected 
that. 
And he seemed more concerned with Enziet’s life 
than his own; Arlian had certainly not expected

that! He moved his sword into a guard position, 
considering. 
Toribor staggered forward, attempting an attack, 
but his injured leg buckled under him, and he fell 
sideways in the dirt. 
In an instant Arlian had stepped forward and 
kicked the sword from his hand. He stood over the 
defenseless Toribor, his own blade at his 
vanquished foe’s throat. 
There he hesitated. 
“Do you want to live?” he asked. 
“Of course I do, you bloody-handed fool!” Toribor 
said, through gritted teeth—his wound was 
obviously painful. 
It wasn’t fatal, though—Toribor had the heart of 
the dragon, and if he didn’t bleed to death here and 
now he could recover and heal. 
“You’re serious about Enziet and the dragons, 
then?” 
“Yes!” Toribor gasped; he had abandoned any 
pretense and was clutching at his leg with both 
hands, trying to stanch the flow of blood. 
“Then you listen to me, Lord Toribor,” Arlian 
said. “You have a choice. You can swear to take 
your men and go back to Manfort and trouble me 
no more until I return there, and I’ll let you 
live—though it’s not over between us, any more than 
it is between Lord Nail and myself. You both must 
still make amends for your crimes in Westguard; 
I’m just delaying the day of reckoning. 
“That’s one option. The other is that you refuse 
this oath, in which case I’ll kill you here and now, 
regardless of the dishonor in slaying a defenseless 
foe. You saw what I did to Lord Drisheen; you know 
I can be ruthless.” An afterthought struck him. “Oh, 
and in either case, I want Drisheen’s horse and 
harness. I’ll buy it, or just take it, as you please.” 
“I’ll swear,” Toribor said, his voice weakening, “if

you’ll swear an oath in return.” 
“I’m not going to let Enziet go,” Arlian said. 
“Just… swear you’ll listen to him, and consider 
carefully, before you decide whether or not to kill 
him,” Toribor said. 
“If he gives me the chance, I’ll do it,” Arlian said. 
“I’ll swear to listen, if it’s not at the risk of my own 
life.” 
Toribor nodded. “Then I swear, by the dead 
gods,” he said. “I’ll take my men back to Manfort, 
and you can go on after Enziet, or wherever you 
please, unhindered.” 
“And Cricket and Brook stay with me.” 
Toribor nodded. Then he held up a hand. “I’ve 
sworn, and I will keep my word,” he said, “but three 
of Enziet’s men are on their way to Stonebreak. I 
have no way to recall them.” 
Arlian frowned, then shrugged. “A fair warning, 
and honorable of you to give it,” he said. Then he 
backed away, out of the alley and into the street, 
where he turned back toward the inn and bellowed, 
“You there! Bring bandages! Lord Toribor is 
bleeding like a fountain!”
57 
Stonebreak 
Arlian was wearing an entirely new face, courtesy 
of a fresh glamour of Shibiel’s making, when he 
walked into the inn at Stonebreak. He therefore did 
not worry about being recognized as he took a seat 
at an adjoining table just behind the three soldiers 
from Manfort.

He had known they were here by the horses in the 
stable; no one else in this miserable little town 
would have had such fine mounts. Arlian had been 
riding Drisheen’s mare hard for days, leaving the 
wagon and his companions far behind, trying to 
catch up to these three; obviously the soldiers had 
not been dawdling themselves. 
What puzzled Arlian slightly was the presence of 
four fine northern horses in the stable, not counting 
his own; Toribor had been specific about saying he 
had only sent three men ahead. Arlian shrugged it 
aside; he supposed they had brought an extra 
mount, or perhaps a pack horse. 
Certainly, there were only three men in the 
Duke’s livery at the table. One of them was 
Stonehand—Arlian had suspected as much when he 
failed to spot his old enemy in Cork Tree after the 
duel. The other two soldiers he could not recall ever 
having seen before. 
Arlian beckoned to the innkeeper for an ale as he 
listened, trying to overhear, unnoticed, what the 
three were saying as they ate. 
“I’d heard that the winds blow away tracks in the 
Desolation in just minutes,” one man said, “and 
that’s if the ground isn’t too rocky to show tracks in 
the first place. We’ll probably never find him up 
there.” 
“Well, if we lose the trail, we’ll turn back,” 
Stonehand said. He drank deeply from his tankard. 
“We could just wait here,” the third man said. 
“Or go back to Cork Tree and tell the lords we 
missed him,” the first said. 
“We were sent to find Lord Enziet and warn him 
that Lanair is on his trail,” Stonehand said, 
thumping his emptied tankard to the table. “We 
knew he was in the Desolation. We need to at least 
take a look at the top of the cliffs. He can’t have 
gone far yet.”

The innkeeper set a mug before Arlian, who 
accepted it with a nod; the innkeeper frowned, and 
Arlian fished a half-ducat from his pocket. Clearly, 
his credit was not good here—but then, he wasn’t 
dressed as a lord, but as a merchant, and that at a 
time when no caravan was in town. 
He had missed part of the conversation at the 
other table; now, as he drank, he heard the third 
soldier saying,“… see the point of it. We know 
Lanair doubled back, he’s probably either long 
dead, or running back to Manfort with his tail 
between his legs.” 
“Maybe we should wait here a day or two, in case 
they sent a messenger to call us back,” the first 
soldier suggested. 
“No. We’re going up that ravine tomorrow,” 
Stonehand said, brooking no argument. “We are 
going up to the Desolation, and once we reach it we 
are going to see whether we can find Lord Enziet’s 
trail.” 
The other two grumbled, but did not make any 
further protests. 
Arlian drank his ale and studied them, thinking. 
They did not know exactly where Enziet had 
gone; if he simply stayed out of their way they 
would presumably lose the trail and turn back. 
Arlian well remembered how barren the Desolation 
was; did these three even know which route Enziet 
had taken, east, west, or center? Did they know how 
the routes were marked? 
The Low Road was an actual road for at least 
part of its length, with markers along the way; 
perhaps they would follow that, thinking it was 
Enziet’s route, all the way to the Borderlands. 
Arlian was fairly sure Enziet would have taken 
the unmarked Eastern Road. 
If these three turned back, or if they took the Low 
Road, then Arlian could simply let them go on

about their business, while he followed 
Enziet—though he would probably have his own 
problems in locating Lord Dragon. He would need 
the magicians’ help. 
And the magicians were in the wagon, 
somewhere to the north, and if these three turned 
back they would meet the wagon on the road, and 
how would that turn out? Arlian frowned. 
Did these three know that “Lord Lanair” was 
associated with the wagon and its occupants? 
Whether they did or not, they might well ask to 
search the wagon, and if they did they would find 
Brook and Cricket, who they would recognize—even 
if Thirif and Shibiel had cast yet another glamour, 
it would not disguise the lack of feet. That might be 
hidden, if the women were careful, but still… 
There were only three of them, and Black would 
probably be a match for any of them. If the women 
and magicians could handle the other two… 
But they probably couldn’t, if it came to an actual 
fight. Cricket had that sword Arlian had given her, 
but how could she use it, even if she knew how, 
crippled as she was? 
And Thirif and Shibiel were running short of 
magic. They couldn’t prepare more in the Lands of 
Man, where magic was thin and weak, and they 
didn’t know sorcery. 
Rime knew a little sorcery, but no sorcery Arlian 
knew of would be much help. 
And besides, Stonehand owed a debt, one ten 
years old, that Arlian did not want to leave unpaid 
when he had the man so close at hand. 
He couldn’t fight all three by himself, though. He 
knew he was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t that 
good. That was probably exactly why Lord Toribor 
had sent three men, instead of the one Lord 
Drisheen had spoken of—just in case Arlian 
managed to come after them.

And he had nothing against the other two. Oh, 
they might well be murderers a dozen times over, 
they might beat their women and torture kittens, 
but Arlian didn’t know it. They might just as well 
be good sons, faithful husbands, and loving fathers 
who had taken up the guardsman’s trade for lack of 
a better alternative. His only grudge was against 
Stonehand. 
Perhaps he could make the other two see that. 
After all, did they know the entire story of just why 
“Lord Lanair” was pursuing Lord Enziet? Surely 
they did not—Enziet was a secretive man. In fact, 
this entire expedition was the result of his desire to 
keep too many secrets. He certainly wouldn’t have 
told the entire party just who their enemy really 
was. 
Shamble had not appeared to know that Lord 
Lanair was the boy who Lord Dragon had sold into 
slavery ten years before. Why, then, would 
Stonehand, or these others? 
And Arlian was wearing a new face, courtesy of 
Shibiel’s glamour. 
He stood, suddenly inspired, and tapped 
Stonehand on the shoulder. 
Stonehand turned, startled. “Yes?” 
“You’re called Stonehand, aren’t you?” Arlian 
asked. 
Stonehand was suddenly wary. He pushed away 
from the table and put his hand on his sword-hilt. 
“Why?” he asked. 
“Because I thought I recognized you,” Arlian said. 
He unobtrusively eyed the arrangement of table, 
chair, and sword, and then, moving as suddenly as 
he could, punched Stonehand on the jaw. 
The guardsman’s chair rocked back but did not 
quite topple over; astonished, his two companions 
leaped to their feet, as Stonehand clapped a hand to 
his injured chin and stared up at Arlian.

“You stinking heap of bloody offal,” Arlian 
bellowed. “You sold me as a slave!” 
“Hey! Hey! Not in my house!” the innkeeper 
shouted, waving his hands but standing well clear. 
“You stay out of this,” Arlian said. “This is just 
between him and me.” 
“You have the advantage of me,” Stonehand said, 
still rubbing his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re 
talking about.” 
“Don’t you? Ten years ago, on Smoking 
Mountain?” 
Stonehand frowned. “I was on Smoking 
Mountain once,” he admitted. “I don’t remember 
just when.” 
“Do you remember finding a survivor in the 
ruins? And what you did with him?” 
“I didn’t do anything with him,” Stonehand 
protested. “He was Lord Dragon’s property.” 
“I was no one’s property!” Arlian roared. “I was a 
free-born child!” 
“Well, I didn’t sell you!” Stonehand roared back. 
“It was nothing to do with me!” 
“You didn’t say a word to protest,” Arlian said. 
“You took your share of the loot—my mother’s 
jewels, the neighbors’ things, whatever you could 
find!” 
“They were dead!” 
“I wasn’t!” 
“And you still aren’t! You’re free now, aren’t 
you?” 
“After seven years in the mines,” Arlian said. 
“You owe me for that seven years!” 
“Oh, fine,” Stonehand said. “What is it you want 
of me, then?” 
“Satisfaction,” Arlian said, grabbing the hilt of 
his sword—but not drawing it.

“A duel?” Stonehand’s mouth quirked into a 
smile. “And if I refuse?” 
“Then you’re the worthless piece of offal I called 
you, not a man fit to wear a lord’s uniform.” 
“Oh, now there’s a fearsome threat!” Stonehand 
grinned broadly. “A merchant calls me names, and 
I’m supposed to cower in shame?” 
“A man tells you you’re worth less than a dung 
heap, and you can take it, and let everyone here see 
you for the coward you are, or you can fight me to 
show them I’m wrong.” 
“I don’t want to fight you,” Stonehand said. He 
studied Arlian’s face. “You know, I don’t remember 
you very clearly, but your face isn’t familiar at all.” 
“Seven years in the mines will change a man,” 
Arlian said. “Then you’re admitting cowardice?” 
Stonehand sighed. “I am not admitting anything 
of the sort,” he said. “I am merely reluctant to 
perforate a mad fool who may have some slight 
grounds for feeling I may once have inadvertently 
wronged him.” 
“ ‘May’ ? ‘Inadvertently’ ? ” 
“People are sold into slavery every day, boy. Fate 
plays with us, and is none too gentle about it.” 
“And Fate has brought you here, to me, and I 
demand you fight me!” 
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Stonehand warned. “I’m a 
soldier; you’re a merchant. What do you know 
about swordplay?” 
“Enough,” Arlian said. “Then you’ll fight me?” 
Stonehand glanced at his companions; one 
shrugged silently, and the other said, “Go ahead. 
Teach him to mind his own business.” 
“Fine,” Stonehand said. “Outside.” 
“Of course.” Arlian made a formal bow—one 
suited to a lord, not a mere merchant. Stonehand’s 
smile vanished, and he eyed his foe suspiciously.

He did not say anything, though, and the two 
men made their way out into the street. They took 
up guard positions, swords ready, facing each other, 
Arlian to the north, Stonehand to the south. The 
sun was below the western rooftops but not yet 
completely gone. 
Arlian drew his swordbreaker; Stonehand was 
obviously startled by its presence. He had none, but 
pulled a dagger from his boot for his left hand. 
“It’s a trick, isn’t it?” Stonehand said, gesturing 
at the swordbreaker. “You’re no mere tradesman. 
You’re probably not even that boy from Smoking 
Mountain.” 
“I am who I said I was,” Arlian said. “But yes, it’s 
a trick—I’ve studied the sword since I escaped the 
mines.” 
“Obsessed with revenge, I suppose?” He smiled. 
“As I said, Fate plays with us all.” 
Then he lunged; Arlian parried, made a simple 
overhand riposte—and skewered Stonehand neatly, 
running the blade of his sword through Stonehand’s 
chest. Stonehand looked down and said, “I never 
did get the hang of all those fancy tricks. I always 
did…” 
Then he gasped for breath and crumpled to the 
ground, pulling free of Arlian’s blade, his own sword 
and dagger falling from his hands, his collapse 
leaving Arlian staring down at him, astonished with 
the ease of his victory. The duel had been so brief 
that the crowd had not even finished forming. 
Arlian had expected a much longer contest—but 
a man called Stonehand would have been named for 
his fists, not his skill with a blade. 
“I wasn’t even sure I meant to kill him,” Arlian 
said, as much to himself as anyone else. 
“Oh, for…” one of the other soldiers said. His 
companion was kneeling at Stonehand’s side. “Now 
what do we do?”

The kneeling man looked up. “Do you want to 
fight him?” he asked, jerking a thumb in Arlian’s 
direction. 
“No,” the standing soldier said. “I want to go 
home.” 
“That sounds like a fine idea to me,” the other 
replied. “We should take his body, I suppose.” 
“Is he really dead?” Arlian asked. 
“No,” the kneeling man admitted, “but he will be 
soon, I’d say. He’s unconscious.” 
“We’ll need to wait here, then, until he dies,” the 
other soldier said. 
“He’ll be dead by morning, I’d say.” 
“I’m sorry,” Arlian said. 
It was the truth, oddly enough. He had sought 
Lord Dragon’s looters for years, with every intention 
of killing them all, and he had forced this duel 
knowing perfectly well that he would probably kill 
Stonehand, but all the same, now that he had done 
it, he regretted it. There had been little satisfaction 
in so brief a fight, and while Stone-hand had 
participated in the looting of Obsidian and had 
served Lord Enziet, he had not been so outrageously 
cruel as Drisheen, nor so callous as Enziet or the 
other lords. In the brief conversation leading up to 
the duel he had shown himself to be a man, not a 
monster—perhaps under other circumstances, he 
and Arlian might have been friends. He had done 
wrong, yes, but he had not been proud of it; he had 
done as he was told. 
And now Arlian had taken something he could 
never give back. Lord Dragon had taken seven years 
of Arlian’s life, all the years when he should have 
been growing and learning and finding his path in 
the world, and Arlian could never get those.back, 
but taking the rest of Stonehand’s life did not make 
up for that. It was simply another theft, not a 
restoration.

But if he had to do it over again, he could not say 
he would do anything any differently. And he still 
had every intention of hunting down and killing 
Lord Enziet. He was no longer eager to hunt down 
any of the others, but Enziet, yes—Lord Dragon was 
a monster, as Stonehand had not been, and must 
die. 
There was nothing more he could do for 
Stonehand; he wiped his sword, sheathed it, and 
reentered the inn. 
“I don’t think I should stay here after all,” he told 
the innkeeper. “I’ll find somewhere to camp.” 
“Please yourself,” the man said. “That was quick, 
I must say.” 
Arlian ignored the comment. “Before I go, 
though—I’m looking for a man, Lord Enziet. He 
would have come through here several days ago, 
and gone on southward, up the ravine to the 
Desolation. Do you know who I mean?” 
“Oh, the lord with the lamed horse?” The 
innkeeper nodded. “Those three asked about him, 
too. He got tired of looking for a new mount and left 
about three days ago, on foot.” 
Arlian stared at the innkeeper. 
Lamed horse? On foot? 
And only three days ago? 
His vengeance against Lord Enziet was closer 
than ever. 
“Thank you,” he said.
58 
The End of the Pursuit

The wind on the Desolation was almost cold, not 
the searing hot blast Arlian remembered, but it 
blew just as constantly and fiercely as he recalled, 
and just as dry, sucking the moisture from their 
mouths and skin. 
They left the Eastern Road behind on the fourth 
day, veering eastward across bare stone, away from 
the drifting sands, following the glow of Thirif ‘s 
enchanted crystal. The Aritheian was quite sure 
that this was the path Lord Enziet had followed. 
“He’s very close,” Thirif assured Arlian. “I think 
we’ve gained significantly.” 
“Why would we be gaining?” Arlian asked. “A 
man on foot is faster than an ox-drawn wagon.” 
“If he’s hurrying,” Black said. “Why would he 
hurry? He needs to stop for water, just as we do.” 
Arlian frowned, then shrugged. “I’m going to 
scout ahead,” he said. 
This was hardly new; Arlian had been using 
Drisheen’s horse to scout ahead of the wagon 
regularly. As usual, he found nothing but bare 
stone. 
On the sixth day, while scouting ahead yet again, 
Arlian thought he could smell salt in the air, and 
that it was significantly more moist than it had 
been. His breath no longer dried out his throat 
every time he inhaled through his mouth. He saw 
birds in the distance—seabirds, he thought. 
He stared at them intently, but could not make 
out enough detail to be sure—after all, he had never 
seen the sea or seabirds, except in pictures. 
In pictures they usually seemed to have long, 
oddly shaped wings, though, and these black specks 
swooping in the distance fit that description. 
He was at the point where he would ordinarily 
have turned back to rejoin the others, but the birds

drew his interest; he urged his horse forward, up a 
slope of broken stone. At the top he paused again, 
watching. 
Then he lowered his gaze and saw the man 
standing atop a boulder, perhaps two hundred 
yards away across a broad expanse of water-worn 
rock—a tall man, dressed in black, with a plumed, 
broad-brimmed hat on his head and a sword on his 
belt. 
Lord Enziet. 
And Enziet had paused as well, and had glanced 
back, and was staring directly at Arlian. 
“At last!” Arlian muttered, spurring his mount. 
The horse jerked forward and broke into a 
canter, scattering stones in all directions as it 
stumbled across the rocky ground. Arlian felt 
himself losing his seat—he was still far from an 
expert horseman—and reined the beast in. For a 
moment he concentrated his attention on not being 
thrown headlong onto the rocks. 
When he had the horse slowed to a comfortable 
walk he looked up, and Lord Enziet was gone. 
“Blood and death,” Arlian growled. He rode on, 
staring ahead, looking for any sign of his quarry. 
He saw none. 
A few moments later he was alongside the 
boulder where Enziet had stood; he dismounted, 
weighted the horse’s reins to the ground with a 
good-sized rock, and looked around. 
Enziet was nowhere to be seen; a rough expanse 
of bare, jagged stone stretched in all directions, 
hard and cold and alien. Several openings were 
visible—sinkholes, perhaps, or caves, or just gaps 
between fallen chunks of rock; Arlian had no way of 
telling which were which. 
He stared at the ground, looking for a trail—and 
found one; a stone had been turned, exposing a 
damp underside that had not yet dried in the chill

winter wind. He drew a line with his gaze from the 
boulder to that stone, then extended it straight 
on—east by southeast, almost the direction they had 
been heading for the past two days. He drew his 
sword, patted the horse reassuringly, then began 
walking that line, slowly and carefully. 
A few feet past the turned stone he paused; just 
to his right was a dark opening between two slabs 
of stone. He knelt and peered into it. 
Something black and powdery clung to the 
underside of one of the slabs—dead plant life, Arlian 
supposed, either moss or lichen that had managed 
to grow there briefly before succumbing to the 
ghastly conditions of the Desolation. 
There were two smears in the black powder—two 
smears, as if someone’s fingers had brushed against 
it. “Lord Enziet!” he called into the darkness. No 
one replied—but the sound of his voice echoing into 
the depths told him that this opening was clearly 
the mouth of a cave, no mere sinkhole. 
And it was a cave that Enziet surely knew better 
than he did, but Arlian had hardly come so far to 
give up now. There might be another entrance; if he 
didn’t pursue, Enziet might reemerge anywhere, at 
any time. 
Cautiously, his sword ready, he stooped and 
made his way into the darkness. 
The ground sloped down steeply but did not drop 
out from under him; in fact, after he had gone a 
dozen feet he found himself on uneven stone 
steps—whether natural or man-made he could not 
tell. They wound downward into darkness, the 
curves shutting out the sun’s light. 
He paused some thirty feet from the entrance, 
perhaps ten feet below ground, just before he left 
the daylight behind entirely. Here he let his eyes 
adjust and wished he had brought a lantern or 
lamp, or even just something he could use as a 
torch. Surely, Enziet could not see down here

without some such device! 
Of course, if he knew this cave well enough, he 
wouldn’t need to see. He could be waiting at the 
bottom of the steps, planning to skewer Arlian by 
sound and feel. 
Arlian held his breath and listened intently. 
He could hear the wind blowing through the 
rocks, far behind him—and he could hear 
something very, very faint ahead, something that 
might be a person breathing. 
“Lord Enziet!” he called. “I know you’re 
there—strike a light, and we’ll talk.” 
“Talk?” Enziet laughed bitterly—and the sound 
was closer than Arlian had expected. “You want to 
talk, Obsidian? Isn’t it too late for that?” 
“I’m not sure,” Arlian replied, speaking more 
quietly— and moving as he spoke, sidling to his left, 
so as not to invite a sword-thrust by sound alone. 
“Toribor told me I must speak to you before trying 
to kill you, that there were secrets I should know 
before I strike you dead, and I swore I would listen 
if the opportunity arose.” 
For a long moment Enziet made no reply, and 
Arlian moved cautiously farther down the steps, as 
silently as he could. Then that cold voice spoke 
again. 
“Belly got that out of you? I suppose it was his 
dying wish.” He sounded almost regretful—the first 
time Arlian had heard anything like honest emotion 
in his enemy’s voice. 
“I didn’t kill him,” Arlian said. “Not yet. Drisheen 
is dead, though, and Shamble, and Stonehand.” 
“You’re a thorough son of a poxy whore, aren’t 
you? Why did you let Belly live?” 
“Because with my sword at his throat, he was still 
more concerned with your life than his own,” Arlian 
replied. He was fairly sure, now, of where Enziet 
stood—the stairs widened out just a foot or two

below his own position, and Enziet was to his right 
at that level. 
A sword-thrust at full extension should reach 
him, but the chance of hitting anything vital was 
still small—and there were still things to be said. 
“You admired his loyalty?” 
“Not loyalty,” Arlian said. “Shamble was loyal to 
you with his dying breath, and I cut his throat 
without a qualm. Belly, though—he was concerned. 
It was compassion, not loyalty, and I couldn’t find it 
in me to kill a man so concerned with the well-being 
of others.” 
“Even when I, the man you’re sworn to kill, am 
the other?” 
“But you aren’t,” Arlian said. “That’s why I’m 
talking to you, instead of trying to kill you right 
now. Toribor said you hold secrets, and that when 
you die the effects will be far more than I could ever 
guess.” 
And then Arlian ducked. He was not sure exactly 
what he had sensed—whether he had heard cloth 
rustle, or felt the air move, or seen something in the 
lingering trace of light that reached this far into the 
earth, but he had somehow known that Enziet was 
about to strike. 
Perhaps it was sorcery, but he knew, and he 
ducked, and therefore he lived; Enziet’s blade 
swished over his head and rapped against the stone 
wall behind him. He slashed with his own sword, 
not seriously trying to hit Enziet, but only to force 
him back. 
It worked; he heard the crunch of retreating 
footsteps, and when Enziet spoke again his voice 
came from farther away, and a different angle. He 
had moved deeper into the cave. 
“Very good,” Enziet said. “You move well, even in 
the dark.” 
“So do you, unfortunately,” Arlian replied.

“So Belly told you my death will have 
consequences,” Enziet said. “Did he say any more 
than that?” 
“Somewhat,” Arlian said. “I prefer not to go into 
detail, though; I would rather hear your account 
first, so that I might compare the two.” 
For a moment Enziet didn’t answer; then he said, 
“Come down here, off the stair.” 
“Why?” 
“Because if I am to tell you my secrets, then only 
one of us will leave this place alive—at most. I 
promise you that, my eager young enemy—if I 
reveal the truth, then at least one of us must die. I 
would much prefer that it be you, but if I speak, and 
you escape up the stairs before I can slay you, then 
my own life is forfeit.” 
“Why?” Arlian demanded. 
“Step down away from there, and I’ll tell you. And 
then you’ll see why I say one of us must perish, and 
it’s possible you’ll choose to die yourself, rather than 
slay me.” 
“And what if I come down there, and you flee up 
the passage?” 
“Then the pursuit will continue—but you’re 
young and strong, and I’m a thousand years old, 
and right now I feel every day of it. And have you no 
companions aboveground who might apprehend 
me?” 
Arlian considered that. 
His companions were probably still miles away, 
and although they were following him, guided by 
Thirif’s magic, they might never find this place. But 
why should he tell Enziet any of that? And he had 
caught up to Enziet this time; he could do it again, 
if he had to. 
“Move away, then, and I’ll come down,” he said. 
He heard the scuffing of boots on stone; Enziet

was, indeed, moving back. Arlian stepped down into 
the chamber and felt his way along the wall. 
When he had gone seven or eight feet he stopped. 
“Tell me, then, what this dread secret is that you 
hold, that makes you so important.” 
“It’s simple enough,” Enziet said. “I know how the 
dragons reproduce.” 
For a moment Arlian stared uncomprehendingly 
into the featureless darkness. Then he asked, 
“What?” 
“I know how dragons reproduce—and how to stop 
them from doing so.” 
“But… but don’t they… I mean, the dragons are 
still animals, are they not?” 
“No, they are not,” Enziet said calmly. “They are 
the magic of the Lands of Man made flesh, a primal 
force drained from the earth and given shape; they 
only appear to us as beasts, as the reptiles we see. 
That is not what they are.” 
Arlian took a moment to consider this. He 
remembered the terrifying image of the dragons 
above the Smoking Mountain, the sight of that 
immense face peering into the ruined pantry, all the 
tales he had ever heard about the dragons. 
He remembered Black asking him, long ago, if he 
knew male from female, or whether dragons laid 
eggs. He remembered seeing the belly of one dragon 
as it flew over Obsidian—it had been bare and 
sexless. 
Creatures of sheer magic, like those things in the 
Dreaming Mountains, but vastly larger and more 
powerful—it all fit. 
“And that’s why they can’t be killed, then?” he 
asked. 
Enziet snorted. “I don’t know whether they can be 
killed in their mature form,” he said. “I think it’s 
possible. I was working on that—for more than six

hundred years I’ve worked on finding a way, and I 
believe I was very, very near when you came to 
Manfort and cast my life into chaos. But yes, their 
true nature is why we have no record that any man 
has ever killed one.” 
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Arlian asked. “Why 
did you conceal this from the Dragon Society? It’s 
so basic, so essential, yet you hid it for all these 
years!” 
“I had sworn that I would,” Enziet said. 
“And you swore to the Society that you would 
reveal what you knew about dragons! What oath 
did you swear that took precedence over that?” 
“Haven’t you guessed?” Enziet’s voice dripped 
sarcasm. “I thought you were such a clever boy!” 
“No, blast you, I haven’t guessed! Some ancient 
duke? Your father or mother?” 
Enziet laughed. “You’re a fool. Why would I care 
about an oath to someone long dead? No, I swore 
my oath to a power greater and older than the 
Dragon Society or anyone else.” 
“Some sorcerer, then?” 
“Don’t be a fool, Arlian,” Enziet spat. “I swore to 
the dragons themselves.”
59 
The Sword of Lord Enziet 
For a moment Arlian stared silently into the 
gloom, wishing he could see Enziet’s face—that he 
could see anything other than black emptiness. 
Then he said, “You mean you swore by the 
dragons.”

“No,” Enziet said. “I swore an oath to the dragons 
themselves, when I drove them from the Lands of 
Man and bound them, by their oath, into the 
caverns.” 
“You bound them? You, yourself?” 
“I have that honor, yes.” 
“But they come out sometimes,” Arlian said. 
“In dragon weather, yes. They’re dragons, 
boy—they can’t be bound entirely by anything 
human, not even an oath. But they would speak to 
me, when the temptation grew strong, and we 
would agree on what would be permitted them.” 
“Such as my home and family,” Arlian said 
bitterly. 
“Such as that, yes,” Enziet agreed. “I chose your 
village for reasons of my own. I had not intended 
that anyone would survive, and that error has cost 
me. I should have known better—dragons are not to 
be trusted.” 
“What, you think they left me alive deliberately?” 
“Yes, boy, I do. I know more about dragons than 
anyone alive, and yes, I believe they knew you were 
there, and that they let you live intentionally.” 
“Why? I’ve sworn to destroy them!” 
For a moment Enziet didn’t reply; when he did 
speak Arlian could hear genuine mirth in his voice. 
“Have you? As you swore to destroy me?” 
“Yes! They killed my mother, my father, my 
grandfather, my brother—if a mortal man can 
destroy a dragon, I will!” 
“No dragon would fear your vengeance, Arlian,” 
Enziet said. “They fear no one but me. A boy of ten 
or twelve, as you were—pah! They’d consider you no 
more threat than a kitten!” He laughed. “They don’t 
know you as I’ve come to.” 
“Can they be killed, then?” Arlian asked eagerly. 
“The black dragons? The elders? I don’t know. I

believe it’s possible.” 
“You said they fear you.” 
“They do. I know how they reproduce—and I 
know how to prevent it. Dragons don’t live forever, 
any more than we who they’ve polluted do. We live 
centuries, and they live millennia, but we all die in 
the end, and they want their kind to live after them, 
as we do. I may not be able to kill a grown dragon, 
but I can kill their unborn young, and they know it, 
and fear me in consequence.” 
“How did you learn this?” Arlian asked. “Did you 
stumble on it by chance?” 
“Does it matter?” 
“It might. If you learned it, might others not be 
aware of it as well, without your knowledge?” 
“And then you’d have no compunctions about 
killing me, eh?” Enziet laughed again. “No dragon 
has been born in a thousand years, Arlian. How 
could anyone else have learned what I know?” 
“Then you’ve prevented births?” Arlian asked. 
“And the dragons permit it?” 
“No, Arlian,” Enziet said—and Arlian realized his 
foe’s voice had moved closer; he had become so 
caught up in the conversation he had let his enemy 
creep closer unnoticed. Now he slashed at empty air 
and took three quick paces to the side. “It was not I 
who prevented the creation of new dragons for all 
those years. The gestation of a dragon takes a 
millennium, and the first new ones should be 
arriving within the next century, I would say. Only a 
very few of them will be born in the next thousand 
years— but there have been none in the thousand 
just ended.” 
“Why?” Arlian demanded. “If you’re the only one 
who knows…” 
“I was not always the only one who knew the 
secret,” Enziet interrupted. “The Man-Dragon Wars 
were fought not simply because humans dared to

resist draconic rule, but because humanity had 
discovered the hope of destroying the dragons 
entirely. The true nature of that knowledge was kept 
hidden by a secret society, and I was just one 
member of that original Order of the Dragon. The 
Dragon Society you know is a sick parody of the 
Order, Arlian—a parody I created after I betrayed 
the Order to save my own life. And when the Order 
was gone, I alone was left in possession of the 
Order’s secret, and was able to do what the Order 
had not—free humanity of the dragons, not by 
warfare, but by an exchange of oaths.” 
“And if you die, the dragons are free of their 
oath?” 
“Of course.” 
“And they’ll emerge and reassert their rule over 
all the Lands of Man?” 
“I don’t know what they’ll do, Obsidian,” Enziet 
said wearily. “I don’t understand them so 
completely as that. I only know they’ll be free of 
constraint when I’m gone, when the secret of their 
origins is lost.” 
“You’ve told no one? Never written it down?” 
“You are a naive young fool,” Enziet said. “I don’t 
want to die, and I don’t care very much what 
becomes of all the rest of you once I’m dead. There 
are other reasons, as well—but no, I have told no 
one, nor have I written down my deepest secrets. 
There is no one I would trust with this knowledge, 
and documents can be stolen, or copies, or simply 
read by the wrong people. So, do you still want to 
kill me, knowing what you might unleash?” 
“You’ll die someday in any case,” Arlian said. 
“Indeed I will,” Enziet agreed. “As will you. I 
might have an hour left to me—less, if you manage 
to slay me— or I might have a century. Is not the 
chance of a century’s delay in the return of the 
dragons worth forgoing your revenge?”

“No,” Arlian said. “Not when it might be only an 
hour, and not when you’ve said we won’t both leave 
this place alive. I don’t know that any of what you’ve 
told me is true—you could be making it all up to 
trick me!” 
“I swear, by all gods living and dead, that what I 
have told you is true.” 
“And I cannot accept your word,” Arlian said 
unhappily. “If it’s the truth, you are already 
forsworn in your oath to the Society.” 
“The Dragon Society is a sham!” Enziet shouted. 
“Yet you swore,” Arlian insisted. 
“Then you don’t believe me,” Enziet said. 
“No,” Arlian said. “If it’s true, then tell me your 
secret, if you want it to survive—because you won’t 
survive, if I can prevent it.” 
“I might kill you, instead.” 
“You’re welcome to try. Tell me the secret, 
then—if you kill me, it won’t leave this cave.” 
There was a long pause before Enziet replied 
thoughtfully, “I don’t think I want to do that. The 
time may come when you learn for yourself, but I 
won’t tell you.” 
“Then I won’t spare you.” 
“And I’ll do my best to kill you. No quarter asked 
nor given.” 
And suddenly Arlian felt a rush of air and 
sidestepped. He brushed against cloth and swung 
his own sword, but hit nothing. He turned toward 
the sound of Enziet’s breath, both his blades ready. 
“I lived seven years in the mines of Deep 
Delving,” he said. “You won’t find me frightened by 
the dark.” 
“And I spent two years in the caverns with the 
dragons, long ago,” Enziet replied. “The darkness 
holds no terrors for me, either.”

“Why did you come here?” Arlian asked. “Did you 
think you could escape me?” 
Enziet snorted. “I thought I could bribe Wither,” 
he said. “Bribe Wither, trust Drisheen, talk Nail 
around, terrify Belly into obedience, and keep my 
hold on the Dragon Society. I thought you would die 
on the way here—but I should have known better. 
Fate clearly has plans for you. I realized that long 
ago.” 
“Bribe Wither with what?” Arlian, thinking he 
sensed movement, thrust even as he spoke, but 
struck only air. He knew what Wither had 
demanded of Enziet, but he wanted to keep his 
opponent talking. 
“With venom, of course,” Enziet said. “This cave 
is an entrance to one of the dragons’ lairs—five or 
six of them sleep in a chamber not far below us. 
Collecting venom that drips from their jaws as they 
sleep is simple enough; I’ve done it before, long, 
long ago.” His voice moved as he spoke; he was 
circling around. Arlian turned, tracking his 
opponent’s movement. 
“Wither’s been seeking venom for years,” Arlian 
said. “Why are you only doing this now?” 
“Because I didn’t need Wither’s support before, 
and did not care to see more clean blood tainted by 
the filth the dragons spew. You should appreciate 
that—you must have seen what happened to that 
whore you stole from me.” 
Arlian leaped and slashed at that, and heard 
cloth tear, but again he failed to strike flesh, and 
again he heard footsteps retreating. 
He pursued, but after a dozen paces the sound of 
his own steps and the clattering of the stones he 
dislodged had drowned out Enziet’s, and he lost the 
trail. He paused, trying to locate Enziet, but once 
the stones had stopped sliding the cave went utterly 
silent. 
“You dare speak of her?” Arlian bellowed.

“Of course,” Enziet replied, from somewhere far 
off to Arlian’s left. “I dare anything. I am Lord 
Dragon, after all; I am he who makes the puppets 
dance. Human or dragon, free or slave, duke or 
whore, you all dance when I pull the strings.” He 
laughed bitterly. “Or so I thought; perhaps Fate is 
pulling my strings now. Or perhaps the dragons 
have all along played a deeper game than I knew.” 
Light suddenly flared up; Enziet had struck 
sparks onto tinder. Arlian turned toward the light 
and hurried toward it, sword raised to strike, but 
Enziet stepped back and snatched up his own 
sword. 
The tinder smoldered dimly, and clearly would 
not last long. 
“I thought the time had come to get on with it, 
and settle matters between us,” Enziet said. “Let me 
light a lamp, and we’ll have it out properly.” 
Arlian stopped, and took a step back. 
“Do it, then,” he said. 
Enziet nodded, stepping forward into the fading 
orange glow. He reached for a pouch on his belt as 
he knelt. 
A moment later Enziet stood, a brass lamp 
burning in his hand. He placed it upon a ledge on 
the wall of the cave, then turned to Arlian. 
For the first time since climbing down into the 
cave Arlian could see his surroundings. He could see 
where he had stood, and where he had run blindly 
across the cave floor, and he realized how lucky he 
had been—he had run right by a huge stalactite, 
and narrowly missed slamming his head into it. 
Enziet had undoubtedly known the stalactite was 
there—but however familiar he might be with this 
place, he could not have been here for long, and had 
not been here in years before this visit, so his 
knowledge of the cave would not be complete. 
That was why he had made a light—the cave was

almost as dangerous to him as to Arlian. Not only 
were there stalactites to hit, stalagmites to trip 
over, and loose stones to stumble on, but there was 
a black pit to one side that they might have fallen 
in. The ceiling varied from too low to stand under to 
too high to see. 
“That leads down to the dragons,” Enziet said, 
pointing to the pit. “If you kill me, you might want 
to go down there to see if you can kill them.” He 
smiled unpleasantly, twisting his scarred cheek. 
“Are the three that destroyed my home down 
there?” Arlian asked. 
“I don’t know,” Enziet said. “Quite possibly.” 
“You know so many secrets—do you know why 
they chose my village?” 
Enziet laughed. “They didn’t choose it,” he said. “ 
I did. I had an interest in obtaining a supply of 
obsidian, and the dragons were eager for a little 
entertainment—you must remember that summer. 
The weather had their blood boiling. They told me 
they were going to strike, but allowed me to name 
the place, and I thought I would save myself a little 
expense.” He laughed again. “I cost myself far more 
than I expected. Had I known you were there, and 
what would come of it; I’d have directed them 
elsewhere and paid for my obsidian in gold.” He 
raised his sword and stepped forward, between 
Arlian and the lamp, casting an immense shadow 
across the cave. 
Arlian dodged sideways, then ran and lunged; 
Enziet dodged, and counter-thrust. Arlian parried, 
riposted, then broke away. 
Enziet stepped down, away from the light, into 
the shadow of a stone pillar. Arlian circled to the 
other side of the pillar. 
For several minutes the two men maneuvered 
about the cave, stalking one another, looking for 
advantageous positions, occasionally exchanging a 
flurry of blows. Their shadows surged and shrank,

twisted and dodged as they moved. 
At one point Arlian slipped on a loose sloping 
stone and went down on one side; before Enziet 
could take advantage of this Arlian snatched up a 
handful of dust and pebbles and flung it at his foe’s 
eyes. As Arlian regained his feet Enziet stepped 
back, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, knocking 
his hat off and recovering just in time to meet 
Arlian’s attack. 
Swords clashed, and Arlian tried to snag Enziet’s 
blade with his swordbreaker. Enziet dodged, and 
slashed, drawing a bloody line across Arlian’s left 
forearm. 
Arlian gasped and fell back—and Enziet fell into 
his trap, stepping forward to take advantage of a 
feigned weakness. Arlian’s sword flashed orange in 
the lamplight as he struck; Enziet parried at the last 
moment, swinging his swordbreaker up, but the tip 
of Arlian’s blade punched through Enziet’s left 
shoulder, a far more serious wound than the scratch 
Enziet had inflicted. 
Both men retreated, pulling apart; they stood 
facing one another, swords gleaming. Arlian’s blade 
was tipped with red; Enziet’s had a smear of blood 
diagonally across it. 
“The dragons down below,” Arlian said, hoping to 
disrupt Enziet’s concentration. “Are they black? Or 
green?” 
“Black,” Enziet said. “All the surviving dragons 
are black.” 
“Oh? Why?” 
“Because they’re old, Arlian. A newborn dragon is 
red as blood, but by the time it’s a year old that 
fades to gold. A few decades and it’s green as grass, 
and a few centuries darken that to a black as black 
as their hearts.” 
“And are their hearts any blacker than yours, 
Lord Dragon? Is that why you called yourself that?”

Arlian had expected Enziet to laugh and make 
some sardonic reply at that, but instead he looked 
as if he had been struck. 
“I have the heart of a dragon,” he said bitterly, 
“as do you, and all the rest of that foolish little 
society. Yours may still be red, or at least gold, but 
mine is old and weary and black, just as you 
say—and as yours will be, one day, if you live that 
long.” 
“Never,” Arlian said, lowering his sword and 
launching a fresh assault. 
60 
The Final Duel 
The fight dragged on; the lamp burned low, and 
the two men called a brief truce to refill it before 
resuming their combat. Arlian received a gash 
across his ribs and another just above one hip, 
while Enziet’s left shoulder was pierced again, and a 
long gouge cut into his right leg. Blood was smeared 
across the rocks, on the stalagmites and along the 
walls. Both men grew tired, but fought on. Neither 
wasted breath on further speech; the time for talk 
was past, and both men knew it. 
Arlian had no idea how long the fight lasted; in 
the cave there was no sun moving across the sky to 
tell him how much time had passed. He could only 
judge by how tired he was, by how heavy his sword 
had become. 
Finally, though, as they maneuvered around a 
pillar, Enziet made a thrust, Arlian’s parry slammed 
both swords against the pillar, and Enziet’s blade 
snapped, no more than five inches from the guard.

Enziet reacted quickly, flinging the broken, 
useless stump at Arlian and running backward, 
away from his foe, before Arlian could strike him 
down. 
Arlian recovered quickly from his surprise; the 
hilt of Enziet’s sword glanced harmlessly from one 
ear as he dodged, and then he was in pursuit. 
As he fled, Enziet had transferred his 
swordbreaker from his left hand to his right; now 
he turned, standing just below the ledge where the 
lamp sat, and faced Arlian. 
Arlian paused. “No quarter, you said,” he 
reminded Lord Dragon breathlessly. 
“And I expect none,” Enziet replied, gasping. “But 
on another point, I’ve reconsidered.” 
“Oh?” 
“You wanted to know the secret of how the 
dragons reproduce,” Enziet said. “I’ve decided to 
show you.” 
“What, you’d play for more time? Lead me down 
into a trap?” Arlian shook his head. “I don’t think 
so. You’ll die right here.” 
“Indeed I will,” Enziet said, “and it’s here that 
you’ll see a dragon born.” He turned the point of his 
swordbreaker toward his own chest. “I’ve felt it 
coming for months,” he said. “I knew it would come 
in time, however I fought, but I’ve denied just how 
close it was.” 
“What are you talking about?” Arlian asked. 
Enziet smiled crookedly. “You thought that when 
we spoke of dragons in our hearts, we were 
speaking figuratively. You’re about to see just how 
literal we were.” 
With that, he plunged the swordbreaker into his 
own heart, and cut downward convulsively with his 
dying breath. 
Arlian gasped and stepped back in shock.

Blood gushed from Enziet’s chest—but it did not 
spill to the ground as it should have. Instead it 
expanded and writhed like a snake, curling upward 
in a solidifying stream. Enziet’s chest rippled as 
Drisheen’s had, but the movement did not subside; 
instead it burst Enziet apart, and a creature, born 
of Enziet’s heart’s blood, stepped forth from the 
ruined corpse and stood upon four crooked, 
unsteady legs. It raised its blood-red head, opened 
golden eyes, and glared at Arlian; a mouth 
appeared and opened, and Arlian saw needle-sharp, 
gleaming-white teeth spring forth from its jaw. 
Wings unfolded from the monster’s back, and it was 
a dragon, a bright red dragon, standing man-high, 
with a twelve-foot wingspan and extending perhaps 
fifteen feet from its newly formed nose to the tip of 
the soft red tail it had uncoiled from Enziet’s belly. 
Arlian stared at it open-mouthed, the sword 
drooping, forgotten, in his hand. 
The dragon stepped toward him, and he 
scrambled backward, bumping heedlessly against 
rocks and stalagmites. He dared not take his eyes 
off the dragon for even an instant. He raised the 
sword to high guard. 
He was suddenly struck by a thought that sent 
terror through him—what if that thing that had 
emerged from Enziet’s body were to knock the lamp 
from the ledge, and plunge the cave into darkness? 
He doubted it needed the light; it could probably 
smell him. Even the slight chance of survival he had 
would be gone if the light died—unless he could get 
out, into daylight, before it caught him. 
Could it fit up the stairs? Would it pursue him? 
It had somehow fit inside Enziet, like a chick in 
an egg; he had to assume that yes, it could fit 
anywhere it chose to. As Enziet had told him, 
dragons were magic made flesh. 
And there were at least five more dragons asleep 
in the cavern below, if Enziet had told the

truth—and Enziet had certainly proven part of his 
story to be accurate. What if this newborn monster 
were to tumble down the pit and wake them? 
Enziet had also said that while a mature dragon 
might be indestructible, he knew how to kill the 
dragons’ unborn young. It was clear to Arlian that 
he had meant by killing their hosts—and Arlian 
suddenly realized that in his quest for vengeance he 
had already slain unborn dragons in Drisheen and 
Horim—but perhaps a newborn, like this one, was 
also vulnerable. 
If he could kill this dragon he might yet be saved. 
And every second he waited might be making the 
thing harder to kill. 
With a yell, he raised his sword and charged the 
thing. 
The dragon lowered its head and spat venom at 
him, but it was a feeble gesture; the spray of venom 
was thin and weak, falling harmlessly to the stone, 
and it utterly failed to ignite. A faint wisp of smoke 
appeared, no more. 
Then Arlian jabbed at the dragon’s chest, striking 
as hard as he could—and the sword slipped off, 
wrenching sideways in his hands. The blood-red 
hide still looked soft and smooth, but he might as 
well have tried to pierce an anvil. Cold iron might 
have power against magic in the Borderlands, but 
good steel could not cut a dragon’s hide. 
Before he could recover his balance the dragon 
struck out with a foreclaw, swatting Arlian aside as 
if he were a mouse; he slammed against the cave 
wall, the breath knocked out of him, his back 
severely bruised. 
The dragon stepped away from Enziet’s corpse, 
shaking torn bits of flesh and cloth from its claws; it 
shook itself out, like a dog shaking off water, then 
stretched like a cat. 
Its claws gouged into solid stone.

Arlian scrambled to his feet, his useless sword 
still in his hand, and the dragon turned to look at 
him. 
He met its gaze, and a flood of memories came 
back—of how he had looked into a black dragon’s 
face there in his parents’ pantry, ten years before, 
and had known he would know that face instantly if 
he ever saw it again; of how he had seen Lord 
Dragon on horseback, looking down at him as if he 
were no more than an insect; of how both Black and 
Wither had looked at his face and told him he had 
the heart of a dragon; of how the members of the 
Dragon Society knew one another on sight. 
Arlian knew this dragon. He knew those eyes. He 
had seen them before, in another color and another 
body. They were different now, larger and inhuman, 
but they were still, unmistakably, Lord Enziet’s eyes. 
The dragon smiled at him, a fierce, hungry smile. 
Enziet had sworn that only one of them would 
leave this cave alive—and while he might have cast 
aside his humanity and his old body, Arlian was 
quite sure that this dragon was somehow still 
Enziet. 
And it still meant to kill him. 
Arlian tried to think what he could do, how he 
might find a weakness. His sword could not cut that 
sleek red hide—but what about the black inside the 
monster’s mouth? What of its golden eyes? The thin 
red membranes of its wings? 
He charged it, sword raised, and though it made 
no sound he thought he could hear Enziet’s 
laughter. It made no move to dodge or counter, but 
simply stood there as he plunged his sword into its 
mouth, down its black throat. 
Then it bit down. 
He barely snatched his hand free as the dragon’s 
teeth shattered his sword; he stepped back, 
horrified, as it swallowed the fragments and then

smiled at him again, Enziet’s crooked, sardonic 
smile. 
Arlian dropped the hilt and switched his 
swordbreaker to his right hand, as Enziet had done. 
He circled to one side. 
The dragon stood where it was, but turned its 
head, watching him. 
Then Arlian suddenly sped up, running wildly 
across the rough stone floor, scattering shards of 
stone as he ran; he turned, and ran right up to the 
monster. He grabbed its serpentine neck to steady 
himself, and with all his strength plunged the 
swordbreaker down on one of those great golden 
eyes. 
The blade snapped off with a sudden twang, 
sending the broken chunk of steel spinning off to 
the side, and the shock of the impact knocked the 
hilt from his grip, bruising his fingers; his wrist 
went numb, and pain shot up his arm. 
The dragon shook itself, sending Arlian flying, 
and he slammed back against the cave wall again, 
this time hitting sideways. Pain blazed. He heard 
something crack—probably one of his ribs. 
He was injured, perhaps serious, and unarmed, 
both his blades broken, and all he had done was 
amuse the dragon. It wasn’t even annoyed, judging 
by its expression—and a dragon’s face, though not 
as mobile, somehow managed to be at least as 
expressive as a man’s. 
Enziet’s silent laughter filled Arlian’s thoughts as 
he struggled to his feet. 
Even though he knew a steel blade couldn’t pierce 
the dragon’s hide, Arlian still wanted one—he felt 
naked facing an enemy unarmed. Both his own 
weapons were broken, as was Enziet’s sword—but 
Enziet’s swordbreaker was intact. 
And, Arlian remembered, that was the blade that 
had given birth to this abomination; perhaps that

would endow it with special potency. 
Half running, half staggering, Arlian hurried to 
Enziet’s corpse, behind the dragon. The dragon 
started to turn, but found itself awkwardly 
positioned, confined by a stone pillar and a low 
section of stalactite-encrusted ceiling; Arlian was 
able to reach the body unhindered. 
The swordbreaker was still clutched in Enziet’s 
dead fingers; Arlian started to pry it loose, looking 
up to see what the dragon was doing. 
The monster had disentangled itself and turned, 
and was advancing, jaws agape. 
Arlian, anticipating a spray of venom, 
ducked—and the venom missed him by inches. 
As he moved, Arlian saw something, tangled in 
Enziet’s ruined clothing—the hilt of another knife, a 
dagger. 
That would not have the unique puissance of the 
swordbreaker, but he snatched for it anyway, and 
came away with the swordbreaker in one hand, the 
dagger in the other—just in time to make a rolling 
dive sideways as the dragon lunged for him. 
He rolled away—a painful operation, with his 
bruises and cracked rib, but he forced himself to 
ignore the pain, as he had often done in the mines. 
When he was clear of the dragon’s attack he tried to 
spring to his feet, but instead found himself 
crouched on one knee as agony laced his side where 
he had just pulled a muscle right where Enziet’s 
sword had cut him. His eyes closed involuntarily; 
when he could force them open again he saw the 
dragon glaring at him. 
Now it was annoyed. 
He took that as a hopeful sign, and raised the 
swordbreaker, ready to strike if the dragon lunged. 
The monster obliged, raising its head up as its 
long neck curved into an S, then striking at him like 
a snake.

Arlian dodged and made a strike of his own, 
plunging the swordbreaker at the dragon’s throat. It 
glanced off harmlessly. 
“Blood and death,” Arlian muttered, as he fell 
back. He lifted the dagger in a meaningless 
defensive gesture. 
For the first time he saw the dagger’s blade, and 
realized that it was black—not the black of iron or 
enamel, but the gleaming, glassy black of obsidian. 
Enziet had said he had a use for obsidian. Enziet 
had thought there might be a way to kill a dragon, 
or at least so he had said, and he had been 
researching it. 
Enziet had been on his way to steal a dragon’s 
venom— might he have brought something he 
thought might protect him? 
Obsidian had power against fire and darkness, 
Rime had told him. 
Arlian plunged the dagger into the dragon’s 
throat. 
The black blade sliced into that impervious red 
flesh as if the dragon’s hide were cheese. 
The dragon screamed, an ear-wracking sound 
like nothing Arlian had ever heard before; it reared 
back wildly, smashing stalactites to powder with its 
wings and head, and slashed at Arlian with its 
foreclaws. 
He dodged one, but the other tore strips of flesh 
from his shoulder; he gasped at the surge of fresh 
pain, and struck again with the obsidian dagger. 
He cut clean through one foreleg, crippling the 
dragon; the severed claw turned to blood as it fell, 
and splashed across Arlian’s leg. 
The dragon screamed again, and Arlian felt 
something pop in one ear. 
The thing was hobbling, not sure how to move on 
three legs, but its head reared back, then struck at

him again. 
He met it with the point of the dagger, jamming 
his hand directly into the dragon’s mouth and 
driving the blade up into its brain—or trying to. 
It choked, and spat his arm out in a gush of 
blood, but it still lived, and was still on the attack. 
Just then a faint light appeared where no light 
had been. The dragon turned to look. 
Arlian hacked at its neck, hoping he could do to 
its head what he had done to its claw, but the blade 
would not penetrate that far—the obsidian wasn’t 
long enough, and the wound closed once the blade 
had passed through, leaving an ugly scar but not 
doing any obvious real damage. 
“By the dead gods!” someone called. “Arlian!” 
The dragon roared in anger and started toward 
the steps, trying to separate Arlian from this 
intruder—but that meant turning its back to Arlian, 
who seized his opportunity. He rammed the 
obsidian knife into the dragon’s side over and over, 
his hand rising and falling as quickly as his tired, 
strained muscles could drive it. 
The dragon screamed and writhed, twisting to 
strike at him, and he felt a spray of venom across 
one cheek, venom that burned like fire, but he did 
not stop. Each new blow cut deep, but each cut 
closed, and no blood flowed. 
And then he struck again, one last time, and it 
was as if a dam had burst—blood was everywhere, 
and the dragon seemed to dissolve around him. 
Then he was lying in a pool of glistening blood, 
and impaled upon his stolen stone dagger was a 
human heart. 
Enziet’s heart. 
He stared at it for a long moment, then let go of 
the dagger’s hilt and let his head fall back. Pain and 
exhaustion boiled up in him, burning the strength 
from his limbs, and the world vanished in a red and

black haze as he lost consciousness. 
After a time he had no way to measure Arlian 
was vaguely aware of being carried somewhere, and 
of impossibly bright light; then he was laid upon his 
back on something hard, the light all around him. 
He heard voices, but could not be troubled to 
distinguish words. 
Simply breathing was all the effort he could 
handle. 
After, what seemed years he realized that the 
light was daylight, that he was outside the cave. He 
observed two shadows, and came to see that they 
were people leaning over him, blocking out that 
blinding sky. They were speaking to him, saying his 
name. 
“I’m alive,” he said, as much to himself as to 
them, but they understood. One of them fell away, 
out of his field of vision, and was gone. 
The other fell silent, but remained there, looking 
down at him. Black against the sky, the face was not 
recognizable. 
“Sleep, Ari,” the face said at last, and Arlian 
recognized Black’s voice. 
“Yes,” he said. And he slept. 
When he awoke again he was on his cot in the 
wagon; the sky outside the windows was dark, but a 
lantern shone comfortingly over the door. He 
started to sit up, then thought better of it when 
pain shot through his side. 
“He’s moving!” a woman’s voice called, and he 
turned his head to see Brook sitting on a trunk at 
his side. 
“Give him water,” Rime’s voice replied, which 
struck Arlian as a very fine idea. A moment later 
Brook held a waterskin to his mouth and he sucked 
greedily.

He was only awake for a few minutes before 
dozing off again, but it was enough to assure 
everyone that he was still alive and intended to stay 
that way. 
After that he recovered quickly. His wounds were 
painful, but not critical; most of the cuts and 
gouges were already scabbed over, the bruises 
already making the transition from purple to 
golden-yellow. He had not lost any limbs. His right 
wrist was broken, and at least three ribs were 
cracked, rather than the one he had thought, but 
his injuries would heal—except, perhaps, a burn on 
one cheek that he knew, but did not say, had been 
left by the newborn dragon’s venom. 
He would live, and he would heal. He was, as 
Rime pointed out, a dragonheart. 
That reminder sobered Arlian. He lay in silent 
thought for a long time—by this point he was 
capable of sitting up, and even walking, but still 
found it painful. 
“Who found me?” he asked. “Who was it who 
came down into that cave?” 
“Black,” Rime told him. “I couldn’t get down the 
stairs in time, with my leg. The others stayed in the 
wagon.” 
“Just Black?” 
“Just Black.” 
“Bring him here.” 
“He’s driving. We’re heading back for 
Stonebreak, and we need to keep moving if we don’t 
want to run out of water. You can talk to him later.” 
Arlian accepted that. 
“Thirif and Shibiel aren’t going on to the south?” 
he asked, changing the subject. 
“No,” Rime said. “They decided not to risk it.” 
Arlian nodded. 
That night, when they had made camp, Arlian

asked Black, “What did you see down there?” 
“In the cave?” 
Arlian nodded. 
“You were fighting something,” Black said. 
“Something big and red, but I couldn’t see it clearly. 
You were hitting it, or stabbing it, and it was 
thrashing around, and then all at once it seemed to 
vanish, and you collapsed. Then I came down and 
found you lying in a pool of blood, and a few feet 
away…” He frowned. “What happened to Enziet? 
You didn’t cut him up like that, did you?” 
Arlian had had time to anticipate that question. 
“It was sorcery,” he said. “Or maybe some other sort 
of magic. I’m not sure what it was. Enziet made it, 
but it turned on him, and then when he was dead it 
attacked me.” 
“What was it?” 
“I don’t know,” Arlian lied. “It had claws and 
teeth, but it wasn’t solid, and when I had cut it 
enough it vanished.” 
Black nodded. “Sorcery and illusion,” he said. 
“I wasn’t sure you’d seen it at all,” Arlian said. 
“I’m glad you did, so you can confirm that I’m not 
mad, and that Enziet is truly dead.” 
“I saw it. And he’s definitely dead.” 
Arlian smiled grimly at that. 
He didn’t say anything about dragons, didn’t 
mention Enziet’s heart or any ancient secrets. He 
was not ready to reveal the truth. He was not sure 
he would ever be ready. 
After all, he was the one man in all the world who 
knew the secret of the dragons, the secret Enziet 
had kept for a thousand years. 
And he was a dragonheart, and some day, some 
far-off day, if he lived long enough, the dragon in 
his heart would burst forth. 
And he hadn’t yet decided how he felt about that,

or what he intended to do about it. 
Three days later he felt well enough to ride up 
front, in the fresh air, at Black’s side as Black drove. 
Rime sat just inside the door. They had found the 
edge of the sands and were back on the Eastern 
Road, headed north, toward Manfort and home. 
“So Enziet is absolutely, unquestionably dead?” 
Rime asked. 
“Absolutely and unquestionably,” Arlian agreed. 
Black snorted. “His heart was ripped out of his 
chest,” he said. “He’s dead.” 
“His heart was ripped out?” Arlian asked. 
“You didn’t see? It was lying there on the stone, 
next to a broken dagger.” 
Arlian nodded. “I wasn’t sure what I saw,” he 
said. 
He wondered whether the dagger had really been 
broken, or whether Black had not seen its black 
blade in the darkness. In any case, it had been left 
behind and was lost forever. 
But he knew now that obsidian could be used 
against dragons, at least sometimes, in some 
circumstances, against some dragons. That might 
be very precious knowledge. 
He was bound by oath to reveal it to the Dragon 
Society—but he was unsure just how and when he 
would inform the Society, or even whether he would 
keep his word at all in this case. With Enziet dead 
the entire purpose of the Dragon Society might well 
be about to change. The dragons might be 
returning—if they learned that Enziet was dead, and 
if no one took his place as the keeper of the secret of 
draconic reproduction. If he could learn how Enziet 
had communicated with the dragons, Arlian might 
take that place. He might need to keep that secret, 
as Enziet had—and if he kept that, why not 
another? 
And the dragons’ secret also meant that Arlian

saw the Society in a new light—as the dragons’ 
breeding ground, rather than their foes. That 
changed everything. The Dragon Society was not 
what it believed itself to be. 
But he was not yet ready to deal with such 
weighty matters. He would need to take time to 
think them through carefully. There would be time 
enough for his final decisions when he was back in 
Manfort. 
“So you’ve almost finished your campaign of 
revenge,” Rime said, interrupting his thoughts and 
providing a welcome distraction. “Just Belly and 
Nail remain, I believe.” 
“If I bother with them, yes. And Dagger and 
Tooth, if I can find them, and perhaps a fellow 
called Lampspiller,” Arlian said. “They’re even less 
important than the lords, though. But even when 
I’ve dealt with all of those, my lady, the campaign is 
just starting.” 
“Oh? It seems to me you don’t have much more 
to do. You’ve beaten Belly once, and Nail’s an old 
man, and you don’t seem very determined to track 
down the other three.” 
“The other three humans,” Arlian corrected her. 
“There are still the dragons—the three that 
destroyed my village, and the rest of them on 
general principles.” 
“The dragons?” Rime asked. 
Arlian nodded. “The dragons are my true foes,” 
he said. “I intend to destroy them all.” And that 
almost certainly meant, he realized, that he would 
have to destroy the Dragon Society itself in time. 
And perhaps himself, since he had a dragon 
growing in his heart. 
“That’s a lifetime’s work, at least,” Rime said. 
“You do know that no man has ever killed a dragon, 
don’t you?” 
Arlian smiled.

“I’ll find a way,” he said. 
The End