Dragon Wing

6

“But you frowned, you seemed angry. I assumed—”

“—that I was feeling squeamish about butchering a small child?” It is his privilege to die an innocent child, and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. The words came to him from the past. It was this dark and chill room, the cracked stone walls that brought the memory back to him. Hugh drove it down into the depths of his mind, sorry he’d recalled it. A warming blaze burned in the firepit. He lifted a coal with the tongs and held it to the bowl of a pipe the magus had produced from a pack lying on the floor. Stephen, it seemed, had thought of everything.

A few puffs and the sterego[4] glowed and old memories faded. “The frown was for myself, because I’d made a mistake. I’d misjudged . . . something. That sort of mistake can be costly. I would be interested to know, however, what a kid that age could have done to earn an early death.”

“One might say ... he was born,” answered Trian, seemingly before he thought, because he cast Hugh a swift furtive glance to see if he’d heard. There was very little the assassin missed. Hugh paused, the hot coal held over the smoking bowl, and stared quizzically at the wizard.

Trian flushed. “You are being paid well enough not to ask questions,” he retorted. “In fact, here is your money.”

Fumbling in a purse that hung at his side, he produced a handful of coins and counted out fifty one-hundred-barl pieces.

“I trust the king’s marker will be sufficient?” Trian held it out. Hugh, raising an eyebrow, tossed the coal back into the fire. “Only if I can collect on it.”

Puffing on the pipe to keep it lit, the Hand accepted the money and inspected it carefully. The coins were genuine, all right. A water barrel was stamped on the front, a likeness (though not a good one) of Stephen’s head adorned the back. In a realm where most things were obtained by either barter or stealing (the king himself was a notorious pirate whose ravages committed among the elven shipping had helped him win his throne), the “double barl” coin as it was called was rarely seen, much less used. Its value was exchangeable in the precious commodity—water.[5]

This job would make Hugh’s fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.

There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm—those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge—when they’ll sell it to humans at all—are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.

It didn’t make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.

“Very well, I suppose you must know something,” Trian admitted reluctantly.

“You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?”

“No.”

On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. “Low Realm stuff. Not bad.”

“Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman,” returned Trian irritably. “In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?”

Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. “You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn’t even know for certain Stephen had a son—”

“Well, he does.” The wizard’s voice was cold. “And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other’s throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next.”

“And so you get rid of the kid. That solves your problem, I guess, but leaves your king without an heir.”

Pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, Hugh stripped off his pants and splashed water abundantly over his naked body. Trian turned his back, either from modesty or perhaps sickened by the sight of numerous weals and battle scars—some fresh—that marred the assassin’s skin.

“Stephen is not a fool. That problem is being resolved. When we declare war upon Aristagon, the nations will unite, including the queen’s own. During the war, Stephen will divorce Anne and marry a woman of Volkaran. Fortunately His Majesty is of an age that he can still father children—many children. The war will force the nations to remain united despite Anne’s divorce. By the time peace comes—if ever—Uylandia will be too weakened, too dependent on Stephen to break the ties.”

“Very clever,” Hugh conceded. Tossing the towel aside, he drank two mugs of the cool, sweet-tasting Low Realm water, then relieved himself in a chamber pot in a corner. Refreshed, he began to look over the various articles of clothing that were folded neatly upon a cot. “And what’ll make the elves go to war? They’ve got their own problems.”

“I thought you knew nothing of politics,” muttered Trian caustically. “The cause of war will be the . . . death of the prince.”

“Ah!” Hugh drew on the underclothing and the thick woolen hose. “All very neat and tidy. That’s why you must trust the deed to me, rather than handle it yourself with a few magics in the castle.”

“Yes.” Trian’s voice broke on the word; he nearly choked. The Hand paused in the act of drawing a shirt on over his head to give the magus a sharp glance. The wizard kept his back turned, however. Hugh’s eyes narrowed. Laying the pipe aside, he continued to dress himself, but more slowly, paying keen attention to every nuance of the wizard’s words and tone.

“The child’s body must be found by our people on Aristagon. Not a difficult task. When the word goes forth that the prince has been taken captive by the elves, there will be raiding parties sent to look for him. I will provide you with a list of locations. We understand you have a dragonship—”

“Of elven make and design. Isn’t that convenient?” Hugh responded. “You had this well-thought-out, didn’t you? Even to the point of framing me for Lord Rogar’s murder.”

Hugh pulled on a velvet doublet, black, braided in gold. A sword lay on the bed. Picking it up, examining it critically, Hugh slid the blade from the sheath and tested it with a quick, deft flick of his wrist. Satisfied, he replaced the blade and buckled the sword belt around his waist. He slipped his dagger into the top of his boot.

“And not only framing me for murder. Maybe committing the murder, as well?”

“No!” Trian turned to face him. “The house wizard murdered his lord, as you, I gather, have already guessed. We were on the watch and merely took advantage of the situation. Your dagger was ‘appropriated’ and substituted for the one in the body. The word was whispered to that knight friend of yours to the effect that you were in the neighborhood.”

“You let me lay my head on the blood-slimed stone, let me see that maniac standing above me with his dull sword. And then you save my life and think that fear alone will buy me.”

“It would have another man. With you, I had my doubts and—as you may have gathered—I had already expressed them to Stephen.”

“So I take the kid to Aristagon, murder him, leave the body for the grieving father to find, who then shakes his fist and vows vengeance on the elves, and all humankind marches off to war. Won’t it occur to someone that the elves aren’t really that stupid? They don’t need war with us right now. This rebellion of theirs is serious business.”

“You seem to know more about the elves than you do your own people! Some might find that interesting.”

“Some might, who don’t know that I have to have my ship overhauled by elven shipbuilders and that its magic must be renewed by elven wizards.”

“So you trade with the enemy—”

Hugh shrugged. “In my business, everyone’s an enemy.” Trian licked his lips. The discussion was obviously leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, but that’s what happens, thought Hugh, when you drink with kings.

“The elves have been known to capture humans and taunt us by leaving the bodies where they may easily be discovered,” Trian said in a low voice. “You should arrange matters so that it appears—”

“I know how to arrange matters.” Hugh placed his hand on the wizard’s shoulder and had the satisfaction of feeling the young man flinch. “I know my business.” Reaching down, he picked up the coins, studied them again, then dropped two into a small inner pocket of the doublet. The remainder he tucked away carefully into his money pouch and stored that in a pack. “Speaking of business, how will I contact you for the rest of my pay, and what assurance do I have that I’ll find it and not a feathered shaft in my ribs when I return?”

“You have our word, the word of a king. As for the feathered shaft”—now it was Trian who experienced satisfaction—“I assume you can take care of yourself.”

“I can,” said Hugh. “Remember that.”

“A threat?” Trian sneered.

“A promise. And now,” said the Hand coolly, “we’d best get going. We’ll need to do our traveling by night.”

“The dragon will take you to where your ship is moored—”

“—and then return and tell you the location?” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “No.”

“You have our word—”

Hugh smiled. “The word of a man who hires me to murder his child.” The young wizard flushed in anger. “Do not judge him! You cannot understand—” Biting his tongue, he silenced himself.

“Understand what?” Hugh flashed him a sharp, narrow-eyed glance.

“Nothing. You said yourself you have no interest in politics.” Trian swallowed. “Believe what you want of us. It makes little difference.” Hugh eyed him speculatively, decided that no more information would be forthcoming. “Tell me where we are and I will find my way from here.”

“Impossible. This fortress is secret! We worked many years to make it a safe retreat for His Majesty.”

“Ah, but you have my word,” Hugh mocked. “It seems we’re at an impasse.” Trian flushed again, his teeth clenched over his lip so tightly that, when at last he spoke, Hugh could see white marks upon the flesh.

“What of this? You provide me with a general location—say the name of an isle. I’ll instruct the dragon to take you and the prince to a town on that isle and leave you. That’s the best I can do.”

Hugh considered this, then nodded in agreement. Knocking the ashes from the pipe, he tucked the long, curved stem with its small rounded bowl into the pack and inspected the remainder of the pack’s contents. He evidently approved what he saw, for he cinched it tightly.

“The prince carries his own food and clothing, enough for”—Trian faltered, but forced the words out—“for a ... a month.”

“It shouldn’t take that long,” said the Hand easily, throwing the fur cloak over his shoulders. “Depending on how close this town is to where we’re bound. I can hire dragons—”

“The prince must not be seen! There are few who know him, outside of the court, but if by chance he were recognized—”

“Relax. I know what I’m doing,” Hugh said softly, but there was a warning in the black eyes that the wizard thought best to heed.

Hugh hefted the pack and started for the door. Movement glimpsed from the corner of an eye drew his attention. Outside, in the courtyard, he saw the king’s executioner bow in apparent response to some unheard command and then quit his post. The block alone remained standing in the courtyard. It gleamed with a white light strangely inviting in its coldness and purity and promise of escape. The Hand paused. It was as if he felt, for a brief instant, the invisible filament, cast out by Fate, wrap itself around his neck. It was tugging him away, dragging him on, entangling him in the same vast web in which Trian and the king were already struggling.

One swift, clean stroke of the sword would free him. One stroke against ten thousand barls. Twisting the braid of his beard, Hugh turned to face Trian.

“What token shall I send to you?”

“Token?” Trian blinked, not understanding.

“To indicate the job is done. An ear? A finger? What?”

“Blessed ancestors forfend!” The young wizard was deathly white. He swayed unsteadily on his feet and was forced to lean against a wall to retain his balance. And so he did not see Hugh’s lips tighten in a grim smile, the assassin’s head incline ever so slightly, as if he’d just received an answer to a very important question.

“Please . . . forgive this weakness,” Trian muttered, brushing a shaking hand across his damp skin. “I haven’t slept in several nights and . . . and then the dragon ride up rydai and back again in such haste. Naturally, we want a token.

“The prince wears”—Trian gulped and then, suddenly, seemed to find some inner reserve of strength—“the prince wears an amulet, the feather of a hawk. It was given him when he was a babe by a mysteriarch from the High Realm. Due to its magical properties, the amulet cannot be removed unless the prince is”—here Trian faltered once again—“dead.” He drew a deep, shivering breath. “Send us this amulet, and we will know . . .” His voice trailed off.

“What magic?” Hugh asked suspiciously.

But the wizard, pale as death, was silent as death. He shook his head, whether physically unable to speak or refusing to answer, Hugh couldn’t tell. At any rate, it was obvious he wasn’t going to find out any more about the prince or his amulet.

It probably didn’t matter. Such magically blessed objects were commonly given to babes to protect them from disease or rat bites or keep them from tumbling headfirst into the firepit. Most of the charms, sold by roaming charlatans, had as much magical power in them as did the stone beneath Hugh’s feet. A king’s son, of course, was likely to have a real one, but Hugh knew of none—even those with true power—who could protect a person from, say, having his throat cut. Long ago, so legend told, there had been wizards who possessed such skill in their art, but not now. Not for many years, since they had left the Mid Realm and gone to dwell on the isles that floated high above. And one of these wizards had come down and given the kid a feather?

This Trian must take me for a real fool. “Pull yourself together, wizard,” said Hugh harshly, “or the kid will suspect.”

Trian nodded and gratefully drank the mug of water the assassin poured for him. Closing his eyes, the wizard drew several deep breaths, centered himself, and within a few moments managed to smile calmly and normally. Color returned to his ashen cheeks.

“I am ready now,” Trian said, and led the way down the corridor to the chamber where the prince lay sleeping.

Inserting the key in the lock, the wizard silently opened the door and stepped back.

“Farewell,” Trian said, tucking the key into the breast of his doublet.

“Aren’t you coming? To introduce me? Explain what’s going on?” Trian shook his head. “No,” he said softly. He was, Hugh noted, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, not so much as glancing into the room. “It is now in your hands. I’ll leave you the lamp.”

Turning on his heel, the wizard practically fled down the corridor. He was soon lost in the shadows. Hugh’s sharp ears caught the sound of a lock click. There was a rush of fresh air, swiftly shut off. The wizard was gone. Shrugging, fingering the two coins in his pocket with one hand, the other reassuringly touching the hilt of his sword, the assassin entered the chamber. Holding the lamp high, he shone it on the child.

The Hand cared nothing for and knew less about children. He had no memory of his own childhood—little wonder, it had been brief. The Kir monks had no use for the state of blissful, carefree childish innocence. Early on, each child was exposed to the harsh realities of living. In a world in which there were no gods, the Kir worshiped life’s only certainty—death. Life came to mankind haphazardly, at random. There was no choice, no help for it. Joy taken in such a dubious gift was seen to be a sin. Death was the bright promise, the happy release.

As part and parcel of their belief, the Kir performed those tasks which most other humans found offensive or dangerous. The Kir were known as the Brothers of Death.

They had no mercy for the living. Their province was the dead. They did not practice healing arts, but when the corpses of plague victims were tossed out into the street, it was the Kir who took them, performed the solemn rites, and burned them. Paupers who were turned from the doors of the Kir when they were alive gained entrance after death. Suicides—cursed by the ancestors, a disgrace to their families—were welcomed by the Kir, their bodies treated with reverence. The bodies of murderers, prostitutes, thieves—all were taken in by the Kir. After a battle, it was the Kir who tended to those who had sacrificed their lives for whatever cause was currently in vogue.

The only living beings to whom the Kir extended any charity at all were male children of the dead, orphans who had no other refuge. The Kir took them in and educated them. Wherever the monks went—to whatever scene of misery and suffering, cruelty and deprivation, they were called upon to attend—they took the children with them, using them as their servants and, at the same time, teaching them about life, extolling the merciful benefits of death. By raising these boys in their ways and grim beliefs, the monks were able to maintain the numbers of their dark order. Some of the children, like Hugh, ran away, but even he had not been able to escape the shadow of the black hoods under whose tutelage he had been reared.

Consequently, when the Hand gazed down at the sleeping face of the young child, he felt no pity, no outrage. Murdering this boy was just another job to him, and one that was likely to prove more difficult and dangerous than most. Hugh knew the wizard had been lying. Now he only had to figure out why. Tossing his pack on the floor, the assassin used the toe of his boot to nudge the child. “Kid, wake up.”

The boy started, his eyes flared open, and he sat up, reflexively, before he was truly awake. “What is it?” he asked, staring through a mass of tousled golden curls at the stranger standing above him. “Who are you?”

“I’m known as Hugh—Sir Hugh of Ke’lith, Your Highness,” said the Hand, remembering in time he was supposed to be a nobleman and naming the first land holding that came to his mind. “You’re in danger. Your father’s hired me to take you to someplace where you’ll be safe. Get up. Time is short. We must leave while it is still night.”

Looking at the impassive face with its high cheekbones, hawk nose, braided strands of black beard hanging from the cleft chin, the child shrank back amidst the straw.

“Go away. I don’t like you! Where is Trian? I want Trian!”

“I’m not pretty, like the wizard. But your father didn’t hire me for my looks. If you’re frightened of me, think how your enemies’ll feel.” Hugh said this glibly, just for something to say. He was prepared to pick up the kid—kicking and screaming—and carry him off bodily. He was therefore somewhat surprised to see the child consider this argument with an expression of grave and keen intelligence.

“You make sense, Sir Hugh,” the boy said, rising to his feet. “I will accompany you. Bring my things.” He waved a small hand at a pack lying next to him on the straw.

It was on Hugh’s tongue to tell the kid to bring his own things, but he recalled himself in time. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said humbly, bending down. He took a close look at the child. The prince was small for his age, with large pale blue eyes; a sweetly curved mouth; and the porcelain-white complexion of one who is kept protectively within doors. The light glistened off a hawk feather hanging from a silver chain around the child’s neck.

“Since we are to be traveling companions, you may call me by my name,” said the boy shyly.

“And what might that be, Your Highness?” Hugh asked, lifting the pack. The child stared at him. The Hand added hastily, “I’ve been out of the country many years, Your Highness.”

“Bane,” said the child. “I am Prince Bane.” Hugh froze, motion arrested. Bane! The assassin wasn’t superstitious, but why would anyone give a child such an ill-omened name? Hugh felt the invisible filament of Fate’s web tighten around his neck. The image of the block came to him—cold, peaceful, serene. Angry at himself, he shook his head. The choking sensation vanished, the image of his own death disappeared. Hugh shouldered the prince’s pack and his own.

“We must be going, Your Highness,” he said again, nodding toward the door. Bane lifted his cloak from the floor and threw it clumsily over his shoulders, fumbling at the strings that fastened it around his neck. Impatient to be gone, Hugh tossed the packs back to the ground, knelt, and tied the strings of the cloak.

To his astonishment, the prince flung his arms around his neck.

“I’m glad you’re my guardian,” he said, clinging to him, his soft cheek pressed against Hugh’s.

The Hand held rigid, unmoving. Bane slipped away from him. “I’m ready,” he announced in eager excitement. “Are we going by dragon? Tonight was the first time I’d ever ridden one. ’ I suppose you must ride them all the time.”

“Yes,” Hugh managed to say. “There’s a dragon in the courtyard.” He lifted the two packs and the lamp. “If Your Highness will follow me—”

“I know the way,” said the prince, skipping out of the room. Hugh followed after him, the touch of the boy’s hands soft and warm against his skin.