The Schemes of Dragons

XVI

TWO TAVERN BOYS, bare to the waist, sweating in the kitchen heat, lifted the roast pig away from the bed of coals and set it on the butcher table, where the head cook prepared to remove the stuffing. A girl hurried through with clean steins for the pub room. Owl the tavernmaster surveyed the activity with a critical eye. "Nearly sundown," he cautioned his workers. In fact, Achird had already dropped behind Cilendrodel's giant trees. The light had not yet dimmed because Motherworld, the Sister, and Urthey were all in the sky. A good night for business, Owl predicted. The lack of darkness would mean more traffic.

"Mind you don't run short like last Sisday," Owl warned the cook.

"Never fear," the man replied, his bald head nearly obscured behind the steam rising from the pig's belly.

"I'll have my dinner in my room," Owl announced, and went upstairs to wait for it.

He was enjoying a pipeful of his favorite tobacco when he heard the knock on his door. A bit early. For once his staff had displayed some efficiency. "Come in."

The man who entered was lithe, short, dark-haired, perhaps twenty-five years old. Though he seemed to bear no weapons, Owl's heart began to race as if a sword had been pointed at it.

"You know me," the newcomer said.

"You are Alemar," he said hoarsely. "It's tonight, then?"

"Yes. Are you ready?"

The insides of his cheeks went dry. "Yes. Yes. Though I wish it didn't have to happen here."

"If we could avoid it, we would."

"I know that."

"If you have doubts, I could bind and gag you now and leave you in this room."

Owl felt the weight of the prince's gaze. It was as if he could see right into the tavernmaster, measure every weakness, confirm every true word and every lie. Surely that could not be so. Owl himself did not know precisely which way he would go. All he had ever wanted was to run an honest establishment and keep out of politics. If tonight's scheme failed, he might well be branded a rebel. He would be at the mercy of the Dragon's governor.

Perhaps that was why Alemar had not sent an emissary. It would be the prince's decision, and no other's, whether or not to trust Owl. If the latter proved undeserving of that faith, no vassal could be blamed.

It was the point of no return. Like so many others in the province this night, Owl had to make up his mind whether he was content to continue living under the Dragon's rule or not. He sat up straight, and met the healer's eyes.

"I'll play my role."

"Good. We'll see each other again soon." Alemar left.

Owl exhaled. The prince of Elandris himself! Gods, if Puriel or the captain of his guards learned of the plot, half the Dragon's garrison would descend on the tavern within the hour. He suddenly noticed that he was digging his fingernails into his palms. He stopped before he drew blood.

Owl ate sparingly, an unusual practice for him, and descended to the main room early. The tavern had been open for only a few minutes, but it was already half full. The air was growing thick with the aroma of ale, human beings, lantern smoke, and incense. He noted the presence of townsfolk seldom seen at the Silver Eel, most of them young, strong men. Owl weaved his way through the customers to his table by the front door, where it was his habit to greet incoming patrons and thank departing ones. Old Jom was sitting in the opposite chair, as he did every Serday, with the peg board already on the table.

Owl eased into his seat, realizing that he was sweating, but determined not to show his nervousness. "Bound to be an especially good game tonight, eh?" said Jom.

Owl's eyes widened. He had not realized his friend was also a conspirator. Jom stared back guilelessly. "Your turn to move first, as I recall," he said.

Owl calmed himself and moved a pawn forward two holes. Jom immediately responded with a pawn of his own, forcing Owl to take it. The Duke's Opening. It would be a night of challenging strategy.

To his surprise, the game managed to absorb his attention. The tavern became noisier, the smell of roast pork and fried eel more prominent, and the air hotter. It was only when a half dozen of Puriel's guards arrived with their captain that Owl's concentration was broken.

Claric strode immediately to his usual table at the center of the room and pounded a chair against the floor. "Food, ale, music!" he roared. He had already been drinking; Owl could tell by the slurred syllables. Wood creaked as he sat down. Owl had lost a dozen chairs to the captain's abuse in the three years since the Dragon had annexed Cilendrodel, as well as a table or two and countless plates. Tonight he stifled his normal tick of annoyance, casually capturing one of Jom's pawns with a merchant. Only his partner perceived that he was no longer immersed in the game.

Owl's staff, well trained not to keep guardsmen waiting, bustled platters out of the kitchen. The girls managed to set down the food and guard their rear ends at the same time. In the corner a minstrel began to play.

The music was exceptionally fine, Owl realized, far better than anything his regular bard could manage. The guardsmen, however, did not notice. As soon as the initial tune was over, they called for a popular ballad, one that any musician could play. The stranger obliged, and soon blessed the room with his fine tenor voice. Never had such bawdy lyrics been sung so well, Owl declared to Jom.

The soldiers applauded by stamping their feet. Two of them threw coins into the singer's hat. They soon forgot him, engrossed in their gossip, jokes, and drinking. Scraps of meat and spilled ale fell on Owl's well-scrubbed floor. One of the men carved his initials into the table top. The other patrons could hardly hear themselves talk over the noise. Three years ago Owl would not have tolerated this sort of behavior. He asked rude customers to leave. But since the Dragon's garrison had come, there had been two classes of citizens in Old Stump. Owl had learned that there were worse things than broken chairs, burned tapestries, and being the butt of soldiers' jokes. He had seen what had happened to the mayor when the latter complained too loudly to Lord Puriel of abuses and broken laws.

Owl had lived in Old Stump all his life. He had a daughter approaching the age when she would soon help him in the pub room. He was not a courageous man. He had played amiable host to Puriel's guards night after night because that was the cost of keeping his livelihood viable. He had no wish to become a rebel, but if lending the Silver Eel for one night would lift the shadow of oppression, he would take the risk.

He drummed his fingernails at the edge of the peg board. Jom had made a move some time ago, yet Owl had not even started to formulate his counterstroke. The air seemed to radiate heat, though the hearth was unlit. The tavernmaster licked dry lips and raised his stein. A lone figure in a cape appeared at the threshold. A white cape. Owl glanced inside the hood and nearly inhaled the brew.

In the corner, the minstrel began a new song. Though he strummed his lute no louder than before, the notes cut like knives through the roar of voices, utensils, and pouring ale. Owl recognized the tune. It had been played a great deal over the past two months. It was called "The Hero with a Hundred Wings."

Suddenly men stood up from tables on every side of Claric's men and drew knives. Owl saw the flash of a needle-thin stiletto, narrow enough to penetrate the interstices of chain mail. Only two of the soldiers saw the steel coming. One blocked the first knife, only to take the second in the heart. The other man spun nimbly out of the circle of attackers and bolted for the door. Elenya raised her rapier out of the folds of her cape and ran him through.

The only survivor was Claric, who gawked, speechless, at the knife in front of his face. A man on either side held down his arms. There was another knife at Owl's throat. He knew it was a ruse, but it nearly stopped his heart just the same.

"What is the meaning of this?" the tavernmaster croaked. "What are you doing?"

Elenya gestured to one of the attackers, who shut the main door. "Our quarrel is not with you, innkeeper. Keep out of the way and you'll be safe."

Elenya was so convincing that Owl had to clench his groin to keep control of his bladder. He hoped his performance measured up. The customers who were not part of the conspiracy had to believe that he had not helped arrange the ambush. He felt ashamed that he had taken the coward's way out-the attackers, most of them townsmen, were now branded as rebels-but it was the only way he could agree to let the Silver Eel be used.

Elenya turned away from Owl, who, now out of the spotlight, sighed deeply. The princess stepped over the body of the man she had killed and faced Claric. The captain of the guard finally found his voice.

"Let me go! The governor will have all your heads for this!"

"I think not," Elenya said calmly.

Alemar emerged from the kitchen. This time, Owl noted, he wore the famous gauntlet on his right hand, just as Elenya wore its mate on her left. His scabbard slapped against his leg. His presence silenced everyone. Owl had heard that the twin children of Keron Olendim were intimidating, but he had dismissed the story as rebel propaganda. Now he knew that only half the truth had been spoken. Though short, the twins seemed to be the tallest people in the room.

"Are you uncomfortable, held down, surrounded by enemies?" Alemar murmured to Claric.

"You don't dare touch me!" Claric shouted.

"I won't," Alemar said. "I'm going to leave you to my sister."

Claric shut up. Owl expected Elenya to smile. She had Milec's torturer in front of her, helpless. But not a muscle moved in her face. Her expression was a blank, everything hidden behind the skin. Yet Claric saw something. He began to squirm, trying to shake off the strong arms that pinned him to the chair.

Elenya pulled out a scarf of white quarn silk and twisted it into a cord. The veins on the backs of her hands bulged. Claric cried out. While his mouth was open, she thrust the cloth between his teeth and gagged him, tying the knot so tightly behind his skull that his lips were pressed to bloodless white contours against his teeth. Other rebels swiftly bound his limbs.

Elenya drew Claric's sword and placed the center of the blade across the palm of her gauntlet. She squeezed. The metal crumpled and, with a snap of her wrist, broke. She tossed the sections on the floor. Her expression still did not change.

Three of the attackers hefted Claric up and carried him out the kitchen exit. Elenya followed.

Alemar scanned every face in the room. He gave off none of the aura of a healer. Something brooded within his stone-cold countenance. But he was not like his sister. The customers faced him without flinching. More than that, Owl realized this was a man he wanted to follow. After the oppression of the Dragon, here was the balm to cover their wounds.

And they had done it. They had surprised Puriel's men in the very shadow of the castle. Underneath his terror, Owl felt a gut-tightening swell of excitement. He was proud that he had finally found the courage, even at a distance, to stand up to the regime that had afflicted his and his neighbors' lives. Before them was the man responsible.

"Tell Lord Puriel that he is next," Alemar said. He and Solint the Minstrel led the others out. For several seconds after they had gone no one moved or spoke.

"Well, who wants to go up to take the news to the castle?" asked Old Jom.

Omril was sitting in his sanctum when he felt the flash of magic. It was brief, almost instantaneous, then it was quelled. Had he not been meditating, deliberately searching for such signs, he would have missed it. Before the impressions could fade he lifted a vial and held it tight. He concentrated. It took a full ten minutes, but the liquid changed from clear to deep aqua. He grunted in satisfaction and strolled to the windows.

With the serum to focus his sorcery, he relocated the approximate source of the flash. He was right. The spell was still active. The weaver, or a helper, was using a lesser spell to try to conceal the greater one. Had they not been trying to thwart a wizard of the Ril, the tactic would have worked.

It might still work, to a degree. The serum, unlike a solid talisman, had been ductile enough to capture the spell's flavor on a moment's notice, but it would not hold the impression more than a few hours. Omril fetched Swiftwing from her coop. He needed to lead the bird to the exact spot where the magic was being performed before the casters finished their weaving and departed.

Omril frowned. Perhaps his prey wanted him to use that strategy. It was time-consuming. Furthermore, his attention would be completely absorbed while he looked through Swiftwing's eyes; he would not be awake to the world. He could not, for example, renew the serum. He gazed out at Rock Lake. The spell was being cast somewhere on the far side of the water, only a few leagues away.

He put Swiftwing back on her perch, dressed quickly in his riding garb, and descended into the body of the castle.

The governor's audience hall buzzed with activity. Puriel stood next to his great hearth, in a foul mood, judging by the look on his face. He was yelling at his chamberlain. Omril caught a bit of the tirade and raised an eyebrow.

Puriel turned and glared at the sorcerer. "The captain of my guard has been captured under my very nose," he snapped. "Witnesses say both the rebel leaders were there. Where were your watchful eyes?"

"When did this happen?" Omril asked the chamberlain.

"Two hours after sunset," the man replied.

"I was at supper with you, my lord," Omril told Puriel. "I can't eat and converse and search for spells at the same time. Besides, did they use magic?"

"No," the chamberlain said. "Swords and knives. They ambushed Claric at the Silver Eel. Killed all his men."

"Then I would not have known to look there," Omril said. "But I think I know where they are now." He told them what he had detected. "Give me a cohort of troops. If I go myself, I can lead them to the site in an hour or two."

"Done!" Puriel growled. "I'll not stand for this sort of humiliation. I want those king's bastards on my racks by morning. Claric, too, for making me look like a fool. Mind you don't let them slip away from you again, wizard."

Omril bowed. "As my lord commands." He suppressed a smile. Puriel had little to fear from enemies-if he continued in this fashion he would soon perish of an apoplectic fit.

The soldiers roused in short order, came out of the barracks complaining. Most had just retired for the night. Omril let a pair of lieutenants prod and bellow, while he waited sedately on his oeikani. The men glanced his way, dropped their grievances, and made themselves battle ready. They knew where the real authority lay in this castle.

While he waited, Omril stroked the vial. Eventually one end of the serum darkened nearly to blackness, while the other faded to a sky blue. As long as the wizard pointed in the direction from which the spell was coming, this stayed the case. If he pointed it another way, the liquid returned to a pure aqua. By the time they were ready to leave, he had calibrated the talisman so that he would not have to expend undue attention and energy upon it for the duration of the search.

He led the cohort around the shores of the lake. As expected, the hues of the serum became more intense. For the first time Omril's dispassionate attitude failed him; his body tingled. He felt an acid bite in his stomach, savage and appealing. This might be the night when he finally fulfilled his mission for his dread lord.

On the side of Rock Lake directly opposite Puriel's castle, the road branched. One fork continued along the shore, the other penetrated the forest. Omril halted the troops. The vial was hot in his hand. He beckoned both his lieutenants.

"The magicians are little more than a league from this spot, between the roads," he told them. "You'll each take a third of the men and follow the roads. One league along, cut into the wood. I'll go through the trees from here. We'll catch them in our pincers."

He let the flanking groups ride out of sight, then ordered his own contingent to spread into a wide column. They filtered into the trees, moving as silently as was possible for such a large group of men and oeikani. Omril cast a minor spell that would reflect the loudest noises toward the rear. The forest here was relatively open. Woodsmen often visited this land to harvest dead trees or plant new ones to accommodate the needs of Old Stump. They made good time, and seldom had to dismount to squeeze through tight places. Omril felt a tickle in his palm, where he held the vial. Soon it spread. After half a league he put away the talisman altogether. He could now directly sense the camouflage spell.

They were very near. He ordered the soldiers into a half circle.

"Charge!" he commanded.

Swords drawn, arrows nocked, they plunged between the trees. Omril followed close behind, with a small rear guard. They had gone only a few hundred yards before the wizard felt the camouflage spell snap out of existence.

There was no magic being cast ahead at all. The major spell was gone, too-and had been for who knew how long.

In the vanguard, men were shouting. Omril emerged from a thicket and found most of the troops gathered around a tree. They were silhouetted against an odd lavender glow. The sorcerer scowled and rode to the front.

He found Claric tied to the tree. The captain's naked body was covered by thin, luminescent tendrils, making it seem as if he had grown a coat of fine hair. The strands waved like miniature snakes, as if wafted by the breeze, but there was no wind that night. He was giving off enough purplish light to read a scroll by.

"Omril! Get this off of me! It itches like the five demons of Emin."

The wizard scanned the surrounding trees. "Where are the rebels?"

"Long gone," Claric spat. "They left after the bitch did this to me."

The statement confirmed what Omril had suspected. Still, there had to be one magician nearby. The camouflage spell, unlike the one on Claric's body, had to be actively maintained, and that could not be done from a great distance.

"Six men stay here," he ordered. "The rest fan out and search the woods." He was doubtful that they would find anything. He had not, as he had fancied, caught the rebels by surprise. They had deliberately enticed him. They had expected him to detect their magic.

"Ebrett!" Claric shouted to the sergeant standing next to Omril. "Cut me loose."

"No!" Omril snapped. The sergeant jumped. Claric opened his mouth to protest. "The spell on him is a trap. Touch him or the ropes and the demonhair will consume his skin, and yours as well."

"What?!" Claric burst out.

"What did you expect?" Omril asked. "That the princess would simply decorate you and leave you here to brighten the forest? She wanted revenge, no?"

"You're the wizard, undo the spell!"

"I can't. I'd have to unravel each thread one at a time. It would take me a week. You'll be dead before then of thirst. We can't even pass water to you." In actual fact, Omril could probably do the job in two days or less, if he went without sleep. But he had never liked Claric.

Claric looked like he was going to vomit.

"If you'd like, I can have the men shoot you with arrows," Omril offered. "It would be swifter. In another few hours the demonhair will start working its way into your, ahem, openings. If you think it itches now…"

"No, no."

"The alternative is leaving you to rot."

Claric moaned and gave no indication as to which he would prefer. Omril turned his attention to the sounds that had been coming from the trees to the north. Soon one of the lieutenants rode up. The first of the pincer groups had met the main party.

"Did you see anything?" Omril demanded.

"Nothing," the officer replied, so fascinated by Claric's outlandish appearance that he almost forgot to salute.

The wizard turned his back to Claric and the spectators and paced. The rebels had more in mind than revenge on Claric; if that had been the extent of it, Omril would have stood back and admired their handiwork. It was a handsome bit of thaumaturgy, requiring considerable patience, concentration, and discipline. He had not thought the female twin, with her hot-headedness, had the temperament necessary to spin demonhair. It was another facet of his enemies to remember. But they had surely not lured him to the site merely to provide an audience for their victory.

The night was growing distinctly darker. First Urthey had set, then the Sister, then Motherworld. Now only the recently risen Serpent Moon was left to shed light over the countryside. It was still several hours until sunrise. A good time, Omril realized, for a military assault.

And here was he, the single strongest weapon Lord Puriel had, out in the woods, leaving the fortress defenses short by a full cohort of men.

"Mount your steeds!" he shouted. "We're going back to the castle! Now!"

The soldiers had never seen Omril so agitated. They obeyed him even faster than if he had threatened them. They left their former captain to his fate, ignoring his outraged cries and whimpers, and raced back the way they had come. When they reached Rock Lake, they heard the din of battle echoing off the water. The noise came from the governor's keep.