The Dragon Heir (6 page)

Jason stood and began pacing,
pivoting at each end of the room. “Can't you at least try to
understand?”

“I understand you better
than you realize.”

“Why? The Roses killed
your father and sister a hundred years ago so you understand how I feel about
Leicester and D'Orsay murdering my father?”

“Because I know what it's
like to want to prove yourself so badly it destroys everything else that
matters,” Hastings replied, gazing into the fire. “Sometimes it's
just an excuse to avoid dealing with your own demons.”

So now Hastings was a
psychiatrist, in addition to being a wizard and warrior master. Jason bit back
a hot reply. “Look. I'm an orphan. Like you were. No one cares what
happens to me. It's my choice. Mine.”

“I assumed responsibility
for you when I brought you to Britain.”

Jason noticed that Hastings
didn't claim to care about him. “Please. I want to help.” He was
perilously close to begging. “Jack and Ellen are out drilling their
warriors. That's what they're good at. Seph is maintaining the barrier. I can't
do any of that. I want to be where I'm useful.”

“The most useful thing
you can do for me now is to get the sword and the rest back to Trinity,”
Hastings said, without looking up. “Have Nick take a look at the blade. It
may very well be one of the seven. If it is, pass it along to Ellen. She
deserves a weapon worthy of her skills. She and Jack may play a critical role
if it comes to a war.”

Nick. Ellen. Seph. Jack. All
important to the Cause. Everyone was except him.

Jason knew the argument was
over. His mistake was thinking Hastings was actually participating. He slumped
back into his chair. “When will you come back to Trinity?”

The wizard shrugged.
“Soon, I hope. I'm going to try to find out what's going on at Raven's
Ghyll. Whether it's been noticed that things have gone missing, and whether
they may be on your trail. Maybe I can muddy the water a bit. Draw them
off.”

And that, as they say, was
that. Jason's brief career as operative for the Dragon House was over.

Jason fell asleep on the tube
on the way back to his apartment, missing the Mornington Crescent station and
getting off at Camden Town. He walked back through the city streets to clear
his head. On his way, he stopped in at an Internet cafe and booked a flight
from Heathrow to New York that departed the following morning.

So the man loitering near the
Underground exits at Mornington Crescent with a photograph of Jason Haley
didn't spot him there.

Jason stopped in to see a girl
who lived in the building next door to his own. They ordered pizza and he
stayed late. By then, it was sleeting. The buildings were set atop a common
cellar, so he passed through the laundries into his own building without going
outside.

So the woman sheltering in the
entryway of Jason's apartment building didn't realize her fox had gone to
ground.

Back in his room, Jason packed
up his meager belongings. He'd planned to take the train from Euston, but now
Hastings had gone and made him jumpy. In the end, he called a car service and
booked a car to pick him up at 4 a.m. He gave his name as Bob Roberts and
didn't name a destination. He'd bring his backpack as a carry-on, and convince
the airline to let him gate-check the golf bag with the sword in it. Golfers were
funny about letting go of their clubs, weren't they?

He'd only been in the UK for a
few months. He hoped his banishment wouldn't last long.

Leesha Middleton shook the
snow from her curls and extended her frozen hands toward the fire. Why couldn't
Claude D'Orsay den up in Belize for the winter, like any sane person?

She glanced around the parlor
with an educated eye. Everything had a stuffy, old-money look, like the museum
rooms at her grandparents' estates. They smelled the same, too—like cigars and leather and old men's musty wool
cardigans. Leesha ran a finger under her high-necked sweater and touched the
gold collar—the tore—that circled her neck. Touching it was becoming a habit.

“Who are you?”

Leesha jumped and turned
round.

The boy had slipped up behind
her. He was slender and bookish-looking, with blond curls, a fair complexion,
and eyes that were such a pale blue—behind
frameless glasses—as to be almost colorless. He might have been fourteen, too young to be
interesting, though Leesha was only seventeen herself. He was almost pretty,
but the effect was marred by a black eye and a nose that had been recently
broken.

“I'm Alicia
Middleton,” she said, seeing no reason to lie.

“Devereaux D'Orsay,”
the boy replied, standing rather too close and staring fixedly into her face.
“Father didn't mention we were expecting guests.”

“Didn't he?” It
hadn't been easy to get this invitation. A fax of the last page of the Covenant
signed by the guilds at Second Sister had done the trick. She'd ordered her
grandparents' chauffeur, Charles, to drive her here from their estate in
Scotland. If she could manage to live through the day and avoid being grounded,
she'd be very very lucky.

“Would you care for
something to drink?” Devereaux asked, nodding toward the sideboard, where
there was an array of bottles and cans of soda.

Leesha shook her head.
“No, thank you.”

The boy leaned against the
sideboard. “We've more of a selection down in the cellar,” he said.
“Would you like to see?”

“No, I'm quite all right,
thank you.” Looking to change the subject, she said, “Who beat you
up?”

That struck a nerve. “No
one beat me up, Miss Middleton,” the boy said, straightening, his fair
face flushing dark rose against the bruises. “From a power standpoint, I
totally had the advantage. Had it not been for…”

“Devereaux.”

Now it was the boy's turn to
jump and look guilty.

Claude D'Orsay stood framed in
the doorway, dressed in wool trousers, cashmere sweater, and tweed jacket. The wizard's hair
was dark and close-cropped, his face fine-boned and aristocratic.

“Miss Middleton, a
pleasure to see you again. I see you've met my son.”

“Yes,” Leesha
replied. “I wouldn't have known it from his looks.”

“He favors my late
wife.” D'Orsay came into the room and extended his hand to Leesha. His
grip was cool and dry, with a wizard's electrical sting.

“You didn't tell me
anyone was coming, Father.” Devereaux still looked sullen. “How was I
supposed to know who she was?”

“It was rather short
notice, Dev,” D'Orsay replied. “Miss Middleton requested a
meeting.” He studied Leesha appraisingly. “I believe the last time we
met was here, at Raven's Ghyll, at the last tournament.”

“That was a
disaster,” Leesha said bluntly.

D'Orsay didn't disagree, but
nodded toward the sideboard. “Would you like something?”

“No, thank you,”
Leesha replied, wondering how many times she was going to have to refuse
refreshment before leaving.

D'Orsay gestured to one of two
chairs by the hearth. “Please. Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Leesha sat, not particularly
comfortably, and D'Orsay sat down opposite her. Devereaux slouched onto the
hearth itself, clearly intending to listen, if not to participate.

Leesha nodded at Devereaux,
and raised an eyebrow.

“Dev can stay. I value
his opinion.” D'Orsay paused. “So. Are you here representing
Jessamine Longbranch?”

“Why would you think
that?”

“I believe you were
working for her last year when you—
ah—brought those two young men here as hostages during the last tournament.
Friends of that bizarre mongrel warrior she created. Jack Swift. Now that was
a disaster.”

“Must've seemed like a
good idea at the time,” Leesha said. “Anyway, I'm not working for her
anymore.”

“Ah, yes. Didn't I hear
you'd fallen in with some traders? I don't imagine Jessamine approved.”

Leesha examined her nails.
“You can't believe everything you hear.”

“But you're working with
someone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who?”

“My partner wants to
remain anonymous until we're sure we can do business.”

D'Orsay sat back in his chair
and smiled like a cat with a bird between his paws. “We can be very
persuasive.”

Leesha's heart flopped wildly
but she managed to keep her voice steady. “My partner wouldn't like it if
anything bad happened to me.”

“Did you bring the
document with you?”

“Do I look stupid or
what?”

D'Orsay shrugged. “One
can never tell by appearances. Where is it now?”

“You should be thinking
about what kind of deal you're willing to make.”

“I could offer to trade
you for the Covenant.”

Leesha sighed. She groped in
her bag for her compact and reapplied her lipstick, trying to keep her hand
from shaking. Playing for time. “I'm just the hired help, you know? I  can
be  replaced. But my associate might be  annoyed enough to decide to sell the
piece to someone else.”

“No one else would want
it.”

“Please. I'm a trader. I
know who wants what. The Roses want to destroy it because it takes power out of
their hands and puts it in yours. The underguilds want to destroy it because it
keeps them subservient to wizards. You want to consecrate it and enforce it. I
bet we could get a three-way auction going.”

D'Orsay raised his hand.
“I hardly think that's necessary.” He smiled, as if acknowledging defeat.
The man was a charmer, no doubt about it. And good looking, for someone so
totally old.

D'Orsay rose, laid another log
on the fire, and returned to his seat, taking his time. “Has your
associate given you leave to negotiate the sale?”

“He has.”

“Then I assume he's
shared with you what offer he might be willing to accept?”

“He has.”

“And…?”

“He wants to be written
in.”

D'Orsay shoved back his
sleeves. “Excuse me?”

“The new Covenant states
that all of the magical guilds including the Wizard Houses will be ruled by you
and Gregory Leicester and your heirs. Leicester is dead, and he has no blood
heirs. My partner wishes to be named legal heir to Gregory Leicester and so, co-ruler
of the guilds.”

“Your partner is out of
his mind,” D'Orsay said pleasantly.

Leesha took a deep breath,
cursing the day she'd become entangled in this. “That's his price. Take it
or leave it.”

“Who does he think he is?
Does he really think I would bring him in as a full partner? Leicester and I worked
on this project for years.”

“Look at it this way.
What can you offer that the Roses can't? I'm sure they can come up with more
money than you, if everyone puts in. Plus, if they destroy the Covenant, then
my associate doesn't have to worry about living under your rule, which,
having read the document, seems risky. The only way to ease his mind is to
allow him to come in as an equal.”

D'Orsay pressed his fingertips
together. “If I knew who I was dealing with, if I knew we would be
compatible …”

If you knew if he'd be easy to
kill, Leesha thought. No doubt both partners would be hiring assassins before
the ink on the agreement was dry. With any luck, they'd kill each other.

“This is my inheritance,
too,” Devereaux said, leaning forward. “Let's take her to the cellar.
We can make her tell us whatever we want.”

Getawayfrommeyoumiserablelittlecreep,
Leesha thought, perspiration trickling between her shoulder blades. She made a
show of looking at her watch.

“Let me handle this,
Dev,” D'Orsay said. The wizard massaged his forehead, as if it hurt, then
turned back to Leesha. “Perhaps we could negotiate a private sale, you and
I.”

Leesha considered this. In
fact, she'd considered this long before she ever entered the Ghyll. “I
don't actually hold the original.”

“Perhaps you could obtain
it.”

“That would be …
difficult.” Impossible, actually, with things as they were, but she
wouldn't tell him that. “Your partner could meet with an accident.”

Leesha liked that idea a lot.
“He could, but I couldn't be connected with it in any way. Plus it
would have to be a completely…um…permanent accident. If you know what I
mean.”

“Ah.” D'Orsay
smiled. “You might be able to provide an opportunity, yes?”

“Maybe.”

“And what would you want
in return?”

That would be enough. Getting
free of Warren Barber. Getting free of this whole business. But it wouldn't be
wizardly to say so. “Oh, I don't know. Money is nice. Or maybe I'd like to
be written in myself,” she added. They'd expect that, of course.

D'Orsay smiled back.
“Very well, then. I think we can come to an arrangement.” Meaning
they'd stab each other in the back as soon as they could. “But, tell me.
How did your employer come by the document? As a sometime buyer of antiquities
and art, I know that the provenance of a piece often speaks to its
authenticity.”

Leesha rolled her eyes.
“Now that would be too much like a clue.”

D'Orsay's smile disappeared.
“There can no deal between us without a name.”

“And if he finds out I
told you?”

“My dear young lady, he
won't find out from me. That would not be in my self-interest. I cannot go
after your partner if I don't know who it is. Hmm?”

Leesha took a deep breath and
resisted the temptation to finger her neckline again. “It's Warren
Barber.”

D'Orsay raised his eyebrows
skeptically. “Who?”

“Warren Barber,” she
repeated.

The eyebrows stayed up.
“And who, may I ask, is that?”

Old Warren doesn't move in
your circles, I guess, Leesha thought. Mine either. She shivered, then turned
it into a shrug. “He was one of Leicester's students at the Havens.
Sometimes called the Spider.”

“The…Spider.”
D'Orsay tapped his elegant forefinger against his chin, looking amused.
“You're saying this whole scheme's been organized by teenagers?”

“Well. No offense, but
the old people don't seem to be doing so great.”

“Perhaps not.”
D'Orsay inclined his head graciously. “But I've not heard of Barber.”

“He does Weirwalls.
Supposedly he was the one that spun the wall around the inn at Second Sister to
keep the guilds from escaping the conference before the Covenant was
signed.” Leesha hadn't been there, thank god, but she'd heard all about
it.

“I see.” D'Orsay's
eyes glittered. “Then he must have been the one who failed, who let
McCauley and Haley and the girl into the hall.”

Barber hadn't mentioned that.
Ha. “Anyway, when he saw what was happening, when McCauley showed up and
Leicester got killed, Barber went and stole the document.”

“How…resourceful.”
D'Orsay sighed, as if mourning the duplicity of man. “Now, then. What
manner of paperwork would satisfy young Mr. Barber?”

“I have something with
me.” Leesha pulled a folder from her portfolio. “These attest that,
for purposes of the Covenant, my associate to be named later is the heir of
Gregory Leicester, and assumes all privileges and rights, blah, blah.” She
handed it across to D'Orsay. “Once these are signed and properly processed,
the … ah … revised Covenant will be made available for consecration in the
ghyll before the Weirstone.” Naturally, details of that were rather
sketchy.

A peculiar expression flitted
across D'Orsay's face. Followed by a calculating one. “Ah. Well. The
Weirstone.”

“Is there a
problem?”

“Well, there may be.
There was an intruder in the ghyll a few nights ago.” D'Orsay smiled
thinly. “He attacked my son, and I believe he might have carried away
something important.”

Leesha glanced over at
Devereaux's battered face. “What makes you think that?”

“The Weirstone has
dimmed. In fact, it appears to be … extinguished.”

Leesha shuddered, the reaction
of any reasonable wizard to a threat to their heritage of magic. “What do
you think that means?”

“Difficult to say what it
means in terms of the consecration of the Covenant. The Roses and the rebels
assume we hold it. Perhaps that was the intent of the raid, to make it
impossible for us to enforce it.”

“But that would ruin everything!”

“Precisely. Therefore,
now that our interests so closely coincide, perhaps we could ask Mr. Barber to
contribute to the success of this enterprise in a material way.”

“Excuse me?” He'd
lost her after precisely.

“As an act of good faith,
I am asking that you and your partner bring the perpetrator back here, alive,
along with whatever he took from here.”

Great. She knew who would get that
assignment. “How…how is Barber supposed to find this person,”
Leesha said, irritably, “when we don't even know for sure if
he took anything?”

D'Orsay smiled. “We can
help you there. We now know who it was, and we have some idea about what's
missing.”

“Why should we go out
hunting your burglar?”

D'Orsay waved the papers under
Leesha's nose. “As soon as I sign this, Barber has as much interest in
seeing the Covenant consecrated as I do. But I'm rather pinned down here. If I
leave Raven's Ghyll, the Roses will be on me before I'm out of Cumbria. And in
my absence, they might seize control of the ghyll. Which, again, would be
inconvenient if we wish to access the Weirstone. Barber, on the other hand, can
follow this Jason Haley to America, and…”