The Dragons of Argonath (46 page)

Eilsa Ranardaughter had been progressively impressed by the wealth and beauty of the great house. They had ancient lineages in the Wattel Hills, but being sheep farmers they had never amassed riches. The age-old houses of the clan were bare of luxuries. And though she had heard of the famous paintings of Honoriste Aupose and the others of his school, she had only seen one, in a banker's house in Marneri. Here they hung everywhere, along with canvases by the immortal Hilarde and Desley of Vo.

"Your collection of paintings is uncommonly lovely, Master Wexenne. I wish I could indeed see them without having my arms bound."

Wexenne struggled with his internal conflict. He felt dishonored by having to keep these noble ladies cuffed at the wrists. Yet Lapsor had ordered this, and he did not dare to unbind them. Just how much should he fear Lapsor? He recalled those hands stretching out to Porteous's face and trembled slightly.

"And so do I, Madam Wattel. Come, the orangery awaits."

It was a charming gallery space facing south, almost a belvedere, with a glass ceiling and an array of long windows to let in as much light as possible. On the long wall there were orange trees, trained on trellises against the walls. They were in a recessed court open only to the south. Through the glass could be glimpsed the surrounding walls of the house. Lagdalen noticed that there were drainpipes running down from the glass roof in the corners of the room.

Wexenne was obviously proud of the place. He rubbed his hands, thrust out his arms, and turned on the spot.

"No matter how cold it gets outside, we always keep this part of the house good and warm."

They moved closer to the south-facing windows. They overlooked a thirty-foot drop, to the paved path in front of the house.

Lagdalen was wondering if she could break the glass in the door and cut her wrists free before Wexenne could summon the guards that undoubtedly waited just beyond the door. She decided it was very unlikely.

Wexenne gestured to the grand view.

"Here is where the great Honoriste sat to paint the 'Running Deer' series. I made sure of that before I began building the house."

Lagdalen nodded. "I have heard that the great Aupose lived in this valley for most of his life, and the majority of his paintings were done here. Yet in Marneri we treasure his paintings of the sea and the coast."

"Yes, yes, Honoriste traveled widely. He made his two great sea voyages. Great paintings resulted. I have his
Gates of Cunfshon
hanging in the great hall."

Even Lagdalen was impressed. Lagdalen had grown up surrounded by the art treasures of the Tower of Guard and knew that
Gates of Cunfshon
was one of the greatest paintings in the canon of civilization.

"Are you not concerned that your unruly guest may threaten your collection?"

Wexenne paled. The thought had never occurred to him. Now it struck him like a hammer.

"He would not dare; no one would damage such priceless beauty."

"If I were you, Master Wexenne, I would hide my favorites. This Lord Lapsor will use them to control you. Mark my words."

Wexenne blinked furiously. His fear of Lapsor had taken on a new dimension.

Abruptly the doors opened behind them. A servant approached. Wexenne turned away from them to listen to the servant.

"The Lord Baron of Nellin, master."

"Curmilious? What's he want? I thought he'd gone home already." He turned back to Lagdalen and Eilsa.

"Ladies, please excuse me. I must attend to this matter for a moment." He started for the door and then turned back once more. "For the sake of dignity, I must inform you that there are guards at every exit. Escape is impossible."

Wexenne left them.

Eilsa was out of her seat in a moment. They met by the door, which swung open at the touch. The guards were waiting right outside. Back inside they examined the windows and the drop to the pavement below.

"He has left us just like this?"

The windows were not locked. There were no obvious ways to climb. Eilsa, a good climber in the fells of Wattel, thought it could be done, but with difficulty, under normal conditions. Bound at the wrists it was impossible.

"So it seems."

Eilsa was looking up. The orange trees grew staked to the wall. An easy climb, if their hands weren't bound together. And at the top the glass was laid in two-foot panels. Perhaps they could be pushed out.

Lagdalen pointed and whispered.

"The pipes?"

They found that, even bound at the wrists, they could get their hands around the pipes. There was just enough room for slender fingers at the back. The ornamental stonework in the corners offered plenty of footholds.

"Race you to the top," said Lagdalen.

"You're on."

It wasn't easy. Their arms grew weary, but they kept climbing and reached the top almost together, Eilsa ahead by a few seconds.

They found it hard to keep their balance at the top while they examined the ceiling glass. It was set in ornamental panels.

Eilsa tried hers with the top of her head. It gave quite easily. She pushed some more and felt it rise.

"This one's loose," she whispered.

"Good, because this one isn't."

Eilsa pushed up as far as she was able with her head and lifted the pane of glass out of its frame. She was able to raise it and move the pane. There was a confluence of drainpipes right there, which gave just enough handholds to allow her to get her shoulders up through the opening. From there she was able to draw herself up onto the glass roof of the orangery. A catwalk passed across the center. She moved toward it, stepping on the frame joints, which she thought must be the strongest parts of the structure. There was an occasional ominous sag as she went, but she kept moving quickly and reached the catwalk safely.

The walk allowed her access to doors on either end. One door was open. Inside was a room filled with carpenter's wood, planks cut to various sizes. Beyond was a room filled with tools. Her heart leaped. There was no one in sight. She listened carefully, but detected no sound of anyone working nearby. She slipped inside and found a long bench set up for maintenance and repair work. Saws, pliers, drills, tools of a dozen kinds were set along the wall. Nothing to cut her bonds with, however. Then she saw it, in a rack with seven of its kind, a small chisel with a sharp edge!

The difficulty was in holding it and cutting her wrists free at the same time. She cut herself while trying this with it between her teeth. Then she saw the vise bolted to the bench and realized after a moment what it was. After a few moments' fumbling, she got the chisel solidly in place and then cut through the thongs around her wrist. One, two, three, and they gave, and she was pulling off the rest.

Taking a softwood mallet and a spike, she ran back to the roof of the orangery. Wexenne had still not returned. Eilsa had to laugh at how well Lagdalen had played him. He was undoubtedly overseeing the removal of his most treasured paintings. There were a lot of them, so he should be busy for a while.

Moving very carefully across the creaking roof of glass, she made her way to the corner where Lagdalen was crouched, still clinging to the drainpipe. Eilsa motioned to Lagdalen to crouch back out of the way. Then she used the softwood mallet to break the glass. One well-delivered blow produced a small hole and a radiating mass of cracks.

They waited anxiously for a moment to see if the guards reacted, but the single sharp crack was not enough, it seemed, to stir a response. Eilsa worked with the spike to knock small pieces loose. They fell past Lagdalen down to the dirt at the base of the trees and made very little sound. Bigger pieces she pried up and laid on top of the roof. Within a few minutes she had removed enough glass for Lagdalen to climb through. Eilsa assisted Lagdalen up the last inch, and for a few moments they lay there on the glass roof, gasping from the exertion.

Recovering, they tiptoed across the delicate roof to the catwalk. In the workshop they cut Lagdalen's bonds and armed themselves with hammers and gimlets.

Outside the workshop they discovered a narrow hall. Plain wooden doors lined it. The floor was bare. Clearly this was part of the servants' quarters. At the end of the long passage was a stairway leading up. They tiptoed warily down the hall. The only sign of life, however, was some snoring from behind one door.

They climbed up the stairs and discovered a warren of workrooms, dormitories, and later, attics, into which they disappeared.

Outside Posila, Bazil and Relkin were relieved from duty in the afternoon and allowed to head for the 109th's bivouac. Relkin was tired, but there was work to be attended to first. Bazil needed treatment.

First there was a long scrape on the right side of the tail that required cleaning and a rubdown with Old Sugustus's medicinal. Then there were several bad cuts and a deep bruise on the left side of the rib cage, where Bazil had fallen over a dead tree in the fight. Finally he turned to the minor cuts and bruises, then checked the scar over the recently healed wound received at Quosh. Despite the furious exertion of the fighting during the night, that wound showed no sign of reopening. Relkin breathed a sigh of relief. Some wounds reopened with exertion, even weeks after healing. They could be the bane of a dragonboy's life, and a direct threat to his dragon.

While the sun shone in the breaks between clouds, he worked with needle and thread and applied Old Sugustus liberally. A few places needed poultice and bandage, and that took a little more time, but at last he was done.

Bazil had hissed a few times with displeasure during all this, but as usual he met the pain with stoicism that was actually pretty common among wyverns. It was Manuel you had to feel for on that score, tending the Purple Green, who was far more sensitive. Bazil had concentrated his thoughts on a nice snack, to take them away from the Old Sugustus bubbling in his cuts. So, as soon as he'd finished clearing up, Relkin went down to the cook fires and used up a few favors to get a big pot of soup and a dozen loaves of bread.

On his way there, he checked at the medical section, where the leatherback Gunter was bandaged and sleeping. It appeared that he would recover. His dragonboy, Uri, was sitting there doing mindless work on a leather strap.

Swane and Rakama sat with him and did their best to keep his spirits up.

On everyone's mind was the thought that Gunter might be lamed by the spearing. That would end his legion career.

"The dragon will live," said Relkin. "Good news."

"You pray to those old gods of yours, Relkin. Gunter's going to come back. You'll see."

"I bet he will, too."

"Shame about the young brass, and Howt," said Rakama.

"Everyone's real cut up about Howt," said Swane. "Just a kid, damn it. Churn was a good sort too. Nobody ever said anything bad about old Churn."

How many young men had they left behind, slain on the field, alongside their dragons? Relkin and Swane clasped hands. Rakama added his, and then so did Uri.

"We will avenge them."

"You bet," said big Swane. "They'll be remembering the 109th Marneri, I reckon."

They parted, and Relkin went on to the cook fires. Although his faith had suffered in the past year or so, he still made himself whisper a prayer for Gunter to the old gods. Who could say for certain whether they were in the heavens or not? And Swane was right, the leatherback was going to need every bit of help he could get.

One thing in their favor was the strange passivity of the Aubinans in Posila. Like everyone else, Relkin had expected an attack to follow up the night assault. But hour after hour the lines in front of Posila were quiet. The enemy content to sit inside the town walls and play it safe.

Relkin took grim encouragement. They had less than a thousand men and nine dragons, and the Aubinans were loath to attack. Meanwhile, each precious hour brought General Tregor closer, hurrying down the Argo Road.

When he got back to their bivouac, he passed on the news while the dragon devoured the snack. Relkin polished off half a loaf himself, along with several cups of soup. The food spread a warm, comfortable sensation through his body.

Bazil was soon snoring, lost in deep, dreamless sleep.

Relkin felt the warm comfortable feeling soak into his tired bones, pulled his blanket out, and wrapped himself in it as he lay back against a tree. There would be no inspections on this day. Cuzo knew it would be pointless. Relkin was glad to find that Cuzo was catching on quickly. He was going to be a good dragon leader. And now they'd been blooded together in two hard fights with these new enemies. There would be a good spirit in the 109th again, even though they'd all miss big Churn and little Howt.

Still it felt good to have a dragon leader you could count on. Cuzo was definitely an improvement.

He settled himself and drifted off to sleep. His snores were soon combining with those of the dragon. The lull continued.

Throughout the wet woods the situation remained quiet. Urmin kept saying his prayers every few minutes. The Aubinans remained quiet. The Aubinan horse was still out on the Wheat Road, but there was no sign of an attack from that quarter either. The Aubinan foot inside Posila still made no effort to take the offensive, although after the fighting in the woods during the night, Urmin's small force was licking its wounds.

The hours crawled by through that afternoon. The sky remained clear, and the sun warmed the ground and dried out the shallow puddles. The Aubinan foot in Posila ignored the commands from Nellin that they attack. They'd seen those dragons out there; they weren't going to throw men up against them. You had to have troll and imps to take down dragons. Everybody knew that. The grandees down in Nellin would have to come up with something that could hold off those beasts before they'd waste their lives trying the impossible.

As a result, the dragons got in a sound sleep and so did their dragonboys.

Unfortunately for Relkin, sleep was soon punctured by a return to the strange dreaming that had disturbed him before. Again he had that sensation of feeling close to Eilsa, but of not being able to either see or touch her. She was in danger, of that he was certain. There were many dangers abroad; indeed, there was some ancient thing filled with malevolence that was trying to get at Relkin himself, tearing through a thousand sheets of cobweb with steel-clawed fingers to reach him. The eyes burned like points of red fire.