39. Lonely people
39
LONELY PEOPLE
“We’re fine doing this at night?” Claw asked, later.
“Absolutely,” Ris said. “She’s doing us a favor. I’d hate to spend all this energy avoiding the attention of various dragons only to have some eight-year-old point us out and say, ‘Mommy, Mommy, what are those people doing in that well?’”
Anahrod winced. She was trying not to remember that the evening would see her hanging over a long drop by a slender rope.
“Once we’ve taken what we need,” Claw said, “we’ll need to move. No way to know how long our dragonrider girl will be out.”
“If she drinks from the wine bottle,” Sicaryon said, “then she will be out for exactly eight hours. No more, no less, like magic. If not—” He glanced in Anahrod’s direction.
“That depends,” Anahrod said, “but the larger the dosage, the greater the risk of a medical complication. I recommend no more than an hour.”
Ris nodded. “More than enough.”
“Lucky it’s the backup plan. Because…” Claw grinned at everyone’s raised eyebrows. She reached under the table and pulled out an old, carefully polished curved sword.
“You—what—” Ris floundered for something to say.
“Worth it just to see you that speechless,” Claw cackled.
“The blacksmith finished it in time?” Anahrod asked.
“No.” Naeron rolled his eyes.
Anahrod gave him a grateful nod, even as Claw stuck her tongue out at Naeron for spoiling her fun.
“It’s not finished. I found this in a pawnshop and had Kaibren inscribe it. Does a good job, though, don’t you think?” She looked proud of herself.
“Having not seen the original sword, I can’t say for sure,” Sicaryon said, “but it seems impressive.”
“It’s an illusion,” Claw said. “It’ll last longer than Anahrod’s drug potion, but not as long as Sicaryon’s wine bottle.” She shrugged. “Long enough.”
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” Ris murmured.
“Night is that joy of sin, that beauty of dark thoughts, and mystery of secrets; such that no thought that sneaks about under its cover is pure or bright or shining,” Kaibren said.
Ris tilted her head. “Did you just quote a line from Daughter of Darkness ?”
Kaibren shrugged.
Right. Daughter of Darkness. That play was about her, wasn’t it? No wonder Claw was so pleased.
“Anyway,” the Blackglass woman said when she finally stopped laughing, “what Kaibren means is that Brauge is more likely to commit a few indiscretions if it’s late.” Claw squinted at Anahrod. “You said the drug has to be given in wine?”
“Something alcoholic,” Anahrod corrected. “Distilled spirits would be better than wine. His job”—she pointed at Sicaryon—“will be to either convince her to drink from our bottle or distract her for long enough so I can slip a dose into her glass.”
“What about the rest of us?” Ris said. “Are we doing anything?” Her tone was clipped. Her smile forced.
Anahrod tilted her head. She wasn’t sure if the woman was actively jealous or just so used to being at the center of every event that she didn’t know what to do with herself in other situations.
Or maybe she was just worried.
“You’re waiting for us at the ready site,” Anahrod reminded the rest of the group. “Once we’re done with Brauge’s, we will meet you there.”
“One change,” Ris said.
Anahrod paused. “Yes?”
“Gwydinion will help us with the keys. I want you with Jaemeh in the vault.”
Gwydinion said “Yes!” in the background, while Anahrod and Jaemeh both looked indignant. “Excuse me?” Anahrod said.
“You don’t trust me—” Jaemeh said.
Ris pressed her lips together. “Two things.” She held up the appropriate number of fingers. “First, putting Anahrod on the ground does exactly that—puts her on the ground . The less time she spends hanging over a lake of magma, the better she’s going to be.”
“Lake of what?” Gwydinion said, suddenly not whooping.
Ris ignored him. “Second, she’s been there before. She’ll have an easier time finding the secret entrance to the vault we really want. And we need you there to communicate with your dragon and thus warn us if anything goes wrong. It’s not a matter of trust.”
Anahrod raised an eyebrow at Ris, outside of Jaemeh’s view. They were still playing the “don’t let Tiendremos know” game. That was… interesting.
[Peralon, why are we changing plans?]
“Fantastic,” Sicaryon said. “So, it’ll be the three of us.”
[We’re not.]
“Uh, no,” Ris said.
[Then why am I suddenly going into the vault?]
“Uh, yes,” Sicaryon responded. “Not open for debate.”
[Because we need something found, and we can’t trust Jaemeh.]
Ris and Sicaryon stared at each other.
Anahrod waited for Peralon to give more details. She sighed. She had some suspicions about where Ris might have picked up some of her bad habits.
“All right,” Ris said. “Might as well.”
Anahrod’s mouth quirked. Ris had given up much too easily.
[Well? Are you going to give me any more information to go off than “something”?]
[I will. Soon. Trust me . I promise we’re not leaving you in darkness.]
“I’m fine with both of them,” Jaemeh said. “More hands to carry my diamonds.” He picked up a coil of rope. “Let’s start setting up. Once this ball gets rolling, we won’t have time to stop for supplies.”
“Why did you insist on coming with us to the vault?” Anahrod asked Sicaryon later. Brauge’s estate was on the other side of Yagra’hai—too far for them to walk or use the tunnels. So they rode in the back of a rented flyer, in theory safe from eavesdropping. In theory.
“I told you,” Sicaryon said. “I don’t trust them, especially Jaemeh.” He paused. “Scratch that. I especially don’t trust Tiendremos.”
Anahrod studied the man. “Neither does Ris, I think. I can talk to Peralon. If Tiendremos tries to double-cross us, we’ll know—although if he wanted to betray us to Neveranimas, there were better opportunities.”
“Fair.”
It didn’t take long to arrive at Zentoazax’s estate.
Most of the estate consisted of stepped terraces for raising domesticated herds for the dragons. The main house was a large, intricate mansion built in the Windsong style. Anahrod doubted it was the original construction.
“The house looks new,” she commented. “I wonder who lived here before?”
“The Baojhyr family,” Sicaryon answered. When she looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “I had nothing else to do, so I researched.”
“Oh.”
“Funny thing,” he continued, “they were part of a division called the Five Locks.”
Anahrod froze. “Is that so?”
“Rampant dragon attack,” Sicaryon said. “Electrocuted everyone, very tragic. Also, a funny thing, the youngest daughter of the family—presumed dead—was named Maevris. ‘Ris’ for short.”
“Poor Ris,” she murmured, but it’s not like she hadn’t known it was personal. Ris had told her from the start this was about revenge. “Wait. Electrocuted everyone? It was a storm dragon?”
“See, that’s the other reason I didn’t want you going down into the vault alone with Jaemeh.”
Her gut twisted. “No.”
“Yes,” he said. “One of the few times when a ‘rampant’ dragon”—he used finger quotes—“made a full recovery. Positively miraculous. Apparently, his rider valiantly sacrificed her life to save Tiendremos. An example for every dragonrider, truly.”
“And people believed that load of garbage? Fuck.”
If Tiendremos had been involved with helping Neveranimas wipe out the Five Locks… well. No wonder Ris had been so insistent Jaemeh never be told. Because if Tiendremos knew that the robbery was being perpetrated by living descendants of the Five Locks, it wouldn’t be such a stretch to guess that Neveranimas might not be the only target marked for revenge.
And Ris was targeting Tiendremos. Anahrod just wasn’t sure exactly how she planned to do it.
He said, “While Ris is all kinds of intriguing and sexy and fantastic in bed, I can’t be sure—I can’t take the risk—that her need for revenge outweighs your safety.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that while you all were arguing it out, Peralon was talking to me. Ris and Peralon are looking for something, it’s not diamonds, and they want me to find it before Jaemeh does. Ris wants someone she can trust.”
Sicaryon didn’t move. He studied her in the darkness of the carriage. “Are you? Someone she can trust?”
“I think I just might be, yes.” Anahrod pulled a small journal from under her mantle, as well as a sharpened charcoal stick.
Sicaryon raised an eyebrow.
“I’m your assistant, remember?” She’d pulled her hair back in an unflattering style and based her clothing on what she’d seen worn by university students in Duskcloud.
Anahrod bounded from the flyer when it landed, holding out a hand for Sicaryon. He stepped down, his expression sublimely bored.
Arriving by flyer wasn’t at all the same as arriving by carriage. A carriage might be ignored at the gate, but a flyer landed inside the walls, often on the roof. So even though their arrival was unexpected, servants still came immediately, offering Sicaryon and Anahrod a bowl of water to wash their hands.
“I am here to see Naryae,” Sicaryon announced. “Please inform her that the poet Galav Wordsong has arrived.” He sounded imperious.
Anahrod thought he was laying it on a bit thick.
The dragonrider, Brauge, arrived soon after.
She was the sort of person capable of hiking a herd animal over her shoulders and delivering it to her dragon personally, who could crush a man with her thighs, both figuratively and literally.
Next to Anahrod, Sicaryon gulped.
“Greetings!” Brauge held out her arms, grinning widely. “No one named Naryae lives here, and I have no idea who you are!” She grabbed Sicaryon’s hands between her own in greeting, possibly breaking fingers in the process. “I’m Brauge. It’s a pleasure. My, you have beautiful eyes, don’t you? I bet you have crap night vision, though. You said you were a poet? Why don’t you come inside?”
Brauge began herding Sicaryon inside before Anahrod said a word. The woman was… overwhelming. Anahrod mentally readjusted the dosage she’d need to use.
“What poems do you write? Is this Naryae a patron? You know, if the goddess has seen fit to drop you on my doorstep, you are honor bound to stay. Those are the rules!” Brauge threw her head back and laughed. She was louder than Overbite’s roar, but only because Overbite’s roar mostly fell outside the range of human hearing.
While Sicaryon looked like he’d just been stampeded by rock wyrms, Anahrod stepped forward and bowed. “Honored Rider Brauge, we apologize for the error that brought us to your estate. The pilot must’ve made a mistake. In apologies, we would present you with this wine from the Honey Cemor Division of Snowfell.”
The woman’s grin faltered. “Ah,” she said. “Your gift is most appreciated. Thank you. But please, let me bring you someplace more comfortable than this hallway. I’d love to hear your master’s poetry.”
Anahrod looked inquiringly at Sicaryon, who nodded once in response. She could tell he was panicking, though. They hadn’t brought Kaibren because they’d thought someone younger would be more successful. That was only true, however, if Brauge was more interested in the poet than in the poetry.
Anahrod glanced at the woman’s rings. Leaves, available, not in a relationship. The theory had been sound.
“Very well,” Anahrod said to Brauge. “After you.”
Brauge never stopped talking—about what a serendipitous honor this was (whether an honor for Brauge or for “Galav Wordsong” was unclear), how long Brauge had been a rider (roughly forty years), that her family were all riders, that her dragon, Zentoazax, was the best dragon that had ever lived.
“What does your dragon hoard, Honored Rider?”
“Helmets!”
Anahrod made a hmm sound and wrote that down in her notebook.
“I assume you’ve already eaten,” Brauge said, “but if you’d like an after-dinner amusement, I’d be happy to oblige.”
Sicaryon held up his bottle. “I would like this, but I brought enough to share.”
Again, the dragonrider’s expression flickered. “Oh.”
Something was wrong.
“My sincerest apologies.” Brauge’s eyes shifted from Sicaryon’s face to the bottle. “But Zentoazax doesn’t like it when I drink alcohol, so I’ve quit.” A dash of resentment peeked out from behind her faux embarrassment. “Apparently, I’m not a nice drunk, and with the recent unpleasantness, he’s concerned.”
Anahrod stopped walking. Sicaryon did likewise.
She’d suspected Brauge might be too paranoid to drink wine brought by two uninvited strangers. Anahrod hadn’t been prepared for—hadn’t even given thought to—the idea that Brauge no longer drank alcohol at all.
[We have a problem,] Anahrod told Peralon. [The rider doesn’t drink alcohol.]
[Really? I remember her as being a notorious lush.]
[Yes. I suspect that’s why she doesn’t do it anymore.]
“How embarrassing,” Sicaryon said. “I had meant to present this to someone who is a great connoisseur, Honored Rider. I’d never have dreamed of bringing it to you, had I come here intentionally. What a shame; it’s a rare vintage.”
Anahrod had to fight not to give Sicaryon a dirty look. He knew what he was doing. It was one thing to invite the dragonrider for a drink—even to seduction—but this felt malicious and manipulative. Sordid.
The woman shuddered. “No, no. There’s no embarrassment. It’s just impos sible. My dragon would never forgive me, you see.” She then continued walking, assuming no further explanation would be necessary.
True enough. Who wouldn’t understand that a dragonrider must obey every whim of their dragon, after all?
They had a problem. Anahrod cast about for a way of working around the issue. She could slip the herbal mixture she brought into something else—some sweet vinegar water, perhaps, but it was only truly tasteless in alcohol. And that was no longer an option.
Anahrod couldn’t even try to slip something into food, because it was well after dinner. And they needed to hurry if they wanted to make the nine-bell window given by Neveranimas.
The manor house was majestic by candlelight, which flickered against the walls, revealing beautiful tapestries and comfortable sitting areas. The lightning flashed from the storm outside to brighten the rooms like a stage performer changing to a new scene.
Perhaps it was best Ris hadn’t come along, though, because Anahrod had a nasty suspicion that they had looted half the furnishings from the previous owners. What Ris would do if she came face-to-face with a person cheerfully sitting on her murdered family’s stolen furniture was anyone’s guess, but Anahrod suspected it would involve blood and lots of it.
They ended up in the parlor, sitting on Brauge’s stolen antique furniture, next to a cheerfully burning fireplace. The very sword they’d come to steal hung over the mantel, looking like a war trophy.
The servants brought in tea, boiled sweets, and pastries. Anahrod pretended to write while Sicaryon flirted shamelessly to avoid having to quote poetry.
In the distance, an animal cried out in distress, almost lost under the peals of thunder that shook the building foundations. It wasn’t raining, per se, but Brauge’s estate was close to the eyewall to ensure the sound was a constant melody in the background.
Not long after, someone in rough, rain-soaked leathers rushed in. Anahrod eyed the muddy boots and changed her mind about whether it was raining outside. The man paid no attention at all to the muck he tracked across the dragonrider’s carpets while he whispered in the dragonrider’s ear. Brauge’s face turned ash gray.
“My apologies,” the woman said, standing. “But it seems lightning hit one of the nearby fields and has caused a stampede. Please make yourself comfortable and ask the servants if you should need anything. I’ll be back soon.” She wagged a finger at Sicaryon. “I want to hear those poems!”
She followed the farm hand out the door, leaving the two alone.
Sicaryon and Anahrod looked at each other for a moment.
Then up to the mantel and the sword.