Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 8-1

Chapter 8

They were sitting around the kitchen table—Jamus and Pieter on one bench, Liselle on the other. As usual, Lathwi was sprawled on the floor. The remains of a sumptuous dinner were cooling under their noses.

“Lady,” Jamus said, embracing Liselle with an admiring glance, “you are truly a woman of prodigious magical talents. That was a feast fit for The Dreamer.” “I’m glad to hear you enjoyed it,” she replied. She was in high spirits this evening—partly because of the company, and partly because of a glass of sweet straw wine. “But your thrice-emptied plate was all the praise I needed.”

“High praise indeed,” he chuckled good-naturedly, and then donned a smile which was both ironic and sly. “Perhaps you’ll allow this humble glutton to return your hospitality.” She arched an eyebrow at him then. He took that as a sign to go on. “I’m hosting a party for Pieter tomorrow night. I’d be most delighted if you would grace us with your presence.”

The amusement in her sea-green eyes vanished, leaving a cool, distant sheen behind. “I thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

“But why?” Pieter blurted. “I’m leaving in the morning, you know.”

“I know. And it’s only fitting that you spend your last night in town with your rowdy friends. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in that kind of crowd.”

“What if Lathwi came with you?” he wheedled. “She could keep you company.”

Liselle turned to Lathwi, who was sharpening her nails on a bit of stone. The big woman’s air of preoccupation did not fool her—she knew how much Lathwi liked to eavesdrop.

“What do you say, Lathwi?” she called out, in a falsely jovial tone. “Are you going to this party tomorrow?”

“No,” Lathwi replied, without looking up from her nails.

“Come on, don’t be such a spoilsport,” Pieter scolded. “What else were you going to do tomorrow?”

Up until that moment, Lathwi had not given tomorrow any thought, for dragons were inclined to let each new day unfold according to fortune’s whim. But since Pieter had asked, and she was a bit bored, she tried to anticipate the future. She saw herself practising magic in the laboratory, then feeding, then returning to her attic nest to sleep, but then dismissed the vision with a restless hiss. She had spent too much time on her backside lately; her already soft form was in peril of growing softer. She needed fresh air, open space. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she was going to do tomorrow.

“I go hunting,” she announced. Then, meaning to rest up for that event, she got up and headed for the attic.

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” Liselle commented.

“What’s that?” Jamus asked solicitously.

“Her rather unceremonious way of coming and going,” she explained. “She always leaves me with the feeling that I’ll never see her again.”

“That’ll pass,” Pieter assured her. “As the weeks wear on, you’ll probably find yourself wondering about ways to get rid of her.”

Jamus pushed to his feet then. “I hate to take my leave of your excellent company so early,” he said, “but I’m afraid I must go. The Governor-General is expecting me tonight.

“Lady,” he went on, capturing her hand with a flourish, “it has been a privilege to dine with you. I cherish a hope that you’ll change your mind about the party tomorrow.”

“Don’t hope too fervently,” she replied, a warning iced with sweetness. “Disappointment is bad for the digestion.”

“Then I’ll suffer from colic for the rest of my days.” He kissed her hand, then gently released it. As he headed for the door, he clapped Pieter on the back and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, my friend.”

“Tomorrow,” the trapper echoed with a grin.

G

The next morning, Lathwi was up and gone from the house before dawn. Although it was still dark outside, she had no problem finding the stables; all she had to do was follow her nose. Horses nickered nervously as she let herself into the barn. A moment later, Raffi emerged from a stall to bar her way. Although it was obvious by his bleary eyes and rumpled appearance that he’d been sleeping, there was nothing groggy about the way he was holding his pitchfork. He squinted at her for a moment, then grunted and dropped his guard.

“What you want so early in da day?” he asked.

“Need horse and tack,” she replied.

“Tack’s in da tackroom,” he said, vaguely gesturing at the other side of the stable. “You wait, I get for you.”

Not only did he fetch her gear, he carried it over to the stallion’s stall and lent her a hand with the saddling. It did not occur to her to refuse his help—the bay was in far too feisty a mood. As soon as the horse was ready to go, she climbed onto his back and urged him toward the door. An instant later, she remembered Pieter’s lecture on favours and reined him to a halt again.

“Thank you,” she said to Raffi, who was staring up at her like a wounded fawn.

Those two little words had an remarkable effect on the stabler. His eyes gleamed with sudden pleasure; his sagging jowls perked into a smile.

“You watch you back,” he told her. “And next time you need dat horse, you come a little later in da day.”

She did not answer, but only started on her way.

As she made her way through the city, its shadowed walls took on lavender hues which then slowly turned rosy. For one breath-taking moment thereafter, Compara was beautiful: quiet and still, suspended by sunrise. Then the creak of an unseen oxcart shattered the spell, and Compara returned to its usual squalid self. Disgusted anew, she urged the bay into a trot. As soon as he cleared the city gates, she gave him free rein to run as fast as he pleased.

It did not take her long to forget Compara.

G

Pieter wandered into the kitchen, still dishevelled from sleep. His aunt was already seated at the table, as neat and crisp as a newly minted coin. He peered at her through puffy eyes for a moment, then asked, “Is there any tea left?”

“The pot’s by the fire,” she replied, in an obscenely cheerful tone. “If you want some, help yourself. I’m not your servant, you know.”

“I know,” he commented, as he went shuffling past her. “Servants know better than to flap their tongues so early in the morning.”

“Early?” She snorted derisively. “What a sluggard you are! Lathwi was up and on her way two hours ago.”

“That’s no secret.” Steaming mug in hand, he sat down across from her. “She woke me out of a sound sleep when she came down from the attic. I never did much more than drowse after that.”

“Poor thing,” she said, totally without sympathy.

He grunted, then slurped at his tea for a while. When he deemed himself awake enough to hold a decent conversation, he said, “Have you by any chance changed your mind about the party tonight?”

“No.” If resoluteness had had a colour, it would’ve been the same shade as her eyes just then. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t raise the subject again. I have my reasons for declining; and you must trust me when I say that they’re good ones.”

“As you wish,” he said, lacing the words into a resigned sigh. “I only pressed it because I wanted to spend some more time with you.”

“I know,” she replied. “But maybe we can wring an extra moment or two from some other part of the day. What are your plans?”

“I’m making the exchange with my buyer this morning,” he told her. “I’ll probably pick up some supplies afterward and then come home for a bath. After that, I’m off to the event which I’m f*******n to mention.”

“Busy day,” Liselle commented, tongue-in-cheek.

“You know how it is.” He stretched like a well-fed cat. “A man’s work is never done.”

“That’s because they spend half the day loafing in bed.”

He made a sour face at her, then went shuffling back to his room. When he returned a short time later, Liselle gave him a critical once-over, then said, “If you want, I’ll trim your beard for you when you get back.”

“That sounds good,” he replied, and headed for the door. “I’ll try to get home early.”

Then, with a wave, he was gone.

She heaved a sigh laden with complex regrets, then got a book from the laboratory and returned to her rocking chair to read. But before she had turned more than a dozen pages, the front door burst suddenly open, and a wiry little man clad in a servant’s drab brown livery came running toward her.

“What the—!” A jolt of fear-rich adrenaline slung her out of her chair. It also rendered her shrill. “You have no business here! Get out before I do something we’ll both live to regret!”

The trespasser hurled himself at her feet and started to grovel. “Forgive my intrusion, Mistress,” he cried, “but I’m desperate! My master has been most hideously cursed.”

“Then take him to Weiss of Ormula,” she snapped, still all but rabid from the fright she had been given. “Removing curses is one of his specialties.”

“We have been to the Ormulan’s home already,” he told her. “He isn’t there. And no one seems to know where he’s gone or when he’s coming back.” A chill foreboding skated down Liselle’s spine. It told her where the cocksure but careless Weiss de Ormula had gone. It also told her that he was never coming back. She groaned, damning herself as a self-centered fool. She’d assumed that The Rogue was only hunting for her. Now it was obvious that all of Compara’s sorcerers were in danger.

If only she had been smarter. Braver. Better informed. The Ormulan might have stood with her against a common enemy. And two were always stronger than one…

“Please, Mistress,” the servant begged her then. “Have pity on my Master. If you refuse him, he will surely die.”

Liselle ground her teeth against an urge to shout. She needed to think, dammit! Who were Compara’s other sorcerers? Where were they living now? And would they join her? But as much as she wanted to send the servant away empty-handed, her conscience forbade it. Only the worst sort of coward set her own fears above a dying man’s need.

“Where is he?” she demanded, no more gracious for her morals.

“Outside in your courtyard.”

“If he can make it through my door, I’ll look at him. Beyond that, though, I’ll make no promises.”

The servant went racing out the door. When he returned, there were three others with him. Two were garbed in servant livery like himself, the third was swathed in canvas sacking. Her wards chirred faintly as that one crossed the threshold, but permitted him to pass. That meant that there was indeed some sort of malevolent magic afoot here; and that it was of no direct threat to her. Relieved, she guided the accursed and his anxious servants to the laboratory. There, she bade the accursed to remove his hood so she could have a look at him.

He reached up with a canvas-wrapped hand and slowly drew the sacking away from his head. Her breakfast lurched in her stomach as his face came into view. It was streaked with the foul colours of gangrene, and so bloated, she could barely see his eyes and nose. The stench which oozed from his distended pores was that of a violated grave.

Liselle flinched at the size and scope of the task ahead of her. She was going to have to use ritual magic to get rid of this curse—and that brand of sorcery involved prodigious amounts of power.

“I may be able help you,” she told him, “but the attempt will be hard on both of us. Are you prepared to suffer?”

He replied with a barely perceptible nod.

“You won’t be able to change your mind once I begin the rite,” she cautioned. “And it is possible that my magic will not suffice, and your suffering will be for naught. Knowing this, do you still wish me to make the attempt?” Again the nod.

“So be it,” she said, and gestured at his servants. “Remove his garments.”

They scurried over, then stripped the canvas from their master’s body. n***d, he was even more appalling to behold. His whole body was swollen: arms, belly, buttocks, toes. And all of it was marbled with subcutaneous rot. Spots which had clotted to the sacking were now raw slicks of greenish ichor. There was an horrible graveyard stench about him.

“Go now and fetch clean clothing for him,” she bade the servants then. “Bring more sacking, too, for I can’t promise a cure. When you return, stay in the courtyard until you are called. If you need something to occupy your thoughts in the meantime, feel free to apply yourselves to my woodpile.”

They bowed to their stricken master, then vacated the laboratory. She locked the door behind them, then went in search of the tools she would need for the ritual. The first item on her list was a small, wrought-iron brazier. She eased it down from a shelf, then filled it with a mixture of dried herbs and ryzec. The herbs would freshen the air so she could concentrate, the ryzec would enhance her powers. She would pay for that extra strength afterward, but she tried not to think about that as she lit the brazier and inhaled its smoky fumes. The first whiff made her dizzy; by the third, she was feeling terribly energetic and alert. She took one last breath for luck, then retrieved three sticks of coloured chalk from a jar and returned to her supplicant.