The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lawrence Watt-Evans
blinked up at the plaster nymphs on the dimly lit ceiling.
"Ahem."
That explained it, he realized. He hadn't coughed; someone else had, to awaken him. He lifted his head.
He saw at once that the light in his chamber was only dim because the curtains were drawn. The narrow gap where one pair failed to close completely allowed a beam of sunlight, like a bright golden screen, to cut across the far end of the room at a steep angle.
From that, Arlian judged it to be roughly midday.
It was good to be home, he thought, where he could sleep away the morning in a real bed, untroubled by innkeepers or the exigencies of travel. He stretched beneath die covers, enjoying the feel and smell of the fine linen sheets, then looked around for the source of the cough.
Old Venlin, Arlian's chief footman, was standing at his bedside, carefully not looking at his lord and master. "Good morning, Venlin," Arlian said. "Assuming, of course, that it is still morning."
"It is, my lord," Venlin said, "though in another hour or so the sun will indeed be past its zenith."
"Then it's time I was up and about my business, wouldn't you say?"
'It's not my place to instruct you, my lord," Venlin said.
"Of course," Arlian said, flinging aside the sheet and counterpane and swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed. "Still, I won't fault you for offering your opinion when asked. And right now, I wouldn't fault you for fetching my robe."
"As you wish, my lord," Venlin said, stepping to the wardrobe. "Might I suggest, if you do indeed welcome my opinion, that you might wish to dress immediately? You have a visitor waiting."
"Ah!" Arlian smiled as he stood, clad only in his shirt. "That's why you're here at my bedside, then. I thought perhaps the kitchen staff had simply become impatient about keeping my breakfast warm. Who is it, then? Lord Wither?" Horn had said Wither would wait until Arlian had had time to recover from his journey, which should have meant at least a day or two, but Arlian supposed Wither might have yielded to impatience.
"No, my lord."
"Oh? Then one of our unfortunate female guests, perhaps?"
"No, my lord—your steward has explained to them that you need to rest after your journey, and they are accordingly restraining their eagerness to see you.
Your visitor is a gentleman who says he represents Lord Enziet."
Arlian's smile and good mood vanished; for one nightmarish instant he thought he had dreamed his long pursuit of his enemies southward along the caravan road, had imagined that horrific final battle with Lord Enziet, most appropriately also known as Lord Dragon...
But he could feel the scar on his cheek, could remember it all far more clearly than any dream, and he knew Enziet was in fact dead.
But the people of Manfort, and of Enziet's household and estates, might not know it yet. And even if they did, they might well still have posthumous mis-sions, as Drisheen's hired assassin had.
He did not think Enziet had hired assassins—he would have left that to Drisheen. Presumably this visitor was some servant of Enziet's, here on some long-delayed business—or to demand any news Arlian might have of Enziet's whereabouts. Whatever he wanted, Arlian could not see how it could be good.
The news of Arlian's return must have spread quickly, even more quickly than he had expected, if someone from Enziet's household had already heard of it and come to call. Perhaps Drisheen's assassin—
Arlian wished he had thought to get the archer's name—had carried the word.
"I'll meet him in the small salon in ten minutes,"
Arlian bowed, and departed.
This meeting with the dead man's representative seemed to demand a certain degree of formality, so it was actually closer to twenty minutes before Arlian strode into the small salon, washed and brushed, re-splendent in his best black velvets, his vest and jacket trimmed with white lace and worn over a white silk blouse.
Just outside the door of the salon he had passed a pair of his
"Ahem."
That explained it, he realized. He hadn't coughed; someone else had, to awaken him. He lifted his head.
He saw at once that the light in his chamber was only dim because the curtains were drawn. The narrow gap where one pair failed to close completely allowed a beam of sunlight, like a bright golden screen, to cut across the far end of the room at a steep angle.
From that, Arlian judged it to be roughly midday.
It was good to be home, he thought, where he could sleep away the morning in a real bed, untroubled by innkeepers or the exigencies of travel. He stretched beneath die covers, enjoying the feel and smell of the fine linen sheets, then looked around for the source of the cough.
Old Venlin, Arlian's chief footman, was standing at his bedside, carefully not looking at his lord and master. "Good morning, Venlin," Arlian said. "Assuming, of course, that it is still morning."
"It is, my lord," Venlin said, "though in another hour or so the sun will indeed be past its zenith."
"Then it's time I was up and about my business, wouldn't you say?"
'It's not my place to instruct you, my lord," Venlin said.
"Of course," Arlian said, flinging aside the sheet and counterpane and swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed. "Still, I won't fault you for offering your opinion when asked. And right now, I wouldn't fault you for fetching my robe."
"As you wish, my lord," Venlin said, stepping to the wardrobe. "Might I suggest, if you do indeed welcome my opinion, that you might wish to dress immediately? You have a visitor waiting."
"Ah!" Arlian smiled as he stood, clad only in his shirt. "That's why you're here at my bedside, then. I thought perhaps the kitchen staff had simply become impatient about keeping my breakfast warm. Who is it, then? Lord Wither?" Horn had said Wither would wait until Arlian had had time to recover from his journey, which should have meant at least a day or two, but Arlian supposed Wither might have yielded to impatience.
"No, my lord."
"Oh? Then one of our unfortunate female guests, perhaps?"
"No, my lord—your steward has explained to them that you need to rest after your journey, and they are accordingly restraining their eagerness to see you.
Your visitor is a gentleman who says he represents Lord Enziet."
Arlian's smile and good mood vanished; for one nightmarish instant he thought he had dreamed his long pursuit of his enemies southward along the caravan road, had imagined that horrific final battle with Lord Enziet, most appropriately also known as Lord Dragon...
But he could feel the scar on his cheek, could remember it all far more clearly than any dream, and he knew Enziet was in fact dead.
But the people of Manfort, and of Enziet's household and estates, might not know it yet. And even if they did, they might well still have posthumous mis-sions, as Drisheen's hired assassin had.
He did not think Enziet had hired assassins—he would have left that to Drisheen. Presumably this visitor was some servant of Enziet's, here on some long-delayed business—or to demand any news Arlian might have of Enziet's whereabouts. Whatever he wanted, Arlian could not see how it could be good.
The news of Arlian's return must have spread quickly, even more quickly than he had expected, if someone from Enziet's household had already heard of it and come to call. Perhaps Drisheen's assassin—
Arlian wished he had thought to get the archer's name—had carried the word.
"I'll meet him in the small salon in ten minutes,"
Arlian bowed, and departed.
This meeting with the dead man's representative seemed to demand a certain degree of formality, so it was actually closer to twenty minutes before Arlian strode into the small salon, washed and brushed, re-splendent in his best black velvets, his vest and jacket trimmed with white lace and worn over a white silk blouse.
Just outside the door of the salon he had passed a pair of his
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