The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(81)
“Indeed,” Chelson says.
“What if,” Herse says, “Omer cut Livion in, and Livion decided to cut him out? I saw the rider’s wounds. No dragon made them. Nor did a dragon kill his servant, who might have stumbled into the middle of things. He was the last to see both.”
“Are you saying he killed them?” Chelson says. “Over some cinnamon?”
“I’m just drawing a picture,” Herse says. He glances at Red Eye’s hatchet. “One man’s cinnamon is another’s city.”
Chelson’s face darkens to Herse’s satisfaction. Mystery solved.
“So why didn’t he complete the deal?” Chelson says. “What happened to that other maid?”
“He had no chance,” Rego says, “given what happened at Council. And she wouldn’t be the first person to fall prey to the night, then to the rats.”
“Do you have any proof?” Chelson asks.
“Proof is in the eyes of the Council,” Herse says. “Ject’s search for the dragon may have been fruitless, but it’s left the city confused. Once you say there’s a dragon, there’s a dragon. If we say Livion’s story was meant to cover up murders, that will discredit him, and we can get on with business.”
“Ject would never go for it,” Chelson says. “However compromised he is.”
“If Livion’s lies distracted Hanosh from defending itself,” Herse says, “then it’s an army matter. We can argue jurisdiction later. Call another special council. And I’ll have the material brought in to sweeten the pot.”
The footman appears. “Your son-in-law is here,” he says.
“Bring him in,” Chelson says, deciding something. To Red Eye he adds, “Holestar, have your men join us. And fetch a head sack.”
8
* * *
Tristaban winds her way down through Artisans. She hasn’t decided what she’ll tell Livion, if anything. She doesn’t need a chance encounter to complicate matters.
She doesn’t know the district as well as she imagined, and finds herself in Workers with its streets missing half their cobbles and alleys full of eyes. She tries to get to a Hill street, but the lack of streetlamps and the bizarre layout of the houses drains her nearly to the Rookery before spilling her out across from Servants.
She crosses the street, sees her horrible neighbors from Blue Island wobbling out of a quick nip, and ducks into a lane running behind a dormitory. It’s barely better lit than those across the street, but at least she knows the way up.
Two stairways, a lane, and an alley later, she stands beneath a dim streetlamp and realizes she’s lost. She decides to make her way to the Quiet Tower. Surely a guard would escort her home.
It’s oddly quiet here. Most day servants should be home or coming home. Or is she beyond their quarters? Surely they can’t be hiding from a dragon. It hits her: She’s done with Livion. How can she stay with the Boy Who Cried Dragon? She’ll be a laughingstock. No one would blame her for dissolving their partnership. Her father would make it simple.
She descends a long flight of stairs into darkness and finds herself behind a warehouse. She turns west and after a few dozen yards finds another stairway switchbacking up. The Quiet Tower looms not far above its top.
At the first turn a shoe scuffs behind her. In the dim light seeping around a nearby shutter she sees shadow sliding against shadow. She would call out, but she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Another scuff. She eases onto the next stair. It could be anyone behind her, a guard, a worker, a maid. Scuff. Two more steps. Three quick scuffs and Tristaban runs. She doesn’t see the next switchback, trips and sprawls, smacking her jaw. It splits and blood runs down her neck.
The shadow falls over her. Its hands work their way up her body to grab her hair and yank her head back. Fingers scuttle over her lips and clamp themselves across her mouth. The shadow straddles her waist and pins her.
It whispers, “Be quiet, and we won’t hurt you. Understand?”
She nods against his hands. Its fingers are rough on her lips. She wishes she’d brought Livion’s whistle.
“Good,” it says. “You don’t want to end up like that maid. We had to remove her throat to show her we meant business.”
Tristaban nods again. It releases her hair to rummage in a pocket. A cork pops, and a sickly sweet smell wafts over her. It’s like burnt apple wine, but she can’t place it. A small bottle clinks on a step above her head, then she hears a cloth set beside it, and she knows what it’s going to do.
She bites his fingers deep enough to grind a knuckle. It yanks the hand free, cursing, and she howls for all she’s worth. Shocked by her resistance, it stands slightly as if it might run. She launches herself upward, knocking it backward down the stairs. Shutters creak open. Candles are held out of a dozen windows. Voices call out to her. She doesn’t answer and flies up the stairs, kicking the bottle so hard it shatters.
Two alleys and another stairway and she’s on Brimurray, huffing, her dress soiled, her face a mass of sweat. She’s smiling, though. She fought him off. She’ll be scared later. For now, she’s won. The light from the freshly lit street lanterns feels like a dusting of gold.
Tristaban rifles through her hamondey for her key and strides to her door. A bearded man pushes a black wooden barrow toward her. It’s two-wheeled and deep, with a sagging canvas cover. She thinks it’s early for the night soil man, and then realizes that without the girl she’ll have to deal with their private matters herself. Maybe for a penny he will. His sandals are old and oft-repaired, but clean enough to come inside. Yes, she deserves that after what she just did. She’s gotten her hands dirty enough today.