Derek glanced at him sharply, then fumbled in his purse for several coins and handed them to Bertrem. “Put this toward some worthy cause,” he said gruffly.
“I thank you, my lord,” Bertrem said. “Can I be of further service to your lordship this night?”
“No, Brother,” said Derek. “Thank you for your help.” He paused then said stiffly, “I apologize for my behavior earlier.”
“No need for that, my lord,” said Bertrem kindly. “It is already forgotten.”
“Maybe Astinus is the god Gilean after all,” Brian said, as he and Derek were descending the moonlit steps of the Great Library.
Derek muttered something and continued walking at a rapid pace down the street.
“Derek,” said Brian, almost running to keep up, “could I ask you a question?”
“If you must,” Derek said shortly.
“You hate wizards. You hate all things having to do with wizards. You cross the street to avoid passing a wizard. This dragon orb was made by wizards. The orb is magic, Derek. Why do you want to have anything to do with it?”
Derek kept walking.
“I have an idea,” Brian continued. “Send a message to the wizards at the Tower of Wayreth. Tell them you’ve received this information about one of their artifacts. Let them decide what to do about it.”
Derek halted and turned to stare at his friend.
“Are you mad?”
“No more than usual,” said Brian wryly. He guessed what Derek was going to say.
“You’re suggesting we turn over this powerful artifact to wizards?”
“They made it, Derek,” Brian pointed out.
“All the more reason to keep it out of their hands!” Derek said sternly. “Just because wizards made this orb doesn’t mean they should be permitted to make use of it. If you must know, it is because I distrust wizards that I am going to seek out the dragon orb.”
“What will you do with it if you find it?”
Derek gave a tight-lipped smile. “I will bring it to Sancrist Isle and drop it in Lord Gunthar’s soup. Then, when they make me Grand Master, I will go out and win the war.”
“Of course,” said Brian. He had more to say on the subject, but he knew any further argument would be futile. “You’ll have to write to Lord Gunthar, tell him you’re proposing to go on this quest, and ask his permission.”
Derek scowled. He couldn’t very well get around this, however. According to the Measure, a knight could not depart on such a long journey—three-quarters of the way across the continent—without receiving sanction from his superior, who happened to be Lord Gunthar.
“A mere formality. He will not dare refuse me.”
“No, I don’t suppose he will,” said Brian softly.
“He will send one of his men along to keep an eye on me,” Derek added. “Aran Tallbow most likely.”
Brian nodded. “I hope so. Aran is a good man.”
“He used to be a good man. Now he’s a drunkard who lets Gunthar lead him around by the nose. But I will have you along to watch my back,” Derek stated.
Brian wished for once Derek would ask him if he wanted to do something rather than telling him, not that it would make any difference. Brian would go with his friend now as he’d done in the past.
“Just think, my friend. This could be the making of you. You might even be made High Clerist!”
“I don’t think I want to be High Clerist,” said Brian mildly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Derek. “Of course you do.”
7
The Fewmaster sweats. Iolanthe entertains the emperor
“So the knight took the bait,” said Skie the next morning. He and Kitiara were preparing to leave the dragon’s hiding place, a heavily forested area far from the walls of Palanthas.
“It is a good thing he did not ask for a sample of my handwriting,” said Kit, grinning. “He not only took the forged letter, he paid me one hundred steel for it. It is not every man willing to pay so handsomely for his own destruction.”
“If the orb does destroy him,” muttered Skie. “It could just as likely destroy us. I mistrust wizards. If this knight is a threat, why didn’t you just stick a knife in him?”
“Because Ariakas wants to please his new mistress,” said Kit dryly. “What do you know of these ‘dragon orbs’?”
“Very little,” Skie grunted. “That’s what worries me, and it should worry you. Why did you tell him your real name? What if he finds out that Kitiara uth Matar is not a thief, she’s a Dragon Highlord?”
“He would not have come to the meeting without hearing the name. These knights are snobs,” Kitiara said scornfully. “The fact that my father was a knight, even though he was a disgraced knight, helped convince Sir Nincompoop that I really did have the good of Solamnia at heart. I even told him my dear father died fighting for Solamnia.” Kit laughed. “The truth is, my father probably died at the end of some outraged husband’s sword!”
She shrugged. “As for Sir Derek finding out I am a Highlord, that is unlikely. My own troops do not know my true name. Kitiara uth Matar means nothing to them. To my soldiers and to the rest of the world, I am the ‘Blue Lady’, the Blue Lady who will one day rule over them.”
“One day,” the dragon grumbled. “Not now.”
Kitiara reached down to pat Skie on the neck. “I understand how you feel, but for the time being, we must obey orders.”
“Where do we go, Blue Lady,” the dragon asked bitterly, “since we’re not allowed to fight?”
“We fly to Haven, where the Red Dragonarmy has made their headquarters. We are going to try to find a suitable candidate for Dragon Highlord.”
“Another waste of time and effort,” said Skie, crashing through the brush and trampling scrub trees underfoot in search of a cleared space in which to spread his wings.
“Perhaps,” said Kitiara, and a smile played on her lips unseen beneath the helm, “but then again, perhaps not.”
The dragonarmy camp near Haven was really nothing more than a small outpost. Most of the Red Dragonarmy troops were scattered across Abanasinia, maintaining their grip on conquests they had already taken. Prior to her arrival, Kitiara had met with her spies inside the dragonarmy. They reported that the army, spread out over a wide area, from Thorbardin to the Plains of Dust, was in disarray; the officers quarreling among themselves, the troops grumbling and discontented, and the dragons furious.
Several officers were vying to become Highlord. Kitiara had a list of likely candidates, with detailed information on each.
“I will be here for several days,” Kitiara told Skie. The dragon had landed her in an area some distance from the camp. “I need you to speak to the reds.”
“Brainless behemoths,” Skie snarled. “Muscle-bound ninnies. Talking with them is a waste of time. They barely know words of more than one syllable.”
“I understand, but I need to know what they think—”
“They don’t,” Skie retorted. “That’s the problem. I can sum up their thought processes in three words: burn, eat, loot, and they’re so stupid that most of the time they do it in that order.”
Kitiara laughed. “I realize I’m asking a great deal, my friend, but if the reds are truly unhappy and threatening to depart, as I have heard, Ariakas needs to take action. I want you to find out if they are belly-aching or if they are serious.”
“Odds are they don’t know themselves.” Skie shook his mane in irritation. “We should be back in the north fighting battles.”
“I know,” said Kit quietly. “I know.”
Still grumbling, Skie flew off. Kitiara watched the dragon climb among the clouds. His neck craned downward. He was searching for food. He must have spotted something, for he made a sudden diving descent, clawed feet outstretched to snag his prey. Kitiara watched until she lost sight of the dragon among the trees. Then she took a look at her surroundings, got her bearings, and set off walking through the brush, heading in the direction of the camp, which she had seen from the air. She could not see the camp itself, but could tell its location by the haze of smoke rising from cook fires and the blacksmith’s forge.