All this time, Kitiara remained silent and preoccupied. Grag thought she wasn’t listening until he mentioned—with another curl of his lip—Fewmaster Toede’s ambition to become the successor to Verminaard. At that, Kitiara smiled.
Grag did not like to see her smile. He feared she was going to advocate promoting Toede, and Grag did not want to take orders from the bloated, arrogant, self-serving hob. Although, on second thought, having Toede for a commander might be better than some arrogant human numbskull. Toede could be manipulated, flattered, and cajoled into doing what Grag wanted, whereas a human commander would go his own way. Grag would have to think about this.
The discussion ended soon after. Grag was dismissed. He saluted and walked out the door, which Ariakas shut behind him. Grag found to his amazement that he was trembling and he had to stop a moment to regain his composure.
Once he was himself again, Grag confronted the ogres, who appeared surprised to see him return all in one piece. They handed over his sword and knife in silence, regarding him with more respect.
“Is there a tavern close by?” Grag asked. He held the sword belt in his hand. He wasn’t at all sure he could buckle it without fumbling and he wouldn’t give the ogres the satisfaction of seeing his weakness. “I could use a shot of dwarf spirits.”
The ogre guards grinned.
“Try the Hairy Troll,” one said, pointing in the tavern’s general direction.
“Thanks,” said Grag and walked off, still carrying his sword belt.
There was no doubt in his mind. The Blue Lady knew the assassins, and Ariakas knew she knew—or at least suspected it.
Grag would not have been in her boots for all the dwarf spirits in Thorbardin.
2
Kitiara’s strategy. Ariakas’s scheme. The witch
“You know, I’ve half a mind to promote that Grag to Dragon Highlord,” said Ariakas, gazing speculatively after the departing draconian.
“A draco?” Kitiara was amused. “The lizard-boys are excellent fighters, to be sure, my lord. They were bred for battle after all, but they lack the brains and discipline needed for command.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Ariakas. “Commander Grag has a good head on his scaly shoulders.”
“He’s smarter than Verminaard, at least,” Kitiara muttered.
“I remind you that I highly valued Verminaard,” stated Ariakas heatedly. “His campaign in the west was brilliantly conducted. Any man—no matter how powerful—can fall victim to fate.”
Kitiara shrugged and stifled another yawn. She hadn’t slept much the night before, her sleep broken by disturbing dreams of a fire-ravaged keep and an undead knight clad in blackened armor adorned with a rose. Kitiara had no idea what the dream meant or why she had dreamt it, but she had woken suddenly, filled with an unnamed fear, unable to return to sleep.
Ariakas didn’t look as if he’d slept well himself. His eyes had dark circles beneath them and he blinked them constantly. Kit wondered uneasily if her dream had been a dream or if Takhisis was trying to tell her something. Kit was about to ask Ariakas when he startled her by saying, “Or was it fate, Kitiara?”
“Was what fate, my lord?” Kitiara asked, confused. She’d completely forgotten the subject of their conversation.
Ariakas exploded. “By Takhisis, I begin to think you were the one to have Verminaard killed! Quite a coincidence, these assassins coming from your hometown, and one of them a wizard. You had a brother who was a wizard, as I recall.”
“I am flattered that your lordship remembers so much about me,” said Kitiara coolly. “As for my brother the mage, Raistlin is only my half-brother and he was always weak and sickly. I doubt if he is even still alive, much less given to going about assassinating Dragon Highlords.”
Ariakas glowered at her.
“Are you accusing me of Verminaard’s murder, my lord?” Kit flared.
“What if I am?” demanded Ariakas.
He crowded close to her, using his massive body to physically intimidate her. Kitiara was shaken and for a moment she almost gave way to panic. She had been telling him the truth, but she wasn’t telling him all the truth. She should never have made that crack about Verminaard. At that moment she was reminded of her father’s teachings. Gregor uth Matar had once been a Solamnic knight. Dismissed from the knighthood for disgraceful behavior, he’d made a living by selling his sword to the highest bidder. Gregor had been a handsome, bold womanizer, always in debt, frequently in trouble, and Kitiara had adored him. One of his dictums—always attack, never defend.
Instead of falling back, as Ariakas anticipated, Kitiara moved in closer, so that they were practically toe-to-toe.
“You should know me well enough, my lord, to know that if I wanted to assassinate Verminaard, I would have done it myself. I would not have paid to have it done for me.”
Ariakas seized hold of her jaw. His fingers clenched. A single move and he could have broken her neck. He stared down at her, waiting for her to whimper and weaken.
Kit did not so much as blink and suddenly Ariakas felt a tickling sensation, as of sharp steel, in the area of his groin. He looked down and was startled to see Kitiara’s hand holding a knife, prepared to thrust it through the leather skirt into a very sensitive part of his anatomy.
Ariakas gave a great guffaw of laughter and shoved Kitiara away from him.
“Damn those guards of mine for slackers,” he said, half-amused, half-infuriated. “I’ll have their heads for this! They have orders to search everyone—even my most trusted commanders! Or perhaps I should say especially my most trusted commanders.”
“Do not blame the ogres, my lord,” said Kitiara. “They were not meant to find this.”
She took the thin-bladed knife and slipped it into a hidden sheath that had been cleverly worked into the ornate design of her dragon armor breastplate.
Ariakas chuckled. “Would you really have stabbed me?”
“Would you have broken my neck?” Kitiara returned in arch tones.
Both knew the answer was “yes”. They expected nothing less of each other.
“Now perhaps we can turn our attention to matters in Solamnia.” Ariakas walked over to the desk where he had spread out a map. He bent over it.
Kitiara breathed an inward sigh. She’d survived yet another confrontation with her powerful master. Her boldness and daring had pleased him. The day would come, though, when they wouldn’t.
“Did you have a strange dream last night, my lord?” Kitiara asked.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Ariakas said curtly.
“I did,” Kitiara continued. “I dreamt Queen Takhisis was trying to persuade me to travel to Dargaard Keep to confront the death knight who is supposed to reside there.”
“Soth,” Ariakas said. “Lord Soth. What did you tell Her Dark Majesty?”
He tried to sound casual, but Kitiara knew then that he’d had the same dream.
“I told her I didn’t believe in ghosts,” Kitiara returned dryly.
Ariakas grunted. “Soth is no ghost. He lives—if you can say such a thing about a man who has been dead for over three hundred years. Our Queen wants to recruit him to our cause.”
“Would you do that, my lord?” Kitiara asked.
Ariakas shook his head. “Soth would be a valuable ally, but I could not trust him. He is far too powerful. Why should a death knight call any mortal ‘master’? No, let Soth brood over his wrongs in his ruined castle. I want no part of him.”
Kitiara had to admit his reasoning was sound. Queen Takhisis was often impatient with human frailties and weakness, and she could be impractical on occasion. Kit put the dream aside
“I read your latest proposal for Solamnia,” Ariakas was saying. He picked up a thick sheaf of parchment. “You propose that the Blue Wing seize the High Clerist’s Tower, occupy it, and from there march on Palanthas. A daring plan, Kitiara.”
He took his seat behind the desk. “I am against it. It stretches our forces too thin, but I will listen to what you have to say.”