“What—” Iridal began.
“Shut up,” Hugh snapped. “Look, from now on, Lady, you do what I say, when I say it. No questions. I’ll explain, if I have time, but if I don’t, then you have to trust me. I’ll rescue that kid of yours. And you help me find Alfred. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” Iridal answered steadily.
“Good.” He lowered his voice, his glance going again to the door. “I need two monks in here, no one watching. Can you manage that?”
Iridal walked over to the door, slid aside the panel. A monk stood in the hallway, probably ordered to wait for her.
She nodded. “Are you capable of walking?” she asked loudly, in disgust. Hugh took the hint. He placed his pipe carefully near the grate, then, catching up the wine bottle, he smashed it on the floor. He kicked over the table, tumbled down into the puddle of spilled wine and broken glass, and rolled about in the mess.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, trying to stand and falling back down. “I can walk. Sure. Let’s go.”
Iridal stepped to the door, rapped on it briskly. “Go fetch the Abbot,” she ordered.
The monk left. The Abbot returned. Iridal unlocked the door, opened it.
“Hugh the Hand has agreed to accompany me,” she said, “but you see the state he’s in. He can’t walk without assistance. If two of your monks could carry him, I would be extremely grateful.”
The Abbot frowned, looked dubious. Iridal removed a purse from beneath her cloak. “My gratitude is of a material nature,” she said, smiling. “A donation to the Abbey is always welcome, I believe.”
The Abbot accepted the purse. “Two of the brethren will be sent. But you may neither see nor speak to them.”
“I understand, Lord. I am ready to leave now.” She did not look back at Hugh, but she could hear the crunch of broken glass, heavy breathing, and muttered curses.
The Abbot appeared highly pleased and gratified at her departure. The mysteriarch had disturbed his Abbey with her imperious demands, caused a stir among the brethren, brought too much of the world of the living into one devoted to the dead. He himself escorted Iridal up the stairs, through the Abbey, and out the front entrance. He promised that Hugh would be sent out to meet her, if he could walk, carried if he could not. Perhaps the Abbot was not sorry to rid himself of this troublesome guest as well.
Iridal bowed, expressed her thanks. She hesitated, wanting to remain nearby, in case Hugh needed her help.
But the Abbot, clutching the purse, did not go back inside the Abbey. He waited beneath the glowlamp, intending to make certain that the woman was truly leaving.
Iridal had no recourse, therefore, but to turn and depart the Abbey grounds, make her way back to her slumbering dragon. Only then, when the Abbot saw her with the dragon, did he turn and stalk into the Abbey, slam shut the door. Looking back, Iridal wondered what to do, wished she knew what Hugh had planned. She decided that the best thing she could do was awaken the dragon, have it ready to carry them speedily away from this place.
Waking a slumbering dragon is always a tricky maneuver, for dragons are independent by nature, and if the beast woke up free of the spell that enthralled it, it might decide to fly away, attack her, attack the Abbey, or a combination of all three.
Fortunately, the dragon remained under enchantment. It emerged from sleep only slightly irritated at being awakened. Iridal soothed and praised it, promised it a treat when they returned home.
The dragon stretched its wings, lashed its tail, and proceeded to inspect its scaly hide for signs of the tiny and insidious dragon-wyrm, a parasite fond of burrowing beneath the scales and sucking the dragon’s blood. Iridal left it to its task, turned to watch the Abbey entrance, which she could see from her vantage point. She was just beginning to be anxious, more than half-afraid that Hugh might have changed his mind. She was wondering how to cope if he had, for the Abbot would most certainly not let her return, no matter what dire magics she threatened.
Then Hugh burst out the front door, almost as if he had been shoved from behind. He carried a bundle in one arm—a cloak and clothes for the journey, no doubt—and a bottle of wine in the other. He fell, caught himself, glanced backward, said something it was probably just as well Iridal couldn’t hear. Then he straightened, stared around, obviously wondering where she was. Iridal lifted her arm, waved to draw his attention, called out to him. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice—startlingly loud in the clear, frosty night—or her sudden movement. She never knew. Something jolted the dragon out of its enchantment.
A shrill shriek rose behind her, wings flapped, and, before she could stop it, the dragon had taken to the air. The dragon’s disenchantment was nothing more than a minor annoyance for a mysteriarch. Iridal had only to recast a very simple spell, but, to do so, she was forced to turn her attention away from Hugh for a few moments.
Unfamiliar with the intrigues and machinations of the royal court, it never occurred to Iridal that the distraction was deliberate.
24
Hugh saw the dragon take to the air, knew immediately that it had slipped the reins of its enchantment. He was no magus. There was nothing he could do to help Iridal recapture it or cast a spell on it. Shrugging, he pulled the cork of the wine bottle out with his teeth and was about to take a drink when he heard a man’s voice, speaking to him from the shadows.
“Make no sudden movement. Give no indication you hear me. Walk over this direction.”
Hugh knew the man, searched to give the voice a name and a face, but failed. The wine-soaked months of self-imposed captivity had drowned the memory. He could see nothing in the darkness. For all he knew, an arrow was nocked and aimed at his heart. And though he sought death, he sought it on his own terms, not on someone else’s. He wondered briefly if Iridal had led him into this ambush, decided not. Her anxiety over that kid of hers had been too real. The man seemed to know Hugh was only pretending to be drunk, but the Hand figured it couldn’t hurt to keep up the pretense. He acted as if he hadn’t heard, lurched in the general direction of the voice by accident. His hands fumbled with his bundle and wine bottle—which had now become shield and weapon. Using his cloak to conceal his motions, he shifted the heavy bundle in his left hand, ready to lift it to protect himself, readjusted his right hand’s grip on the neck of the wine bottle. With one quick motion, he could smash the glass against a head, across a face.
Muttering beneath his breath about the inability of women to control dragons, Hugh staggered out of the small pool of light that illuminated the Abbey grounds, found himself among a few scraggly bushes and a grove of twisted trees.
“Stop here. That’s near enough. You only need to hear me. Do you know me, Hugh the Hand?”
And then he did know. He gripped the bottle tighter. “Trian, isn’t it? House magus to King Stephen.”
“We haven’t much time. The Lady Iridal mustn’t know we’ve had this conversation. His Majesty wishes to remind you that you have not fulfilled the agreement.”
“What?” Hugh shifted his eyes, stared into the shadows, without seeming to stare.
“You did not do what you were paid to do. The child is still alive.”
“So?” said Hugh harshly. “I’ll give you your money back. You only paid me half of it anyway.”
“We don’t want the money back. We want the child dead.”
“I can’t do it,” said Hugh to the night.
“Why?” the voice asked, sounding displeased. “Surely you of all men haven’t found a conscience. Are you suddenly squeamish? Don’t you like killing anymore?”