The moment they’d come within sight and smell of the dragon, the dog, yelping wildly, took one look at the beast, tucked its tail between its legs, and fled.
Count Tretar suggested letting the dog go, but Bane had thrown a red-in—the-face, feet-kicking tantrum, screamed he wouldn’t go anywhere without the dog. Tretar sent his men in pursuit.
The Hand had taken advantage of the diversion to whisper a few words to Tretar’s ever-present weesham. If the weesham was more loyal to the Kenkari than to the count, the Kenkari now knew that Iridal had been taken prisoner. The weesham had said nothing, but the man had given Hugh a significant look that seemed to promise he would carry the message to his masters. It had taken some time for the elves to capture the dog. Muzzling it, they had been forced to wrap its head up in a cloak before they could wrestle it onto the dragon, lash it securely onto the back of the saddle among the packs and bundles.
The dog spent the first half of the flight howling dismally, then—exhausted—it had fallen asleep, for which Hugh was devoutly grateful.
“What’s that down there?” Bane asked excitedly, pointing to a land mass floating in the clouds below.
“Ulyndia,” said Hugh.
“We’re almost there?”
“Yes, Your Highness”—spoken with a sneer—“we’re almost there.”
“Hugh,” said Bane, after a moment of intense thought, to judge by his expression, “when you’ve done this job for me, when I’m king, I want to hire you to do another.”
“I’m flattered, Your Highness,” said Hugh. “Who else do you want me to assassinate? How about the elven emperor? Then you’d rule the world.” Bane blithely ignored the sarcasm. “I want to hire you to kill Haplo.” Hugh grunted. “He’s probably already dead. The elves must’ve killed him by now.”
“No, I doubt it. The elves couldn’t kill him. Haplo’s too clever for them. But I think you could. Especially if I told you all his secret powers. Will you, Hugh? I’ll pay you well.” Bane turned, looked at him directly. “Will you kill Haplo?”
A chill hand twisted Hugh’s gut. He’d been hired by all manner of men, to kill all manner of men, for all manner of reasons. But he’d never seen such malevolence, such bitter, jealous hatred in any man’s eyes as he now saw in the child’s beautiful blue ones.
Hugh couldn’t, for a moment, respond.
“There’s just one thing you must do,” Bane continued, his gaze straying to the slumbering dog. “You must tell Haplo, when he’s dying, that Xar is the one who wants him dead. Will you remember that name? Xar is the one who says that Haplo must die.”
“Sure,” said Hugh, shrugging. “Anything for the customer.”
“You’ll take the contract, then?” Bane brightened.
“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Hugh agreed. He’d agree to anything to shut the kid up. Hugh sent the dragon into a descending spiral, flying slowly, taking his time, allowing himself to be seen by the pickets he knew would be posted.
“There’re more dragons coming,” Bane announced, peering ahead through the clouds.
Hugh said nothing.
Bane watched for a while, then he turned, frowning, to look suspiciously at the assassin. “They’re flying this way. Who are they?”
“Outriders. His Majesty’s guard. They’ll stop us, question us. You remember what you’re supposed to do, don’t you? Keep that hood over your head. Some of these soldiers might recognize you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bane. “I know.”
At least, thought Hugh, I don’t have to worry about the kid giving us away. Deceit’s his birthright.
Far below, Hugh could see the shoreline of Ulyndia, the plains known as Seven Fields. Usually empty and desolate, the vast expanse of coralite was alive with the movement of men and beasts. Neat rows of small tents formed lines across the fields—the elven army on one side, the human army on the other. Two large, brightly colored tents stood in the center. One flew the elven flag of Prince Rees’ahn—bearing the emblem of a raven, a lily, and a lark rising, in honor of the human woman, Ravenslark, who had wrought the miracle of song among the elves. The other tent flew King Stephen’s flag—the Winged Eye. Hugh marked this tent, noted the deployment of troops around it, calculated his best way in.
He wouldn’t have to worry about a way out.
Elven dragonships floated at anchor off the coastline. The humans’ dragons were penned further inland, upwind of the elven ships, which used the skins and scales of dead dragons in their making. A live dragon, catching a whiff, would become so enraged that it might overthrow its enchantment, create a damnable row.
The King’s Own, Stephen’s personal guard, was flying picket detail. Two of the giant battle dragons, each with its own contingent of troops riding on its back, were keeping watch over the ground. The smaller, swift-flying, two-man dragons scanned the skies. It was two of these that had spotted Hugh, were bearing down on him.
Hugh checked his dragon’s descent, commanded it to hover in the air, wings barely moving, drifting up and down on the thermals rising from the land beneath it. The dog, waking up, lifted its head and started howling. Though Hugh’s action in drawing up his mount was a sign of peaceful intent, the King’s Own was taking no chances. The two soldiers on the lead dragon had bows out, arrows nocked and aimed—one at Hugh, one at the dragon. The soldier riding the second dragon approached only when he was certain that the other guards had Hugh well covered. But Hugh noted a smile cross the man’s stern face when he saw—and heard—the dog.
Hugh hunkered down, touched his hand to his forehead in a show of humble respect.
“What is your business?” the soldier demanded. “What do you want?”
“I am a simple peddler, Your Generalship.” Hugh shouted to be heard over the dog’s howling and the flap of dragon wings. He gestured to the bundles behind him. “My son and I have come to bring wondrous things of much value to Your Generalship’s most illustrious and courageous soldiers.”
“You’ve come to fleece them out of their pay with your shoddy merchandise, is what you mean to say.”
Hugh was indignant. “No, General, sir, I assure you. My merchandise is of the finest—pots and pans to be used for cooking, trinkets to brighten the pretty eyes of those who wept when you left.”
“Take your pots and pans, your son, your dog, and your glib tongue elsewhere, peddler. This is not a market. And I am not a general,” the soldier added.
“I know this is not a market,” said Hugh meekly. “And if you are not a general it is only because those of authority do not esteem you properly, as they should. But I see the tents of many of my comrades already set up down below. Surely King Stephen would not begrudge an honest man such as myself, with a small son to support and twelve more like him at home, to say nothing of two daughters, the chance to earn an honest living.”
The King’s Own might have doubted the existence of the twelve sons and two daughters, but he knew he’d lost this round. He’d known it before he started. The news of the peaceful meeting of two armies on the plains of Seven Fields was like the sweet smell of rotting pua fruit—it had drawn every conceivable sort of fly. Whores, gamblers, peddlers, weapons makers, water vendors—all flew to suck up their share. The king could either attempt to drive them away, which would mean bloodshed and bitter feelings among the populace, or he could put up with them, keep an eye on them.
“Very well,” said the soldier, waving his hand. “You can land. Report to the overseer’s tent with a sample of your wares and twenty barls for your seller’s license.”
“Twenty barls! An outrage,” growled Hugh.
“What did you say, peddler?”
“I said I am most appreciative of your great kindness, General. My son adds his respects. Add your respects to the great general, my son.” Bane, blushing prettily, bowed his head, brought his small hands to his face, as was proper for a peasant child in the presence of illustrious nobility. The soldier was charmed. Waving off the bowmen, he steered his dragon away, went off in pursuit of still another rider, who looked to be a tinker, just approaching.