Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

This job would make Hugh’s fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.

There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm—those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge—when they’ll sell it to humans at all—are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.

It didn’t make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.

“Very well, I suppose you must know something,” Trian admitted reluctantly.

“You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?”

“No.”

On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. “Low Realm stuff. Not bad.”

“Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman,” returned Trian irritably. “In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?”

Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. “You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn’t even know for certain Stephen had a son—”

“Well, he does.” The wizard’s voice was cold. “And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other’s throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next.”

“And so you get rid of the kid. That solves your problem, I guess, but leaves your king without an heir.”

Pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, Hugh stripped off his pants and splashed water abundantly over his naked body. Trian turned his back, either from modesty or perhaps sickened by the sight of numerous weals and battle scars—some fresh—that marred the assassin’s skin.

“Stephen is not a fool. That problem is being resolved. When we declare war upon Aristagon, the nations will unite, including the queen’s own. During the war, Stephen will divorce Anne and marry a woman of Volkaran. Fortunately His Majesty is of an age that he can still father children—many children. The war will force the nations to remain united despite Anne’s divorce. By the time peace comes—if ever—Uylandia will be too weakened, too dependent on Stephen to break the ties.”

“Very clever,” Hugh conceded. Tossing the towel aside, he drank two mugs of the cool, sweet-tasting Low Realm water, then relieved himself in a chamber pot in a corner. Refreshed, he began to look over the various articles of clothing that were folded neatly upon a cot. “And what’ll make the elves go to war? They’ve got their own problems.”

“I thought you knew nothing of politics,” muttered Trian caustically. “The cause of war will be the . . . death of the prince.”

“Ah!” Hugh drew on the underclothing and the thick woolen hose. “All very neat and tidy. That’s why you must trust the deed to me, rather than handle it yourself with a few magics in the castle.”

“Yes.” Trian’s voice broke on the word; he nearly choked. The Hand paused in the act of drawing a shirt on over his head to give the magus a sharp glance. The wizard kept his back turned, however. Hugh’s eyes narrowed. Laying the pipe aside, he continued to dress himself, but more slowly, paying keen attention to every nuance of the wizard’s words and tone.

“The child’s body must be found by our people on Aristagon. Not a difficult task. When the word goes forth that the prince has been taken captive by the elves, there will be raiding parties sent to look for him. I will provide you with a list of locations. We understand you have a dragonship—”

“Of elven make and design. Isn’t that convenient?” Hugh responded. “You had this well-thought-out, didn’t you? Even to the point of framing me for Lord Rogar’s murder.”

Hugh pulled on a velvet doublet, black, braided in gold. A sword lay on the bed. Picking it up, examining it critically, Hugh slid the blade from the sheath and tested it with a quick, deft flick of his wrist. Satisfied, he replaced the blade and buckled the sword belt around his waist. He slipped his dagger into the top of his boot.

“And not only framing me for murder. Maybe committing the murder, as well?”

“No!” Trian turned to face him. “The house wizard murdered his lord, as you, I gather, have already guessed. We were on the watch and merely took advantage of the situation. Your dagger was ‘appropriated’ and substituted for the one in the body. The word was whispered to that knight friend of yours to the effect that you were in the neighborhood.”

“You let me lay my head on the blood-slimed stone, let me see that maniac standing above me with his dull sword. And then you save my life and think that fear alone will buy me.”

“It would have another man. With you, I had my doubts and—as you may have gathered—I had already expressed them to Stephen.”

“So I take the kid to Aristagon, murder him, leave the body for the grieving father to find, who then shakes his fist and vows vengeance on the elves, and all humankind marches off to war. Won’t it occur to someone that the elves aren’t really that stupid? They don’t need war with us right now. This rebellion of theirs is serious business.”

“You seem to know more about the elves than you do your own people! Some might find that interesting.”

“Some might, who don’t know that I have to have my ship overhauled by elven shipbuilders and that its magic must be renewed by elven wizards.”

“So you trade with the enemy—”

Hugh shrugged. “In my business, everyone’s an enemy.” Trian licked his lips. The discussion was obviously leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, but that’s what happens, thought Hugh, when you drink with kings.

“The elves have been known to capture humans and taunt us by leaving the bodies where they may easily be discovered,” Trian said in a low voice. “You should arrange matters so that it appears—”

“I know how to arrange matters.” Hugh placed his hand on the wizard’s shoulder and had the satisfaction of feeling the young man flinch. “I know my business.” Reaching down, he picked up the coins, studied them again, then dropped two into a small inner pocket of the doublet. The remainder he tucked away carefully into his money pouch and stored that in a pack. “Speaking of business, how will I contact you for the rest of my pay, and what assurance do I have that I’ll find it and not a feathered shaft in my ribs when I return?”

“You have our word, the word of a king. As for the feathered shaft”—now it was Trian who experienced satisfaction—“I assume you can take care of yourself.”

“I can,” said Hugh. “Remember that.”

“A threat?” Trian sneered.