Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Highlord Skies

“I will go to Haven, then,” Kitiara said. “Perhaps later,” Ariakas told her. “Solamnia takes priority.”

Kitiara shrugged again and subsided back into her reverie.

“As for these assassins,” Ariakas continued, “they will most likely remain skulking in the caves of Thorbardin through the coming winter. We will hire some dark dwarf—”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Kitiara interrupted.

“What do you mean?” Ariakas turned to glare at her. “I thought you didn’t know these men!”

“I don’t, but I know their type,” she said, “and so do you, my lord. They are most likely rovers, itinerant sellswords. Such men never remain in one place long. Rest assured, they will soon be on the move. A little snow will not stop them.”

Ariakas gave her a strange look, one she did not see, for she was staring down at the toes of her dust-covered boots. He regarded her in silence a moment longer, then turned back to Grag.

“Find out from your agents all you can about these men. If they do leave the dwarven halls, report to me at once,” Ariakas scowled, “and put the word out that I want them captured alive. The death of a Dragon Highlord will not go unpunished. I plan to make an example of them.”

Grag promised he would find out all he could. He and Ariakas spent some time talking about the war in the west and who should take over command of the Red Wing. Grag was impressed by the fact that Ariakas knew all about the Red Wing’s status, the disposition of its forces, the need for supplies, and so forth.

They discussed Pax Tharkas. Ariakas said he had considered retaking it, but given that the fortress was in ruins, he had decided that it would not be worth the effort. His armies would simply go around it.

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.

“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.