Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

The soldiers applauded by stamping their feet. Two of them threw coins into the singer's hat. They soon forgot him, engrossed in their gossip, jokes, and drinking. Scraps of meat and spilled ale fell on Owl's well-scrubbed floor. One of the men carved his initials into the table top. The other patrons could hardly hear themselves talk over the noise. Three years ago Owl would not have tolerated this sort of behavior. He asked rude customers to leave. But since the Dragon's garrison had come, there had been two classes of citizens in Old Stump. Owl had learned that there were worse things than broken chairs, burned tapestries, and being the butt of soldiers' jokes. He had seen what had happened to the mayor when the latter complained too loudly to Lord Puriel of abuses and broken laws.

Owl had lived in Old Stump all his life. He had a daughter approaching the age when she would soon help him in the pub room. He was not a courageous man. He had played amiable host to Puriel's guards night after night because that was the cost of keeping his livelihood viable. He had no wish to become a rebel, but if lending the Silver Eel for one night would lift the shadow of oppression, he would take the risk.

He drummed his fingernails at the edge of the peg board. Jom had made a move some time ago, yet Owl had not even started to formulate his counterstroke. The air seemed to radiate heat, though the hearth was unlit. The tavernmaster licked dry lips and raised his stein. A lone figure in a cape appeared at the threshold. A white cape. Owl glanced inside the hood and nearly inhaled the brew.

In the corner, the minstrel began a new song. Though he strummed his lute no louder than before, the notes cut like knives through the roar of voices, utensils, and pouring ale. Owl recognized the tune. It had been played a great deal over the past two months. It was called "The Hero with a Hundred Wings."

Suddenly men stood up from tables on every side of Claric's men and drew knives. Owl saw the flash of a needle-thin stiletto, narrow enough to penetrate the interstices of chain mail. Only two of the soldiers saw the steel coming. One blocked the first knife, only to take the second in the heart. The other man spun nimbly out of the circle of attackers and bolted for the door. Elenya raised her rapier out of the folds of her cape and ran him through.

The only survivor was Claric, who gawked, speechless, at the knife in front of his face. A man on either side held down his arms. There was another knife at Owl's throat. He knew it was a ruse, but it nearly stopped his heart just the same.

"What is the meaning of this?" the tavernmaster croaked. "What are you doing?"

Elenya gestured to one of the attackers, who shut the main door. "Our quarrel is not with you, innkeeper. Keep out of the way and you'll be safe."

Elenya was so convincing that Owl had to clench his groin to keep control of his bladder. He hoped his performance measured up. The customers who were not part of the conspiracy had to believe that he had not helped arrange the ambush. He felt ashamed that he had taken the coward's way out-the attackers, most of them townsmen, were now branded as rebels-but it was the only way he could agree to let the Silver Eel be used.

Elenya turned away from Owl, who, now out of the spotlight, sighed deeply. The princess stepped over the body of the man she had killed and faced Claric. The captain of the guard finally found his voice.

"Let me go! The governor will have all your heads for this!"

"I think not," Elenya said calmly.

Alemar emerged from the kitchen. This time, Owl noted, he wore the famous gauntlet on his right hand, just as Elenya wore its mate on her left. His scabbard slapped against his leg. His presence silenced everyone. Owl had heard that the twin children of Keron Olendim were intimidating, but he had dismissed the story as rebel propaganda. Now he knew that only half the truth had been spoken. Though short, the twins seemed to be the tallest people in the room.

"Are you uncomfortable, held down, surrounded by enemies?" Alemar murmured to Claric.

"You don't dare touch me!" Claric shouted.

"I won't," Alemar said. "I'm going to leave you to my sister."

Claric shut up. Owl expected Elenya to smile. She had Milec's torturer in front of her, helpless. But not a muscle moved in her face. Her expression was a blank, everything hidden behind the skin. Yet Claric saw something. He began to squirm, trying to shake off the strong arms that pinned him to the chair.

Elenya pulled out a scarf of white quarn silk and twisted it into a cord. The veins on the backs of her hands bulged. Claric cried out. While his mouth was open, she thrust the cloth between his teeth and gagged him, tying the knot so tightly behind his skull that his lips were pressed to bloodless white contours against his teeth. Other rebels swiftly bound his limbs.

Elenya drew Claric's sword and placed the center of the blade across the palm of her gauntlet. She squeezed. The metal crumpled and, with a snap of her wrist, broke. She tossed the sections on the floor. Her expression still did not change.

Three of the attackers hefted Claric up and carried him out the kitchen exit. Elenya followed.

Alemar scanned every face in the room. He gave off none of the aura of a healer. Something brooded within his stone-cold countenance. But he was not like his sister. The customers faced him without flinching. More than that, Owl realized this was a man he wanted to follow. After the oppression of the Dragon, here was the balm to cover their wounds.

And they had done it. They had surprised Puriel's men in the very shadow of the castle. Underneath his terror, Owl felt a gut-tightening swell of excitement. He was proud that he had finally found the courage, even at a distance, to stand up to the regime that had afflicted his and his neighbors' lives. Before them was the man responsible.

"Tell Lord Puriel that he is next," Alemar said. He and Solint the Minstrel led the others out. For several seconds after they had gone no one moved or spoke.

"Well, who wants to go up to take the news to the castle?" asked Old Jom.

Omril was sitting in his sanctum when he felt the flash of magic. It was brief, almost instantaneous, then it was quelled. Had he not been meditating, deliberately searching for such signs, he would have missed it. Before the impressions could fade he lifted a vial and held it tight. He concentrated. It took a full ten minutes, but the liquid changed from clear to deep aqua. He grunted in satisfaction and strolled to the windows.

With the serum to focus his sorcery, he relocated the approximate source of the flash. He was right. The spell was still active. The weaver, or a helper, was using a lesser spell to try to conceal the greater one. Had they not been trying to thwart a wizard of the Ril, the tactic would have worked.

It might still work, to a degree. The serum, unlike a solid talisman, had been ductile enough to capture the spell's flavor on a moment's notice, but it would not hold the impression more than a few hours. Omril fetched Swiftwing from her coop. He needed to lead the bird to the exact spot where the magic was being performed before the casters finished their weaving and departed.

Omril frowned. Perhaps his prey wanted him to use that strategy. It was time-consuming. Furthermore, his attention would be completely absorbed while he looked through Swiftwing's eyes; he would not be awake to the world. He could not, for example, renew the serum. He gazed out at Rock Lake. The spell was being cast somewhere on the far side of the water, only a few leagues away.

He put Swiftwing back on her perch, dressed quickly in his riding garb, and descended into the body of the castle.

The governor's audience hall buzzed with activity. Puriel stood next to his great hearth, in a foul mood, judging by the look on his face. He was yelling at his chamberlain. Omril caught a bit of the tirade and raised an eyebrow.