Land of Dragon

8

Just above the work yards was the clan house. One of the oldest structures in the city, these were the communal living quarters of Wetherdin’s original inhabitants. Marziel had said that they’d existed long before the city came under the rule of the queen. There was no love lost between the clan and the Iveran nobility who lived above them. These would be the hardest communities to infiltrate, especially once they learned that Treylen was lodging with the countess. The clan was the group who had the most reason to betray their queen. By dumping Aaron in the lower section, Marziel’s hope was that he might catch the eye of the clan leaders and be invited to lodge with them.

The community above the clan house was a patchwork of smaller dwellings belonging to those who had moved here from the rest of Iverna. They were craftspeople, merchants, and overseers. Most were citizens, but a few serfs worked in the mines as well. They weren't as insular as the clan and Marziel had assured him that he could move amongst these houses in the night, listening in, or slip in to one of the taverns of Wetherdin when he wasn't preoccupied with the nobility.

At the top of the cliff sat two grand lodges—one on either side—each with a commanding view of the valley below, each flying different colors. These were the noble houses he had heard about. Two high noble families oversaw the county, which was very unusual.

The nobility weren't the only Iverans with financial interest in the mines, Marziel had informed them. There were merchants among the citizens who lived in the larger houses just below the lodges, not to mention the cartwrights and smithies farther down.

The town of Wetherdin seemed to have just as much activity as Tabron, all packed into the space of a few city blocks.

“Have you ever seen such a tumbledown place?” Atrop said to Marziel. “At least the shit seems to run away from the road.”

“My father was impressed with it,” Treylen said. “Not easy to build on a mountain side.”

“You’ve been here?”

“My grandfather built that tower.” He pointed to an old stone structure jutting out from the very top of the cliff.

“You don't say?” The bard gazed wistfully at the tableau of the city. “I should like to learn more about it. I’m composing a song.”

“Another time,” Marziel said. “I trust you don't mind staying with the cart

again?”

“I suppose,” Atrop patted the driver’s seat. “I knew when I took up with you, I might never sleep in comfort again.”

“It’s only another night. And there’s nothing wrong with the beds in the abbeys,” Marziel said.

“I do miss the Dragon’s Hide sometimes, Marziel. The beds of the abbey are nothing to write songs about.”

All work at the ore pits ceased as the cart rolled into town. Dust-covered men and women lined up along the ledges and stared openly. The dragons had crawled into the sacks with the clothing while the three of them donned their Stone Kingdom garb. More workers had come out by the time the cart reached the end of the road. A shout came from the staircase and they scattered.

“Go on, you tunnel rats, back to your holes.”

A man in a pale tabard with a silver cloak over one shoulder and tall leather boots stood at the very center of the stairs as if he loathed to touch anything this far down the cliff. A roll of parchment was tucked under one arm.

“Fair day for a journey,” Atrop called out as they approached.

He ignored the driver and bowed to Marziel instead

“Greetings and welcome to Wetherdin. Lord Mauridin Tromweft, I presume?”

“You presume correctly, sir, thank you. And it is a fair sight to be in the mountains again.”

“It must be, my lord.” The man bent low, cape falling over his shoulder.

He tossed it over his back again then bowed to Treylen.

“And this must be your nephew, Lord…” he snatched the paper from under his arm and half unrolled it, reading the name. “Cren’pin, the heir—my apologies. My Countess is pleased to extend to both of you the deepest welcome of the Duremo house and speak our gratitude to yourselves and our queen who in her great wisdom deigned to send such a boon our way.”

Treylen’s eyes snapped toward Marziel. He didn’t seem at all surprised. Of course he wouldn’t be; a spymaster would know every great house in Iverna.

“Indeed, our great fortune is your benefit it would seem. I didn't catch your name, porter.”

“No porter, my lord,” he said, smile faltering. “I am Remin Noduan, aide

to Countess Duremo.”

“Close enough.” Marziel tugged the bag from under his seat, the one with Rime inside, and tossed it into the man’s arms.

Remin staggered backward but didn’t drop it.

An actual porter hurried down the stairs and Remin handed off the bag before Marziel tossed him another. The porter grabbed for a third, but Aaron stopped him, hoisting the sack with Felicity inside and slinging it over his back.

“There isn’t much, I’m afraid. All we had when we fled Jaul were the clothes on our backs. And a few necessities.”

“Don't be troubled by it, my Lord,” Remin said, still rattled as he passed off the second bag to another porter. “My countess can provide for your every need.”

“I should hope. It was your queen’s wish that she do so.” Marziel stepped out of the cart and up the stairs without waiting. Treylen hurried after him, whispering in his ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me the Duremo family was here?”

“It’s a distant relation to your Glyph Scribe. Second or third cousin. The immediate family of the traitor has already been punished. This is an unrelated matter.” Marziel didn’t sound as if he believed it, more like he was repeating an order.

“Are you sure about that?” Treylen whispered, slowing to get them a little distance from their host. “Countess Duremo… Who else would a Viscount be writing to? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It shouldn’t matter. You have your orders.”

“But why not tell me? It’s relevant to the mission.”

Marziel stopped and put his hand up. “Porter!” He shouted. "Will you give me a moment with my nephew?”

Aide Remin stopped and waited a respectful distance below them, gesturing for the porters who carried their bags to join him.

Marziel’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“The shadow made it very clear to me that he believes you don’t know your place. And if I want to keep you alive, Treylen, I need to make you understand it. You have the queen’s authority to go where you need to and do what you must. You could order the countess to grovel. But you do not have your queen’s permission to think. You do the mission as writ, gather information, and let your queen and her advisors do the thinking.”

“You don’t like the shadow very much, do you?” Treylen asked.

“I’m not permitted to dislike him, and neither are you.” Marziel rubbed his brow, and Treylen could tell that it pained him to say these kinds of things, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“But, because you won’t shut up about it, I asked around. It was the Countess Duremo who made the accusations against the Viscount of Silbray. The letters you found were his attempt to dispute them. Evidence to support her accusations was discovered while they were cleaning up the body that you left. So there.”

“I don’t like it,” Treylen said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence we’re looking for another traitor and there’s another Duremo?”

“Now listen to me Treylen, of course it’s not a coincidence.” Marziel sounded more irritated than usual. “But there’s no proof, and without proof the queen must be broader in her punishment. So, look into the countess, but don’t get distracted by your last mission. If you can’t find proof that she is the one responsible for the stolen eggs, then you had better find the real traitor, or the queen may just purge this town, and have it resettled with more loyal subjects.”

“They would kill everyone here?”

“No, Treylen, you would do it. And the weaker your evidence, the more lives you’ll have to take as a precaution. Don’t think the guilty party doesn’t know this; they’ll be more than happy to provide a scapegoat if they discover who you are and what you are searching for.”

“Is that what the viscount was? A scapegoat?”

“No,” he growled, “because that would be a mistake, and our queen doesn’t make mistakes. Now forget the viscount.”

Treylen didn’t like any of this. Everything had been simpler when his mission was outside of his own kingdom, and the only people who could get killed were he and the enemy. He glanced back down the stairs and saw Aaron watching from beside the cart, a concerned look on his face.

“Do you think we should get Aaron settled?” “He’ll be fine,” Marziel said.

“Should we at least give his cover story?” Marziel shook his head and leaned close.

“Atrop will get him settled. Now get back in character. I don’t need to tell you how to carry yourself.”

“Right.” Treylen pulled himself up and fixed his gaze on the stairs in

front of him. He focused on carrying himself a little more haughtily, and making idle chatter with his “uncle” while the Countess’s aide struggled to keep pace with them.

But every so often he couldn’t help but look back as the bard led the ox into the stables, and Aaron, with his tattered sack, slouched alone toward the scrap yards that were to be his home when he wasn’t toiling in the mines.