City of Dragons. Робин Хобб
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of sprawling city.
No point in this city was taller than the Duke’s hilltop citadel. Once the fortress had stood upon this peak, and within its walls a circle of black standing stones under the open sky had been a place of great magic. Tales told of how those stones had been toppled, their evil magic vanquished. Those same stones, the ancient runes on them obscured and defaced, now lay splayed out in a circle around his throne, flush to the grey flagged floor that had been laid around them. The black stones pointed to the five corners of the known world. It was said that beneath each stone there was a square pit into which the sorcerous enemies of ancient Chalced had been confined to die. The throne in the centre reminded all that he sat where, of old, all had feared to tread.
The Duke moved his lips, and a page sprang to his feet and darted forward, a bowl of cool water in his hands. The boy knelt and offered it to the Chancellor. The Chancellor, in turn, advanced on his knees, to lift the bowl to the Duke’s lips.
He tipped his head and drank. When he lifted his face another attendant had appeared, offering the Chancellor a soft cloth that he might dry the Duke’s face and chin.
Afterwards, he allowed the Chancellor to retreat. Thirst sated, he spoke.
‘There is no other word from our emissaries in the Rain Wilds?’
The Chancellor hunched lower. His robes of heavy maroon silk puddled around him. His scalp showed through his thinning hair. ‘No, most illustrious one. I am shamed and saddened to tell you that they have not sent us any fresh tidings.’
‘There is no shipment of dragon flesh on its way?’ He knew the answer but forced Ellik to speak it aloud.
The Chancellor’s face nearly touched the floor. ‘Radiant lord, we have no word of any shipment, I am humiliated and abashed to tell you.’
The Duke considered the situation. It was too great an effort to open his eyes all the way. Hard to speak loud enough to make his voice carry. His rich rings of heavy gold set with massive jewels hung loose on his bony fingers and weighted down his hands. The lush robes of his majesty could not cloak his gauntness. He was wasting away, dying even as they stared at him, waiting. He must give a response. He must not be seen as weak.
He spoke softly. ‘Motivate them. Send more emissaries, to every possible contact we have. Send them special gifts. Encourage them to be ruthless.’ With an effort he lifted his head and his voice. ‘Need I remind you, any of you, that if I die you will be buried with me?’
His words should have rung against the stones. Instead, he heard what his followers heard; the shrill outrage of a dying old man. Intolerable that one such as he might die without an heir-son! He should not have to speak for himself; his heir-son should be standing before him, shouting at the nobles and forcing them to swift obedience. Instead he had to whisper threats at them, hissing like a toothless old snake.
How had it come to this? He had always had sons, and to spare. Too many sons, but some had been too ambitious for his liking. Some he had sent to war, and some he had sent to the torture chamber for insolence. A few he had poisoned discreetly. If he had known that a disease would sweep away not only his chosen heir but his last three sons, he might have kept a few in reserve. But he had not. And now he was down to one useless daughter, a woman of near thirty with no children of her own and a mannish way of thinking and moving. A thrice-widowed woman with the ill luck never to have borne a child. A woman who read books and wrote poetry. Useless to him, if not dangerous as a witch. And he had no vigour left in his body to get a woman with child.
Intolerable. He could not die son-less, his name to become dust in the world’s mouth. The dragon cure must be brought to him, the rich dragon blood that would restore his youth and manhood. Then he would get himself a dozen heirs and keep them safely locked away from all mishap.
Dragon’s blood. So simple a cure, and yet none seemed able to supply it to him.
‘Should my lord die, my sorrow would be so great that only interment with you would bring me any peace, most gracious one.’ The Chancellor’s ingratiating words suddenly seemed a cruel mockery.
‘Oh, be silent. Your flattery annoys me. What good is your empty loyalty? Where are the dragon parts that would save me? Bring me those, and not your idle praise. Does no man here serve me willingly?” It demanded strength he could not spare, but this time his shout rang out. As his gaze swept them, not a one dared to meet his eyes. They cowered and for a time, he let them recall their hostage sons, not glimpsed by any of them for many months. He let them wonder for several long moments if their heirs survived before he asked in a conversational tone, “Is there any word from the other force we sent, to follow the rumours that dragons were seen in the desert?’
The Chancellor remained as he was, trapped in a frozen agony of conflicting orders.
Do you seethe within, Ellik? he wondered. Do you remember that once you rode at my stirrup as we charged into battle? Look at what the warlord and his sword arm have become: the doddering old man and the cringing servant. If you would but bring me what I need, all would be as it once was. Why do you fail me? Do you have ambitions of your own? Must I kill you?
He stared at his chancellor but Ellik’s eyes remained cast down. When he judged that the man was close to breaking, he snapped at him, ‘Answer!’
Ellik lifted his eyes and the Duke saw the fury contained behind his subservient grey gaze. They had ridden together too long, fought side by side too often for them to be completely successful at concealing their thoughts from one another. Ellik knew the Duke’s every ploy. Once he had played to them. But now his sword hand was becoming weary of these games. The Chancellor took a deep breath. ‘As of yet, there has been no word, my lord. But the visits of the dragons to the water have been irregular, and we have ordered our force to remain where they are until they are successful.’
‘Well. At least we have not had word of their failure, yet.’
‘No, glorious one. There is still hope.’
‘Hope. You, perhaps, hope. I demand. Chancellor, do you hope that your name will survive you?’
A terrible stillness seized the man. His Duke knew his most vulnerable spot. ‘Yes, Lord.’ His words were a whisper.
‘And you, you have not only an heir-son, but a second son as well?’
The Duke was gratified when the man’s voice shook. ‘I am so blessed, yes, gracious one.’
‘Mmm.’ The Duke of Chalced tried to clear his throat, but coughed instead, the sound triggering a scuttling of servants. A fresh bowl of chilled water was offered, as was a steaming cup of tea. A clean white cloth awaited in the hands of another knee-walking servant, while yet another offered a glass of wine.
A tiny flick of his hand dismissed them all. He drew a rasping breath.
‘Two sons, Chancellor. And so you hope. But I have no son. And my health fails for lack of one small thing. A simple remedy of dragon’s blood is all I have asked. Yet it has not been brought to me. I wonder: is it right that you have so much hope that your name will remain loud in the world’s ear, while mine will be silenced for that lack? Surely not.’
Slowly the man grew smaller. Before his lord’s stare, he collapsed in on himself, his head falling to his bent knees, and then his whole body sinking down, conveying physically his wish to be beneath his duke’s notice.
The Duke of Chalced moved his mouth, a memory of a smile.
‘For today, you may keep both your sons. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, we both hope for good news.’
‘This way.’
Someone lifted the heavy flap of canvas that served as a door. A slice of light stabbed into the gloom, but as swiftly vanished, to be replaced by yellow lamplight. The two-headed dog in the stall next to his whined and shifted. Selden wondered when the poor beast had last seen daylight, real daylight. The crippled creature had already been in residence when Selden had been acquired. For him, it had been months, perhaps as long as a year, since he had felt the