City of Dragons

Hest had a tight grip on his wrist, trying to throttle the searing pain that was shooting up into his arm. Blood was pouring from his hand, dribbling off his fingers onto the expensive carpets in the study. He took a breath. “Ched!” he shouted. “Ched! I need help! Ched!”



The door began to swing open, but with a catlike spring the Chalcedean was there, stopping the door before it could open fully. He wedged his body into the opening. “Tea and biscuits! How thoughtful. I’ll take them, and please see we are not disturbed. This is an extremely confidential matter that your master and I are discussing.”



“Sir?” Ched’s querulous tone infuriated Hest.



“Save me!” he shouted as the Chalcedean whirled, his hands full with a tea tray. Without spilling a drop, the man set the tray at his feet and then spun back to shut and bolt the door.



“Sir? Are you all right?” Ched’s confused voice barely reached through the heavy doors.



“No! He’s mad, get help!”



“Sir?”



Before Hest could draw breath, the Chalcedean was standing before him. This time the drawn knife was at his throat. The Chalcedean smiled, stretching his scars. Blood broke out on his lower lip, the injuries were so recent. He spoke in a soft, rational voice. “Tell your slave that you are fine, that we must have quiet and he is to go away. Tell him now.” The knife flicked and Hest’s collar was suddenly loose. The sting of sliced skin and flow of warm blood followed a heartbeat later.



Hest gasped and drew breath to scream. The man slapped him abruptly, an open-handed blow to his cheek.



The doorknob rattled uselessly. “Sir? Should I fetch help, sir?”



The Chalcedean was smiling, and the knife was back, weaving a pattern before Hest’s eyes. The man was damnably fast. “No!” Hest shouted as the knife dabbed at the end of his nose, and then, as it went back to the hollow of his throat, “NO, Ched, no! You misunderstood me! Leave us! No disturbance. Leave us!”



The door handle stopped its jiggling dance. “Sir? Are you certain, sir?”



“Leave us!” Hest bellowed as the knife blade traced a line up his throat. “Go away!”



“As you wish, sir.”



And then silence. But still the knife tip rested under Hest’s chin, lifting him up onto his toes, and still his hand burned and throbbed and the blood dripped from his fingers. An eternity passed in that motionless torment, before the Chalcedean abruptly swept his knife to one side. In two swift strides, he was at the door again and hope leaped in Hest that he was going to leave, his mad rampage over. Instead the man stooped and lifted the tea tray. He brought it to Hest’s desk, stepping over his satchel and carelessly sweeping papers from the desktop to set it down. He watched Hest with his cold gray eyes as he flicked up a clean white napkin and wiped his knife on it. It left a scarlet stripe on the linen. He snapped it toward Hest. “Bind your hand. And then it will be time for you to deliver the promised merchandise.”



Awkwardly, Hest wrapped his injured hand. It was agony to put the cloth against the cut. Blood blossomed through the napkin. He drew a ragged breath and swiped his sleeve across his face, feigning that he wiped sweat, not tears, from his eyes. He could not show weakness. The foreigner was mad and capable of anything. His sleeve came away bloody and Hest suddenly realized, “You cut my nose! You cut my face.”



“A tiny jab, the smallest prick of the knife’s tip. Pay no mind to it.” The Chalcedean poured steaming tea into a cup for himself, sniffed it thoughtfully, and then took a sip. “Boiled leaves. I do not understand it, but it does not taste so bad on a chilly day like this one. So. The merchandise. Now.”



Hest retreated on shaking legs. “Truly, sir, I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”



The Chalcedean followed him, teacup in one hand and knife in the other. He herded Hest away from the heavily draped windows and backed him into the corner. Hest’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. The man took a sip of tea and smiled.



“I will listen,” he said conversationally. “For the time it takes me to drink this cup. Then you and my blade will tread the dance of truth.”



“I cannot tell you anything. I don’t know anything.” Hest heard his own trembling voice and did not recognize it.



“Then let us summon your slave Sedric. He was the one, was he not, who struck this bargain with Begasti Cored?”



Hest’s mind raced. Begasti. A balding man with extremely bad breath. “I’ve had dealings with Begasti Cored, but those were in the past. And Sedric is not my slave, he’s my . . . assistant. And . . .” The connection between the names formed in his mind, and suddenly he knew what it was all about. He spoke quickly, his eyes on the hovering knife. “And he betrayed me and ran off with some very valuable scrolls. To the Rain Wilds. He may have struck a bargain of his own with Begasti Cored. The little traitor probably did. I suspect he did a lot of business behind my back and without my knowledge. Sedric is the man you should be speaking to about this . . . merchandise.” Dragon parts. That was what the man expected him to hand over. Dragon liver and dragon blood, bone and teeth and scales. Dragon parts to make medicines to cure the ancient, ailing, and quite probably mad Duke of Chalced. Impossible to obtain, highly illegal dragon parts. What had Sedric dragged him into?