Dragon Wing – Death Gate Cycle 1. Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

A few puffs and the sterego [4] glowed and old memories faded. “The frown was for myself, because I’d made a mistake. I’d misjudged . . . something. That sort of mistake can be costly. I would be interested to know, however, what a kid that age could have done to earn an early death.”

“One might say … he was born,” answered Trian, seemingly before he thought, because he cast Hugh a swift furtive glance to see if he’d heard.

There was very little the assassin missed. Hugh paused, the hot coal held over the smoking bowl, and stared quizzically at the wizard.

Trian flushed. “You are being paid well enough not to ask questions,” he retorted. “In fact, here is your money.”

Fumbling in a purse that hung at his side, he produced a handful of coins and counted out fifty one-hundred-barl pieces.

“I trust the king’s marker will be sufficient?” Trian held it out.

Hugh, raising an eyebrow, tossed the coal back into the fire. “Only if I can collect on it.”

Puffing on the pipe to keep it lit, the Hand accepted the money and inspected it carefully. The coins were genuine, all right. A water barrel was stamped on the front, a likeness (though not a good one) of Stephen’s head adorned the back. In a realm where most things were obtained by either barter or stealing (the king himself was a notorious pirate whose ravages committed among the elven shipping had helped him win his throne), the “double barl” coin as it was called was rarely seen, much less used. Its value was exchangeable in the precious commodity- water. [5]

This job would make Hugh’s fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.

There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm-those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge- when they’ll sell it to humans at all-are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.

It didn’t make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.

“Very well, I suppose you must know something,” Trian admitted reluctantly. “You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?”

“No.”

On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. “Low Realm stuff. Not bad.”

“Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman,” returned Trian irritably. “In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?”

Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. “You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn’t even know for certain Stephen had a son-”

“Well, he does.” The wizard’s voice was cold. “And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other’s throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next.”