The man seemed to know Hugh was only pretending to be drunk, but the Hand figured it couldn’t hurt to keep up the pretense. He acted as if he hadn’t heard, lurched in the general direction of the voice by accident. His hands fumbled with his bundle and wine bottle—which had now become shield and weapon. Using his cloak to conceal his motions, he shifted the heavy bundle in his left hand, ready to lift it to protect himself, readjusted his right hand’s grip on the neck of the wine bottle. With one quick motion, he could smash the glass against a head, across a face.
Muttering beneath his breath about the inability of women to control dragons, Hugh staggered out of the small pool of light that illuminated the Abbey grounds, found himself among a few scraggly bushes and a grove of twisted trees.
“Stop here. That’s near enough. You only need to hear me. Do you know me, Hugh the Hand?”
And then he did know. He gripped the bottle tighter. “Trian, isn’t it? House magus to King Stephen.”
“We haven’t much time. The Lady Iridal mustn’t know we’ve had this conversation. His Majesty wishes to remind you that you have not fulfilled the agreement.”
“What?” Hugh shifted his eyes, stared into the shadows, without seeming to stare.
“You did not do what you were paid to do. The child is still alive.”
“So?” said Hugh harshly. “I’ll give you your money back. You only paid me half of it anyway.”
“We don’t want the money back. We want the child dead.”
“I can’t do it,” said Hugh to the night.
“Why?” the voice asked, sounding displeased. “Surely you of all men haven’t found a conscience. Are you suddenly squeamish? Don’t you like killing anymore?”
Hugh dropped the wine bottle, made a sudden lunge. His hand caught hold of the wizard’s robes. He dragged the man forth.
“No,” said Hugh, holding the wizard’s handsome, fine-boned face close to his own grizzled jowl. “I might like it too much!”
He shoved Trian backward, had the satisfaction of watching him crash into the bushes. “I might not be able to stop myself. Tell that to your king.”
He couldn’t see Trian’s face; the wizard was a robed hump of blackness, silhouetted against the luminescent coralite. Hugh didn’t want to see him. He kicked aside the shards of the wine bottle, cursed the waste, and started to walk away. Iridal had managed to coax the dragon out of the sky. She was petting it, whispering the words of the spell.
“We offered you a job,” said Trian, picking himself up, calm, nonplussed. “You accepted it. You were paid for it. And you failed to complete it.” Hugh kept walking.
“You had only one thing that raised you above the level of common cutthroat, Hugh the Hand,” Trian told him, the words a whisper, carried by the wind. “Honor.”
Hugh made no response, did not look back. He strode rapidly up the hill toward Iridal, found her disheveled, irritated.
“I’m sorry for the delay. I can’t understand how the enchantment could have slipped like that…”
I can, Hugh told her silently. Trian did it. He followed you. He foiled your spell, freed the dragon, in order to distract you while he talked to me. King Stephen’s not sending you to rescue your son, Lady. He’s using you to lead me to the child. Don’t trust him, Iridal. Don’t trust Trian, don’t trust Stephen. Don’t trust me.
Hugh could have said that to her, the words were on his lips… and they stayed there, unspoken.
“Never mind that now,” he told her, voice harsh and sharp. “Will the spell hold?” “Yes, but—”
“Then fly the beast out of here. Before the Abbot finds two of his brethren stripped to their skins, bound hand and foot in my cell.”
He glowered at her, expecting questions, prepared to remind her that she had agreed to ask none.
She cast him one wondering glance, then nodded and swiftly mounted the dragon. Hugh tied the bundle securely on the back of the ornate, two-person saddle that bore the Winged Eye—King Stephen’s device.
“No wonder the damn wizard was able to disrupt the spell,” Hugh muttered beneath his breath. “Riding a friggin’ royal dragon!”