Dragon Venom, page 33
Winter’s hold had begun to weaken by the time he reached Manfort; the streets were clear of ice, and at midday the patter of water dripping from icicles was a constant ripple of sound throughout the city, as if rain were falling from invisible clouds in the clear and sunny skies.
The icicles were more numerous than at any time in Arlian’s memory—the forest of rooftop catapults had provided them a myriad of new places to form.
When Venlin ushered him into the Grey House Arlian soon discovered that Black and his family had indeed moved out, and were not there to welcome him; he accepted this without comment, and made no effort to contact his steward immediately. Instead he took a day to bathe, rest, and recover from his travels. He had paid a tavern girl in a village in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains to trim his hair and beard, but she had not been trained to the standards of Manfort, and at any rate the journey from there to Manfort had allowed them to grow out again, so he spent his first evening sprawled comfortably in the tub while Wolt struggled to restore a veneer of civilization.
That also served to avoid any wearisome conversation; Wolt was not much of a talker, and no one else dared intrude while the master was bathing. Arlian had already picked up some news on the road, enough to be reasonably certain that nothing earthshaking had occurred in his absence, and he was not in a mood to describe his adventures or cope with household affairs. That could wait.
In fact, he decided as he lay in the tub with Wolt neatly shaving his throat, he did not want to waste any time on household affairs at all. He wanted to proceed directly to his research, and for that he wanted the Grey House to himself, so that the only life at risk would be his own.
But that could wait until morning; he closed his eyes and enjoyed the comforting warmth of the bath.
Accordingly, after he had breakfasted the following day he first sent word to the Duke that he had returned safely with the materials for his experiments, and asked that he be excused from any duties at the Citadel so that he might proceed immediately with his research. That done, he summoned his remaining guests and the entire staff from the kitchens and servants’ hall and upstairs offices, and informed them that the household was to be evacuated.
“Where shall we go, my lord?” Lilsinir asked. “Tiviesh tells me that the Citadel is not particularly welcoming these days.”
“Are we all to take up residence in your new establishment, then?” Wolt asked.
Arlian had been about to answer Lilsinir, but now he stopped dead, then turned to stare at Wolt.
“New establishment?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” the footman said, plainly puzzled. “The house your steward has been building for you on the grounds of the Old Palace.”
Arlian considered that for a moment.
“Black is building a new house for me?”
Wolt apparently realized now that this was news to his employer, but was not yet certain how it was being received. “Yes, my lord,” he said noncommittally.
“Is he, indeed?”
“Yes, my lord. Is this not by your own orders?”
Arlian smiled crookedly. “Let us just say that I had not remembered, for a moment, giving those orders. But yes, I think removing the entire household to this new residence, if it be sufficiently prepared, would be entirely suitable. See to it at once, all of you.”
The servants scattered, leaving Arlian standing in the parlor.
“Building me a house, is he?” He shook his head, and addressed the air. “Even after all these years, Black, you can still surprise me.”
Naturally, Arlian oversaw the relocation—he did not admit to curiosity, but concern for the welfare of his employees, and the necessity of ensuring that the new house was fit for them to live in, required his involvement. Thus he found himself making his way through the old gardens, past lingering patches of half-melted snow, and across the threshold of Obsidian House, where he stood in the entryway and contemplated the product of Black’s efforts.
The building was obviously still far from complete, but Arlian liked what he saw. Black had clearly borrowed ideas from several sources, rather than simply following either Manfort tradition or the current fashion. The entryway opened into a large and airy hall, where a sweeping staircase led up to a broad balcony; several rooms opened off the balcony, and more below it.
There were, as yet, no rugs nor hangings, several of the doorframes did not yet hold doors, and the many-paned windows were not yet encumbered by any sort of drapery, but the proportions of the existing structure were elegant. This house was far smaller than the Old Palace, occupying an area that had once been one end of one wing, but it nonetheless had a feeling of spaciousness and comfort similar to the Palace’s, and quite different from the cramped confines of Grey House.
Black emerged from one of the doors beneath the balcony and saw Arlian standing in the entry. He stopped.
“My lord,” he called. “I trust it meets with your approval.”
“Indeed it does,” Arlian replied.
“You had said we were welcome to make our home here,” Black said, standing where he was. “I chose to take you at your word—and of course, as I am your steward, our home is yours.”
The door behind him opened farther, and Brook’s wheeled chair edged out; Black stepped aside to let his wife past.
“Ari!” she called, wheeling herself across the great hall. “Welcome!”
“Thank you,” Arlian replied, stepping forward to meet her.
“We thought you had been too long in that gray stone tomb, dwelling in Lord Enziet’s shadows,” Brook said, as she brought her chair to a stop.
Arlian glanced around at the unfinished walls and smiled. “If my eyes are to be trusted, this house is gray stone, as well.”
“Ah, but it’s hardly a tomb!” Brook said, gesturing at the broad windows. “And we had to use stone—there are still dragons out there, after all.”
“Alas, there are,” Arlian agreed, taking Brook’s hand and bowing.
As he did, he could not help noticing a definite roundness to her belly; apparently, if all went well, Kerzia, Amberdine, and Dirinan were soon to have another sibling. He remembered the two stillbirths before Dirinan’s arrival, and the miscarriages between and after the two girls, and hoped this pregnancy would have a happy outcome; he had not expected another so soon after the boy.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Brook’s three children came spilling down the stairs from the balcony. Black hurried to intercept them. After a moment of chaos, the entire party was organized for the purpose of giving Arlian a tour of his newest property.
The airy feel of the great hall was maintained in most of the major rooms; Arlian approved of the arrangements that permitted this. Black knew his employer’s tastes and habits and had designed the new house accordingly, providing an equivalent of every room Arlian had favored in the Grey House or the Old Palace, while leaving out those features he had neglected.
Arlian particularly admired the lift, with its elaborate system of pulleys and counterweights, that allowed Brook, or any other amputees who might visit, to move to the upper floors without being carried up the stairs. Black had designed this himself, and had ensured that the mechanisms could be worked so easily that even his children could, if necessary, use them.
As they neared the conclusion of the tour Arlian found himself in the servants’ hall, watching his staff bring in their belongings.
“You call it Obsidian House, I am told,” he said.
“Of course,” Black replied, as he shifted a sleeping Dirinan from one shoulder to the other.
“I did not see any obsidian anywhere in it.”
“No, you did not,” Black agreed. “The Duke has confiscated all the obsidian in Manfort, and as much as he can from elsewhere, for use in the city’s defenses. You will have noticed, I’m sure, the iron frameworks on the roof?”
“I saw them as I approached, yes.”
“That stair I pointed out on the upper floor goes to a tower room where the release mechanisms for all the catapults may be controlled. The counterweights are not yet rigged up, and the bolts are not yet in place, but a full system of defenses has been installed. Because it was built in from the first, rather than added later, we were able to make it far more efficient than most; it will require only a single operator to release a full volley.”
“And if that first volley misses?”
“Oh, well, reloading will take rather more manpower,” Black admitted.
“And more obsidian.”
“I am sure His Grace will allot us our fair share, when the time comes.”
Arlian reached forward to help Stammer with a large bag. “I had once hoped,” he said, “that Manfort would never again need defenses against dragons. I find it saddening that the city now bristles with them, and that the Duke seems to consider them a permanent necessity.”
“Perhaps we won’t need them,” Brook said. “Still, they’re reassuring.”
“I suppose they are,” Arlian said, lifting Stammer’s bag. “Where does this go?”
Three hours later, after a hastily improvised cold supper, Arlian made his way back down to the Grey House.
He had to use his own key, and hang up his own cloak; he had, after all, sent the staff away. The stone passages were cold, dim, and silent, in stark contrast to the noisy, sunlit bustle of Obsidian House.
He could hardly maintain the entire house single-handed; he decided he would keep the fires lit in the kitchens and his own bedchamber, and let the rest die out. The cold might reduce the pest population, thereby accomplishing through neglect what ongoing efforts with broom and flyswatter had not.
He went through the mansion, closing doors and dousing lamps, then settled at last at the kitchen table to plan out his experiments.
He fell asleep around midnight, his head on the table, the two sealed bottles of venom on the shelf above.
35
Studies on the Effects of Dragon Venom
Arlian’s first experimental subject was a large rat.
Closing off most of the rooms had driven a good number of rats and mice into the kitchens, and trapping them alive proved relatively easy; he collected several in a variety of cages in one of the pantries.
Mice were too small to handle easily, so he chose a fat black rat for his initial trial. He isolated it from the other captive vermin, coaxing it into its own small cage, then carried it out to the courtyard of the Grey House and placed it upon the pavement. The rat retreated to a corner of the cage in the shadow of the catapults that lined the roof, and it crouched there while he prepared a dose of elixir.
The first question to address was what sort of blood to use in his preparation. The mix that produced dragonhearts was dragon venom and human blood; should a rat, then, receive the same combination, or a mix of venom and rat’s blood?
There was no record of any pets or livestock surviving a dragon’s attack; no nonhuman dragonhearts had ever been reported. Arlian suspected that that meant nonhuman blood would not work.
On the other hand, feeding human blood to a rat struck him as somehow unseemly and repellent, and the non-appearance of surviving beasts might mean that the dragons had made a point of slaughtering any beast that might have spawned an inferior sort of magical creature. Since Arlian wanted another sort of magical creature …
He mixed a single drop of dragon venom with a half-cup of blood drawn from the other rats, then carried the mixture out to the courtyard.
The rat backed away from him into the farthest corner of its cage, but Arlian was able to get a secure hold and drag it out. The animal tried very hard to keep its mouth closed and as far as possible from that foul-smelling brew, but at last Arlian was able to hold the animal in one hand, pry its mouth open with the other, and then hold it open while he quickly poured the seething mixture down its throat.
The rat vomited immediately, but that meant nothing; Arlian had vomited after drinking his grandfather’s contaminated blood, and that had not saved him.
Arlian, however, had not then gone into convulsions; bloody spew had not sprayed from his mouth, nor smoke seeped from his nostrils.
The rat lived a surprisingly long time, under the circumstances—almost half an hour. Arlian considered putting the poor thing out of its misery, but that would invalidate the whole experiment; he had to be absolutely certain that the animal would not survive. He forced himself to watch as it weakened and died.
The next rat received its drop of venom in a cup half-full of Stammer’s blood—Arlian could not use his own blood, since he was himself tainted and his blood poisonous, and had therefore prevailed upon his servants to supply what he needed, paying them generously for the precious fluid. The results of this experiment were slightly less dramatic than the first trial, lacking the smoke from the nostrils, but were even more swiftly fatal.
Two more rats produced identical reactions.
Arlian then tried a few variations, first using his own blood for one thin brown rat; that rodent keeled over within a dozen heartbeats, and died almost instantly. Venom diluted in water or wine was more lethal than venom diluted in healthy blood, but not quite so deadly as in Arlian’s blood.
At last, after four days and more than two score dead rats, he could think of nothing more to try, and began anew with the two dozen pigs Black had bought. The husbandman Black had hired to tend the livestock, a fellow called Mucker, helped fetch the animals into the courtyard, but once each pig was securely tied to a post the man departed quickly; he made it plain that he wanted no part of these unnatural experiments, which he considered wasteful and dangerous, and that he was only staying in Arlian’s employ because Black had promised him truly exorbitant wages.
Arlian might have found another pair of hands useful in administering the elixir, but he saw no need to make the man uncomfortable, and he could manage by himself. He thought he understood something of Mucker’s attitude, but did not share it; these experiments were necessary, and might do far more to aid humanity than would the pork and ham that the pigs would have otherwise provided. From the pig’s point of view it surely could not matter much; he would be equally dead either way.
When the pigs yielded no useful results Arlian intended to move on to other species, but oxen were difficult to force-feed, and presented serious disposal problems; he attempted only two of them.
He tried half a dozen mice, despite their small size, with no more success; nor were a few assorted spiders and insects any better.
He was getting nowhere at the end of almost a month’s work, and he knew it. It seemed as if dragon venom, either undiluted or in any combination whatsoever, was invariably and swiftly fatal to anything except humans and dragons.
Magic itself was not inherently toxic; he knew that much from his experiences in the lands beyond the southern border. The draconic nature of the venom, he decided, must be the source of its deadliness. If there were some way to separate the magic from the dragonness …
But how?
He consulted with Lady Rime, and with all the Aritheians still dwelling in Manfort, but none of them knew even as much as he did about the matter.
The key, he guessed, was in the blood. Dragon venom by itself would kill a man dead; in combination with human blood, though, it created a dragonheart. Somehow human blood allowed the magic to work before the venomous nature could take effect.
He needed something that would remove that venomous nature entirely, that would filter it out while passing the magic on—but what? He stared at the half-empty brown bottle.
Perhaps another layer, as it were, might help; he fetched another rat and tried combining a drop of venom with half a cup of human blood and half a cup of rat’s blood.
