The Jaguar Knights Page 14

  “Between eighty and ninety,” Wolf said. “They took greater losses than we did, because they used ineffective weapons. Such as this.” He had the chest open by then and began, as Grand Master had, with one of the cat’s-paw maces.

  Sister Daybreak did not approve of it. She felt it, sniffed at it, and passed it back, shaking her head. “A curious thing, but it bears no trace of spirituality.”

  He offered a gold labret. She hesitated over that, frowning distastefully. “No. Nothing. What is its purpose?”

  She disapproved of that, too. And so it went. Wolf produced only a small fraction of the artifacts in the chest, because if there had been any really serious conjurations there, she would have sensed them from downstairs. Some she seemed to find more distasteful than others; some she examined with extra suspicion—peering, sniffing, touching, even seeming to listen to them—but her conclusion was always the same: None had been conjured in any way.

  Wolf did not believe this. The raiders would not have believed it either. Any conjurer would insist that good-luck charms were useless, as likely to summon bad fortune as good, but no soldier would go into battle without one. Even some Blades wore them. Love charms were effective, which was why they were illegal. The status that cat’s-eye swords gave their bearers was mostly granted by law, but a White Sister could smell spirituality on them, left over from the binding ritual, and only they could undo that binding, so the swords did have power. The men who attacked Quondam had decked themselves up in gold, body paint, and jewels for some good reason.

  Like Grand Master, Wolf left the pard mosaic plaque to the end. Hogwood had compared it to a cat’s-eye sword, and on viewing it a second time he could see how its closed-eye arrogance reeked of power. Its owner had certainly not needed any emblem to enhance his stature or fearful aspect, but if the pendant had been the secret of his shape-shifting, its loss had caused him to remain half man and half cat.

  Sister Daybreak recoiled from the sight of it and seemed loath to touch. She peered at it quickly, then thrust it back.

  “Nothing! Repulsive, but no spirituality.”

  “Let me see that!” Lynx demanded, licking his fingers and showing interest for the first time. He grabbed it when Wolf held it out. “Whose was this?”

  “Your furry friend.”

  Lynx stared at it sadly for a moment. “Then I claim it by right of conquest!” He knotted the ends of the thong together and hung it around his neck.

  “I’m not sure the King will permit that.”

  “You know where it is when you want it.” He unlaced the neck of his doublet so he could tuck the pendant inside. “It’s safe on me.”

  But was he safe from it? Sister Daybreak was staring at him as if he had filled his shirt with pig manure.

  Wolf said, “Thank you for your reassurance that we have no evil conjurations to worry about, Sister. There are a couple of bodies down in the icehouse that I would appreciate your looking at also. If you feel up to it, we can attend to that and then go into dinner. Or it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Was that a wisp of a grin crossing Hogwood’s face?

  Sister Daybreak’s conical hat rose straight up, with her head still in it. “By all means let us get it over with. I have come a long way unnecessarily, but I wish to make an early start homeward tomorrow. Daybreak begins at dawn, I always say!”

  “An excellent principle. Inquisitor, if you would be so kind as to lead the lady down to the icehouse, I will follow as soon as I have locked these trinkets safely away.”

  As the two women trooped out, Lynx yawned and stretched his arms. “For the last four years I’ve dreamed of sharing this bed. You weren’t the one I dreamed of sharing it with, of course, but I’m sure you won’t mind…” He flashed an arch look. “Unless you have plans to share it with someone else?”

  The thought had crossed Wolf’s mind less than a hundred times in the last hour, but he said, “No. You’re welcome to rest there as long as you don’t mind candles burning all night.”

  “How’s that slinky little inquisitor of yours, anyway?”

  “She is definitely off-limits as far as you are concerned.”

  “Ah? Like that?”

  “No. Like nothing, but you stay away from her.”

  Lynx chuckled—knowingly, as he thought. He made no move to put his boots on, so Wolf left him where he was and hurried down the stair after black robes and white robes. He very much wanted to hear Sister Daybreak’s assessment of the cat-man.

  As it turned out, he knocked her hat off.

  She had been warned! The woman was abrasive and arrogant, much too sure of her own opinions, but Wolf repeated that she was about to view a man’s corpse; he had been severely wounded and was not a pretty sight.

  She knew better. “I have seen cadavers before, Sir Wolf. Pray be speedy lest we freeze.”

  The icehouse was small and underground, set in the shady southwest corner of the bailey. At that time of the year it was almost completely full, and the two corpses had been dumped in on top of the stock, the big one at the front. There was very little headroom and Sister Daybreak’s towering hat was ridiculous. She was bent double, her nose almost touching the tarpaulin that Hogwood and Wolf were attempting to open one-handed. All three held lanterns, which cast an eerie golden light and make the work tricky.

  “There!” Hogwood said, as they dragged back the last flap. The corpse lay on its back with its front paws crossed on its belly. Wolf was at the head, Hogwood at the feet. Daybreak stood between them and for a moment she peered back and forth in incomprehension, trying to make sense of the gruesome display.

  Then she gave a sort of yowl and leaped back, straightening up and slamming her head against the vaulted roof, dropping her lantern. Wolf and Hogwood let go of theirs in grabbing her, so suddenly they were a Blade and an inquisitor supporting a stunned White Sister between them in total darkness.

  Wolf said, “I’ve got her. Can you make a light?”

  The Quondam icehouse was not well kept. The floor was not only wet, as was to be expected, but also muddy, and in the process of hoisting Daybreak over his shoulder he trampled her hat into oblivion. She started coming around as he carried her up the steps to the bailey. She was a tough old slab of driftwood, though. After a rest beside the fire in the hall and a glass of mulled wine, she wanted to go back to work right away. Hogwood bandaged her scalp wound and Wolf ordered her to bed in the King’s name.

  9

  Wolf had hoped to leave the next day, but he knew Lynx would insist on going with him—anything to see the last of Quondam—and was not well enough to travel. Although Wolf’s conscience might have rejected that as a reason for delay, he did have legitimate business to finish and morning brought a drumming downpour that was certain to turn snowy roads into quagmires. He found Sir Alden leaning against a door-jamb scowling at the weather.

  “Good chance to you, Warden.”

  The soldier transferred the scowl to him. “You saying I’m to be Acting Warden?”

  “I suspect it will be a permanent appointment. Name your stipend and I’ll swear you in.”

  “King’ll want a lord.”

  “He’ll have trouble finding a real lord willing to live here. What he needs is a damned good soldier.”

  “Horseapples! Ought to rip the place down.”

  Surprised to hear his own opinions coming from such a source, Wolf said, “Why?”

  Alden spat into the mud. “If you can’t hold a fortress, you raze it so your enemy don’t use it against you. I’d need a thousand men to hold this place against what came by a week ago.”

  Even without the raid, Quondam was an outdated symbol of royal power, serving no purpose to justify its running expenses. Wolf certainly intended to tell the Privy Council so, but kings had strange ideas about symbols and honor.

  He wondered how many more insights Alden might have. “That’s very valuable advice. Can you tell me why the raiders took the Baroness?”

  Alden’s
leathery scowl softened. “She’s just a trophy, poor lass. Always was, I’d say.”

  “And I’d agree. Why this time, though?”

  “Ah!” The old warrior sighed. “If you can storm a stronghold and carry off the lord’s woman in all her finery, then you’ve proved something. Doesn’t matter who they were or where they came from. They took her home to show their king what they’d done.”

  Brilliant! Flaming brilliant! “I should wrap you up and send you to the Council!” Wolf said.

  “Try it.”

  “No thanks.”

  Alden spat again. “It cost them, of course. They lost more men than we did. They need better weapons. Wonder why they didn’t take any of ours with them when they left?”

  “They didn’t?” The man was a mine of insights!

  “Maybe a few. Haven’t counted. Could match what’s left against the smoke stains on the walls.”

  “Do that!” Wolf said. “Yes, please do that!”

  Later the White Sister appeared, a little whiter than usual, wearing a goodwife’s bonnet over her bandage. She insisted on taking a second look at the freak corpse in the icehouse. After staring hard and long at it, she capitulated with better grace than Wolf had expected.

  “I cannot detect conjuration on this body.”

  “You mean he was born like that?”

  “Of course not. I mean that my skills are unable to detect this form of enchantment. I sense a dark, ingrained evil that I do not understand. It is alien to everything I know. Everything I told you yesterday may have been wrong.” She shut her mouth with a click of disapproval.

  “Lord Roland warned me that such might be the case.” Wolf caught Hogwood’s eyes shining at him in the lantern light. He had promised to share all his information with her, but he had not shared that.

  III

  The Chase is Reserved to the Lord…Lesser Orders [Hunt With] Snares and Nets

  1

  The royal standard no longer flew over Nocare. His Majesty, it seemed, had returned to Greymere, in the heart of Grandon. Athelgar rarely stayed in one place for long, but he had been excessively inconsiderate, even for him, in moving Court in such weather. He could travel in his fine waterproof coach, but hundreds of people must have toiled for days in a solid downpour to satisfy his whim, and uncounted wagons had churned the highway to soup.

  Having no need to return to Ironhall, Wolf and his companions had followed the coast road through Newtor and Narby, then cut up to Flaskbury from Brimiarde, but they had not had a dry moment the whole way. Three people and five beasts in mortal misery had plodded tracks that were rivers of mud and waded fords that were raging torrents. He had sent no reports ahead, because they could not arrive before he did. The Council would not expect mail in such weather.

  Every day Lynx grew visibly stronger. Often he was his amiable old self, blissfully happy to be released from jail at last; at other times he would retreat into sullen despair, remembering that he had lost his ward, the only Blade ever to do so. Wolf had no comfort to give him. Even if Celeste were still alive, the world was too big for one man to search it all.

  Wolf avoided Hogwood as much as he decently could, partly because he did not want her asking what else Grand Master had told him, but mainly because he distrusted his own weakness. If she convinced him that she could really arrange his release from the Guard, he might agree to anything—anything short of murder, surely? Yet, would killing strangers for the Dark Chamber be any worse than killing friends for the Blades? He also distrusted the looks he saw her giving him at times. Her childish efforts to appear a woman only made her seem even younger. Grand Master’s absurd excuses had transformed the infamous Sir Wolf into some sort of grotesque martyr in her eyes. Dread had become fascination, and an odious duty had been sugar-coated with adolescent infatuation. What could he say or do to make her hate him again, to remove the temptation before it wore him down?

  He had intended to drop off Hogwood and the treasure at Nocare and go on to visit Grand Master’s sailor son by himself, but Athelgar had foiled him. Wolf happened to be in front, leading the packhorses, when he recognized the turnoff to Ivywalls from Grand Master’s directions. He took it.

  “Where are you going?” Lynx shouted.

  “To see a man who may be able to tell us where your ward went.”

  “Who?”

  “Baron Roland,” the inquisitor said.

  Wolf turned to glare. She dead-fished back at him.

  Lynx repeated, “Who?”

  Sir Durendal had been created Baron Roland of Waterby on the day he saved King Ambrose’s life in a fabled feat of arms. He had been promoted to earl when he became chancellor. Since he could not use both titles, his son was allowed to use the lesser one by courtesy, a favorite trick of the nobility. But how had the inquisitor known?

  The way led over a gentle ridge into a snug valley, a haven of fruit trees and well-drained, tidy fields. Countryside rarely looked fair in winter, but that did, combining clean lines of good maintenance with the ramshackle comfort of a place that has had a few centuries to settle into its role. Roland’s son might be “only” a farmer, but he was a good one. The house, when it came into view, was ancient, well-kempt, and impressive.

  A chorus of barking announced the visitors’ approach. When they reined in at the steps, a bulky, white-haired worthy was already awaiting them between the pillars. He seemed too old to be the Baron and too dignified to be a servant. Dismounting, Wolf let his cloak fall away from his sword hilt. The watcher snapped his fingers and men came running from nowhere to take the horses. Had he given some other signal, no doubt the hands would have arrived with hounds and weapons. It was slickly done, suggesting that everything at Ivywalls would be slickly done.

  Wolf offered Grand Master’s letter. “Wolf of the Guard to see the Baron if he is available.”

  The old man acknowledged the seal with a smile that would have looked good on anybody’s grandfather. “His lordship is always happy to welcome Blades, Sir Wolf. I am Caplin, the butler. If you and your companions would be so kind as to come this way….”

  Wolf offered Hogwood his arm and followed. He had no qualms at leaving the raiders’ treasure unattended, because she had warded the bags. Anyone trying to open them would receive a memorable surprise.

  Their sodden outer garments were taken; they were shown into a snug library where a fire warmed the winter evening and glinted on shiny leather chairs. The paintings on the wall were tasteful yet intriguing. Rugs and tapestries looked exotic and non-Chivian, while the bronze statuette was classic Isilondian; yet everything was of such quality that nothing jarred. This was how the truly rich lived, those who could afford to be comfortable and did not need to flaunt their riches by adhering to the current fashion. Although none of the visitors was in uniform, the admirable Caplin was no doubt already explaining to his employer that a guardsman and a private Blade had come calling with an inquisitor.

  Wolf said, “Hogwood, how did you know who we were coming to see?”

  She turned from her study of the book titles, wearing her professional corpse mask. “A lucky guess, Sir Wolf.”

  “Based on?”

  “Lord Roland was evasive. He is beyond suspicion himself so he was protecting somebody else, and you cooperated with him, so the problem was probably trivial. A former Blade is unlikely to have family he cares about, other than children. You said we were coming to see a man, so I guessed an eldest son.”

  “Standard inquisitorial sneakiness!”

  “Thank you!” Her glee lit the room.

  Lynx guffawed. “She has your measure, Wolfie.”

  “She needs a good spanking.”

  “Likes the kinky stuff, does she?”

  “Wolf!” Hogwood took two strides to the fireplace and lifted down a small greenish carving. “Look at this!”

  The men joined her. Grand Master had called it a “somewhat sinister-looking cat,” but it was only a kitten. Yet…was that a subtly malign look in it
s eye? Yes, this might be a very tricky feline when it grew up. The style was by now unmistakable.

  “Which of you is Sir Wolf and how may I assist you?” The man in the doorway was no better dressed than his butler and not much less bulky, although he was carrying muscle, not fat. He seemed around forty, weathered and dark, not especially tall, but with a self-assurance that did not appreciate uninvited guests meddling with his possessions. He held Grand Master’s letter. Although he did not look like his father, Wolf recognized the glare.

  He bowed. “I am Wolf, my lord. Your honored father sent me to ask you where you got this cat.”

  The scowl darkened.

  “May I present Inquisitor Hogwood…Sir Lynx of the Blades. We have ridden for four days to ask you this. My commission—”

  Roland took the writ, raised his eyebrows at the royal seal, glanced over the text, then returned it with a half-bow. “My father is clearly not the only one who holds you in high regard, Sir Wolf. How may I help you?”

  Wolf held up the kitten.

  The farmer’s laugh had a solid, trustworthy sound. “You were serious? Sigisa. Don’t tell my father, but I won it in a dice game in a tavern.”

  Sigisa? That meant nothing. Wolf said, “Where—”

  “But it came originally from Tlixilia.”

  Hogwood said, “Oh, of course!” as if that explained everything.

  2

  The Hence Lands were discovered about forty years ago by some Distlish sailors blown far to the west by a storm….”

  The Baron had suffered no argument—business could wait, the visitors would spend the night at Ivywalls, and his home would be honored by their presence. He offered every comfort, even dry clothes kept on hand for travelers, there being only so much that one could pile on a horse.

  Wolf found himself bedecked in a burgundy brocade jerkin finer than anything he had ever worn. Later, enjoying a superb meal, and sipping seductive wine from a crystal goblet, he decided this was how all swordsmen should go adventuring. Hogwood shimmered in a jade silk gown belonging to Baroness Maud herself, who was an ivory figurine, gracious and aristocratic. Small children romped somewhere in the background in the care of servants.