The Jaguar Knights Page 4

  Durendal, Lord Roland, former Lord Chancellor, and greatest of all Blades since his legendary namesake who founded the Order—even the cynical seniors held Durendal in awe. Widowed and bored in retirement, he had come to live at Ironhall the previous year, and although he refused any formal title or duties, the entire place soon revolved around him. He could explain anything better than anyone, see farther, say more in fewer words. In fencing, strategy, or statecraft he was the supreme expert. He had a kind or humorous word for everyone and he spoke to the grooms in the stable the same way he spoke to Grand Master.

  “You did not spit in the King’s eye, I hope?”

  “Not quite, my lord.”

  Roland frowned. “Good. I was a little worried. I just wanted to tell you that it was my idea.”

  “What was?”

  “Separating you and Lynx. Blame me. I suggested it to Grand Master. For Lynx’s sake, Wolf.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.” Roland’s smile took the sting out of the contradiction. “He needs a few months without you. You’ve been mother and father to him too long.”

  “He’s only seventeen! He can’t handle being Prime! Some of those oafs have two years on him!”

  The young ones might be worse, though. Lynx was bigger than Wolf, better-looking, much better liked, and potentially a better fencer, although even there he tended to be too easygoing. Wolf told him he lacked the killer instinct, never dreaming how that humor would return to haunt him. Lynx’s binding should take care of that weakness in due course, but he would not have binding to help him to handle the junior rat pack. They could make his life one big torment.

  Roland laughed. “They’ll all stand on their heads for him. Go out there and tell him you’re proud of him and expect him to do a great job—which he will.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Wolf, Wolf! He needs a chance to prove himself. You proved yourself years ago collecting those scars.” He clapped Wolf’s shoulder. “Let him wipe his own nose for a while. Understand?”

  “I do trust your judgment, my lord.”

  Durendal just smiled at the sarcasm. “I am flattered! Vicious has been pruning out older men, so the Guard is below strength. Believe me, Lynx will be along to join you by summer.”

  “And what about this Garbeald?”

  Roland glanced at the stair and frowned. “Who’s missing?”

  “Viper and Hengist.”

  “Ah. And if His Majesty chooses to assign two Blades to his friend, will you complain to him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Kings are not always right, Wolf, but they’re always kings. And don’t you worry about tomorrow night. Athelgar won’t miss.”

  Wolf said, “You’re certain of that?” It was his heart they were discussing.

  Durendal smiled. “Oh, yes. A monarch must consider his reputation.”

  The wind was rising, swirling snowflakes over the icy ground in fairy dances. Moonlight shone on corpse-pale clouds piling up in the west, suggested a storm, which at these temperatures would be a killer. They still had two-thirds of the way to go.

  The next time they dropped back to a walk, Hogwood said, “Obviously the King did not kill you.”

  “You snoops are wonderfully observant.”

  “I cannot imagine how any of you find the courage to sit and let someone drive a sword through your heart.”

  “There’s no real danger,” Wolf said. “We’ve all seen it done a hundred times before we have to do it ourselves.”

  Expect him. Conjury always gave him a thundering headache, and after four hundred years the Forge was so tainted by spirituality that he had never stayed there long enough to watch a binding completed. That night he had no choice and within the octogram itself the effect was murderously intense. He was barely conscious as he stumbled through the words of the oath. When he sat on the anvil with Lynx and Modred holding his arms, he knew vaguely that the King was taking much longer than usual to line up the stroke, letting the point of the sword wander all around the target chalked on his bare chest, but all he was thinking was that he wanted Athelgar to kill him quickly and put him out of his misery.

  “So you won the dare,” Hogwood said. “You won! Why do you still hate the King?”

  She was still fishing for the Celeste story, and Athelgar had ordered him to keep it secret.

  “It’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you so interested in me, inquisitor? Are you investigating this Quondam mystery, or me?”

  “Professional curiosity, Sir Wolf. You are a curious case. You are a perfectionist, the smartest man in the Guard. You named your sword Diligence and you polish it about six times a day. You rarely apply the seduction skills that are the main compensation for being a Blade, and when you do form a sexual pairing, it never lasts long. You show no interest in other men. The Guard’s confidential file on you describes you as a ready killer who enjoys killing. Understandably, you have no close friends. Is that really all that drives you—a love of killing?”

  Had any man asked such a question, Wolf would have blistered his ears, but no man would have dared. Besides, they had long leagues to go yet, and conversation would keep him from brooding on Lynx and his wounds.

  “You are good at answering questions with questions, Inquisitor, but you are asking the same thing twice. Do you know what set off the Thencaster affair?” This was a hair-trigger topic, because the treason had come very close to the Dark Chamber itself.

  “Lord Wassail walked in on the King’s toilet and told him he would be deposed if he didn’t act quickly.”

  “I mean what set off the treason?”

  “The King made some bad decisions. The ultimatum from Thergy—”

  “You’re quoting history books. Athelgar behaved like a maniac, but the last straw was not Thergy. It was Garbeald.”

  After a moment Hogwood admitted, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know of him as the Duke of Brinton, a Baelish thug who had made even Baelmark too hot to hold him. Athelgar gave that scum-bucket a royal dukedom. He also gave him two superb young men, like a pair of hunting dogs—Viper and Hengist. They were bound the same night I was. It was when that pissant fustilugs raped Lord Lowbridge’s daughter that the Chivian nobility decided they had endured enough. That was when the Thencaster Conspiracy was born.”

  “Tell me about Viper and Hengist, then.”

  “No.” Wolf nudged his horse to a trot, which made further conversation impossible.

  5

  He knew the West Road like the damask on his sword, and it had never seemed longer than it did that night. They changed mounts again at New Cinderwich, then went on through the killer dark to Flaskbury. The snowy world lay dead and silent under a moon like a ball of ice. He had to stop repeatedly to attend to the horses’ feet.

  Teeth, claws, clubs—what was he up against? What opponents fought with such a mix? Lynx, Lynx! What have they done to you?

  The leg west from Flaskbury was the longest; the eastern sky was brightening by the time they reached Holmgarth. He was determined not to slacken the pace before Hogwood asked him to or fell back, and so far she had done neither. He thundered on the door of the post house until a sleepy hand admitted them.

  They waited in the stable itself while the lad led grumpy horses out from their stalls to show. The lamps cast grotesque shadows, the urinous air made eyes sting, but at least there was warmth. Slumped on a bale of straw, Hogwood looked half dead with fatigue, obviously still believing she could keep up with a bound Blade.

  “There is no inn between here and Ironhall,” Wolf said. “This is your last chance to take a break.”

  She looked up sourly. “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  “As you please. We won’t stay long at Ironhall. As soon as we’ve heard from the witnesses there, we’ll push on to Quondam itself.”

  “You are in charge, Sir Wolf.” She folded her arms and looked down at the floor again, but now
she was wearing her dead-fish mask. He suspected she was using it to hide fear, in which case the danger she fore-saw must lie at Quondam.

  “Did you have any choice when you were detailed to accompany me?”

  “We are not allowed to discuss the—”

  “I heard. You think I’m going to bungle the most important inquiry in years? The whole Dark Chamber must think so. You were assigned to me as patsy, Hogwood, and you know it. What do they do to inquisitors who fail to get their man? Rack them? Burn them at the stake?”

  Glassy stare. “If this mission fails it will be through no fault of mine, Sir Wolf.” She could not possibly be old enough to have much experience of major investigations, certainly not as senior inquisitor.

  “Nor mine. I always get my man. Perhaps I’ll be able to cut a few more notches in my sword belt soon, mm? Think so?”

  She turned her face away in silence, as if disgusted by his black humor.

  The groom brought another horse and again Wolf told him he did not want one with white hooves. He led it back into the shadows.

  After a moment she said, “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What you just remembered.”

  She was becoming a serious nuisance.

  He said, “I know you can detect a falsehood if it is spoken, but I refuse to believe you can read my thoughts.”

  “Didn’t you just remember something significant about this place?”

  “No.”

  “You were pulling faces.”

  “You’re trawling. I’ve been through here dozens of times. Of course I remember things, but it’s nothing that need concern you.”

  Perhaps it did, because ultimately it concerned Celeste. In that stable, on the very day he was bound, he had heard the first rumble of what was to become the Thencaster thunderstorm. Athelgar had left Ironhall for Grandon at dawn. The rest of the Guard watched in amusement as the eager rookies all tried to ride as close as possible to their new ward. The King ignored them, chatting with Garbeald, who likewise had Hengist and Viper fretting to draw alongside him.

  It was there at Holmgarth, when Wolf was choosing a remount in the stable—a place royal feet deigned not to tread—that a heavy hand settled on his shoulder.

  “You need some help, brother,” Terror said. Sir Terror was an old Ambrose man, likely to receive the Order of the Boot soon.

  “That’s kind of you, but…” Wolf recalled that Terror was one of the finest horsemen in the Guard. “Thanks. This one looks—”

  Terror eased him backward into the stall until they were squeezed between rough planks and a piqued stallion. “This one has four white hooves. Always try for black if you can. That wasn’t what I had in mind.” He spoke more softly. “We all saw what the Pirate’s Son did to you last night, toying with you. Nasty, that.”

  “I survived.” Wolf was pleased the incident had been noted.

  Terror jabbed him hard in the ribs. “But leave it there, boy! Some might say you earned it by lipping him the day before. Now you’ve sworn to die for him and he’s the King. You can’t win that battle. Leader said to pass the word to all the greenhorns, especially you: ‘The Pirate’s Son has a mean streak, ignore it.’ Follow me?”

  Wolf shrugged. “I find it contemptible. I’m amused he is so petty.”

  Poke again. “He can out-petty your amusement any day, kid.” The awesome black beard bristled. “Listen! It’s not just you. It’s not even him personally, just that he was reared in Baelmark and got washed up here in Chivial. He don’t know any better. Ever since mommy went home to her pirate, he’s been running wild. He insulted the Speaker. He mocked the Lord Mayor and other nobs who came to present loyal addresses. Now he’s given that creepy Bael buddy of his a dukedom—a royal dukedom—and that will hit the real nobs like a bucket of vomit. He hasn’t been on the throne a month yet. You’re nothing, but some people do matter.”

  This was a jolt of adult reality. Even Wolf was not green enough to miss the point. “You’re implying I may have to make good on my oath?”

  Terror dropped his voice even lower. “If he keeps on like this, anything may happen.”

  The novelty of being treated as one of the gang was a heady sensation. “I don’t like the look of that Garbeald. Isn’t it odd that the Pirate’s Son’s best friend didn’t show up in Chivial until after his mommy had left?”

  Poke become punch with an impact that made Wolf gasp.

  “Stop it! Vicious said to tell you to keep your jackass mouth shut from now on. Take that chestnut over there, if you’re not too proud to ride a mare. She’s a little wonder.” With that Terror went away.

  Of course Wolf had been right about Garbeald, but things might have turned out better if Leader had never sent him that warning. The rest of his conversations with the older guardsmen on that ride had concerned the latest Court scandals, especially the King’s new mistress, the exotic Marquesa Celeste, and the way ladies’ necklines were plunging to hitherto unseen depths.

  At Blackwater, the sky had turned to lead and a bitter wind was lifting the fallen snow and swirling it around the horses’ fetlocks. The blur of brightness marking the sun said the hour was not far past noon. There should be time to reach Ironhall before dark.

  The small post house there was run by the only fat Blade in the Order, Sir Orvil. Right after his knighting he had married the previous owner’s daughter and raised the rates until Ambrose threatened to pass a law to stop him.

  Orvil was slack-jawed at seeing an inquisitor riding to Ironhall, and a female one at that. If he had heard of any other raids along the coast he would certainly be babbling of them, but his ignorance of even the Quondam assault showed that news was not traveling as it usually did. He knew about Flint and Huntley, of course, and reported that a second pair of knights, Grady and Godfrey, had followed them the next day. That Wolf and Hogwood had missed them on the road was not surprising. Of course Orvil wanted to know what the fire-and-death was going on to raise so much excitement, and of course nobody was telling him.

  “Weather looks bad,” he muttered, peering out the stable door at the sky and the snowy folds of the moor. “Starkmoor is death after dark, my lad. We could put you up until it blows over.” Again he ogled the inquisitor with disbelief.

  “We have to push on,” Wolf insisted. “My assistant may have more sense.”

  She just shook her head, too weary to speak, her face haggard, with dark smears of pain under the eyes, but Wolf knew he might see worse in a mirror. She was certainly using some sort of Dark Chamber conjuration to keep going. Fair’s fair—he was drawing stamina from his binding.

  “Let me send the boy with you, then,” Orvil said, all chubby and sincere. “Tam knows the moor like the back of his head, don’t you, Tam?”

  The gangling stableboy smiled shyly and continued saddling their mounts. Wolf knew that his dear brother Blade would charge him a month’s wages for the loan of his underpaid hand and add as much again for keeping secrets from him, but he also knew how treacherous the moor could be. In his beansprout year, four candidates out riding had been caught in a snap blizzard and died. The locals had an instinct for the moors. He was a Westerther himself, but not from these parts.

  “What do you think, Tam? Can you guide us to Ironhall, or is it too dangerous?”

  The boy grunted the local equivalent of “Yes” while shaking his head, which meant that he was not frightened and was willing to take them. He also knew that Wolf was a generous tipper. Orvil beamed and prepared to haggle.

  Tam turned out to be a wise decision. Wind raged up on the moor, hurling gritty snow in their faces and driving a fog that hid all the landmarks. He took a couple of shortcuts Wolf would not have risked, across bogs frozen by the long cold, but his main service was just to relieve Wolf of the need to do anything except stay on his horse.

  Cold and soaked, every bone throbbing with fatigue, he rode in a stupor, thinking—when he thought at all—about meeting Lynx again, after so lo
ng. Although Ironhall to Quondam was not far as the crow flew, Whinmoor and Starkmoor were separated by the Great Bog. Horses, unlike crows, must make a day-long trek around by Newtor. On many of his visits to Ironhall, Wolf could have stolen enough time to go and visit Lynx, but his persnickety conscience would not let him be absent from his ward on a personal whim. In four years they had exchanged a dozen or so letters. Lynx would have changed.

  Wolf was taken by surprise when the fairytale fake battlements of Ironhall emerged from the whirling murk. There was respite from the wind in the lee of the walls, and he urged his sad horse forward alongside Hogwood’s.

  “We’re here. You’ve done well, for a woman.”

  She peered blearily out of her snow-caked hood. “And you, for an old man.”

  “Are you ready to begin your investigation?”

  “Your investigation, Sir Wolf.”

  “No. Finding out what happened is your job. Report to me everything you discover—who is lying, who is holding back, all your theories and suspicions. If I notice or suspect anything, I will be equally open with you, I promise. I will decide what we do about it all in the end. Meanwhile I want everyone to believe you are in charge and I am just muscle sent along to protect you.” He did not feel capable of fighting a dead frog.

  “Why?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Do you always question orders? Are you too tired to start work at once?”

  “No.”

  “Then do as I say. I promise you all the credit or blame you deserve. My reputation is already made. Make yours.”

  “Thank you.” She was puzzled, but she was supposed to be.

  “Just do a good job.” He eased his horse back to the rear again as they turned into the gateway.

  Both the King and the Dark Chamber bore grudges against him. Somewhere on the road he had decided that this affair must eventually result in an inquiry into his inquiry, so he would find himself testifying before inquisitors. The snoops looked after their own and any restriction he placed on Hogwood would damn him, if he wasn’t damned already.