The Wolf Age (54 page)

"Rokhlenu-" Morlock began, and found he could not go on.

"It's dangerous to be too predictable, Morlock," Rokhlenu said. "You're too good a fighter to not know this."

"Rokhlenu, I will have blood for my friend's blood. For our friend's blood."

"Is this what Hrutnefdhu would want?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter, anyway. I am myself, not him."

Rokhlenu looked away. "I don't want them to get away with it, either. I miss him already."

"Then."

"If-" He glanced up the stairway. There were doors open, citizens gathering on the turns of the stair. He looked back at Morlock. "I have an idea. You drunken, drooling, farting spongebag of a never-wolfs brach."

Morlock was confused, then amused. He thought he saw what Rokhlenu was aiming at. "Your mother shaved her nose every morning," he shouted back, red echoes of pain bouncing around his head. "She could juggle at midnight!"

"Don't talk about my mother, you cow fondling, milk-drinking, ape-toed refugee from a freak show!"

"I never fondled your mother-" Morlock began, and Rokhlenu howled, "Thats it!" and seized him by the shoulders. They struggled for a bit, snarling theatrically for the benefit of the audience.

"Have to take it outside," Rokhlenu muttered. "Need more eyes on this." He released Morlock's shoulders and flew away down the stairs as if he'd been struck.

Even if he weren't hungover Morlock wouldn't have been up to similar acrobatics; the ghost sickness was throwing off the balance of his entire body. But he thundered down the steps as fast as he could, and they broke together through the door leading into the street.

The plank road was littered with broken jars, stained with wine like purple blood. The reek of it nearly did make Morlock furious, and he never remembered afterward the insults he hurled at Rokhlenu in the street. He remembered the awed looks on the citizens standing around, though. The crowd had begun to gather-drawn by screams and hurled wine jars, no doubt-before they took their ostensible quarrel out into the sunlight, and it only thickened as they stood there screaming and shoving each other in the hot morning light.

"Good enough," Rokhlenu muttered eventually. "Have to end it somehow."

Morlock threw back his head and shouted, "Tyrfing!"

The sword, its black-and-white blade glittering like crystal in the day's fierce light, flew from the window of the topmost den and landed in Morlock's outstretched hand.

Rokhlenu spat at his feet. "Go ahead and use it, coward!"

"Get out," Morlock snarled. "Come back with a weapon and we'll finish this."

"I'll come back in my night shape and rip your belly open."

"Dogs bark. Citizens act. This is over."

"It's not over!" shouted Rokhlenu, and stormed away through the crowd.

Morlock turned back to the dark doorway and stepped out of the sun and the gaze of the crowd. There were still citizens goggling on the stairway, but they skittered away like mice when they saw him returning, sword in hand. He mounted the stairs back to the topmost den, his thoughts grim.

If Rokhlenu thought, as he obviously did, that this stagy break between the two friends would help him politically, Morlock was willing to oblige him. But he didn't relish the thought of investigating a political assassination in the largely unknown werewolf city. If Hrutnefdhu could help himbut, of course, it was Hrutnefdhu who had been assassinated. There was Hlupnafenglu, of course. But, if he was not mistaken, Rokhlenu had been trying to warn him about Hlupnafenglu for some reason.

As he approached the still-open door to the den, a thought occurred to him. How had the assassin entered the den? He pulled the door half closed and examined the lock. The glass eye was missing, and the coppery sinews of the lock mechanism had been severed somehow. Not by a blade, he thought: something hot enough to melt copper. Yet it had not set fire to the wooden door. Interesting, and revealing.

Ulugarriu had a hand, or a paw, in this, Morlock decided. At least, he had supplied the means.

Morlock's feelings lightened a little bit. Political assassination was as beyond him as was most politics. But murderous sorcerers were a more familiar matter.

He reentered the den. Liudhleeo was now flanked by two females Morlock didn't recognize, one a semiwolf with a hairless canine face and the other a bitter crone who was staring at Hlupnafenglu with naked hatred. When Morlock entered, she alternated her glare of hatred between the two males.

Morlock got the sheath for Tyrfing, threw it over his shoulders, and sheathed the blade. He tossed a cloak over his ghostly arm and grabbed a bag of money, tying it with his right hand to his belt. Then he stepped over to the red werewolf and said to him quietly, "What did you see in Hrutnefdhu's wound?"

"I don't want to say," the red werewolf admitted. "Maybe I'm wrong. Look yourself."

Morlock did, and then he motioned Hlupnafenglu to join him on the stairwell.

"They can hear us just as well out here," the red werewolf said. "Except that evil old never-wolf, maybe, may her eyes fall out."

Morlock sensed an evasiveness in Hlupnafenglu, a sort of slyness, that was new to him. But not new to Hlupnafenglu, he guessed. Perhaps it had come back to him with his memories.

"The neck was severed below the level of the shoulders," Morlock said. "It would have been easier to sever it higher. But the cutting was done by a practiced hand with a clean sharp blade-a surgeon rather than a butcher. Why?"

"I don't know, Chieftain. But it seemed odd to me."

"How can it be odd? Have you seen many werewolves with their heads cut off?"

"One haunted the prison where we lived, the Vargulleion. I often saw it there."

Morlock was silent a moment under the shadow of the dread memory. Then he said, "You are not answering me. I find that troubling."

"Didn't the gnyrrand tell you about me, Chieftain? I saw him looking at me."

"You will answer my question."

The red werewolf shrugged despairingly and said, "Yes, I have seen many decapitated werewolves. I have cut the heads off many myself. It is the best way to kill a citizen in the night shape. Before I was sent to the Vargulleion I was an assassin. They called me the Red Shadow."

"Oh." Morlock was vaguely aware that werewolves distinguished sharply between assassination and other more open forms of murder. Morlock himself did not, though. "That may be a useful set of skills for us. Rokhlenu thinks this was a politically motivated killing."

The red werewolf was staring at him. "You are not ... you still wish me to help you? You are still willing to teach me?"

"Yes."

Hlupnafenglu closed his golden eyes, then opened them. "Thank you," he said. "Hrutnefdhu was my friend, too. I would be sorry to miss the hunt."

The stairwell below them was suddenly flooded with females. Looking down, Morlock saw Wuinlendhono at their head.

"All males not dead, get out!" she shouted.

"We were just going, High Huntress," said Hlupnafenglu humbly.

"See that you do," she said briskly, and swept past.

Morlock and Hlupnafenglu edged past the river of female citizens rushing up the stairs. Soon they were standing outside on the stinking winestained street in the searing spring sunlight. Some citizens were still standing around, but when they saw Morlock they turned and fled.

"You call it an odd murder, then," Morlock said.

"Yes, Chieftain," said Hlupnafenglu. "It is one thing to sever the head. That makes sense, for a night murder. But why not hurl it out the nearest window? Why carry it dripping away with you?"

"How do you know they did?"

"I smelled it in the stairway."

Morlock nodded slowly. "Then we can trail them-" And then he broke off, staring distractedly at the wine staining the boards. "God Avenger. What have I done?"

The red werewolf punched him gently in his good arm. "Don't gnaw on yourself, Chieftain. We'll walk on the streets nearby a bit, and I'm sure we'll pick up on their scent."

That was what they did, and soon the red werewolf said he had found it.

"Are you sure that's the scent?" Morlock asked, feeling somewhat foolish.

"Fairly sure," Hlupnafenglu replied. "A citizen's blood is a distinctive smell, and Hrutnefdhu's has a tang to it I've never noticed in anyone else's. I'd be surer in my night shape. The wolf's nose is sharper. Hrutnefdhu taught me that when I-when we-when you made me whole. Sometimes I wish you hadn't done that, Chieftain."

"You did seem happier before."

"Maybe happiness is overrated."

Morlock had always hoped so, but said instead, "Should we wait for nightfall? There will be a moon aloft tonight."

"I think the scent might be gone then. Best while it's fresh."

The trail was clear enough. Even Morlock saw a few blood drippings at times. The scent led them to the northern gate, where a few irredeemables were standing guard. Two seemed to be coming on duty, two others going off, and they were standing around talking.

"Khretvarrgliu!" called one of the off-duty guards, and Morlock saw that it was ape-fingered Runhuiulanhu. "What's this rotten froth I hear about you and the gnyrrand fighting?"

Morlock opened his hands and said, "We had words. It's nothing serious."

"Politics?" Runhuiulanhu guessed.

"Sort of."

"I don't know much about politics."

"Neither do I."

"But I know what side I'm on."

"Rokhlenu and I will always be on the same side." Morlock lowered his voice. "But it may not look that way for a while."

"Oh. Oh! I get you! Some kind of strategy?"

"Sort of."

"I know crap-all about strategy either," said Runhuiulanhu, with a certain satisfaction.

"Eh."

"Can I buy you guys breakfast? I just got paid, and my mate bought some sausages. They're guaranteed to contain a certain proportion of real meat. And if they don't, I'll rip the sausage off the walking mouth who sold them to her."

"Thanks, but we're going into town," Morlock said. He didn't like to think of the meat that might be in a sausage made in the werewolf city. "Are you mated?" he asked. "Last time we met you were still ..."

"Paying for it? I guess so. I thought about what you said that night. Two ape-fingered werewolves ought to be able to get along, shouldn't they?"

Marriage was not among the few topics where Morlock felt he could give useful advice. He hummed and shrugged as noncommittally as possible, and was horrified when Runhuiulanhu said, "Yes, yes, I know what you mean, there."

Hlupnafenglu intervened. "Runhuiulanhu, were you on duty all night?"

"Just since midnight. Why?"

"Did anyone pass by last night carrying a bloody bag or something like that?"

"A bloody bag. What is that, some kind of joke?"

"Can't you smell the blood? I can."

Runhuiulanhu sniffed the air tentatively and he said, "No, I-wait a lope. Wait a lope. Hey, Iuiolliniu," he called to his watch-partner, who was turning away. "Did someone come through here last night with a bloody bag?"

"No one came through all night. Nobody at all. Not that I remember."

"Of course they did. There were those whores walking home from Dogtown; and the guy who kept dropping his lamp and we thought he was trying to burn the plank road, only he was just smoke-drunk; and old Lekkativengu and his bookie friend."

"Oh. Right. But except for them, nobody."

"Yurr." Runhuiulanhu turned back to Hlupnafenglu and Morlock. "Were they going in or out?"

"Out," Morlock said.

"Bloody bag. Bloody bag. You'd think I'd remember that. And yes. Yes, I do remember it. Three of them, right?"

"You tell us."

"Three of them. There was that fuzz-faced goldtooth guard of Her Supreme Wolfiness. Yaniunulu. Which I think she just keeps him around to make fun of him, and why not. And the guy with the bag. He looked kind of familiar to me, but I didn't know his name. All his fingers were the same length. His thumbs, too, I mean."

"Luyukioronu," Morlock said. "They call him Longthumbs."

"Right. You're right! The watchers had us both in lockup before I got sent to the Vargulleion. I guess he got out. Forgery, that's what he was in for."

"Who was the third citizen?"

"That fuzz-face guard. Yaniunulu. That's three."

"That's two."

"Yurr. This shouldn't be so hard. There was Luyukioronu. And fuzz-face, Yaniunulu. And the guy with the bag. That's three."

"I thought Luyukioronu had the bag."

"He did."

"Then that's two."

"All right. Let's see. There was the guy with the bag. And Fuzz-face. And Longthumbs."

"And he had the bag."

"Right." Runhuiulanhu began to look frightened.

"Can you describe him? The third one," Morlock said.

It turned out that he was neither tall nor short, nor of any clear coloration, nor was his scent distinctive, nor was he clearly in the day shape nor the night shape. In fact, Runhuiulanhu could not describe him, or even be sure that it was a male citizen rather than a female citizen. Runhuiulanhu's fear was then more open.

"Don't worry yourself," said Morlock. "I think you've met Ulugarriu."

The ape-fingered werewolf's fear vanished. "Really? You think so? I wish I could remember him!"

"Maybe next time."

They said good-bye, and Morlock and Hlupnafenglu went through the gate out to the plank road.

"The trail is clear," Hlupnafenglu said after a while. "But we'll lose it if it goes into the city."

"Maybe," Morlock said.

"You're full of maybes today, Khretvarrgliu."

"Here's another. The maker who created the moon-clock in Mount Dhaarnaiarnon, and the funicular way, and the other miracles that are credited to Ulugarriu. That maker."

"Yes?"

"Maybe he could make a bag that wouldn't leak."

"Oh, well ... Well. Yurr. You think he wanted us to come this way? Maybe. Maybe you're right. Then why are we following this trail?"

"The trail is what we have."

The sunlight dimmed as if a heavy curtain had been pulled across the sky. Looking up, Morlock saw this was true: a dense, turbulent, lightningscarred layer of clouds was spreading over the world, cutting off the light of the sun.