Wolf-speaker (8 page)

“How do you know this?” Tristan's voice was too even and sincere. His eyes danced with amusement. “Did the wolves come to you in a dream, perhaps, or—”

“She has wild magic, Tristan.” Numair came to stand with Daine, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. She smiled up at him in gratitude.

“Surely you do not yet insist ‘wild magic' is real,” scoffed Gissa. “You are too old to pursue fables.”

“It is no fable,” Numair replied. “You and the Carthaki university people are like the blind man who claims sight cannot exist, because he lacks it.”

“We lose sight of the point of Mistress
Sarrasri's
argument.” There was a strangled note in Yolane's voice. “A pack of four-legged beasts wants us to stop mining. And cutting down trees.”

“That's right,” Daine said, bracing herself for what she knew was coming.

“And—if we don't”—the choked sound was thicker than ever in the woman's throat—“they'll do something—drastic. Do you know what? No, of course you don't. Perhaps—perhaps”—the strangling began to escape her now, as giggles—“they will piddle on the castle walls, or—or—”

“Howl at the sentries,” Tristan suggested, grinning.

“Has she been mad for long?” Yolane asked Numair.

“You laugh at your peril,” Numair warned. “This is a very different breed of wolf you're dealing with, Lady Yolane.”

Yolane began to laugh, and laugh hard. Briefly she fought to get herself under control. “Maybe they'll bury their bones in my wardrobe!” she said, and began to laugh again.

Tristan smirked. “Suppose for a moment—just a moment—that you are right. Do you think we can't deal with a pack of wolves? Brute creation is in this world to serve man—not the other way around. This valley is ruled by humans.”

Daine couldn't believe what she had heard. “Is that what you
really
think animals are here for?”

“No. That's what I
know
they are for. Men do not shape their concerns for the benefit of wild beasts, my dear.”

Yolane had gotten herself in hand. “You are a foolish child. Master Salmalín has indulged you too much. Why, in Mithros's name, should I care in the least about the tender feelings of a pack of mangy, flea-bitten curs?”

“Think selfishly,” Daine said, trying to make these arrogant two-leggers see what she meant. “You can't go on this way. Soon you will have no
forests to get wood from or to hunt game in. You poison water you drink and bathe and fish in. Even if you keep the farms, they won't be enough to feed you if the rest of the valley's laid waste. You'll starve. Your people will starve—unless you buy from outside the valley, and that's fair expensive. You'll ruin Dunlath.”

Yolane's eyes glittered. “Who are you to judge me in my own castle?”

“Daine,” Numair said quietly.

Daine looked at Yolane, Belden, and Tristan. They stared back at her, sure of themselves and their right to do as they wished. “Well, I tried,” she muttered.

Numair bowed. “My lord, my lady—with your good will, we take our leave.”

As they walked out, Daine glanced at Maura. The girl had awakened and now watched Daine with a worried frown. Daine smiled, but her lips trembled a little. She hoped Maura wouldn't think she was crazy.

Servants left the dining hall ahead of them to fetch their cloaks and to bring their horses. Within minutes they were trotting across the causeway.

“I'm sorry I didn't keep my mouth shut when you wanted,” she said, trying to keep a pleading note out of her voice. “I had to speak. Brokefang wouldn't understand if we came back and said we didn't say anything to them.”

He reached over to pat her back. “I know. Please calm down. You aren't the kind of girl who plunges without thinking. I wish I were more like you.”

She was glad the darkness covered her blush. It was the highest compliment he had ever paid her. “But you don't plunge without thinking,” she protested.

“You mean you haven't
seen
me do so. What, pray, was entering that castle tonight? If I were more cautious—Enough. What's done is done.” Reaching the innyard, they gave their mounts to the only hostler still up, then went to their rooms. “Good night,” he said cheerfully. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Her door closed behind her, Daine used a glowstone from her belt-purse to find her candle, which she lit. Kitten, sprawled on the bed, peeped drowsily.

“You prob'ly would've hated it,” Daine told her, shedding her clothes. Hanging them up instead of leaving them on the floor, a habit she'd learned in months of living in the Riders' barracks, she then slipped into her nightshirt. “The little girl is nice—Maura. But the grown-ups—” Daine shook her head as she climbed under the blanket.

Kitten, listening, chirped a question. Though she was too young to hear or to answer in mindspeech as older immortals did, talking to her was
never a problem. Kitten understood Common better than some humans they had met. Daine was glad this was so, since from all she had learned in months of study, Kitten would be an infant for thirty years.

“Well, they look nice, but they're cold and proud. And something's wrong. Maura says the mage from Carthak is canoodling with her sister—Lady Yolane, she is.” Daine yawned. “If Lord Belden knows, he doesn't seem to care. Put out the light, Kit, there's a girl.”

Kitten whistled, and the candle went out. Muttering softly, she curled up with her back against Daine. Within seconds they were asleep.

She was dreaming that she ran with the pack, the scent of elk full and savory in her nostrils, when a voice boomed in her long skull: “Daine. Daine.”

Wolf body whirling, jaws ready to snap, she realized she was in bed, waking up. A gentle hand on her shoulder tugged her upright. For a brief moment she saw as a wolf saw, with grays and blacks and white the sole colors of her vision. The shadowy figure over her, lit by pale fire, doubled, then steadied back into one form. It was Numair. He had lit no candles; instead, the shimmer of his magic filled the room with a dim glow.

She felt as if she hadn't slept. “What's the hour?” she asked, yawning.

“Just after the midnight watch.” His voice was so quiet it wasn't even a whisper, but she heard it clearly. “Pack. We're leaving.”

She blinked, wondering if she still dreamed. “
Leaving
? But—”

“Not here,” he ordered. “I'll explain on the road. Pack.”

She tumbled out of bed and did as she was told. Within minutes her saddlebags were ready and she was dressed. Numair poked his head through the inner door, which stood open once more, and beckoned for her and Kitten to follow.

He left the saddling of Spots, Mangle, and Cloud to her. She did it quietly, not wanting to rouse the hostlers. Kitten went into her carry-pack, an open saddlebag on Mangle that allowed her to see everything as she rode. At the last minute Numair gave Daine a handful of rags, and motioned for her to cover their mounts' feet, to muffle the sound of their shoes on the streets. “Did you leave money for our host?” she asked as she held Spots for Numair to mount.

“With a good tip over that, and a note of apology.” He got himself into the saddle, a process she could never watch without gritting her teeth, and motioned for her to mount up. She did so without effort.

Go, she told Spots. He wants silence over speed, I think.

It is just as well, the patient gelding replied, passing the inns gate with Daine and Cloud close behind. He is so tense, I think if I trotted, he would fall off. What's the matter?

He'll tell us, the girl promised. Do what you can to make him less tense.

I am a riding horse, not a god, was Spots's answer.

When they reached the trees where the road along the lakeshore crossed the river that flowed down from the western pass, Numair dismounted. Kneeling on the northern side of the crossing, he scratched a hole in the road, put something in it, and covered it over, patting the earth down firmly. Walking to the southern branch of the road, he performed the same curious rite.

“If you're leaving an offering to the crossroad god, his shrine is over there.” Daine pointed to the little niche where the god's statue rested.

“I'm not,” he replied, dusting his hands. He bowed to the small shrine. “No offense meant.” Remounting, he guided Spots onto the track that led west, and beckoned for Daine to ride beside him.

“What's all this?” she asked. “Usually you give warning if we have to skip out in the middle of the night.”

“I wanted things to seem normal when we got back to the inn, in case someone was listening. We
have to get out of here and warn King Jonathan, but I can't send a message from under this shield. Even if I were to succeed, Tristan and his friends would know of it.”

“And I guess you don't want them running off before we can get help.”

“Exactly. Whatever is going on at Dunlath is big. Anything in which Tristan Staghorn is involved is a danger to the kingdom.”

“But he said he didn't work for the emperor anymore.”

“In addition to his other talents, he is an accomplished liar.”

Hearing iron control in his voice, Daine shivered. It took a great deal to anger Numair Salmalín. She would not give a half copper for the well-being of someone who
did
make him angry. “Then why let us go? Surely he knew when he saw you that there'd be trouble.”

“He let us go because he dumped enough nightbloom powder in my wine to keep me asleep for a century. As far as he knows, I drank it.”

“Did you?”

He smiled mockingly. “Of course not. Those years of working sleight-of-hand tricks in every common room and village square between Carthak and Corus weren't wasted. The wine ended up on the floor, under the table.”

“He should've known you'd see the potion.”

“Not particularly. When we were students, I had no skill in the detection of drugs or poisons. I knew
nothing
practical. People are impressed that I am a black robe mage from the Imperial University, but black robe studies cover esoterica and not much else. Yes, I can change a stone to a loaf of bread,
if
I want to be ill for days and
if
I don't care that there will be a corresponding upheaval elsewhere in the world. Much of the practical magic I have learned I acquired here, in Tortall. From the king, in fact.”

“But if it's just Tristan shielding this place, can't you break through? Oh, wait—you think those other two wizards are helping him.”

He smiled. “There were
five
mages in that banquet hall. Tristan called Masters Redfern and Gardiner merchants, but if they are, it is only as a cover occupation. They have the Gift, too.”

Daine guessed, “Another thing Tristan doesn't know you can tell?”

The man nodded. “From the way the others defer to him, he is in charge of what is transpiring here. That means this affair is the emperor's business. Tristan has been his dog for years—only Ozorne can tell him where to bite.”

“Nice,” growled Daine. “Then Tristan did for the Ninth Riders?”

“I'm afraid so, magelet. It is probable those missing soldiers met the same fate as well.”

“He's got a lot to answer for,” she snapped.
“
And
that emperor. But why here? Why take an interest in Dunlath, of all places?”

“That's an excellent question. I would like to have it answered. Ozorne does
nothing
unless there is something in it for him. What could Dunlath offer the Emperor Mage?”

A half-familiar whisper made Daine look around, then up. Suddenly she felt exposed on the riverbank. “Where can we get under cover?”

“I see trees over there—”

Mangle, Spots, the trees, she ordered silently. Fast!

The horses leaped forward. Numair almost fell before he grabbed his saddle horn. I thought we broke him of not holding onto the reins when he rides, Daine said to his mount as their group hid under the trees.

I thought so, too, replied Spots.

Dismounting, the girl went forward until she could see the sky. A pair of odd shapes reeled overhead, outlined by moonlight, their presence an unpleasant shadow in her mind. It took a moment to identify what she saw: bat wings, spread wide to lift a body not made for flight. Long, wedge-shaped heads craned, searching the ground below. Only when the great creatures gave up and flew north did she see them clearly against the just-past-full moon. They were horses, and something was wrong with their feet.

She had met winged horses. They were shy creatures who tended to keep out of human sight. She sensed them as she could other immortals, and their presence in her mind was never unpleasant.

Returning to Numair and the horses, she asked softly, “If a winged horse is an evil immortal—if something's
wrong
with one—would it have a special name?”

“Hurrok,” Numair said. “The name is a slurring of ‘horse-hawk.' They have a carnivore's fangs, and claws, not hooves. Their eyes are set forward in their skulls, as a predator's are.”

“Goddess bless,” she whispered, her skin prickling. “That's
awful
.”

“Is that what you sensed? Hurroks?”

“Yes,” she said, remounting Cloud. “And I did once before, too. I think it was the first night we were at the wolves' meeting place.” Listening to the animal voices all around, she heard familiar ones. She called to them, and they agreed to come. “Let's wait a moment,” she suggested. “The pack's near.”

“Daine, I want to be out of this valley by dawn.”

“Don't worry,” she told him. “I said they're close, didn't I? We can ride a little more if it will make you happy.”

“It—stop.” He held up a hand, as if he listened for something. “They know we're gone,” he said at last. “They're searching along the net.”