Sun Wolf 1 - The Ladies Of Mandrigyn (39 page)

He thought again of Altiokis.

Very softly, he turned and started back toward the streets of the town.

Like the flare of a far-off explosion, amber light sprang into view in the darkness of a pillared arch. Curiously hard-edged, a glint of light fell like a round hand from there onto his shoulder, and the Dark Eagle’s voice said, “Good morning, my barbarian.”

The chief of Altiokis’ mercenaries materialized from the shadows. In one hand he held a sword; in the other, a mirror.

A faint, steely rattle sounded and men stepped from behind pillars, from around the turrets and gargoyles, and from the black pockets of shadow behind the columns of the gatehouse stair. Flattened back into a niche, Sun Wolf found himself facing a battery of arrows, the bows straining at full draw. He let his sword hand fall empty to his side.

“No, no, by all means, draw your weapon,” the Eagle eluded. “You can throw it here at my feet.” When Sun Wolf did not move, he added, “When you’ve lost enough blood to pass out, we can always take it from you, I suppose. My lord Altiokis will not be pleased to receive you in a damaged condition—but believe me, my barbarian, he will receive you alive.”

The blade clattered on the stone pavement. The Dark Eagle snapped his fingers, and a man ran warily out to fetch it.

The mercenary captain flashed the mirror in the torchlight, his eyes glinting pale and bright under the dark metal of his helmet. “We were warned you’d grown trickier. You can fool the eyes of a man, my friend, but not a piece of glass. Hold your arms out to the sides, shoulder-high. If you touch the men who are going to put the bracelets on you, you may find yourself conducting your interview with my lord Altiokis from a stretcher on the floor. So.”

“Who told you I’d be here?” Sun Wolf asked quietly as the irons were locked to his wrists. He shivered at their touch—there were spells forged into the metal of the bracelets and into the five feet of chain that joined them.

The Dark Eagle laughed. “My dear Wolf—your secret is how you’ve acquired your wizard tricks, mine is how we learned where and when you would make your break. Ask your precious ancestors about it. You’ll be seeing them soon, but not, I daresay, soon enough.”

Starhawk heard the hoofbeats of the cavalcade long before they emerged from the gray mists. She was in the open country of stubble fields, not far from the walls of Mandrigyn; there was but little cover beyond the fog itself. Still, they sounded to be in a hurry.

She scrambled down the dead and matted vines of the roadside ditch and curled herself half under a tangle of gray and web-spun ivy just above the brim of the ice-cold water. Yesterday the water in the ditches had been scummed with ice and every leaf rimmed with a white powder of frost, but the weather seemed to have turned. In a few more weeks it would be spring.

Pebbles thrown from the hooves of the horses clattered around her. She heard the brisk jingling of mail and the rattle of weapons and trappings. She estimated the force to be a largish squadron, between fifteen and twenty riders. Yesterday at the crossroads, where the wide trade road from the Bight Coast joined the Mandrigyn Road up to the Iron Pass, she’d found the unmistakable spoor of a huge force going from the Citadel to the city and the marks, not many hours old, of a smaller force returning. Yet this road was also marked with cart traffic, farmers taking vegetables to town, so at least the place wasn’t under siege.

Starhawk lay with her head down under the wiry thicket of the vines, listening to the riders pass, and wondered what she would do when she reached Mandrigyn.

Seek out Sun Wolf? He had said he was dying.

Seek out Sheera Galernas?

May his ancestors help the poor bastard,
Sun Wolf had said, who falls afoul of her.

The memory of the vision came back, the aching confusion of misery and despair and a weird, deep-seated peace. She had been right in her love for him, right to seek him, as, at the end, dying, he had sought her. But she had been too late—after months of journeying, she had missed him by less than a week.

And now he was dead.

She remembered his face, pain-ravaged and exhausted, and how warm the blood on his hands had been in contrast with the coldness of his flesh. What had happened to him in Mandrigyn?

Had Altiokis done that to him?

He said that he loved me.

She had tried to hate Fawnie for delaying her, but it had not been Fawn’s fault. All she had done was what the Hawk herself had done—sought for the man she loved. That she had been injured doing so was only due to the difference in their training; that she had found another sort of happiness altogether was something that the Hawk could not pretend couldn’t just as easily have happened to herself.

None of it changed the fact that she had been too late.

Anyog had lived for three days after the night of her vision, sinking gradually into deeper and deeper delirium. At first he had raved about the Hole, about Altiokis, about the spirit that dwelt in that sunless gap between worlds. Between tending him and hunting in the woods, she had had little time for other thought, or to wonder why she wanted to make this final conclusion to her quest.

When Anyog had died, she had buried him in the birch grove at the bottom of the valley, with tools she had found in the cell of the chapel’s former guardian. Whether because of the old man’s love for her, or because Sun Wolf’s death had broken some last wall of resistance within her soul—or simply because, she thought without bitterness, she had, after all, grown soft—she had wept over Anyog’s grave and had been unashamed of her tears. Tears might be a waste of time, she had thought, but she now had time; and the tears had been a medicine to her chilled soul.

The hoof beats faded into the distance. Starhawk got to her feet, brushing the damp ivy from her buckskin breeches and from the quilted sleeves of her much-stained black coat. It only remained for her to make her way to Mandrigyn and seek out Sheera Galemas, to ask her why and particularly how she had been able to carry off a full-grown and presumably protesting captain of mercenaries—and what had become of him.

The woman in the marketplace from whom she asked directions looked askance at Starhawk’s sword belt and brass-buckled doublet, but directed her without comment to the house of Sheera Galemas. It stood upon its own island, like so many of the great townhouses of that checkerboard city; from the mouth of the narrow street that debouched into the canal just opposite it, Starhawk studied its inlaid marble facade. Carved lattices of interlocking stone quatrefoils shaded the canal front arcades; red and purple silk banners, their bullion embroidery gleaming wanly with the lifting of the morning’s white mist, made stripes of brilliant color against the black and white starkness of the stone. Two gondolas were already moored at the foot of the black marble steps—a curious thing, the Hawk thought, at so early an hour.

She followed the narrow wooden catwalk that formed a footpath for a few dozen yards above the waters at the edge of the canal, crossing eventually by a miniature camelback bridge that led into the maze of alleys on the next islet. It was difficult to maintain any kind of sense of direction here, for the high walls of that crowded district cut her off from any glimpse of the roofline of Sheera’s house; but by dint of much backtracking over tiny bridges and through the twisting streets, she was eventually able to circle the grounds. From the catwalk along the wall of the nearby church-owned public laundry, she could look down into the grounds themselves and guessed that, with so much waste space, Sheera Galernas must be rich indeed. Behind the house stretched elaborately laid-out gardens, fallow and waiting for the rains to end, a big, boarded-up orangery and a string of new, glass-roofed succession houses, and a stable court and what looked like a pleasure pavilion or a bathhouse, brave with pillars of colored porphyry.

It occurred to Starhawk that there were an unnatural number of entrances to those grounds.

She glimpsed movement in an alleyway on an adjacent island and pressed herself back against the uneven brick of the laundry’s high wall. A stealthy figure descended the few steps that led from the alley’s mouth to the opaque green waters of the canal and glanced quickly to the right and left. From where she stood on the catwalk above, Starhawk could see the woman—for it was a woman, wrapped in a dark cloak—go to the cellar door of the last house on the alley and from it produce a plank, which she laid across the canal to a disused-looking postern door in Sheera’s back wall. In spite of the postern’s dilapidated appearance, it did not seem to be locked, nor, the Hawk noticed, did the hinges creak. The woman crossed, pulled the plank after her, and shut the door.

Curious, Starhawk swung down the rickety flight of steps and wound her way through the alleys to where the woman had been. The cellar door wasn’t locked; in the muddy-floored room lay quite a few planks.

Intrigued, Starhawk returned to the mouth of the alley. It led straight down into the dirty canal water, about two feet below. The stones of the alley were uneven, slimy and offensive with moss; she guessed this was the neighborhood dumping ground for chamber pots. Leaning around the corner of the tall house beside her, she could see the backs of all the houses along the curve of the canal; women were laying out bedding over the rails of makeshift balconies to air, and someone was dumping a pan of dishwater from a kitchen doorstep directly into the murk a few feet below. A couple of the houses had little turrets, with long green smears of moss on the walls below them to announce their function.

A quiet place, altogether, she thought, glancing back at the deep-set little door in the wall. It wasn’t the regular kitchen entrance—that was visible down at the far end of the wall, a double door and a kind of little step for deliverymen unloading from gondolas.

The Hawk had another careful look around, then fetched a plank from the cellar, as she had seen the furtive woman do. It just reached from the pavement to the doorsill; Starhawk realized that all these planks had been cut to the same length. She drew her sword, look a final look around, and slipped across.

The postern was unlocked. It opened directly onto a thicket of laurel bushes, which masked it from the main house. There was no one in sight.

Starhawk pulled in her plank and added it to the three that already lay concealed under the laurels. The ground here was trampled and grassless. As Ari would say, somebody had more up the sleeve than the arm.

Well, of course Sheera was involved in a cause—meaning a conspiracy. But whether she’d been able to involve Sun Wolf in it . . . 

The Hawk moved soundlessly around the edge of the laurel thicket and stopped, startled by what she saw.

The gardens were empty, the brown, formal hedges marching in elaborate patterns away toward the distant terrace of the main house. But here someone had quite recently half built, half excavated, a pocket-sized wilderness in one corner of those formal beds, the rocks settled like the bones of the sleeping earth, waiting for their attendant vegetation.

Sun Wolf had laid out those rocks.

She knew it, recognized his style in the shaping of them, the lie of the colored fissure in the granite, and the latent tension between large shapes and small. How she knew it she was not sure—the aesthetics of rock gardening was a subject she knew only through him—but she was as certain of it as those who could look upon a painting or hear a tune and say “This was created by that person.”

The warrior in her remarked, He was here, then, while some other part of her throbbed with a deep and unexpected ache, as if she had found his glove or his dagger.

And then, an instant later, an absurd thought crossed her mind: I knew good gardeners were hard to find, but this . . . !

She knew from working with him on the one at Wrynde that rock gardens like this were the work of days, sometimes weeks.

Steam billowed from the laundry quarters at the back of the house, drifting across the brown beds of the gardens. Voices came to her, like distant bird song.

A high, twittering voice insisted, “I’ve told you, he’s learned all he wants to know! There’s no danger! He’s looking for men, and looking in the Thanelands . . . ”

Among the bare white stems of the ornamental birch, Starhawk saw two people descending the terrace steps—a black-haired woman in purple and sables, with amethysts snagged in the dark curls that lay scattered across her shoulders, and a small, curiously childish shape pattering at her side, rattling with incongruous masses of heavy, jingling jewels, a king’s ransom in bad taste.

The dark-haired woman she recognized at once as Sheera Galernas.

“We don’t know that,” Sheera said.

The smaller woman said, “We do! I do. I heard them talk of it. Altiokis has no interest in questioning him. And Tarrin says—”

“Tarrin doesn’t know the situation here.”

The little woman looked shocked. “But he does! You’ve kept him informed . . . ”

“For God’s sake, Dru, that isn’t the same as being here!”

The women passed through the door of the orangery. As it shut behind them, Starhawk glimpsed other forms moving about inside.

Who, she wondered, had Altiokis taken for questioning or not for questioning, as the case might be? The hoof beats of the passing cavalcade returned to her with new meaning. Greatly interested, she slipped cautiously across the open space that separated her from the orangery and glided along its wall until she found an open window that let into a sort of potting shed built out of one wail. It was empty. She found it a simple matter to force the catch with her dagger and climb in unheard. The women in the main, boarded-up section of the building were talking far too intently to hear the small sounds of her feet.

Sun Wolf had been here. Looking about her in the gloom, she was virtually certain of it. He had been here and had worked here. She knew the way he habitually laid out things at his workshop back in Wrynde too well to think that another could have his same order of putting up those mysterious little medicines to succor ailing plants.