The Jaguar Knights (20 page)

She warded her bag and left it there, locking the door the same way she had opened it.

The taproom was almost deserted at that hour in the morning, smelling pleasantly of beer and new bread. A spotty boy was spreading fresh sawdust on the floor, Montpurse himself was wiping the tables. He was a trim man of middle years, whose flaxen hair was fading away altogether rather than turning white. His sky-blue eyes, which normally twinkled with professional bonhomie, were wary now as he insisted he had not seen Sir Lynx leave and had not spoken with him since he arrived.

An inquisitor and a royal guardsman together could demand and get very nearly anything they wanted, but Wolf had always preferred handshakes to arm wrestling. “I am his true brother, master.”

“I am aware of that, Sir Wolf.” It was the inquisitor that bothered him.

“We are on his side, I swear. The matter is extremely urgent. There has been a change of plan and we need to warn him.”

Hogwood interrupted. “Summon the rest of your staff. He may have asked directions of someone.”

“I’m sure he did not,” Wolf said. “We’ll call back in an hour or so, master. Ask him to wait if you see him, please.” He chivvied Hogwood out to the spring drizzle. “Lynx is a Blade! His ward lived in Greymere so he knows the terrain here like he knows his ward’s face. What did you think he might have asked for?”

“A pawn shop.”

“A fence, you mean. He’d go straight to Greasy Tom’s. Come on.”

Tom’s was three alleys east and a mile down the social scale. Women
shorter than Hogwood would have to stoop to enter that dingy, gloomy basement, and neither she nor Wolf could straighten under its ancient beams. The agglomeration of junk down there had changed little in the five years since he had first seen it, and perhaps in the fifty or so since Tom acquired the store. A lack of buyers was hardly surprising, because the stock reeked of dirt and vermin and was barely visible. Greasy Tom had no desire to sell any of it, for then he would have had to go to the trouble of replacing it, and his real income came from fencing stolen goods. He was reputed to pay Blades top value for any trinkets their ladies gave them. There were bad apples in every barrel if you dug deep enough, and Tom probably made a handsome living off the Guard alone.

Their entry provoked spidery noises in back, until the nasty gnome came shuffling in from whatever horrors lay beyond the far door. He was a tiny, wizened scab of a man, smelly, corrupt, and old as the hills. He knew Wolf for a Blade at first glance, and bared a few dark stumps of teeth in a smile of welcome before he registered the inquisitor in the gloom. Then he shrank back like something slimy withdrawing into its shell.

“We have information,” Hogwood said in tones grim enough to make any spine tingle, “that today you purchased a gold ring bearing a stone in the shape of an eagle’s head.”

Tom hunched even smaller, shaking his head but being careful not to speak. Wolf thought he looked as guilty as a dog with blood on its muzzle, but his opinions were not evidence.

Hogwood’s were. “Did you? The article we are seeking belongs to His Majesty. Answer my questions. If you lie to me I shall call the Watch.”

Tom moaned. “How was I to know it was stolen? I did not know! The man was a Blade. Aren’t Blades always honest?”

“No!” Wolf said, for now he had a thief for a brother. “But always dangerous.” He clicked
Diligence
up and down in her scabbard. “Hand it over.”

“I’ll fetch it, Sir Blade.”

Hogwood nodded, so Wolf did not follow the spider as it withdrew
into its web. It soon came crawling back to give her the ring, staying well away from the swordsman.

“How much did you give him?”

“Ten crowns, mistress.”

Wolf had paid twice that for it.

“Do you want a receipt?” she asked. “Or shall we forget this happened?”

He gaped a toothless maw at her. “Forget what happened, mistress?”

“Let’s go,” Wolf said.

It was a relief to be back out in the street just to breathe, and in Grandon that was a damning comment indeed. They took shelter under an overhang and watched rain dance in the mud.

“Where now?” he asked bitterly. “The docks?” He was trying to recall exactly what the Baron had told him the previous evening—information Lynx had certainly taken to heart. Chivian trade with the Hence Lands was small, Roland had said, maybe six ships a year, and most of those left from western ports, not Grandon. None would set sail in Secondmoon, certainly, so Lynx’s best strategy would be to cross the narrow seas to Thergy or Isilond, and either ship out from there directly or work his way south to Distlain, although officially Distlain still banned all foreigners from the new lands it claimed.

“Or livery stables,” Hogwood said. “We’d do better to wait for the tracker than run around blind.”

“Then let’s eat,” Wolf said. “That’s an old campaigner’s advice—fill your belly whenever you get the chance. We may have a long day ahead of us.” The moment he reported back to the palace, his brother would be a thief on the run.

T
hey went back to the Pine Tree to eat pork pie and cheese, both of which were good there. Wolf ordered small beer because his binding
made anything stronger taste like bile after the first few mouthfuls. Hogwood shocked him yet again by ordering porter.

Between taking manful swigs, she scorched him with her great innocent eyes. “You realize that this is goodbye, Wolf?”

“I’m sorry.” It was true—no other lovely girl called him Wolf. “Why?”

“I failed in my mission. I’ll be transferred elsewhere.”

“No promotion?”

She frowned as she cut a tiny slice of pie. “I was still hoping for one grade. Now I doubt it. We missed Celeste’s pin, so we got everything wrong.”

“I’m sorry. And very sorry it’s goodbye.”

She smiled sadly. “I’ll have to find another monster to fall in love with.”

After a moment’s chewing, he said, “That may be kindly meant, but it still hurts. Not the monster part. I know I’m a monster. But don’t joke about love. You relayed an employment offer, I turned it down. Don’t be hypocritical, blathering about love.”

She reached across the table to him. “Wolf…truly, I am in love with you!”

He ignored her hand. “If you’re feeling lusty it’s my binding getting to you, that’s all. I can’t shut it off completely. Sorry.”

“It isn’t! I know what a Blade attack feels like. It’s like being drowned in honey! Lynx’s been trying to climb in my bed ever since Quondam. I am protected to some extent, but it was only being in love with you that let me hold out. One more night and—”

“Lynx wouldn’t do that!”

“Wolf, Wolf! You’re a child!”

No, she was the child, but he discovered he believed her and his anger veered. “I wish you’d told me. I’d have stunned him.”

She shook her head, amused. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have snarled at him, but you love him too much to hurt him. And he loves you. He told me you’d always been father and mother to him.”

“And why would he have told you that?” Wolf asked suspiciously.

She flashed the wicked little grin he had come to both fear and
enjoy. “He asked me if we were bed partners. I said we weren’t, because I knew what he had in mind. I hoped you’d see what he was up to and get jealous. And you didn’t even notice!” She took a draft of porter. “Served me right—I surely had my hands full from then on!”

“Well you missed your chance. He’s gone, I’m sure.”

“If he caught the tide, he is.”

“How do you know the state of the tide?”

“You can see the river from the palace.” She grinned in childish triumph—one more point to her.

“He has ten crowns and some silver I gave him. Can he get to Tlixilia on that?”

“I think Lynx could get to Tlixilia on one copper groat as long as he had his sword and his binding was driving him.”

“Likely.” The problem was not Lynx, it was Athelgar. If that man truly appreciated his Blades and what they gave up in his service, he would recompense Lynx for four years’ lost wages and give him every possible help to go in search of his ward. But a better man would never have bound Lynx to a strumpet in the first place.

“Dolly!” said a new voice. “Mother’s looking for you.”

The youth standing over them was slight of build, with whiskers too scanty to hide boyish rosy cheeks, but he was wiry enough to be dangerous. The dagger on his belt would almost qualify as a short sword. Young men who went armed with things like that were liable to be questioned by the Watch unless they were dressed like gentlemen, and this boy’s fustian jerkin and cheap hose suggested a clerk or secretary.

Hogwood frowned at him. “Tomorrow.”

“She needs help with the apples.”

“Get Frank to help!”

The youth shrugged and then curled his lip at Wolf. That sort of open contempt usually heralded an insult inviting a fight. Royal guardsmen were forbidden to brawl with either fists or swords, but they had been known to treat chronic bad manners with minor surgery.

“Put it in writing, Flicker!” Hogwood snapped.

He shrugged and walked away.

“An inquisitor,” Wolf said. “You were talking code.”

She emptied her tankard and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “
Mother
meant they want me for an important assignment right away.
Apples
means Flicker himself is probably going to lead it. I told him to eat rocks. Let’s see how the tracker is doing.”

They headed for the stair, and Hogwood walked as straight as Wolf did.

“You were showing off there, weren’t you?” he said. “You’re not tipsy in the slightest.” Quaffing a pitcher of porter that fast would blur a blacksmith, let alone a sylph like her.

She laughed and squeezed his hand. “It’s a Dark Chamber party trick.”

“I’m not Lynx,” he said, hurt.

“That wasn’t what I intended!”

No? When she knew they must go back to the bedroom?

She allowed him a proper look at the tracker that time. It seemed to be an octagonal tile with the painting of a swallow on it, except that the image swiveled on the ceramic like a compass needle.

“A good strong trail,” she announced when they reached the street. “You go in front.”

The coming of noon and some sunshine was bringing out the crowds, but people made way for a man wearing a sword, so he led, turning corners as directed from behind. He was annoyed to discover that Lynx had known a shorter route to Greasy Tom’s than he had. They did not go in; Hogwood picked up the trail returning, then veering off toward the river.

Big ports like Grandon were busy, smelly, noisy, and endlessly fascinating. The people, the ships, the goods, the birds…even otherwise nondescript buildings and wagons gained reflected luster on a water-front. Wolf was not in a mood to admire scenery that day, though. He kept hoping they would find Lynx on a ship waiting for the next tide, or prowling the dockside taverns looking for a berth, but the spirits of chance withheld their support.

Wolf stopped with his toes on the edge of a pier and only rain-dimpled, garbage-speckled river below them. Hogwood ran into his back. Yellow-eyed gulls on the pilings stared curiously at them. He asked
three men before finding one who could tell him that the last vessel to use that berth had been the
Lady Polly,
departed for Gevily on the morning tide.

They turned and retraced their steps.

“Gevily,” Wolf said hopefully. “Wrong direction. I might be able to catch him in Gevily.” Except that Wolf was still a bound Blade and could not desert his ward.

Hogwood took his arm. “He just needed to get out of Chivial. He’ll jump ship when she puts in for water, in Isilond or Thergy. He’s a grown man, Wolf. He’s driven by his binding and there’s no way you or anyone can stop him. What could you have done if we’d caught him?”

“I could have taken that accursed plate off him so he isn’t leaving Chivial as a fugitive. I have some money I could have given him—not much, but some. I could maybe have persuaded him to wait until we organized some help for him, some proper finance perhaps….”

He could have said goodbye! But Lynx was gone, and all for the sake of a shoddy trinket and a king who didn’t know the meaning of gratitude. He could never dare return.

Wolf walked in silence most of the way back to Thistle Street, his hatred of Athelgar boiling like vomit. At the tavern door, Hogwood caught his arm again, and this time pulled him into a corner, away from the passersby. “Wolf, the assignment Flicker was telling me about is Tlixilia.”

“You’re joking! They’d send you into that fever-pit jungle? Pirates and cannibals and death?”

She nodded. “Think about it. We…the Dark Chamber…we had no warning of Quondam. It took us completely by surprise. It means Chivial has enemies we’ve never suspected. Thanks to you and Lord Roland, we now know
Who
killed all those people, but we still don’t know
Why
and we do not have a clue about
How
! Of course we must send people to investigate! Of course one of them must be a conjurer, and I’m the best they’ve got who isn’t senile. The Chamber will do anything it can to get its hands on that enchantment!”

Most of that made sense. Sending a child like Dolores did not.

“I just want you to know,” she went on, her fingers still tight on his
arm, “that if I run across any trace of Sir Lynx there, then I’ll do whatever I can to help him.”

“Is this a final desperate effort to enlist me?”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “It’s a final miserable goodbye. Will you kiss me, Wolf? Just once?”

Trust her? Dare he trust her? He had worked with snoops before, more often than any Blade ever had, probably. He’d picked up a little of their code. “Put it in writing,” she had told Flicker, and then she’d said it meant he was to go and eat rocks. But that was not what “Put it in writing” meant. It meant something like “The mission is proceeding as planned. Target will be met or exceeded.”

So what if it was?

“Would they still send you if you were married?” he asked.

Oh, spirits! Could even an inquisitor fake that look of joy?