The Jaguar Knights (8 page)

“Not like that,” Lynx muttered.

Flames! Wolf bit back another interruption. He was growing very uneasy.

She pounced. “Like what?”

“Not killing and violence.”

“Who was plotting to free her, and how?”

“Me.” Lynx spoke unhappily to his own toes. “Us. Least, we’d talked some about it. We worried about her sanity. Lately she’d taken to weeping and moaning for days on end. She’d stand on the high battlements, staring down at the surf, brooding. We stayed very close to her when she did that. We searched her room every day for knives or rope. That sort of thing.”

“She was always a wonderful actress,” Wolf said, earning another brotherly glare.

“A few months after Baroness Dupend was sent to Quondam,” Hogwood said, “she bore a child.”

“Athelgar’s, not Dupend’s!” Lynx shouted. “Everyone knew that.”

“It died within a few days?”

“Everyone celebrated! The Baron celebrated. Celeste was the only one who mourned.”

“Did you not mourn it?”

That was an unfair question, but Lynx answered before Wolf could object.

“No. No, we celebrated, too, thinking she might be released then, that the King might let her go and live somewhere better.” He stared down at his thick, scarred arms on the cover. “Even her Blades!”

“If the death of her child did not make her suicidal, then why this sudden concern for her sanity now?”

“How much cruelty can a woman take? Four years in jail? Four years of that awful climate? Four years of that awful husband? No ladies-in-waiting for company, no lady’s maids to dress her hair? All her gowns—remember, Wolf, she had three wagons with her when she left Grandon? All that stuff disappeared. She wore her jewels all day long and probably in bed, too, for all I knew. Everything else got pilfered—clothes, silverware, even furniture. All gone.”

“What did the Baron do about that?”

“He was behind it. He stole whatever he could and sold it. It was part of the deal, I think.”

“What deal?”

Lynx sighed. “We thought Athelgar threw in her jewels when he gave her to Dupend. Dupend seemed to think he had a right to them.”

That was reasonable, because if Athelgar felt an unwanted mistress was his to dispose of as he pleased, he would not scruple to deal off the finery he had given her.

The snoop said, “So what were you Blades planning?”

“We talked,” Lynx said grumpily, “
just
talked, about one of us riding into Lomouth to pawn a bracelet or something and hire a ship. Then the other two would bring her. We hadn’t gotten very far.”

And never would have, if the Baron had sent his men after them. But he might just have shouted, “Good riddance!” Wolf made a mental note to ask Hogwood about dower rights.

“So,” she said, “her Blades were plotting rescue but had not taken action?”

“That’s right.”

“And you know of no other plots?”

“None.”

“Could the Baron have faked this attack himself?”

Lynx snorted. “Never.”

This had gone far enough. “Can’t my brother be allowed to rest now? It would seem that he has cleared himself of any complicity in this affair.”

“Not necessarily.” Hogwood continued to stare snakily at her victim. “Sir Lynx, have you deceived me or tried to deceive me in any way, by omission or equivocation, misdirection or evasion?”

That catchall invitation to self-incrimination was a hoary inquisitorial trick, repeatedly denounced by the courts and repeatedly resurrected. Fortunately Lynx was aware of it. “I refuse to answer that.”

Intrepid walked in, ending the interrogation. If Wolf was not satisfied with Lynx’s story, he could not expect Hogwood to be.

T
he statements you wanted, Dolores,” Master of Rituals proclaimed breezily, handing her a sheaf of paper. “Also some evidence for your, um, weapons expert. Sir Alden brought this along when he ferried over the wounded.”

Intrepid enjoyed annoying people, especially people with any trace of authority. He handed Wolf a club as long as a man’s arm, carved from some dark wood. It was not too heavy to swing with one hand, although the leather-bound grip had space for two. The shaft was an intricate tangle of fanciful birds, beasts, and vegetation, flaring out like a paddle at the working end, which was inset with teeth of black stone. Three of the original four had broken off, no doubt when that part acquired its ominous bloodstains.

“It impresses me more as a work of art than a weapon,” Wolf said,
“but it could obviously damage people.” He tried it for size against the wounds on Lynx’s scalp. “I’ve never seen its like. Have you any idea where it came from?”

“No,” Intrepid said, “but Grand Master thought he did. We did not have time to discuss it before he left for Quondam.”

“No metal? Black stone, sharp as razors.”

“Allow me.” Hogwood took the weapon, giving Wolf in return the thick wad of eyewitness accounts, which she had already read. “This stone is volcanic glass, called obsidian. It fractures to extremely sharp edges. You will note that the design represents an animal’s paw, probably a cat’s—four operational claws and a smaller one set back so it is not engaged.”

“Dogs have feet like that.” Wolf hated being lectured.

“But dogs do not fight with their feet. And there are no dogs shown.” She was peering at the carvings. “Cats and birds—raptors, probably accipiters, and possibly buteos.” Know-it-all smartyskirts!

Intrepid was amused. “Send it to the Privy Council and let the royal falconers worry about it. I have put you in the Queen’s Tower, Dolores, since Baron Dupend has the Royal Suite. You will find a hot tub ready for you there. You, brother, will have the honor of sleeping in Grand Master’s bed.”

“No!” Wolf said. “I am not worthy.”

“We have nowhere else to put you.”

“I’ll bed down in his study.”

“I wish you a comfortable night there.”

Wolf understood the sneer a little later, when he reached the study and found it in chaos: floorboards missing, half a fireplace, stacks of building materials everywhere. Ironhall had been already crowded. With Vicious anxious to replace all the old Ambrose and Malinda men, enrollment had been raised to record numbers and more knights had been brought in to instruct. The Quondam wounded had filled the infirmary.

Wolf picked his way across to the tower door and went up to Grand Master’s chamber. Unlike other knights who moldered away in Ironhall, Durendal was a wealthy man, and he had already refurbished the turret with opulent rugs and elegant furniture, very unlike the school’s usual
relics. A hearty fire was driving off the chill and illuminating down-filled quilts and silken sheets, shelves of leather-bound books, golden candlesticks, a carved alabaster inkstand on the escritoire. Three oil paintings—a strikingly beautiful young woman, a boy, and a girl—were clearly from some master’s brush. Wolf felt like a trespasser.

When he had made himself presentable, he headed down to the inevitable pre-dinner assembly, aware that he would be made to feel like a trespasser there, too. Except for Grand Master and a few others, the knights spurned Wolf the Blade-killer.

Eight or ten knights were already present, as were Inquisitor Hogwood and Master of Rituals Intrepid, who was obviously enjoying the sensation she caused. A few fogeys sulked in the background, shocked to see a Dark Chamber snoop allowed inside Ironhall, but the rest had crowded in to enjoy rare female company. Some would not have seen a woman in years. She wore inquisitorial robes of plain black, without adornments, her sable hair was gathered in a caul, yet adulation converted her into a reigning monarch and her perfectly ordinary chair into a throne. No one could have told from her looks that she had ridden almost thirty hours over winter roads.

Wolf entered unnoticed and accepted his usual goblet of well-watered wine from old Hurley. Sir Bowman, the new Master of Sabers, made him welcome with his usual wry humor and they stood back to watch as each newcomer reacted to the situation by drifting into one party or the other. The pro-Hogwood faction was ahead by about twelve to seven when a voice like a very rusty trumpet screeched out at their backs.

“Even inquisitors are better than murderers.”

“Even female inquisitors are!” croaked another.

The room stilled. Wolf glanced across at Intrepid, who just shrugged. He turned to face the withered remains of Sir Etienne and Sir Kane, Ironhall’s oldest inhabitants. Kane had been bound by Ambrose III and bore the unwelcome title of Father of the Order, being over ninety. Etienne could not be far behind, and neither seemed capable of supporting the weight of the cat’s-eye swords they still had the audacity to wear. They had gummed Wolf before, but always Grand Master—whether
Parsewood or Durendal—had snapped them back to heel. Tonight Grand Master was in Quondam and his stand-in did not want to spoil the fun.

“Arundel he slaughtered!” Etienne quavered. “And young Rodden.”

“And Hotspur!” Kane yelled. He was as deaf as a rock and almost toothless. “And Cedric! And Warren!”

There was no way to deal with this horrible pair except to remain silent. Normally Wolf never cared what they said, but tonight Hogwood was listening.

“I don’t think Cedric was one of mine,” he said. “He died of old age years ago.” He wished certain others would, and soon.

“What’s he say?” Kane demanded.

“Jared, then! Your brother in the Order and you murdered him!”

Bowman intervened. “They wanted to die, you old fools. Their wards were plotting treason! They were torn between their binding and their loyalty to the King. If not Wolf it would have been the entire Order coming after them or the Household Yeomen or gangs of thugs with nets and clubs. That meant arrest and trial and madness. Wolf gave them an honorable way out, one last glorious duel to the death with a brother Blade. Wouldn’t you have chosen that, a fair fight?”

Kane sprayed anger. “Shameless slayer! Apostate!” He hadn’t heard a word.

“Quintus!” Etienne quavered. “What about Sir Quintus, eh? Quintus won the Cup two years in a row and you’ll not convince me you were ever good enough to kill Quintus! Not in a fair fight.”

Wolf shuddered at the memory. Why did they have to drag up that one? Quintus had been a senior when he was admitted to Ironhall. Quintus had been his hero. Seeming to lose his temper was easy.

“You besmirch my honor, you foulmouthed old stinkard?” he roared. “Draw and defend yourself.” He slapped the dotard’s face, less gently than he intended.

Etienne staggered back, bewildered. Some of the onlookers howled in horror at a mass murderer challenging so old a man. A few others guffawed, but Wolf had driven the game beyond reason, as he intended.

Intrepid jumped forward to steady the tottering ruin. “Very droll,
brother, but not seemly when we have a lady guest. Brothers, shall we go in to dinner?”

Playing his role as Acting Grand Master, he led the procession into the hall with Hogwood on his arm. Wolf attached himself to the end of the line, although a member of the Guard should have been given precedence; indeed, as bearer of the king’s writ, he could have claimed the throne itself, but that was traditionally reserved for Grand Master or the sovereign. Intrepid ignored tradition by planting his hindquarters on it and then smirking around at the angry glares of the other knights. Why had Roland, with his astoundingly keen eye for people, left this popinjay in charge during his absence? Life was beset with mysteries.

The meal dragged interminably. A fair storm blew outside, making the myriad blades dangling overhead thrum a restless jingle. Newcomers were supposed to stare up at the sky of swords in terror when that happened, but Hogwood ignored it and chattered instead to her neighbors, Intrepid and Master of Sabers. That night the seniors ate their meal without ever taking their eyes off her. Wolf was mostly concerned with trying not to yawn.

The meal was followed, as always, by a reading from the
Litany of Heroes.
Intrepid did not invite the visiting guardsman to do the honors, as was customary. Typically, he chose one of the most recent entries, but it was at least brief and gave no details.

“Number 301, Sir Reynard, who on 14th Fifthmoon, 392, died defending his ward. Let us pay tribute to our fallen brother.”

Wolf stared out over the hall but no one met his eye.

Then Intrepid presented Inquisitor Hogwood, sent by His Majesty to investigate the atrocity at Quondam, and asked if she would care to say a few words. Wolf was sure she had not been forewarned, but she never hesitated.

“It would be more appropriate for a Blade to address Blades and future Blades. Sir Wolf?”

Wolf rose to face angry silence. He gave them four sentences. He mentioned the King’s decree of secrecy and paid tribute to the gallant defenders who had died at Quondam, especially the two Blades, who had been true to the ancient traditions of their Order. “I swear to you
all,” he concluded, “that Inquisitor Hogwood and I will fulfill His Majesty’s solemn command. We
will
discover the culprits and we
will
see them brought to justice!”

The moment he sat down old Bowman was on his feet, applauding. Tancred picked up the cue. The boys followed Prime’s lead. Then everyone had to join in the standing ovation, even Etienne and Kane, who could not have a clue who was being cheered. The King’s Killer sat in angry silence as the hall rang and the sky of swords overhead thrummed in approval. He had never been given a standing ovation before. He was sure he would never get another, and this one was for a foolish boast he had no hope of ever carrying out.

A
single candle flame danced nervously to the shutters’ castanets and the wailing flutes of wind in the eaves. Wolf had reports to read, but even that slight activity must wait upon some rest. His body dropped gratefully onto Grand Master’s bed and went to sleep at once, eager to do whatever it is bodies do to repair extreme exhaustion. His mind remained alert. At such times he tended to worry about his ward and whether the sex-crazed halfwits of the Guard were keeping proper care of him in his absence. He forced it to consider the Quondam problems instead. Why had the King chosen him, why had the Dark Chamber chosen Hogwood, why had the intruders squandered so many lives to so little purpose? Strangest question of all—why Celeste?