Through Wolf's Eyes (46 page)

Derian grinned. "I know your aunt, then," he said. "Goody Holly Gardener. She has befriended my wolf-girl, as you called her."

"Firekeeper," Hazel said, twinkling at his surprise,
for Lady Blysse's wolf-name was not commonly known. "Aunt Holly wrote
me when she heard you were coming here with
the
army, asking that I help as I might. She never realized that you and I
have been friends since you were but freckles and red hair."

She poured them tiny crystal glasses of her own
cherry cordial and they settled down to visit. Despite the relaxed
atmosphere, Derian was surprised when Doc himself opened the question
of the necessary herbs.

"Mistress Hazel," Doc said, "I am in great need of
several rare—and expensive—items for my medical use. I would like to
purchase them from you or, if that is not possible, have you act as my
agent in their purchase. I am willing to pay more for your complete
silence in that matter—and will do so, although I do not think such is
necessary."

Hazel, who a moment before had been laughing so hard
at one of Derian's stories that he had worried she had imbibed too much
of her own distilling, grew immediately serious.

"Tell me what you need," she said, "and unless it violates my guild's code, you will have it."

Their conversation became technical then. The one
thing Derian was certain of was that although Hazel did not say so, she
had both a good idea what Doc was preparing to concoct and for whom.
Nor did she ask questions when Jared bought a small jar of her famous
rose attar.

When they departed the shop, Doc's purse was much
lighter, for he had insisted on paying market rates and a bonus
besides, and the two men had several more bundles to stuff into their
jacket pockets.

"Come and see me again," Hazel said at the door. "Bring Firekeeper. I'd like to meet her."

"If I can, I will," Derian promised.

"And I with him," Jared added. "I think you have much you could teach me."

"Gladly," she said with a contented smile. "Gladly."

The streets were emptier now, but the noise from the
taverns louder. The two men walked briskly along, aware that human
predators seeking human prey would be prowling. Sober and in company,
they were not precisely worried— there was easier prey about—but they
saw no reason to invite
trouble. None sought them out, but others were not so lucky.

Past the market area, where residences mingled with
businesses and warehouses, they were drawn up short in their steps by a
shrill scream of pure terror.

Derian whirled, orienting on the sound. Doc pointed down a narrow alley at whose far end was just visible a flicker of light.

"There!" he said, starting to dash that way.

"No, you fool!" Derian said, grabbing his arm. "It could be a trap—a bait and hit!"

Doc shook him loose. "Then I'll fall for it!"

Cursing himself for behaving as no city-bred man
should, Derian ran after him. Their boots splashed in noxious puddles
of unseen mess. Doc bumped a pile of trash that squeaked and spewed
forth rats. Then they were in the open again.

They found themselves in a narrow street on which
just about every streetlamp had been blown out. In this scattered
light, a young woman, her black hair a cloud about her shoulders, was
holding off three men. Only the fact that she bore a sword and shield
while they were armed with knives had made this possible.

Even as Derian and Jared realized what was going on,
the boldest of the attackers darted forward. Raising his knife he made
a murderous slash. The woman blocked with her shield, but as she did so
the second darted forward and tangled her sword with his cloak. The
third was about to disarm her when Doc, unarmed except for his courage,
went charging forth.

His bellow halted the attackers in midmotion. The
woman took advantage of the momentary confusion to solidly bash the
first man with her shield. As he crumpled unconscious, she spun,
perhaps more from exhaustion than from skill, and Derian got a good
look at the device: a octagonal blue sapphire on a silver field.

"Hold on!" he yelled. "Rescue's here!"

Jared's momentum carried him into the second man, who
dropped his cloak and reached for his knife. Derian would have liked to
keep an eye on him, but found himself confronting
the
third man, the one who had been about to take Sapphire's sword. The
long knife in the bandit's right hand glittered wickedly, but Derian
didn't feel fear, only a dreadful clarity of focus on that shining
silver edge.

"Haallooo!" he hollered, drawing his own knife, a
more utilitarian item meant for cutting rope or minor trimming of
hooves. Fortunately, what it lacked in length and grandeur it made up
in sharpness. His first blow sliced his opponent along the left upper
arm—a miss since he'd meant to stab him in the chest, but effective
enough.

His opponent hit as well, a long slash down Derian's
right side that ruined his waistcoat and spilled packets of the
farrier's medicines onto the cobbles but otherwise did no damage. They
sparred for several moments longer, during which time Derian became
aware that Sapphire had joined Doc and the two were dealing effectively
with the remaining bandit.

Still, Derian wondered if they could reach him before
his luck ran out. Practice with sword and shield he had; he'd even been
in the occasional tavern brawl, but never before had he been in a
close-up fight with death or maiming as the goal. The thought was
fleeting, passing through his brain as he and his nameless opponent
traded blow and counter, dodged and struck as if they were partners in
some weird, unchoreographed dance.

Sometimes Derian felt his blade hit something solid.
Sometimes he was the solid thing hit—and hurt. More often there was the
empty swish of air against his knife.

The dreadful clarity of the first few seconds was
fading now, replaced by vagueness. Blood was sticky on Derian's left
arm. His own or his opponent's? The face before him kept fading in and
out.

Faintly, Derian heard a low howl, saw his opponent's
expression of focused cruelty transform into one of pure terror, and
then a dark and terrible shadow leapt onto his opponent.

When Derian looked again, there was a raw, red hole
where the man's throat had been and his body was limp, tumbling onto
the street, blood gushing once from that terrible hole, then ebbing to
a dribble.

A slim arm grasped Derian firmly around his waist. He struggled, and a familiar voice said:

"It's me, Derian!"

"Firekeeper?"

"It's me," she said, her voice fierce and choked. "The fight is over."

To his eternal relief and eternal embarrassment,
Derian Carter took one look at Firekeeper, saw the splash of red blood
across her face, and collapsed into a dead faint.

F
IREKEEPER VANISHED BEFORE THE NIGHT
watch arrived so resolving matters with the Hope town guard took less
time than Derian had dreaded. Sapphire's three attackers were known
criminals, unwanted elements even within Hope's comparatively easygoing
structure. Moreover, two of those who had been attacked were members of
the Hawk Haven noble class and the third was a personal servant of Earl
Kestrel.

After asking very few questions, the night watch took
the thugs away—one dead, two living, though one of these was badly
concussed—to the jail.

At Sapphire's request, the men did not take her to
her own tent, but to the Kestrel camp at the fringes of the larger Hawk
Haven encampment.

"I need," Sapphire explained, "a chance to clear my head. Mother will have questions. I need to know the answers."

Derian thought it odd that a woman of twenty-three
should be so worried about what her mother would think—especially when
the woman considered herself a fitting candidate for the throne—but he
was too aware of his place as Sapphire's social inferior to ask any
questions.

Instead, ignoring his own wounds, he concentrated on
his duties as host. Guiding Sapphire toward that same hillock on which
he had conferred with Doc just that afternoon, Derian explained:

"We won't wake anyone out here. Doc, go get your gear so you can look at her wounds."

Jared Surcliffe took Derian's order as a matter of
course, and if Sapphire looked offended at the young redhead's
presumption, Derian pretended not to notice.

"Earl Kestrel," Derian said, seating Sapphire where
she could lean against a rock and trying hard not to notice a spreading
stain of blood along her side, "is standing watch tonight with his
cavalry force so that one more could go on leave into town."

"I heard him being toasted in the tavern," Sapphire
commented, keeping her voice steady. "His men do love him. Strange, for
he's such a dour sort." She paused, "And, by the way, thank you for
coming to my aid."

"I was just following Doc's lead," Derian admitted, though her smile made him feel awfully good about himself.

" 'Doc' being Sir Jared?" Sapphire asked.

"That's right, Mistress. That's what we called him on our trip west and it just stuck."

"West . . ." Sapphire looked at him, perhaps saw him as a person for the first time. "You are?"

"Derian Carter, Mistress," he said, wishing he didn't
feel so tongue-tied. Sapphire was as different from Elise as night from
day, but no less captivating. "I work for Earl Kestrel."

"That's right," she said. "I remember you now, the red-haired youth who tends Lady Blysse."

Derian privately approved of her presence of mind.
He'd heard her call Firekeeper a few more uncomplimentary things when
she thought no one was listening. A crunching of boots on grass and a
detached star of lantern light announced Jared Surcliffe's return.

"Valet was awake," he said, "and had hot water on to
make some tea to bring the earl. I borrowed some. Now, Mistress
Sapphire, if I could attend to your wounds."

Inventory and treatment of their various cuts and
bruises took some time. Sapphire, thanks to sword and shield, had
escaped with mostly minor injuries, but a knife slash that had gotten
through her guard and sliced the fabric of her shirt on her right side
looked nasty. She also had countless
bruises and nicks on her hands caused by wielding her sword and shield without gloves.

Derian had several small nicks of his own, none
impressive, but all painful. His head ached abominably. Doc had escaped
virtually unscathed.

"Mistress Shield," Doc explained unashamed, "came to my rescue."

"After you came to mine," she reminded him. "Again, thank you both."

Jared produced a flask of good brandy from one of his pockets.

"The lady can use the cap for a cup," he explained,
pouring. "I also suspect that Valet will be here with the tea tray
momentarily. Don't worry, Mistress Sapphire. He'll never say a word to
anyone—not even Earl Kestrel—the soul of discretion, our Valet."

Sapphire accepted the cup gratefully and passed the flask to Derian.

"It doesn't matter overmuch," she said. "My mother will know and that's enough."

Derian swigged directly from the flask before passing
it back to Jared. The strong liquor cleared his head and made him
instantly bolder.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mistress Sapphire, but
how did you come to be out there alone? You've never struck me as one
to take foolish risks."

"I appreciate that," she said. "I . . . I went out
with my brother, Jet. I wanted to see something of the town and
everyone else was going somewhere interesting. Jet didn't want me to go
with him, but I convinced him that I had as much right as he did to
enjoy myself.

"He let me come with him—I guess since he couldn't
stop me—but I soon understood why Jet didn't want me around. His plan
was to get drunk and then . . ."

It was dark, but in the lantern light they could see her glance down in embarrassment.

Doc cut in, "We understand, Mistress."

Derian thought he sounded offended. Doubtless Sapphire would believe he was offended for her, which couldn't hurt,
but Derian suspected Doc's indignation was for Jet's insult to Elise.

"As soon," Sapphire continued, "as Jet got drunk
enough, he ditched me. I wandered around a bit and found myself in that
poky little street. Those men jumped me."

"A good thing you had your sword and shield," Derian said, allowing a slight questioning note to enter his voice.

"Luck," came the blunt reply. "I had scarred the
paint on my shield during our journey here. The armorer had white paint
with him, but not silver. I decided to see what someone in the town
could do . . ."

Ruefully, she looked at the newly battle-scarred
shield. The delicate silver work was scored in multiple places and
there was a large dent the size of a man's head.

"I understand better now," she said, false cheer in
her voice, "why white is a preferable substitute for silver, at least
for in the field. I shall make the change tomorrow and keep the silver
field for show."

They toasted her choice and as they did so Valet
shimmered up rather like magic with tea, cookies, and fruit neatly
arranged on a tray. He set this on the rock behind Derian and vanished
again.

"A remarkable man," Sapphire said. "May I pour?"

"Please do," Doc replied.

"What I would like to know," Derian asked the listening night, "is how Firekeeper happened to be there when we needed her."

Firekeeper stepped from the darkness. Blind Seer, his fur slightly damp, was with her.

"Tea?" Sapphire asked the newcomer, unable to keep a
slightly frosty note out of her voice. "I see that the remarkable Valet
has supplied a fourth cup."

"Thank you," Firekeeper said, accepting the proffered cup and hunkering down on her haunches.

"How
did
you happen to be there, Firekeeper?" Jared prompted.