Wolf Captured (32 page)

Firekeeper had never indulged in tail-sniffing. She got little from it other than odor, but she had learned to let any wolves get a good sniff of her scent. Now, though she was still uncertain just how safe she and Blind Seer were among these strangers, she crouched and let the One Female poke her nose here and there, finishing with a lick across Firekeeper’s face.

“You smell something like a two-legs,” came the assessment, “but there is no doubt there is something of the wolf about you, too. Your manners are good, a credit to those who reared you. Is there a name by which you prefer to be called?”

“My pack calls me Firekeeper,” the woman replied, well aware that there was a measure of respect implied in the name.

“And I am called Blind Seer,” the blue-eyed wolf said, asserting his rights One to One by not waiting to be asked. “Are we welcome in your hunting grounds, or would you have us go elsewhere?”

The One Female glanced over at her mate, and though Firekeeper couldn’t tell how, in the fashion of married couples of all types, he communicated his answer to his mate.

“We will let you hunt among us,” the One Female said. “Better with us than with one of the other packs. We have some familiarity with the two-legs, and you are interesting.”

Firekeeper stiffened at this implication that she was being lumped in with humanity. The One Female guessed the meaning of the wolf-woman’s reaction and panted laughter.

“Lay down your hackles, Firekeeper. What I mean is that as our hunting grounds border on the place where the humans have their lair, we are more accustomed to seeing them. Thus we are better able to see how you are not entirely like them.”

The female hunter broke the silence the pack had held until their Ones had decided how to deal with the strangers.

“Not entirely like,” she said softly, her upper lip curling as she scented the air.

All the wolves were closing now, and much sniffing was going on. Firekeeper braced herself to be welcoming, for in all honesty—other than the times her pack had met with others for hunting of larger game and the pleasure of shared company and new voices in the songs—this was her first encounter with so many wolves who were not her family. During all those other times, her parents had been present to assert their authority in her favor.

The wolf pack introduced themselves in order of rank. The One Male and Female were Tangler and Hard Biter. The female hunter was Moon Frost, a descriptive name that told little about her personality. The young two-year-olds still had puppy names. The female was Nipper and the male High Howler. The old male was Neck Breaker, doubtless in memory of some long-ago achievement.

Having decided to let the newcomers hunt among them, the Wise Wolf pack took Firekeeper and Blind Seer back to where this year’s pups were denned. There were five pups, three females and two males. Their nursemaid was a sibling of Nipper and Howler, a skinny wolf with a playful attitude. He was called Rascal when his fellows were pleased with him and all manner of insults when they were not.

It was a good-sized pack, though not overwhelmingly so. They could support themselves off of the local deer and small game, with occasional forays for larger game like moose and elk. Indeed, it was not a pack all that different from that in which Firekeeper had been reared, but she couldn’t help but feel that these wolves—she decided to continue thinking of them as Wise Wolves, to differentiate them from the Royal Wolves who had raised her—were strange still.

The pack went hunting in the early evening when the day creatures were stupid with sleep and the night creatures not yet fully awake. Firekeeper with her bow acquitted herself well, but the Wise Wolves had lived in proximity to humans for generations. They knew how bows worked, and while mildly pleased to have one on their side, they were not impressed.

Nor were they particularly impressed with her ability to strike fire from flint and steel. Moon Frost sneered at Firekeeper’s need to cook her food, but Firekeeper had dealt with several seasons of strong young hunters who needed to prove themselves by mocking those weaker. She bit her tongue and kept silence, though she longed to challenge the other.

And could you win?
she asked herself, and had to admit that she was far from certain.

After eating was done, the pack settled in to gossip and nap, interested in what Blind Seer could tell them about the lands to the north. Firekeeper resolved to listen more than speak, determined to learn everything she could, and knowing that the novelty of her would take time to wear off. Better to let them forget that she was there and concentrate on Blind Seer.

Watching the One Male effortlessly crack a bone, Firekeeper wondered at her own arrogance in thrusting herself into this company—especially as she had done so with every intent of telling them she was there to free them from an alien and terrible imprisonment. If these wolves were imprisoned, they certainly felt no shame.

You have been too much among two-legs
, Firekeeper thought,
and have forgotten how dangerous wolves can be
.

It was an unsettling thought to carry with her into sleep.

VARJUNA KEPT THE TALK FOCUSED ON horses as they drove to u-Bishinti. He asked when Derian had received his first pony and what type it had been, what had been the first horse he had selected for himself, what his family tended to do with horses past the prime age for work. As the ikidisdu learned more, he asked about the purchasing Derian had been doing for House Kestrel’s depleted stables, about the trips Derian had made to horse fairs with his father. Varjuna wanted to know if Derian could drive—as if with a name like “Carter” Derian could not—and what style vehicle he preferred.

At first, Derian thought Varjuna was just making conversation. Then he began to wonder. Varjuna wasn’t a subtle man as the politically astute Earl Kestrel was subtle, but he wasn’t just a monomaniacal horse fancier either. His reaction to learning about Roanne’s death had been indignant and quietly angry, but not shocked, so that Derian began to believe Varjuna had been told in advance.

Who would have told him? Only a small number of people knew: Harjeedian, Barnet, and the sailors who had been on the small ship. Waln might have known, and perhaps the ship’s captain, but would they have attached any importance to the event? Waln had been a phantasm after whom Derian and his companions had chased for long moonspans, but they had actually spent very little time in his company. The only way Waln would have learned how fond Derian was of his chestnut mare would have been for someone to tell him.

Harjeedian seemed the most likely source of the information, but try as he might, Derian could not think why he would confess what he had ordered done to Roanne and the pack pony to Varjuna of all people.

Derian filed this away as one of those mysteries for which he lacked sufficient information to find a solution but resolved—as he still resolved to get revenge for Roanne—to somehow learn why Roanne’s death should have come to matter enough that Harjeedian had let word of it get to the ears of this most horse-loving of humans.

When they arrived at u-Bishinti, the atmosphere was markedly different. Whereas upon Derian’s first visit all but the most senior hands had kept studiously to their work, now everyone turned to look—many to wave a cheerful greeting. Derian suddenly realized that the attentiveness to duty had not been for Varjuna’s benefit as he had thought, but had been meant to impress him.

And now I’ve decided to come for a stay, he thought, and they’re happy about it. Is it just because this means that the horse keepers have scored some sort of coup over their fellows or is it something else
?

Derian decided he’d learn soon enough. Meanwhile he basked in the warmth of the welcome and luxuriated, as before, in the sight of so much magnificent horseflesh.

Varjuna’s house—the residence of the ikidisdu, to be more correct—was a splendid place. It was built, as seemed to be the case for the best buildings in this land, of brick ornamented with mosaic reliefs in enameled brick. These, of course, depicted horses.

One thing immediately caught Derian’s eye as Varjuna took him on a quick tour. The entire structure was built on one level, which Derian had already learned was not the rule, and each room either had doorways large enough to admit a horse or was equipped with broad windows clearly intended to permit a horse to poke its head into the room.

“My mother,” Derian laughed, “would be horrified. She was always reminding us to close the doors after ourselves. ‘You’re not down at the stables’ is what she’d say.”

“I say the same thing,” came a calm, level, feminine voice, “but it doesn’t make any difference.”

Varjuna turned and, with an abbreviated form of the hand gesture that served as the local version of a polite bow, indicated the woman who stood framed in one of the doorways.

“My wife, Zira,” he said with evident affection.

Zira was, at first meeting, incredibly plain. Her dark hair was a bit coarse, her teeth stained to the ivory-brown of old bone. Her figure showed the effects of bearing three children and a fondness for nuts dipped in honey. Her skin showed that she spent lots of time out-of-doors. Even in her first bloom she had probably never been pretty. Now there were the hints that in old age she would be ugly.

Yet, as Zira joined them for the rest of the house tour, Derian began to be captivated by her personality. She was incredibly vital. She noticed things, whether a butterfly on a flower or the detail in a wall mosaic. Her teeth were stained from a tea she loved, but though she must have drunk thousands of cups of the brew, her expression as she took her first sip held a childlike bliss. Within a short time, Derian was comparing Zira favorably with his own mother—and Vernita Carter still gave ample evidence of why she had been one of the great beauties of her day.

Derian didn’t immediately meet Varjuna and Zira’s three sons. Two were still living with their parents, but were out at school. The third had graduated to living in the dormitories with the other younger kidisdum and was busy with his duties.

“Are all your children involved with horses?” Derian asked.

“They are, thank goodness,” Zira replied, leaning her elbows on the table in order to select just the perfect honeyed nut from the bowl in front of her. “This is not to say that all of them will follow us into keeping or even into the disdum, but they all share our enthusiasm. It would be deadly otherwise.”

She went on to tell a story about a family much like their own but associated with bears. The daughter of that family had no empathy with the animals and they in turn sensed her indifference. It led to a great deal of unpleasantness for all concerned.

“However, happily the girl was quite pretty and clever—though not with bears. She married a wool merchant and does very well with the lambs. No use trying to force rain to fall upwards. Water will always follow his own way.”

The use of the personal pronoun for what—had Derian’s mother said something similar—would have been a purely neutral element with no store of legends associated with it made Derian feel a stranger again. Varjuna might have noticed, for he jumped to his feet.

“Well, we’ve ample time to inspect at least some of the horses, if you’d be interested.”

“Interested!” Derian said, setting down his cup so that it rattled in the saucer. “I can hardly wait.”

Zira came with them. She was a kidisdu in her own right, associated with the brood mares.

“It doesn’t take another mother to understand what they’re going through, the dears,” she said, stuffing her feet into very well-used boots, “but it does help. If I won’t be in the way, I’ll trot along with you.”

Varjuna glanced at Derian to make sure Derian didn’t mind. Derian felt odd as he realized that he merited some element of respect here. He was used to being a servant—or at least a commoner—and the horse people were treating him more like a noble.

“Please do come,” he said. “I’ll bet you’ve seen a good number of the horses we’re going to look at into the world.”

“I have,” Zira agreed placidly, “and their sires and dams as well.”

Because Zira was along, Derian had expected that the tour would include the new foals. After all, foals were the hope of every operation, and their antics were—at least in Derian’s opinion—the most delightful of any young animal. Since Prancing Steed Stables rarely bred horses, preferring to buy promising young animals already beginning their training, Derian particularly enjoyed seeing other people’s foals. Indeed, he had already resolved that, no matter how expensive it was to carry brood mares and foals, he would have at least a few when he founded his own stables.

That was his new idea. During Derian’s last trip home, his parents had again gently indicated their hope that he would not stand in the way of his younger brother and sister taking over the family business that should go—were simple legalities followed—to Derian. There were two ways a first born could be disinherited. The first was through legal appeal on the part of his parents—an appeal usually only resorted to in cases of abandonment or criminal behavior. The second was by agreement with the older members of the family. These were scrutinized even more carefully than the first, for it was not unheard of for a parent to try and disinherit an elder child in preference for a favored or more tractable younger child.

Colby and Vernita Carter, however, did not favor their younger children over their elder. Rather, Derian had already exceeded their wildest hopes for his advancement. He was a counselor to the king, had been consulted by the heirs apparent, and had the patronage of Earl Kestrel. As Colby and Vernita saw things, Derian was certain to do as well or better through these connections than he could through the stables.

Derian felt a sudden, familiar pang of homesickness as he remembered his family. He knew it was a normal part of reaching adulthood to discover that the orderly world known since childhood is changing, but that made the sensation no less disturbing.

And, he thought wryly, leaning over a fence rail and concentrating to understand as Varjuna discussed the merits of a particular stud’s get,
I’ve had rather a few more changes to my orderly world than is usual, more, I think, than most people experience in a lifetime
.