Wolf Captured (60 page)

“What?” Rahniseeta asked.

“Let’s not talk here,” Harjeedian said. “Derian Carter did not arrive to give lessons this morning as scheduled. I have been asked to drive down to u-Bishinti and make discreet inquiries.”

“I’d be glad to get away,” Rahniseeta said. She glanced at the list of Barnet’s lessons. “Barnet will be at the Temple of Flyers much of the day. He is very popular there and usually stays beyond his lessons. Therefore, he is unlikely to have visitors today. The northerners have made an effort to learn each other’s schedules.”

Harjeedian looked pleased, and actually took her arm as he escorted her to where the light gig was harnessed and waiting. He climbed into the driver’s seat and shook the reins. The bay between the shafts was a livelier creature than the horse Rahniseeta had been given to drive and they left at a fine clip.

As soon as he had a feel for the bay’s temper, Harjeedian returned to the subject of Barnet.

“Any popularity any of the northerners can gain—even if for nothing more than a pleasant voice—is to our advantage. I assume it is his musical ability that has won Barnet friends at the Temple of Flyers?”

Rahniseeta fought to keep from coloring, glad that she was sitting to one side, rather than across a table from her brother’s discerning gaze.

“I have heard that his voice is among the things that make him popular. One of my friends who sings in the choir there says that Barnet is appreciated for other than his voice—especially by some of the unattached disdum.”

Harjeedian laughed, then frowned.

“I hope Barnet is careful with what alliances he makes—and who he risks offending. The Temple of Flyers people can have some rather rigid ideas regarding monogamy. I think it comes from the fact that many bird species mate for life. We don’t need further complications.”

“No,” Rahniseeta agreed. “You were going to tell me about a new faction?”

Harjeedian nodded. He waited until the gig had passed a heavily laden wagon carrying fresh produce into market and they were alone on the road again. Rahniseeta swallowed a sigh. Sometimes it seemed to her that Harjeedian took precautions where none were needed. Then again, she was probably being unfair and Harjeedian was only organizing his thoughts.

“So far,” Harjeedian began, “all the factions have been arranged around what we should do—or not do—with the complicated possibilities represented by Lady Blysse’s ability and apparent acceptance into the company of the yarimaimalom. However, a new group is arising—one that simply does not want to deal with the matter at all.”

Rahniseeta frowned. “I don’t see how that could be done.”

“Oh, there have been numerous suggestions,” Harjeedian said. “The simplest is that we gather up the lot of them and ship them back north. This becomes less simple when people start arguing about what we do with the knowledge they will bring home with them.”

“You mean, do we welcome trade or not and on what terms?” Rahniseeta asked. She hadn’t spent many hours in the company of the northern sailors without grasping some sense of their priorities.

“Precisely,” Harjeedian replied approvingly. “Some want to send a message that we’re open to trade. Others want to say essentially, ‘You’ve done fine this long without us. Leave us alone.’ Others say, ‘Trade is fine. Keep Lady Blysse out of here, though.’”

“I get the picture,” Rahniseeta said. “It’s already as complicated as a nest of hibernating alligators.”

“And about as nice,” Harjeedian agreed. “That very complexity has created another faction, one of the most dangerous so far—at least to our northern guests, but I fear to any of us who made that voyage.”

“What do you mean?” Rahniseeta said, though she thought she knew. Hadn’t she entertained rather ugly thoughts in her own despair?

“Kill them all,” Harjeedian said bluntly. “They’ll end up listed as missing, but who will know? A bunch of sailors and three wanderers—all of whom have enemies. It may cause some ugliness, but that ugliness won’t land here.”

“You mentioned danger to those who went on the voyage.” Rahniseeta said, not quite making it a question, knowing that this was because she feared the answer.

“That’s right,” Harjeedian said. “If we take that course, there are going to be those who will worry about someone letting the rest of the snakes out of the bag. They’re going to think, ‘But those sailors know the way … our sailors, true, but they’re merchants. Harjeedian isn’t a merchant, true, but for the good of the land, for keeping faith with the deities, he’d understand if the deities required his death.’”

“Would you?” Rahniseeta gasped.

“Not unless I read the omens myself,” Harjeedian said tersely.

The bay sensed his tension along the reins and craned her neck to glance back at him. Harjeedian shook the reins and she trotted on, content.

“Good,” Rahniseeta replied. “And I hope you’d insist on choosing the snake.”

“I would,” he said. “We all know there are tricks one can use, especially with the lesser beats … .”

He trailed off.

“I sound like one of the blasphemers, don’t I? Doubting that the omens come from divine sources.”

“You sound like an observant man who knows everyone isn’t as devout as himself,” Rahniseeta said.

She tried to sound staunch and loyal, but her stomach was twisting. She’d never imagined that Harjeedian would be in danger of losing his life. All he’d done was put his gift for languages at the service of u-Liall. He didn’t deserve this.

The gig picked up pace and she realized that the bay mare had quickened in anticipation of home. They said nothing more on the matter.

It’s as if we think the horses might be listening,
Rahniseeta thought.
We’re growing afraid of our own breath.

She admired Harjeedian’s poise as he reined in the mare in the designated area and handed her down from the gig.

To the young woman who came hurrying up, Harjeedian said, “Could you tend the mare for us and tell us where we might find Ikidisdu Varjuna?”

“I would be happy to see to the mare,” the woman said. “Varjuna is up at his house. He has been there all day.”

For the first time, Rahniseeta realized something was wrong. The woman was tense. She hadn’t made the usual show-off gesture of naming the mare and her lineage—a thing those stationed at u-Bishinti often did, as if to show they never forgot a single one of the animals in their care.

Harjeedian sensed the mood as well.

“We need not trouble Varjuna,” he said with as much courtesy as if he were addressing u-Liall. “I simply wished to pay my respects. I am actually here to see the northerner, Derian Carter.”

The woman’s hands stopped in midmotion.

“See Varjuna. He will know where Derian is.”

There was dismissal in her tone, not rude, but more as if she had forgotten her manners. Rahniseeta walked with Harjeedian in the direction of the ikidisdu’s residence. Zira herself answered the door.

“We are looking for Derian Carter,” Harjeedian said after greetings were exchanged. “He did not arrive for the lessons he usually teaches in Heeranenahalm on this day.”

Zira motioned them in. “Come with me. Varjuna will wish to see you.”

Rahniseeta knew that the iaridisdu of the Horse had her residence in Heeranenahalm, so she was surprised to find her sitting with Varjuna in a comfortably shabby office. The iaridisdu of the Horse was quite old, old enough to have given up riding. Everyone knew that Varjuna usually called on her rather than the other way around. Yet, here the old woman sat, looking quite exhausted.

Harjeedian and Rahniseeta said all the correct formal things, and then Harjeedian asked again.

“Might it be possible for us to see Derian Carter? He did not arrive to teach today, as would be usual, and I was asked to make certain he was well.”

Varjuna glanced at the iaridisdu. She nodded.

“You might as well know,” Varjuna said, “but we’d prefer you’d keep it quiet. As of yet the matter seems exclusively one for our temple.”

Harjeedian responded quickly, “I will keep silence—although I beg leave to tell my superiors.”

“I can leave,” Rahniseeta put in.

Varjuna shook his head. “Stay, child. Derian has always spoken well of you and I know you will keep silence if asked. The fact is, Derian vanished this morning. He went out for a ride in the early morning as he usually does. His mare returned without him, but with a note tied into her forelock. Later, I found a rather tattered copy of the same note lying in the middle of my desk.”

Varjuna handed a piece of paper to Harjeedian, and the aridisdu held it so Rahniseeta might read it with him.

“Eshinarvash is the Wise Horse who honored Derian by letting him ride on his back,” Harjeedian said. “It does not sound as if Derian was frightened—confused maybe, but not frightened.”

“We’re taking some hope in that, too,” Harjeedian said, “and in the fact he had energy to worry about his tack. The thing is, the Wise Horses will offer nothing further. The liaison—not Eshinarvash this time—came forth but was politely noncommittal when I asked after Derian. The iaridisdu had no greater luck.”

Rahniseeta now understood why the old woman was there. Aridisdum read omens and divined the will of the deities. This silence was disturbing—especially since there was no doubt that the Wise Horses themselves were directly involved.

“We’ve searched the grounds for Derian, but there is no sign of him. One of my younger sons is good at tracking, and he says it does seem as if a Wise Horse climbed up to where Derian typically rode. Derian had a child’s passion for the Wise Horses and they did not seem to take offense. There even seems to be some sign that Eshinarvash knelt.”

“As he would to take on a rider?” Rahniseeta heard herself ask. Derian had related his marvelous ride on the Wise Horse several times, and this detail had stayed with her.

“That’s right,” Varjuna said.

“In brief then,” Harjeedian said, “one of the northerners is gone—possibly taken away by one of the Wise Horses—and we don’t know where or why.”

“Or even,” Varjuna added somberly, “if he’s still alive.”

“How ARE YOU DOING with Wain Endbrook?” asked the master.

He always began these private meetings with Shivadtmon in this fashion. The repeated words infused the routine meetings with a note of ritual, and the master was very aware of how important ritual could be—important and powerful.

“Very well, Master,” Shivadtmon replied. “Waln has become very interested in Misheemnekuru. I am making certain he receives access to written material about the islands.”

“Have you guided him toward the interior?”

“It was hardly necessary, Master. As you have already noted, Waln Endbrook is not a stupid man. He realizes that raiding an area that is within full view of the mainland would be extremely foolish. Moreover, he has noted that one of the interior islands is recorded as possessing a cluster of buildings.”

“And buildings, of course,” the master said, “would be very good places to search for treasure. What are the northerners doing with the freedom you so kindly acquired for them?”

“They have reestablished their social contacts with Barnet Lobster. Waln has visited the library in Heeranenahalm. He concentrated on old maps.”

“Very good. Now you must help him to move his plan along. However, it is essential that he not move on Misheemnekuru until Lady Blysse returns. Is that understood? Even if you must manufacture some reason for the sailors to be put under house arrest once more, they must not leave for Misheemnekuru while Lady Blysse is there.”

“The omens are that bad?” Shivadtmon asked.

“The omens splinter into chaos,” the master said. “They are much clearer when she is not present at the time set for sailing.”

“I understand,” Shivadtmon said solemnly.

The master nodded, colleague to colleague, but he doubted that Shivadtmon had the faintest idea how heady were the currents the master had tasted of late. How could he? That was a secret the master was keeping to himself—and would continue to keep until what he had sensed dwelling in the heart of Misheemnekuru was destroyed.

DAWN CAME SLOWLY to those trapped in the cellar, filtering pale light through the lacework of broken vines that still clung to the beams overhead. One by one, Firekeeper let her fires go out, glad for relief from the smoke.

In the pale light, she inspected their situation and found it no more encouraging in daylight than it had been in darkness. If anything, it was more discouraging. In darkness there had been hope. In daylight, there was none.

Firekeeper paced the perimeter of the cellar, inspecting the walls with minute care.

“What are you looking for, Firekeeper?” asked Dark Death.

He was the only one awake. The other two slept as only injured animals slept, seeking healing in dreams.

She didn’t pause in her restless circuit.

“This was once a cellar—a room beneath the ground,” she explained. “Humans built it, so they must have had a way to get into it. I had hoped to find a staircase, but I think they must have used ladders.”

“Ladders?”

“Stairs are like this.” Firekeeper built a rough model with some segments of broken tile. “You climb them as you would a rock, each stair a foothold. Ladders are more like leaning trees. They have footholds, too, but more shallow. Staircases are fixed. Ladders can or cannot be. I see no place where a staircase would have been, so I guess they must have used a ladder.”

She inspected the cellar further. The hole they were in was very deep. The walls looked to have once been sheathed in stone. It was odd to think that people would have gone to so much trouble and then gone up and down via ladders. Then again, a stairwell could be concealed behind one of the enormous piles of dirt and debris that had fallen with them.

We could dig,
she thought,
but that would just make us tired and hungry. There is no promise that even if we found a staircase it would still be solid. If the builders made the treads of wood, they would have rotted long ago.

Dark Death rose and padded over to the seep. The water from it was fresh, probably from the same source Blind Seer had been tracking when he fell. The sound of Dark Death’s lapping was the loudest sound in the enclosed space. In contrast, the morning songs of the birds without was distant and unreal.