Wolf Hunting (14 page)

“True,” Firekeeper said, “but they not know. Someone mainland, maybe?”

“The best one to ask,” Derian said, rather uncomfortably, “would be the aridisdu Harjeedian. As I recall, he has studied the older languages of the Liglim. He is well placed in his own temple, and his sister is one of u-Liall. Therefore, he will have access to resources unavailable to the average researcher.”

These words all came out very quickly. Derian had been intimately involved with Harjeedian’s sister, Rahniseeta. Firekeeper knew that Derian had almost refused to return to the land of the Liglim because to do so would mean encountering Rahniseeta again. Only Derian’s personal loyalty to King Tedric, and the fact that he was the sole Hawk Havenese expert on the Liglimom, had made him return.

“Harjeedian,” Elise said. “I believe we met him at the reception that was held upon our arrival. He’s the one who …”

Firekeeper interrupted, tired of long stories. She also didn’t much like Harjeedian, but agreed with Derian’s assessment.

“He bring us here,” Firekeeper said. “Yes. Let Harjeedian work for us. Tonight too soon?”

“Tonight is definitely too soon,” Derian replied firmly. “Harjeedian is not a personal friend upon whom we can impose at a moment’s notice. I can, however, write out a message and send it to him tonight. He knows how impatient you can be, and so won’t be surprised.”

“Why we care?” Firekeeper asked. “We owe him surprise.”

Elise gave Firekeeper a reproving frown. “Is what you have found something you want everyone talking about, Firekeeper? You’ve stumbled on something potentially volatile. This Voice seems to have been somehow associated with two who dealt in forbidden magic—and we have suspicions that these unknowns may also be involved with magical lore. Do you want Harjeedian’s meeting with us and his later research to be noticed so that he must report to his superiors?”

Firekeeper shook her head violently.

“Then a little less haste, a little more care,” said Elise, sounding rather like Blind Seer when he was quoting proverbs.

Firekeeper rose, and Blind Seer and Truth rose with her.

“Then if we must wait until tomorrow, we go now.”

“We have prepared rooms for you,” Derian said with a certain degree of resignation, as does one who makes an offer he knows will be refused.

“No rooms,” Firekeeper said. “Night is good.”

And with that the three were gone. The building that housed the embassy was near Heeranenahalm, the section of the city where the rulers lived. Forests backed onto this, and Firekeeper and her companions well knew their way into those wooded refuges.

Firekeeper hardly noticed when Truth left them to pursue her own hunting. The wolf-woman’s thoughts were a living thicket, one that threatened to snare her. Miserably, she shook her head clear of the thorns. Then she ran with Blind Seer, pretending that they were wild and free for just a little time longer.

TRUTH PADDED OVER THE DUFF, slipping beneath thick curtains of vines, prowling along the trunks of fallen trees, wading in the living waters of running streams. In one of these she caught a large water turtle and cracked open its shell with her powerful jaws.

The fishy flesh tasted very good. The maimalodalum had done their best to care for her, but turtle and tortoise had not been on the menu, although Powerful Tenderness had a bear’s fondness for fresh fish. Standing chest-deep in rapidly flowing water, Truth indulged herself by catching and eating the minnows that shot over the polished rock. She missed a great many, and not entirely because she was out of practice—but she didn’t think about this. There was too much good to enjoy.

Truth was truly alone for the first time since her sanity had returned to her, and she luxuriated in her solitude as much as she did in the taste of her meal. She concentrated on reality, feeling how the pads of her paws sank into the damp earth, sheathing and unsheathing her claws, licking them clean of mud and traces of blood.

Then she began on her fur, pulling with her teeth at the snags and mats that had accumulated during her separation from her body. Powerful Tenderness had done his best to care for her, but even he had stopped short of grooming a Wise Jaguar.

As her teeth worried at the matted clumps of fur, Truth’s mind worried at another, more tangled mess.

The Voice. What was he? Why had he been locked in the strange apartment—assuming it was he who had been imprisoned there, and this seemed likely.

Had he escaped when they opened the door? None of those who had been closest had seen anything. Although all admitted that they had been flash-blinded by the silver light that had attended the opening of the door, all swore with equal firmness that they could not have missed someone slipping past.

Truth was inclined to believe them. She herself had been present—or at least her body had been—and she had no memory of anyone going past her as she dove through the door. That would seem to suggest that whoever had left the apartment—if anyone had done so—whoever had carved those figurines—had been …

Truth broke this chain of thought, for it only led to frustration. All the options led simply to more questions. As once she had focused on various streams of probability, now she forced herself from speculation into planning a course of action.

The Voice had led her spirit to that apartment.

The Voice—or at least the tenant of that apartment—had carved a figurine that represented Truth. Had this been used to communicate with her? Likely. To control her? Again, reluctantly, Truth had to admit this was likely.

She gnawed at a fragment of claw sheath, working it free, letting it drop into the running water.

What had been done once could be done again. Therefore, she must find the Voice—and upon finding him, she must kill him. Only then would she be freed from the risk of having him dominate her again.

But to find him … Firekeeper and the others might learn something from those figurines, but the figurines would lead only to the Voice’s pawns. She wanted the Voice, and the only place she had encountered him was a place to which she feared to return.

Once before she had overextended herself to the point of insanity. All too well, Truth realized that the risk of insanity was greater if she reached again into the realm of omens.

VII

AS HE HAD PROMISED FIREKEEPER, Derian wrote Harjeedian before retiring that night. Harjeedian’s reply arrived as Derian was finishing his breakfast. So did Firekeeper. Knowing as he did that the wolf-woman often slept in the daylight hours, Derian took this early arrival as an indication of her anxiety regarding the figurines.

“What he say?” Firekeeper asked, reaching to help herself to a wedge of melon from Derian’s plate.

“He says,” Derian replied, with a firm emphasis on the grammatically correct form, “that he will call here midday, in hopes of finding you returned from your evening jaunt. Word had reached Heeranenahalm of your arrival on the mainland, and he is pleased that you would wish to see him.”

“Neither wish nor pleased,” Firekeeper said, reaching for another piece of melon, “is not so, but must do.”

Derian started to remind Firekeeper that she must be polite to Harjeedian if she expected to have him cooperate not only in this research, but also in keeping what they told him to himself. He stopped himself in mid-breath. Firekeeper’s social graces might be nil, but as she had shown last night when meeting Ambassador Sailor, she had a wolf’s finely tuned sense of who was important and who was not. Good manners from her were not, as so often with humans, a sign that she liked someone. Instead they were a sign that she respected—or at least needed—them.

So I suppose,
Derian thought dryly,
that I should be thrilled that she’s eating my breakfast.

He wasn’t, but he didn’t slap Firekeeper’s fingers away as he might have his sister Dami’s. Eating, and priority in eating, were serious matters with wolves. Derian wasn’t completely certain that Firekeeper might not snap at him in response to his defending his meal.

He did, however, slide the remaining melon out of her reach.

“I can have the kitchen send you something if you’re hungry,” he said.

“Not hungry,” Firekeeper admitted, giving him a smile that was at least a little sheepish. “But the melon taste very good.”

Derian took this as a request, and rang for his runner. It was odd having servants assigned to him, but it did beat having to run down to the kitchens himself.

Firekeeper had never been much for small talk, so once Derian had her settled with her melon, he turned to his correspondence. There was quite a lot of it, both from members of the small Bright Haven community and from local officials. As Ambassador Sailor and Elise were still struggling with their written Liglimosh, the early review fell on Derian. Later, after he had assessed the gist of the meaning, the translator took over, but they had all agreed that it was wisest not to give the Liglimom reason to think that the northerners could be easily deceived.

The Bright Haven contingent mostly consisted of the crew of the
Shine
, the ship that had carried the ambassadorial party south and had then remained. This way, should the ambassador feel it necessary to break negotiations, the northerners would not need to wait for a ship to carry them home. Many of the
Shine
’s crew had been chosen because of their knowledge of trade and other mercantile matters, and they regularly reported their own, interestingly skewed, views of Liglim.

There were less pleasant matters with which Derian had to deal. Two very different cultures could not meet without clashing, and hardly a hand of days passed without a brawl or serious dispute. Then there was the correspondences from locals, all of whom were certain that there was some advantage to them in getting in tight with the northerners before too many rules and regulations were in place.

At one point Derian glanced over at Firekeeper, thinking to suggest that she might enjoy visiting with Elise and Doc, but the wolf-woman was sprawled asleep on the floor, cuddled as close as the hot, sticky weather would permit, to Blind Seer. The blue-eyed wolf was also drowsing, but he opened his eyes at Derian’s motion and canted his ears sideways as if to say, “Let her sleep. She’s more worried than you might think.”

Or he could be saying,
Derian thought,
“Bother her and I’ll bite you.” I wish we could understand each other better.

Derian finished reviewing the more critical correspondence and made an early report to the ambassador. His report included a vague explanation as to why Harjeedian would be calling. Ambassador Sailor did not press for more details, and Derian found himself wondering just what the ambassador’s directives regarding the wolf-woman might be.

Certainly both King Allister and King Tedric had reason to trust Firekeeper. She had acted to their advantage before. Had the ambassador been told to view her as a faithful subject, or perhaps as someone possessing a peculiar diplomatic capacity? Certainly the latter explanation might be more accurate, for if Derian was certain of anything, it was that Firekeeper’s loyalties were often torn. She was loyal to those who had reared her, but at least once that Derian knew, she had defied the Royal Beasts’ commands to act in what she thought was a wiser fashion.

With this combination of work and speculation to occupy him, the morning hours flew by for Derian. He was mildly startled when one of the servants tapped on his door. The servant bore a tray holding a variety of standard refreshments.

“Aridisdu Harjeedian has just been admitted to the building,” the servant said, setting the tray on the table. “I thought you would like a moment to prepare.”

“Thank you both for the warning and the refreshments. Feel free to leave the door open,” Derian replied. He turned to Firekeeper, who had risen to her feet and was stretching. “Brush off the wolf fur, Firekeeper. Company’s here.”

Firekeeper didn’t brush off the fur, but she did remain standing until Harjeedian entered, Blind Seer at her side, and her hand well away from her knife. Derian decided to be satisfied with this moderate expression of courtesy.

Aridisdu Harjeedian entered a few moments later. Except for his cheekbones, which were high, even among his people, whose features ran to such, Harjeedian was completely average: shining black hair cut blunt to the shoulder, slanting black eyes, skin the warm brown of toasted bread. What wasn’t average about him was the aura of contained authority. This, more than the embroidery on his clothing, or the snake coiled around his neck, marked him as a man of importance.

Derian didn’t like Harjeedian, but he didn’t precisely dislike him either, so he accorded him both a neat bow and the appropriate courteous local gesture indicating welcome. Firekeeper offered neither, just stood, watching and waiting.

“You asked me to come here,” Harjeedian said, when the appropriate greetings were concluded.

Firekeeper nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Derian hid his relief. Harjeedian would fully appreciate those two small words.

“Before we get to business, can I offer you some refreshment?” He indicated the tray with an inclination of his head.

Harjeedian nodded. “Mint water would be very nice. The walk here was rather hot. The air is close. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a thunderstorm later.”

“Nothing else?” Derian asked. “There are cookies and fruit. I could also send to the kitchens if you fancy something that isn’t here.”

“Mint water will be fine,” Harjeedian assured him.

Derian nodded to the servant who stood outside the door. “I won’t need you for a bit. Feel free to take a break. I’ll ring if something comes up.”

Derian shut the door. When he crossed back to his desk, he found Firekeeper was pouring for Harjeedian, every bit as polite as Lady Archer when her grand duchess grandmother came to call. Harjeedian wasn’t in the least stupid, nor had his increased importance made him unaware of offered courtesy.