Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (46 page)

Through the four courses, while the serving maid hovered near, they talked of ordinary things: of the road, of how long it would take them to reach their destination, what price they might get for their goods, and what they might purchase for sale on their return. Using the foods on the table, Lady Melina continued to tutor Waln in New Kelvinese and more often than not, she found excuse to offer a caress that stayed just on the right side of sisterly.

Waln grew light-headed—at first, he thought, from her attentions. He knew the sensation could not be the wine, for he was no foolish boy to make himself half-drunk for courage only to fail in performance. Though he drank freely of the chilled water, his mouth remained dry and he found himself surreptitiously licking his lips to moisten them.

Another man might not have realized what had happened. Another man might have taken the symptoms he felt as mere nerves, but Baron Endbrook had not always been rich, had not always been titled. He had grown up in his mother's house and knew the little bottle she kept for dosing the occasional client whose manners were too rough or whose purse too tempting.

Even as he recognized the symptoms, Waln knew what wealth had tempted Lady Melina to this rash act. The three magical artifacts that had severed Gustin Sailor from his alliance with Zorana Shield, that had prompted Stonehold into war on the mere rumor of their existence, that had tempted Queen Valora into theft—those same three artifacts had seduced another victim.

The ardor that had fired Waln's blood froze into fear, but the baron was not some drunken sailor flush with wine and voyage pay. Making polite excuses, he departed as for the privy. Lest Lady Melina realize his suspicions, he gave her a slow wink and brushed his lips against her cheek. He only regretted that he dared not dig the satchel out from where he had hidden it, but that would not be in keeping with his role as besotted fool hurrying away only to hurry to return.

As he took the back stairs to the outdoor privy, Waln laid his plans with the deliberate care of a man who cannot trust his mind to hold more than one thought at a time. First, the privy.

He stumbled across a yard deserted because of the night's cold. Most guests would prefer the privacy of a chamber pot, but most weren't entertaining a lady in their rooms. His breath steamed in a ragged plume—his own life's banner urging him forward.

In the privy, Waln forced his finger down his throat until he vomited up the contents of his stomach. Then he decided what to do next. He had hidden the satchel well. Lady Melina would wait to see if he would return—or if whatever she had slipped into his wine had knocked him out—before beginning her search. She might even need to dismiss the maid if that worthy was still clearing away dinner. Therefore, she would be in the room for some time.

Waln rose from his knees. His mouth tasted foul, his knees were trembling, but his mind was clearing. Next he must find Fox Driver. Waln didn't doubt that he himself could subdue Lady Melina, but he would need Fox's cooperation if Lady Melina had allies—even the maid's screaming could bring unwanted attention.

He wondered if it was pure coincidence that an important person from Dragon's Breath was staying at this public inn just now. The more Waln considered, the less likely that seemed. He recalled how determined Lady Melina had been to get on the road as soon as possible. Had the rendezvous been planned?

It began to seem likely. Even if she had succeeded in stealing the enchanted artifacts, where could she go with them? She could take them into Hawk Haven, but if their secrets were as difficult to understand as Queen Valora had believed, Lady Melina might prefer to take them into New Kelvin, where those secrets might be unraveled.

Waln's head pounded as he sought to untangle this net of betrayal. He spat and focused again on his next step. He must find Fox, brief him, then return as quickly as possible to where Lady Melina was.

On shaky legs, Waln climbed up to the loft where Driver had said he would be staying. At first, he thought the other man had turned in early and was sleeping soundly. After all, sitting on a wagon box all day in the cold was fatiguing, bone-jarring work.

Only when he put his hand on the man's shoulder and found him stiff and cold did Waln suspect the truth. He turned Fox onto his back and discovered that the other's throat had been cut with neat efficiency. The blood had drained into a sodden mass that only the body heat from the horses below had kept from freezing solid in the winter night's cold.

Lady Melina might have done this. She could have come out between the time Waln had left Fox and when she arrived—a bit late—at Waln's own room. True, she had appeared clean and well groomed, but she merely could have changed her dress, tidied her hair, and dabbed on a bit of scent.

Waln didn't doubt that Fox would have let the woman close. She hadn't seemed to be flirting with the driver, but then she'd been very good about hiding her own flirtation with Waln. If she'd come to Fox, made some excuse to get him into the loft…

The baron shook his head angrily, realizing that even now he felt jealous. He felt no grief for Fox. The man had been a second-rate scoundrel—though a first-class driver. His death was an inconvenience, but sailors were swept overboard by storms and still the ship sailed on.

Since Lady Melina could have done this alone, perhaps she didn't have an ally. Perhaps Waln had time to catch her before she finished her search. Waln's blood pounded as he anticipated the beating he'd give her for betraying him and his queen.

Setting his hands on the sides of the loft ladder, Waln slid down as he might have between decks, trusting the strength of his arms and not bothering with the rungs. The rough wood rails splintered—not being as polished as those on a ship—but Waln landed on the straw-strewn floor, instinctively flexing his knees.

Doubtless this saved his life, for the man standing to one side of the ladder swung at where Waln's head would have been if the baron had descended in a more conventional manner.

Waln heard the swoosh as the club passed through the air, the crack as it impacted with the wooden ladder. His latent queasiness was forgotten, washed from his blood by the fearful certainty that if he didn't make his return blow count he would die.

Waln's assailant was a New Kelvinese, a husky, bowlegged man with stylized horse heads tattooed in dull green on each cheek. This might well be the groom who had thrown dice with Fox for use of the stalls. Had he used that earlier game as an excuse to mount to the loft and get close enough to Fox to murder him?

Rising from the crouch in which he'd landed, Waln butted his head into the groom's midsection. The technique was pure gutter brawling, as was the fashion in which he brought his knee up into the other man's groin as the groom sought to keep his balance and his breath against the force of the first blow.

The groom was solidly built, with arms and chest well muscled from his trade. His strength meant nothing to the pain that ripped up from his battered privates. The breath that had been knocked from him when Waln's head impacted his solar plexus had not returned, so that his scream—or shout for help—came forth as a feeble shriek.

He made no other sound. Waln seized the club that had been meant to shatter his own head and used it on its owner. He put behind the blows the raging force of his own disgust at being so duped, his fear of what might come—and of what Queen Valora would say if he did not regain the artifacts.

Waln's first thought as the groom fell to the stable floor—his head so battered that the horse tattoos were fragments in a bloody mass—was to rush back to his room, beat aside any in his way, and seize the satchel.

A glance toward the inn showed him a blaze of lights on the second floor. A hulking figure almost concealed in shadow stood near the back door from which Waln had exited on his flight to the privy. Doubtless someone would be out momentarily to see if the groom had done his job.

During a hurricane, Waln had discovered his body could act without conscious command from his mind. So it was now. He lifted his saddle from where it rested on the partition between two stalls and dropped it onto his horse, tightening the girth almost before the horse realized what was coining. Later—if there was a later—Waln would need to smooth out the blankets and set the saddle properly, but damage to his mount was far from his greatest concern.

The bridle went on with equal speed. Then Waln led the gelding—now snorting with confusion and annoyance—from the stall. An irritated jerk at its headstall convinced it that the big man wasn't in a mood for games and it stopped fighting.

Still moving with dreamlike deliberation, Waln heaved himself into the saddle. The stable door was already open—he'd never closed it when he came to fetch Fox, doubtless how the groom had known where to look for him. Now he booted the gelding solidly in the ribs. The horse, already agitated and needing little encouragement to bolt, shot out of the stable.

The figure from the doorway came running out, waving his arms and shouting something.

"Sorry," Waln shouted, "don't speak the language."

The man paused slightly, perhaps thinking Waln was surrendering, but Waln kicked his horse again and the man flung himself to one side to avoid being knocked over.

Night was with the baron, night and the cold that had kept everyone inside who had even the slimmest excuse. There were a few shouts behind him, but Waln pressed the horse on, past the inn, out onto the road, and furiously down the way they had come earlier that day.

He risked a fall, a broken back or neck, a shattered leg for the horse. Compared with what lay behind him, these were glory and wonder and the hope of seeing the next sunrise.

E
lation returned the day after Firekeeper met with Lady Luella. The peregrine falcon's knife-edged wings cut through the flakes of a late-afternoon snow flurry like a physical embodiment of the last rays of daylight.

Firekeeper and Blind Seer were running circles in the snow, leaping to catch the large, fluffy white flakes before they could touch the dry grass of the lawn. Once again—despite Lady Luella's outspoken disapproval—the wolf-woman had discarded the boots procured for her. Though these were light things of the softest leather, shaped to her foot by a patient cobbler and lined with fur, she still claimed they made her clumsy. The woolen hose were not as bad, but she discarded them when they grew sodden.

The peregrine soared in to land upon a stone pylon set on the fringes of the garden in memory of some youthful deed of the current duchess. Settling herself, she folded her wings with a disapproving squawk.

"Mad creatures and wolves!" she cried. "Who can tell the difference?"

"Shrieking winds and the words of the wingéd folk," retorted Blind Seer. "One and the same to these ears."

Firekeeper booted him gently in the ribs.

"Perhaps that is so," she said, "but perhaps today Fierce Joy in Flight has some news for us."

"Perhaps," replied the falcon a trace sulkily, "but if my words are as empty as shrieking winds…"

"Then the fault lies in the listener's ears," Firekeeper responded soothingly. "Tell me your news. My ears are tuned to your cries."

"I have flown long and hard, through ugly weather," said the falcon, unwilling to be so easily pacified.

"There is ample game in these fields for so mighty a hunter," Firekeeper said, "and a warm perch for her by the fireside. Will you come inside or tell your tale here?"

Elation permitted herself to be appeased.

"I have found the crow," she said, preening lightly. "And he has told me of those he followed."

"Did he not stay with them?" Firekeeper asked, dismayed.

"He was worn to a windblown leaf from his following," Elation replied, "but he did not forsake his task until he found a replacement to take it for him. By good luck, another of the corvid kin—a raven—found him before I did. The raven has taken up the chase."

"So they are lost to us again." Firekeeper sighed, then brightened. "But what was the crow's news? What direction do the treasures go and is Lady Melina yet with them?"

"North," the falcon replied, "and, yes, she is."

F
irekeeper had thought that knowing this—along with those scant details Elation had been able to add—would be enough to set them on the chase. She was dismayed to learn, upon reporting her news to Derian, that they could not set out at once.

"We will need to take our leave with care," the young man said. "Otherwise, the Kestrels are certain to send someone in search of us."

Firekeeper wanted to ask "why" as if she were merely a whining pup, but she knew enough of human custom to know that what Derian said was the merest truth. A wolf might choose to hunt alone, especially during the warm days of summer, and the rest of the pack would not comment. However, it seemed to her that all a human needed to do was step out of a room without explanation and a flood of questions and conjectures began.

"Moreover," Derian added, sounding quite stern, "while you and Blind Seer may be content running barefoot in the snow, Doc and I will need some gear and either good riding horses or a sleigh."

Again Firekeeper swallowed an impulsive desire to protest. Hadn't her very reason for seeking out human help in this matter been a suspicion that she could not handle this matter without assistance?

"I know you want to bay down the trail," Derian said, borrowing an idiom she herself had used earlier in her report, "but what will you do when you get there? It is one thing to attack a traitor like Prince Newell, quite another to go after Baron Endbrook and Lady Melina—both of whom are outwardly blameless. The least you could hope for would be a blood feud between House Kestrel and their houses. You
could
ignite a war."

Firekeeper shivered at the latter possibility. It nested too closely to her own private fears.

"They might not know it me," she offered, knowing she was sliding out onto thin ice. "I come to them by night, go by night."

"And leave behind the prints of a small person—a small barefoot person—and an enormous wolf."