Wolf Captured

by Jane Lindskold

  "Possibly," Barnet said, but his tone changed the word to "Definitely."

  "In any case, they are the least likely to be murdered out of hand. Both have been favored by the yarimaimalom, and that complicates matters."

  "For the Liglimom, perhaps," Waln said, "but not at all for me."

  He smiled hard, thinking of the crossbow with which he'd been practicing until he'd regained skills he'd had long ago.

  "Definitely, not at all for me."

  When Waln and his allies went down to the harbor, the streets had stilled even of the late-evening traffic that came when the lowering sun brought a relief from the worst of the heat. The shadowy figures they passed here and there were not the type to trouble a large group of men. Indeed, several moved away rather hurriedly when the group approached.

  Waln told his party to make no effort to hide themselves. They were going out for a bit of night fishing, that was all, but even so the sailors spoke infrequently, and when they did they kept their voices low.

  Most personal property had been transferred aboard already. There wasn't much of this, as Shivadtmon had promised that the oceangoing vessel would carry stores of clothing as well as food and water. Barnet, though, had insisted on taking a small trunk of musical instruments. Tedgewinn had his carvings. Elwyn had a sack of what to Waln's eyes was nothing more than junk, but Elwyn seemed sure would find ready buyers in the Isles.

  They had left clothing and routine items in their rooms so as not to alert suspicion if any visitors came to call or if the servants were poking around come morning. The longer they had without questions being asked the better, for no matter how optimistically Elwyn spoke of them "hopping ashore and grabbing the treasures," Waln knew they might be two or three days on Misheemnekuru before they found what they wanted.

  But that doesn't matter, he reminded himself. Shivadtmon says that the ship's crew doesn't get rotated for several days—that's why he wanted us to start as soon as possible. We're set.

  They'd informally renamed the little sailing vessel they'd adopted for their own Islander, a name that certainly seemed nothing but patriotism to those who heard it, but for Waln was ironically significant. It was not just a boat sailed by Islanders, but one that would be going to the Sanctuary Islands—and that would be the means of making him an Islander once more.

  They were making ready to cast off when a man came hurrying up the wharves and spoke urgently in Shivadtmon's ear. Waln frowned and hurried over. He'd seen the man a time or two before, and had thought he might have been watching them for one or more of the disdum factions, but Shivadtmon not only appeared to know him, he was listening intently.

  "What's going on?" Waln asked, snapping in a note of command although he kept his voice low.

  "This man," Shivadtmon said, "tells me that someone is watching us from that alley across the way."

  The man nodded.

  "I've been set to watch you northerners," he said, admitting to spying without prevarication, "by those who value your lives. I came down here after you and was searching for a nice place from which I could see you off without myself being seen. That's when I realized there was a snoop here before me."

  "Were you seen?" Waln asked.

  "Not until I stepped down here," the spy said confidently. "The snoop might still be there."

  "Can we grab him?" Waln asked.

  "If he's there," the spy said, "I can slip around back. I'll take my leave as if I had some message for the aridisdu, then go. Give me a count of a hundred, then move from this end. It's the alley between the fishmongers' clearinghouse and the warehouse."

  Waln remembered the buildings, so he didn't turn to look.

  "You have a count of a hundred," he said.

  "And the blessings of our good master," Shivadtmon added. "I'm sure they will be made tangible when you report. Now, go!"

  Waln frowned a little at this last, but it was far too late to wonder just which faction Shivadtmon belonged to. It didn't really matter, for obviously their desires ran alongside each other.

  He strolled down to the pier and, hissing for Rarby and Shelby, briefed them on this new twist. Happily, they were already three-quarters into the discipline required at sea and accepted his commands as if he were already striding the captain's deck.

  "We'll have him," Rarby promised. "Quick and quiet."

  "Go now," Waln said. "Shivadtmon's man should be in place."

  The brothers crossed the open space between the pier and the buildings, moving with quick purpose, not bothering to hide, for the hidden watcher would have no place to run. There was a scuffle and a yelp as if someone had taken a blow, and then the brothers were returning, hauling someone between them.

  "Look who we found," Rarby announced in a hushed voice that was far more menacing than any crowing.

  He tilted back their prisoner's head, revealing the high-cheekboned features of Rahniseeta, sister of Harjeedian.

  "We aren't going to kill her, are we?" Shelby asked anxiously.

  Waln remembered the looks Shelby had been giving the girl and smiled silkily. "Oh, no, we'll take her along with us—as a hostage. I think her brother would appreciate that tactic, don't you?"

  Other than eventual nightfall, there was no real reason to press the horses. Derian and Poshtuvanu had already ridden a fair distance, and with the long summer afternoon before them, there would be light for traveling awhile. So the young men took the road back from the farm at a fast walk, stopping to refresh themselves and the horses when a late-afternoon thunderstorm blew through, and riding on through the considerably cooler afternoon when it had passed.

  They went their separate ways as planned, Derian heading on to Heeranenahalm and Poshtuvanu for u-Bishinti. Even without Poshtuvanu's pleasant company to ease the journey, Derian felt no need to press Prahini. The information as to who had bought Freshwater Pearl confirmed some of their suspicions, but it was not as if Dantarahma himself had been seen buying the mare.

  Dantarahma.

  Derian shook his head in disbelief. Even having himself been the witness to Dantarahma's involvement, it was hard to imagine the kind and gentle junjaldisdu as the wielder of the knife. In a way, it was harder now than it had been. Before, Dantarahma had been a distant figure, certainly one he'd seen well enough to recognize without a question, but not well known.

  In the days since Eshinarvash had carried him back, Derian had become very aware of Dantarahma. It seemed that whenever people mentioned him, they mentioned his kindness and gentleness in the same breath. Breaking that illusion was not going to be easy—and probably could only be done with the complicity of at least one of his followers.

  Despite the fact that Derian had told himself that there was no need to hurry, he found himself urging Prahini along, resenting the occasional, inevitable delays. When he found himself begrudging a stop to relieve his bladder, Derian forced himself to face his impatience.

  It's Rahniseeta, he thought. Why not be honest with yourself, Derian Garter? You're hoping to get there before it's unreasonably late to call on her. Is that fair? You're behaving like you're courting—calling at all hours, planning long walks, and longer halts. Why not look at it directly. Are you interested in courting the girl?

  The answer came almost immediately.

  If she's interested in being courted by a red-haired, sunburned, freckled northerner… well, yes. I think I am.

  The thought made him smile, and he rode on, alternating singing and whistling, much to Prahini's swivel-eared consternation.

  However, in spite of his new honesty with himself—or perhaps because of it—Derian didn't go directly to the Temple of the Cold Bloods. After leaving Prahini at the facility that was flippantly referred to as u-Bishinti North, Derian cleaned off the worst of the road dirt and went to call on Meiyal.

  The iaridisdu was pleased to see him, and invited him to a latish supper while he told his tale. She politely offered him the use of a washroom while dinner was being set, and Derian, knowing he
still reeked of horse sweat, gladly accepted.

  He briefed her over an excellent meal of sweet and spicy chicken over rice, washed down with many glasses of cold mint tea, and followed by fresh peaches in thick cream.

  "We'll turn this information to our use," Meiyal promised when Derian had concluded with his own doubts that this information would be of much use. "I think it's getting to be time to involve one of the other members of u-Liall."

  "Tiridanti?"

  "Perhaps. I was thinking of Bibimalenu of Air. He's a good man, and gentle."

  "They say the same of Dantarahma."

  "But Dantarahma has also long evinced an interest in religious reform—in the most literal sense. He wants us to return to the oldest forms. He doesn't quite come out and say blood sacrifice, but those who think beyond his talk of reinstituting some of the old prayer forms have wondered. Bibimalenu is the opposite. Indeed, some of what Dantarahma would call 'new' forms came into use early in Bibi's tenure—and that would be twenty years ago, now."

  Derian, full now, fairly clean, and definitely rested, tried not to fidget, but though Meiyal's eyes might be old, her vision was keen.

  "But you must be moving on. Are you intending to ride to u-Bishinti tonight?"

  Derian shook his head. "That would be unfair to Prahini. Barnet Lobster has told me to make myself free of the spare room in his suite, so I'll go over to the Temple of the Cold Bloods."

  Meiyal didn't bother to hide her smile.

  "And if you happen to get a word alone with Rahniseeta, do brief her. She has been as useful in this matter as you promised she would be."

  "I'll do that," Derian promised, then decided he was tired of blushing. "I'm hoping it's not too late to call on her."

  Meiyal glanced out the window and the darkening sky.

  "Almost, but not quite. Thank you for speaking with me. I will notify you before I speak with Bibimalenu."

  Derian thanked her and, as soon as he was politely away, almost ran to the Temple of the Cold Bloods. He fleetingly wondered where Firekeeper might be, but at this hour she could be anywhere. It was always easier to find her when the day was hot and Blind Seer wanted to sleep.

  The porter at the gate of the Temple of the Cold Bloods admitted Derian with a cordial nod.

  "Had you noticed if Barnet Lobster is in?" Derian asked. "I thought to avail myself of his hospitality tonight."

  "Actually," the porter replied, "he went out some time ago and I don't think he has returned, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you went to check yourself."

  "Thank you." Derian tried hard to sound casual. "And Rahniseeta sister of Harjeedian?"

  The porter turned away so that Derian wondered if he was hiding one of those damned knowing smiles, but when he turned back he had a folded note in his hand.

  "She went out some time ago, but left this in case you called."

  Derian accepted the note, savoring the perfume that drifted from it. Then a thought shook him from his momentary revery.

  "Did she go out with Barnet?"

  "Why, no. She went out alone sometime not long after dinner. He went out about the same time, but with another of the northerners—the clumsy one."

  "Elwyn," Derian supplied automatically. "Well, I'll just go along to Barnet's suite then."

  "Do that," the porter said amiably, sitting back in his chair against the wall and reaching for the mug of beer he'd put by to answer Derian's knock. "And if Rahniseeta comes in, I'll let her know you were asking after her, and that you're staying the night."

  Derian didn't doubt that he would. In his experience, porters came in two types: the utterly taciturn and the complete gossips. This man was definitely one of the latter.

  He found Barnet's suite empty, and dithered for a moment as to whether he wanted to read Rahniseeta's note out by the pond or in the privacy of the spare room. He decided on the spare room. After getting a lamp lit, he settled in the solid carved wooden chair near the desk and began breaking seals.

  There were several, as if Rahinseeta had not wished anyone else to get even a glimpse of the contents. This, along with the perfume, set Derian's hopes soaring. Had she been thinking along the same lines as he had? In Hawk Haven, the forms of courtship placed much of the burden on the male, but—as Derian's friend Elise had found—if the woman was higher-ranked socially or in some other way advantaged, it was her responsibility to make interest clear.

  Fleetingly, Derian wondered if Doc and Elise had resolved their complicated romance, but even as he wondered, his fingers were busy and his eyes were scanning the first lines of Rahinseeta's elegant writing.

  She had written in Liglimosh, but had kept her words simple and had eschewed the elaborate calligraphic flourishes that Derian knew were prized. This was a letter meant for him, and to be understood by him. It also was not a love letter, and the contents drove almost all thoughts of love from his mind.

  Waln Endbrook and Shivadtmon in conspiracy? That was within expectation, but a raid on Misheemnekuru? Piracy? At least Barnet hadn't been part of this, but if he hadn't returned, did that mean he'd failed in persuading Waln not to do anything?

  Derian pressed his fingers to his temples, trying hard to think what to do. He wanted to run down to the wharves, but they were extensive. Even if he went there, he'd have no idea how to check whether one boat out of the many anchored there was gone. He needed someone who knew more.

  Harjeedian. Whatever else Derian thought of the man, he knew Harjeedian's affection for his sister was sincere. Rahniseeta had spoken of him with occasional exasperation, but had always tempered that by recalling how Harjeedian had not abandoned her in his rise to power.

  Harjeedian, then, and if after he read Rahniseeta's note Derian had to explain the whole damn conspiracy or religious reformation or whatever you wanted to call it, well, then he would… as long as he could do it on the move.

  Derian was out of the bedroom and through the courtyard before the thoughts were fully formed in his mind. He remembered the route to the suite sister and brother shared, and arrived to find Harjeedian seated at the table in the center room. The aridisdu had a lamp lit and was poring over a stack of papers, one of the omnipresent snakes coiled about his forearm. There was a tumbler near at hand, and over those impossibly high cheekbones, Harjeedian's eyes looked very tired.

  "Derian!" Harjeedian said, when Derian entered. His tone made the word more exclamation than greeting.

  "Have you seen Rahniseeta?" Derian asked.

  "Why, no. I only arrived a short time ago. Her door was closed, and I thought she might have gone to bed. I didn't wish to disturb her."

  "Check if she's there," Derian said, "and when you have, I need to talk to you—and show you something."

  Harjeedian rose, not so much obediently but as one humors a child or madman. His expression when he knocked, received no response, then investigated and found Rahniseeta's room empty changed from bemused puzzlement to apprehension.

  Derian, meanwhile, had checked the spot where he knew Rahniseeta typically left messages for her brother and had located what he had hoped to find.

  "Read this," he said, thrusting a note—folded, rather than sealed as his own had been—at Harjeedian.

  Harjeedian unfolded the note, and Derian watched with growing tension as the man's gaze flitted over the written characters. Just how much had Rahniseeta told her brother?

  Finishing, Harjeedian bent his fingers around the note, unconsciously crushing the paper.

  "What is this? A raid on Misheemnekuru? Is this some sort of joke?"

  "May I see what she wrote you, Harjeedian?" Derian countered.

  Harjeedian handed it over, his slim, strong build held tense. The snake on his arm, responding to that tension, lifted the upper length of its body from Harjeedian's warmth, its tongue nervously tasting the air.

  Once Derian had confirmed that Rahniseeta had not told her brother anything other than what she had overheard being said in Barnet's room, he shaped his reply, gi
ving it force by the simple expedient of starting to leave the suite.

  "This is much of what was contained in the note she left me," Derian said. "I came here for your help, because I have no idea where to start looking along the wharves. Are you with me or not?"

  Harjeedian uncoiled the snake from his arm, and set it gently amid some of the plants that grew about the suite.

  "I am with you," he said, "but why would Rahniseeta go there herself? This could be dangerous. Why wouldn't she get assistance?"

  "Aren't all of us northerners rather politically charged right now?" Derian said, leading the way out. "Rahniseeta may not have wished to start anything until she was certain that Elwyn was not talking fancy—he's not among the brightest, you know. Or she may have hoped that Barnet would succeed in dissuading Waln. Either way, a major scandal would be averted."

  Derian was almost amazed at how easily he made up excuses that held just enough of the truth to be convincing, without giving away those things he still thought best to conceal.

  Two years of conspiracy and intrigue have evidently taught me something, he thought, but the thought was devoid of amusement.

  Nor was he certain that Harjeedian did not suspect that Derian was holding back something. However, as the aridisdu was willing to wait for explanations until they had found Rahniseeta, Derian was grateful for the respite.

  Once they left Heeranenahalm, Harjeedian took the lead. He stayed off the processional way, taking them through side streets that snaked toward the southern end of the wharves. They did not talk, saving breath for moving as quickly as possible. In contrast, the sounds that came from the open windows—a baby fretfully crying, drunken laughter, a woman's voice intoning a prayer—seemed surreal, as if these hints that even late at night human lives went on were eddying through from another world.

  "This is the part of the wharves where Waln's people have kept their Islander" Harjeedian said. In response to Derian's puzzled look, he answered, "That is what they call their boat."

  "Ah."

  Derian looked at the rows of tarped vessels bobbing at anchor. Their masts were bare, those lines left in place hummed in the breeze, the metal fittings ringing faintly against each other. To Derian's eyes the sailboats were indistinguishable. Yet, tied as they were bow and stern so the shifting currents would not cause them to bump into each other, they rather reminded him of stabled horses—and there was an unsettling gap in the line.