by James Enge
“That's to be seen. If you had my people killed, you may find it an even greater mistake.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“That's to be seen, too. But I’m here to talk with you, not as a citizen with a private grudge, but as the gnyrrand of my new pack and the consort of my First Wolf. We have a common interest against this new political alliance of the Sardhluun and the Neyuwuleiuun.”
“That's to be seen, in the words of your own refrain. You need us; that's clear. And the Alliance does not need us; that's clear. But it may be in our interest to stand apart, as neutrals, rather than join in a losing side.”
“We're not the losing side. We're the winning side. Don't take my word for it. Look what's happened every time the Alliance has tangled with us.”
“I have been looking, and I am impressed. But your victories have been very costly for Wuruyaaria, you know. Those airships of the Neyuwuleiuun brought in a lot of slaves and meat-animals. This is going to be a hungry year, and the next one hungrier yet. We'll miss them. And citizens will blame you.”
“Slaves do the work once done by citizens. The fewer slaves in the city, the better.”
“The better for citizens of very little bite. The worse for citizens of very large bite.”
“That may even out.”
“You need it to be better than even, in your favor, and I’m not sure that's the way it is.”
“You can help with that.”
“Maybe I can. What's in it, for me and mine?”
“I can make you First Singer of the Innermost Pack.”
Rywudhaariu almost spoke, then paused. He was genuinely surprised. “Would you?” he said at last. “If you could. They are separate issues, I suppose.”
“I might: if you give me evidence that you were not involved in the murder of my kin. I’ll waive my personal grievance against you. You need not be elected to the Innermost Pack to be First Singer; the Innermost normally choose the First Singer from among themselves, but not always. If a union of the Aruukaiaduun, the Goweiteiuun, and the outliers win the election, the first act must be the admission of the outliers to the treaty. Then I and the gnyrrand of the Goweiteiuun will support you for First Singer. If you can persuade your own unruly band to support you, your election is certain.”
“Certain only in the wake of many uncertainties. Still: what an offer! Well, I must think on this.”
“Not for too long, though.”
“Naturally not. This is a lively election year. A pity if it is really the last.”
“The last?”
Rywudhaariu was laboriously extricating himself from the comforts of his couch, but when both his feet were on the floor he said, “Hadn't you heard? The world is ending. That's what all this strange weather means. The gods or somebody—”
“Keep it clean, Rywudhaariu.”
“This is how the story goes; I’m not saying I believe it. The gods or somebody have decided that the world has gone on long enough, and now they are burning it alive.”
Rokhlenu walked silently beside the old politician for a while and then said, “Yurr. The world changes, but never ends. I can't believe it.”
“Oh, I don't believe it, either. Still, if the world changes enough, we may not be able to live in it. I’ll leave you here, Rokhlenu,” he said at the door of the barracks. “I don't want to inflict the heat outside on you, not if we're going to be friends after all. That sunlight is too much for anyone with red blood still running in their veins. Personally, I rather enjoy it, of course, but I seem to be mostly ice water and mush as I get older.”
“Well, see that your ice water doesn't boil over,” said Rokhlenu, perfectly willing to stay behind in the shade.
Outside, the rest of the Aruukaiaduun band were waiting, looking bedraggled and unhappy in the fierce light. Not even the harsh sunshine could dim Lekkativengu's spirits, though, and he gladly offered to accompany the Aruukaiaduun werewolves to the southern gate.
Rokhlenu waited till they were out of sight and then braved the bitter light to cross over to the First Wolf's lair-tower and talk with his mate. She was waiting for him in the singing room on the second floor, and they discussed the whole meeting.
“I don't see how we can win,” he said, “if the Aruukaiaduun join the Alliance. But I sort of hope Rywudhaariu carries out his threat of staying neutral through the election. I’d hate to give him a chance to bite us on the back of our neck.”
“On the back of our anything,” Wuinlendhono agreed.
Rywudhaariu had another meeting later that afternoon in the deserted Shadow Market. By then he had dismissed the Aruukaiaduun electoral band and was accompanied by a pack of mute mercenary thugs from Dogtown.
The citizen he came to meet stood alone in the empty marketplace. Wurnafenglu might be a gray-muzzle, but he was proud of the fact that he needed no bodyguards to defend his person or his honor-teeth.
“And so?” he said, as soon as the two werewolves were in conversation range.
“He won't go for it,” Rywudhaariu replied. “He's not stupid, just inexperienced, and he's getting more experience every day. I tell you what, if I could gather proof that I wasn't involved in his family's murder—”
“Oh, was that the deal breaker?”
“It was, and he knows it. But if it wasn't, I would toss your Alliance over and join their Union.”
“What did he offer you?”
“The chance to be First Singer.”
“Yurr. Yes, that was shrewd. If you could have jumped at it, you would have, and the fact that you didn't sang him a whole epic.”
“Nonsense. I don't jump at anything without looking it over. I wish you were as bright as our enemy is, Wurnafenglu.”
“I have other merits,” Wurnafenglu said smugly.
“You must list them for me sometime. That would be useful knowledge indeed. In the meantime, I think we must retreat to our secondary line of attack and rattle the young fellow somehow—get him to do something rash. What do your spies among the outliers tell you? What is their strength and what is their weakness, and how do we use the one to strike at the other? If we can answer those questions, I may be able to offer you the station Rokhlenu offered me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DEATH OF A CITIZEN
It was already hot the next morning at dawn. Morlock awoke with an empty wine bowl in his hand and a female's screams in his ears.
He dropped the bowl and rolled from his sleeping cloak
to his feet. He was not ready for a fight, but tried to look as if he was.
Liudhleeo was on her knees, wailing over Hrutnefdhu's body. His obviously dead body. It still wore the night shape, though the air was filled with sunlight. And the head was missing. Someone had crept into the den while Morlock was drunk, killed his friend, decapitated him, and escaped—not just unharmed, but unchallenged.
He sat down on the other side of the body, her screams and sobs vibrating in his wine-wounded mind. He could not speak to her, could not bring himself to comfort her. He was too ashamed. His friend had been murdered, in his presence, while he lay there drunk. What right did he have to speak to the dead wolf's grieving mate? He was stunned beyond speech, beyond action, by the enormity.
Eventually, Liudhleeo's screams subsided to sobbing, and the enormous glacier of Morlock's shame split through with anger and pain.
There were jars of wine scattered around the den. Morlock got up and threw the nearest one out the window. When he heard it smash on the plank road outside and someone shout in alarm and annoyance, he felt a fierce satisfaction begin to burn within him. He grabbed another jar and tossed it out the window, and another.
Presently feet came drumming up the stairs. He was picking up another wine jar as an astonished Rokhlenu entered through the open door, with Hlupnafenglu following close behind.
“Morlock, what are you—?” Rokhlenu began, but broke off as he saw Hrutnefdhu's decapitated corpse.
“Ghost of all ghosts,�
�� Rokhlenu whispered. “What happened here?”
“Our friend was murdered last night,” Morlock said, and threw the jar he was holding out the window.
“I was,” Liudhleeo said, through her tears, “I was—out. And Morlock was—Morlock was—”
“I was drunk,” said Morlock grimly, seizing another jar. “Dead drunk.” He tossed the jar out the window.
“Morlock,” said Rokhlenu. “Old friend. I think I know how you feel.”
“Old friend, I hope you don't. I hope you never do.”
“But you could at least toss the jars out the other window. They'd fall in the swamp that way, not into the street.”
Morlock considered the question seriously and replied reasonably, “They might not break.” He tossed another jar into the street. He continued until there were no more and he was left glancing about in frustration. After a brief internal struggle, he decided not to continue hurling every available thing in the den out the window.
He turned to Liudhleeo, who was bending over Hrutnefdhu's corpse, her eyes wet, though she was no longer sobbing. Hlupnafenglu was standing behind her, staring with a strange, hungry expression at the meaty end of the pale severed neck.
“I'm sorry,” he said to her. “You both deserved better from me.”
“We both failed him. I should have been here. Oh, I should have been here.”
Morlock closed his eyes, imagined waking in the fierce noontime to the prospect of two stinking corpses that had once been his friends, repressed the urge to vomit, and opened his eyes again. “No,” he said. “Better that you weren't.”
He crouched down across the body from her. She looked at him for the first time.
“I don't know what your burial customs are,” he said. “How can I help?”
“That's females' work,” Rokhlenu said hastily.
Morlock didn't look at him. “I don't care if it is,” he said to Liudhleeo. It was in his mind that she seemed to have few friends, male or female. “How can I help?”
“There is a female—she runs a smoking lair off the market. Name is Ruiulanhro. She has—she has—she can help.”
Rokhlenu said, “I know her. I'll send her word.”
“Then I will do what I must do,” Morlock said.
She bowed her head, breaking their locked gaze.
“Morlock,” said Rokhlenu. “Come talk with me a moment.”
Morlock stood and walked after his old friend through the door and down the stairs. He felt as if iron spikes were being pounded past his eyes, and every movement threatened to make his gorge rise up through his throat.
Rokhlenu came to a halt underneath a notice near the bottom of the stairs. Morlock had passed it many times, and now, after a fashion, he could even read it. In Sunspeech and Moonspeech it said, Tenants must bury their own dead. No smoking bloom on the stairways.
“There is a thing or two I must tell you,” Rokhlenu began.
“This is about politics, I guess.”
Rokhlenu was silent for a moment, looked past Morlock's shoulder, met Morlock's eye, and said, “Yes, in a way. How did you know?”
“I don't understand it and I don't understand your politics.”
“All right. I think this murder was aimed at me—an attempt to make me do something irrational.”
“You can leave that to me.”
“That's what I'm worried about. The election is in balance just now, Morlock. If the Aruukaiaduun stay neutral, or at least separate from the Alliance, our Union has a fair chance of winning most of the couches on the Innermost Pack.”
Morlock looked at him and waited; he could not see why this mattered.
“Most of the City Watchers are members of the Aruukaiaduun,” Rokhlenu explained, when he saw that an explanation was necessary. “If we go into the city, asking questions, getting in fights, maybe killing someone, it could push the Aruukaiaduun into opposition. That may be the motive for this murder.”
“Rokhlenu—” Morlock began, and found he could not go on.
“It's dangerous to be too predictable, Morlock,” Rokhlenu said. “You're too good a fighter to not know this.”
“Rokhlenu, I will have blood for my friend's blood. For our friend's blood.”
“Is this what Hrutnefdhu would want?”
“I don't know. It doesn't matter, anyway. I am myself, not him.”
Rokhlenu looked away. “I don't want them to get away with it, either. I miss him already.”
“Then.”
“If—” He glanced up the stairway. There were doors open, citizens gathering on the turns of the stair. He looked back at Morlock. “I have an idea. You drunken, drooling, farting spongebag of a never-wolf's brach.”
Morlock was confused, then amused. He thought he saw what Rokhlenu was aiming at. “Your mother shaved her nose every morning,” he shouted back, red echoes of pain bouncing around his head. “She could juggle at midnight!”
“Don't talk about my mother, you cow-fondling, milk-drinking, ape-toed refugee from a freak show!”
“I never fondled your mother—” Morlock began, and Rokhlenu howled, “That's it!” and seized him by the shoulders. They struggled for a bit, snarling theatrically for the benefit of the audience.
“Have to take it outside,” Rokhlenu muttered. “Need more eyes on this.” He released Morlock's shoulders and flew away down the stairs as if he'd been struck.
Even if he weren't hungover Morlock wouldn't have been up to similar acrobatics; the ghost sickness was throwing off the balance of his entire body. But he thundered down the steps as fast as he could, and they broke together through the door leading into the street.
The plank road was littered with broken jars, stained with wine like purple blood. The reek of it nearly did make Morlock furious, and he never remembered afterward the insults he hurled at Rokhlenu in the street. He remembered the awed looks on the citizens standing around, though. The crowd had begun to gather—drawn by screams and hurled wine jars, no doubt—before they took their ostensible quarrel out into the sunlight, and it only thickened as they stood there screaming and shoving each other in the hot morning light.
“Good enough,” Rokhlenu muttered eventually. “Have to end it somehow.”
Morlock threw back his head and shouted, “Tyrfing!”
The sword, its black-and-white blade glittering like crystal in the day's fierce light, flew from the window of the topmost den and landed in Morlock's outstretched hand.
Rokhlenu spat at his feet. “Go ahead and use it, coward!”
“Get out,” Morlock snarled. “Come back with a weapon and we'll finish this.”
“I'll come back in my night shape and rip your belly open.”
“Dogs bark. Citizens act. This is over.”
“It's not over!” shouted Rokhlenu, and stormed away through the crowd.
Morlock turned back to the dark doorway and stepped out of the sun and the gaze of the crowd. There were still citizens goggling on the stairway, but they skittered away like mice when they saw him returning, sword in hand. He mounted the stairs back to the topmost den, his thoughts grim.
If Rokhlenu thought, as he obviously did, that this stagy break between the two friends would help him politically, Morlock was willing to oblige him. But he didn't relish the thought of investigating a political assassination in the largely unknown werewolf city. If Hrutnefdhu could help him—but, of course, it was Hrutnefdhu who had been assassinated. There was Hlupnafenglu, of course. But, if he was not mistaken, Rokhlenu had been trying to warn him about Hlupnafenglu for some reason.
As he approached the still-open door to the den, a thought occurred to him. How had the assassin entered the den? He pulled the door half closed and examined the lock. The glass eye was missing, and the coppery sinews of the lock mechanism had been severed somehow. Not by a blade, he thought: something hot enough to melt copper. Yet it had not set fire to the wooden door. Interesting, and revealing.
Ulugarriu had a hand, or a paw, in thi
s, Morlock decided. At least, he had supplied the means.
Morlock's feelings lightened a little bit. Political assassination was as beyond him as was most politics. But murderous sorcerers were a more familiar matter.
He reentered the den. Liudhleeo was now flanked by two females Morlock didn't recognize, one a semiwolf with a hairless canine face and the other a bitter crone who was staring at Hlupnafenglu with naked hatred. When Morlock entered, she alternated her glare of hatred between the two males.
Morlock got the sheath for Tyrfing, threw it over his shoulders, and sheathed the blade. He tossed a cloak over his ghostly arm and grabbed a bag of money, tying it with his right hand to his belt. Then he stepped over to the red werewolf and said to him quietly, “What did you see in Hrutnefdhu's wound?”
“I don't want to say,” the red werewolf admitted. “Maybe I'm wrong. Look yourself.”
Morlock did, and then he motioned Hlupnafenglu to join him on the stairwell.
“They can hear us just as well out here,” the red werewolf said. “Except that evil old never-wolf, maybe, may her eyes fall out.”
Morlock sensed an evasiveness in Hlupnafenglu, a sort of slyness, that was new to him. But not new to Hlupnafenglu, he guessed. Perhaps it had come back to him with his memories.
“The neck was severed below the level of the shoulders,” Morlock said. “It would have been easier to sever it higher. But the cutting was done by a practiced hand with a clean sharp blade—a surgeon rather than a butcher. Why?”
“I don't know, Chieftain. But it seemed odd to me.”
“How can it be odd? Have you seen many werewolves with their heads cut off?”
“One haunted the prison where we lived, the Vargulleion. I often saw it there.”
Morlock was silent a moment under the shadow of the dread memory. Then he said, “You are not answering me. I find that troubling.”
“Didn't the gnyrrand tell you about me, Chieftain? I saw him looking at me.”
“You will answer my question.”