Prince of Wolves

by Dave Gross

  “Of course,” I said, admiring his quick thinking almost as much as I regretted my hasty assumption of his betrayal. Only now did I fully understand why others would follow him so readily. I could not formulate a coherent expression of my gratitude, so I said simply, “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

  “No,” I said. “Even if he cannot accept my explanation and apology, the worst the Count is likely to do is to refuse me his hospitality. If so, I will endeavor to make my approach to your camp as noisy as possible.”

  He ignored my jibe and said, “With all due respect, boss, I’ve got a feeling that none of the counts we’ve met in Ustalav share your idea of good manners.”

  So he had recognized Senir’s voice also. I would have to continuously remind myself not to underestimate his cunning. I patted the pocket of my waistcoat and assured him that if there were an altercation that required his attention, I would make it conspicuous.

  The messenger returned, and the guards opened the gate for me and Arnisant. I picked up my satchel and Galdana’s sword. Radovan tossed off a casual salute and walked toward Azra’s camp. Before I turned to enter Willowmourn, I saw him break into a run.

  Count Lucinean Galdana paced beneath the recently mounted head of a dire bear. The new addition dominated the room, and as one with some knowledge of the properties of the animals whose heads he had taken as trophies, I was much impressed with his hunting prowess, especially if it were true, as I had heard from peers and servants alike, that he hunted alone.

  His familial resemblance to his nephew Casomir was noticeable if not striking. They shared the same contrast between dark brows and yellow hair, but Galdana had the wide jaw and plump cheeks that I remembered from his father. Unlike his sire, however, he was rotund in no other respect. I imagined his cracking walnuts in the pit of his elbow to amuse servant girls.

  He had listened with attention and patience as I recounted my experiences in the care of his nephew, Casomir, and the imposter I had known as their cousin Tara. His hard expression softened as I detailed the plight of Anneke, whose father, Galdana told me, had escaped the terrors of that night only to be found in such an unyielding state of distress that the Count had sent him to Caliphas in hopes that Doctor Trice could soothe his shattered psyche.

  When I had finished my summary of events, Galdana graciously shared his perspective of the matter. That Casomir and Tara had maintained a long correspondence he knew very well. They were so close in age that their parents had hoped for a matrimonial match after years of distant friendship. Yet while Casomir had traveled to Caliphas, it was not to propose marriage but to escort Tara’s coffin to the family crypts in Amaans. Galdana learned this only upon returning from his hunt, when he discovered Casomir’s last letter from Vudra. It was not from Tara but from her parents, reporting the tragic news of their daughter’s death from a mysterious and virulent disease.

  Galdana and I pieced together what must have truly occurred. The vampire that slew Tara used the girl’s seeming death to transport itself to the land where she expected to find the Lacuna Codex. For whatever reasons—perhaps hunger or a need to communicate with allies in Caliphas—the vampire abandoned the disguise of a corpse and adopted Tara’s identity, confident that none in Ustalav except for Casomir had learned of the girl’s death.

  Upon arriving at Willowmourn, the vampire enthralled key servants and cowed the others into obedience. When her appetite became terrifying to the staff, she and Casomir announced the false rumor of plague in Kavapesta to keep the servants, and me, from fleeing to the city.

  When Felix entered and set a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets nearby, I suspended my story. The butler hesitated upon seeing me, but after pouring the wine he bowed to his master before turning to bow deeply to me. He struggled to keep emotion from his pale face, but his eye twitched before he turned and departed the room.

  “He witnessed the worst of the depravity, and he remembers it all,” explained Galdana. “Fortunately, the Bishop’s clerics were able to restore his sanity if not soothe his soul. He is mortified by his part in your manipulation.”

  “He cannot be held to blame,” I said.

  Galdana agreed. “I ask for your discretion in all of the unpleasant details of your stay at Willowmourn, but what you know, you know,” he said. “The scandals you have learned, if repeated in Caliphas, could sully my family name for a generation.”

  “I give you my sincerest assurance—”

  “I ask for none,” he said. “Rather, I shall place my trust in your character, which I estimate to be greater than that of your Ustalavic acquaintances.”

  It was not my place to protest such an indirect slight against Countess Caliphvasos, but secretly I harbored my own suspicions about her complicity in the matter of delivering Tara to Willowmourn. My judgment was marred by our previous romantic association. Galdana, as a native of the land, probably had a better notion of her character than did I. I bowed my acceptance of his left-handed compliment.

  “I thank Your Excellency for your understanding, and for your great courtesy to one who abused your hospitality in your absence.”

  “And I am grateful for your part in ridding my home of the abomination,” he replied.

  “Even so,” I pressed, “I took your sword and these books without your permission.” I nodded toward the weapon and borrowed volumes I had laid upon his desk. “I beg your forgiveness and return them to you now.” I gestured to Arnisant, who stood near the window, watching the guards on the lawn go about their business. “Along with this most excellent guardian, who chased me all the way across your county to offer his protection.”

  Galdana nodded acceptance. “Let me offer you my advice, although you have not asked for it. Never mention these Keepers of Secrets, within or without the borders of my country. Their cult is known by another name, as perilous to utter as the name of the god they serve. It is said that even in a whisper, their master can hear it spoken anywhere on Golarion.”

  I almost smiled at the hyperbole, but his countenance was so grave that I could not dismiss his warning. He went to the desk and wrote a word upon a scrap of paper. He showed it to me: Anaphexis.

  He looked into my eyes to see that I understood, and I nodded. He dropped the paper into the fire and watched it burn before returning to the seat opposite me.

  I considered anew the implications of the treatises on the cult of Norgorber I had discovered among his books. Now I believed he had them not because of sordid interest or any sense of affiliation with the Keepers of Secrets. Instead, I think he was the sort of man to study his enemy. That thought led to a question about what else I had found among his books.

  “Were you unaware of the tomes of magic in your own library?” I asked, thinking of the riffle scroll formulae. “Some of them were extraordinary.”

  “I was of course aware of them,” he said, “but I have never had an interest in the arcane. Those were passed down from my great, great-aunt.”

  “Considering that facet of your lineage, I am surprised that you have not explored your own talents in that direction.”

  Galdana smiled. “You are an oddity among our class, Varian. You knew my father, and you have begun to know me. To most lords, the history of our country and the chronicle of our lineage is far more compelling than the subtleties of the arcane, although I confess a certain weakness for romances.”

  And pornographic drawings, I thought, but I said, “And histories, I notice.”

  “Yes, fortunately for us both. From what you have told me, I am glad to know my books proved useful in the pursuit of your quest.”

  I paused to consider my next words. Galdana had impressed me as the best sort of nobleman, and not merely because of his willingness to forgive my offenses. The library he maintained, even if he did not personally peruse its volumes, was a monument to the history of his country. And if he were, as I suspected, a foe to the followers of Norgorber, then p
erhaps he would be the best guardian of the histories we had recovered.

  “There is a favor I would ask of you,” I said. He listened with rapt attention as I described the histories of the Prince of Wolves and the war against the Whispering Tyrant. “I am loath to take them from their native land,” I explained. “And as you can imagine, should they fall into the wrong hands, they could prove disruptive to an already tenuous balance among the counties.”

  He comprehended the magnitude of my request. “You do me great honor,” he said.

  “Despite the circumstances of our first acquaintance,” I said, “I think it a great fortune that we have met. As my bodyguard might say, ‘Desna smiles.’”

  “An apt expression, although the people of our land are more inclined to beg the Lady of Graves for mercy than rely upon the whims of Lady Luck.”

  “And you?” I asked. “In which direction do you incline?”

  “Long ago I reconciled myself to fate,” he said. “Pharasma has read my life, and she will judge it on the day I die.”

  “May that be many years from now,” I said, raising my glass. He joined me in the toast, a wan smile upon his face.

  Our interview was coming to an end. I whistled for Arnisant and indicated a spot beside Galdana’s feet. “Come, Arnisant.”

  “Arnisant?” said my host. “The legendary general. You have given the dog a good name.”

  “He impressed me as a heroic sort,” I said. Arnisant came to sit beside me. “No,” I corrected him. “Go to your master.” The dog looked up at me, head cocked quizzically.

  “Please,” said Galdana, gesturing to me with an open palm. “I think Arnisant knows his master.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Last Command

  It was just after dawn in Oracle Alley. None of the tea-readers, seers, or phony Harrowers would arrive for hours, and a couple of ugly looks was all it took to persuade the neighboring tradesmen to go home for a proper breakfast. I couldn’t say why, but I wanted a little time alone before my people arrived here, in the place where I’d first brought the wrath of the Sczarni down on my head. One way or another, my business would be done by the time the sun drank up the mists pouring through the alleys of Caliphas. If Desna smiled, I’d be done with Caliphas, Ustalav, and the Sczarni. If she laughed, then the boss would have to promote Arnisant.

  Even if things turned out for the worst, I had a good last memory to take wherever I was headed. Azra and I had five nights on the trip back to Galdana’s estate, where we made love for what I expected to be the last time under the riverside willows. But she surprised me. Even after she saw the caravan Count Galdana had assembled to escort the boss back to the capital with the recovered ruins of his red carriage, she followed in her wagon. I sat beside her all the way. Every now and then Luminita turned her head back to give me an accusing look as if she knew it was my fault she had to pull us across the Ulcazar Mountains. During the days, we didn’t have much to say that couldn’t be expressed with a touch or a kiss. The nights were a different matter, but we moved our blankets far enough that we didn’t wake the boss or frighten Galdana’s guards.

  As we approached the walls of Caliphas, Azra slowed the wagon and let the rest of the procession go ahead. She pulled off the road and let go of the reins, as if she meant to camp there. I asked her what was wrong, and she nodded toward the city gate. A band of Varisians in colorful vests and skirts were negotiating with the guards. One of them was a dark-haired beauty with earrings big enough I could have thrown a knife through them. It wasn’t Malena, but there had to be one like her in every band of Sczarni, and we both know it was no coincidence there were more of them coming into the city.

  They come for you, she signed.

  “Just to see me off,” I said. I had my own ideas about how that might go down. It was something I hadn’t discussed with her or the boss. I’d deal with it on my own.

  Azra’s gaze lingered on the Sczarni girl who teased her scarf around the neck of a leering guard. Even from this distance, I saw her hand dip into the poor sap’s purse. When he figured it out later, I wonder whether he’d be mad or just reckon he’d gotten value for his coin. I already knew my answer. I took Azra’s chin and gently turned it back toward me.

  “Don’t even think it,” I said.

  You wish you’d chosen her, she signed.

  I’d learned to ignore that kind of leverage years ago, and most of the women who tumbled with me knew better than to try it. Hearing it from Azra was different. It made her seem half her age—although it occurred to me then that I didn’t know what her age was. Not that I’m fool enough to ask.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I wish I had chosen Malena instead of you.”

  She recoiled as if I’d slapped her. When I said it, I’d meant to be funny, but one look at her wounded expression changed my tune.

  “If I had chosen her,” I explained, “it wouldn’t be so damned hard to leave now.”

  She turned away so I couldn’t see the tears, but she leaned back against me, and I knew I was off the hook. The hell of it was, this one wasn’t just a line. I’d meant it.

  “Of course, it’s not as if I really could have made a choice,” I said, stroking the tattoo on her wrist. “That was some nice trick with the starknife.”

  She turned around to face me with a solemn expression. She flicked both wrists at once, and twin starknives appeared in her hands. She held one against her breast and offered me the other.

  I hesitated. If I understood right, she was making the sort of suggestion that would have made me chuck one of my Egorian sweethearts under the chin, tip her a wink, and, soon as her back was turned, slip out the window and stay away from her street for a few months. It’d be even easier to escape here, once I set foot on a boat.

  “Those assassins will be after me,” I said. “It’s too dangerous for me in Ustalav, at least for a while. I can’t stay.”

  No, she signed. But you can return.

  She pressed the starknife into my hand and closed my fingers over the haft. She kissed me hard, and her tears spilled hot onto my cheeks. Then she pushed me away. When I hopped off the wagon, she slapped the reins and drove back north.

  I heard the music before I saw them. It was the same song that had lured me weeks earlier, and the fiddle sounded almost exactly the same. Then they began to emerge from the mists filling Oracle Alley.

  For a moment I thought I saw the ghost of Dragos walking forward with his fiddle, but it was a younger man. There was no mistaking the family resemblance, and as he drew closer I could see it was indeed the same fiddle. This was some cousin who had inherited the instrument Dragos’s son could not, since I had killed them both.

  More figures emerged from the gloom. Most of them I did not recognize, but their moustaches, the embroidery of their clothes, the way the women held their heads, all were familiar. There were dozens of Varisians I had never seen before, but after my weeks running with their people, I could never mistake one of them for an ordinary Ustalav. They were not only Varisians, they were Sczarni. And they were not only Sczarni, they were the Prince’s wolves.

  Among the strangers I spied Milosh, his cheeks lean as though he had been running for days without rest. He looked years older than when I’d first grabbed his wrist as he lifted Nicola’s purse by the docks. The way he looked at me was different, too. Instead of radiating his hatred as he had when I first shamed him before his family, he had learned to conceal his emotions. When he saw I was trying to read his face, he turned away.

  Baba ambled forward, leaning on a cane I knew she didn’t need when running on four legs. Cosmina walked beside her, followed by Tatiana. Fane and Malena appeared soon after. He cast a longing look at her, but she kept her distance from him. She glanced at the starknife hanging from my belt, and she looked up at my face until I returned her gaze and she looked away.

  By the time they had all arrived, I counted over fifty Sczarni encircling me just as the audience had when I first
danced with Malena and fought with Vili. There were no cheers this morning, not even a smile. They all looked at me, and suddenly I had no idea what to say.

  Cezar stepped forward. “Radovan Virholt,” he said. “You summoned us, but first I must speak.”

  I nodded, trying to look confident, the way the boss did when listening to servants, but not imperious, the way he did after a few drinks.

  “You took the life of my brother, head of my family,” he said. “You made us swear loyalty to you.”

  There were murmurs among the strange Sczarni.

  “But you did not do these things according to the proper tradition,” Cezar added. He drew his knife from its sheath. As by prearranged signal, all of the others did the same. Even Baba drew the worn, narrow blade I had seen her use to chop carrots. Like her cousins and nephews and granddaughters, she pointed the tip at my heart.

  Somewhere in the back of my skull, I heard the echo of Desna’s laughter. I’d known it might come to this, and I came anyway. It was true, I had killed Vili and Dragos. I made no apologies for the first, since he had been trying to kill me, but the second death still gnawed at me. It had been a cold killing, an execution to save me future trouble. There had been a dozen other ways I could have dealt with him, and I’d have probably chosen one of them if I’d just taken the time to ask the boss or Azra for advice. But I’d taken the responsibility upon myself, and now I had to face the consequences. I was pretty sure they weren’t going to eat me, and I’d be damned if I didn’t cut a few throats on the way out. Before the thought had even formed in my mind, I felt my hand reaching for my big knife.

  The Sczarni moved forward and knelt in unison. They lay their knives upon the ground, tips toward me, and bowed their heads over the blades.

  “Upon our teeth,” said Cezar. “Upon our claws, upon our eyes and ears, and upon our hearts, we pledge our lives to you, Radovan Virholt, Prince of Wolves.”