City of Wolves

by Willow Palecek

  “What’s that one about?” I asked.

  Patch looked even more nervous than usual.

  “A Critique of Systems of Wealth. It’s a political treatise.”

  “Is it controversial?”

  “To some people, I should suppose. The author suggests that the nobility have too much wealth and the common man not enough.”

  “One only needs look outside to see that. There’s hardly anything revolutionary in observation.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “The Critique is more than observation. It’s a call to action. That’s why it ended up on the censors’ list.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Yours isn’t the first copy I’ve come across recently.”

  Patch relaxed, and I got up to leave. He escorted me back towards the door.

  “Oh, Patch, one last question. Do you know anything about werewolves?”

  Patch’s expression was one of surprise, defensiveness, and fear. His eyes widened, narrowed, and then widened again, and his hands shook furiously.

  “They aren’t real,” he said. “Just a myth.”

  I leaned over Patch and put the advantage of my height to good use.

  “Don’t lie to me, Patch. I hate it when people lie to me.”

  “Please! No! I don’t know anything. I can’t—” He broke off into sobs. What the hell had I done? I was supposed to be his friend. I reached out a hand to comfort him, but he stepped away.

  “I’m sorry. Forget I asked.”

  I gathered up my things and left. The chimes clanked as I shut the door, and I soon heard the series of locks being redone behind me.

  I knew I wasn’t going to get any further with Patch. I didn’t even know if he was ever going to speak to me again. I can’t say I could blame him. Things were getting deeper, and the stakes were getting higher. I had to look elsewhere.

  I was going to pay a visit to the only man I knew who had ever killed a werewolf.

  Chapter 13

  THE CITY OF LUPENWALD was enormous. Poets called it the City of Cities, and they were not wrong. Lupenwald was home to fashionable neighborhoods full of gentry, burghers, cafés, shops, and theaters; even more distinguished neighborhoods home to the vast estates of the nobility; destitute slums where one could get knifed simply for walking down the wrong alley; giant factory wards blanketed with smoke and ash, cramped workhouses surrounded by tenements; and the Royal Palaces and the motley government buildings. A city of cities, indeed.

  One of those cities was Mad Town, a city for the insane.

  At the center of Mad Town was St. Madeline’s Hospital, popularly known as the Mad House, a dark, looming building home to the dangerously insane and criminally deranged. Surrounding the asylum was a variety of different facilities, compounds, apartments, hospitals, and the like; all of them catered to the various needs of the mentally unsound. Surrounding that were the hovels and tenements of those mad enough to live in Mad Town by choice. Tours of the more unfortunate and improbable sufferers was a leisure pastime for many Lupenwalders, both rich and poor. Even though Sergeant Brast was considered incredibly mad by the medical community, I had no problem securing a visitation with him.

  “Alexander, my dear boy, thank you for coming,” said my host, brightening as I entered his chambers. He made as if to rise from his wheelchair, but I held out a hand.

  “Please, no need to get up on my account,” I said. “How are you, Sergeant?”

  “Pah, can’t complain, I suppose.” He lit up a pipe and motioned for me to sit. “Pension pays for the costs, and I’ve a little money tucked aside, so it’s comfortable, more or less. Three squares, pretty nurses, four sturdy walls, and a roof over my head. The doctors—don’t get me started on the doctors. But I find ways to keep busy. Let me show you my models.”

  Before I could respond, he turned and wheeled himself into the next room. Sergeant Brast had lost both his legs in the war, though he did not seem to consciously recognize the fact.

  “They don’t like me going out, you know,” he said in a low voice. “I’m a little surprised they let you in to see me. Must think I’m harmless now.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  The next room was dominated by a diorama of a wilderness scene divided by a mighty river, over which crossed a great bridge. Two armies of carved and painted figurines, complete with riflemen, cavalry, and artillery, fought over the bridge. Brast had made them all himself. Each was unique, the detail exquisite. The effort must have been enormous.

  “Here’s you and me, Alex my boy, fighting the good fight.” He pointed to a corner where a scouting party had crept up behind their opposite number and were in the process of slitting their enemies’ throats. I could see my face captured in the wood, the severe jawline. A hatchet on the belt. For a moment, I was back there, and I could hear the fighting and smell the gunpowder.

  Those were just two of close to a thousand tiny wooden soldiers.

  “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying your retirement,” I said.

  “Bah. Those were the days, Alex, when this country meant something. You and me, down there, fighting for what we believed.”

  “That was an ambush, not a fight. In any case, the scope is impressive.”

  He waved his hand, dismissing the remark.

  “This is just something simple to get me warmed up. Once I’m finished, I’m planning to model the Battle of Jericho.”

  “Mike, there were twenty thousand soldiers at Jericho. It was the largest battle in the war.”

  “Of course I know that! That’s why I chose it. Right now, I can get through about two figures a day. I should have just enough time left to finish the Battle of Jericho. Think of the grandeur!”

  “I wish you well with that,” I said. “I’m actually here on business, Sergeant. I had an encounter with a werewolf.”

  Sergeant Brast had been fiddling with an unfinished piece. He put it down and looked at me severely over the top of his spectacles.

  “You believe me, then.”

  “I always have.”

  “It was during the war I killed my first werewolf. I didn’t know what it was then, just that we were losing scouts. Brutal maulings; we’d find them all torn up.”

  “I remember what they looked like, Sergeant. I was there.”

  “I have to tell it from the beginning! That’s the only way I can keep it all straight. There were rumors going around the camp; I’m sure you heard them. Officers told us it was just wild hounds, but I knew it was more than that. Maybe some sort of giant beast. Like in the old stories my grandmother told me when I was just a lad.” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “I couldn’t send my men after something like that, so I went out alone, looking for wolf tracks in the woods. I found them: giant tracks, twice the size of a normal Walder print. I followed them and found my quarry. Or, rather, it found me.

  “It was High Moon. I thought I’d caught a glimpse of the thing, so I proceeded cautiously, my rifle out, ready to take a shot once I was certain. I advanced slowly and kept my eyes on the brush ahead of me. I saw it then, feeding on a corpse of one of our fellows. I hesitated. I shut my eyes and whispered a prayer to the Light. That’s all it took, Alex. The beast heard me. In an instant it turned, and I saw its piercing eyes and giant teeth gleaming like knives in the moonlight.

  “I turned and ran. It chased after me, howling. But I was smart, my boy. I had set a trap for the thing. I was the bait, and by the Light, the beast took it. It followed me right to the covered pit and fell in. I’ve never felt more alive than that night. I sat by the pit, exhausted, as the beast howled in frustration, trying to claw its way out of the trap. I got out my rifle and shot the beast with every bullet I had. Didn’t do a damn thing but piss it off. But when I poured burning pitch down on it, now, that did the trick. It screamed. Screamed like I didn’t know anything could.

  “That’s the story I told you and the boys. But here’s the part I left out, the part I thought no one would believ
e. I told people that the body was so burnt and charred, there was nothing left to show. That was a lie, my boy. When the werewolf died, he changed back into a man. I was already riding a wave of fear, but this spooked me something good. I filled the pit and told no one.”

  “You’ve killed others since then,” I said.

  “Aye, I made something of a hobby of it. Researched local legends; the Isle is thick with them. You do some digging, it seems that every little village and hamlet has its own resident werewolf tale. Once you get out of the city, everyone believes in the wolves, but they don’t talk about it. The wolves walk amongst us in human guise. You can’t tell who’s a wolf and who isn’t. Not unless you’ve seen them bleed.”

  He leaned back, solemnly remembering.

  “I shot a man once. Didn’t seem to do a damn thing to him. They heal right damn fast, even in their human forms.”

  “What’s the best way to kill one?”

  “Fire works, but it’s messy. No, silver’s your best bet. Legends say it has something to do with the metal’s purity. From what I’ve seen, it seems to work better the more of an emotional attachment you’ve got to it. You can’t just go out and buy some silver bullets. You’ve got to care about them.”

  I related my tale of the werewolf’s pursuit, omitting some of the more sensational bits for the sake of brevity and modesty.

  “Desperation, you see!” the Sergeant cried. “That scrap of silver was all there was between you and certain death. You needed it. You cared about it. If you had time to be coldly rational, it would have ripped you to pieces, Alex, but that’s not what happened. Still, I don’t suspect it’d be enough to put the beast down. They’re harder than that.”

  There was a loud series of pummeling knocks on the door, and then it was roughly kicked in. Uniformed men poured into the apartment, weapons at the ready.

  “No one move! This is the City Watch! Alexander Drake, you are under arrest.”

  Chapter 14

  I WAS MANACLED TO a table in a dry, dim, thoroughly unpleasant interrogation room. It had been several hours before they finally brought in an Inspector to speak with me. He was a large, bald man with an oversize nose that would not have called so much attention to itself if it had not been paired with such a small ginger mustache. I instantly recognized the man as Inspector Scott Farlahan. I was in a poor mood and stared at him coldly. He pulled up a chair across from me and turned it around, sitting such that his arms rested on its back.

  “You’re in quite the spot of trouble, Drake,” he said. “Silence won’t help you any.”

  I leaned forward, issuing him a stare of contempt.

  “What’s the charge?” I asked.

  He did not answer me, silently pursing his lips for some time.

  “I understand you fought for the Traitor King. Is that correct?”

  “I was in a Loyalist Regiment, if that’s your question. I wasn’t aware losing the war was a crime. Unless you plan to hang a third of the nation. What’s the charge? I know the rules.”

  He coldly regarded me before he made his next remark.

  “You are accused of the murder of Lord Abergreen.”

  “Very good, then. I was afraid it was something I was actually guilty of. That would be rather embarrassing. Unfortunately for you, I was here in Lupenwald when that sad event occurred. Come to think of it, I seem to recall that the Abergreens briefly declared for King Sebastian. Perhaps you should bring them in here for questioning.”

  Farlahan stood up and rapped his knuckles on the door. An Assistant Inspector entered with quill, inkwell, and paper, and carefully set them in front of me.

  “It will go easier on you if you confess, Mister Drake,” said the Assistant Inspector.

  “I’ll bet. Let me guess, Farlahan: Loxley-Birmingham called ahead to have me detained. He’s afraid that I’ve solved the case and he doesn’t like the solution.”

  Neither of them spoke before leaving the room, but the doubtful look the Assistant Inspector shot his superior was all the proof I needed to confirm my hypothesis.

  The door shut and locked behind them. I waited a few minutes, took up the quill they provided me, and set about using it as an improvised lockpick on my manacles.

  * * *

  There was a clamor of footsteps and agitated voices coming from the hall. I had released myself from only one of the manacles, the other continuing to resist my efforts. I tucked the quill up my sleeve and took the opened manacle in both hands. If necessary, I could work it back onto my hand, lock it on an opponent, or swing it as a makeshift weapon. I composed myself into a bored and vaguely defiant but nonaggressive posture.

  To my good fortune, my precautions were unnecessary. Farlahan and his assistant had returned, engaged in heated conversation with a small, tweed-clothed man in a derby hat, slightly red in the face from the argument and tightly clutching a satchel of papers.

  “Mr. Drake, I am Mr. Conaghan, solicitor from Salsburg, Dutch, and Vansbury,” said the man. “I have come to secure your release from this obviously illegal detention.”

  I clapped the manacle back onto my free hand and held my arms out to Farlahan.

  “We’ll need you to stay in town in case we have any further questions,” said the Inspector as he unlocked the manacles, frowning.

  “Don’t answer that, Mr. Drake,” Mr. Conaghan curtly interjected. “They can’t restrict your movement without a writ of detainment, which they most certainly do not have.”

  We walked briskly out of the Ministry offices to angry stares, just myself and the little lawyer.

  “Out of curiosity, how did you get me out of there?” I asked.

  “The warrant for your arrest was based on the suspicions of Inspector Loxley-Birmingham. However, his suspicions were communicated by telegraph, so Farlahan was the filing claimant for the Crown. Loxley-Birmingham is not the filing claimant, and without a notarized statement, his assertions are rendered hearsay despite his position. A warrant cannot stand on hearsay alone. My firm’s intervention and threat of suit on your behalf was enough to overturn the warrant. However, this is only a delaying tactic, as Loxley-Birmingham is sure to return and issue a notarized statement.”

  He stopped and took in an enormously deep breath but continued before I could respond.

  “Mr. Drake, did you sign anything while you were in the Crown’s custody?”

  “No.”

  “Did you offer any testimony?”

  “I told them I was a patriot. Nothing illegal about that, is there?”

  “Er, well, that’s probably harmless,” he said. “Tell me—”

  “Look, I’m grateful for your firm’s assistance, but who exactly paid your retainer?”

  “Ah, yes, the question of your benefactor. One of his, ah, terms, shall we say, was that he wished to meet you.”

  We exited the last set of doors of the Ministry offices, walking out into a handsome park, peaceful in the twilight hours. A number of carriages were parked in the lane, and Mr. Conaghan motioned for me to follow him to one in particular, an improbably nondescript carriage noticeably out of place due to lack of any heraldic sigil or identification.

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked.

  “You are a free man, Mr. Drake, but I believe it would behoove you to speak to my employer. He went to considerable effort to secure your release.”

  I grumbled, climbed into the carriage, and found myself sitting across from Lupenwald’s most infamous crime boss, the Vicar.

  Chapter 15

  SLAUS WELLINGHAM, the Vicar of Lupenwald—or simply the Vicar, as he was known in underworld circles—was an aging man, past the prime of his life but still in good health. He was obese, adorned in silk robes, and wore a miter.

  He held the position of Vicar of the See, assistant to Archbishop Tithian, which was normally a thankless bureaucratic job. However, given the Archbishop’s decrepitude and age, both the administration of the Church and the privilege of the pulpit were his in all but name. He
wielded each like a club.

  No one could trace anything illegal to him. The Ministries had certainly tried; they knew the Vicar was running criminal operations in Lupenwald. And yet there he was, every week, preaching the word of the Light.

  One of my rules was not to work for the nobility. That rule had proven to be somewhat flexible. But the Vicar? I would never, ever work for the Vicar. I had once. It had gone badly.

  “Relax, Mr. Drake,” said the Vicar. “We are here to have a civilized conversation, two servants of the Light.” I felt the carriage begin moving.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I want all the Light’s children to prosper,” he sermonized, ignoring my tone with his own measured speech. There was a cruelty to his eyes. “When I hear that a righteous man, a man searching for truth, is unjustly detained by a corrupt government, I cannot help but weep.”

  “Poetic. I’ll just be going, then.” I reached for the carriage’s door handle. A tumble into busy Lupenwald streets seemed safe in comparison with my current situation.

  “Do not be so hasty, my son. My carriage will convey you to whatever destination you require. It is a long walk back to your apartments, and in such a bad neighborhood, yes? But first, there is a matter of payment for services rendered. The solicitors at Salsburg, Dutch, and Vansbury do not come without expense.”

  I kept my grip on the handle even as I continued the conversation. “I’m sure they’ll work pro bono for the Church.”

  “The Church does not need to be involved with this. I am talking about you and me. I did you a favor, and you repay me with such anger, such darkness in your heart.”

  “Push me and I’ll kill you with my bare hands here and now.”

  “Perhaps you could. But you won’t. First, murdering a man of the cloth would consign your soul to the Dark for all eternity. Second, my guards would ensure you meet the Dark sooner rather than later. Third, my faith protects me.” He stared me right in the eye, firmly in control of the situation. There was not a hint of irony in his voice. I tried the handle. The door was locked.