"Pretty spoken for bitches."
"Spoken for? Only a wife is spoken for, and I should know. I had one once. Lyncoln's leer broadened into a lecherous grin. You're fair game."
"Not to a Wescot. Jocelyn straightened into a haughty angle. Grandfather says you're just a bunch of filthy horse traders."
Lyncoln's hearty laugh brought a flush to Jocelyn's cheeks. We beat his best at the log pull and the cabber toss last Autumn Faire."
"What's that got to do with anything? Lillian flounced into a chair closer to Jocelyn.
"It's what makes a dog a dog, and bitch a bitch. Separates the men from the cubs."
"You're a nutter, Lyncoln Wescot. Your whole family is a bunch of nutters. Jocelyn swiveled around in a pout and refused to look at him.
Lyncoln sauntered over to the portrait of a delicate young bitch with a fragile smile and pointed at it. Fianait at seventeen. Now that's beauty. Can't say as much for you, Jocelyn."
Her lower lip thrust out. Who cares what you think?"
"Me. Do I need anyone else?"
"There isn't anyone else."
A fit of whimsy seized Lyncoln. He spread his arms wide and charged at them laughing.
Lillian lunged from her chair, grabbed Jocelyn's hand, and pulled her away before Lyncoln reached them. They gathered their skirts and fled.
Lyncoln's laughter followed them out the door.
CHAPTER NINE
THE LAWGIVERS
Ossian and his brothers mounted up when word reached them at dawn about a massacre at the Sanctuary Refugee Camp. The three brothers split the night shifts between them and it had been Ossian's turn to watch the sunrise.
Vika Softpaws, the matron in charge of the camp, sat upon her wagon with the reins in her hands. I was gone to my sister's for the night and came home to find a litter of bodies practically on my doorstep."
"Yes, you've said that already. She had been repeating it over and over again since she first arrived. Ossian gave her a nod, and bit back an irritated non sequitur. The adrenaline rush had knocked the drowsiness from him, but not the edgy desire for sleep.
Reist Devlin rode up. If you don't mind, Lawgiver, the Regent would like me to come along."
Ossian's eyes narrowed. Reist Devlin had a mixed reputation, and Ossian had not yet decided how far the mon could be trusted, him being both a thane-regent and second in command to foreign troops under the current Regent Royal, Stoneriver. It's my jurisdiction."
"We understand that. I'm just an observer. I won't step on your toes."
"Come along then."
Ossian did not argue when Reist insisted upon riding beside him at the head of their small band. The Thane-Regent of Gateshead carried himself with the easy confidence of a mon long accustomed to command. There had not been a thane for Three Stones, where Ossian was from, since before his birth. The title had lain empty until recently. Ossian supposed he would have to get used to having them around, meddling with his jurisdiction.
When they reached the camp, members of the militia had arrived ahead of them and were keeping back the curious.
Reist's gaze roved the camp commons, his mouth spreading into a thin line of grim assessment. Looks like a battlefield."
"If so, I would like to know who the enemy was. Ossian dismounted, threw his reins to a militiamon, and walked through the carnage counting the dead. Twenty-one bodies. How many survivors were there, Vika?"
"Three, Lawgiver. Vika's brow furrowed. There were five when we found them, but two died soon after we got them inside."
"Twenty-three dead. Waid, go talk to the wounded. Ultan, speak with the residents and see if anyone heard something last night? This could not have happened quietly. Ossian dropped to his haunches to examine a cluster of bodies. Something set his instincts screaming, but the recognition of what it was did not arrive until he had examined the first ten bodies: single wounds. Only one of them had more than a single wound. He unwrapped a memory stone and began recording what he saw.
The area around the bodies had already been trampled, but Ossian decided to swing wide in search of footprints leading away from the scene. He found a clear set of prints near a cluster of evergreens. Ice had formed around the edges, so the prints had to have been made the night before. The depth of the prints suggested one mon was heavier than the other by a fair bit. They ended amidst scattered horse droppings. The killers had ridden off.
Ossian sucked in a breath and walked back.
Silas Lafferty, the Captain of Militia, was waiting for him, looking as if he had not bothered to comb his hair. The edge of his nightshirt poked above one side of Silas trousers, completing the image of haste. Can we start removing them now?"
"Yes."
"Reist, I have a question. Ossian motioned him over to the side. You're a soldier and I know you have seen battlefields before. What do you make of this one? Could, perhaps, two myn,just twohave done this?"
"If they were pros. Or simply gods-awful good."
"Taking that a step further. How many pros do we have in Wolffgard right now?"
"Too many. And probably a few I'm not aware of. The really good ones don't like drawing attention to themselves."
"Names?"
"Stone, for one. Eiko Morikawa. StealsThunder. Reist shrugged. Todd Sinclair, but he'd never do something like this. Malthus Estrobian. Faerwald Davies. Lairgan Yates. Darcy MacIver."
"I see what you meant by too many."
"That's just off the top of my head. You can rule some out right off. The Fae for instance. Those are sword and dagger wounds. They fight with fans. Darcy favors axes. If Stone had done it, you would not be finding bodies; you'd be finding body parts."
"Can you get me a list? As complete as you can make it?"
"Yeah. Give me a couple of days and I'll get some help putting it together. Jenny might know more names than I do."
"I would appreciate that."
* * * *
Ossian had many matters on his mind by the time that he returned to the Lawgiver House. He had his brothers transcribing their memory stone recordings into written reports. The three survivors of the camp massacre refused to cooperate and describe their assailants. The only thing that Waid was able to get out of them was the fact that it had been, indeed, just what Ossian suspected: two myn had done all the killing and escaped unscathed. Ultan reported that the women, all human, who lived at the camp with their children, were nervous and refused to say anything about it. All of them claimed to have heard nothing. It was as if a conspiracy of silence had been laid over the camp and had been there for some time. He decided to do nothing further until he had received Reist's list.
Although Baroucha's box of poisons had proven both interesting and suspicious, none of them matched what Willy had discovered in the pantry. Ossian had given samples from the bottles taken from Willy, Sheradyn, and Belgair's rooms to Sha who sent them to Creeya for testing. Word had come back an hour ago that the contents were identical and matched what had been given to Kynyr Maguire. Searching Ivanstern's apothecary and Cahira's shop had proven fruitless. The evidence stared him in the face. The only ones who had been found with bottles of the poison were Sheradyn and Belgair.
He felt a whiff of regret as he headed down to the dungeons beneath the Lawgiver House. Sheradyn was well regarded in many circles. He was also old and frail. Politics makes for strange companions."
Ossian had brought his own chastisemon, Gavin Ellis, with him from Three Stones. Gavin was a brawny, taciturn mon. Ossian could never tell whether he took pleasure in his job, which he was good at, or whether he simply took it all as second nature and did what he had to do. Like most lycans, he had gone into the profession of his forefathers.
He had not changed from his riding boots before heading for the dungeons, and they made a click-slapheel and toenoise as he descended the narrow stone stairs. The only way in or out of the dungeons was through that single door at the head of the stairs. At the bottom, a square table occupied the left hand side b
y the door with the corridor between the rows of cells to the right.
Gavin sat watching the two guardsmyn dicing. Ossian used members of the town militia as much as possible when he required more hands. However, the six guardsmyn who spelled each other in pairs for dungeon duty were drawn from among those of Belgair's troops who had been vetted for loyalty. Ossian wanted experienced myn for this job. He did not want a repetition of the still largely unexplained way that so many of those loyal to Kynyr had escaped from the manor dungeons the night of the purge.
Ossian snagged the keys from a long peg and gestured for Gavin and the two guardsmyn to follow him. He had only two prisoners, other than four myn who had been hauled in the night before after a brawl at the Wolf in Sheepskin got out of hand.
The chastisemon shoved from his chair without a word.
Stepping into Sheradyn's cell, Ossian could not repress a nagging tremor of regret at what he needed to do. The only evidence I have been able to find, links him."
Ossian pointed at Sheradyn. The old healer huddled in a corner, deep in the straw, his long white hair laying in matted strings. The lawgiver steeled himself against the feelings of pity that the forlorn figure engendered within him. The healer had almost as many defenders as detractors. Some insisted that he was innocent; while others believed the mere fact that his royal patients died made him incompetent, if not guilty of darker matters. No matter how he looked at it, the evidence could not be ignored.
Sheradyn raised his eyes. Please, I didn't do it."
"Strip him and hang him up. Ossian turned his gaze away. Twenty lashes to start. Ten at a time. Don't overdo it. Just get me my answers."
The guardsmyn removed his clothing. Sheradyn accepted the rough handling with listless movements, deep into depression and despair. They attached his shackled feet to the hooks in the floor, and his wrists to one that hung from the ceiling on a chain. Ossian flicked his finger at the door and the guardsmyn left. Gavin moved to the wheel on the wall and began turning it, tightening Sheradyn's body out as it drew him higher and higher, stretching him into a taut line.
Nude, Sheradyn's aged skin hung loose on his bones and about his sagging muscles. He made a pathetic figure with his round little belly the only bit of flesh on his gaunt old body. It troubled Ossian to look at him, knowing that he was about to have an old mon put to the question. The others were dead who could have given him the answers he soughtthe answers behind the attempted coup that had killed Claw Redhand. He had no choice. It had to be done.
In deferment to Sheradyn's age, Gavin had chosen to use a simple cat-o'-nine-tails and not the spiked whips used on younger wolves.
"I'll return later. Just give him something to think about."
Gavin nodded his answer and laid Sheradyn's back open with the first blow. The healer shrieked.
Ossian walked out, Sheradyn's screams echoing in his ears. His stomach churned. Too many people had died. Ossian felt driven to act upon whatever evidence he could uncover.
* * * *
After a consultation with Todd, Kynyr decided to keep the progress of his improvement a secret from all except his immediate family. So far it had come in tiny increments. Kynyr's moods vacillated wildly between hope and despair. Hope because the improvements were there; despair because they failed to come swiftly enough to satisfy and reassure him at times.
Steam filled the bathing chamber. Sha had tried to recreate the hot springs in Creeya that they used to treat the crippling aftereffects of certain diseases. The huge porcelain tub had a cork stopper in one end. A tall apparatus, which Kynyr did not know the name for, heated water and delivered it to the tub through a long set of pipes and a spout. He had only to pull on a chain to send more of the pleasantly heated water into the bath when it began to cool too much.
His long, warm robe lay draped over a chair and a table beside the tub had a stack of fleecy towels on it. A bell sat within reach on another small table so that he could summon assistance if he required it and to let the servants know when he was ready to get out. The wheel chair made a silent reminder that he was not yet walking, but he had hope now. Qaseem came and went, checking on him frequently. Sha always showed up at least once, even though it brought a flush to his cheeks when she ran a clinical eye across his nakedness.
He moved his legs around, swishing them about, letting them float to the surface. Kynyr raised and lowered them. On the third try, his right leg broke the surface and rose into the air. A thrill rushed through Kynyr as his leg trembled and wobbled, unsupported by the water. He could not hold it long, but he had done it. His efforts with the left leg were less successful, but that one had been more heavily affected by the poison.
He grabbed the bell off the table and rang for the servants.
Qaseem often sat outside and waited for him, so the healer was the first into the room. He saw Kynyr's expression. What happened?"
"Watch. Kynyr pointed at his legs and lifted them free from the water.
Qaseem's quiet smile bloomed. Time to try something else."
"What? Kynyr's voice filled with eagerness.
"You'll see. Qaseem helped Kynyr from the tub, got him into a chair, and dried off.
Once wrapped in his robe, Kynyr sat waiting.
Qaseem grasped his hands and said, Stand up."
Kynyr sucked in a breath, grasped the healer's hands, and stood.
"Come forward. Keep holding my hands."
Another deep breath, and Kynyr took a shuffling step forward, and then another. His eyes widened. Holding onto Qaseem, he made a short tour of the room. When his legs began to tremble and grow unsteady, Qaseem returned him to the wheel-chair.
A quiet exultation filled Kynyr. I'll be walking on my own soon."
"Soon."
* * * *
The lycans slowly adjusted to the wealth of strangers in Wolffgard. The Creeyans who arrived with Stoneriver were an odd lot; swan mays in silver armor, Shivari in their hybrid tiger forms haired up to deal with the cold, and gryphons who were currently housed on the roof of the manor in makeshift aeries. Pandeena, their priest, had brought in strangers who appeared to be human but most suspected were not. Soldiers in MacLachlan livery mingled with the housecarles of the thanes. Wives and mistresses shopped in small clusters accompanied by bodyguards, ate and drank at the inns and taverns, and added color to the drabness of winter in the town.
Yet beneath it all simmered an undercurrent of violence and threat. There were now many different factions in Wolffgard, and old rivalries kicked up between the myn of various thanes. The northerners, who had borne the brunt of the Waejontori incursions, felt less tolerant than usual toward their wealthy southern compatriots. The southerners suspected that the northerners were overstating matters when they complained of raiders in the north. The midlanders generally felt put upon, ignored, and disregarded by both the northerners and the southerners. Brawls broke out.
Ossian had his hands full dealing with it. The thanes harangued him every time they had to fetch their myn from his holding cells and pay for damages to the taverners and shopkeepers. All that they succeeded in doing, however, was to make Ossian dig his heels in deeper and lecture them back about no one being above the law.
A black-haired mon strolled down Main Street. He had large scars cutting across his forehead, nose, and down the side of his face. Even without the scars he would have been plain ugly. A too large, mobile mouth dominated his seamed, jowly face. His eyes were deeply set, black as night, with dark purple shadows beneath. His bushy eyebrows sat on a heavy ridge. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once. His height was six five and his body broad and blocky, with a thick, barrel chest, arms like temple columns, and legs like tree trunks. Lokynen Willidar the Battle-Master weighed nearly four hundred pounds, all of it muscle.
Cubs ran to him and clung to his arms. With six of them hanging onto each arm, Lokynen lifted them up and swung them around in a gentle turn. They laughed in delight and Lokynen laughed with them, a large de
ep laugh that rose from his belly and carried through the streets. He lowered them to the ground, signaling that he was done. Have any of you seen the Peddler?"
Rumors of a peddler at Wolffgard had drawn Lokynen back to the town. She always seemed to be at a different end of the valley from him. He had a suspicion that it was Dynanna. He had known for centuries about her disguise as the aged peddler named Dyna. Long association had given him an instinct for spotting her no matter what face she wore.
"Yes. A young lycan boy with an unruly mop of light brown hair and the bright blue-green eyes of a scamp darted to Lokynen's side. She's at the house where the children live."
Lokynen lifted an eyebrow at that. The Trickster only brought her paladins along if she expected trouble. Show me."
The boy ran ahead of him.
In an isolated corner of the northwest end of the Sanctuary Refugee Camp, stood a large two-story house that had not been there a month ago. Lokynen recognized it, because Dyna could shrink it down with a word and carry it in her pocket when she moved. The God of Cussedness and Perversity, a minor divine that myn generally referred to as simply the Trickster, had many odd gifts and odder playthings. In her guise as the peddler Dyna, she sold secondhand magic items.
Lokynen spied Sugar Maple sitting beneath a pine tree with her back to it and her broom across her knees. His guess had been right. He handed the boy a gold coin and the boy's eyes saucered. Thank you. Thank you! Then the boy ran off to show everyone what Lokynen had given him.
"What's your name? Lokynen shouted after him.
The boy called back over his shoulder, Hamish Scott."
Lokynen squatted in front of her. Hello, Sugar. Where's Dyna?"
Sugar Maple tilted her head, her marmalade hair sliding across her face. In the house."
"I found the child."
"I play with him."
Lokynen frowned, making his face still uglier. Damn, she found him before I could tell her."
Sugar Maple smiled. I don't like his stepfather. He keeps trying to kiss me. But I don't let him."
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