How long this continued, Storm could not have said. He grew hungry enough that he went a little distance away, caught a fish, and ate it. Shaw did not stop him or even acknowledge his leaving. When Storm returned, Keesha was breathing more noticeably, his sides rising and falling as though running a race. He uncoiled, twisting a little in the water as though in discomfort. A growl escaped his lips, and, at last, his great eyes opened. At first, Storm could see only his third eyelid, but then he blinked several times, and the arresting blue of his pupils flashed into view. Keesha groaned and yawned—huge, pink tongue and sharp, white teeth.
“What do you want, Shaw?” His voice was a melodic rumble in the cave. He was still humming, and he did not sound pleased to see his friend.
Shaw answered without breaking her own hum. “I have brought someone to see you.”
“I don’t want to see anyone,” growled Keesha. “I am composing a song. Go away.”
Shaw’s voice was full of practiced patience. “You’ve been composing that song for fifteen years. I’m sure you can pause long enough to meet the ferryshaft who’s been running Arcove in circles.”
“Arcove…” murmured Keesha. “Please tell me he’s still alive.”
“As far as I know,” said Shaw. Storm got the idea that they’d had this conversation before.
“Good,” said Keesha. “It would be a great disappointment if someone else killed him.”
“I’ll help you look for him right now,” said Shaw slyly. “Let’s go.”
Keesha huffed. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. Let’s go find him and kill him, and then you can stop sleeping down here and singing songs full of pain.”
“We would probably die,” said Keesha.
“Perhaps. I am willing to risk it.”
“It wouldn’t be enough.”
“No revenge is ever enough to bring back the dead,” said Shaw. “But I have brought you the next best thing.”
Keesha wasn’t listening to her. “No, I mean, I have something else in mind for Arc—” He stopped. He’d seen Storm.
Keesha stared. He stared for so long that Storm became uncomfortable. “Hello. Shaw says you…you might want to meet…me.”
Keesha moved forward, shifting a little clumsily, as though he’d forgotten where all his coils were. He bent his head and sniffed at Storm’s ears. Storm held his breath. He won’t eat me, he won’t eat me, he won’t…
“Who is this?” he whispered.
“As I told you,” said Shaw with excessive patience, “this is Storm Ela-ferry. I have been telling you about him all winter, but you have not been attending. He’s only three years old, and he’s been giving the creasia grief since the river froze. Arcove chased him into the Ghost Wood this spring, and I sent an ely-ary to fetch him out. He came as you see him.”
Storm realized that Keesha’s gaze had fastened on the stone around his neck. “Where did you get that?” whispered the telshee.
A ghost gave it to me. “I found it in Groth.”
Keesha’s eyes shot to his face, disbelieving. Storm felt a little frustrated. “What is it exactly? Shaw won’t tell me. She says it belongs to you.”
Keesha moved back a little, blinking. “It doesn’t exactly belong to me.”
Storm felt baffled.
“Although,” continued Keesha, “I suppose that if it belongs to anyone, it’s me. We call it the Shable. It opens Kuwee Island.”
Storm was surprised. “The little island in Chelby Lake beside the summer feeding grounds? The island we’re not supposed to visit? But there’s nothing there anyway…except a cave with a telshee on the ceiling.”
Keesha laughed in delight. “You’ve visited it?”
“Yes,” said Storm. “I swam out once. There were old bones and a hill with a cave on top and that…that likeness of a telshee on the ceiling.”
“It’s called a painting,” said Keesha, “or a picture. Did you notice anything interesting about it?”
“Well, the telshee was missing one…eye.” Storm looked down again at the blue stone with its black core. “Oh.”
Keesha smiled. “If you give the telshee her other eye, the cave opens.”
“Opens?” Storm was fascinated.
Keesha inclined his head. “Kuwee Island is a fortress—the place where the humans used to live. There are things in Kuwee that even I don’t understand.”
“What are humans?” asked Storm.
“An intelligent animal that no longer lives on Lidian,” said Keesha. “They were very clever. They made things—all kinds of things.”
Storm squinted down at the stone. “Like this?”
“Yes,” said Keesha. “They were telshee allies once…in the days before ferryshaft and creasia learned to speak. But humans were treacherous and much too powerful. In the end, we had to kill them…or perhaps we drove them away. Some of the telshees sleeping here could probably tell you…if they ever woke.”
Keesha shook himself. He reached down, caught the edge of the chain deftly in his teeth, and lifted it from Storm’s head. “Thank you for bringing this back to me. I should never have let it out of Syriot. Kuwee Island is a place that should stay locked, and I am glad to know that Arcove does not have the key.” Keesha curled up again, tucked the stone somewhere in his coils, and shut his eyes. “I will show my gratitude by not eating you. Please leave now.”
Storm made an indignant sputter. He had come to think of the stone as his. “Coden gave that to me, not you.”
Keesha opened one huge, blue eye. “Excuse me?”
“When I was lost in Groth,” said Storm, “a ghost showed me where to find it.” And then he left, and I howled, and the ely-ary came. Would it have found me if I hadn’t howled?
Keesha blinked at him. “You saw—”
“Start at the beginning,” said Shaw, who’d been listening with signs of mounting impatience. “Tell him what you’ve been doing all winter.”
Storm glanced between them. “Everything?” Not even Shaw had heard the whole story.
“You think you saw Coden’s gho—?” began Keesha again, but Shaw interrupted.
“Everything from the beginning, please.”
Storm took a deep breath. “Well, if I don’t tell you about Kelsy, the rest won’t make sense. So I guess I should tell you how I learned to run away.”
Chapter 6. Misdirection
Roup chose to visit Treace in the early morning. The wood was soft with pre-dawn light when he and Lyndi began to pass the tree-scratches and scent markings that denoted the edge of Treace’s territory. They found two separate sets of marks—one for the broader territory and one for the individual den that claimed this patch of wood.
Roup had not sent a messenger to announce his coming, and he did not call out as they passed the markings. “Sir?” began Lyndi. She was already bristling a little. All cats found this sort of trespass uncomfortable, doubly so as they came unannounced. The markings around Treace’s territory were particularly aggressive—deep gouges, as though the cat who’d placed them had an abiding hatred for trees.
“Let’s just have a look around,” said Roup. “They’ll find us when they find us.”
They encountered the first den a short time later. Treace’s territory had very little in the way of natural caves, and the den was dug into the side of a hill amid a thicket. Roup did not approach it, but watched from upwind. A number of cubs were playing around the edge of the thicket. Lyndi tried to count them, but kept losing the number in her agitation. “Shouldn’t we go down there and introduce ourselves?” she whispered. “I’m sure one of them knows where Treace is likely to be found at this time of day.”
“No,” said Roup without looking away.
So it’s like that, thought Lyndi with a sinking feeling. She’d wondered why Halvery or Sharmel had not been sent on this errand. You wanted to sneak, oh my crafty leader, and sneaking is dangerous.
They watched for a little while longer and then padded away. Roup wa
s paying attention to everything—ears twitching at every sound, nostrils flaring, eyes scanning the ground. Lyndi was watching, too, but mostly for other cats, who might attack them for this unannounced intrusion.
They encountered another den sooner than Lyndi would have expected. Once again, a number of cubs were playing around the entrance. Roup sucked in his breath sharply when he saw them. He hunkered down as though he definitely did not want to be seen, peering from around a tree. “Is that what I think it is?”
Lyndi squinted. The cubs were playing with something—long and reddish. At first, she thought it was a small animal, but as she watched them toss it into the air, she saw the shape more plainly. “A…ferryshaft tail?” It was much too long to be a fox tail.
“That’s what it looks like,” muttered Roup.
Lyndi frowned. This was not the raiding season, and even during raids, she’d never known creasia to take trophies back to their dens. It had been done in wartime, of course, but now… What pride could anyone take in the possession of a ferryshaft tail?
They passed three more dens, and still Roup made no move to speak to anyone. Lyndi was sure they would have been apprehended by now if not for the time of day. Perfectly chosen, Roup. Many of the creasia were dozing off. They would have full bellies from a night’s hunting. Still, someone is bound to cross our scent-trail eventually, and I don’t think they’ll be pleased.
Roup broke into her thoughts. “Did you see those tracks back there?”
“Sir?”
“Curb tracks,” said Roup. “Lyndi, please pay attention. I brought you for your eyes and nose.”
You brought me because Arcove wouldn’t let you go alone. “Sorry, sir. I’m too busy watching for cats coming to kill us.”
Roup gave a low chuckle. “You think they’d dare? Well, maybe you’re right. Things here are more complicated than I expected.” He stopped suddenly, and Lyndi jumped, her nerves strung taut.
Roup muttered something under his breath. Following his gaze, Lyndi saw a deer hanging at least two lengths in the air. She blinked. A thick tendril of vine looped around the deer’s neck and upper body. Its hindquarters were quivering. As they watched, the animal thrashed a few times. It was choking, but not quickly.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
Lyndi spun around, head down, already preparing to meet an attack. Three creasia stood behind them. She recognized the one in front, and this did not ease her nerves. Moro. He was Treace’s brother and his beta—a cat almost as black as Arcove, but with pink nose leather and strangely pale eyes. He did not often leave the clutter’s territory, but there were disconcerting rumors about him.
Roup turned smoothly and without surprise. “Good morning, Moro. Are you having problems with curbs of late?”
Moro smiled. The two creasia with him had fanned out. Three against two isn’t such bad odds, thought Lyndi, but she did not like that smile.
“I don’t know about curbs,” drawled Moro, “but we certainly seem to be having problems with trespassers.”
Roup refused to be baited. “We’ve been looking for Treace. There have been complaints about game management over the summer. However…” Roup jerked his head at the struggling deer. “If curbs have been setting these traps in your wood, I can see why it’s happening. I’ve heard that lowland curbs are becoming populous on the southern plains, so it makes sense that they’re coming into your territory.”
Lyndi watched Moro. Roup is giving you a graceful way out. Say it’s the curbs and that you’ll look into it. It doesn’t have to be your fault…even if it is.
Moro cocked his head. He didn’t say anything. The two cats with him had circled Roup and Lyndi completely. They’re not even going to pretend to have a conversation, thought Lyndi.
Roup had apparently come to the same conclusion, because his ears flattened, and he growled. “Think about what you’re doing, Moro. Think about what it will cost.”
One of the two subordinates leapt at Roup. Roup dodged the charge easily, catching the other cat with a slap across the face. However, as Roup came down, the earth opened beneath him, and he vanished.
Lyndi was so startled and horrified that she missed the other subordinate cat, who charged her, knocked her off her feet, and pinned her with his teeth around her throat. He was savvy enough to pin her cross-wise, so that she could not slash his belly with her back claws. For a moment, Lyndi panicked, struggling as he cut off her air. Black spots flashed across her vision. Some logical part of her brain told her, He hasn’t ripped your throat out. This is a threat, not a death grip. She went limp.
An instant later, the other cat’s grip slackened, and she was able to get a breath. Her vision cleared. Lyndi craned her neck upward, disoriented and desperate. What happened to Roup?
Half upside down, she saw Moro and the other cat, standing on the edge of a partially covered hole. Suddenly, Lyndi understood. They dug a pit and covered it with slender sticks and leaves. A trap. She had never heard of creasia doing such a thing, though she grasped the concept immediately. Are they doing it all over the wood? No wonder they’re catching pregnant does!
Moro was talking into the pit, which gave Lyndi hope that Roup was alive. A moment later, Roup shot out onto the half-caved covering of the pit, but it gave way beneath him, and he dropped again. Next instant, he tried to clamber over the far side of the hole, but the edges were crumbly, and Moro’s subordinate knocked him back.
“I suppose we are having trouble with curbs,” Moro was saying, “and these new traps of theirs. How unfortunate that you fell into one. I suppose it must have caved in and buried you alive. Oh, if only we had found you in time!”
“Perhaps, he died of thirst,” offered the subordinate who kept thwarting Roup’s attempts to jump out. “Trapped here for days.”
The cat pinning Lyndi spoke up. “Do you think they both fell in? Perhaps he killed and ate her before he expired.” Lyndi forced her fear down. I will not die without a fight. She rallied herself for a final effort, but then she heard another voice.
“Moro… What is this about?”
Lyndi craned her neck again and saw Treace pace into view.
Moro did not look at all guilty or concerned. “We have trespassers,” he said.
“So I heard,” said Treace in a speculative voice. “Though it would be a shame if this misunderstanding resulted in the death of Arcove’s…”—he allowed the briefest of insulting pauses—“beta.”
Moro gave an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Oh! Is that who it is? He might have said so. Let him out, Pons.”
The cat above Lyndi let her up as well. She was fairly choking on rage. As though anyone in Leeshwood could fail to recognize Roup!
Roup scrambled out of the hole a moment later. It was apparently just deep enough that he could not gracefully clear the edge, and he struggled for a moment before getting his back legs over the lip. He was dirty and bristling, but when he spoke to Treace, his voice was even. “How many of these have you set in the wood, Treace?”
Treace cocked his head. A tiny smile curled the edge of his mouth. “You never lose your temper, do you, Roup?”
You’d like to see that, thought Lyndi.
Roup repeated himself, “How many?”
“The curbs set them,” said Treace. “As you say, we have a problem.”
So you overheard the whole thing, thought Lyndi. Did you just want to frighten us? Or were you trying to decide whether to let Moro kill us?
Roup shook himself, sending twigs and dirt flying. The other cats stepped back from the spray—all except Lyndi, who came to stand beside him.
Treace appeared annoyed at the dirt on his coat. Before he could say anything, Roup spoke again, “Stop setting them. You’re catching female deer. We eat fawns in the spring and summer, bucks in the fall and winter. We do not eat does unless we are desperate. This is the oldest rule of game management.”
Treace inclined his head. “Duly noted. May I ask who was complaining?”
“No, you may not,” said Roup, and for the first time irritation crept into his voice. “I trust Arcove will not have to address this problem himself?”
“Of course not,” said Treace.
“One other thing: why are your cubs playing with ferryshaft tails?”
This seemed to catch Treace by surprise, which Lyndi was sure Roup intended. The briefest flicker of a glance passed between Treace and Moro.
Roup waited.
Moro spoke up. “Ferryshaft wander into the wood from time to time. You can’t really expect us to spare them.”
“Wander into the wood?” repeated Roup.
Lyndi shared his skepticism. To reach Treace’s territory, a ferryshaft would have to “wander” all the way through Halvery’s or Sharmel’s. While a desperate ferryshaft might forage on the edge of the wood, this degree of penetration sounded extremely unlikely. Nevertheless, she wished Roup would stop talking. We already know they have no respect for tradition. Let’s leave…and not return without the entire clutter.
“Yes,” said Treace, “I had heard that a few had wandered in. They grow bold of late…what with that foal that Arcove took so long to deal with.” Before Roup could say anything, he continued, “But I’m sure they’ll soon settle down, now that the problem has been resolved.”
Roup looked hard at Treace. “I’m sure they will…and I’m sure we’ll hear no more complaints about deer.” He turned and walked away, back towards the edge of Halvery’s territory. Lyndi was shaking just a little, but she followed him with her head held high, tail up. You won’t see us run, you arrogant sheep turds.
But as soon as they were out of sight, Roup picked up his pace.
“Sir,” began Lyndi.
“Not now,” said Roup. His voice was low. “We need to get out of here.”
“I was going to say that they didn’t offer us an escort out of their territory. Doesn’t that seem odd?” Unless they’re going to try to kill us again.
Hunters Unlucky Page 29