Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart

by Jane Lindskold

  As an Islander—a member of a people who, until just a few moonspans before, had simply been loosely annexed to a kingdom whose effective ability to reign had been limited by the interposing ocean—Baron Endbrook was astonished by the New Kelvinese's pride in the works of their nation.

  In the Isles, one was first of all oneself—a sailor, a merchant, a fisher, a whoreson (this last flickered into his mind unbidden and was squelched immediately). Next one might be a resident of a particular island—though even that was not a reason for pride. Islanders were more likely to identify themselves by the ships they sailed upon. Belonging to Bright Bay had been an incidental matter, useful when collecting bounty on Waterlander vessels fortuitously chanced upon, but little more.

  Even in Hawk Haven it had seemed to Waln that those he met identified themselves first as members of their own houses—if they were noble-born—or as members of their families, craft guilds, and Societies. Service to the larger kingdom—as in King Allister's War—was done as a matter of service to those more personal alliances.

  But here in New Kelvin all the people he had spoken to—whether on this trip or his last—seemed to think of themselves as New Kelvinese first and foremost. Even the filthiest beggar on the streets of Dragon's Breath had seemed to look upon the baron's unpainted face and then to accept his charity with the condescension of one making a concession to a lesser being.

  On his initial journey, Waln had thought that perhaps his assessment of the New Kelvinese character had been colored by his personal awareness of his gutter origins. Now, as time after time Lady Melina's ability to speak—even haltingly—in the language of the country opened comparative floodgates of information, Waln realized he had been right.

  Perhaps the ability to speak of "color" that the New Kelvinese diplomats had desired was not only the ability to speak knowledgeably about magic, but to do so in their own language as well. Doubtless, Lady Melina's previous visit had made her aware of their bigotry, and thus was explained her dutiful—even fanatical—attention to her studies in the course of their journey.

  Baron Endbrook had not made his fortune in trade without learning the value of intangibles. He immediately resolved to learn to speak New Kelvinese and acted on his resolve so promptly that by their last stop before departing—the public room of a pleasant inn where they ate a hot meal—he was making the serving wench laugh with his attempts to echo her as she told him the local names for such basic items as beer, bread, and soup.

  Though the customs officer who had checked their map had been deprecating about the condition of the road immediately outside of town, Waln was pleasantly surprised at how smooth and well cared for it was. Replete with hot food and perhaps one more mug of the dark autumn beer than he should have drunk, he sat his horse and estimated that they would reach their destination—an inn accustomed to foreign travelers—by dusk if not before.

  His mount, a sandy bay gelding whose feathered hocks bespoke one of the larger breeds in its ancestry, seemed to have forgotten its earlier fear and paced along, its ears perked forward in pleasant anticipation of what lay along their course.

  "Ride with me, Lady," he said to Lady Melina once they were under way, "and continue my studies. I appear to have been remiss."

  "I am pleased to do so," she said, trotting her dapple grey to his side.

  As they rode on, Waln was encouraged to think that Lady Melina's pleasure might have had a more personal element as well. When he finally pronounced correctly an intricate phrase, she blew him a kiss as a lady might to acknowledge her champion on the field. When he mangled a complicated honorific, she playfully leaned from her saddle to swat him lightly on the arm. Indeed, given that they were separated by the need to control their mounts, she seemed to find more man ample excuses to touch him.

  When they arrived at the promised inn—named the Stone Giant, after some local legend—Lady Melina held out her arms quite automatically to be lifted from the saddle. Despite himself, Waln's blood was humming as he followed her into the Stone Giant. He was a sailor a long way from home and here was a woman who seemed to desire him, not some whore more interested in his money than his person.

  As the innkeeper led the way to their rooms, Waln cleared his throat.

  "I was thinking, Sister," he said, fearing that the words sounded stilted, "that we could dine in my suite tonight. There is much I would discuss with you."

  "That would be fine, Brother," Lady Melina agreed with demure courtesy.

  Her words were proper—even dull—but the slightly lascivious twinkle in her eyes as she smiled up at him suggested that she had guessed his ulterior motives.

  Waln wondered if the porter who trudged behind them with the lady's box balanced lightly on one shoulder saw the color that flushed his cheeks. Not wishing to seem too eager for Lady Melina's company, Waln excused himself until dinner.

  Leaving all his luggage but the satchel with his precious trust in his room, Waln headed downstairs again. A few words with the innkeeper—who thankfully spoke Pellish fluently—arranged for a small but elegant private banquet for two. Then Waln went out to check on their mounts and goods.

  "They're all settled, Baron," Fox said, a trace of insolence—or perhaps envy—in his tone despite the respectful words. "Not even too worn. I had to fight to get stabling for them, though, some high-and-mighty from Dragon's Breath is staying here as well and his groom was puffed with his master's importance."

  Fox grinned. "I diced him for spaces and we're settled now."

  He gestured with a toss of his head toward a row of stalls. "Four of the best, right at the end."

  "And the wagon?" Waln asked.

  "That was easier," Fox said. "The high-and-mighty isn't traveling with trade goods. Ours are under cover right outside the stable. I'll be sleeping in the loft above the horses, so no one should meddle without my hearing."

  "Can you find someone to help you change the wheels for runners?" Waln asked. "The innkeeper confirmed that the roads are packed snow from here to Dragon's Breath."

  Fox nodded. "Easily done."

  Though his pulse was beating time in his ears, Waln chatted a bit longer with Driver before returning to the inn. He strolled through the common room, catching a glimpse of a colorfully painted personage with hair the color of a bleached seashell sipping some steaming beverage at a table almost concealed in a sheltered alcove.

  Waln's self-possession abandoned him when he was free of the public areas and he found himself taking the stairs two at a time, suddenly nervous that he had dallied too long. As he had ordered earlier, hot water for a bath was waiting. With a sense of anticipation he had not felt since he was courting Oralia, Waln scrubbed the trail dirt from every inch of his skin, conscious of the fact that, if all went as he hoped, he would be open to quite a private inspection.

  Lady Melina was just late enough that Waln had begun to fear that the knock on the door would announce not the lady but some flunky bearing her excuse. However, she herself glided in, apologizing that she had needed to wait until a serving maid was available to lace her into her dress.

  The dress was one of several she had brought along, quite suitable to her persona as a prosperous farm owner. Waln thought Lady Melina wore the simple midnight-blue wool as a queen might, her own inner dignity infusing it with grace and elegance. Her silvering hair was braided and caught up in a knot at the back of her head. Waln found himself imagining how it might look after he had set it free.

  Through the four courses, while the serving maid hovered near, they talked of ordinary things: of the road, of how long it would take them to reach their destination, what price they might get for their goods, and what they might purchase for sale on their return. Using the foods on the table, Lady Melina continued to tutor Waln in New Kelvinese and more often than not, she found excuse to offer a caress that stayed just on the right side of sisterly.

  Waln grew light-headed—at first, he thought, from her attentions. He knew the sensation could not be the
wine, for he was no foolish boy to make himself half-drunk for courage only to fail in performance. Though he drank freely of the chilled water, his mouth remained dry and he found himself surreptitiously licking his lips to moisten them.

  Another man might not have realized what had happened. Another man might have taken the symptoms he felt as mere nerves, but Baron Endbrook had not always been rich, had not always been titled. He had grown up in his mother's house and knew the little bottle she kept for dosing the occasional client whose manners were too rough or whose purse too tempting.

  Even as he recognized the symptoms, Waln knew what wealth had tempted Lady Melina to this rash act. The three magical artifacts that had severed Gustin Sailor from his alliance with Zorana Shield, that had prompted Stonehold into war on the mere rumor of their existence, that had tempted Queen Valora into theft—those same three artifacts had seduced another victim.

  The ardor that had fired Waln's blood froze into fear, but the baron was not some drunken sailor flush with wine and voyage pay. Making polite excuses, he departed as for the privy. Lest Lady Melina realize his suspicions, he gave her a slow wink and brushed his lips against her cheek. He only regretted that he dared not dig the satchel out from where he had hidden it, but that would not be in keeping with his role as besotted fool hurrying away only to hurry to return.

  As he took the back stairs to the outdoor privy, Waln laid his plans with the deliberate care of a man who cannot trust his mind to hold more than one thought at a time. First, the privy.

  He stumbled across a yard deserted because of the night's cold. Most guests would prefer the privacy of a chamber pot, but most weren't entertaining a lady in their rooms. His breath steamed in a ragged plume—his own life's banner urging him forward.

  In the privy, Waln forced his finger down his throat until he vomited up the contents of his stomach. Then he decided what to do next. He had hidden the satchel well. Lady Melina would wait to see if he would return—or if whatever she had slipped into his wine had knocked him out—before beginning her search. She might even need to dismiss the maid if that worthy was still clearing away dinner. Therefore, she would be in the room for some time.

  Waln rose from his knees. His mouth tasted foul, his knees were trembling, but his mind was clearing. Next he must find Fox Driver. Waln didn't doubt that he himself could subdue Lady Melina, but he would need Fox's cooperation if Lady Melina had allies—even the maid's screaming could bring unwanted attention.

  He wondered if it was pure coincidence that an important person from Dragon's Breath was staying at this public inn just now. The more Waln considered, the less likely that seemed. He recalled how determined Lady Melina had been to get on the road as soon as possible. Had the rendezvous been planned?

  It began to seem likely. Even if she had succeeded in stealing the enchanted artifacts, where could she go with them? She could take them into Hawk Haven, but if their secrets were as difficult to understand as Queen Valora had believed, Lady Melina might prefer to take them into New Kelvin, where those secrets might be unraveled.

  Waln's head pounded as he sought to untangle this net of betrayal. He spat and focused again on his next step. He must find Fox, brief him, then return as quickly as possible to where Lady Melina was.

  On shaky legs, Waln climbed up to the loft where Driver had said he would be staying. At first, he thought the other man had turned in early and was sleeping soundly. After all, sitting on a wagon box all day in the cold was fatiguing, bone-jarring work.

  Only when he put his hand on the man's shoulder and found him stiff and cold did Waln suspect the truth. He turned Fox onto his back and discovered that the other's throat had been cut with neat efficiency. The blood had drained into a sodden mass that only the body heat from the horses below had kept from freezing solid in the winter night's cold.

  Lady Melina might have done this. She could have come out between the time Waln had left Fox and when she arrived—a bit late—at Waln's own room. True, she had appeared clean and well groomed, but she merely could have changed her dress, tidied her hair, and dabbed on a bit of scent.

  Waln didn't doubt that Fox would have let the woman close. She hadn't seemed to be flirting with the driver, but then she'd been very good about hiding her own flirtation with Waln. If she'd come to Fox, made some excuse to get him into the loft…

  The baron shook his head angrily, realizing that even now he felt jealous. He felt no grief for Fox. The man had been a second-rate scoundrel—though a first-class driver. His death was an inconvenience, but sailors were swept overboard by storms and still the ship sailed on.

  Since Lady Melina could have done this alone, perhaps she didn't have an ally. Perhaps Waln had time to catch her before she finished her search. Waln's blood pounded as he anticipated the beating he'd give her for betraying him and his queen.

  Setting his hands on the sides of the loft ladder, Waln slid down as he might have between decks, trusting the strength of his arms and not bothering with the rungs. The rough wood rails splintered—not being as polished as those on a ship—but Waln landed on the straw-strewn floor, instinctively flexing his knees.

  Doubtless this saved his life, for the man standing to one side of the ladder swung at where Waln's head would have been if the baron had descended in a more conventional manner.

  Waln heard the swoosh as the club passed through the air, the crack as it impacted with the wooden ladder. His latent queasiness was forgotten, washed from his blood by the fearful certainty that if he didn't make his return blow count he would die.

  Waln's assailant was a New Kelvinese, a husky, bowlegged man with stylized horse heads tattooed in dull green on each cheek. This might well be the groom who had thrown dice with Fox for use of the stalls. Had he used that earlier game as an excuse to mount to the loft and get close enough to Fox to murder him?

  Rising from the crouch in which he'd landed, Waln butted his head into the groom's midsection. The technique was pure gutter brawling, as was the fashion in which he brought his knee up into the other man's groin as the groom sought to keep his balance and his breath against the force of the first blow.

  The groom was solidly built, with arms and chest well muscled from his trade. His strength meant nothing to the pain that ripped up from his battered privates. The breath that had been knocked from him when Waln's head impacted his solar plexus had not returned, so that his scream—or shout for help—came forth as a feeble shriek.

  He made no other sound. Waln seized the club that had been meant to shatter his own head and used it on its owner. He put behind the blows the raging force of his own disgust at being so duped, his fear of what might come—and of what Queen Valora would say if he did not regain the artifacts.

  Waln's first thought as the groom fell to the stable floor—his head so battered that the horse tattoos were fragments in a bloody mass—was to rush back to his room, beat aside any in his way, and seize the satchel.

  A glance toward the inn showed him a blaze of lights on the second floor. A hulking figure almost concealed in shadow stood near the back door from which Waln had exited on his flight to the privy. Doubtless someone would be out momentarily to see if the groom had done his job.

  During a hurricane, Waln had discovered his body could act without conscious command from his mind. So it was now. He lifted his saddle from where it rested on the partition between two stalls and dropped it onto his horse, tightening the girth almost before the horse realized what was coining. Later—if there was a later—Waln would need to smooth out the blankets and set the saddle properly, but damage to his mount was far from his greatest concern.

  The bridle went on with equal speed. Then Waln led the gelding—now snorting with confusion and annoyance—from the stall. An irritated jerk at its headstall convinced it that the big man wasn't in a mood for games and it stopped fighting.

  Still moving with dreamlike deliberation, Waln heaved himself into the saddle. The stable door was already open—he'd neve
r closed it when he came to fetch Fox, doubtless how the groom had known where to look for him. Now he booted the gelding solidly in the ribs. The horse, already agitated and needing little encouragement to bolt, shot out of the stable.

  The figure from the doorway came running out, waving his arms and shouting something.

  "Sorry," Waln shouted, "don't speak the language."

  The man paused slightly, perhaps thinking Waln was surrendering, but Waln kicked his horse again and the man flung himself to one side to avoid being knocked over.

  Night was with the baron, night and the cold that had kept everyone inside who had even the slimmest excuse. There were a few shouts behind him, but Waln pressed the horse on, past the inn, out onto the road, and furiously down the way they had come earlier that day.

  He risked a fall, a broken back or neck, a shattered leg for the horse. Compared with what lay behind him, these were glory and wonder and the hope of seeing the next sunrise.

  Chapter XX

  Elation returned the day after Firekeeper met with Lady Luella. The peregrine falcon's knife-edged wings cut through the flakes of a late-afternoon snow flurry like a physical embodiment of the last rays of daylight.

  Firekeeper and Blind Seer were running circles in the snow, leaping to catch the large, fluffy white flakes before they could touch the dry grass of the lawn. Once again—despite Lady Luella's outspoken disapproval—the wolf-woman had discarded the boots procured for her. Though these were light things of the softest leather, shaped to her foot by a patient cobbler and lined with fur, she still claimed they made her clumsy. The woolen hose were not as bad, but she discarded them when they grew sodden.

  The peregrine soared in to land upon a stone pylon set on the fringes of the garden in memory of some youthful deed of the current duchess. Settling herself, she folded her wings with a disapproving squawk.