The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  Tristan spread a rolled piece of parchment onto his experiment table, weighed down the four corners with books, and studied the sketch intently. It was a rough drawing of the man they sought, created from eyewitnesses’ accounts. Tristan bit his lip. The face did not overly resemble Ivaar, but then, the sketcher had had little to work with. Though the lack of detail was a problem in identifying the man, it made Tristan’s spell easier. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind, closing his eyes to aid in concentration. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked again at the illustration.

  He uttered a long string of words that would have seemed nonsense to a listener, and then his hand began to glow softly. His right forefinger reached to touch the sketch. The paper at once began to undulate, as if suddenly springing to life, but Tristan held his finger firmly on the illustration, keeping it from flying away. After a moment, the vibrating subsided, and the sketch lay quiet on the desk once more.

  Tristan’s left hand came up to gently touch his face. He traced the lines on the paper. Where his hand touched, the ink glowed bright red. His other hand softly molded his own face. He elongated and hooked his nose, softened his sharp cheekbones, smoothed out the cleft in his chin. Closing his eyes again, he touched his eyelids gently. Lines smoothed out, vanished, and when his lids fluttered open their blue had muted to a mixed hazel hue. Witnesses had disagreed as to the killer’s eye color.

  When he ran his fingers through his hair, the graying blond was suffused with a dark, rich brown. Tristan placed his hand on his heart and closed his eyes. A huge flash illuminated the room, and his body shimmered and changed. He shrank a full foot, and the firm bulk that had characterized a warrior still in fine shape dwindled, almost hunched, into that of a far smaller man. The clothing, so tight and constricting before, now fit perfectly.

  There came a light knock on the door. “Come.”

  Sigfrid opened the door and started. “Tris?” he asked, unsure.

  “In the flesh,” answered his friend.

  Sigfrid shook his head. “In whose flesh is the question. You look just like him.”

  “If this is what our killer looks like,” replied Tristan.

  “He’s apparently a slumming noble, so you won’t have to disguise your voice too much,” said Sigfrid. “What about me?” He gestured to his blazing head of coppery hair. “This is pretty unmistakable.”

  “I have an idea for what to do about you,” replied Tristan. “I’m not sure you’ll like it. First, is your sergeant willing to work with us?” He had suggested using Sergeant Valdisdottir tonight; the killer went after women, and from what he had heard, Dagmar was a beautiful woman as well as a competent soldier. The suggestion had gone over very well. Ashamed of her flight at her partner Hallam’s death, Dagmar was eager to both redeem herself and bring the murderer to justice.

  Sigfrid nodded. “She’s to meet us at the station in the Horse Quarter in two hours. We’ll tell her the specifics then.”

  “Good. Come here and let me show you what I have in mind.” Sigfrid stood beside his friend, peering easily over Tristan’s shortened shoulder as the knight spread out a map of Kantora on the table, anchoring it down as he had the sketch.

  “The Clever Gray Malken is here,” Tristan began, pointing to a small building. “Each of these red crosses marks where a body has been found. Now, there seems to be no pattern—they’re simply scattered randomly throughout the rougher neighborhoods. If you post your men atop these buildings—” he indicated five structures, two of them abandoned “—they will form a circle around the murder sites. More importantly, they surround the major thoroughfare of the area, Baker’s Way.” Since this was the workingman’s area of town, all the streets were named for professions. In addition to Baker’s Way, murders had occurred on Tailor Lane, and, grimly enough, Butcher Street.

  “I plan to show up at the inn as you see me now, as close as I can get to the appearance of the killer. We’ll see who, if anyone, talks to me, and how they react.”

  “What if they react with a lynching?” Sigfrid asked. “Nerves are stretched tight in that part of town.”

  “I hope I can hold my own against a few drunken louts. If not, well, that’s what you and Sergeant Valdisdottir are for. And let’s not forget about the men I’ve placed here.” He tapped the buildings where the armed bowmen were to take up their stations. “If no one does talk to me—or try to attack me—we send Sergeant Valdisdottir out onto the street as bait. She’ll wander alone down Baker’s Way, past nearly all of the murder sites.”

  “I don’t like that, Tris,” said Sigfrid with a frown. “She’s good enough with a weapon, but unarmed—”

  “Remember, she won’t really be alone. I can leave shortly afterward, make myself invisible, and follow at a close distance. Now, here’s where your disguise comes into play. I’d like, with your permission, to turn you into a dog.”

  Sigfrid gaped. “Come on, Tris, you—”

  “Hear me out, old friend. A man who relies on surprise and a knife blade is likely to flee if set upon by armed men. Who better than a hound to track him and keep up with him? He won’t be able to shake you.”

  Sigfrid was silent, thinking. “Will I keep my own mind?”

  “Probably. If not, we’ll toss the plan, and I’ll turn you right back into your redheaded self again.”

  “What if something happens to you?”

  “The duration of the spell is limited. After a certain period, you’ll change back with or without my help.”

  Tristan had been right. Sigfrid did not like the idea. Still, he was forced to admit that both of Tristan’s plans were sound. If even one strategy worked, they’d be far closer to catching the criminal in one night than Sigfrid was in ten days. “You said track him,” said Sig slowly.

  Tristan nodded. “You’ll have all of the animal’s senses. A dog’s sense of smell puts any of a human’s five senses to shame.”

  Sigfrid agreed reluctantly, adding, “I hope you’ve bathed today.”

  Tristan smiled and clapped Sigfrid on the back. He went to one of the laden shelves and took down a small lacquered box. Inside were dozens of small white objects, each about an inch long. He removed one of the caterpillar cocoons and began to gently tear it apart as he chanted an incantation.

  Tristan heard the low murmur of conversation as he paused at the entrance to the Clever Gray Malken. He glanced down to the dog at his feet and nodded. The huge grizzled beast, the transformed Sigfrid, nodded his own head. He, too, was ready. Tristan pushed the door open with a bit more force than was necessary, hoping to draw attention to himself.

  He succeeded.

  Conversation stopped abruptly, and Tristan found every pair of eyes in the place watching him. The barmaids, the body of their mutilated sister no doubt etched forever in their minds, had open fear on their faces. The men wore expressions of smoldering resentment. Sigfrid had been right. Tristan had underestimated the terror and anger the murders had caused in the poorer parts of town.

  He stood for a few seconds, keeping his face hidden but allowing everyone a good look at his form. He was ready for an attack, but the patrons at the Clever Gray Malken seemed to lose interest after a few seconds of scrutinizing him. Tristan made for a corner table, well lit but out of the way. Sigfrid followed, curling himself at Tristan’s feet and constantly sniffing the air. Tristan had anticipated relying on Sigfrid’s canine tracking skill, but looking at the hostile faces that filled the inn, he was glad his friend had fangs and claws should something happen. Sig would be able to rip the throat out of an enemy before the man could draw a sword.

  A pretty young barmaid approached him. “What’ll ye be havin’ tonight, sir?” She was tense, not terrified.

  “Roast chicken, bread, and ale,” he said, not hiding his cultured voice.

  The barmaid stiffened a little at the sound. Large blue eyes searched his for a moment, then she relaxed and smiled. “Right away,” she replied and moved off without haste. She had obviously conclude
d that he was not the murderer. Tristan wondered whether his disguise was inaccurate or she had not seen the man.

  Another patron entered. The newcomer received the same reaction Tristan had—a sudden, universal silence in the taproom, an intense perusal, then dismissal. When the girl returned with Tristan’s meal, he thanked her politely. This time, she smiled unconcernedly. The chicken was overdone and dry, and the bread was several days old. Nevertheless, Tristan ate, feeding bits of meat to Sigfrid to keep up the pretense.

  When he was halfway through his meal, a stunningly beautiful blond woman entered. Her hair was loose and fell halfway down her back. She was dressed plainly in bodice and skirts, but her shapely figure made them seem the finest of clothes. Cool blue-green eyes looked this way and that.

  It was Dagmar. Tristan recognized her from their meeting earlier that night, but the efficient soldier he had spoken with and this enticing, slightly trollopy woman seemed worlds apart. She would have done well in the theater, he thought to himself.

  It’s time to put the second plan into action, Tristan decided. “Pretty lady!” he called, waving a chicken bone. “Let me buy you a drink and some supper!”

  A smile settled on Dagmar’s full lips, and she walked slowly over to where Tristan sat. Tristan leaned forward, covering her hand possessively for the benefit of anyone watching, and whispered into her ear. “Right on time, Sergeant.” She laughed, leaning back flirtatiously against Tristan’s chest.

  Now they were attracting attention. Excellent, thought Tristan. He waved the barmaid over and ordered a drink for Dagmar. “Any reactions?” asked Dagmar softly, sipping the wine.

  “Only at first. They seem to have decided I’m no threat,” Tristan murmured in response.

  “We’re being watched now,” she replied, stroking his face with one finger.

  “That’s just what we want. Now, Sergeant, it’s your turn. Remember—head down Baker’s Way toward the waterfront. You won’t see your protectors, but we’ll be there.” Loudly, he said, “Why don’t you bring some of that sweet fruit home with me?”

  Dagmar’s slap was harder than he had expected, the slap of the warrior she was, not the street woman she pretended to be. Tristan’s head whipped sharply to the side, and he blinked a little. His hand went to massage his reddened, stinging cheek. He felt a sudden wry sympathy for any man who tried to attack this woman.

  “Think t’ buy me, do ye?” shrilled Dagmar, tossing her mane of gold hair in splendid anger. “I don’t come that cheap!” She stalked angrily out of the inn, slamming the door behind her.

  Heads now turned in Tristan’s direction. The patrons of the inn were disapproving and hostile, but there were still no signs of recognition. Swearing loudly at “that harlot,” Tristan slammed down some coins and left noisily. Sigfrid trotted beside him.

  Dagmar was huffily straightening her skirts when Tristan emerged. Without looking at her, Tristan ducked into a shadowed doorway. Working quickly, he withdrew a wad of gum arabic from his pouch. He plucked an eyelash and, murmuring an incantation, folded the eyelash into the gum and sealed it shut. He opened the pouch and dropped the material inside. At once the gum, pouch, and Tristan himself vanished. Feeling the tap of Tristan’s invisible fingers, Sigfrid began slowly following Dagmar. Per Tristan’s orders, Sigfrid remained about fifty feet behind her, staying on the left side of the road. Quietly, the invisible Tristan followed on the right side of the street.

  Sigfrid paused suddenly, sniffing the air. Tristan tensed. A sound came from above. Glancing up, Tristan caught the sinuous shape of a house cat as it quickly ducked out of sight—one of the now-feral cats that populated the streets of Kantora. That was all.

  Ahead, Dagmar was playing her role to the hilt, softly singing a tune and moving her hips so that her skirts swayed seductively around her. She stopped and chatted with a late-night wanderer. Clearly not the killer, the pudgy, white-haired old gentleman was still not immune to Dagmar’s beauty. Tristan couldn’t hear their conversation, but Dagmar laughed, patted the elderly man’s cheek, and continued strolling.

  Tristan caught the glitter of several sets of eyes in the shadows. More cats, watching Dagmar and Sigfrid. No, Tristan saw. The lambent eyes, their owners hidden by the shadows, were fixed on him. Of course, thought Tristan, oddly relieved. They can’t see me, but they can smell me.

  “This be my street corner, hussy!” came a female voice. Tristan glanced up sharply. A woman, past her prime and dressed in not much at all, scowled angrily at Dagmar. Her heavily applied makeup cracked with the gesture. Dagmar tried to apologize, but the woman was not placated. At last Dagmar ran for the next corner, followed partway by the angry prostitute.

  The encounter had attracted attention from a tall, spindly man with a sharp, ratlike face. He sidled up to Dagmar. Tristan tensed, but the thick, lower-class accent spoken by the man as he propositioned Dagmar was not that of the sought-after killer.

  Tristan heard a scrabbling sound overhead, the sounds of claws on wood and stone. He didn’t see the feral cats this time, but he knew they were there. More sounds—too many to be made by two or three animals. How many of them are there? he wondered.

  More furtive sounds up ahead, drawing away from Tristan and toward Sigfrid and Dagmar. More fleeting glimpses of baleful, glowing eyes. Tristan rebuked himself for not using a spell that could make him see in the dark. He picked up his pace. A sixth sense warned him to stay closer to Sigfrid and Dagmar.

  Sigfrid, too, had picked up on the presence of something in the shadows. He paused, and Tristan saw the glimmer of sharp white teeth as the dog growled softly. The hackles on the back of Sigfrid’s powerful shoulders were raised. Dagmar continued to saunter down the alley, flirting with the would-be tumbler, oblivious and vulnerable.

  The flickering torches that tried to illumine the dark recesses of the twining street cast more shadows than they dispelled. One inky shadow now glided smoothly along the stone walls of the buildings. So subtle and quiet was it, so alert and careful, that for an instant Tristan didn’t recognize it. Then the silken shadow passed near a torch. Horror gripped Tristan.

  “Sigfrid, watch out!” he cried. The dog whirled, growling. In one fluid motion, Tristan drew his dagger and threw it expertly. It sank to the hilt in the glossy black coat of the stalking plains cat. The beast screamed in anger and pain, its attention diverted to the now-visible Tristan.

  As if the large predator’s cry had been a signal, the smaller cats lurking in the shadows leapt for Sigfrid. They descended in a mass of claws and teeth, yowling and scratching furiously. Big as he was, Sigfrid went down under the sheer number of the creatures. When Dagmar, rushing to aid her captain, came within reach, the cats savagely turned on her as well, leaping straight for her eyes.

  The injured plains cat turned, dark blood staining its haunches, and prepared to spring at Tristan. Tristan was ready for the beast; he had brought his cane with its heavy, solid brass head. While it was by no means the weapon a sword would have been, Tristan intended to get the best use out of it now. He lifted the cane in both hands to swing it and crush the creature’s skull.

  It was unnecessary. To Tristan’s shock, the beast suddenly cowered before him. Ears flat against its sleek black head, it backed away a few steps. It uttered a sound—not the startling shriek it had cried before, but a confused, frightened, crooning noise. Then it whirled and fled.

  Tristan’s archers, however, allowed it no escape. The air was filled with a stinging noise, and half a dozen arrows found their mark. The plains cat snarled and convulsed. It protested death until the slim shafts finally defeated it, then it spasmed and lay still.

  Tristan turned to Sigfrid. The big dog was holding his own, keeping his face and eyes away from the savage claws and biting furiously whenever the opportunity came his way. Still, the torchlight showed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of scratches. Dagmar was doing less well despite her superior size. Sigfrid had a mouthful of sharp teeth, but she had only one dagger. Nonetheless,
several small bodies lay scattered around the struggling pair.

  Tristan began slamming his cane down on the mass of writhing feline bodies. One died instantly. Its fellow turned, hissing, on Tristan. As the plains cat before it had, the creature hesitated. More cats turned. Then, as if by some unheard signal, the animals fled.

  Tristan rushed to Dagmar. The face she turned to him was covered with bloody scratches, her eyes agonized. He felt a pang of sympathy; she wasn’t seriously wounded, but her beauty was destroyed.

  “Sir Tristan!” came a breathless voice. Tristan glanced up to one of Sigfrid’s lieutenants. “Orders?”

  “Take care of the sergeant,” Tristan replied. “I’ve got to change Captain Skolsson back. His wounds will be easier to tend on a human body.”

  Sigfrid was whimpering when Tristan reached him. Gently Tristan placed his right hand on the dog’s head and passed his left hand down Sigfrid’s spine while murmuring the proper incantation. Beginning with the tip of his nose, Sigfrid began to transform. Tristan held his breath. The change was a great shock to the system, and he knew it could kill Sigfrid. At last, the transformation was complete. Sigfrid shuddered, his wounds bleeding copiously. He closed his eyes tightly as Tristan’s gentle fingers explored his injuries.

  Sigfrid’s hand, covered with blood, closed on his arm. “Tris,” the injured man whispered. “They went for—for me and Dag.”

  “Well, yes. I was invisible, remember? You’re both going to be fine,” Tristan started to reassure him. Sig shook his head.

  “They went for us,” he repeated, “but not for you. I saw … the big one—them all—run from you. Why?”

  Tristan did not reply. He, too, desperately wanted to know the answer to that particular puzzle. Whatever it was, it did not bode well.

  Rozalia held the trembling field mouse in her dark palm. She gazed at it, a little smile crinkling the corners of her lips, and its shiny black eyes stared back at her. It was utterly in her power now, and she liked that. She always savored this moment when she had a terrified creature in her hand—the moment before she would slay it.