The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  “Do you believe in Sehkmaa’s goals?” asked Malken in a voice that was almost a purr.

  “Y-Yes,” whispered Ivaar.

  “Will you follow me as High Priest and trust that I hear Sehkmaa when he speaks to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you take what he gives, bear his mark, and do whatever the god may demand of you?”

  “Yes!” Tears filled Ivaar’s eyes and ran hotly down into his ears. The fear, as always when Malken spoke, yielded to rapture and joy, which surged through him in a warm tide. So caught up was he that when a plains cat, having finished its grisly meal, leapt onto the altar, Ivaar was not afraid. The Guardian of Sehkmaa gazed down at him, Theogar’s blood dripping from its muzzle onto Ivaar’s cheek.

  Then with the speed of a lightning strike, the cat raised its huge paw and raked its claws across Ivaar’s upturned face. He shrieked in pain, but did not move. The three marks burned like fire on his cheek, and he could feel his own hot blood trickling down his neck. The cat, seemingly satisfied, turned away.

  Malken eased him up, and Rozalia embraced him, kissing his uninjured cheek and calling him brother. Dizzy, Ivaar let himself be guided away from the altar and eased down into the rotting straw. Rozalia produced a cloth, poured some water from a waterskin onto it, and gave it to Ivaar. He dabbed gingerly at his scarred face, glancing up at his companions. They were ashen, their eyes huge. He didn’t know what to say to them.

  He felt a movement at his side. Glancing down, he saw a cat with a tawny gold coat staring fixedly at him. “Her name is Kesh,” said Malken. “She is yours now. With time, you will be able to see through her eyes, and she will obey you.”

  Kesh’s expression did not invite petting, but she settled down in the straw next to him. He lifted his eyes from the creature and watched in a daze as Raphael was led to the altar. He, too, was asked the ritual questions, was disfigured by the Guardian. When Raphael had been given his familiar and was seated beside Ivaar, the next would-be priest stepped forward.

  Ivaar watched, rapt, and at last Kesh deigned to climb into his lap.

  He did not once think about Theogar.

  Avarill 20th: Sigfrid and I have been forced to disguise our searches for the signature killer—this despite the fact another girl was discovered dead this morning. We have decided tonight to combine our quest with more ordinary law enforcement: investigating a gambling den called the Hungry Tyger. One of our men suspects the owner of cheating. Sigfrid promises to have at least five of his men there, also in disguise; should things turn rough, we may need them.

  As he put away his journal, Tristan hoped he would indeed find cause to shut down the establishment. He disliked gambling, as he told Sigfrid later that evening.

  “I myself enjoy a bet or two,” replied Sigfrid. “I won a month’s pay on a sweet-tempered filly at the races this afternoon. We’ll see if my luck holds.”

  “We’ll see if we can learn anything about the killer or Sehkmaa,” Tristan reminded him.

  The Hungry Tyger was one of the places where the Sehkmaa vandalism had occurred. It was also a far less pleasant place than even the Clever Gray Malken. Pipe smoke, body odors, and noise assaulted Tristan and Sigfrid as they entered. Although Tristan wore his disguise, the hat pulled low over his face, nobody paid any attention at all to their entrance.

  Someone placed a hand on Tristan’s arm. He jerked it back at once, expecting trouble, but it was only one of the Hungry Tyger’s “girls.” She leered up at him and preened suggestively. “I ’ave an awful thirst, tumbler,” she said, having to shout to be heard.

  Tristan continued pushing his way through the crowd. “Watch my back, Sig,” he said, “or that girl will put a knife in me for not … buying her a drink.”

  Sigfrid laughed. They made their way to one wall, where they could move and breathe more freely. Tristan had his first clear look at the place. Each corner had a gaming table. Cards and dice were the main games of chance, although there were a few bone-and-stone games being played. Two rooms branched off to the sides of the main gaming area. As Tristan watched, the girl who had accosted him led a drunken tumbler into one. Well, thought Tristan, now I know what’s going on in that room.

  The second room remained a mystery. A great deal of cheering came from there, and the crowd spilled over into the main room. First, Tristan told himself, he’d check the main room, then that one.

  Tristan and Sigfrid separated and blended with the crowd. Sigfrid sat down at a card table and was dealt in. He kept his face open and guileless, deliberately losing in order to divert suspicion. He surreptitiously fingered the cards as he held them; for a man who had spent his youth in a crime lair, spotting marked cards was simple. He even managed to palm one without the dealer, a formidable-looking man, noticing. He would show it to Tristan later. After losing a second time, Sigfrid moved to a dice game. The moment he picked up the small wooden cubes, he knew they had been weighted. Again, he played through, biding his time.

  Tristan, meanwhile, employed his own talents in another card game. He murmured under his breath, as if unhappy with his hand, and made a slight gesture with his fingers as he rearranged his cards. In his years as ambassador, he had played many so-called “friendly” games of cards. The friendliness usually came to a grinding halt when Tristan revealed that his opponent had cheated. It was a simple thing to alter the appearance of individual cards; even simpler, thought Tristan as he felt the familiar tingle, to tell if magic had been used on an object. Every card he held had recently been enspelled.

  Like Sigfrid, he played deliberately badly, handed over his money, and withdrew from the table. As he departed, a man dressed in a long cloth-of-gold tunic smoothly took his vacated seat. The strange garb caught Tristan’s eye, and he raised an eyebrow at the black cat head on the man’s chest.

  “Perhaps Sehkmaa will be with you some other time,” said the man.

  Tristan started, but the man had turned away, and Tristan didn’t wish to draw attention to himself by asking more questions. He glanced around and saw two other men in the same uniform.

  “Seen enough?” Sigfrid asked, coming up quietly behind him.

  Tristan nodded, adding, “I want to get a look at what’s going on in that other room.” He pointed. Together, they made their way through the crowd. They could get no farther than the door, but even from this far away the two men could hear strange noises. The scent of animal urine and a rank smell of musk hit them powerfully. Only Tristan’s height let him see into the packed room.

  He wished he couldn’t.

  In the center of the room, there was a large cage, five by seven, and three feet tall. Inside the cage were two fighting animals—or what was left of them. A ferret, its coat slick with blood, pranced as best it could on three feet. The right foreleg was a chewed-off stub. The animal writhed and dodged, chittering as it alternately lunged and scurried away. Its opponent, a small brindled terrier, was in a similar state. Its limbs were still intact, but blood streamed from dozens of small, savage bites. It barked and growled, and as it charged the weaving ferret, Tristan saw that the dog’s left eye had been chewed into a pulpy mass.

  That was more than enough for Tristan. “By order of the Kantora city guard,” he cried as he drew his sword, “this house is closed for illegal procedures.”

  He expected resistance, and he got it. One man, frightened and angry, tried to knife him. Tristan easily parried the clumsy attack, bringing the flat of his blade sharply down on the man’s wrist. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two other men drop their attitudes of greedy gamblers and draw weapons—Sigfrid’s men. He shouldered his way in as the crowd, subdued by the weapons in the hands of the soldiers, drew back. Silently, Tristan stood by the cage.

  The animals continued to fight. Their owners, Tristan knew, would not stop the “baiting” until one or the other was dead. Wordlessly, Tristan raised his sword. The slats of the cage were wide enough for him to reach in and swiftly stab both creatures. Neither one
of them would have survived the fight.

  Protests broke out. “Here then, which of ’em won?” “I had twelve silver on Ratcatcher there!” Baiting, to Tristan’s disgust, was not illegal, but he didn’t care. He stormed out of the room that reeked with the scent of blood, fear, and death.

  While Sigfrid arrested the owner, Tristan made a great hit with those assembled by opening the cash box and distributing the night’s earnings equally among the gamblers. Tristan confiscated the books and told Sigfrid to join him at Faerhaaven the following afternoon to carefully examine the ledgers over lunch.

  The next day, Sigfrid chewed on a chicken leg while Tristan absentmindedly nibbled some grapes and leafed through the book. Suddenly he sat upright, the meal forgotten. “Here’s something about Sehkmaa.”

  “What is it?” Sig asked, his attention grabbed.

  “He’s written, ‘Donation to Sehkmaa.’ ” Tristan turned to look at Sigfrid. “I saw three men in unusual matching garb. I thought it was the livery of some noble house, but one of them said something about Sehkmaa not being with me, and now here’s something called a donation to Sehkmaa.”

  “A political figure of sorts?”

  “Sounds more like a religion to me. One doesn’t usually wish a politician’s blessing at a card game.”

  Sigfrid laughed. “True enough. How large a donation was it?”

  “A quarter of his earnings.”

  Sigfrid whistled.

  Tristan frowned. “Now that’s odd,” he said. “Look at this.” He motioned Sigfrid to sit beside him and pointed at various entries in the book. The name “Cavell” cropped up repeatedly. After each entry, the owner of the Hungry Tyger had written words whose meanings were unclear, such as “Gray Lady,” or “Shooting Star,” or “Mistrunner.” Various amounts were scribbled in as well—three silver, twelve copper, and so on.

  Sigfrid studied the words, as confused as Tristan at first. Then suddenly he laughed. “Those are horses’ names!” he exclaimed. “I myself put money on Mistrunner last week. Our bookkeeper did love his gambling, didn’t he? Lost a lot, too, I see.”

  “Maybe because, unlike in his own den, the races aren’t rigged,” said Tristan contemptuously. “The question is, who is Cavell? I knew someone by that name—let me think.…”

  “Wait a minute,” said Sigfrid, looking more carefully at the amounts. “Tris, these are not the records of a licensed bookmaker.”

  “How do you know?”

  Tristan pointed to the amounts wagered. “Licensed bookmakers can’t place bets of less than five silver. Says so in the regulations. Our crooked gambler may have lost himself a small fortune, but most of those bets are in coppers and silvers. Therefore unlicensed and highly illegal.”

  Tristan suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Cavell. “The Cavell I know is a groomsman for House Tavolys. If it’s the same man, it would make sense that he’s involved with illegal gambling because—”

  “Groomsmen can’t legally make bets outside of the house they work for,” Sigfrid finished.

  “I want to follow up on this. When is the next race?”

  “We just missed this week’s.”

  “Next week, then. In the meantime,” Tristan sighed, “Osric Laars was right about one thing. We do have to worry about security for Othmar’s birthday.”

  Sigfrid groaned.

  Avarill 23rd: Although his father has been dead for only three weeks, Othmar has ceased wearing his mourning green and has no compunctions about indulging in a huge, three-day-long revel.

  He has displayed an uncharacteristic interest in the affairs of state and has insisted on discussing everything with me rather than trusting to my considerable experience with crowd security. “After that attack by that dirty gypsy boy,” he said once, “I’ve learned that I can’t be too careful.” It took all of my diplomatic training to resist the urge to slap him.

  However, Othmar, the city militia, and I have worked out patrol routes and guard postings that meet with everyone’s approval. Let’s hope all goes smoothly.

  Tristan put the pen down. Somehow, he didn’t think the day would pass without incident.

  The High Road was festooned with decorations. Banners of all colors hung from the windows along the boulevard. For the past fortnight, cleaning crews had been hard at work scraping muck from the cobbles and keeping the parade route free from vagrants. The pushcart vendors who long inhabited the main street of the city had been permitted to ply their trade during the holiday, provided their wares and their appearances were acceptable. There was a marked increase in musicians, jugglers, and other performers during the week prior to the parade, but Sigfrid and his guards reported very little trouble.

  Tristan, Othmar, and the four other regents waited in the stone-encircled courtyard of the royal palace of Stonegard. The great palace was surrounded by a moat, connected to the city by a stone bridge. The prince and the regents would comprise the final section of the lengthy parade to process along the High Road. Seated on black steeds and clad in bright garb, the regents looked more like a carnival act than the powers behind the throne—which is, Tristan was certain, the effect Othmar was after. Tristan could hear the cheering crowd of about ten thousand as a variety of acts went by, but the stone walls and the castle’s gates prevented him from enjoying the spectacle. His mind was not on merriment, anyway, but on the unsolved murders and the mysterious cult of Sehkmaa.

  “I said, I think the parade has done a lot for the city’s morale,” said Osric Laars, glaring at Tristan.

  Tristan stiffened. He was still trying to figure out why Laars had wanted the hunt for the killer stopped. “Yes, of course it has, Osric.”

  Laars had known Tristan too long not to pick up the ice in his voice. He looked uncomfortable and shifted in the saddle. “Things seem to have quieted down,” he offered in an almost apologetic tone of voice. “No more murders, no more cat sightings.”

  Tristan did not respond. The bustle of the guards at the mighty palace gate provided a distraction. Within a moment, the huge gates opened. “Time to greet our adoring public,” muttered Laars with a hint of the old twinkle in his eye. Heralds, manning their posts atop the twin towers on either side of the gates, blew their trumpets energetically. Laars gently kicked his horse and pulled up ahead. As mayor of Kantora, he would lead the final segment followed by the regents, Othmar, and the prince’s personal guard.

  The procession moved through the gates and across the bridge. Laars led the way, smiling and waving to the crowd that, at least for the moment, cheered him on wildly as his horse reached the High Road. Tristan, Adal, Bevis, and Hadwin followed at a short distance. Tristan kept his unfamiliar horse at a brisk trot and forced himself to look pleased with the whole display.

  The people of Nova Vaasa reserved the wildest cheers for their prince. They had had little contact with their liege. Of course he would be well loved at this point, since he hadn’t gotten around to levying harsh taxes or organizing a war or promoting some dunderhead to a delicate position. Oh, yes, the crowd loved Othmar, who hosted this huge and expensive festival for their amusement, but Tristan knew that would inevitably change.

  They had made it halfway down the High Road when Tristan’s horse became agitated. The animal halted suddenly. No amount of coaxing could calm it, and when it reared and tried to bolt Tristan became concerned. He knew horses and realized that the creature was not merely being recalcitrant but was in the grip of real fear. The knight drew his sword, and his blue eyes scanned the crowd.

  The other horses behaved in the same manner as Tristan’s. Othmar’s was the most panic-stricken, and Tristan directed his attention toward the prince. He had not seen the first lethal, shadowy form emerge, but he now had an excellent view as the sleek black creature fastened its jaws into the prince’s steed. The horse screamed, toppling under the weight of the plains cat.

  The crowd was now shrieking with terror. Dimly Tristan realized the posted guardsmen were having difficulty with
the panicking mob. Other cries filled the air, cries not from human throats. More black feline shapes emerged, seemingly from nowhere. They were rampaging through the chaotic throng, and the crowd had little defense against the claws and fangs.

  Tristan’s own horse would no longer heed its rider’s commands. Tristan was just scrambling off his maddened steed when one of the great cats lunged for it. The knight abandoned the horse to its killer’s hunger, determined to save his prince. Othmar huddled on the ground, frozen with fear, staring at the predator feasting on what had been his horse. Tristan had almost reached him when another plains cat emerged. Sigfrid had been right—the cats were using the sewers. One now pulled itself up from the grates that lined the street and charged Tristan. The knight raised his sword, but before the blow could fall, a new sound sliced through the mayhem.

  “In the name of Sehkmaa I command: Begone!” It was a youthful male voice filled with assurance. Tristan thought the voice familiar, but he dared not turn his back on the cat just to assuage his curiosity.

  The words had an immediate effect on the animal. It cringed and cowered. Tristan debated attacking it now, but some inner instinct held him back. His reflexes were sharp enough that if the animal returned to attacking he could land a blow in time to save his skin. He waited, tensely poised, and watched.

  The beast hesitated a moment longer. A slim, male form clad in a gold tunic stepped from behind Tristan.

  Ivaar. There was a brutal scar on his face, clearly the mark of a previous encounter with a big cat. A scimitar was strapped to his belt, but Ivaar did not draw it. He laid a gentle hand on the plains cat’s black head. “Seek your prey on the plains, Guardian of Sehkmaa, not here in the city.”

  To Tristan’s astonishment, the creature lowered its head in apparent obedience. Gathering its coiled muscles like springs, the beast vaulted over their heads and sped down the High Road. The last Tristan saw of it was its tailless hindquarters vanishing into the sewer. Tristan stared at his son. Ivaar met his eyes evenly for an instant, and then he, too, darted away.