The Jaguar Knights

by Dave Duncan

  When they reined in at the Main House steps, she threw back her hood and stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Whom do you suspect at the moment, Sir Wolf?”

  “Athelgar, but I don’t know what he’s up to.”

  For the first time ever, he saw an inquisitor’s smile. It was thin and transient. “Because he sends one of his own Blades to investigate?”

  “Partly. Also because I can’t think of anyone else with resources to storm Quondam or reason to abduct Celeste. I can’t even see that the King has that. If he wanted her back he could just send for her.”

  “But if we discover that your ward did cause so many needless deaths, you will suppress the truth?”

  “You know I will have no choice. How about you, if it turns out that the Dark Chamber is guilty?”

  “That is an outrageous suggestion!” Apparently the girl had not even thought of that possibility.

  “Why? Don’t try to tell me the Chamber never arranges assassinations!” Wolf slid painfully from the saddle.

  6

  Predictable as roosters at dawn, a dozen boys had come running out to see who these snowmen visitors were. When they recognized the infamous Sir Wolf they stood back and stared, solemn and silent as a forestful of owls. None of them would have seen an inquisitor before or would guess what Hogwood’s black robes meant, but they knew the King’s Killer, the worst villain in the Guard.

  The young swordsman who came loping down after them was Rivers, a smarmy, unpleasant youth, but currently Second and hence a voice of authority with power to punish. He yapped out commands, sending guides off with Tam and the horses to see that they were all cared for, delegating other boys to bring the saddlebags, telling off one to inform Master of Rituals, and dismissing everyone else with dire threats.

  He led the visitors indoors. “Sir Wolf, your brother is much improved. No, he’s this way, in the guardroom. The infirmary is full of Lord Dupend’s men.”

  “This is Second Candidate Rivers—Inquisitor Hogwood.”

  Rivers nodded as they walked. “Master Inquisitor, you are…”

  Wolf was amused to watch “welcome” change to “a woman” and then disappear entirely as Rivers’s jaw dropped. How long since a woman of her age had visited Ironhall?

  “Is Grand Master still at Quondam, Candidate?” she asked.

  “Yes, um, my lady.” Walking sideways, Rivers continued to stare at her. “He left Master of Rituals in charge here, and he’s done wonders with the healings! The Baron, Sir Lynx, and another dozen. Of course, not all…I mean, some of them had very terrible wounds.” He pulled a face. “This is a very strange and frightening event.”

  “When did you hear the news?”

  “Just before dawn on the fifteenth, er, mistress. When the raiders left, Sir Alden sent a rider, then loaded the worst of the wounded in a wagon and drove it over here himself. There was a full moon, of course, and the Great Bog is frozen this year.”

  So Lynx owed his life to the weather? “Who is Sir Alden?”

  “Not a Blade, sir. Lord Dupend’s knight banneret. Very quick-witted for his years.”

  Rivers narrowly avoided walking into a red-haired swordsman waiting in the corridor to First House, already beaming at Hogwood.

  “Dolores!”

  Hogwood said formally, “Good chance to you, Sir Intrepid.” She was wearing her working face, all stone and glass.

  “And to you. What a wonderful surprise! Welcome to Ironhall, Inquisitor. And brother Wolf, of course.”

  Intrepid was unpopular in the Order. He had an abrasive manner and was reputed to have deliberately galled Ambrose until the old man booted him out of the Guard several years short of a normal term. Thereupon he had enrolled in the Royal College of Conjury and done so well there that one of Lord Roland’s first acts as Grand Master had been to call him back to Ironhall to be Master of Rituals. That had shocked the Blades, but Durendal’s opinion carried such weight that Intrepid was now on a sort of unspoken probation. Wolf was willing to overlook a mountain of gall if he had done so well ministering to Lynx and the other Quondam wounded.

  “And where did you two meet?” Wolf demanded.

  “Dolores was the most rewarding student I ever had,” Intrepid proclaimed. “I take it Grand Master’s letter reached the court?” He glanced inquiringly from Blade to inquisitor, wondering which was in charge.

  “Yes,” she said. “The Privy Council sent us to look into things.” Subtly, her reply misled him.

  “A commendable choice and a very impressive testimonial, Inquisitor. Congratulations! This business may require all your genius. There was undoubtedly some novel conjury involved.” He glanced at Wolf to see how he enjoyed being nursemaid.

  Wolf just shrugged, confirming the deception.

  “Sir Wolf is anxious to see his brother. We will begin with him.”

  “Of course.” Intrepid had brought them to the guardroom. “Thank you, boys. Get them out of here, Second. Leave the bags.”

  “How is he?” Wolf asked as the helpers reluctantly departed.

  Intrepid flashed an annoying smirk. “He looks as if he tried to break up a bear-baiting. If he offers to show you his scars, decline politely. To say that his guts were delivered in a separate container would be an exaggeration, but not much of one, and of course he was almost exsanguinated. It is only because Quondam keeps a generous stock of conjured bandages on hand that he lived long enough to leave the castle, let alone reach Ironhall. Even the healing rituals my predecessors used would have been useless against injury on that scale. We pieced him together as best we could and I tried some new Isilondian chants I brought with me last fall.”

  “The Guilliane Hortations?” Hogwood asked.

  “No, I went straight to Barbuse’s Variation of the Sidonia Catabolism. After all, we had almost nothing to lose! It worked better than I had dared hope. We cannot relax for a few days yet, of course. The internal healing may not have been complete and I have a few more things to try, but I do have hope that he will be back to his old self, or should I say young self, in a week or two. Sir Wolf need not give up hope of some nephews and nieces yet.”

  Much tempted to give Intrepid some injuries of his own to experiment on, Wolf said, “And his state of mind? He has lost his ward.”

  For the first time Master of Rituals lost his air of infallibility. “He may not have quite realized that yet. He seems sane enough. It may be that the trauma of his injuries somehow compensated…there have been cases…still somewhat dazed, of course…takes time to recover from spirituality on that scale. And loss of blood and shock.” He reached for the handle.

  “Wait,” Hogwood said. “Baron Dupend?”

  “Ah. I’ve kept him alive so far, but at his age…” Shaking his head sadly, Intrepid opened the door.

  Next to the Seniors’Tower, the guardroom was Ironhall’s closest approach to an indoor midden. Every Blade in four centuries seemed to have left something behind as a souvenir: clothes, tack, books, even un-paired boots. The average guardsman visited it about once a year and did not care. Wolf cared, and whenever he came by on one of his courier trips and had time to kill, waiting for day to dawn or someone to finish a letter, he tried to tidy up. The mess always returned before he did.

  This time it was better. Someone had shoveled the litter into a corner and installed decent furniture. On one side of an amiably crackling fire a dark-haired boy sat at a table with quills, paper, and a silver inkwell. On the other, Lynx leaned back against heaped pillows on a bed. He stared at the visitors and for a gut-wrenching moment nothing happened.

  Then he said, “Wolfie! What by the eight are you doing here? Wolf, you old scoundrel!” He tried to laugh, sit up, and hold out his hands, all at once. The result was a wild spasm and a grimace of pain. He sank back, cursing, and by that time Wolf was there to embrace him.

  He had changed in four years, of course. He was all-over huskier and hairier than before, and had grown a beard, brown and curly. He also bore the pa
llor of a very narrow escape and the bewildered look that followed massive healing conjuration. Purple-and-yellow swellings marred the right side of his face, with traces of dried blood showing in his hair.

  “Still a bit tender,” he muttered. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. His attempt to sit up had dropped the blankets and exposed a nightmare of rose-red scars on his arms, chest, and shoulders.

  Wolf said, “Take it easy, then, you great idiot! Flames, man! What were you fighting?”

  Lynx smiled ruefully. “Dunno. It wasn’t human and I never want to meet it again!”

  “It? Just one?”

  “One was enough.”

  Wolf mumbled manly, no-nonsense condolences, grateful that Hogwood’s presence saved them from becoming maudlin. Lynx, always the sentimental one, began blurting out mawkish gush about how long it had been and how much he had missed him, and so on. Wolf stepped back and introduced the inquisitor as a warning that he must guard his tongue.

  Intrepid indicated the boy now standing uneasily beside the table. “Inquisitor, this is Prime Candidate Tancred, a swordsman of great future renown.”

  “Good chance to you, Prime.”

  “Mistress!” Tancred tapped his sword hilt. He had infinitely more poise than Rivers. He was probably a couple of years older than Hogwood.

  “Prime has been taking dictation, Inquisitor,” Intrepid said. “I asked Sir Lynx to relate as much of what happened as he could remember, considering it important to catch his testimony as soon as possible.” He preened at his own brilliance.

  “Very wise,” Hogwood said. “How many other witnesses are here?”

  “Eighteen, of whom eleven are capable of testifying. I set seniors to take statements from all of them.”

  “Excellent. Prime, the Council has declared this matter a state secret. We require your oath of secrecy regarding everything Sir Lynx has said. Repeat after me…” Hogwood’s eyes were caves of fatigue in a chalk cliff and yet she radiated confidence and authority. That was how she was trained to act, of course, but Wolf was impressed by her sheer physical toughness, steel sword in silk scabbard.

  Tancred was a solemn youth who looked vaguely worried at the best of times, but he spoke up bravely as he swore the oath. “I think Sir Lynx had finished, Inquisitor,” he added. “I had just finished reading his testimony back to him when you arrived.”

  “Very well. I can see that your handwriting is as stylish as your swordsmanship, and for that I am already grateful.”

  Tancred saluted again. Skilled fencer that he was, he read the signs and headed for the door without needing to be told.

  Lynx called, “Thanks, lad. Big help. Always knew you’d turn out to be one of the good ones.”

  Beaming at this tribute from a hero, Tancred departed.

  Hogwood turned to Intrepid and swore him to silence also, which tweaked his beard. She said, “About security, Master…has anyone left Ironhall since the news arrived?”

  His pout deepened. “Grand Master, of course. Sir Alden and his man went back to Quondam. Grady, Flint, Huntley, and Godfrey to Court. The carters come and go. I gave strict orders not to gossip to them, but it’s hard to make that stick. They can tell that we have more mouths to fill. Is there anything else you need right away?” He wanted to leave before he was ordered out.

  “Food and rest, a hot bath if one is available. I should be finished here in an hour or so. Sir Wolf?”

  “I’ll wait here, if I may, Inquisitor. Naturally I am interested to hear my brother’s story.”

  Intrepid saw a chance to flaunt authority. “No more than twenty minutes! I do not want my patient overtired and we have another healing scheduled to treat the adhesions.” He paused at the door. “I hope you will be our guest at the evening meal, Inquisitor?” His eyes gleamed at the thought of displaying her at high table. “And your escort, of course.”

  After the long hours of cold, warmth was making Wolf’s head spin and he was sure Hogwood would collapse if she did not sleep soon.

  She surprised him yet again. “Sir Wolf and I will be honored. If you will send me those other statements right away, Master, I will get to work.”

  As soon as Intrepid had gone, Hogwood went to the table and flipped through the pages Tancred had written. Wolf pulled a stool up to the bed and regarded his wounded brother, who smiled vaguely back. Anger began to beat like a pulse in Wolf’s temple. Would Lynx ever recover his wits properly? Whoever or whatever had done this to him must be hunted down and dealt with.

  “You been doing some fighting yourself, Wolfie,” Lynx said. “Who cut the bits out of your face?”

  “It’s a long story. You feel well enough to answer questions?”

  “I’ll try. The world’s still fuzzy at the edges.”

  “You understand I’m here as the King’s servant? You will be testifying as if in a court of law and that Inquisitor Hogwood’s account of your answers may be entered in evidence at some other time and place?”

  Lynx glanced at her and pitched a magnificent Cute Little Boy smile. “I’ll try to impress her with my innocence.”

  He probably did not realize he was doing it, but Wolf had seen the Blades’ legendary seduction powers in action often enough, although rarely as blatantly—or as potently, so far as another man could judge. He wondered how resilient dear Dolores’s defenses would be if Lynx really tested them. The hero’s honest, open face was unmarked; even when visible, his battle scars lacked the grotesque horror of Wolf’s mutilation.

  If Hogwood noticed, she gave no sign. “I will summarize for you what your brother has already said, Sir Wolf.” She marched over to the fire, turned her back on it, and proceeded to rattle off a concise account of Lynx’s deposition.

  7

  Testimony of Sir Lynx, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, as dictated to Prime Candidate Tancred at Ironhall, this 18th day of Secondmoon, 395:

  I was accepted as a candidate in Ninthmoon of 385 and bound on the 13th of Fifthmoon, 390, by Marquesa Celeste. At that time she also bound Sir Fell and Sir Mandeville, and she appointed me commander of her guard. We escorted her to Grandon and thereafter resided at Court until four years ago…almost exactly. Firstmoon of 391. Anyway, then she married Baron Dupend and moved to Quondam Castle, on Whinmoor.

  Is this going to be on oath?

  Then I’d better tell the truth. Celeste was never a real marquesa. She was the King’s mistress. He tired of her and ordered her to marry old Dupend, but she didn’t. The notary kept asking her those “Do you?” questions and she kept saying, “No, I don’t!” and in the end he just shut his book and declared them man and wife. I carried her out of the palace over my shoulder, screaming. Yes, really. No, she was screaming, I was just angry, but I was bound to defend her and I’d been told very clearly that much worse would happen to her if she didn’t do as she was told.

  So Quondam was a jail for her. An awful place—bleak and cold and drafty, perched on the edge of the sea cliffs. Nothing ever happens there, but it is the strongest keep in Chivial and Dupend would rant for hours how it had withstood assaults by Baelish raiders, turned back rebels during the Fatherland War, and so on. Quondam holds the land road to Westerth and the sea approach to the Straits, and has never fallen to storm or siege or treachery. So he says. Or used to say. He can’t say it now, because it certainly fell to something four nights ago. Funny he should brag, because it belongs to the King, not him. He’s no rich landowner, just a paid employee who never set eyes on the place until four years ago.

  He’s listened to too many minstrels. On the night of the raid, he was feasting in his mead hall like an olden-times hero—rushlights flickering through wood smoke, walls hung with ancient weapons, flushed faces at the tables as knights gorged and quaffed, a harpist twanging and warbling up in the minstrel gallery. All that. Don’t forget greasy odors of roast pig still wafting from charred remains on the spit above the hearth. Yes, absolutely crazy!

  I know I took a clang on the
noddle and am foggy on some details, but I will swear to this feast nonsense. It happened two or three times a week, all year long. This was how the Baron celebrated the anniversary of every battle his ancestors had fought in (or run from), the fall of every town they’d sacked, and every siege Quondam had withstood. His dates were skittish, so that the Battle of Arbor might fall in Thirdmoon one year and Sixthmoon the next, but it’s the spirit that counts, they say.

  Dupend was far too deaf to hear the music, which was no great loss, and had no teeth for the roast boar, which was a hog from his sties. The wenches were serving watery cider because he couldn’t afford mead, and the brawny heroes were just his men-at-arms plus a few local farmers acting out the farce in return for a free meal. Their ancestors might have owed knight’s service to the lord of Quondam, but those days are long gone, even on Whinmoor.

  The old fool is…was? Well, I hope he makes it. Where was I?…

  Lynx was as near the hearth as anyone and he was still cold. He stood behind his ward, but slightly to her left, so he could toast his buns without keeping the heat off her. She and the Baron were seated at the center of the long table, their backs to the blaze. Beauty and the beast were not speaking to each other, but that was normal. They never did. Fell was on the right side of the fireplace. Only the turnspit was closer to the flames than they.

  Dupend hated his wife’s Blades almost as much as he hated her, because they would not take his orders. It did no good to explain that Blades never took orders from anybody. He screamed if he caught them questioning visitors or searching the baronial bedchamber. Sometimes he would decree that they were not to be fed, so they had to pretend to take food from the cooks at swordpoint. He never let them dine in the great hall with his pretend knights, so they stood guard at mealtimes and ate later in the kitchen.