The Jaguar Knights

by Dave Duncan

  “My only motive is to guard the King. I was asking about yours.”

  Again a hesitation, but shorter than before. “Ambition.”

  “Grand Inquisitor Hogwood?”

  “It’s possible!” she said indignantly.

  “I know. Women have been Grand Inquisitor in the past.”

  She seemed mollified, perhaps surprised that he knew that. “If I make a success of this assignment, I can expect to be promoted at least two grades. Maybe even three, Grand Inquisitor said.”

  They had started a conversation, which was promising. “So your family will be proud of you?”

  “That remark is insulting! You are no gentleman.”

  “I never claim to be. Spare me girlish tears. You’re doing a man’s job, so I treat you like a man. You want compliments? Very well. Few men could have kept up with me on that ride from Grandon. You’re tougher than most Blades I’ve known.”

  “How sweet of you to say so, Sir Wolf! Your honeyed words will completely turn my foolish head.”

  Wolf laughed. “If you can discover who abducted the baroness and why, you very likely will be in line to become Grand Inquisitor. You will certainly have a wonderful future in the Dark Chamber.”

  “Now you know my dark secret,” she said, studying him under the winnowing-fan lashes. “I know your past. What of your future, your ambition? What will you do when you are knighted?”

  If Athelgar ever dared release him. “Find a job. Men do not become rich in the Guard.”

  “That’s not much of an ambition. What sort of job?”

  What had she expected him to say? That he would marry and breed children? What woman would have him? “Assassin. I’m good at killing people and it probably pays well. My turn now. Why did Grand Inquisitor choose you for this mission?”

  “I told you! I’m an expert conjurer. A major stronghold fell without even a warning. How it was done matters even more than who did it or why, Sir Wolf. Tell me why you stabbed Sir Reynard in the back.”

  “Tell me why it matters.” That ended the conversation.

  2

  As daylight was fading, the travelers heard sounds of surf and crying seabirds, and soon arrived at a cliff top. By then the fog was so thick that the sea below was totally obscured, but they headed east, following tracks in the snow, until the towering ashlar walls of Quondam solidified out of the murk. The battlements overhead were invisible, and the great, gloomy pile seemed big as a mountain.

  “Half an hour later and we’d have been spending the night in a snowbank,” Hogwood complained.

  Wolf thought he’d done quite well, all things considered. “Do so if you want to.”

  The drawbridge over the dry moat was down and the outer gates stood open, but he was not surprised to see the far end of the barbican blocked. Any garrison would be vigilant so soon after a massacre, even more so if the great Durendal was in charge. A voice called down a challenge.

  It amused Wolf to answer with “Open in the King’s name!” While he waited, he pulled out his purse. “Tam, your wages.”

  The boy shook his head wildly, making hair flap. “Didn’t earn him, Sir Wolf. ’Twere you guided me.” “Take it.”

  “No, sir. Didn’t earn ’im. You’d been finding th’ place swifter enough witharn me.”

  “I wouldn’t even have found the Great Bog before dark,” Wolf said.

  “Take it!”

  Tam flinched and held out a large and grubby hand, into which Wolf counted ten gold crowns. “This is for courage. The King has lots more where it came from.”

  Hogwood sniffed. “You are liberal with your sovereign’s gold, Sir Wolf.”

  Wolf did not reply. Did she think they were not being watched? The story would loosen tongues and speed feet in his service.

  The great gate creaked open far enough to admit a horse and rider. Wolf led the way through, into a bailey so depressingly huge that no end to it was visible, just towers and ramparts fading away into murky Secondmoon dusk. Men-at-arms in leather and steel closed in around. Resenting their suspicious glares, he dropped flatfooted into the slush to splatter them, then turned to see if Dolores needed help.

  “Oh, an excellent choice!” Grand Master pushed through the throng and thumped his shoulder. “Welcome, brother Wolf! You bear the king’s writ?”

  Lord Roland was still tall for a Blade and bore his years as if he had thrown away a score of them. Age had not withered him. He wore an opulent sable cloak and a wide hat with osprey plumes, both of which would have attracted admiration in Greymere itself, and yet he made such garb seem totally appropriate even in that remote medieval stronghold. He had moved fast to be there and greet the newcomers, for he was noticeably dry in a company well wetted by the fog.

  Wolf saluted. “Grand Master, may I present Inquisitor Hogwood? She was sent to investigate these odd events you report. Regard me as senior henchman.”

  Lord Roland bade her welcome, doffing his fine hat to bow, but his eyes were as bright as a pigeon’s. “Before I turn over my highly questionable, self-proclaimed command here, Inquisitor, I should probably inspect your commission.”

  Hogwood gave Wolf a what-do-you-expect look. He produced the warrant, which Grand Master unrolled just far enough to read the name on it. He returned it with a knowing smile.

  “As I said, an excellent choice. And young Tam Trevelyan! In this fog? Laddie, I never believed your dad when he bragged you could find your way over the moors blindfold and backward. Well done, Tam! Walt, see he is made welcome.” He glanced up at the gloom, then at Wolf and Hogwood. “You have earned a fireside carouse, both of you, but there is one thing you should see as soon as possible.”

  Hogwood said, “Then lead on, my lord.”

  Lord Roland guided them through muddy slush, between decrepit sheds and paddock fences. They passed the looming mass of the Great Tower that Lynx had mentioned and the glazed windows of the baronial living quarters, slate-roofed, quaint, and shabby. Quondam had stood guard on its cliff for centuries, but the world was passing it by. However massive the great curtain wall, Athelgar’s Destroyer General could batter a breach in it now in a few days. That was not what the intruders had done, though. They had known a better way.

  “What news of Lynx, Wolf?”

  “He is well, Grand Master, thanks to Master of Rituals’s skill at commanding elementals. He seems likely to recover completely.”

  “I am joyfully moved to hear that. I did not dare to hope. The Baron?”

  “Intrepid has not conceded the battle yet.”

  “He is a wonder.” Roland chuckled and led the way up a long stair to the top of the wall, where only a low and rickety railing separated them from a forty-foot drop to the courtyard. On the outer side, two steps led up to the battlements. Wolf went up and leaned out between merlons, but saw nothing but fog. Surf rumbled very far below him. He followed the other two, walking along the rampart, noting that the slush had been well trodden.

  In places the walls were capped by outlook turrets, crenellated and corbeled outward like swallows’ nests to give the defenders an unobstructed field of fire. Grand Master halted when he reached the nearest.

  “I don’t suppose you can see, but the invaders came up the cliffs just below here. Their tracks were obvious when I arrived, straight up from a small beach called Short Cove. It would be a hard climb even on a dry summer afternoon, a path to tax goats.”

  Hogwood said, “Then straight up the walls, too? Human flies?”

  “No. From here they went around to the gates and in through the barbican. There is a narrow path around the base of the walls, not one I should care to try at night.”

  “So treachery opened the gates?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Someone must have lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis,” she insisted.

  Grand Master nodded. “But one picket was killed up here on the battlements. He was thrown off, or fell over the rail—or jumped, perhaps—and died when he hit the cou
rtyard. So the matter is not that simple. When the invaders withdrew, taking the Baroness, they very sensibly followed the main shore road down, which is much easier. And that was that. They took all their boats away, despite the men they had lost.”

  “How many men?” Wolf demanded. “How many boats?”

  “I do not know. Normally you can see Short Cove from this turret, but no one has ventured down to the beach to look for traces, so far as I know. There were no boats in sight when the sun rose.”

  “What was the state of the tide during the attack?” Hogwood asked.

  “I did not think to ask, I am ashamed to say.” Roland was clearly annoyed at displaying human failings.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Wolf said. “The question is, who opened the gate?”

  The older man shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. “Let us discuss that when we go inside. What I really want you to see, Wolf—and you, Inquisitor—is up on that lookout.”

  He gestured again at the turret. It was unroofed and higher than the rampart, reached by a short flight of steps. Wolf went up them carefully, for there was no handrail and they still bore enough snow to make them treacherous. A hurdle had been stood across the top, as if to bar entry to the turret itself. It was a semicircular space surrounded by a crenelated wall, and at first glance it was totally empty. Most of the snow in it had melted to slush, and even before that the tracks would have been overlain and unreadable by anyone but a skilled woodsman. But in a few places he made out single, distinct impressions, and then he could only stare in disbelief.

  A gasp at his shoulder confirmed that Hogwood was seeing what he saw. How could they possibly report this evidence to the Council?

  Grand Master chuckled below them. “From your reactions, I infer that the prints have not all melted?”

  With anyone else at all, Wolf would have suspected a joke in very bad taste. Hogwood did not know Lord Roland as he did.

  “Who found these marks and when?” she shouted.

  “They were pointed out to me as soon as I arrived.” Grand Master sounded more amused than angered by her suspicion. “I have taken statements from the men who discovered them. I do not believe they are faked, Inquisitor.”

  Three toes forward, one behind. Here and there, in the most sheltered examples, imprints of great talons also. The brutes must be as big as ponies. Their feet were larger than human.

  Hogwood’s voice was shriller than an inquisitor’s should ever be. “You are testifying that the gates were opened by invaders who flew up to this turret mounted on giant birds?”

  “No.” Roland’s tone sharpened, bringing echoes of the authority he had borne for a generation as Lord Chancellor of Chivial. “I merely show you evidence I believe to be genuine. Draw your own conclusions. You can interview everyone in the castle at your convenience. Shall we go indoors now?”

  3

  Worrying about those monstrous bird tracks, Wolf followed Hogwood and Grand Master back down to the bailey. Chivian conjury was supposed to be the best in the world. So he had always been told. But flying horses were something very new. As they reached the bailey, he caught Hogwood grinning to herself. If the fortress had fallen to treachery, she would have faced a straightforward inquisitorial investigation, probably solvable with her skill at truth-sounding. Instead she faced a major problem in conjury, so she was gleeful. She was showing no signs of her former fears, although now she was in Quondam—discard one more theory.

  In the hall where so many had died, the only signs of the battle were fresh rushes on the floor and two carpenters noisily repairing furniture. Lord Roland beckoned a passing servant to order fires lit in the guests’ rooms, water heated, hot bricks piled in their beds, then led the way up a creaking staircase to what was obviously the baronial bedchamber, for a massive four-poster occupied most of it. If that been Celeste’s bed for the last four years, there was nothing of her in the room, nor of the Baron either—no fine mirrors, no sumptuous robes discarded over chairs, no lingering scent, no silver toiletries arrayed on gilded furniture. Old and cramped and shabby like the rest of the castle living quarters, the room was as impersonal as an icehouse, although it was warmed by a huge fire of driftwood roaring welcome on the hearth. The only noteworthy object it contained was a rickety table bearing papers, ink, wax, and pens.

  “I have been working in here,” Grand Master said, “because the solar is colder than the ocean and the hall is too public. Pray make yourselves at home. So, Inquisitor—this maniac did not kill you on the way here?”

  “But not for want of trying, my lord.” She was giving him her professional haddock stare, which was a reminder that she almost never used it on Wolf.

  Roland was untroubled. “He drives himself hard, which is why the King sends him out when lions prowl. May I suggest, brother, that you proclaim your commission tonight in the hall? Then, if the weather permits, I can return to my duties in Ironhall tomorrow. Another day of this thaw and the Great Bog will be its deadly old self again.”

  “It cannot melt so soon, my lord.”

  “It will flood and be more dangerous than ever.”

  “Well, I will read myself in if you think it necessary, Grand Master, but I have no intention of letting you escape so easily. I hereby appoint you acting warden of Quondam until His Majesty’s pleasure be known.”

  An aging servant brought in a steaming copper jug and three tankards. Lord Roland poured, and they began sipping the fragrant brew. It burned Wolf’s mouth and raised every hair on his chilled body.

  Grand Master said, “I will serve as needed, but is that altogether wise, brother?”

  “It is the smartest thing I can think of. My charge is to find out who did this terrible thing, not to wait around here in case they try to do it again. I cannot understand why the Council did not send the writ directly to you.”

  “I am sure the inquisitor can tell you that.”

  “I am somewhat puzzled by His Majesty’s decision,” Hogwood said.

  He feigned surprise. “It is simple, surely? Ever since Thencaster, the royal buttocks rest uneasy on the throne. I am not Athelgar’s man, I am an Ambrose leftover. He did not appoint me Grand Master, he approved my election. Now I send in a lurid dispatch, raving of improbable superhuman invaders at a time of year when no sane warrior leaves his fireside. I describe a massacre and announce that I am taking charge. I am the last man he would trust to investigate, Mistress Hogwood.”

  Or believe, if he began babbling about pony-sized birds.

  “To question your loyalty after such a lifetime of service is blatant insanity, Grand Master,” Wolf said. “But I have no wish to jaundice the royal eye against you. If you wish to suggest a substitute warden, I will accept your recommendation.”

  “I am sure you will find an excellent candidate close at hand.” Roland’s refusal was accompanied by just enough smile to take the sting out of it.

  “You have been here four days, my lord. You have had time to query, investigate, and ponder. Tell us what happened.”

  Grand Master sighed. “Oh, I wish I could!” He scooped a sheaf of papers from the table. “Let’s see…Sir Alden loaded twenty-five seriously wounded, including himself, into a wagon, and brought them to Ironhall. Seven of them died on the journey.”

  “And one since,” Hogwood said. “A cook.”

  Roland made a note. “The dead he left here totaled twenty—that is two Blades, seven men-at-arms, two visitors, eight male servants, and a page. The invaders killed off any of their own wounded who could not walk, leaving fifty-four corpses behind. I have details here…and some drawings of those tracks you saw. I discovered that one of the grooms is an excellent artist…. An inventory of the enemy dead and their weapons.…Statements from everyone who was present, including a former forester. He read the invaders’ tracks for me.”

  Hogwood had the grace to look impressed. “You have been diligent, my lord! You said, ‘everyone’?”

  “Everyone I could get. Some witnesses had fl
ed by the time I arrived, but I had them brought back. Except…” He thumbed through the sheets. “This one…‘Nathaniel Dogget, his mark.’A page serving in the hall. His father was slain in the assault, so I let him return to his family. And two young pikemen—Rolf Twidale and Cam Obmouth. They were on watch, so they may have been slain and thrown over the battlements. Or they may still be running, somewhere very far away.”

  “Or they were abducted along with the Baroness?”

  Roland shrugged, as if to say that anything was possible in a nightmare. “Everyone else awaits your pleasure, Inquisitor. I certify that my own account is the truth as I know it.” He passed her the papers.

  While Dolores flipped through them in her infuriating show-off fashion, Wolf said, “What I want to know is: Who were they?”

  “Ah.” Grand Master smiled. “There I can show you some evidence. I made a collection of the best examples.” He rose and went around the four-poster to unlock an ironbound chest, returning bearing a familiar-looking wooden billet. “You have seen these? Sir Alden brought one to Ironhall, and we gathered up dozens here. We call them ‘cats’ paws’ because they always have the same five claws, four on the top edge and one so far back as to be useless. The carving on the shaft varies, within narrow limits—cats, birds, flowers, serpents, other symbols I cannot decipher.”

  “If a rebel chief wanted to arm his men without attracting notice,” Wolf said, “then he might dream up something like these and have them carved for him in any forest hut. The Dark Chamber keeps track of standard weapon manufacture and importation, does it not, Hogwood?”

  She groaned. “Will you explain art to him, Lord Roland, or must I?”

  “No need,” Grand Master said, with more tact than truth. “Wolf knows that no Chivian artist could have carved these. They are too unlike any craft he would have ever seen. They are alien, strange. All artists work within their own tradition. This style is enormously different, exotic to our eyes. The invaders came from no nation in Eurania, I am certain.”