by Dave Duncan
They went into the kitchen. Montpurse asked Wolf the three questions. An outraged Mistress Montpurse asked them of Hogwood. After six I do’s it was done. The bridegroom slid a heavy gold ring with a jade stone over two of the bride’s fingers and told her to keep her hand closed.
“Thank you, master and mistress,” he said. “If anyone asks, of course, you will confirm that this ceremony took place, but for the next hour or so, should anyone come looking for us, would you revert to more normal Blade treatment and tell lies for me?”
He lifted his wife into his arms and ostentatiously trotted up the stairs with her. It was time for some masculine assertiveness.
IV
On the Eve of the Hunt, the Lord Summons His Huntsmen, His Trainers, His Grooms…
1
Viewed dispassionately, of course,” Dolores said, “the act of love is gross animal behavior on a par with defecation or parturition.”
Wolf said, “I had not realized you were viewing it dispassionately. In fact, I gathered a contrary impression.”
They were walking hand in hand back to the Palace in a drumming, pitch-black downpour. Rain cast a golden glory over the link-boy splashing along ahead of them; it made his reeky torch hiss and smoke, its flames dance in every dimpled puddle. No one else was mad enough to be in the streets, which meant that even a starry-eyed sex-satiated Blade must keep an eye out for trouble.
“Sir, I have never been less dispassionate in my life. You are an expert.”
Why did a man glow with stupid pride when a woman praised his skill in an act any billy goat could perform a dozen times better? She had known what to expect and her body had reacted in ways he was certain even an inquisitor could not fake, but she was not as experienced as she was claiming. He was secretly pleased at that—he was a prude, he knew, certainly by Blade standards.
“I already told you,” he said. “You inspired me. You were stupendous. I love you beyond all reason. I am insanely happy. Am I telling the truth?”
She squeezed his hand.
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘Close enough.’ It will do for now.”
“I will do better the next time,” he promised.
“Braggart!”
“I suppose…” Wolf wondered if the link-boy was listening to this salacious conversation. “You have been to see Cumberwell, I hope?”
She chuckled. “Isn’t it a little late to think of that? No, I haven’t. We provide our own conjurations.”
Cumberwell was a fashionable conjurer, popular with the wealthy because he could guarantee a woman would not conceive. His fees were high and the cost of the antidote conjuration was considerably higher. But love spun its own enchantments. Wolf felt as if he and Dolores were now in some mysterious way a couple, a pairing set off from the rest of the world. He had been in love before, or had thought he was, which was much the same thing, but he had never known that sense of oneness envelope him so suddenly and so tightly. He had told her that, too.
“I’ll turn in the ring,” she said.
“Get a receipt for it.”
“Of course. You think you married an idiot?”
“Yes. I’ll report to Leader. I want to tell him in private, my love. I owe him that much. He may not be available tonight. Even if he is, the King may be partying. Are you quite certain this will work?”
Squeeze again. “If it doesn’t then your inquisitor wife will have to hang around Blade quarters spying on everyone until it does. I must report in, too.”
“To get a list of hits for me?”
“Will a dozen be enough to start with?”
“Make it fifty. Where can I find you? The Dark Chamber office?”
“No, that’s just for show. Come to Thirteen.”
“Amber Street?”
“Of course. That’s the real rats’ nest.”
Under the palace lights, Wolf paid off the link-boy, over-tipping him. The lovers parted with a very damp kiss.
The number of flunkies lighting candles in the hallways and corridors told him that there was some royal function planned, but he dripped and dribbled his way to the guardroom unseen by anyone of consequence. He wondered if the Council was still in session, if it had wrestled all day with the Tlixilia problem while he had been wrestling his wife in bed. The current front office decorations were Bloodhand and Modred, comparing their date books.
Vicious was at his desk in the room beyond, working late and in full dress uniform. Next to inquisitors, he hated paperwork the worst. He looked up sourly as the newcomer loomed in his doorway.
“Lynx’s gone, Leader. We traced him to the docks.”
“Pity. Need full report. Quondam excellent job.”
“Thank you, Leader.”
“Five-crown bonus, cancelled because you blew your mouth off in Council this morning.” That was a long speech for him.
“Did they decide anything?”
Vicious shrugged. “If I knew I couldn’t tell you. They argued long enough.” It was unusual for the Commander to be excluded from Privy Council meetings, but this affair broke all rules.
“Yes, Leader. One other—”
“Go get dry before you freeze.” He bent to his toil again.
“Pardon, Leader. An application for married quarters…”
“See Lyon.” Then Vicious looked up, surprised, even smiling. “Who?”
Wolf closed his door before telling him. His reaction was exactly what Dolores had predicted—incredulity, disgust, and finally anger. His swarthy face darkened until the great scar stood out like a jagged white rope.
“You’ve already done this?”
“Yes, Leader.”
He slammed the desk with his fist and leaped up.
“Go and pack your kit. Wait in your quarters.” With that he strode out.
Wolf’s quarters were a poky cubicle with a squeaky floor and an absurdly narrow bed. Deputy always assigned that room to Wolf when Court was at Greymere, probably because he so rarely entertained visitors. He dried himself off, dressed in the only civilian clothes he owned, and threw everything else he wanted to keep in a bag, mainly books. His possessions were few, because the Guard led a peripatetic life, following the King around. Then he sat down to contemplate the incredible events of the day just ended and an even more incredible future.
Freedom! A wife. A journey to the ends of the world. Danger and action. A wife. Yes, he was besotted. He felt like a sex-drunk, harebrained adolescent again, like the spotty boy who had tumbled Amy Sprat in the heather so long ago. His new wife was an adolescent. She was brilliant and beautiful. He was years older and grotesquely disfigured. How long before she saw the ghastly mistake her ambition had led her into? He must learn to trust people. Yes, even love was not without its shadows. It brought both a driving desire to be worthy of the loved one and a terrifying certainty that one never could. Perhaps no one could ever be worthy of true love, but in the case of a gargoyle-faced multiple murderer, that conclusion seemed more than commonly evident.
Time passed.
Too much time. He began to worry.
Dreams curdled into nightmare.
If the King had been unavailable or had refused to perform the release ceremony right away, Leader should have sent word. No matter how angry he was, he would not leave a man sitting on the edge of his bed like this, not Vicious. Was it possible that Athelgar had balked, Vicious had resigned his commission in protest, and the Guard now had a new Leader? Who might that be? Not Lyon, surely! He lacked the necessary inner meanness.
If Wolf was not going to be puked out of the Guard, then he should get back into uniform. He fretted. He dithered. Just as he was about to start changing again, the door opened and Ivor stuck his head in.
“Leader wants—” His eyes widened as he saw the bag. “You leaving?”
“I hope so,” Wolf said. Oh, how I hope so! As the two of them hurried off along the corridor, he asked, “What’s been happening?”
“Don’t kno
w.” No further comment. A portcullis had just dropped between them.
His Majesty was in his dressing room, being shaved by one valet while two others set out the royal finery. Florian and Neil were on duty, but Vicious was there also, glowering worse than ever, and so was Sir Damon. Certainly something had been happening, because Damon was wearing the Deputy Leader’s baldric. The King stared frostily from behind a mask of shaving soap. Wolf sensed universal anger like boiling acid.
Vicious held out a hand for Diligence and in silence took it to the King. The valet backed away, razor in hand. Athelgar rose. Wolf knelt, busily unlacing jerkin, doublet, and shirt.
Typically, Athelgar went and spoiled his triumph. “Congratulations on your marriage, Sir Wolf.”
“Thank you, sire.” Wolf was surprised, but there was worse to come.
“The maiden we saw this morning?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Breathtaking, even in widow’s weeds. Clearly a perceptive woman, too. I wish you good chance together. I am going to miss you, Wolf! You have given sterling service these last five years and we must find other opportunities for you to serve your sovereign in days to come. Now we dub you knight…”
The sword that had bound him touched Wolf’s bare shoulders.
How dare the Pirate’s Son go and spoil it all by being gracious! Telling himself grumpily that Athelgar had just been taking a dig at the scowling Vicious in the background, Wolf withdrew to begin a new life, free as he had not been since arriving at Ironhall, ten years before.
When he had left the royal presence, Neil returned Diligence to him. He said only, “I’ll see you out.”
“What happened to Lyon?”
“Don’t know.”
That was certainly a lie, but a Blade who married an inquisitor was no longer one of the boys. Also, of course, the Guard would be happier without the King’s Killer around, reminding everyone of unhappy times now gone.
But he was free at last.
2
With rain falling harder than ever, Wolf persuaded his overly tender conscience that Athelgar owed him one last coach ride, but he had the driver let him off in Ranulf Square, lugged his bag through a shortcut he knew to Amber Street, and trotted two doors along to the house he wanted. He was starting to think like an inquisitor already. Although he knew that some of these old mansions were more than they seemed, he had never been inside Thirteen. The door opened for him as he ran up the steps, and he stepped through into a scabby, cracked-plaster vestibule that had seen better centuries.
The alert lookout was the boy named Flicker, and his attitude had become no more respectful since lunchtime. He jerked his head and said, “That way.”
Wolf stepped through to a fine, high hall sparkling with candles, polished paneling, shiny marble staircase. He dropped his bag, but Flicker did not take the hint. Anyone sporting a pig-sticker like that thing on his belt would not see himself as a porter.
“I am Sir Wolf.”
“I know.”
“And your name?” Meaning real name.
The youth smiled. “You are renowned, while I have yet to amaze the world. My congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you. Is my wife here?”
“Possibly.” He stepped close, too close. “Make her happy, Sir Killer.”
He was trying to look Wolf straight in the eye but was not quite tall enough. Still, the threat was so blatant that Wolf’s sword hand twitched.
“Or what?”
“Or you will regret it.” He was still smiling, this weedy boy-child. He thought he could deliver on his bluster. Wolf sensed Dark Chamber trickery and was annoyed.
“You are her brother, perhaps?” He was about her age.
“We grew up together. We are all very fond of Dolores. Grand Inquisitor are waiting for you upstairs, Sir Wolf.”
“I like to know the name of men who threaten me.”
“I speak for many in this instance,” the soft voice said. “Do not keep your masters waiting.”
Furious, Wolf turned his back and advanced to the great staircase.
Once this mansion had been the home of rich and powerful persons. It seemed deserted and he knew it wasn’t. He felt he was being watched by many eyes: Welcome to the Dark Chamber.
Upstairs the only light spilled from a doorway leading into a great ballroom. In contrast to the hall downstairs, this had been allowed to fall into decay, so that rich murals had peeled from the walls and the ceiling frescoes were crumbling. Only the central chandelier of a dozen or so was lit, spilling a puddle of light below it and leaving the rest shadowed, haunted by vague shapes of unwanted furniture shrouded in dust sheets and cobwebs. Like his old master, his new one was working late tonight. In the brightness a space had been cleared for a fine floral rug, and there sat a black-clad man at an ornate escritoire, flipping through papers amid baskets of books and documents awaiting his attention. It was half of Grand Inquisitor. Hearing feet crunching toward him over the gravel of crumbled plaster, he looked up and smiled.
“Sir Wolf! Good chance!” He came around the desk, hand outstretched. “Congratulations on winning a wonderful wife. And welcome to the sink of iniquity!” He laughed. He actually laughed! In candlelight and without his normal biretta, he seemed older and unexpectedly bald, gray-streaked hair fringing a shiny scalp, everyone’s kindly grandfather. “Come and have some refreshment.”
“Is my wife here?”
“She is.” He ushered Wolf back into the shadows, to chairs clustered around a low table. “But you and I must have a quick chat, because time is short.”
“Time for what?” Wolf perched on a spindly-legged chair.
“Time to find a replacement if you turn down our proposition. Let us drink to your future happiness. And congratulations on striking off your chains.” He clinked crystal decanter against crystal goblet, poured ruby wine.
“Perhaps my wife should hear this also.”
The smile did not waver, but there was annoyance in the way the old man’s shoulders shifted. “She knows. Sir Wolf, I am not holding your wife hostage! She is making herself beautiful for your wedding night. Do you want to hear it from me or from her?”
“From you, Grand Inquisitor, please.” Aware that he no longer had his binding to limit his indulgence, Wolf sampled the wine, which was strong and rich, with interesting aftertastes. Expensive, in other words. Had this whole palace been set up just to dazzle him? All those candles? Nice old Gramps?
Grand Inquisitor raised his glass in a toast. “To your happiness! We were greatly impressed by your performance on the Quondam mission, Sir Wolf. Very quick, very efficient work. Your identification of the raiders as Tlixilian was brilliant.”
Grand Master had done that and he knew it.
“You knew all the time, of course.”
The snoop chuckled. “We did not know. We suspected, because Grand Master’s letter seemed to describe what the Distliards ran into—feathers, earrings and lip-plugs, attempts to stun or disable victims instead of kill them, et cetera. It was up to you to obtain the evidence. Which you did. Now we know Who, we still have no notion of Why and certainly none of How. The King agreed right away to let you investigate the incident. He can be quite competent at times.”
Wolf passed on the invitation to badmouth Athelgar. “And when did you learn about Celeste’s brooch?”
“Two days ago. Like you, we had concluded that her abduction was a random act of banditry and she was only a trophy. Then our ongoing inquiries into Hence Lands conjuration nudged an elderly White Sister into recalling the pin that caused nightmares five years ago. Like you—but perhaps not so quickly—we realized that this might be relevant. When you mentioned that the cat-man’s similar badge displayed enchantment when worn and the Baroness had kept her finery on her person day and night at Quondam, then we arrived at the same place you did…although we did not blurt it out in front of a seriously upstaged monarch!” His mouth smiled; his eyes did not.
“
What do you know now that I don’t?” Wolf was starting to remember why he disliked snoops so much.
Grand Inquisitor shrugged. “Not much, all negative. No strange vessels have been sighted off the coast. To the best of our knowledge, nothing like Quondam has happened in Distlain, which ought to be the Tlixilians’ main target for retaliation, but—as you again pointed out—they may not distinguish between the nations of Eurania. Or King Diego may be keeping his troubles secret. Lady Celeste still seems special.”
“Why did you send Dolores along to snare me?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because you wanted an in-house assassin?”
“Sir Wolf!” He shook his head in mockery. “You don’t believe that! Any inquisitor can kill people, and in much subtler ways than you can. We had to give Dolores some reason to pursue a notorious murderer. She soon saw through it.” He sipped his wine, keeping his eyes on his guest. “Dolores is a genius and you have impressed us for years, Sir Wolf. Swordsmen are taught to improvise and react, but you can devise strategies and carry them out, a most unusual talent in a Blade.”
“Are you hinting that the Quondam mission was an audition?”
“Call it a trial run, to see if you can work together. Which you can. You regret your marriage so soon?”
“No.” Wolf would not thank him for playing matchmaker. “You got your dream team. The main event will be?”
“Go and find out Why the Tlixilians staged that raid and, most important, How. You may be able to learn Baroness Celeste’s fate also, or even rescue her and your brother.” This time his smile was more genuine. “Sir Lynx was a bonus we never expected!”
Wolf tossed back half his wine in a gulp. “Take my wife to the Hence Lands to be eaten?”
“With respect, I would give better odds on her survival than I would on yours.”
No man liked to hear that he had been yanked around like a puppet on strings or tricked into marriage for cold-blooded business reasons. Nor that he was expected to lead his bride into a cannibal-infested jungle. Dolores would leap at this dazzling prospect of adventure. Spirits! How could he stop her?