The Jaguar Knights

by Dave Duncan

  They reached Brimiarde two days before the ship was due to sail, and the spirits of air and water smiled on them. Westerlies that had been howling up the Straits for weeks suddenly backed to mild northerly breezes. On the appointed morning Wolf stood on the aft castle with his arm around Dolores and watched the green hills of Chivial sink below the skyline.

  “You realize, love,” she murmured, “that today is exactly a month since the attack on Quondam?”

  Chivial was making a fast response to that aggression, but not a very convincing one. “For every tail there is a head. In that month I have gained my freedom, a wife, and a chance to win untold wealth!”

  She chuckled. “I won’t ask you to put those in order. You also lost a brother.”

  “Gained him and lost him again.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dolores said, pecking his cheek. “We’re going non-stop. Lynx has to hop from port to port and ship to ship. We’ll get to Sigisa long before he does.”

  If he ever did. Poor Lynx! Wolf worried about him all the time.

  V

  Hearing the Horns’ Call and the Baying of Hounds, the Stag Taketh Flight

  1

  Life was mud. Rolling like a drunk, Lady Polly was standing in to Mauxville, which was a port in Isilond and obviously not much of one. Running before a rising gale, she had made a fast crossing, but the next few minutes would be critical. Frozen and drenched by the rain, Lynx leaned against the ship’s side and waited to see if she would cross the bar safely. If she did, life would continue to be mud; otherwise it would be over. He didn’t much care either way.

  As far as the crew was concerned, he was a thief on the run, which he was, of course, but not for stealing a cat’s-eye sword, as the sailors suspected. He was entitled to wear Ratter and he looked the part well enough that no one had tried to cut his throat for her, so far. Since he had not slept, they had had no chance to go through his pockets and had thereby been saved a severe disappointment. Lynx was no trader, and in his desperation to get out of Chivial he had paid out almost all his ill-gotten cash just for the fare.

  Night falling, wind rising. The only wisp of light in his personal dark swamp was that he was currently facing southwest and could feel the jaguar plaque burning hot over his heart. That was his compass, pointing the way to his ward. But even that was stolen.

  Thief!

  He kept thinking of Wolf, and Grand Master, and the four centuries of Blades he was shaming. Not just by theft, either. He was the only Blade in the history of the Order to let his ward be kidnapped! Of course a Blade would do anything at all to ensure his ward’s safety, so an absentee Blade could justify any crime that helped him return to his proper place beside his ward. Lynx just wished he hadn’t had to steal from his brother, which is what he had done, in effect, since Wolfie had been custodian of the ring and the plaque. Wolfie would howl with shame. And Lynx’s life of crime had barely started. He spoke no Isilondian, knew no honest trade, had virtually no money. He would know no rest until he found his way back to Celeste, yet his most immediate problem ashore would be finding food to stay alive. Assuming he did not drown in the next few minutes, he would die of starvation crawling on hands and knees along the road to Distlain.

  Every time Lady Polly crested a wave, the bar was visible as a line of surf glowing in the gloom. The gap ahead looked impossibly narrow and the tub was drifting sideways, too.

  “Tide’s out,” Cook muttered. Cook was the cook, and seemed to have no other name. He was young, blubber-fat, had a wooden leg. He hung on the rail beside Lynx, the two useless men aboard, while everyone else stood poised to leap into action if needed. If Cook thought it safer to be on deck in this weather, so did the passenger.

  “She won’t make it?” Lynx asked.

  Cook chewed his lip. “It’ll be close.”

  Lady Polly was turning, so Lynx turned to compensate, keeping the plaque facing the southwest, burning hot. It was not hot to his hands, just on his chest over his heart, and only when it was facing toward the other jaguar image, Celeste’s brooch.

  He had first seen that brooch on the night he was bound. Celeste had brought it with her when she came to Ironhall, probably choosing it because she was forbidden to wear it at Court and would not care much if it were lost or stolen. The gown she donned that night made her Guard escort gibber. It might pass at Court, Lyon insisted, but never at Ironhall. Elderly knights would die of apoplexy and candidates drown in their own drool. He refused to allow her out of the royal suite until she draped a shawl over the abyss and fastened it securely. For that she used her jaguar brooch.

  So there was the young Alf Attewell sitting on the anvil with his own chest bare, certain he was about to die at the hands of a royal trollop who had never held a sword before. He locked his eyes on that brooch, concentrating furiously on what he imagined lay below it, and those lustful thoughts distracted him enough that he managed not to disgrace himself. But when the Marquesa pleaded exhaustion and retired right after the ritual—spurning the traditional banquet—she left Fell and Mandeville on guard in the antechamber and invited the new Sir Lynx into her bedroom “to help her unfasten this pin.” Hands trembling, Lynx reverently lifted away the shawl to reveal the glory beneath. His imagination had fallen short of reality, but he was later assured by an expert witness that he acquitted himself well thereafter.

  At Quondam, of course, he saw the accursed brooch every day and night, and never without remembering the first time and knowing he could relive the rest of that experience whenever he wanted. Celeste would not merely welcome his presence in her bed, she repeatedly demanded it, yet none of her Blades dared gratify her. Old Dupend would have them all in divorce court in no time, testifying before inquisitors.

  The ship shuddered, staggered, and then seemed to settle. Sailors cheered. She was over the bar! Lynx peered through the rain at the huddle of low, slate-gray houses ahead, then he looked at Cook, whose globular face now wore a stupid grin of relief.

  Lynx had bought passage to the first port they reached in Isilond or Thergy, so he was stuck now with Mauxville, and it seemed fishing boats were about Mauxville’s limit. “Tell me about this place.”

  Cook spat over the side. “What’cha want to know?”

  “Not much of a place?”

  “Any port in this weather.”

  “Yes, but what about other ships? I need to go south.”

  “Nothing sails in Secondmoon.”

  Cook did not explain why Lady Polly did, although Lynx suspected she was smuggling something. Did excise officers fly south with the storks for the winter? With the present storm showing signs of getting worse, nothing would leave the harbor for days.

  “How many people in Mauxville understand Chivian?”

  The fat boy looked at him contemptuously. “None.”

  So Lynx had better find some answers before he went ashore, and this youth was the only man aboard not busy.

  “I need work until I can find a ship heading south. Who might hire a good swordsman?”

  Cook wiped rain off his stubbled face, but not quickly enough to hide a sudden craftiness. “You really a Blade?”

  “Got the scars to prove it.”

  “Know a madam who might hire a bouncer. She’s Chivian.”

  A woman, of course! Lynx should have seen that. Men didn’t trust Blades, especially Blades with no ward in sight; Blades were dangerous. Women were intrigued by their reputation. He should have seen that the alternative to theft would be sponging off women, living by what the Guard called “that other swordplay.”

  “Sounds promising,” he said. It was almost certainly the best offer he would get in the squalid little settlement coming up ahead. Of course he might have to take his wages in trade, but even that he wouldn’t mind if food was included. Flames, he didn’t need a bed, just a roof and his bread! “What’s her name? How do I find her?”

  “What’s it worth?”

  Worth not running a sword through you, sonny. “You never
been down on your luck?”

  Cook pulled a face. “Her name’s Hermione. She runs the only house in town. I’ll take you there.”

  “Good man.”

  Life was still mud, though. Lynx turned until he was facing the sea, so he restored the glow in his plaque, the other jaguar face, the cat-man’s toy. Maybe he’d have to swim to this Tlixilia place.

  For a few days after the fight at Quondam he had been too close to death to appreciate his torment, but Intrepid and his gang kept working on him and the pain kept getting worse. The first Blade in history to lose his ward! When Rituals told him he would die if he tried to ride back to Quondam, that made it certain Lynx would try. His binding would not let him kill himself directly, but he desperately wanted release from the agony.

  At Quondam, Wolf flashed that larger version of the jaguar at him. When Lynx touched it, a tingle ran up his fingers. At first he thought of it as just a memento of Celeste, but from the moment he put it on, he was conscious of it all the time. If a man noticed his shoes or clothes like that, they would drive him crazy, but the plaque never let him forget its presence over his heart. It seduced him. It tantalized him. It whispered constantly in a language unknown. He soon discovered it felt warmest when he faced roughly southwest. That was a clue, and the very next day he saw its eyes had opened. After that, Wolfie couldn’t have pried it off him with an ax.

  The plaque was not alone. Cat’s-eye swords had spirituality too. The plaque and his sword were working together to lead him back to his ward. They were in cahoots. He was convinced of that. He dared not tell even Wolf, though. Lynx lost his last doubts when Baron Roland said that Tlixilia, which Lynx had never heard of before, lay far to the southwest. Right! Tlixilia it must be! Knowing he would need money, he palmed one of the baubles being passed around. That would break poor Wolfie’s heart.

  The ship drifted toward a jetty. Sailors were preparing to throw ropes.

  “How far is it to this house?” Lynx asked. His feet hurt.

  “Nowhere’s far in Mauxville,” Cook said.

  Lynx could certainly keep up with the fat boy’s wooden leg, no matter how sore his feet were. Food and shelter and a nice fire…he blew on his hands. They hurt with the cold. Well, his fingertips did…why were his fingernails so dark?

  And why did his feet hurt, anyway? They were not cold. He’d owned these boots for years, ever since Celeste had lived in Grandon, and they had never pinched his feet like this. Both feet. Curious. Bothersome.

  One more thing to worry about.

  2

  The Widow Hermione had no need to hire a bouncer. “Who do you think my girls are, anyway?” she asked Lynx. “In a town this size? They’re daughters, sisters, and wives, making a little extra when a ship comes in. Anyone starts trouble, I just whistle for the local men.”

  Lynx turned on his most winsome smile. “You’re from Grandon, aren’t you? Somewhere near the Elmbrook? I know your accent.”

  The Widow Hermione thawed slightly. “After all these years?”

  He said, “Oh, it can’t have been very many years…”

  It had been very many, but not too many, and she did get lonely sometimes, among all the foreigners. She let Lynx dry himself at her fire. He sort-of-accidentally let her glimpse his scars. She was appalled, so he had to explain how he had lost his ward and must go in search of her, even if it took him the rest of his life. He had always been good at getting along with people, and when Hermione turned out the last of Lady Polly’s crew at dawn and sent the girls home, she offered him a place to sleep.

  She was intrigued to discover that bound Blades did not sleep.

  When the wind dropped, a few days later, and Lady Polly sailed away northward, Lynx remained, making himself useful, by day and by night. His toes, fingers, and teeth ached. His nails seemed darker and thicker. His hair and beard began falling out, making way for fur. Wolf had been right, telling him he must not wear the plaque, but he could not take it off now. Even when he romped with Hermione, he just turned the thong around and wore the pendant on his back. He could not bring himself to remove it, no matter what it was doing to him. It would be like cutting his heart out. Besides, he needed it to lead him to Celeste.

  By the end of the first week he was having trouble forcing his feet into his boots. Death and fire!

  He genuinely enjoyed Hermione. What she lacked in agility she made up for in experience, and she was still more voluptuous than blowsy. She enjoyed him too, for company and sex—neither of them called it making love. She was discreet as only a village madam could be, but she was also smart enough to notice the changes in him. They frightened her, naturally. He promised he would go away the moment she asked him to. Fortunately, Hermione was very fond of cats. Unfortunately, every cat she owned disappeared rather than share the house with an apprentice jaguar.

  How long until people noticed that his hands were turning into paws?

  Chance smiled on him. Another southwester brought another ship into Mauxville. Papillon was bound for the Sauelas, which were halfway to the Hence Lands. The master was worried about Baelish pirates and Distlish coastguards, the bosun spoke some Chivian, and a healthy deckhand with a Blade’s famed skills was a good buy for them. Hermione spoke up for him, so Lynx was hired and Papillon sailed two days later. By then people were staring at his ears.

  The weather turned sour again. He discovered he was proof against seasickness, even when lifelong salts were draped on the rail like laundry, but the changes in him were becoming obvious. His thumbs were shrinking and the fur replacing his beard was spreading ever closer to his eyes. He especially had to remember to keep his mouth closed. The pains were growing worse, too. As soon as the storm ended and the crew viewed their swordsman in sunlight again, they would certainly throw him overboard to see if he could grow gills as well. Sailors were a superstitious lot.

  He was likely to drown anyway. The storm grew terrible. It ripped the tiny rag of a sail they were carrying, so they had to throw out a sea anchor. Papillon was somewhere off a lee shore, but nobody knew how far. She rolled and pitched, starting to leak as her seams were sprung. When they were not fighting for their lives on deck, the men crouched belowdecks in darkness in a stinking, rolling, pitching coffin, working the pumps or just listening to her ribs creak and wondering how long she could stay afloat, wondering if every roll would be her last. The oldest man aboard had never known such weather in those parts.

  On what Lynx was convinced must be his last night on earth, something hit the deck right above his head. It could have been the start of Papillon breaking up. It could never be boarders in those seas, but the plaque seemed extra hot over his heart, so he buckled on his sword and went up to investigate.

  The night was as dark as a cellar. He knew he was on deck only because the wind was howling past him, more salt water than air. He had not known waves could stand so high, looming black walls of water, while the spume blown from their tops enclosed the ship in a fog. Every rope and board groaned. The master and bosun were bent over Marcel, who had been one of the best hands and was now a heap on the deck, very dead, a pile of oilskins leaking dark fluid into the scuppers.

  “What happened?” Lynx yelled.

  “Screamed,” the bosun said. “Yelling? Then fell.”

  Lynx looked up. It was a night as wild as they come, but Marcel must have been aloft a million or two times in his life. Why had he been screaming? What could he have seen in this murk?

  “You,” said the bosun, “go up to see!”

  Lynx hesitated. Even Blade eyes would be useless in that murk, and if he saw breakers directly downwind, Papillon could do nothing about it. Then something screamed overhead, up there in the darkness, a harsh, inhuman sound whipped away by the gale. There was no one up there. The plaque throbbed like flames.

  “Belay!” The bosun changed his mind, grabbing Lynx’s arm. “No!”

  Yes. That inexplicable cry was just one more of the bizarre things that had started when the raiders c
ame to Quondam. It was his business, no one else’s. Lynx pulled free, fought his way through the storm to the shrouds, and began to climb. He had forgotten he was wearing Ratter until she tried to tangle herself in the ratlines.

  The storm grew ever more savage, doing its damnedest to tear him off. His cape billowed and beat at him. He imagined his feet slipping and him helpless, streaming out like a flag until it tore away his hands as well. Papillon’s roll was incredible, sweeping him across the sky so he overhung the ocean, first to port, then to starboard. For heart-stopping moments she would just hang there, almost on her beam ends, before she began to right herself. He wondered how Marcel had ever found the deck when he fell. Or was pushed. Frozen and battered, Lynx dragged himself up to the top. The trap was open, so he heaved myself inside, and paused to catch his breath.

  The top—landlubbers would call it the crow’s nest—was basically a barrel with a hatch in the bottom of it for access. It provided shelter, but he was bulky in his leathers and had to share the space with Ratter and the topmast, so it seemed cramped. Marcel could have fallen out of the barrel only when the ship was listed well over, and then he would have dropped in the sea. The trap had been open; he must have abandoned his post and slipped on his way down. Why had he? Why had he screamed? Had he screamed?

  The strident noise Lynx had heard on deck was repeated, much louder, very close.

  He shut the hatch for safety, then struggled to his feet. The wind tried to tear his head off. The sea anchor hung over the bow, so Papillon was drifting stern first, but he could see absolutely nothing astern, just more mountains of water. Nor could he see anything forward. The top rested on the crosstrees, which were short spars extending out to either side, and on the far end of the starboard crosstree was something that should not be.

  It was larger than he, a bulky shape ruffling in the wind like a stack of feathers, writhing so much that he could make out no details in the dark. To eyes full of tears and spray, it was just a huge and evil thing, no more. If it was a bird, it was clinging to that impossible perch with its feet, but the only bird Lynx had ever heard of that could be that big was whatever had left the tracks Wolfie had seen at Quondam. A human being could be holding on to the shroud, but only a madman would stand there at all. What was it and why was it there…?