Frank-EReturn

by The Exile's Return [lit]

  "My stipend."

  "Whatcha gonna do? Kill somebody?"

  Cooley tilted his head to an exasperated angle, twitching with rebellion, sick of hiding behind his adopted name of Sinclair and hungry to be his father's son again. My father was Cullen Blackwood. I can ride like him and I can fight like him. I'm Cullen Diomedes Blackwood, junior. But you can call me Cooley."

  "I remember Cullen. Ya look like yer were spit out of his mouth ... except fer them eyes. Raonul's expression turned considering. Come on and have a look."

  Rory and Hamish ran to the knives, grabbing the biggest ones. Cooley came up and took the knives from them. He tested the weight and balance of each. Not these."

  Cooley put them away, and ran his gaze across the selection. Rory followed him open-mouthed as Cooley tested each of them in turn.

  Raonul lifted an eyebrow at that. Fer a wisp of a wee cub, ya've got a good eye."

  "My Da taught me. Cooley picked six blades, tested the temper, and decided he liked them. I'll take these."

  Then Cooley moved on to the maces and chose the smallest of them, again trying the balance.

  Rory frowned. Those ain't big enough."

  Cooley gave Rory a quelling look. You want something light enough to swing it easily. You're not big enough for something heavy."

  Cooley paid for six knives and three maces.

  As they trailed out of the smithy, Rory remarked, You gave in and bought them awful easy."

  "Ayup. Cos Cahira still cries at night."

  "You going to share those?"

  "Nope. I got plans."

  By the time that Cooley had finished shopping, he had a heavy leather belt that been made to fit and sheaths for his blades. He strapped on two blades and tied them to his legs.

  Cahira's Potions and Notions stood around the corner and down two blocks from the Difficult Horse Tavern. Underneath the words on her sign were three sets of symbols that the largely illiterate lycan community could understand: a mortar and pestle; a serpent wrapped staff; a book, a bottle of ink, and a quill. The shop combined Cahira's four specialties; apothecary, healer, scribe, and translator. She could read and write in six languages, and she spoke ten. Even for a lycan that was unusual. Most could manage to speak four: lycan, common, Sharani and Waejontori. And read none.

  Cahira's Potions and Notions had display cabinets along two sides with wall to ceiling shelves and drawers behind them and along the back. A table with seven chairs stood at the rear, where customers could discuss their choices and pay for the purchases. The standard merchandise included medicines, salves, creams, and cosmetics on one side and sewing needs on their other. The rest of it changed from time to time as Cahira's suppliers found assorted items of limited availability to offer her. A stack of pressed books occupied the end of one display counter. The city of Havensword in Creeya had three of the new printing presses imported from Iradrim; Red Wolf had none. Whenever a supplier offered her a crate of pressed books, Cahira bought the lot of them, appropriating what looked like a good addition to her own library; then Todd went through to see if any naughty books had been included and made off with those he had not acquired yet; and the remainder were sold in the shop.

  When Cooley strode in wearing his blades Cahira was nowhere to be seen and he found himself facing Todd a lot sooner than he had expected.

  The big, red-haired lycan turned from stocking shelves and frowned at Cooley. What are you doing with those?"

  "Protecting myself. I saw what they did to Kynyr's dad."

  Cooley knew he had scored a direct hit on Todd, when his adopted father's expression went guarded. You know how to use them?"

  Cooley crooked a finger and led Todd out the back door and around behind the barn where the cubs had pinned a target to a bail of hay. Cooley drew, tested the balance, and put both knives into the target.

  Todd whistled at that. Don't go sticking cubs because they taunt you."

  Cooley looked up at Todd, his eyes and the set of his mouth twisted with exasperation. If there were any chance of that I would have already done it. And I haven't."

  "Point made."

  "I'm Cullen Diomedes Blackwood. I can ride and I can fight just like my father. I'm not Cooley Sinclair anymore."

  "Your mind's made up?"

  "Ayup."

  "Then if anything comes of that, we'll deal with it."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

  The bloody desecration of the shrine to Willodarus and Tala in their joint roles as guardians of the wolves and lycans had demanded a cleansing by fire. So Claw's guardsmyn had burned it to the ground. Afterward Pandeena's lycan congregation had planted the soil with rue, garlic, witch grass, and nettles. Finally, they set out rowan and birch trees. The cemetery behind the shrine had been carefully preserved and stood as it always had.

  The foundation for a new shrine had been laid several yards from the old one and the entire village turned out for the raising, but it would still be a matter of weeks before Pandeena could move into the priest's quarters. They were building it larger so that Pandeena would not have to live alone, and risk placing her in danger from the old shrine's desecrators.

  For the time being, Pandeena lived at the Lawgiver House where Caimbeul had died.

  Hathura Waveskimmer answered the door and let Belgair in.

  The captain of Claw's guards flicked his gaze across Hathura, not bothering to hide the flash of disdain in his eyes. Hathura's people were regarded as dandies, dilettantes, and fools by those who did not know them well. But the true fool was he who underestimated the Fae. Slender to the point of appearing fragile, yet flaring through the shoulders, translucently pale-skinned with white hair and silver eyes, the son of Willodarus and Thistlebit the Faery queen's Captain of the Guard, Hathura was a steel blade in a velvet sheath. Clad all in shades of green from forest to hunter, he carried his deadly golden fans folded and tucked into the yellow sash that crossed the leather belt holding his long bladed knife.

  The Fae wondered what Belgair would say if he knew that all seven who were currently living in the Lawgiver House were yuwenghau, demigods and minor divines who served as knights-errant, pitting themselves against the greater evils of their world. Hathura did not intend to tell him, although Claw knew about four of them.

  Belgair stalked into the living room without so much as a greeting.

  Hathura shrugged and followed him.

  Pandeena sat in a chair by the window while Toniqua sat cross-legged on the rug checking the drugs and equipment in her medicine satchel. They were a study in contrasts: tall, blonde, and fair-skinned Pandeena Moonbow; tiny dark Toniqua Nightsbane.

  Pandeena looked up and rubbed her reddened eyes. She had been crying again over Caimbeul's death. What is it?"

  Belgair shoved his thumbs behind his sword belt. Claw wants you. Yren's dead."

  "How? Pandeena transformed in an instant from a grief-stricken bitch into a priest alert to trouble.

  "Sheradyn says that one of the torturers must have broken his ribs and one of them punctured his lung."

  "He drowned in his own blood?"

  "Possibly. Claw wants you to Read the body."

  "It isn't me you need. It's Toniqua. But I'll come as well."

  Pandeena snatched up her cloak and Toniqua shouldered her satchels, and they went out with Belgair.

  "I'm an old hand at torture ... never had one die this fast on me before. Belgair sounded affronted. I don't usually break bones unless I intend to."

  They reached the manor and Belgair led them down into the dungeons. They found Claw sitting in a chair in the cell staring at Yren's body hanging in its chains. Sheradyn stood beside the chieftain, arrayed in his usual finery, maroon jacket and knee-pants, black velvet vest, and hose; looking more nancidawg than ever.

  "Not a pleasant death. Sheradyn shook his head at them.

  Pandeena gave Toniqua a nod, and the Guild-trained coroner touched Yren's body. Maybe worse than you know. She
extended her Reader's senses throughout the corpse, but centered around the ribs and the heart, since the conclusion to the attack on Caimbeul had focused on his heart. I'm finding some vague anomalies."

  "How can you tell? Sheradyn frowned.

  "My gift encompasses an awareness of magery. There's traces of it at the base of two broken ribs, the ones that punctured his lungs, and more traces around his heart. His heart was stilled before his lungs filled up. Then the heart was squeezed to fill the lungs."

  "I would seriously debate that with you."

  Toniqua's frown went deeper and the old healer retreated a step. Don't contradict me. I'll need a table for my examination. I want to open the corpse up and take samples."

  Sheradyn looked green and sickened. Now, just look here. I trained in Creeya at Havensword. I know what I'm doing. There's no need to violate the poor lad's body any further."

  "So what. Toniqua tossed her words at him with cheeky disparagement. I trained at Havensword also. Graduate work. My first degree is from the Sacred Heart of Davera Medical College in Shaurone. My third is from..."

  Sheradyn's eyes widened as Toniqua rattled off six different accreditations.

  Belgair glanced from Sheradyn to Toniqua. Is that necessary? We hang our criminals up to rot in the square."

  Toniqua favored him with a grin. Don't worry, I'll stitch him closed when I finish. Then you can hang him up."

  Claw growled. You're lucky I don't tack your hide to the wall, Belgair ... for letting this happen."

  Belgair stood his ground. You'll regret bringing in outsiders, Claw."

  "Shut up!"

  Belgair flinched at the anger in his chieftain's voice, bowed himself out, and headed for the stairs.

  "Fetch Brock, Pandeena. Claw sounded weary. I need him now. Right now."

  Belgair caught Brock's name, turned around, and drifted back toward the cell to listen. That goatsucking, cockwhore rapes his own sister ... and Claw sends for the arsehole to be regent."

  "You ought to be more careful what you say."

  Belgair's head jerked up and he turned to find Malthus standing beside him. Like hell!"

  "Oh, but you should. Claw's very unhappy with you. Brock's his brother. You're walking on thin ice, Malthus said smoothly with a trace of concern.

  "You're going to tell him?"

  "Me? Of course not. I consider you a friend. That's why I'm warning you."

  * * * *

  Kynyr smelled bread and cookies baking as he stepped through the front door into his home. A rush of welcome pervaded this house that he bought for Kady as a wedding gift. The house had seventy-three rooms and Kady sometimes complained that she had no idea what to do with it all. They had one hundred acres of orchards and twice that of grazing land and forest.

  He found the bitches of his household in the kitchen chatting and cooking. Aghavie Newell sat peeling potatoes. She was a waif-like twelve-year-old, nearly seven months pregnant as a result of being gang-raped last spring. Iollen Newell married her to give her child a father and save her family from the disgrace of having an unwed mother as their daughter.

  She had arrived in their household frightened and nervous; and blossomed into a perpetually smiling young bitch under the sheltering kindness of Kady and Mary.

  Kynyr's Aunt Mary Sinclair, a pretty, auburn haired bitch, stood at the stove, stirring apples cooking in honey that would be canned for the winter. The final harvest had to be either cooked or dried and the kitchen smelled with wondrous things. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling beams.

  Kady sat at the table drinking tea and talking to her sister Larena. She turned around at the sound of Kynyr's voice and rushed to him. She kissed him. I'm so glad you're home."

  "Me too."

  Kynyr's gaze slid to Larena. What's she doing here?"

  Larena flinched at the tone in Kynyr's voice.

  Kady drew Kynyr out of the kitchen. Hereward threw her out."

  "Why?"

  "Larena wasn't ... as careful as I was with Cullen."

  "She's cocked up? Kynyr's lips twisted on the edge of a snarl.

  "You could use a gentler term, Kynyr."

  "Why should I? Every time your family comes around, they hurt you."

  "She's living here now. Please try to be nice."

  "If Larena hurts you, she's out of here. Understood?"

  Kady slid her arm around Kynyr's waist and walked him out onto the veranda. It's a nice day."

  They settled on the sofa together with Kady in the circle of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. Kynyr relaxed as a sense of contentment spread through him and he allowed Kady to change the subject. She knew when, where, why, and how to choose her battles and Kynyr had not managed to win one yet. Yes it is. His hand went to her belly and rubbed it fondly. You mind if we name him Fergus?"

  "Fergus? No, I don't mind. But why Fergus?"

  Then Kynyr told her the story of Fergus MacFie, the general of Clan MacLachlan, a brave mon who had died at Hell's Widow, helping Kynyr to rout the sa'necari there.

  "Fergus Maguire. Okay, but I choose the middle name."

  Kynyr kissed her. And what will that be?"

  "Todd."

  "Fergus Todd Maguire. Kynyr kissed her again. I like the sound of that."

  * * * *

  Guards cleared the way for the wagon carrying Yren's corpse. A cheer went up from the eager watchers. However, there were not as many present as there had been on the day that Donald Greenlea and Iollen Newell had been flogged. A deadmon's corpse held far less fascination than the pain and suffering of condemned myn.

  The scaffolds had originally been four platforms, each of them twenty feet square, with steps along the sides, and a frame across the top to hold the hangmon's nooses. Claw had built them four and a half years ago to execute the outlaws his guardsmyn captured when they ran those renegades to earth. Padruig Caimbeul had expanded and re-designed them.

  There were now eight square platforms. The side steps had been removed from each, and a long sturdy walkway connected them in the rear broad enough for three guardsmyn to march the length of it abreast. A log skirt beneath the walkway prevented anyone from seeing what went on behind it with the only steps up to the scaffolds at either end of the walkway. T-shaped flogging posts had been erected on the two central squares.

  A pair of guards let the back of the wagon down, jumped in, and tossed Yren to two that waited. They carried him on to the platform, tied a strong rope to the corpse's wrists, threw the end over a frame, and hauled Yren up. They secured the rope to a sideboard.

  The corpse swayed in small circles and finally stopped. It hung as a warning to those traitors who had not yet been caught. Guards were posted around it to keep away the ghoulish that stole the bones of executed criminals to sell as charms. Battle-clan chieftains especially liked braiding the finger bones into their hair and would pay well for them.

  Yren's mother Dahlia Maddox emerged from the crowd, clad in the black of mourning, and approached the guards weeping. Hisses and insults greeted her arrival as the crowd realized they would finally get some entertainment.

  "He didn't do it. My Yren wouldn't kill anyone."

  Obscene noises rose louder from the crowd.

  Dahlia saw the black stitching that held Yren's autopsied corpse together, misinterpreted the significance, flinched, and pulled her shawl tighter. They tore him open! They mutilated him."

  "Get out of here, old bitch. A guard took two steps toward her.

  She let out a long keening cry and ripped strands of her hair out. Let me have his body. Let me bury him."

  The guard shoved her down. You raised a murderer."

  "You know the law, someone shouted from the crowd. He hangs until the carrion birds pick his bones clean."

  A rotten fruit struck Yren's mother. Rocks, bottles, and garbage flew, driving her away from the scaffold. She fled, sobbing, with her arms raised to protect her face.

  "They made a mess of him, Oswyl muttered,
standing beside Shalto in the crowd.

  "Come on, let's go to the cottage."

  From another section of the crowd, Malthus studied the corpse with a growing sense of disquiet. He only knew one group that would open a corpse up like that and then stitch it closed again: the Assassins Guild, the Holy Avengers of the Nethergod, Hadjys the Dark Judge. Somewhere in the village lurked a Guildsmon. The only person to come close to catching Malthus had been Guild. Claw had to know who they were, because he had called them in. However, Malthus doubted he would be able to get the information from Claw. He wondered who else might know. Belgair?

  Preece fell into step beside Malthus as he left the grounds and headed for the cottage. We got trouble."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Torquil's dead."

  Malthus stopped dead and drew Preece into an alley. When?"

  "Found his body this morning. Someone tacked a note onto him."

  "What did it say?"

  "You know I can't read. Preece squirmed. He had been made a fool of several times in his life when he asked a mon to read something for him and they lied about what it said. Someone said it read, If Truth Dies and was signed Always Faithful. I don't know if they were pulling my leg."

  * * * *

  Iollen Newell worked the lids closed on his paint buckets. The weather had become too wet and cold for paint to dry right. Erwin Twelvetoes was closing shop until spring, since construction was seasonal work. Kady had switched Iollen over to her household staff, so he would still have employment to support his young wife and their coming child.

  He moved the three buckets close together and fumbled with the handles until he could get a grip on all of them. Iollen managed well for a one-armed mon.

  Kady emerged from a room two doors down as Iollen carried the buckets to the storeroom. If you're going into town today, I'd like for you to pick some things up for me."

  "Sure thing."

  Kady slipped a folded piece of paper into Iollen's pocket.

  Iollen put the paint away, wrapping an oilskin cloth around them to keep it from hardening up anymore than could be helped. Then he went out into the yard and asked the stablemon, Fychan to hitch the horses to the wagon.