The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  And of course it didn’t hurt that raising the ir’Wynarns back to the throne could only serve to increase the ir’Marktaros fortunes as well.

  It had been easy to sway Zodal over to his point of view, and to get his idealistic younger-by-moments brother as embroiled in the cause as he was—he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. And Zodal had always looked up to him, envying his easy confidence and his way with words. He always wanted to do everything his older brother did—up to and including drawing the ire of someone who wanted him dead.

  Shaking the thoughts loose with a toss of his blonde head, Zoden leaned back into the velvet cushions and closed his eyes. If drink would not banish the demons that dogged him—and, by Olladra’s brimming tankard, he’d certainly tried that tack often enough in the past weeks—then maybe working on a new verse would.

  He had been trying to write an elegy for Zodal, but the pain was still too fresh, and every attempt fell quickly into triteness. Perhaps an ode to Diani’s courage instead, though he doubted anything he came up with could compare with Delenn ir’Ovion’s seminal The Waiting Wyvern, a work written in the alliterative style first popularized, ironically, by clergy of the Flame around 900 YK.

  Distant cousin of the dragons,

  daughter of weak Daslin’s blood

  Left by her fainthearted fathers

  to flounder in an argent flood

  Still the wyvern, ever wary,

  waits and watches over all

  No less a queen for her quiescence,

  her quarrels grimly quiet fall

  Amid insouciant Sovereign orphans

  who from silver cliffs were spied

  Piercing all who would despise her with

  the poison of remembered pride

  No, his own piddling efforts could not hope to capture his cousin’s splendor any better than that. Perhaps he’d be better off with the liquor, after all.

  He was still debating when four people entered the cart, three human men and a shifter woman. Slitting one eye open, Zoden watched as two of the men, in House Orien uniforms, struggled to carry a heavy trunk between them. The other man, who wore silvercloth, gray leathers, and an ornate sword, surveyed the compartment and directed the porters over to a spot on the far wall.

  “Sir,” one of the porters was saying, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your things stored in the cargo cart? I assure you, our security is very tight—”

  “No,” the dark-haired man replied. “That armor costs more than your security guards earn in a year. I’m sure you understand if I’d rather keep it here with me.”

  “As you wish, sir.” They hauled the trunk over to the far corner and shoved it roughly against the wall. As they exited, the tall man handed them each a sovereign.

  “How can you wear all that, when it takes two men to carry it?”

  It was the shifter woman, who had taken up a spot on the couch opposite Zoden. Unlike the man, she wore old, stained leathers and a white tunic edged in silver. She kicked off dusty sandals and buried her toes in the thick rug, flexing and kneading her claws like a cat. When she turned to look at the man, her many intricate braids danced around her head like chestnut-colored vines. With everything about her lending itself to nature metaphors, Zoden would bet a golden galifar that she was either a druid or a ranger.

  “It is the lightest of my burdens,” the man replied cryptically, taking a seat at the cart’s small dining table and digging out a worn copy of Avaroth’s Treatise on the Flame—the one written by Darmin, and not his shorter-lived grandson, Bec. Zoden had to stifle a laugh when he saw the shifter woman roll her eyes.

  “Huh. I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk,” she said before turning to watch the waters of Scions Sound turn to fire under the rays of the setting sun.

  As the rail began to move, Zoden closed his eye again and settled deeper into the cushions, letting the wine and the gentle motion of the cart lull him into a fitful slumber.

  He awoke sometime later to the sound of two waiters wrestling a food cart into the compartment. The cat and the other two passengers were gone. Zoden assumed they’d gone across the hall to the sleeping quarters, though a quick glance out the window revealed a faint blush of pink that hinted at the approaching sunrise. He was surprised that breakfast was being served at such an early hour, but he supposed they must provide at least one meal during the lengthy trip from Flamekeep to Sigilstar regardless of what time the rail left the station, and judging from the light outside, they were nearing their destination. He’d traveled in the standard passenger cart on his way to Flamekeep and had taken his meals in the dining cart, which was always open to accommodate travelers, so he’d never even considered what the dining arrangements might be for those privileged enough to have their food brought to them, and on silver platters, no less.

  Zoden stretched and sat up, reaching for his boots. The thought of food made his parched mouth water, and he wondered if they had anything not seasoned with the ubiquitous, and rather hot, thrakel spice. He preferred to work up to scalding the inside of his mouth over the course of the day, rather than having his taste buds scorched into uselessness with his first meal—an opinion, unfortunately, that most of his countrymen did not share.

  As he pulled the left boot on, adjusting the slim dagger he kept hidden in a sheath there so it wouldn’t catch on his stocking, he noticed a few things amiss with the waiters. Their House Orien uniforms seemed too small for their hulking frames, and one had dark stains around the hem that not even the crew of the dining cart would have tolerated, let alone the elite staff assigned to the first-class carts. Come to think of it, those waiters looked a little too well-built to be just waiters. The rippling muscles he saw did not come from hefting trays, no matter how heavily laden they might be. In addition, they’d positioned the cart so that it blocked the door, and were taking an unusually long time with the various lids and covers, as if they were either unfamiliar with the set up, or trying to buy time—or both.

  Thieves, he decided, making a show of pulling his other boot on while he considered his options. Were they making their way through the compartments, robbing each in turn, or were they here specifically for him? If the latter, there was some chance he might be able to call for help, but if it were the former … well, there were a lot of places those dark stains could have come from. The rightful owner of the uniform, say, or any of his fellow first-class passengers. Or all of them, though the man would have to be pretty talented to kill a dozen people with so little blood to show for it.

  Probably here for him, then, so he might be able to attract some attention. He glanced around the room furtively, and his gaze fell on the trunk in the corner. Of course!

  Pretending to struggle with his remaining boot, he muttered a few choice imprecations, then murmured a short phrase and blew, sending it out to the cart’s sleeping quarters.

  Your armor is being stolen!

  Hopefully the man hadn’t been lying about its worth, and wasn’t an insomniac who’d gone to wander aimlessly through the caravan of carts or to see if the lightning really would spark if he relieved himself on it, but Zoden couldn’t worry about it now. He had run out of time. The two thieves, tired of their charade, drew weapons from within the serving cart and advanced. Zoden pulled the dagger out of his boot and vaulted over the couch, putting the cushioned divan between him and his attackers.

  “If it’s just money you’re after, I’ve got gold, and I’m willing to part with it.”

  He’d never been much of a fighter, preferring battles of wit and verbal skirmishes over physical confrontations. He wasn’t ashamed to run when the situation warranted it, but he did know how to use the small blade he wielded, as well as the longsword that was, unfortunately, slung over a bedpost across the hall.

  One of the men, a bald brute who was missing a tooth, laughed. It was the other, smaller one Zoden was most concerned about—his was the soiled uniform, and as the man neared, it became obvious that t
he stain was, indeed, blood spatter. Zoden focused his attention on that one.

  “You don’t really want to do this,” he said, backing away from the couch as the two men rounded it, one on each end. His tone was genial, cajoling, that of an old friend asking a favor he knew would be granted, but the words themselves reverberated with an undercurrent of power. If he could turn this one, then together they might stand a chance against the gap-toothed goon.

  Baldy laughed again.

  “Not gonna work, bard. We’re wise to your tricks and your little spells, and talking ain’t gonna do you no good.”

  Wonderful. If he had to rely solely on swordplay to save him, he might as well leap out the window to his death now, and save both him and his assailants some time. The window … hmmm. He glanced behind him at wide pane of glass and the landscape speeding by beyond it, then back at Baldy’s falchion, and Bloody’s short sword. The jump might be survivable. A two-on-one swordfight, when he was armed only with a dagger, definitely would not be. He made his decision.

  Just as he was about to wheel around and make a dash for the window, there was a loud crash from the doorway as the serving cart was overturned. Baldy turned to look, but Bloody never took his eyes off Zoden.

  “Take care of it,” he said, and Baldy grinned eagerly in reply.

  “Happy to.”

  Zoden risked a peek at the doorway. It was the Avaroth enthusiast, hefting his silver longsword and looking none too pleased. The newcomer assessed the situation in a single glance, ascertained that his armor was in no danger, and moved into the compartment to engage Baldy. Behind him, in the hallway, Zoden could hear the shifter woman.

  “Andri! What in the name of the Flame are you—?”

  She halted as she entered the compartment and took in the scene before her—the spilled cart and scattered food and cutlery, Andri facing off against an opponent half again as large as he was, and Zoden, backed up against the window now and trying to parry a short sword with a dagger. With a growl, she darted past Baldy and sprang at Bloody’s back, hurtling one couch and using the other to launch herself into the air. As she leaped, she shifted, and long claws came out to rake across Bloody’s head, slicing off one ear and leaving deep gouges along his cheek. She landed in a crouch nearly at Zoden’s feet, spared him a feral grin, and spun to face Bloody, who was just bringing up one disbelieving hand to grab for an ear that was no longer there.

  “You crooked bitch!” he spat, shaking the blood from his hand and swiping at her with his sword, a blow that the nimble shifter easily dodged.

  Zoden circled around behind him, harrying the would-be assassin with his dagger, trying to distract him so the shifter could get in a telling blow. Bloody ignored him, focusing on the shifter woman, whom he obviously—and rightly—considered the greater threat.

  The shifter woman laughed and feinted to the left, the side she’d already slashed, and when Bloody brought his sword down to block her attack, she kicked out with her right foot, her claws tearing into his thigh. He went down to one knee, and she closed in.

  Deciding she had the situation well in hand without any help from him, Zoden turned to Baldy and the other man, just in time to see Andri fly back into the serving cart, landing with a clatter of silver right in front of the door. As Baldy moved in, Zoden saw his chance. While the bigger man’s attention was on his downed foe, Zoden crept up behind him, using the couches as partial cover, and raised his dagger, intending to plunge it in between two of Baldy’s oversized ribs.

  “No!”

  The cry came from Andri as he pulled himself to his feet. Thus warned, Baldy whirled, slapping the dumfounded Zoden to the ground with a mighty blow from the flat of his blade.

  Ears ringing, Zoden crawled out of the way as Andri and Baldy went at it again.

  What in the name of Aureon’s thrice-damned shadow did the man think he was doing? Zoden had been trying to help him!

  Just then, he felt the telltale shudder signaling the rail had begun to decelerate. They’d be pulling into Sigilstar Station in a matter of moments.

  To Dolurrh with the lot of them, he thought as the combatants’ maneuvering took them away from the door. He’d had enough, and he was getting out. Now.

  He crawled around behind the food cart, and when he was sure no one had noticed him, out into the hall. When no outraged cries followed his exit, he stood. A few heads peeked out of doorways, attracted by the commotion but unwilling to venture any nearer to discover its cause. Someone called a question to him, but he ignored it, darting into his sleeping chamber to retrieve his sword and bag. Then he was out on the walkway and stepping onto the boarding platform before the rail had even come to a complete stop. Within moments, he had disappeared into the milling crowd of early morning passengers, leaving the rail and the battle far behind him.

  The Court of Leaves was in the Teahouse District, and Zoden was guided there as much by the medley of aromas as he was by directions from helpful passers-by. The blended bouquets of fruits, spices, herbs, and flowers hung thick in the air like humidity, underlain everywhere by the pervading scent of wet, steamy leaves.

  Only a few of the teahouses were open this early in the morning, the sun just now beginning to suffuse the cerulean sky with golden light, refracting through the multiple crystal spires that gave the city its name. A query to an aproned girl busy sweeping the patio of one of such shop led him to the eastern end of the court. The inquisitive’s office was on the second floor of the building which housed a quaint little teahouse called A Second Cup that had not yet opened for business. The stairs were at the back of the building, leading up from a narrow alleyway to a small balcony and an unadorned door. Zoden wondered if he’d gotten the directions wrong. A cursory examination revealed that some of the other shops had balconies leaning out over the alley, but none of those had signs, either.

  Well, he’d knock on this door, then. If it wasn’t d’Kundarak’s office, chances were whoever lived inside would be able to point him to the right place.

  As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Once on the balcony, he could hear voices, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Curious, he moved closer.

  “… dead or alive, dwarf. Your choice.”

  The dwarf’s reply was deafening. A body blasted through the doorway, ripping the door from its hinges and sending both body and door crashing through the balusters to the alleyway below.

  There was a clash of steel on steel, and a woman—a half-elf brandishing a warhammer—backed out onto the balcony, followed by a dwarf wielding a flaming short sword. As Zoden pressed against the wall, well out of the way, he noticed several things at once.

  The warhammer was actually a bizarre fusion of a sledge and a crossbow, able, he surmised, to discharge a bolt into an opponent at point blank range whenever the head of the hammer struck home. Which it very nearly did at that precise moment, though the stronger, heavier dwarf was able to deflect the blow through brute force alone, causing the metal head to scrape shrilly along the blade of his sword, setting Zoden’s teeth on edge.

  The woman wielding the hammer was House Medani, judging by the sinuous Mark of Detection that wound its way from the back of her hand, up her left arm, and beneath the short sleeve of her tunic. A rival inquisitive, then? Or someone’s bodyguard? Perhaps for the man lying twisted on the cobbles below, covered in what was left of the dwarf’s door?

  The dwarf himself, who must be d’Kundarak, wore a grease-smudged shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal arms thick with corded muscle. A wide gold bracelet studded with silver charms glinted dully on his forearm. His hair was a riotous tangle, but his short beard was neatly trimmed. In one hand he held the flaming sword—and scorch marks on the half-elf’s leather cuirass gave testament to the fact that he’d gotten in at least one good hit. In the other hand he held a thin clear vial that narrowed to a needlelike point. It was filled with some swirling liquid that glowed a nacreous green. He threw the vial with pract
iced precision, right at the half-elf’s face.

  She brought her warhammer up to deflect the glittering projectile and whipped her head to the side, but the quarters were too close. The tip of the vial sank into her cheek, releasing its contents into her bloodstream.

  With a yelp, she batted the vial away from her face, succeeding only in breaking the delicate ampoule and leaving its sharp point lodged firmly in her skin. Then her eyes widened as whatever had been in the vial began to take effect. She paled and began to sweat profusely. Then, with a horrified look, she turned and vomited over what was left of the railing.

  She looked up at the dwarf through a curtain of honey-colored hair, and her violet eyes were murderous.

  “This isn’t over, dwarf,” she promised, spitting bile at him as she turned and fled, unsteadily, down the stairs. The dwarf just watched her go.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said with a sigh, then turned to Zoden.

  “Zoden ir’Marktaros?” he asked as the flames licking his blade guttered and died. At Zoden’s nod, he held out a grimy hand. “Greddark d’Kundarak. Been expectin’ you.”