But if he could learn even one thing that would prevent the Keeper’s darkest fear from coming to pass, then he would not only open the wounds, but douse them in brine. The pain experienced by a few families in Aruldusk was as nothing compared to the anguish of a continent mourning an entire race.
“You were there when they interrogated Mikal after his death, correct? Do you remember anything he might have said about his attacker?”
Irvallo laughed, loudly this time. Bitterly.
“Remember it? I wish I could forget! ‘He came at me from the shadows, on four legs, then on two. He howled like some kind of wild dog, and he was covered in moon-lit fur. He jumped on me before I could even think to move. Please tell my Da that I love him, and I’m sorry.’ ” He repeated the last part, softly. “I’m sorry. Oh, Mikal.” He put his head in his arms and wept.
Andri motioned to Irulan and they rose, not disturbing the grieving man. Andri left a handful of galifars on the table, not even bothering to count them. It was little enough to repay the man for his trouble, but it was all he could do.
Outside the tavern, Irulan turned to him.
“What now?”
“We’ve spoken to all the families and witnesses that we can. Even a writ from the Keeper herself isn’t likely to persuade those who don’t worship the Flame to help us, so that leaves the accused. And the camp shifters.”
“Good luck,” Irulan snorted.
“What do you mean?” Andri asked.
The camp shifters. They won’t tell me anything, and I live there. They don’t trust anyone who follows the Flame, so what makes you think they’re going to talk to you? And why do you need to talk to them, anyway? They haven’t done anything.”
“Perhaps not, but if someone is trying to frame shifters in order to destroy them or drive them away, then maybe somebody within the shifter community knows why.”
Irulan nodded. “Well, that makes sense.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Andri replied, trying to keep the irony from his tone. By the look Irulan gave him, he didn’t quite succeed. “We’ll go to the camp first, I think.”
“Why not the prisoners?”
He shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere.”
When they reached Silver Way, Aruldusk’s main thoroughfare, Andri bid Irulan a good evening. He planned on attending Mass at the Cathedral, but she would be celebrating outside the city, where a priest of the Flame offered Mass in a borrowed tent near the livestock pens. Understandably, those few shifters who, like Irulan, followed the Silver Flame, no longer felt safe worshipping within the city walls.
Before he could turn away, she reached out and grabbed his arm.
“It wasn’t a shifter from Aruldusk who killed that boy,” she said, and Andri could see she was spoiling for an argument. He cut her off.
“I know.”
“How?” she asked, seemingly put off by his easy acquiescence.
“Mikal mentioned ‘moon-lit fur.’ How could it be moon-lit if he was in the shadows? I think he meant white fur, like the sample you brought to Flamekeep.”
“So you think we’re looking for a shifter with white fur? You might find one in colder places, but here, on Khorvaire? That coloring would make him—or her—stand out like a Karrn necromancer at High Mass.”
Andri cracked a smile at the comparison, even though it was more than a little sacrilegious. Though there were some Karrns who did worship the Flame, they were few and far between—and as likely to bring their blunt, loud ways to their worship as to everything else they did. It was an apt analogy. One that applied as well to the straightforward shifter, though he doubted she’d appreciate the parallels.
“Mikal also said his attacker was covered in fur. The only way he could have known that was if whoever attacked him wasn’t wearing clothes.”
“Shifters don’t normally run around town naked,” Irulan said, smiling wryly in spite of herself. “Most of us, anyway.”
“No,” Andri agreed. “Plus he said it walked first on four legs, then on two. That doesn’t sound like a shifter to me.”
“So now you’re thinking some sort of animal?” Irulan asked. “One that looks like a shifter—or possibly a large dog, or wolf—walks on both four legs and two, and is smart enough to roam around the city for months killing people without getting caught? What kind of animal …?”
Irulan trailed off, her dark eyes widening with realization.
There was one animal—if you could call it that—which fit the description. Andri didn’t want to believe it could be true, didn’t want to confront the dark memories conjured by the mere notion, but duty compelled him to face the possibility that they were hunting something far more dangerous than any shifter.
“Oh, Flame,” Irulan whispered, and Andri nodded.
“A lycanthrope.”
Chapter
SIX
Sar, Therendor 21, 998 YK
Greddark stepped off the rail cart and onto the boarding platform, pausing to take a deep breath. The station vendors were serving beef, but it was overspiced and overcooked, probably to disguise the fact that it had started out tough and stringy before it ever hit their grills. A new issue of the Inquisitive was available at the chronicle stand—the acrid smell of fresh ink accented the fragrance of cooking meat, and not in a pleasant way.
“Ah,” Zoden said beside him, taking in large lungfuls of air. “The welcoming aromas of Aruldusk! Probably seems a bit bland to you after living in the Court of Leaves.”
“Not exactly,” Greddark replied.
They’d spent a few days in Sigilstar waiting for the furor from Zoden’s encounter to die down before boarding the rail again. While the bard had bathed during that time, he hadn’t gotten his clothing laundered, and he still smelled vaguely of Frostmantle Fire and old sweat. Combined in Greddark’s sensitive nose with the other odors, the scent was anything but bland. Noxious was more like it.
He pulled out a map from one of the interior pockets of his long coat. Finding what he was looking for, he stepped off the platform, heading west along Silver Way.
“Wait! Where are we going?”
“I’m going to the Cathedral, to speak to a … friend. You are going to go home and lock yourself in until I come to get you. And change your clothes, while you’re at it. I’m not even a shifter and I could track you through town with my eyes closed.”
“What?” The bard bristled, though whether it was because of Greddark’s order or his insult, the inquisitive couldn’t tell. Probably both. “There’s no way I’m going to hide out at home while you go and solve the whole mystery without me!”
Greddark figured he’d better put a stop to this foolishness right now. Curiosity did not an inquisitive make, and the sooner Zoden found that out, the better his chances of surviving this whole affair would be.
“Seems to me hiding out is one of the things you do best,” he pointed out. At Zoden’s crestfallen look, he added, “It’s for your own safety. As far as we know, you’re the only person still living who has witnessed one of these murders. Frankly, you’d have been better off staying in Sigilstar. Or Flamekeep.”
“Why? It’s not as if I’d be any safer there. They found me on the rail, didn’t they?”
“Be that as it may, you are safer behind locked doors. And there are a few House Kundarak charms I can use to make you even more secure, after I finish up at the Cathedral.”
“And how do you think you’re going to get into the Cathedral without me?”
Greddark blinked. “Walk in?”
“Nobody just walks into the Cathedral … at least, not if you aren’t a worshipper of the Silver Flame. They’d be politely escorting you out—probably by sword point—before you could figure out what direction to kneel in and which knee is supposed to go down first.”
The dwarf grunted. “Funny, I hadn’t pegged you as a Flamer.”
Zoden gave a sardonic laugh.
“I’m not. The only flame I find worthy of veneration
is the one that cooks my food and warms my hearth. But I’ve lived in Thrane my whole life, and I know how to play the part. Do you?”
Damn. The silly git had a point.
“Fine. You can come with me, and I’ll follow your lead in the Cathedral, but once we get to where we’re going, I’ll do the talking. Understood?”
Zoden nodded, eager as a puppy to please now that he was getting his way.
“So who are we going to see?”
“Margil Ravadanci, the Bishop’s chief aide.”
Greddark had never actually been in a Silver Flame Cathedral before—it was rare enough for him to enter a temple dedicated to the Sovereign Host, and he believed in them. The building was just as garish as he’d imagined it would be, with marble pillars and silver statues and riotous colors battling for control across every visible pane of glass. The red carpet was so deep it was like a plush pudding, and he wondered if young children were ever frightened that it might try to eat them. He had to suppress a chuckle at the thought.
If the Cathedral was extravagant, it was nothing compared to the complicated rituals followers of the Flame practiced. After checking their weapons with a dwarf priest who hefted Greddark’s alchemy blade appreciatively, they walked through a colonnaded gallery toward the Cathedral’s huge double doors, flanked on either side by Knights of the Silver Flame whose armor and unsheathed swords had been polished to outshine the sun. Entering the narthex itself required two bows, a genuflection, and reverently kissing what he could only assume was a scaled-down rendition of the Silver Flame itself—though with Flamic art and architecture growing ever more abstract, he wouldn’t bet on it.
Once inside the nave, the entrance to which was guarded by another matched set of knights, the sanctuary opened up into a cavernous room with ceilings so high they were lost in the shadows. A huge mosaic stretched out across the floor, another stylized flame in its center, crafted of cleverly interlocking pieces of silver and mother-of-pearl. Above this rendition of the Flame, an actual silver fire burned in a silver brazier as large as a bath tub. The brazier hung suspended on a long, heavy chain that disappeared into the shadows above. Rows of pews, mostly empty at this time of day, were situated in concentric circles around this central fire. It was in one of these pews, toward the rear of the church, that Greddark spotted Margil. She sat alone, her head covered with a silvercloth veil. A casual observer might assume she had donned it out of respect. Greddark knew she wore the veil to hide her face and lips as she spoke.
He made his way casually over to the empty pew behind her and slid into place, after making yet another intricate obeisance at Zoden’s prodding. He hadn’t wanted to meet her here—it was dangerous, and increased the risk of her getting caught—but she was so busy with the fallout from the murders that she never left the Cathedral complex these days. Hence this charade.
He knelt with his hands resting on the back of the pew only a few inches from Margil’s veil.
“The bard’s your apprentice now?” Margil’s murmur had the same cadence and intonation of the prayer she was reciting. If Greddark hadn’t been expecting her words, he would have missed them.
“More like my stray,” Greddark said into his beard, his head bowed. Zoden, a foot away, didn’t react. Their voices weren’t carrying that far.
“I have what you want, but you’re not the only one looking for it. A paladin from Flamekeep—supposedly sent by Cardinal Riathan, though I suspect the Keeper’s hand behind his. And a shifter woman. Her brother is in custody now—for killing your stray’s twin.”
Now that was interesting.
“What about the Bishop? Any reason to suspect him of setting these shifters up?”
“He doesn’t like shifters, I know that much,” Margil said after a moment’s thought—no doubt choosing her words with care. “Truth be told, I don’t like them much, either. But disliking them is a far cry from framing them for murder. And if you’re casting your eyes in that direction, you might be better served looking at Ancillary Bishop Xanin. He hates everyone. Except, possibly, Bishop Maellas.”
Was that … jealousy? Interesting. He’d done a little research while he and ir’Marktaros were cooling their heels in Sigilstar, and he knew Xanin was relatively new to the city, having arrived a little over a year ago. Apparently Margil didn’t like being replaced as Maellas’s second-in-command. Greddark filed the information away for future reference, but decided not to press the matter. It didn’t do to anger your contacts—at least not if you were planning on using them again, and Margil had proven quite helpful over the years.
“Thanks, Gil. I’ll have the usual amount deposited in your account.”
The aide said nothing, merely rose from her place and exited the pew. She had left a thick book on the seat behind her. The Prayers of Tira Miron, translated from the Draconic.
Greddark stayed on his knees for another quarter bell before rising. As he used the pew back to lever himself up, he reached down with his other hand to grab the book. With it tucked firmly under his arm, he and Zoden made their own exit from the Cathedral, bowing and scraping at all the necessary intervals as they went.
Greddark waited to look at the book until they were well-ensconced in Zoden’s home, behind locked doors that the dwarf had enhanced with a few House Kundarak tricks. As he opened the thick tome, he found several loose sheets inserted, ironically, in the section on prayers for justice. The first sheet was a list of victims, in chronological order. There were twenty in all, beginning with Mikal Irvallo and ending with the most recent victim, Demodir Imaradi.
“See?” Zoden said, reading over his shoulder. “It’s just like I told Diani.”
“What is?”
“Most of them are Throneholders—or were, I guess.” He paused for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the past tense, then hurried on. “Zodal, of course, but also Ravan, ir’Sarhain, Neskadus and now Imaradi. Arrun ir’Sarhain was the one who got me my first job with the loyalists. These others … hmm. Krayci wrote for the Aruldusk Archives. I remember he wrote a chronicle about a year ago criticizing Bishop Maellas for disallowing shifter marriages outside of the Cathedral. Said Maellas was wrong for requiring shifters to change their traditional outdoor marriage rites just because they’d embraced the Silver Flame. I believe he was sanctioned for the chronicle. He might even have lost his job over it. And this one, ir’Vanatar—his father is known for holding grand galas to raise money for the Crown.”
The bard looked at him, as if expecting some sort of praise for his observations. When none was forthcoming, he frowned.
“Well? Don’t you think it’s rather strange that, in a city full of Flamers, at least a quarter of the murder victims were either loyal to Queen Diani or openly critical of the theocracy? I mean, what are the odds?”
“About one in a hundred fifteen, unless Aruldusk’s population has changed a lot since the last census,” Greddark replied, as he looked over the other pages. There were checkmarks by roughly two-thirds of the names. A note on the bottom, written in Margil’s neat script, read: Questioned by P. and S. The paladin and shifter, no doubt. They had worked quickly, which likely meant they’d gotten little new information. But why hadn’t they questioned everyone on the list?
Cross-referencing the checked names with brief descriptions of the victims and their families yielded the answer. Those that had not been questioned by the pair from Flamekeep had been worshippers of the Sovereign Host, including the ones Zoden had called out as Throneholders. Either the paladin had chosen only to question those he knew would be cooperative, or, more likely, those families had refused to speak with him. Either way, they were ripe for Greddark’s picking.
There was also a half-sheet of paper stuck in with the files, though it was of a different stock and had been torn in two, lengthwise. One corner was smeared with some sort of silver dust. It appeared to be a list of items, though with half the sheet missing, Greddark couldn’t tell what the significance was.
… skin of a ch
ameleon, whole …
… diamond dust, two pin—
… severed finger of a wer—
… under the light of a fu—
Ingredients for some sort of potion? An attached note from Margil indicated that it had been found near the body of one of the victims, a Flamer named Desekane. The files indicated that Desekane’s body had been so badly mutilated that he could only be identified by a birthmark on his ankle.
“How do you do that?”
Greddark glanced up from the papers, startled. “Do what?”
“Figure the odds like that, so quickly? Olladra’s purse, but what I wouldn’t give to be able to do that in a gambling hall!”
Like your father? Greddark wanted to ask, but he forbore. Zoden truly was like a little child, naïve and oblivious. Greddark couldn’t decide if the bard’s enthusiasm was charming or pathetic.
“Being able to calculate the odds only helps you if your hand is playable.”
“Is that why you’re in Thrane, instead of the Mror Holds? Because your hand wasn’t playable?”
Damn! Not so oblivious as all that, apparently. Well, the lad deserved an honest answer, especially after witnessing the latest group of bounty hunters to have tracked him down.
“I was living in Korth, not the Holds. Let’s just say that if you’re wanted in Karrnath, Thrane’s not a bad place to take up residence.”
He could see that the tow-headed bard was bursting with more questions, but wisely contented himself with a knowing, “Ah.”
Ah, indeed.
Greddark scribbled a quick note then pulled a metal bird from his pack.
“What’s that?”
“My messenger service,” Greddark replied. He’d fashioned the little bird himself, to resemble a pigeon—or, as his father would have called it, a rat with wings. From even a few feet away, it looked like the real thing, and only a closer inspection would reveal its body was fashioned of steel and its feathers meticulously painted on. Since most people hated the disease-carrying birds, such an inspection was highly unlikely. Which made it the ideal vessel for sending messages when he couldn’t afford to be gouged by the gnomes of House Sivis and their infernally expensive speaking stones.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 9