His words quivered with rage, and Kyrin took an unconscious step backward.
“Well? Nothing to say? Maybe your two-crown doxy will tell me, then.” He gestured, and one of his men dragged Gaida in through the now open barn door, her face streaked with tears and a large red mark on her cheek that looked like a handprint. The man threw her to the ground in front of Kyrin’s father, where she collapsed in a weeping heap.
“Father, I—”
“Enough!” he snarled, silencing his son with a dark look. D’Vadalis turned to Greddark. “How about you, dwarf? I’m sure you must have something to add to this tale.”
Greddark drew himself up to his full height, struggling to look professional and competent when all he really wanted to do was thrust his forearm in a barrel of ice-cold water to numb the screaming nerves.
“I am Greddark d’Kundarak, an inquisitive in the employ of one of Aruldusk’s noble houses. I’ve been asked to investigate the murders that have been plaguing the city. During my examination of the body of the latest victim, Demodir Imaradi, I discovered a sword wound hidden by the bite marks of a great cat. When I learned that Kyrin not only had such a creature in his care, but was also one of Demodir’s rivals for the young lady’s”—he nodded toward Gaida—“affections, I naturally wanted to question him.”
“Naturally,” the elder d’Vadalis muttered, but Greddark continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“When I tried to speak to Kyrin, he set the ghost tiger on me. I had no choice but to defend myself, with rather … unfortunate results. During the ensuing struggle, Kyrin admitted to murdering Imaradi. I—”
“I heard.”
“—am therefore obligated to turn him over to the Arulduskan authorities.” Greddark paused to let his words sink in, then added, “Unless you can offer me a better alternative.”
Dealing with fugitives from other dragonmarked Houses was always tricky. Despite what they might profess in public or to the government of whatever country they resided in, very few House heads acknowledged any authority other than their own, especially on their own property. And then there was always the risk of inciting an inter-House war if both the hunted and the hunter were well-known scions. That was one reason inquisitives and bounty hunters from the dragonmarked Houses often refused to go after fugitives from other Houses. Of course, Greddark didn’t have to worry about that. House Kundarak wasn’t likely to go to war over him, as Baron Morrikan had made abundantly clear when he had Greddark expelled from the Twelve. But it made for a tricky political situation, nonetheless. Who knew when some lesser scion with more ambition than sense would decide to use just such an altercation to stir up trouble?
Greddark just hoped d’Vadalis would take the out he was presenting and offer to subject Kyrin to House justice. Having been on the receiving end of such justice himself, Greddark knew it to be far more brutal than any punishment that could be meted out by the courts of Thrane.
D’Vadalis barked out a short, mirthless laugh.
“You’ve got guts, dwarf, I’ll give you that much. You trespass on my property, threaten my son, and kill an animal meant for the courts of King Boranel of Breland—one whose training was paid for in advance, I might add—and you actually have the temerity to ask me to make your life easier?”
Greddark shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. Inside, his heart was pounding as he ran through the options he’d have left if d’Vadalis didn’t agree to either release Kyrin into his custody or bring his son before a House inquiry. The choices were few. None of them were pleasant.
“Your son is a confessed murderer. Your life isn’t going to get any easier, regardless of what you do to me. My partner back in Aruldusk has the same information I do. If I don’t return—with or without Kyrin—he’ll go to Bishop Maellas himself. I don’t think Vadalis wants a war with the Church in the middle of Thrane, but perhaps that’s something you’d like to take up with your House patriarch. Not to mention what might happen if Baron Morrikan d’Kundarak decided to get involved.”
D’Vadalis scowled. “You’re bluffing.”
“Can you afford to take that risk?”
He and d’Vadalis glared at each other, like two old bulls sizing each other up before a charge. Greddark’s right arm throbbed in time with his too-fast pulse, every beat bringing fresh agony. He could no longer feel his fingers. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be needing them if d’Vadalis killed him and fed his remains to some magebred carnivore. No one but Zoden would ever even suspect his fate, and what would the flighty bard be able to do about it, anyway? Go to Maellas? The Bishop would laugh the noble out of his office before having him clapped in irons and left to rot in prison with the shifters. At least, that’s what he would do, if he were the elf Bishop.
Greddark forced his wandering thoughts back to d’Vadalis, though the pain and blood loss were making him feel faint, almost giddy. He focused on the bald man’s pupils—deep black against verdant green. He refused to look away or blink, willing d’Vadalis to back down. He knew his own eyes must be wide and wild, and the thought of what he probably looked like—feral hair, lunatic eyes, awash in blood—brought an absurd chuckle to his lips, but he swallowed it down like bile. If he broke now, he was as good as dead.
Finally, d’Vadalis looked away.
“No,” he answered with a heavy sigh, though Greddark couldn’t help but feel it had more to do with losing the dwarf’s challenge than with Kyrin’s fate, a suspicion which the man’s next words only confirmed. “Unfortunately, thanks to my idiot son, I can’t.”
They sat around a table in the house’s dining room, Greddark nursing his left arm with its new, itchy pink skin. The House Jorasco halfling who’d healed him hadn’t been pleased at being woken. She had the bedside manner of an orc, which wasn’t surprising, considering most of her patients were dumb animals. A category she’d probably classified him in, as well, after he vomited all over her tunic when she’d tried to stitch him up. She hadn’t wanted to use the Mark of Healing on him—she’d seen what he’d done to the magebred ghost tiger, and thought the more pain he suffered, the better. But when it became clear a simple needle and thread would not suffice, she relented. She used her dragonmark to close the blood vessels his leech hadn’t been able to repair, reknit his torn muscles, and grow fresh skin, but nothing more. In retrospect, he didn’t feel too badly about puking on her.
As he sipped appreciatively from a steaming mug of hard cider, Greddark appraised his hosts. The elder d’Vadalis, Pherud, sat across from him, cradling his own mug in large, calloused hands. Kyrin sat at the man’s left, while his aide, a changeling named Jin, sat on Pherud’s right. Jin was trying to pass as human, but telltale signs gave his true nature away to the inquisitive—eyes never quite the same color, features just a tad too symmetrical. The disguise was a good one, though, and Greddark wondered if d’Vadalis even knew about the pretender in his employ. Chances were the changeling was up to no good, but it was no concern of his. The dwarf had his own problems.
“How much is it going to take to make this go away?” Pherud asked.
Greddark considered. He was after whoever was murdering Throneholders and blaming shifters for it—if it was, in fact, the same individual. He didn’t give a rat’s hairy nether regions about Kyrin, now that he knew the handler had only been responsible for the one death, but he supposed Imaradi’s parents deserved justice. It was a question of perception, though. If he never revealed that Demodir’s death was not the work of the same killer terrorizing Aruldusk, then when that madman was eventually caught—and executed, for there could be no other punishment for the well-publicized murder spree—the Imaradis would believe justice had been served. They could take some comfort in knowing they were one of many families impacted by the tragedy, perhaps finding solace in their common grief. But if they learned their son’s death had been the result of a fight over a harlot, what consolation would they find for that ignominy? He was inclined to think that what they didn’t know, couldn’t
hurt them.
But Kyrin had taken a life, for the favor of a woman whose charms could be bought. And while stupidity was, unfortunately, not a crime, in this case, its consequences were.
Greddark drank his cider in silence, contemplating the dilemma while he relished the warmth that radiated through the metal to fingers that still ached, even with the healing.
Pherud would pay handsomely to ensure that the words “murder,” “Aruldusk,” and “d’Vadalis” were never mentioned in the same breath ever again, and Olladra knew Greddark could use the gold. But in accepting it, would Greddark be absolving Kyrin of guilt? Would the younger d’Vadalis see any punishment more severe than being banned from the arms of his lady love-for-hire?
Bah! Why should it matter to him? He should just pocket the money, walk away, and forget he’d ever heard the names Kyrin or Demodir. Ultimately, the handler’s fate had no bearing on his case. It was, quite literally, none of his business.
But.
He couldn’t help but remember the pain and sorrow he’d seen on the Imaradis’ faces, even on Zoden’s, though the bard had quickly hidden it. Demodir meant nothing to him—he was simply evidence in an investigation—but the Throneholder, his parents’ only surviving child and the last in his line, had meant everything to his mother, his father, and to his friends.
There had to be a reckoning. If he wasn’t an inquisitive to make sure guilty men got punished and innocent ones went free, then why? It wasn’t like he was going to become rich doing this. No, even if he didn’t care about the victim—or the perpetrator—a crime had been committed. A crime that he had solved, and that he was now obligated to see punished. That was his job. It really wasn’t any more complicated than that.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
“This isn’t going to go away,” he said, after having finished his cider and set the still-warm cup aside with some regret. “Kyrin killed a man, and not in self-defense. Your coffers can’t exonerate him. Either you see to it that he’s punished, or I will.”
“Done,” Pherud said, too quickly.
As Greddark’s eyes narrowed, Jin chimed in, his eyes vacillating from azure to perse and back again.
“We had every intention of disciplining Kyrin. If not for the death of that boy, then most certainly for the destruction of King Boranel’s property.”
Kyrin, who’d been leaning back inattentively in his chair, confident that he’d be redeemed, sat up now, his eyes wide. He looked back and forth from his father to the changeling in dawning horror.
“I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist,” Greddark warned, his voice a low growl.
“Neither are we,” the changeling replied. “The punishment for a handler who allows any animal to die in his care is forty lashes. If that animal is magebred, it’s sixty lashes, and confinement with only bread and water for nourishment for up to a month. If that animal has already been purchased by a client, especially a royal client, then when the confinement ends, the handler is immediately—and permanently—expelled from the House.”
“Excoriation?” Kyrin breathed, the blood draining from his face. “But, Father—”
“Silence!” the elder d’Vadalis roared, backhanding Kyrin so hard that he fell from his chair. “You are no son of mine!”
Pherud looked over at his aide. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.
“Of course,” Jin replied, smiling. He stood and walked over to where Kyrin still sat on the floor, now crying softly. Yanking the handler up roughly, he pushed d’Vadalis—no, just Kyrin now—toward the door. “It will be my pleasure.”
After watching the two leave the room, Greddark turned back to Pherud, his shock no doubt showing on his face.
Pherud smiled grimly at his expression.
“Don’t look so surprised, dwarf. Unlike many Vadalis branches, I’ve never forgotten that we are a business first and a family second. Not so different from the Kundaraks in that, I think.” His smile widened. “Really, I should be thanking you. You saved my reputation and my bank account, and all for something I intended to do anyway.”
D’Vadalis raised his mug to toast Greddark.
“Here’s to you, dwarf. I’ve never bought silence so cheap.”
Greddark left the compound first thing in the morning. He’d wanted to depart after the scene in the dining room, but he knew with his arm freshly mended, he was in no shape to try and guide his horse over the rough track back to Aruldusk, with no guarantee that they’d open the gates for him when he got there.
He walked the short distance to the thicket where he’d left the mare tethered. Even before he got there, he knew something was wrong.
The horse was gone.
Suspecting d’Vadalis’s hand in this new development, he approached the copse cautiously, his sword out and ready. When he got to his former hiding place, though, he saw he needn’t have worried. The horse’s disappearance had not been a result of House Vadalis vengeance, or even of an attack by some roaming predator, but rather of his own poor horsemanship. The mare had chewed through her too-slack tether, and her tracks led north, toward Lake Arul, and fresh water.
He pulled out his spyglass, but the mount was long out of sight—along with all the food in his saddle bags. He knew he’d lose days trying to follow her—days he didn’t have, since he didn’t want Zoden to starve to death while slumbering under the effects of the potent dwarven soporific Greddark had administered.
No, he’d have to walk, and even then, he was probably going to be facing a very angry client when he got back to Aruldusk. If he didn’t starve to death himself along the way.
The trip took him four days. When he finally reached the shifter tent city outside of Aruldusk, he paid a small fortune for a handful of restorative potions from their resident healer—the Jorasco halfling had done a piss-poor job. He was just slamming one back when warning bells started to ring inside the city walls. He realized what the sound must mean.
Another murder.
And on the heels of that thought, a flash of fear.
Zoden.
With a curse, he began to run, praying that he wasn’t already too late.
Chapter
ELEVEN
Wir, Therendor 25, 998 YK
The city bells were ringing.
There’s been another murder!
Zoden’s eyes snapped open, and he felt a moment of disorientation as he looked at fuzzy wooden staves jutting out of ground as blue as the sea. Then he blinked and the room came into focus. He realized that he was lying on the floor of his study, looking at the underside of his table and chairs. And that the chiming noise he had heard was not the city’s warning carillon, but his own alarm spell.
Someone was trying to get in.
He tried to sit up and felt his stomach lurch violently in protest, even as the room began to tilt. He turned his head to the side and vomited sour bile onto the threadbare Brelish carpet.
Surprisingly, after he’d emptied his stomach, he felt a little better, even hungry. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. A few hours? It was dark out, and Aryth shone full and fiery through the study window.
Wait. Surely that wasn’t right? The moon known as the Gateway would not be full for another three nights yet.
His second attempt to sit was more successful, and when he found he could stay upright for more than a few seconds without being overcome with nausea, he used the chair and the table legs to pull himself into a standing position. As he did, he felt something sting his neck. He slapped it away clumsily, only to realize it was not some nuisance insect, but a bloodspike.
Greddark.
The inquisitive had drugged him—that would explain the lost time.
But why?
To keep him out of harm’s way, no doubt. Unfortunately, it seemed harm had come to find him anyway, and was even now forcing its way through his front door.
He pulled his sword from the scabbard he’d left hanging on the back of his chair and stumble
d to the study door. Greddark had told him not to try and go out once the wards were set. The dwarf had rigged some sort of petrification spell to catch any intruders in the act.
A spell that didn’t appear to be working, judging from the sound of the knob being twisted and torn from the wood.
Zoden arrived in the foyer just as the door flew wide.
A blonde shifter stood there, amber eyes blazing out of the shadows, clothes hanging from him in shreds. At his feet, a gray wolf looked back toward the street.
No, not a gray wolf. A statue.
Greddark’s spell had worked after all.
There was something strange about the shifter, but Zoden’s thoughts were still swimming from whatever had been in the bloodspike, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He shouldn’t be so hairy, should he?
Before Zoden could pinpoint what was wrong with the intruder, the shifter stepped across the threshold, activating another of Greddark’s traps. A dozen crossbow bolts slammed into the shifter—six in his chest, two in each thigh, one in his stomach and one in his throat—knocking him back out onto the porch.
With a growl, the shifter pulled the bolts out of his body, snapping them in half and tossing them behind him into the yard. Zoden watched in dread as the bloodless wounds left by the quarrels sealed of their own accord, leaving the shifter angry but unharmed.
Not a shifter.
A werewolf.
Of course. That wasn’t a shadow slicing across his face, but a long snout jutting out from below a sharply sloping forehead. Thick blonde fur didn’t just cover his head, cheeks and forearms, but his entire body, from tufts of hair on his pointed ears to the tip of a bushy tail that lashed back and forth behind him in anticipation. And not even a longtooth shifter had fangs that large.
Fangs that Zoden remembered well.
At the sound of his horrified gasp, the werewolf looked up and caught sight of him. He smiled.
“Hello, Zoden. Time for you to join your brother.”
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 15