The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  “Yes,” he responded, perhaps a bit too forcefully, but Andri did not argue further. He simply nodded.

  “Very well. If you should require aid—”

  “Scream and you’ll come running? Along with anything else that might be hiding out in this Host-forsaken shell of a city. No thanks.” Greddark swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. “I’ll be fine.”

  The paladin considered him for a moment, then shrugged. He urged his mount onward, motioning for Irulan to continue. The two were across the circle, around another bend, and out of sight in moments.

  Greddark led his limping mount to the fountain, Irulan’s mare tagging along behind, whickering softly in complaint. He tied the reins to the merman’s outstretched arm, then sat on the edge of the basin and lifted the horse’s leg to look at the affected hoof. As he made of show of examining the shoe, he pulled out a small knife and dug the spiked ball out of the sole of the animal’s hoof. Perhaps Olladra did smile on him, after all—the spikes had come a sovereign’s width from puncturing the spongy frog and causing the horse real injury.

  He heard something—a footfall?

  He thought it came from the road behind him, but in this empty, echoing city, it was hard to ascertain the cause or direction of any noise. He pretended not to notice, cooing comfortingly to the horse while he palmed the vial of belladonna. As the glass slid across his sweaty hand, he realized that he was frightened in a way he hadn’t been while facing down the ghost tiger, which surely could have killed him as easily as any lycanthrope.

  But, then, he knew he could hurt the magebred cat. Not so one of the moontouched.

  He was alone, with a crazy, possibly murderous werewolf sneaking up on him, and his only defense was a vial of purplish-green liquid that smelled like an ogre’s breath after a night of hard drinking.

  The surprise was not that he was afraid, but that he wasn’t more so.

  There. Another footfall. He was sure of it this time.

  Twin whinnies from the horses as they pulled against their tethers confirmed it. Quillion was here.

  With a prayer to Onatar and Andri’s Silver Flame—because it couldn’t hurt to have the favor of a deity whose very essence was anathema to werebeasts—Greddark popped the stopper on the vial and turned, intending to fling its contents full in the lycanthrope’s face.

  Instead, the vial was slapped out of his hand and sent flying to the ground where it shattered, the belladonna extract oozing out to form a nacreous puddle.

  Greddark found himself looking at the business end of a war spikard aimed straight at his head.

  His eyes focused on the quarrel, then followed the shaft of the crossbow bolt upwards to his assailant’s arm, and the dark lines of the Mark of Detection that wound up it. Above the arm, violets eyes regarded him coolly out of a delicate face framed by soft golden curls.

  The half-elf from Sigilstar flashed him a smug grin.

  “I told you it wasn’t over.”

  Greddark thought quickly. She was a bounty hunter, not an assassin, or she would have killed him in the City of Spires. If he could stall her, get her talking, it would give Andri and Irulan time to get in position. Thankfully, Irulan was the one with the ranged weapon. Unlike the paladin, she would have no qualms about loosing an arrow into an enemy’s back.

  He hoped.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, taking a step back toward his horse so he could see her better.

  “Don’t move,” she said, her grin morphing into a scowl as she resighted the crossbow. “My employer wasn’t too explicit on whether he wanted you dead or alive, and it’s a lot easier to transport a corpse.”

  “Your employer?” There were a lot of people who might put a bounty on his head, but most of them would have been quite specific about the dead part.

  The half-elf shrugged. “You’re the inquisitive. You figure it out. It shouldn’t be that hard. But first get your hands in the air and turn around—slowly, unless you want to find yourself doing a bad impression of the House Orien unicorn.”

  Greddark complied, raising his arms and turning around, not risking a glance at the road where Andri and Irulan should be entering the junction. He prayed to Olladra that the two would have the sense to change their tactics once they saw they weren’t dealing with Quillion—he didn’t relish a crossbow bolt sticking out of the back of his head any more than the front.

  The thought brought him up short. When he’d first encountered her in Sigilstar, the bounty hunter had been accompanied by a muscle-bound human who had done most of the talking. That is, until Greddark had used his blasting chime to send the brute hurtling over the railing of his balcony.

  “Where’s your friend?” he asked with studied nonchalance as the woman pressed the spikard into his back. She pulled his short sword from his scabbard and tossed it aside, then patted him down, discovering the pocketful of bloodspikes in short order.

  “Maybe he’s still in the Jorasco house, recovering from our last meeting. Or maybe he’s watching from a window or a rooftop, waiting for one wrong move from you to pay you back with a little blast of his own.” As she spoke, she pulled the spikes from his pocket and dropped them onto the ground. The crunch of breaking glass and the shuff-shuff of a heel in the dirt told the sorry tale of their fate. Damn. Those had been expensive.

  Despite her bravado, Greddark could tell she was lying. Wherever her former partner was, she was alone now. Good. It would be three against one. He liked those odds.

  And he didn’t really need inquisitive skills to figure out who had sent her. House Medani didn’t have a lot of bounty hunters, and her partner in Sigilstar had worn boots of a style only popular in Korth.

  She was here about Yaradala. Wonderful.

  Where were that damned shifter and her sanctimonious paladin?

  He heard the clink of iron on iron.

  “Lower your right arm behind your back. Slowly.”

  As he did so, he felt the cold kiss of metal on his wrist.

  Manacles.

  “Now your left.”

  Onatar’s empty chest! If those two didn’t show up within the next few seconds, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Make that, hand.

  “Move it, dwarf! I want to be out of this accursed graveyard before nightfall.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Irulan’s voice rang out from somewhere behind them.

  Finally.

  He couldn’t see, but it sounded as if d’Medani turned to glance over her shoulder. The spikard never wavered from its spot pressed up against the middle of his back, though, so he couldn’t risk trying to break free just yet.

  “You’ll never get that arrow off before mine impales your friend through the heart,” d’Medani said.

  Greddark could imagine Irulan’s lazy shrug.

  “So? You hurt him, we’ll just heal him up again. We have a paladin. What have you got?”

  Hopefully not a teleportation spell. But then, if she’d had that, she wouldn’t still be debating an answer.

  Finally, he felt the grip on his manacled arm go slack and the spikard move away from his back. He stepped forward, expecting to feel the fire of a crossbow bolt burying itself in his flesh at any moment. When he’d put his horse between d’Medani’s weapon and his backside, he turned to survey the scene.

  The bounty hunter had lowered her spikard to the ground and was standing with her arms up, facing Irulan, who had an arrow trained at the half-elf’s heart.

  But d’Medani wasn’t looking at the shifter. Instead, her gaze was focused on Andri, who had dismounted and stood close to the half-elf, his sword drawn and ready. Greddark could feel the charm pouring off the woman like fine perfume.

  “If you’re a paladin of the Silver Flame, then truth and justice are as sacred to you as they are to me,” she said, her lilting voice going husky and her violet eyes luminous. If Andri was reacting to the enchantment, he didn’t show it. “This dwarf,” d’Medani inclined her he
ad—just slightly; her charm wasn’t aimed at Irulan, and the shifter might take any movement as an excuse to let her arrow fly—to indicate Greddark, “is wanted in Karrnath for murder.”

  Andri turned his own dark gaze on Greddark.

  “Is that true?” he asked. The warning was unspoken, but the paladin’s tone was clear: don’t lie to me.

  Greddark reached up to pat his horse’s rump, one open manacle still dangling from his wrist. He briefly considering jumping on the mare’s back and riding away, but he discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. He’d never be able to outride Irulan’s arrows.

  The inquisitive sighed. Perhaps he’d be able to reason with Andri. If not, and worse came to worst, he still had his wand bracelet and its chimes. Much as he’d hate to hurt an erstwhile partner, if that’s what it took to keep from going back to the Tower to face Yaradala’s father, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

  “It’s true,” he replied, bracing himself. “I’m wanted for murder.” Before d’Medani could crow her triumph, he continued. “But I didn’t do it.”

  Greddark and d’Medani sat on the edge of the merman fountain, their arms bound behind them—he in the bounty hunter’s iron manacles and the half-elf in Andri’s silver ones.

  The paladin stood before them looking righteous, his sword alight with argent fire. Irulan stood not far away, an arrow still nocked, just waiting for a target. From the glare she gave d’Medani, it was clear to Greddark who she’d rather choose.

  “Let’s get to the bottom of this,” Andri said. “You first.”

  To Greddark’s surprise, Andri pointed the tip of his sword at the bounty hunter. Perhaps the young man was not as immune to her ensorcellment as he appeared.

  She batted her lashes at him, and Irulan sniffed in disdain. Ignoring the shifter, d’Medani launched into her story.

  “It’s a simple tale, really. Eight years ago, Greddark d’Kundarak was a student of the Twelve with a knack for creating unusual items. He gave one of those items to Yaradala d’Medani, the daughter of Committee member Helanth d’Medani, in exchange for securing him an interview with her father for a position within the House Medani enclave, since he was out of favor with his own House. While using the item—a doorway of some kind, meant to help her escape from rooms warded for her protection—Yaradala was killed in a most gruesome fashion. The lower half of her body materialized in a stone wall while the upper part triggered wards that burned her alive as she screamed for help. The damage was so severe that she could not be raised. She was Helanth’s only child. He hired me to help bring her killer to justice.”

  Andri’s eyes had gone cold at the description of Yaradala’s death. Greddark didn’t blame the paladin—he’d seen the girl’s body shortly after she died. The sight and the smell still haunted his dreams.

  Andri pointed his sword at him.

  “Is that what happened?”

  Greddark shook himself to dislodge the image of the young woman’s charred corpse partially imbedded in the wall of her own chambers. “More or less. The device opened a doorway into Syrania. If Yaradala had followed my instructions, she would not have been hurt, but she must have become frightened or disoriented during the passage. Her death was horrible and tragic, but it was entirely avoidable.”

  D’Medani harrumphed at that and opened her mouth to contradict him, but Greddark raised his voice and kept talking.

  “Ultimately, the Committee agreed with me, though I was expelled from the Twelve, and my own family cut me off, fearing the political fallout. The murder charges came after—when Helanth d’Medani could not convince the Committee to do more than censure me, he appealed to the Karrnathi government, which was more than happy to oblige him and his coffers.” He looked right into Andri’s eyes, letting the paladin read the pain he still carried in his soul. “I’m sorry she died. I truly am. But it wasn’t my fault.”

  Some days, he even believed that.

  D’Medani had had enough. “The item was clearly defective! And according to Karrnathi law, the burden for any death resulting from the use of such an item falls on its maker. Whether you intended it to happen or not, Yaradala died, and you are responsible!”

  He didn’t think now was the time to point out that the planar doorway was hardly defective. It had worked just fine for him.

  Andri looked from him to the half-elf and back again, then seemed to come to some decision. He extinguished and sheathed his sword, then unlocked both Greddark’s manacles and the ones the bounty hunter wore. He handed the iron bonds back to d’Medani.

  “You’re free to go.”

  The half-elf looked puzzled. “With the dwarf, right?”

  “No. You are free to go. Alone. The dwarf stays here.”

  “But Karrnathi law—”

  “You are not in Karrnath. You are in Thrane, and here, the Church is the law.” Greddark had never heard the paladin’s voice sound so hard. “In the absence of clergy, I am the Church. And I am declaring Greddark d’Kundarak innocent of this crime.” Andri’s tone lost some of its edge. “Now, I know you came a long way and will likely forfeit a large fee for not bringing him in. The Church is nothing if not generous. Tell me your fee and I will pay it.”

  D’Medani looked as if she’d been slapped. “I don’t want your money, you self-righteous—”

  Andri’s sword was out and resting against the base of her throat before she could finish the imprecation.

  “You’ll take my gold, or you’ll take my steel. Decide. Now.”

  Whatever her personal feelings about Greddark’s guilt, the bounty hunter wasn’t stupid.

  “The gold,” she muttered, glaring.

  Andri smiled at her. “Wise choice. How much?”

  She cast a sidelong glance at Greddark. “Fifty dragons.”

  “What?” Greddark exclaimed. For that sort of money, he’d be tempted to turn himself in!

  Andri’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. So she was telling the truth. Damn. Helanth must really want him back. Probably so he could have the pleasure of killing Greddark himself.

  Andri sheathed his sword again. “Keep an eye on her,” he said to Irulan as he crossed over to his horse and rummaged through a pack. Irulan, who’d had an arrow pointed at d’Medani this whole time, was more than happy to comply.

  The paladin returned with a folded piece of paper.

  “This letter will allow you to draw fifty platinum dragons from my personal account at any House Kundarak bank, in or out of Thrane, in exchange for your abandonment of the unlawful bounty on Greddark’s head. Do I have your word on that?” He held out his hand.

  After a moment, d’Medani reluctantly grasped it. “You have my word.”

  “Excellent.” Andri handed the letter over. “I trust you can find your own way out of the city?”

  The half-elf grunted in reply. Snatching up her war spikard, she set off the way she’d come, running with an easy stride that ate up ground quickly. In moments, she was out of sight. Irulan kept her arrow trained on her the entire way.

  “That’s it?” Greddark asked, not really surprised. “You’re just going to let her go?”

  Andri looked over at the shifter. “Irulan?”

  She gave him a wicked smile.

  “I’m on it,” she said, replacing the arrow in her quiver and turning to lope after the bounty hunter, her gait easily matching that of the half-elf.

  As she, too, disappeared from view, Greddark looked at Andri. “Now what?”

  Andri shrugged. “Now, we wait.”

  Chapter

  FIFTEEN

  Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

  Irulan tracked the half-elf though the silent streets of Shadukar, the fleeing bounty hunter’s footprints easy to follow in the dust and ash. She caught up to the other woman quickly but stayed back, out of sight. Much as she’d like to put an arrow through one of the little strumpet’s amethyst eyes, she was only here to ensure d’Medani didn’t renege on her agreement with Andri.

  True
to her word, d’Medani exited the city by the same gate the trio had used to enter it earlier. A black stallion waited for her outside the walls, and she quickly mounted and rode back toward Olath. Irulan watched her go, wondering at the bounty hunter’s easy acquiescence. She didn’t think Greddark had seen the last of the persistent half-elf, but it really wasn’t her problem. Just as long as d’Medani waited until after they’d found their killer, she could drag the dwarf back to Karrnath by his unnaturally short beard, for all Irulan cared. He seemed like a decent enough fellow, but their partnership was one of mutual convenience, nothing more.

  When d’Medani was just a speck on the horizon, Irulan lowered her bow and turned to go back the way she had come. As she did so, she noticed the myriad tracks they had left—hoof prints, boot prints, and her own clawed feet. If the bounty hunter did come back, she’d have no problem finding them again. Their tracks would lead her right to them. Her or Quillion.

  She could cast a quick spell to make sure she left no trace of her passage back to Andri and the dwarf—something she should have thought to do earlier, though she’d had no reason to suspect they would be followed—but the older tracks would still be there. She had nothing she could use to obscure the tracks herself, but … there. A whispered word revealed the presence of rats—even in a seemingly dead city, the clever scavengers would find a way to survive, and thrive. After a few moments of concentration, she discerned that there were at least a dozen of the sly creatures in the gatehouse alone, and several dozen more spread out in the basements of the ruined buildings nearest the gate. She walked toward the closest of these until she knew her voice could be heard, and then she called out to the rats, chittering at them in their own strange language, cajoling them with promises of fruit and bread if they would come to her aid.

  At first, nothing happened. Then the blackened debris in front of her seemed to shift and slide, as if it were collectively heaving itself up to shamble toward her. Irulan felt a moment of fear before she realized it was the rats—hundreds of them, not dozens—heeding her call.