The Jaguar Knights (17 page)

Even without the raid, Quondam was an outdated symbol of royal power, serving no purpose to justify its running expenses. Wolf certainly intended to tell the Privy Council so, but kings had strange ideas about symbols and honor.

He wondered how many more insights Alden might have. “That’s very valuable advice. Can you tell me why the raiders took the Baroness?”

Alden’s leathery scowl softened. “She’s just a trophy, poor lass. Always was, I’d say.”

“And I’d agree. Why this time, though?”

“Ah!” The old warrior sighed. “If you can storm a stronghold and carry off the lord’s woman in all her finery, then you’ve proved something. Doesn’t matter who they were or where they came from. They took her home to show their king what they’d done.”

Brilliant! Flaming brilliant! “I should wrap you up and send you to the Council!” Wolf said.

“Try it.”

“No thanks.”

Alden spat again. “It cost them, of course. They lost more men than we did. They need better weapons. Wonder why they didn’t take any of ours with them when they left?”

“They didn’t?” The man was a mine of insights!

“Maybe a few. Haven’t counted. Could match what’s left against the smoke stains on the walls.”

“Do that!” Wolf said. “Yes, please do that!”

Later the White Sister appeared, a little whiter than usual, wearing a
goodwife’s bonnet over her bandage. She insisted on taking a second look at the freak corpse in the icehouse. After staring hard and long at it, she capitulated with better grace than Wolf had expected.

“I cannot detect conjuration on this body.”

“You mean he was born like that?”

“Of course not. I mean that my skills are unable to detect this form of enchantment. I sense a dark, ingrained evil that I do not understand. It is alien to everything I know. Everything I told you yesterday may have been wrong.” She shut her mouth with a click of disapproval.

“Lord Roland warned me that such might be the case.” Wolf caught Hogwood’s eyes shining at him in the lantern light. He had promised to share all his information with her, but he had not shared that.

T
he royal standard no longer flew over Nocare. His Majesty, it seemed, had returned to Greymere, in the heart of Grandon. Athelgar rarely stayed in one place for long, but he had been excessively inconsiderate, even for him, in moving Court in such weather. He could travel in his fine waterproof coach, but hundreds of people must have toiled for days in a solid downpour to satisfy his whim, and uncounted wagons had churned the highway to soup.

Having no need to return to Ironhall, Wolf and his companions had followed the coast road through Newtor and Narby, then cut up to Flaskbury from Brimiarde, but they had not had a dry moment the whole way. Three people and five beasts in mortal misery had plodded tracks that were rivers of mud and waded fords that were raging torrents. He had sent no reports ahead, because they could not arrive before he did. The Council would not expect mail in such weather.

Every day Lynx grew visibly stronger. Often he was his amiable old
self, blissfully happy to be released from jail at last; at other times he would retreat into sullen despair, remembering that he had lost his ward, the only Blade ever to do so. Wolf had no comfort to give him. Even if Celeste were still alive, the world was too big for one man to search it all.

Wolf avoided Hogwood as much as he decently could, partly because he did not want her asking what else Grand Master had told him, but mainly because he distrusted his own weakness. If she convinced him that she could really arrange his release from the Guard, he might agree to anything—anything short of murder, surely? Yet, would killing strangers for the Dark Chamber be any worse than killing friends for the Blades? He also distrusted the looks he saw her giving him at times. Her childish efforts to appear a woman only made her seem even younger. Grand Master’s absurd excuses had transformed the infamous Sir Wolf into some sort of grotesque martyr in her eyes. Dread had become fascination, and an odious duty had been sugar-coated with adolescent infatuation. What could he say or do to make her hate him again, to remove the temptation before it wore him down?

He had intended to drop off Hogwood and the treasure at Nocare and go on to visit Grand Master’s sailor son by himself, but Athelgar had foiled him. Wolf happened to be in front, leading the packhorses, when he recognized the turnoff to Ivywalls from Grand Master’s directions. He took it.

“Where are you going?” Lynx shouted.

“To see a man who may be able to tell us where your ward went.”

“Who?”

“Baron Roland,” the inquisitor said.

Wolf turned to glare. She dead-fished back at him.

Lynx repeated,
“Who?”

Sir Durendal had been created Baron Roland of Waterby on the day he saved King Ambrose’s life in a fabled feat of arms. He had been promoted to earl when he became chancellor. Since he could not use both titles, his son was allowed to use the lesser one by courtesy, a favorite trick of the nobility. But how had the inquisitor known?

The way led over a gentle ridge into a snug valley, a haven of fruit
trees and well-drained, tidy fields. Countryside rarely looked fair in winter, but that did, combining clean lines of good maintenance with the ramshackle comfort of a place that has had a few centuries to settle into its role. Roland’s son might be “only” a farmer, but he was a good one. The house, when it came into view, was ancient, well-kempt, and impressive.

A chorus of barking announced the visitors’ approach. When they reined in at the steps, a bulky, white-haired worthy was already awaiting them between the pillars. He seemed too old to be the Baron and too dignified to be a servant. Dismounting, Wolf let his cloak fall away from his sword hilt. The watcher snapped his fingers and men came running from nowhere to take the horses. Had he given some other signal, no doubt the hands would have arrived with hounds and weapons. It was slickly done, suggesting that everything at Ivywalls would be slickly done.

Wolf offered Grand Master’s letter. “Wolf of the Guard to see the Baron if he is available.”

The old man acknowledged the seal with a smile that would have looked good on anybody’s grandfather. “His lordship is always happy to welcome Blades, Sir Wolf. I am Caplin, the butler. If you and your companions would be so kind as to come this way….”

Wolf offered Hogwood his arm and followed. He had no qualms at leaving the raiders’ treasure unattended, because she had warded the bags. Anyone trying to open them would receive a memorable surprise.

Their sodden outer garments were taken; they were shown into a snug library where a fire warmed the winter evening and glinted on shiny leather chairs. The paintings on the wall were tasteful yet intriguing. Rugs and tapestries looked exotic and non-Chivian, while the bronze statuette was classic Isilondian; yet everything was of such quality that nothing jarred. This was how the truly rich lived, those who could afford to be comfortable and did not need to flaunt their riches by adhering to the current fashion. Although none of the visitors was in uniform, the admirable Caplin was no doubt already explaining to his employer that a guardsman and a private Blade had come calling with an inquisitor.

Wolf said, “Hogwood, how did you know who we were coming to see?”

She turned from her study of the book titles, wearing her professional corpse mask. “A lucky guess, Sir Wolf.”

“Based on?”

“Lord Roland was evasive. He is beyond suspicion himself so he was protecting somebody else, and you cooperated with him, so the problem was probably trivial. A former Blade is unlikely to have family he cares about, other than children. You said we were coming to see a man, so I guessed an eldest son.”

“Standard inquisitorial sneakiness!”

“Thank you!” Her glee lit the room.

Lynx guffawed. “She has your measure, Wolfie.”

“She needs a good spanking.”

“Likes the kinky stuff, does she?”

“Wolf!” Hogwood took two strides to the fireplace and lifted down a small greenish carving. “Look at this!”

The men joined her. Grand Master had called it a “somewhat sinister-looking cat,” but it was only a kitten. Yet…was that a subtly malign look in its eye? Yes, this might be a very tricky feline when it grew up. The style was by now unmistakable.

“Which of you is Sir Wolf and how may I assist you?” The man in the doorway was no better dressed than his butler and not much less bulky, although he was carrying muscle, not fat. He seemed around forty, weathered and dark, not especially tall, but with a self-assurance that did not appreciate uninvited guests meddling with his possessions. He held Grand Master’s letter. Although he did not look like his father, Wolf recognized the glare.

He bowed. “I am Wolf, my lord. Your honored father sent me to ask you where you got this cat.”

The scowl darkened.

“May I present Inquisitor Hogwood…Sir Lynx of the Blades. We have ridden for four days to ask you this. My commission—”

Roland took the writ, raised his eyebrows at the royal seal, glanced over the text, then returned it with a half-bow. “My father is clearly
not the only one who holds you in high regard, Sir Wolf. How may I help you?”

Wolf held up the kitten.

The farmer’s laugh had a solid, trustworthy sound. “You were serious? Sigisa. Don’t tell my father, but I won it in a dice game in a tavern.”

Sigisa? That meant nothing. Wolf said, “Where—”

“But it came originally from Tlixilia.”

Hogwood said, “Oh, of
course
!” as if that explained everything.

T
he Hence Lands were discovered about forty years ago by some Distlish sailors blown far to the west by a storm….”

The Baron had suffered no argument—business could wait, the visitors would spend the night at Ivywalls, and his home would be honored by their presence. He offered every comfort, even dry clothes kept on hand for travelers, there being only so much that one could pile on a horse.

Wolf found himself bedecked in a burgundy brocade jerkin finer than anything he had ever worn. Later, enjoying a superb meal, and sipping seductive wine from a crystal goblet, he decided this was how all swordsmen should go adventuring. Hogwood shimmered in a jade silk gown belonging to Baroness Maud herself, who was an ivory figurine, gracious and aristocratic. Small children romped somewhere in the background in the care of servants.

Magnificently fed and dry for the first time in days, three grateful travelers settled down in the library with their host. A couple of their bags had been brought in and set down in a corner to reek of horse. The Baron swore the oath of secrecy without demur, knowing that he would learn nothing at all if he didn’t.

“Distlain,” he said, “managed to keep the discovery quiet for a few years, long enough for its men to establish that there were scores of islands
involved, some of them very large. Finding that the people there were defenseless against properly armed and trained soldiers, the Distliards claimed the territory for their king. Other nations learned what was happening and failed to see why King Diego should own all that territory. Distlain established bases in the area and tried to keep the rest of Eurania away by force. Times got exciting. They still are, from what I hear.”

Obviously he was enjoying a ray of excitement in the drab boredom of winter. “Once or twice, I even found myself fighting my King’s friends in the company of his foes. Baels, no less! Father never knew that, fortunately.”

He stopped to smile inquiringly at Hogwood. Men always smiled at her, but in this case she had indicated by a minute readjustment of an eyebrow that she wanted to ask a question.

“I’ve often wondered, my lord,” she said, “why Baels didn’t discover the Hence Lands first.”

“I’m sure they did. Many of the spices and dyestuffs they traded that were supposed to be from the distant east had really come from the west, but they kept the secret. The Hence Lands offer little for Baelish tastes, though. Most of the islands are small and have little or no water. When there are
naturales
on those, they’re starving primitives, living on fish and roots and any visitors they can get their hands on.” He chuckled heavily. “When they say you will stay for dinner, they really mean it. The Distliards take them for slaves, but the Baels never bothered. Slaves don’t travel well and Baelmark could always pick up better slaves closer to market.

“Then there’s the big islands, and some of them are enormous, bigger than Chivial. They’re jungly and mostly mountainous: Fradieno, Mazal, Condridad, and others. Their culture is primitive, better than the small islands had, but producing nothing worth stealing from a Baelish or Distlish point of view. The Distliards have colonized them, setting up plantations for cotton and spices and so on, none of which would have any appeal to a Bael. Baels don’t farm. The
naturales
still hold out in the interiors in many places, raiding the Distlish towns.

“Finally there’s the mainland. We had several names for it in my day,
but now it seems to be one big continent. Leastways, no one’s found a way around it yet. It has huge mountains near the coast in places. And it has real cities. The greatest of those is Tlixilia.”

Roland paused, studying the wine in his glass. “That’s properly the name of the imperial city, but it got applied to its empire, which includes many lesser cities, and sometimes people extend the name for the whole mainland. Now the Distliards have taken to calling the city itself El Dorado, the place of gold. It is reputedly bursting with gold and art and precious things, magnificent buildings. Those who have seen it rave about it, but they’re all
naturales
of one tribe or another. I don’t think any Euranian has seen Tlixilia City itself and returned to tell of it. The Distliards claimed sovereignty over El Dorado, too, and sent armed expeditions inland to explain to the Emperor that he was now King Diego’s vassal. The Tlixilians disagreed then and haven’t been convinced yet.”

“Good fighters?” Lynx asked, picking his teeth with a fingernail.

“Yes and no. I’ve never met them. From what I heard, they have no iron, no bronze, just gold, silver, and a little copper, so their weapons are edged with stone. They make armor from cotton padding, and it’s more effective in that climate than steel plate, but most of them scorn to wear it. They fight for odd reasons, in odd ways. They try not to kill their opponents. They prefer to take prisoners—for slaves, and also for food, because they have no cattle or other large livestock, and a man tires of beans. That hampers them, because it’s harder to overpower a man than it is to kill him. One-on-one in an equal contest, they’re fighters as fierce as any in the world, but put fifty Euranians against fifty Tlixilians with their own styles of fighting and the Euranians will win every time. Luckily the odds weren’t even. The
naturales
outnumbered the Distliards by a thousand to one, and blotted them. The Distliards regrouped and began organizing the Tlixilians’ local foes against them. Things started to get bloody.

“But the Tlixilians are still independent and the Distliards daren’t set foot on that part of the mainland. They maintain a few trading posts on offshore islands, notably Sigisa. That’s where I picked up the cat. It had come from the mainland, but I don’t know how—looting being more
likely than honest trade. Battle honors, perhaps. I got a gold lip stud the same way. Did Father mention that?”

“I saw it at Ironhall,” Wolf said. “A serpent.”

Roland nodded. “Mother had been a White Sister and detested that thing. She couldn’t say why, just that it was evil.”

“You haven’t mentioned Tlixilian conjury, my lord,” Hogwood said.

“Sir Wolf hasn’t asked me to.” He tempered the remark with another not-fatherly smile at her before looking to Wolf. “Relevant?”

“Very.”

“I’m no expert.” He pulled a face. “I do know it’s different from ours. It’s reputed to be extremely powerful, but that may be just the Distlish excuse for their battlefield disasters. Tlixilian conjuration is largely or entirely devoted to warfare, and it involves human sacrifice. All their conjurers belong to one or other of two great military orders. You ever heard of the
jaguara
?”