The Jaguar Knights (23 page)

“And that’s only a start,” she said. “There may be
hundreds
of new things we could learn. Let the horrible Distliards have the gold from El Dorado, I’ll take their spell books.”

Marketing and production problems both. “Listen, my beloved. According to the Baron, the Tlixilians use beating human hearts in their conjury. Parliament may disapprove if you try to introduce this practice into Chivial.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t!” she said. “Sacrifices shouldn’t be necessary. Grand Inquisitor saw that. The eight elements are universal. The Tlixilians are summoning the spirits in a different way, that’s all. What we want to learn is how they control and direct the elementals after they’re assembled. Tlixilians have glass swords, we have steel, but they’re both swords.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“And what did you mean,” his bride said indignantly, “about
me
leading?
You
will lead!”

“You’re a trained inquisitor, I’m not.” Wolf knew he would lose this argument. She was much too proud of her brand-new husband to risk slighting him in her friends’ eyes by taking away any of his manly authority. It would be easier for him to keep the title and then just do whatever she suggested.

Later still, when there seemed to be no chance of any sleep at all, he said, “Tell me about Flicker.”

She shrugged in his arms. “One of the boys I grew up with. Why?”

“Why is he called Flicker?”

“He’s so fast on his feet.”

And quiet on them. “He has a doctorate in sprinting?”

“No! He’s an incredible all-rounder. He was first in line for the Tlixilia mission. Even if I’m a grade or two ahead of him now, he’s much more likely to become Grand Inquisitor one day than I am.”

“Does he have chips on his shoulders?”

“One or two, maybe. Why?”

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Dolores snickered all over. “Flicker? Don’t worry about Flicker, beloved! We grew up together. There were six in our pod at Waltham—Bert, Spat, Kate, Quin, Flicker, and me. We shared a room until we were twelve. He’s like a brother to me. Girls are not interested in their brothers!”

Wolf kissed her to change the subject. She might look on Flicker as a brother but Flicker did not look at her the way boys looked at sisters. At least one of his chips had a new name on it now. No matter! The newlyweds would soon be far away, seeking their fortune.

F
irst let’s discuss my wife’s rank,” Wolf said. “She was promised a promotion of three grades if she completed the Quondam mission successfully, so why did you only give her two?”

The Gruesome Twosome were four glassy eyes on the other side of a paper-littered table, and last night’s camaraderie had gone with the morning dew. They occupied the only two seats in the room. Left-hand had just asked if Sir Wolf and Lady Attewell accepted the Sigisa posting.

“That offer was not explicit,” said Right, “and she did not complete the mission successfully, because she did not question Sir Lynx’s obsession with the jaguar plaque. Also, had she enlisted you as instructed, you would be more respectful now.”

“Blades give respect where it is due,” Wolf retorted. They also resented attempts at intimidation. “I will accept the mission provided Dolores is put in command. She is trained to the work. I am an
outsider—helpers you call us, I understand. She must be in charge.” They had argued this problem half the night, and Dolores had only grudgingly agreed that he could put the matter to Grand Inquisitor.

“When the two of you went to Ironhall,” Left said, “you told her to pretend that she was in charge and you were her tame thug. When she asked why, you evaded the question. But His Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry often appoints a nominal leader to distract the opposition and attend to time-wasting ceremonials so the real head can observe undisturbed from the sidelines. You learned this technique from us in the field, did you not?”

“I…well, yes.”

“We did not expect,” Right continued, “that we would have to stoop to spelling out that arrangement in this case, when the need for it is so obvious.”

Lady Attewell emitted a small snigger.

“On that basis,” Wolf said, “we are both happy to accept the posting to Tlixilia.”

“Good. Dolores, you are promoted to third grade effective when you sail.”

“Now go to Edgewyrd and the bats.”

“And in future stop your helper from wasting our time.”

Two heads bent in unison as they returned to their paperwork.

“Edgewyrd!
Edgewyrd!
”

Dolores bubbled with excitement as she led the way through the embrangled Dark Chamber warren. Like any Blade, Wolf hated not knowing where he was, and Number Thirteen had spread outward from the original building of that name, malignantly invading its neighbors. He was constantly being introduced to new people, all of whom hailed his wife with joy and felicitations on her marriage, making him feel like a new gown being shown off, but she was obviously well loved in this bizarre outsized family, and for that he was happy. He felt that only his grip on her hand kept her feet on the floor.

“Where is Edgewyrd?” he asked when they had a moment alone.

“Not
where,
love.
Who!
Edgewyrd is our chief strategist! A logistical genius! Only the very
biggest
missions merit Edgewyrd’s attention.” She peered at him and laughed. “You’re not upset just because the old grumpies snapped at you, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“They do that to everyone! It means you’re accepted!”

“It’s all right! I’ve been gnawed on by experts.”

“Well, what’s wrong, then? Aren’t you excited about this marvelous honeymoon they’re giving us?”

Cannibals? Jungle? Ships? “I’m suffering from lack of sleep. I haven’t slept in five years and you didn’t give me a moment’s peace all night, you sex-crazed wanton.”

“Me?”
his bride squealed. “
You
call
me
wanton, you insatiable satyr, you lecherous glutton? You debauched…er…”

“Innocent?”

So they played. He was humoring her, not wanting to burst her bubble of happiness. She did not seem to realize that Baron Roland had painted the joys of ocean travel in all the wrong colors and a voyage to the Hence Lands would be a long and perilous torment. Wolf looked on the dark side of everything and she saw only the bright. Perhaps that made them a better team.

They arrived at a small room packed with papers and documents in baskets and boxes, overflowing shelves and tables, stacked on the floor. A staunch woman of around forty was hunting for something in this abundance. She straightened up with a guard dog’s forbidding frown, changing it into yet another cry of joy and a motherly, all-enveloping hug for the bride. When that was over, Wolf was presented. Her name was Belinda Beresford.

“You are indeed a fortunate man, Sir Wolf.”

He made his usual response about being aware of that.

Eventually she gestured to a door in the corner. “You are expected.”

They had arrived at the celebrated Edgewyrd. Dolores’s tribute had suggested something between a poison-fang monster spinning webs in a cellar and a mousy clerk with thick glasses. Yet now she led the way into a shabby little parlor, stuffy and poorly lit, where a tiny woman
sat humped before a crackling fire—hairless, wrinkled, skeletal, swathed in a rug and a shawl. She looked likely to crumble into dust at any moment. Dolores dropped to her knees on the hearth rug and very gently clasped one of the spotted and knotted hands.

“Grandmother! They tell me you have not been well.”

The other hand found hers. “I have not been well since before you were born, child.” Her voice was softer than sea mist. “The man I smell must be your husband. Tell him to shut the door. I told them you were wasted on a killer.”

The old crone nodded to the fireplace when Wolf was introduced, but did not offer fingers to be shaken or kissed. She was blind, although evidently not deaf enough to have missed his voice talking to Belinda.

“Be seated,” she whispered. “We have much to do and little time.” She carried on talking almost inaudibly even as he fetched two waiting chairs, putting them as close to the fire as he thought he could bear. “You will be writing to Grand Master to report your dismissal from the Guard, Sir Wolf.”

“Well, no. Leader, that is, Commander Vicious, normally mentions—”

“You will write. You need twenty swords within three weeks.”

Wolf opened and then closed his mouth, noting his wife grinning as if she understood, which he certainly did not.

“Without the jeweled pommel, of course,” the ancient said. “Have them delivered to Cranton in Brimiarde. The gift of tongues—”

“Who? Wait! Why do I need twenty swords? And who is…”

Dolores pinched him hard, shaking her head. One must not interrupt the oracle.

“As samples,” the crone whispered. “Enough to fill a chest and impress. You are a gentleman adventurer taking orders for arms. He is capable of that simple personation?”

“He’ll make a very good gentleman adventurer,” Dolores said loyally, grinning sideways at him.

“Ironhall swords are the world’s best, are they not?”

“Yes they are, but…” Wolf began to explain that cat’s-eye swords were limited to Blades, and even for them were merely a heriot, returnable at death. If the King himself could not give one away to a foreign
monarch, how could Wolf persuade Grand Master to break the law in his case? Tell him he was on His Majesty’s service but His Majesty mustn’t know of it?

Ignoring him, Edgewyrd continued mumbling. “…many of the originals have not been translated from the Distlish. Is he a quick study?”

“Not by your standards, mistress.” Wolf wished he had brought a slate to take notes. His wife would have to remember all this for him.

“He’s smarter than the average Blade,” Dolores said loyally, turning pink with the effort of not laughing aloud. She put a finger to her lips.

“I should hope so.” The ghostly whisper continued relentlessly: “I need to hear drafts of your contract and commission by this time tomorrow. Oh, this isn’t going to work, child! Time is so short and you have so much to do. Grand Inquisitor truly put him in charge? Not just as figurehead?”

“They did.” Dolores winked at Wolf.

Edgewyrd grunted angrily. “Then direct him as much as you can. At least make him curb his lusts until the voyage. He’s far too old to learn swift reading, truth-sounding, or eidetic recall, so choose a team with those skills. You are wonderfully talented, but you can’t do it all yourself. See he’s given the basics of brawl and applied conjuration, and of course talks to the bats, so he has some idea what you’re supposed to be doing. Unless he’s exceptionally stupid he may be able to pick up some of the minor adjuncts, like ciphering, narcotizing, sign talk, pocket picking, forging, even personation if he’s deceitful enough. Remember you must all take a course in medicine, because there may be no octograms in Tlixilia. Pack an adequate supply of simples and potions. Make sure he understands the climate and travel hardships before he starts requisitioning gear. The sooner you open negotiations on finance with the bursar the better, but not until you’ve decided how long you will be gone, of course. The
Glorious
hopes to sail in the middle of Thirdmoon.” She paused to catch her breath.

“Just a moment!” Wolf said. “How many people are we taking with us? How long are we going for? How are we going to travel? How—”

Dolores poked him hard in the ribs.

The dry-leaf voice rustled again. “Blade, I told you! I expect you to tell me all that tomorrow morning.” She sighed. “You do not seriously expect this to work, my dear? I will try again to talk Grand Inquisitor into sending Louis instead. You’d really be much safer without this outsider blundering around, shouting orders about things he doesn’t understand, upsetting people.”

“I have watched Sir Wolf in action and am confident he will do a wonderful job.” Dolores’s tone was firm but her glances at Wolf were begging him not to take offense at the old woman’s spite. He grinned back reassuringly.

When the ordeal ended and they emerged into cooler air and a now-deserted corridor, he pulled her into a corner for a reassuring hug. “So we write our own orders and submit them for approval?”

“Sometimes we bid for missions: several agents submit plans and Grand Inquisitor chooses one.”

“Love, I probably know more about inquisitors than any other Blade does, but I never heard of that! What else have I got to learn?” It was still disconcerting to embrace a woman whose eyes were level with his.

She kissed the remains of his nose. “Lots! I used to discuss this with Sir Intrepid when he coached us in conjuration. Ironhall teaches cooperation, yes? Since you cannot be bound until everyone ahead of you is bound, you try to help the slower ones along, not do them down.”

“That helps the team spirit. Besides, teaching is a good way of learning!”

“In fencing, perhaps. But we’re encouraged from babyhood to compete, so we all become fiercely ambitious. When we’re too young to have achieved anything, we brag about our skills instead. We’re always trying to learn something new, even if it is part of the standard curriculum. Do boys at Ironhall ever boast that they’ve won medals for dancing? Or that they will be Leader one day?”

“Whatever for? Being Leader is just paperwork all night and too much King all day.”

“Different rules, love. Come along, we have to meet with the bats.”

He had already established that the bats were the Dark Chamber’s political analysts, a coven of Masters of Protocol. It was their job to know where all the world’s bones were buried.

As they walked hand-in-hand he said, “Where do I find these new rules?”

“They aren’t written anywhere. We learn them in childhood, like walking. As a helper, you’ll always have some leeway.”

“How often are helpers put in charge of major missions?” Obviously that had been the root of Edgewyrd’s complaint.

“Oh, helpers do all sorts of things.”