Wolf Hunting (54 page)

Another difference between these Once Dead and the maimalodalum was less obvious, yet once Plik noted it, it was so striking that the physical deformities vanished to unimportance in contrast. The maimalodalum were all too aware of their difference from any other creatures that walked the earth. They were neither humans nor beasts, but combinations born of unwilling blendings forced one upon the other. Aware of their heritage, the maimalodalum shied from contact with other peoples, keeping to themselves with an inherited sense of shame.

These Once Dead possessed none of that shame. Indeed, their arrogant self-confidence was so strong that it permeated the closed air of the chamber with a rank scent. Whatever their original tales, the Once Dead were all bound into a new one. They had defeated a plague that had slain many before them. Though they had been wounded and bore the scars from that battle, they had come through with what mattered most to them still intact.

Plik shivered. He understood for the first time something of what haunted Tiniel. The youth not only mourned the loss of his magic, but suffered under the onus of being forever assigned to the second rank—at least in the view of these Once Dead whose attitude said before they had spoken a single syllable that they considered that their successful battle against querinalo had made them the rightful rulers of all they could reach.

And now, thanks to an old gate and a pair of twins with more dreams than sense, the Once Dead could reach the New World and all those whom Plik treasured. This thought chased the shivers from his bones. Here and now he was the sole defender of his homeland. If he could make the New World seem unattractive or not worth the effort to explore, he must do so.

Defiance cradled in his soul, Plik awaited the first question.

His interrogators were five. They sat in a semicircle at one end of a long, narrow room. The other Once Dead, some couple dozen, sat on risers on either side. Plik and the twins were kept standing in the area between.

No routine questions were asked. No one bothered asking Plik’s name or after his health. Apparently, they already knew the answers to these questions. Doubtless, the twins and the doctor had been reporting on a regular basis.

Or maybe the Once Dead simply didn’t care.

The interrogators were two women, three men. None of them apparently spoke Liglimosh—although Plik wondered about one man, who looked rather like a Liglim. Plik noted that Isende translated for the women, Tiniel for the men. They did this without prompting, so presumably they had received instructions before this. Plik wondered at the twins’ ability to translate so freely, but then they had been in these people’s keeping for moonspans, and the young did learn languages more easily, or so he had heard.

A skeletally lean woman with skin so brown it was almost black and hair like wool, twisted into long ropes, spoke first. She fired out a list of questions almost without waiting for the answers.

“When you came to the twins’ stronghold, did you know about the gate?”

“No.”

“Why did you come?”

“We were looking for the twins.”

“Why?”

“We had heard of their powers.”

“Why did this interest you?”

Plik had thought about how he might best answer this question. He didn’t know how much the Once Dead had spied on them. He did not think he should tell them the full story. If these reacted to the idea of the Meddler with the same fear and fury that Harjeedian had, Plik didn’t like to think about the consequences.

“Our group consists of misfits,” Plik temporized. “We sought others like ourselves.”

“This despite the fact that, as the twins tell it, all the New World hates and despises magic?”

“Just so.”

The man who looked as if he might be from Liglim spoke next—or rather he didn’t speak, but moved his hands in the air in elaborate patterns. Tiniel translated as if the man had spoken in words.

“What manner of creature are you?”

“I am called a maimalodalu.”

“Are you a natural creature?”

Plik felt a pang of pain. “My mother bore me as mothers do.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him.”

“And your mother’s mother and your mother’s father, back through the generations. Where were you formed?”

“I was formed by magic,” Plik said bitterly, “or rather my mother was. ‘Deformed’ she would say, by one who sought to steal her shape for his own.”

“But he did not succeed,” the man said in an agitated waving of hands.

“He did not,” Plik replied, and he knew there was pride in his voice.

The man stood and came around the edge of the table behind which the committee sat. To Plik’s horror, he held a knife in his hand.

“Hold still,” the man said, and Tiniel’s translation gave the waving of the knife-holding hand sharpness and authority. “I am curious as to the structure of your features. The fur gets in the way of clear examination.”

Plik stumbled back a step, uncertain as to whether the man meant to skin him then and there.

“Hold still!” the man ordered again. “I’m only going to shave off a bit of your fur.”

Plik tried to turn and run, but the guard Wort had appeared from out of the watching group gathered along the wall. He grasped Plik firmly, pinning his arms. Wort smelled of a seafood stew, dark bread, and bitter beer.

“Hold still,” Wort said to Plik. “They’ll have their way in the end. Don’t make it worse.”

To the Once Dead who stood there knife in hand, blade held at an angle, Wort said something in another language.

“I told him he might want to use at least water, if not soap, if he wants to clean shave. They’re sending for it.”

Plik realized he was trembling. Acid rushed up the back of his throat, sour and bitter. He thought he might vomit. His world was restricted to the robes of the Once Dead before him and the scent and warmth of Wort behind him. Into this intruded the anomalous perfume of soap and roses.

“They’re being gentle,” Wort said. “Try and stop trembling or you’re sure to get cut.”

Plik tried, but his limbs shook despite his best efforts. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not knowing where the knife was made it worse. He opened his eyes and squeaked in terror at a glint of shiny metal directly beneath his eye. Had Wort not held him so tightly, Plik might have been badly cut. As it was, the knife glided smoothly over his skin, and he felt only the slightest tugging as the fur beneath his eyes fell away. The shaving continued over Plik’s cheek and along his jaw.

The Once Dead spoke, and Tiniel’s voice translated: “The fur masks how very human the features are. No wonder the creature can speak intelligibly. Whatever directed his mutation was careful to preserve certain advantages.”

The Once Dead stepped back, and Wort relaxed his grip just a touch.

“Can you stand?” the guard murmured.

Plik nodded stiffly, but he was sorry when Wort’s support was withdrawn. He felt his isolation all the more for this moment of solidarity.

The other woman, her hair silky black, her eyes long rather than round, her wide mouth dominating her features, one sleeve hanging limp and empty off her shoulder, spoke in a voice that managed to be both deep and musical, yet somehow reminiscent of the peeping of newly hatched chicks.

“We know you had magic before you died to querinalo. Are all maimalodalum magical?”

Plik shrugged, resisting the urge to raise a hand and touch the shaven portion of his face. “I did not know I was magical until I came here and the querinalo made me ill.”

This caused a great deal of discussion, but none of it was translated for Plik.

A runner departed. When she returned, Zebel, the doctor who had treated Plik, was with her. He was bombarded with a great number of questions, and answered politely but not meekly. Twice Dead he might be, but apparently his skills gave him some status.

Plik had no idea what was being said, and neither of the twins offered explanation. They offered nothing, in fact, but prompt translation. Even Isende refrained from the small kindnesses that were usual for her. She stood still as the crystal statuette the Meddler had carved of her, moving only to breathe and translate. Even the automatic blinking of her eyes seemed stiff and rhythmic, as if she moved only when she must.

The twins must be terrified,
Plik thought.
Both for
themselves, and perhaps a little for me. I must be careful not to say anything that would bring harm to them.

Before Zebel was dismissed, he made a final, uninvited statement. The content of this statement Plik could guess at, for soon after a slat-backed chair was brought for him. The legs were too long for his feet to reach the ground, but he hoisted himself up onto the hard wooden seat and relaxed against the back with real gratitude.

Another of the men on the committee took over the interrogation. This one was pink-skinned and hairless. He had been gifted by birth with a build that should have been powerful, but despite his size and musculature the man reminded Plik of a deflated bladder.

“We know your companions are seeking you. Do you believe they will persist?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about them. Start with the woman who is so frequently accompanied by the wolf.”

The memory of the knife against his face was very fresh, and so Plik obeyed, but even in his obedience he tried to reserve some information.

He was careful not to lie outright because he didn’t know just how much spying had been done, but he reserved what he could. He said nothing of Firekeeper’s ability to speak with Beasts, but didn’t deny her fighting ability. One by one his interrogator asked about Derian, Harjeedian, the ravens, and Truth. With each, Plik tried to keep something secret. From the questions, he gathered that the Once Dead had spied upon them, but that the spying had been distant and somewhat lacking in detail.

Interestingly, Plik’s newest interrogator asked nothing about Eshinarvash, so in turn Plik offered nothing. If the Once Dead’s experience had been restricted to the local yarimaimalom, there might not have been Wise Horses among them.

At last the questions ended, and Plik thought he might be permitted to go back to his bed. The Once Dead who sat around the edges of the room were shifting as if they expected the meeting to be dismissed, but a voice broke the expectant silence, echoed by Tiniel’s a moment later.

“I am not satisfied,” the final member of the committee said. His voice was light and clear, and sounded like a woman’s. Plik thought he knew what this one must have sacrificed to keep his magic. “The creature has not told us enough to explain everything we have seen.”

“Perhaps,” said the emaciated woman, twisting one of her woolly locks around a finger, “we have not asked the right questions.”

“Make him tell us what we do not know,” said the man who spoke with his hands.

“We might be here all night,” the long-eyed woman said with a laugh, “and our translators will not last much longer.”

“This will not matter,” the final member said, “if we make his blood talk for him.”

The room grew very still, and Plik scented anticipation mingled with dread.

“That will take time to prepare,” said the man who spoke with a fluttering of hands, “and the doctor has warned us that the creature is not yet strong.”

“Tomorrow then,” the man said, resignation evident in his light voice even before Tiniel translated.

Plik sensed that he had narrowly escaped something very unpleasant. Relief broke through and swept away his waning strength, leaving him to sag limp in his chair. As from a distance, he heard the sounds of the meeting breaking up. Only after the Once Dead had left the room did Tiniel and Isende stir. Wort came over and lifted Plik from the chair without a comment, motioning for the twins to follow with a jerk of his head.

Wort carried Plik back to his cottage. Plik managed to say a few words of thanks, then collapsed into sleep. When he awoke, Isende was waiting beside his bed, working on some knitting. Late-afternoon sunlight was evident without. As the interrogation by the council had been in the morning, Plik realized that he had been truly exhausted by even that limited exertion.

Thick pease porridge and brown bread refreshed him, and he decided to ask Isende for her impressions of the session.

“I think they were trying to learn as much as they could about my friends,” Plik said, “but do you think they mean to go after them or are they simply preparing in case my friends come here?”

“What do I think?” Isende replied. “I don’t know. You see, I don’t remember any of it.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember.”

Isende looked up from her knitting, meeting his gaze for the first time since he had awakened, the warm brown of her eyes filled with anguish.

“It’s like they took me over. I don’t remember a single moment of that meeting after Tiniel and I went in to report your arrival, not a single thing.”

XXVI

MIDDAY HAD COME AND GONE by the time Harjeedian finished interviewing the four who had come through the gate. Now the prisoners were locked in separate sections of the stronghold, guarded by unseen ravens, the dark birds shadows hiding within the broken masonry or peering through breaks in the floorboards.

This left the remainder of the company free to hear Harjeedian’s summation of what he had learned. Firekeeper had already reported on what they had been told by Onion and Half-Ear. Now she settled on the floor, one arm around Blind Seer, watching as Harjeedian shifted stacks of paper into order.

“First, and most importantly,” the aridisdu began, “the prisoners do not expect anyone to miss them until sometime the middle of tomorrow—and even more time could pass before any on the other side would actually worry. This matches well with what the Meddler has already told us.”

Harjeedian looked unhappy at having to take the Meddler’s word for anything, but he was too intelligent to discard information for no other reason than that he did not like the source.

Firekeeper wondered if Harjeedian might have been heartened by the low growl that rose involuntarily in Blind Seer’s throat at the mention of the Meddler. She wasn’t about to ask. That would raise too many questions she had been deliberately avoiding even within the privacy of her own thought. She wasn’t sure if she liked the Meddler, but there was something about him that drew her … well, that interested her, at least.