The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Read online

  “Sorry ’bout that. Vedic here has a little problem with the concept of property rights. He thinks other people’s property rightfully belongs to him.” The guard grinned at his own joke, but Irulan did not laugh.

  “If he makes a habit of robbing House Orien passengers, why is he still running around free?”

  The guard’s smile faded, and he tightened his grip on Vedic. The boy let out a yelp as the collar of his shirt constricted, squeezing a neck that did not, on second glance, look to be in any great need of a next meal.

  “Well, now … that’s the problem.” He nodded to another guard who had come down the stairs behind her. It was then that she realized the guard who held Vedic was wore the livery of Thrane, while the other wore House colors.

  “See, Vedic may have robbed you, but it was on House Orien property.” He pointed with his free hand at the boy’s feet, which were now firmly planted on Thrane soil, while her own boots still rested on the bottom step of the concourse, which belonged to House Orien. “And he’s in Thrane now, where, to our knowledge, he’s committed no crime.”

  She turned to the House Orien guard. “You know he’s guilty. Arrest him!”

  The guard shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t have jurisdiction off the concourse. If you’d care to file a claim, we can send it over to the Thrane guard and they’ll process it. If they determine it’s valid—”

  “If?”

  “—then they may release him back to our custody. Probably take a month, two months, for the whole process.”

  “Probably not worth your time,” the Thrane interjected, and Irulan wondered what sort of deal Vedic had with the guards, and how much of a percentage they made off the sale of his stolen goods.

  “Evidently not,” Irulan said, making no attempt to conceal her disgust. “I suppose I should thank the Flame that he didn’t cut me with that knife of his—I’d have bled to death before you two could work out whether I should be tended by a House Orien healer, or one from Thrane—let alone which one of you would have to punish him!”

  Not expecting a reply, Irulan turned her attention to her bag, pulling the drawstrings tight and tying them in a ranger’s knot. Then she upended the bag to see if it would hold. When nothing fell out, she turned toward Flamekeep once more.

  “Excuse me.”

  Irulan looked up at the House Orien guard, whose face was no longer friendly.

  “Yes?”

  “Your papers, please.”

  “Surely you can’t be serious. I was just robbed, and you’re asking me for my papers?”

  The guard held his hand out.

  Barely suppressing a growl, Irulan handed the leather folder over.

  He took several moments perusing the papers, partly because the wind kept threatening to tear them out of his hand, but he eventually determined that everything was in order. He reluctantly handed them back to her.

  “Thanks for traveling with House Orien. Maybe next time you might want to use House Lyrandar.” With that, the guard executed a smart turn and marched back up the stairs.

  Biting back a scathing reply, Irulan turned and stepped down into the dirt. The Thrane guard was still waiting, though Vedic had vanished.

  She knew what was coming.

  “Papers, please.”

  Snarling, she handed them over, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man’s eyes widen as he glanced at the papers, then at her left hand. She wiggled her fingers so the silver tip of her middle claw twinkled.

  The guard hastily returned the folder, his manner becoming much more solicitous.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize who you were.”

  Would it have made a difference? Irulan wanted to ask, but she held her peace.

  “We don’t often see descendants of Bennin Silverclaw here in Flamekeep. It’s quite an honor. Quite an honor.”

  Irulan managed a tight smile. “Thank you,” she replied with as much grace as she could muster, but all she really wanted to do was slap the obsequious look off the man’s face. On second thought, she might as well take advantage of his helpfulness while it lasted.

  “Perhaps you can help me. I’m here to speak to the Diet of Cardinals about a matter of some import concerning the shifters of Aruldusk.…”

  “You mean the murders?” The man nodded sagely, and Irulan stifled a curse. She should have known news of the killings would have preceded her, despite Bishop Maellas’s best attempts to keep details of the murders quiet—which of course meant that what the guard knew was likely a concoction of vague rumors and bardic embellishments. Fortunately, those rumors did not yet include Javi’s involvement, or the guard would likely have had a much different reaction to her name.

  “You’ll probably want to see Cardinal Riathan about that—no way you’re getting in to see the full Council, let alone the Diet, ’less you want to wait a month or more for an appointment—and that’s assuming they’ll even grant you one. ’Course, you may have to wait that long to see Riathan, too, though bein’ a Silverclaw, I’m guessing they’ll get you in right quick.”

  Irulan had her doubts about that, but she kept them to herself. She asked about an inn close to the Cathedral, since she was apparently going to be here a while.

  “You’ll want the Sellsword. Left on High Road. Big building, three stories, with a blank shield hanging out front. It’s a reputable place, despite the name. Owner’s a retired mercenary.”

  “Thank you,” Irulan said, dismissing the guard with a nod as she made to step around him—she wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a hotter bath, and the sooner she got out of this wind, the better. When the guard seemed disinclined to move, she suppressed a sigh and stuck out her hand, which the guard shook eagerly before stepping aside.

  “Enjoy your stay in Flamekeep.”

  Irulan grunted. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

  The proprietor of the Sellsword pointed her to a list of charges posted on the wall when she inquired about a room.

  “Second floor single, no view, five sovereigns per night, or three galifars a week. Second floor single, bridge view.…” As the heavily-muscled woman ran through the list, Irulan noticed that she was missing two fingers on her left hand and one on her right, and stood somewhat off-balance, possibly due to a poorly-fitted artificial leg. Even so, one look at the multitude of war trophies decorating the inn’s foyer, and Irulan was convinced that the old mercenary could take her down without so much as breaking a sweat.

  Captured standards from enemy regiments covered the walls. Though she’d never served in the War herself, Irulan recognized some of the more famous banners. The Black Wolves of Karrnath, the Cyre Home Guard, even a tattered gray flag emblazoned with the axe-cleft storm cloud of the Cloudreavers. Interspersed between the standards were weapons and armor from across Khorvaire, and beyond—a Valenar double scimitar, a Talenta sharrash, a darkleaf breastplate, and other, more exotic things Irulan had never seen before, like a three-pronged boomerang. Most of the weapons—and even some of the armor—bore dark stains that Irulan could only assume came from their former owners.

  “… and baths are a sovereign a tub.”

  Irulan tore her attention away from the walls and glanced at the sheet. Judging by the prices, the guard had sent her to one of the most expensive inns in Flamekeep, and a week’s stay in even the cheapest room was going to use up all her coin. But the next closest place to stay was halfway around the Cathedral Cliffs, and she had no guarantee their prices would be any better. Sighing, she booked a single in the back of the inn for three nights, and prayed to the Flame that she’d need no more than that.

  “I’m going to be visiting the Cathedral tomorrow, and I was wondering—”

  “You’re a pilgrim, then? Why didn’t you say so? The Purified always get a discount at the Sellsword.”

  The Purified. Irulan had always hated that name for followers of the Flame. Very few of them were all that pure, and the phrase was too often used to imply homogeny, as if being different
somehow made you less pure or faithful in your devotion—a dangerous line of thinking, especially if you happened to live in a shifter camp on the outskirts of a city whose populace didn’t particularly want you there.

  The proprietor—or proprietress, Norah Hetrion, as the sheet named her—was looking at her expectantly.

  “Um, yes … a pilgrim. That’s right.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She would no doubt be spending a lot of time in the Cathedral praying, just not quite in the way Norah envisioned. Most pilgrims probably didn’t offer up fervent prayers that the Flame would keep them from clawing out the eyes of the next pompous Church official to cross their path, which is exactly what she expected to be doing tomorrow. Still, if it saved her money, she’d wear that humble mantle, at least for now.

  “Excellent! That will bring your total to twelve sovereigns. Half in advance.”

  Irulan handed the coins over, pleased to discover she would now have money for both a meal and a private bath. Perhaps she would enjoy her stay in Flamekeep, after all.

  Two days later, after a second morning spent sitting idly outside Cardinal Riathan’s office waiting to be “squeezed in” between appointments, Irulan decided that, no, she was not actually enjoying herself very much at all. But it was either that, or, as the rail guard had predicted, wait another three weeks to get on the Cardinal’s calendar. And who knew how many other shifters might have joined Javi in shackles by then? If Javi was even still in shackles, and not hanging from a set of hastily-constructed gallows.…

  No. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d get help from Flamekeep, or she wouldn’t, but either way, she wasn’t going to let her brother die for a crime he didn’t commit.

  With some effort, she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Set high up in one of the many towers flanking the Cathedral’s narthex, Cardinal Riathan’s office suite was richly decorated with fine furniture, exotic plants, religious statuary, and sumptuous paintings, including a rather large portrait hung over the fireplace that dominated the small reception area. Irulan examined the Cardinal’s smiling face for what must have been the hundredth time. Wisps of white hair escaped from beneath his silver cap, while blue eyes sparkled with a merriment that she doubted was the product of artistic license. Worry lines furrowed the prelate’s wide brow, but the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth were much deeper, and it seemed clear Riathan was a jovial man, an assessment that the laughter occasionally ringing out from behind the wide door leading to his office only confirmed.

  A bespectacled gnome shuffled papers at a livewood desk that guarded the door to the Cardinal’s inner sanctum. Branches sprouting from the living green wood of the desk had been coaxed into loose baskets that overflowed with even more papers. A small everbright lantern perched atop one of the desk’s thicker limbs that was growing upwards toward the room’s single high window. Judging from the orange light that leaked in through the glass, early afternoon was giving way to late, with no end to her waiting in sight. Irulan had just resigned herself to another day of camping out on the Cardinal’s plush carpet when his office door banged open and an angry-looking priest stormed out, giving her a disdainful glance as he passed. The gnome glanced up at her from behind violet-tinted lenses.

  “The Cardinal will see you now.”

  Surprised, Irulan hastily stood, patting the small packet in her pouch, as if trying to reassure herself it was still there. She pushed stray braids behind her ears and vainly tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her pants. There was nothing to be done about the dirt on her sandals. Feeling naked without her weapons—one did not enter a Cathedral armed—she took a deep breath to steady herself and then hurried through the open door before the Cardinal changed his mind about seeing her.

  Riathan’s office was a study in organized clutter. Shelves filled with books and scrolls lined two walls, and two of the three chairs facing his oversized desk were piled high with folders. The Cardinal himself sat in an equally oversized chair behind the desk, its dark leather in sharp contrast with his white robes. While the outer office was designed to impress, this room was sparse by comparison, its only ornamentations a single tapestry and a small silver statuette of Tira Miron that was currently being used as a paperweight.

  As Irulan entered, Cardinal Riathan waved toward the open chair, not looking up from the scroll he was writing on. She sat on the edge of the seat, feeling like a youngling about to be schooled by the clan elders.

  The Cardinal scribbled furiously without speaking for several long moments, and Irulan took the opportunity to examine his office more closely. His desk was set against the northern wall, beneath the room’s lone tapestry, which acted in lieu of a window. The hanging depicted the view from one of the east-facing towers, with the narrow gray spires of Thalingard overshadowing the city of Flamekeep as it spilled down the cliffs toward the docks. An interesting choice, given that most members of the Church’s hierarchy would like to see the ancient seat of Thrane’s former monarchs razed to the ground.

  A small door in the eastern wall probably led to a bedchamber and privy. Everbright lanterns floated about the room, more than making up for the absence of natural lighting. Books lined his many shelves, and Irulan found she recognized some of the titles. Her father had owned many of these same tomes, and had required her to read more than a few of them. Thinking of her scholarly father brought a small smile to her lips, but she bit it back and turned her attention to studying the Cardinal.

  Riathan was a not a small man, though he was dwarfed by his over-large furniture. No doubt a tactic meant to ensure visitors would underestimate the smiling prelate, but Irulan had no intention of doing so. While the Cardinal was known for his sympathy toward shifters, Irulan knew she couldn’t count on that to guarantee Javi’s release. She would have to convince him of her brother’s innocence, and treating him like the friendly old priest he pretended to be was not the way to do it.

  The Cardinal finished writing and set his quill aside. He sat back in his chair and gazed at Irulan with eyes that held no hint of merriment. Under his assessing gaze, she unconsciously straightened her back and raised her chin.

  “Irulan Silverclaw, daughter of the learned druid Drego, son of Melak ‘the Broken,’ son of Rave of the Silver Quill, son of Bennin, possibly the greatest shifter hero in the history of Khorvaire. To what do I owe this honor?”

  Irulan’s nose twitched. He knew exactly why she was here.

  He was baiting her.

  What choice did she have? She bit.

  “Your Eminence,” Irulan replied, inclining her head slightly. “I’m honored that you know of my humble origins. It is on behalf of my family that I have come.”

  A tic was forming at the corner of Riathan’s mouth.

  “Continue.”

  “Your Eminence, no doubt you are aware of the terrible events that have occurred in Aruldusk over the past months?” At his nod, she continued. “His Excellency, the Most Reverend Bishop Maellas, in his great wisdom, believes that the murderers are shifters.”

  She paused then, not for effect, but because the words had congealed on her tongue, like old grease. Or blood.

  “One of those shifters is my brother, Javi.”

  “Ah,” the Cardinal said, unsurprised. “And, you, naturally, believe your brother is innocent?”

  “Of course he’s innocent,” she responded, then caught herself. Giving into her anger would not do her—or Javi—any good. “My brother is incapable of that kind of violence, Your Eminence, let alone the viciousness required for such a heinous act.”

  “Ah,” Riathan said again noncommittally. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you have any proof of your brother’s innocence? An alibi, perhaps?”

  Irulan clicked her claws together impatiently. “It was the last day of Brightfest, Your Eminence.”

  The Cardinal paused, blue eyes narrowing. Brightfest was one of the most beloved of shifter holidays, and he knew as well as she did that every shifter in Aruldusk would have been
outside the city walls, celebrating long into the night. Except Javi, who had apparently started early.

  “Yes. Well, as I understand it, your brother was discovered passed out behind a tavern only a few streets away from where the mutilated body of Zodal ir’Marktaros was later found. With blood on his face, and his clothes—”

  “He’d been drinking and gotten in a brawl. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

  “—and he himself could not remember his whereabouts at the time of the murder.”

  “Because he was drunk. Your Eminence, please. He’s being framed!”

  Riathan did look surprised at that. He sat back, blinking.

  “By the Bishop?” he asked. “For what possible reason?”

  Irulan bit back her first response, then said carefully, “Not everyone in the Church looks as kindly on shifters as you do, Your Eminence.”

  She’d overplayed her hand. Riathan’s eyes grew icy.

  “How dare you? The only reason I even agreed to see you was in deference to your heritage, but your implications are outrageous, and very nearly bordering on heresy. Bishop Maellas has served the Church faithfully for almost two hundred years. He renounced the false teachings of the Undying Court—one of the few elves of Aerenal ever brave enough to do so—and turned his heart to the Flame while Bennin was still a pup. His holiness and wisdom have earned him a place on our highest council many times over, but he refuses the honor out of a deep sense of his own humility. If Maellas believes shifters are to blame for the murders in Aruldusk, the Council of Cardinals will not gainsay him. I’m afraid your trip has been a waste of time.”

  He stood, forcing Irulan to stand as well, then held out his ring for her to kiss. The meeting was over.

  It was only once she was outside in the corridor, with the gnome locking the door to the suite behind her, that she realized she hadn’t shown him the contents of the packet.