The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Read online

  When she’d been brought to Riathan’s office, a young boy in livery had led her through the twisting corridors and up several flights of stairs, but he was long gone. Irulan thought she remembered the path they’d taken well enough, but after three sets of stairs, and twice that many hallways, she appeared to be nowhere near the Cathedral narthex. Apparently few of the Cardinals worked past the third bell, for the halls were remarkably quiet, without even the expected scurry of overworked servants’ feet against the silver-veined black marble. Perhaps there was some religious ceremony occurring elsewhere in the city that had called most of the Cathedral’s inhabitant’s away. Or perhaps they were all off somewhere, observing their evening prayers.

  Or perhaps, she mused, she was hopelessly lost in part of the Cathedral where she wasn’t really supposed to be.

  And then she rounded a corner and came face to face with a six-legged beast the size of a small pony, and all such thoughts fled.

  The creature reared up on its massive hind legs, balancing on a thick tail as it prepared to gore her with its four cruelly curving horns. Knowing she had no time to calm the creature, and that trying to outrun it would be futile, Irulan dropped into a defensive crouch and shifted, feeling the blood of her ancient wolf forebears course through her veins. Her claws thickened, lengthened, becoming like twenty razor-sharp knives that responded to her every thought. Her awareness expanded and her nostrils filled with the musky scent of her prey. She smiled and beckoned to the creature, glad to finally have a release for her building rage.

  “Come on, then, you crooked ratspawn. Let’s play.”

  Chapter

  TWO

  Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK

  Be brief, as the Queen has just returned from Silvercliff Castle and her schedule is very …”

  Zoden ir’Marktaros nodded at the aide’s incessant chatter as they hurried d own a long carpeted hallway, smiling and raising his eyebrows at intervals to give the appearance of attention while he rubbed at the stubble on his chin and wished again that he’d remembered to shave. He’d actually stopped listening to her some time ago when she began instructing him on the precise angle his body should make when he bowed in order not to offend her Majesty’s delicate sensibilities, exactly how far from the ground the feather on his hat should be when he doffed it, and how many seconds he should hold the pose after she invited him to rise, all based on his assessment of her mood from the fleeting glimpse he would have of her before he performed the complicated obeisance.

  Moons above! She was just a woman, after all, and Zoden was quite well-versed in the arts of massaging feminine egos—and other things, as well. He certainly didn’t need some babbling halfling girl—cute as she was—tutoring him on the subject.

  They reached a set of double doors flanked by guards in the old livery of Thrane, a black wyvern on a purple background, which had now become Queen Diani’s personal crest. The halfling, Chodea, stopped and turned to him. She eyed him critically for a moment, then beckoned for him to bend down. When he did, she reached out to straighten the collar of his scarlet cloak, brushed loose strands of blonde hair off his shoulder and fluffed the peacock feather sprouting from his hatband, which had, he must admit, seen better days. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, so he could smell the thrakel spices on her breath. Her chatty voice and breezy smile had been replaced by ice.

  “If you’ve listened to nothing else I’ve said, you pompous ass, then listen to this. You are about to enter the presence of royalty, the rightful ruler of this country and the woman on whose blood your family has traded for every comfort they have. You will show her the respect she is due, or you will find that the noble house of ir’Marktaros has even farther to fall.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she released him, then turned and rapped hard on the door three times. It opened silently and she stood aside, allowing the chastened noble entrance to his cousin’s private audience chamber.

  He noticed the dwarf first. Dzarro Silvervein, the Queen’s bodyguard. Standing just behind and to the right of a modest but ornate throne on a single-stepped dais, the silver-bearded warrior leaned on a massive dwarven waraxe while he observed Zoden with one startling blue eye. The other eye was covered by a bejeweled patch that twinkled in the light of half a dozen golden everbright lanterns. Striking though the patch was, Zoden’s practiced eye calculated its value at less than half that of the simple platinum pin that clasped the dwarf’s flowing purple cloak at his left shoulder. He wondered if the dwarf’s attire was a subtle message to those seeking audiences with—and favors from—the Queen. A gentle but pointed reminder that what such a boon appeared to be worth and its actual value might be two very different things.

  To the left of the throne stood a knight with the Silver Flame blazoned across his breastplate, its argent fire incongruous in this castle that remained locked in the days of Thalin’s reign. A silver pendant hung on a thick chain about his neck, its stylized flame proclaiming the man’s faith for all to see, and the hilt of a great-sword was visible over his left shoulder. Malik Otherro, captain of the guard, paladin of the Silver Flame, and, according to rumor, the Queen’s own lover.

  Then Zoden’s gaze turned to the throne, and both dwarf and paladin were forgotten.

  Diani ir’Wynarn was often said to be a pale copy of her cousin, Queen Aurala of Aundair, whose long blonde tresses and steely gray eyes were the stuff of legend. If such aphorisms were true, then Aurala must be a veritable angel, for the woman who sat before him was breathtaking. Blond curls spilled over shapely shoulders and fell nearly to her waist, while eyes like Siberys shards set in alabaster studied him intently from within a perfectly-sculpted face. The soft glamerweave of her gown danced with shifting shades of purple and clung in all the right places, while a pendant of lavender mournlode sparkled provocatively from within the confines of her cleavage. Even her amused smile was lovely, formed as it was by lips the color of sun-kissed roses. Zoden was, he decided, in love.

  As if sensing the bard’s thoughts, Diani let out a musical laugh. “Welcome, cousin. Though I do believe the usual greeting for one’s queen involves more bowing and less drooling.”

  Mortified, Zoden dropped into a low bow, so off-kilter that he forgot to remove his feathered hat, which tumbled from his head and across the floor to land nearly at Diani’s slippered feet.

  Without thinking, Zoden darted forward to grab the offending headpiece. Before his fingers could do more than brush the brim, he found himself flat on his back with a mailed foot on his chest and the blade of a waraxe resting heavily on his throat. Silvervein’s single sapphire eye blazed down at him.

  Diani laughed again.

  “Oh, let the poor boy up, Dzarr. He’s not even armed.”

  Dzarro’s gaze didn’t flicker. “He’s a bard, my lady. This”—he pressed his axe blade harder against Zoden’s throat, and the young noble was sure he could feel blood beginning to trickle down his neck—“is his weapon.”

  “Well, I hardly think he’s come all this way to sing us to death, Dzarr. Now, let him up.”

  The dwarf scowled but lifted his axe and stepped back. He did not, however, offer the bard a hand up. After a quick check to make sure that he was not, in fact, bleeding, Zoden rolled over and got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He left the Host-damned hat where it was on the floor.

  Diani’s smile went a long way toward assuaging his wounded pride. “You’ll have to forgive Dzarro, cousin. He takes his job very seriously.”

  Zoden nodded, trying to surreptitiously massage his neck where the dwarf’s blade had rested, sure that it must be horribly bruised from the bodyguard’s manhandling. “Of course, Your Majesty. Just as any man with such a precious charge would do.”

  One blonde brow shot up at that. “Very pretty. Perhaps Dzarr was right to be concerned.” At Zoden’s flummoxed look, she laughed again. “I jest, cousin. Here, sit.”

  She gestured to Otherro to bring him one of
the chairs that lined either side of the small hall. When he had done so, she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees—a posture which, unfortunately, gave Zoden a rather distracting view.

  “Now,” she said, a sudden hardness in her tone drawing Zoden’s eyes back to her own. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

  Diani listened as Zoden recounted the tale of his twin brother’s death, murmuring and shaking her head sympathetically. He’d told the story so many times now that it was very like a part in a play, one he performed reluctantly but well. Indeed, it was easier to think of that night as something out of a playwright’s fancy than the all-too-real horror that it had been. That it was still.

  “And you say they caught a shifter not far from where Zodal was slain? But you do not believe he is the culprit?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, no. They did catch a shifter, and they charged him with Zodal’s murder, based on some largely circumstantial evidence, but I don’t believe for a moment that it was him.”

  “What do you mean, circumstantial?” At some point during Zoden’s recitation, she’d called for wine, and she toyed with her glass as she waited for him to answer. Zoden’s own glass sat untouched beside him.

  “He was close by and covered in blood. He claimed to have been in a fight at a local tavern, and several witnesses corroborated his story. At first. But after the Bishop’s people interviewed them, they decided that it might have been a different shifter at the tavern, or that they’d really had too much to drink and couldn’t remember much about that night after all.” He snorted in disgust. “I had plenty to drink that night, but that doesn’t stop me from remembering.”

  Diani let that pass without comment.

  “And it’s not the first time. There have been at least a dozen other murders in Aruldusk over the past year that have been blamed on the shifters. Only a few have been arrested so far—the ones, like this shifter, who were unlucky enough to be within a mile radius of one of the victims. And just like in Zodal’s case, any witnesses who claim otherwise soon change their story or just disappear. It’s as if someone has some sort of vendetta against shifters, especially those living outside the city.” He finally remembered his wine and took a long, appreciative drink. It was a fine vintage, tart and dry, probably the most expensive he would ever taste. Definitely meant for sipping, not gulping, but his thirst got the better of him. Diani said nothing, merely motioning for Otherro to refill his glass.

  “To be honest, Your Majesty, I don’t particularly care for shifters myself. They’re crude, uncultured, and generally have the table manners of a rutting pig. But even I can see that this is the beginning of some sort of campaign to get rid of them—imprison them all, or, more likely, drive them all away from Aruldusk out of fear for their own safety. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “Except, of course, their actually being guilty,” Otherro remarked as he topped off Zoden’s glass.

  Zoden glanced up at the paladin, looking pointedly at the Flame emblem on his armor before answering.

  “If the guilty parties are truly in custody,” he asked, “then why do people keep dying?”

  Zoden’s impassioned words rang through the chamber, and even he was surprised by his vehemence. His hand shook as he raised his glass for another drink, and he took a slow sip as he tried to gain his composure. When both the trembling and his temper were back under his control, he continued.

  “Somebody—or something—is murdering people in Aruldusk, ripping out their throats and leaving them dead in dark alleys. That much is true. But whoever, or whatever, it is, it’s not that shifter they arrested for Zodal’s murder. I saw him. He doesn’t look anything like the animal that attacked my brother.”

  “Animal?” It was the dwarf, the first time he’d spoken since attempting to decapitate Zoden.

  “I don’t mean that in the literal sense. When the killer first came into the courtyard, he—it—was on all fours. I know shifters sometimes run that way, but this thing wasn’t running. And then later it seemed to stand, though it could have reared up on its hind legs, as big cats sometimes do. I’m a little fuzzy on that. But, even so, I don’t believe it was really an animal.”

  “Why not?” Diani asked.

  “Animals don’t laugh while they’re eating you.”

  The Queen frowned. “If it wasn’t a shifter, and it wasn’t an animal, then what could it have been, cousin?”

  Zoden shrugged. “Some wizard’s magebred pet? An illusion cast to cover the tracks of a human killer? I just don’t know. That’s why I need your help.”

  After Zoden finished speaking, Diani sat back in her throne. She said nothing for a long while, merely watched him, a thoughtful look on her face. Zoden was beginning to wonder if she was expecting him to say something else—perhaps there was some courtly phrase he was supposed to utter, something the halfling had mentioned that he hadn’t bothered to listen to, let alone remember? He began to sweat as he searched vainly for some recollection of the proper courtesy required for this situation. Not for the first time, he damned his family’s fall from grace and his own subsequent absence from the social circles that would have kept him informed of Diani’s latest preference in sycophantic contortions.

  But when she did finally speak, he almost wished she’d kept torturing him with her silence.

  “Thank you for informing me of the situation, cousin.”

  That was it?

  “I’m very sorry for your family’s loss. Please convey my condolences to your mother, Lady Ghelena. I trust she is well?”

  Zoden nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Otherro will escort you back to your rooms. You are welcome to stay here at the castle, of course, but I would certainly understand if you felt the need to return home. Lady Ghelena should not be left alone in her grief.”

  His mother wasn’t alone, and Diani knew it, but after his father’s gambling debts had nearly driven their family to the brink of poverty, the name Urdan ir’Marktaros was not mentioned in polite society. And Diani was nothing if not polite, even when she was dashing your hopes against the walls of a spike trap.

  Was it because of his father? Is that why she wouldn’t help him find Zodal’s murderer and bring him to justice? Surely not—they were only distant cousins, and the decline of his stunted branch of the family could have no possible impact on her. Why, then? Why bother seeing him at all if she had no intention of helping him?

  It was too much. Propriety be damned. He had to know.

  “That’s it? Sorry your brother’s dead, regards to your mother, have a nice trip home, and the sooner you start that trip, the better? Don’t you even care that Maellas is framing shifters for the deaths of people loyal to you?”

  Dzarro hissed and stepped forward, and even Otherro’s hand went to his hilt at the bard’s impertinence, but Diani waved them back.

  “What do you mean, loyal to me?”

  He’d hoped that would pique her interest.

  “I’ve been asking a lot of people a lot of questions since Zodal died. And, interestingly enough, I’ve learned that many of the victims have been vocal opponents of the Church.” That might be overstating the case a bit. While several of the victims had been hostile towards the elf Bishop, their hostility hadn’t necessarily extended to the Church as a whole—Maellas had many inconvenient laws against things like gambling and carousing that made him less than popular among certain circles. But Zoden thought it might be prudent to keep that observation to himself.

  “Throneholders,” Otherro muttered, earning him a dark look from Diani.

  “Seems like quite a coincidence that both the victims and the suspects belong to groups that the Church would be happy to see eradicated,” Zoden remarked.

  Diani pondered that for a moment, one long, slender finger tapping on the arm of her throne.

  “Eradication is such a strong word, cousin,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “And even if it did apply to the victims, it can hardly
be true of the shifters—the Church has not sought their extermination since the Purge.”

  “Not officially,” Zoden said, but knew he was losing her. Her next words only confirmed that suspicion.

  “In any case, what would you have me do, cousin? Maellas is the Bishop of Aruldusk, and I am only its queen. I have no authority to gainsay him, even were I inclined to do so.”

  “To Dolurrh with Maellas!” Zoden raged, rising from his chair. He saw Otherro’s face blanch at the insult, and heard the paladin’s sword clear its scabbard, but he didn’t care. He’d exhausted his own limited resources in Aruldusk, nearly earning himself a cell next to the shifter accused of killing Zodal for his trouble. Diani and her connections were his last hope.

  “My brother is dead! Murdered right in front of me! His blood is still on my cloak!” He tore the scarlet fabric from his shoulders and flung it to the ground. “He’s dead, and no one is doing anything to find his real killer, and it should have been me!”

  As he spoke the words he’d been holding back since he’d woken in Zodal’s room the morning after the murder, head pounding, his clothes and his brother’s bed splattered with blood and vomit, he realized the truth. Zodal had never been the target—quiet, serious Zodal who looked exactly like him but was his opposite in almost every way. Zodal, who never had a bad word to say about anyone and would never criticize even the most deserving person, let alone the most powerful man in the entire city. The murderer hadn’t been after Zodal. The killer had been after him.

  And he had run away like some craven kobold out of one of his own overwritten ballads, leaving his brother to the fate that should have been his.

  “It should have been me,” he repeated and discovered to his horror that he was crying.

  Diani was standing now, too, one hand on Otherro’s arm, keeping the paladin from skewering Zoden where he stood.