The Dragon of Despair (45 page)

“But they don’t know she’s likely to be near,” he said after a moment.

“No,” Peace agreed, “and I will not tell them.”

Derian wished he believed Peace, but why shouldn’t Peace tell the guards if he could turn the information to his own advantage? Might such an act not be the first step toward Peace’s own rehabilitation into New Kelvinese society?

The guard captain stomped into the inn’s public room at that moment. He was a big man just going soft about the middle, with thick iron grey hair plaited long down his back. Given the hot, sticky weather, he wasn’t affecting elaborate face paint, but he had something that looked like a stylized mountain range tattooed along one prominent cheekbone.

The captain kicked his feet against the doorpost to knock the worst of the mud free before entering the room and scattering more mud over the fine carpets. The innkeeper looked as if he wanted to protest but didn’t dare. The outpost guards weren’t in his employ but were part of the contingent maintained by the New Kelvinese government.

Normally, Derian guessed, the guards’ presence suited the innkeeper just fine, given that their being so near must just about eliminate theft, but tonight with his establishment turned head over heels and the guards sticking their noses into what could have been dismissed as a brawl that turned out badly, the innkeeper clearly was regretting the arrangement.

You and me both, buddy,
Derian thought wryly. Then he turned his attention to the guard captain with what he hoped was the correct mixture of interest and concern.

The guard began by giving Grateful Peace a look that said without the need for translation that he considered the guide one of the lowest of the low. Indeed, he seemed about to send the other New Kelvinese away, but halted.

“Do you speak New Kelvinese?”
he asked in that language.

“Not very well,” Derian admitted, following this with the phrase he’d learned from Peace early in his instruction that meant the same thing.

The guard captain grimaced, but he didn’t send Peace away.

“Who speak us good?” he asked in Pellish.

“Lady Archer,” Derian said, figuring that it would never be too late to start throwing around titles, “speaks your language best of us, but she’s with the doctor.”

Peace said something that sounded like water running over rocks with a few interesting boulders formed by familiar names.

“Doctor. Sir Jared Surcliffe,” said the guard captain.

Peace is right,
Derian thought, assessing the guard captain’s expression.
They are in awe of Doc. Good. Anything that slows down their search for Firekeeper.

“With Sir Jared,” Derian agreed, “and he needs Lady Archer to help him.”

He made motions of someone handing things to someone else. The guard captain seemed to understand. Sighing gustily, he hooked out a chair with the toe of his still muddied boot and took a seat.

“We talk,” he said. “Me to you, you to me. He,” this last with a jerk of his head toward Peace, “help.”

“Sounds good,” Derian said. He remembered a polite formal expression Peace had told him meant something like “Thank you very much” and decided that it couldn’t hurt to throw it in.

The guard captain looked confused, then smiled, recognizing the intent and clearly deciding to forgive Derian’s limitations.

“I am Brotius,” he said, jerking a thumb toward his chest. “You Derian Carter?”

“I am Derian Carter,” Derian agreed. Then he remembered what Peace had said about titles and, though he felt like he might be throwing Wendee into the bear pit, he added, “Also called Derian Counselor.”

Brotius glanced at Peace who said something fluid-sounding and multi-syllabic. When Peace finished, Brotius glanced at Derian’s hand.

“Where?” he said, tapping a broad signet ring on his own hand.

Derian was getting into this abbreviated manner of speech. It really wasn’t much different from talking to Firekeeper. He pulled from around his neck the embroidered amulet bag his sister Damita had given him as a birthday gift and spilled the ruby counselor’s ring into his cupped hand.

“I don’t wear it for everyday,” he said. “It’s a very special ring.”

Peace translated and Brotius nodded. From a leather wallet on his belt he produced a pad of the excellent paper the New Kelvinese made, along with one of the writing sticks Edlin had so envied their last visit. He made a quick, recognizable sketch of the ring and the emblem incised into the stone, then gestured that Derian could restore the ring to its carrying bag.

“Where go girl?”

Derian looked at Peace, pretending to be more confused than he really was.

“Could you ask him to explain more fully?”

Peace did and Brotius rattled off his question in a fashion that made Derian think that perhaps he’d better be a bit more careful when he played dumb.

“Captain Brotius says,” Peace translated, “‘Where is the girl, the one with the knife and the big dog? She’s a killer’—actually the word he used could mean murderer in that context—‘and I don’t want her running around where she might harm someone else.’”

“I don’t know,” Derian replied, looking Brotius straight in the eyes. “Jalarios,” he barely remembered to use Peace’s adopted name, “ask Captain Brotius why he calls Lady Blysse a murderer.”

Peace did—or at least he said something. Brotius’s reply was prefaced with what Derian recognized as a minor profanity, which Peace did not translate.

“Because she killed a man and would have killed more if we had not come out.”

“That’s not how I see it,” Derian retorted, looking at Brotius, trusting Peace would translate without direct order. “As I see it she was attacked by six grown men and showed remarkable restraint. Only one died and one was injured. She could have killed the other four but only knocked them down.”

Too late did Derian realize that he might have said too much. He was accustomed to how dangerous Firekeeper was. Admitting openly that she could have killed all six men might not have been wise, but the words were out of his mouth and he could only hope that Peace would moderate what he said.

Apparently, Peace did not, for the next thing Brotius, speaking in his own broken Pellish, said was:

“Girl kill one. You say kill six?”

Derian shrugged, throwing caution to the winds.

“She’s a trained warrior or hunter or whatever a human wolf is. I don’t know if she could, but she and Blind Seer could. She saved King Tedric from an assassin last year—and that was after someone had shot her in the leg.”

Peace translated, then listened as Brotius positively fountained speech. What Peace gave Derian had to be only the smallest fragment.

“Are you saying this girl is important to your king?”

“Very,” Derian said. When Peace didn’t add more, he asked, “That isn’t all he said, is it?”

“No,” Peace admitted. “He hadn’t heard about the assassination attempt and wanted to know if I had. I had to admit that I had heard something of the sort.”

Brotius was looking suspicious. He frowned at Peace and Peace said something to him that had to be “I was just clarifying a point for the outlander” because Brotius stopped frowning. He turned to Derian.

“Girl like doctor?” he made a sweeping gesture with his hands.

Derian was completely confused and looked at Peace.

“He wants to know if Lady Blysse is like Sir Jared—possibly magical.”

Remembering the New Kelvinese reverence for magic, Derian nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes. She is. Very much.”

Only after he saw the unwilling awe spreading over Brotius’s rugged features did Derian realize that he had probably spoken no more than the truth. Someone—Hazel Healer, he thought—had once speculated that Firekeeper had inherited talents that made her communication with animals easier, more natural for her, though Hazel had also thought that Firekeeper’s upbringing among the wolves had contributed a great deal.

Derian wasn’t about to go into those particulars now. If Brotius wanted to think that Firekeeper was some wonderful magical being, and that would make him treat her with more respect, then that was all for the best.

Or was it? Derian remembered how many of Peace’s stories along the trail had dealt with brave heroes going after magical beasts and he sincerely hoped that Brotius didn’t see himself in that role.

Brotius’s next words didn’t give Derian any comfort on that point.

“Girl…” Brotius frowned, his ability in Pellish, which to his credit was better than Derian’s in New Kelvinese, failing him again. He snapped a command at Peace, and Peace politely translated:

“Captain Brotius says, ‘You called her a warrior, a hunter, a human wolf. Do you mean that?’”

Derian answered carefully, now all too aware that Peace would not cover for him.

“Lady Blysse is certainly a fighter, but maybe not yet a warrior. She is one of the best hunters I’ve ever seen. As for her being a human wolf, well, she thinks she’s a wolf, but we can see that she’s human, so I was just trying to find a way to explain why she’s the way she is.”

Ancestors, please!
Derian pleaded mentally.
Don’t let Brotius decide this means she’s some storyteller’s fancy of a shape-shifting creature!

Perhaps the ancestors listened, for Brotius’s next query was prosaic.

“Why do you think she killed that man rather than yelling for help?” Peace translated.

“She wouldn’t think to,” Derian said honestly. “Where she grew up there wasn’t anyone who could help. Anyhow, there were six men with weapons and all those dogs. I don’t think any help could have arrived in time.”

“In time for what?” came the translated reply, snapped out in tones so like Brotius’s own that Derian nearly forgot the intermediary.

“For whatever they had in mind for her,” Derian replied impatiently. “You don’t think that six armed men went after a solitary girl with anything good in mind, do you?”

Brotius’s reply was a guffaw of laughter as unwilling as it was spontaneous. He immediately sobered, but Derian liked him better for the slip.

“Captain Brotius would still be happier if Lady Blysse could be called in,” Peace said.

“So would I,” Derian agreed, “but that’s beyond me. Try to see the situation from her point of view. She’s out in the stable minding her own business when six men come at her and Blind Seer. The two of them can’t run so they fight. When the fight’s over instead of being thanked or apologized to, more men with even bigger weapons and wearing armor come at her and demand she hand over herself and her knife. This time she could run, so she did.”

It took a while for this to be translated, but when Peace was finished, Brotius asked through him:

“You think she would have run the first time?”

“I do,” Derian agreed. “We have taught her not to kill humans if she has a choice.”

Again he wondered if he had said too much. If Brotius sent men to chase down Firekeeper then they could use this against her. On the other hand, maybe something was to be earned from showing her as civilized—at least after a fashion—and as respecting the rules of civilization. After all, a hunting party would be armed with bows as well as swords and spears.

And anyhow, if Firekeeper’s cornered, she’s quite likely to decide that in a case of her life or theirs that theirs can go out with the trash.

Brotius looked thoughtful and Derian didn’t doubt that their thoughts were running along parallel lines. The rain would wash out a scent trail, so tracking the fugitive wolf-woman with dogs would be difficult. The guards might be counting on her and Blind Seer to leave tracks, but Derian knew that the wolf-woman had learned a considerable amount about avoiding leaving tracks since one errant footprint had revealed her existence to Earl Kestrel’s party a year and a half before. Blind Seer might prove a bit more difficult to hide, but there was much uninhabited country in these mountainous reaches and Derian had learned that wolves were far better climbers than he would have imagined.

“Girl no come,” Brotius said heavily, “you no go.”

Derian nodded. He understood that statement well enough. They—and their secret mission for King Tedric—would be held hostage against Firekeeper.

He didn’t blame Brotius. The man was only trying to contain what he must see as dangerous and unpredictable foreigners, but Derian also knew he couldn’t let Brotius hold them for long.

THINGS WERE NOT GOING WELL
.

With the first rays of dawn, men emerged from the militia headquarters. They reminded Firekeeper somewhat of ants trailing each other, dressed so alike, the sunlight reflecting off the polished leather and metal of their armor as it would off an insect’s carapace. They spread out in an even line and waited.

A big man Firekeeper thought might have been the one who told her to hand over her knife the night before was leading them. From his hand gestures he was separating the guards into groups, having one group go this way, another the opposite. It didn’t take her long to guess they might be coming to search for her.

She turned to Blind Seer.

“Shall we away, dear heart?”

The wolf looked north.