Wolf Hunting (19 page)

“I miss Elation sometimes,” he commented to Firekeeper as they departed u-Bishinti. “I wonder how she is?”

“Raising little peregrines, as Elise is to raise little humans,” came the reply. “I hear she is well.”

There was a long pause, “But I miss her, too.”

One of the ravens, Bitter, Derian thought, gave a squawking croak there was no need to translate.

They were well equipped. With Eshinarvash along to act as the oddest wrangler Derian had ever imagined, there had been no need to skimp. There were a riding horse and a spare for Derian and Harjeedian both, and three pack mules to carry their gear. Harjeedian had brought more gear than Derian had anticipated. However, Harjeedian did not bring the one thing Derian had expected.

“No snake?”

“No need,” Harjeedian explained. “We have four yarimaimalom accompanying us. They will provide ample omens to guide our actions. In any case, as someone once chided me, travel is not easy for a snake.”

“Then this stuff?” Derian asked, indicating what had seemed to him to be religious supplies.

“For divining,” Harjeedian said, “and for communicating with the yarimaimalom. Lady Blysse may not always be with us.”

“Firekeeper,” the wolf-woman replied, with that word granting Harjeedian the privilege of using her personal name. “And what Harjeedian say is true. I not always be with. It is good to have his wisdom.”

Derian already knew that Firekeeper was adept at flattering those whom she needed, but her prefacing the compliment with permission to use her name gave a certain sincerity to the statement. He glanced over at her. Never—especially based on the circumstances of their first meeting with Harjeedian—would he have believed Firekeeper would have granted that permission.

“We hunt together,” Firekeeper said, seeing Derian’s need for explanation. “We are a pack. You would not ask me to leave aside my Fang or bow. I will not ask Harjeedian to leave his tools.”

Harjeedian made a hand-pulling gesture and inclined his head, wordless acceptance of the honor done.

“Where do we meet the maimalodalu?” he asked.

“The message say within a day’s ride of u-Bishinti,” Firekeeper replied, “along the coast road.”

Derian glanced over at the last two members of their riding string, two stout, strong ponies. Firekeeper had indicated the size mount they would need, but had admitted that she didn’t know if the newcomer—someone called “Plik”—knew how to ride.

“If he’s that small,” Derian said, “he can ride pillion until he is comfortable in the saddle.”

“Not so small,” Firekeeper said, gesturing widely with her hand. “Just not so tall.”

All of this prepared Derian not at all for what—or rather who—they found waiting for them along the coast road.

The ravens had left them some time before, and now, as the rest of the group came upon a rough building set to one side of the road, the birds set up a racket.

“I think we’re supposed to stop,” Harjeedian said dryly. “I do not even need my tools to be sure of this particular omen.”

“What is that place?” Derian asked. “It doesn’t look like a house.”

“A shrine,” Harjeedian said, “and a cenotaph. There was a horrible shipwreck off the coast here when I was a boy. The shrine is to thank the deities for sparing those they did. The cenotaph is to commemorate those who did not survive.”

Derian nodded. After enduring three long sea voyages, it was all too easy to imagine the wreck. Even here in the bay, where the bulk of Misheemnekuru sheltered the shore, he could envision the comparatively calm, sunlight-dappled waters turning rough and ugly.

What waited for them in the shrine was, at first inspection in the filtered light that came through barred window openings, a short, fat man wearing a cloak over clothing in the Liglimese fashion. His head was covered by a slouch hat that hid most of his features. Unaccountably, Derian was aware of the twinkle of two dark eyes beneath the brim.

“Sir,” he said in Liglimosh, “I am Derian Carter, called Derian Counselor.”

“And I am Plik,” came the reply. “Firekeeper knows me. We have journeyed together before, on Misheemnekuru. I think I smell her about.”

“She is almost certainly outside,” Derian said. “She would find this building a little close.”

“Built to my size, not for a wild, roaming wolf,” Plik said. He bent and picked a leather pack from the floor beside him. “I wonder if that means that the gods are small, or merely that those who made this shrine didn’t wish to spend too much.”

“Or,” Harjeedian said from where he had been burning something sweet and aromatic on the altar stone without, “that the builders knew the gods cannot be confined or housed in any space made by human hands. Welcome. I am Aridisdu Harjeedian.”

“I remember your face from the day Magic’s tower fell,” Plik replied. “Your sister became junjaldisdu, or so we heard.”

“You heard correctly,” Harjeedian replied, and though Derian listened for envy in his voice, he heard only pride. “Rahniseeta does well. The disdum teach her, and when she has enough of lessons for the time, she waves her hands and says, ‘If the deities thought I needed to know all of that, all at once, I am sure they would not have chosen me. Leave me to meditate for a week.’”

Derian’s heart gave a funny twinge, part pain, part something harder to define. That did sound very like Rahniseeta. She had learned to play the role of the submissive maiden, but there was fire in her, fire and storm.

He often wondered what it would have been like to be married to Rahniseeta, even now, over a year after she had rejected him to follow the will of her deities. There were times the wondering turned to wondering if he would always wonder. That was when he usually kicked himself back into sense.

Plik was speaking. “I know the rest of your company, although Eshinarvash only by reputation for his great deeds in the uncovering of Dantarahma’s cult.”

He made little bobs that might be bows all around.

“What do I do next?”

Derian now fully understood Firekeeper’s reasoning that Plik would not ride well two to a horse. Short he might be, but he looked very solid.

“We have two ponies,” Derian said, “if you can ride. If you cannot, then we must teach you.”

“I cannot ride,” Plik said, “not as you do, but if you put me up on the creature that is least inclined to protest, I will do my best to learn.”

Derian glanced over at Eshinarvash. “I was thinking the silver-grey.”

Eshinarvash snorted and nodded. Derian went and unclipped the pony from its place on the string.

“He is called ‘Cuddle Toy,’” Derian said, half-apologetically. “We could call him something else if you would prefer.”

Plik chortled. “Cuddle Toy seems just right. He’s nearly as round as I am, but vain of that shining mane and tail, isn’t he?”

Derian laughed, his hands busy with the tack. “He is rather, but the hair is silky and not at all hard to keep looking nice. Now, if you’d come over here. There is a stone that will serve admirably as a mounting block … .”

Plik came over. From the comer of his eye, Derian saw Harjeedian pick up the maimalodalu’s pack and add it to the burden of the most lightly loaded mule. The aridisdu made a careful job of fastening the straps.

“Very well,” Derian said. He had put hundreds, possibly thousands of people up on their first horse while working in his family’s livery stable. “You put a foot here, then I’ll just give you a bit of a shove.”

He moved his hand toward the plump posterior, and found himself jerking back immediately.

“Ancestors!” he said. “You have a tail!”

A furry length, mostly grey but with darker rings toward the end, came visible, then vanished under the cloak once more.

“And at least as fine a one as does Cuddle Toy,” Plik replied with gravity. “I can move it to one side. You will not hurt me.”

Derian forced himself to return to his post. Plik’s posterior did not feel unduly unlike a human one, but Derian felt fairly certain that not only did their new companion have a tail, he had fur as well.

What did you expect, idiot?
he addressed himself.
You knew he was a maimalodalu. He may have fangs and claws as well. You almost certainly worked with him that night on Misheemnekuru. Get ahold of yourself.

Plik was stroking Cuddle Toy’s mane. His hands, at least, looked fairly human, though perhaps the nails were a bit heavier than usual. Derian looked up into the face under the hat brim, and was relieved to find no snarling fangs, no horribly mutated countenance. In fact, if you concentrated on the raccoon traits, rather than the unsettling manner in which they blended with the human, Plik was rather cute.

“Raccoon in your heritage?” Derian asked.

“That’s right,” Plik said. “It rather shows, doesn’t it?”

“Not when you’re dressed like you are, and not even until someone gets close enough to look under the hat.”

“Which won’t be easy given that I’m rather close to the ground,” Plik said complacently. “At least that’s what I argued when stating why I should come along.”

Harjeedian had joined them. “I believe Lady … Firekeeper is growing restless. Truth has already wandered off. Shall we follow? We can talk as we ride.”

Derian and Plik agreed, and once the pack train was moving Plik asked, “What is our destination tonight?”

“We thought,” Derian said, “to camp. The maps show several promising areas. There may be other groups there—trade caravans and such—but the presence of an aridisdu and the yarimaimalom means that they will grant us our privacy.”

“Not to mention the presence of a flame-haired northerner,” Plik said. “You remind me of one of our number on Center Island. Her heritage is largely fox.”

“Firekeeper sometimes calls me Fox Hair,” Derian said, “although I have been compared favorably to a chestnut horse as well.”

He glanced over at Harjeedian, and the aridisdu unbent enough to smile.

Derian looked ahead to where Firekeeper and Blind Seer were ranging off into the forests. He knew better than to call them back. They would come in time, and doubtless with something for dinner. He smiled at the thought of freshly roasted venison, looked up to where the ravens glided, marking the trail.

It was good to be on the road again.

FIREKEEPER RESIGNED HERSELF to accept steady rather than rapid progress after Plik joined them. If the campground they turned in to as evening drew near was not deserted, it was, from the point of view of maintaining their privacy, the next best thing. It was so busy that no one was particularly interested in a small group heading south.

Firekeeper was wolfishly pleased when Harjeedian’s prestige as an aridisdu got them a space, even if they did need to settle for a location a fair distance from the communal well.

“We should remain uninterrupted,” Harjeedian reported as he came back from the well. “All the other groups are going north to trade, and they’re indulging in a bit of preliminary business now. Further proof that the deities are smiling upon us is that one of the groups is also taking a daughter to be married to an associate in u-Bishinti. They are already celebrating, and have invited everyone else to join them.”

“Could you decline?” Derian asked anxiously. He’d been able to conceal his red hair under a hat, and in the twilight his fairer skin was not so noticeable. Those advantages would be lost in close quarters.

“Without difficulty,” Harjeedian said. “I told them we were on a pilgrimage and the omens had said we must spend the evening in meditation and prayer.”

“Omens,” Firekeeper said. “Useful things I think.”

She had avoided drawing attention to herself and Blind Seer by entering the campground through the surrounding scrub growth. Truth had joined them. No one noticed ravens in a place like this, and Eshinarvash had agreed to have a blanket thrown over his back. Since everyone knew a Wise Horse would never tolerate such treatment, then by definition he could not be a Wise Horse.

The company was not attempting to travel south in secrecy, but all had agreed that the less attention they drew, the less likely they were to find keeping Plik’s rather unusual appearance from drawing comments. Also, they had no idea whether the two people for whom they hunted would be hiding from them. Better to be careful.

On the road that afternoon, they had decided that, if the matter came up, Plik was to be presented as coming from New Kelvin. As far as they knew, no one from Liglim or the city-states had been in contact with New Kelvin for over a hundred years, but stories about the northern lands were spreading rapidly as embassies were exchanged. The outrageous habits of dress and facial adornment practiced by the New Kelvinese should have been exaggerated, rather than otherwise, in the telling.

Now Firekeeper stretched out at the edge of the circle of firelight, luxuriating in the sensations of pleasant tiredness that coursed through her muscles. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of Derian teaching Plik a handful of New Kelvinese phrases.

THE NEXT MORNING the trade caravans departed almost as soon as there was light to see.

“They make me feel lazy,” Derian commented, the ripple of laughter underlying the words indicating he felt nothing of the kind, “and we’ll be on the road not long after dawn.”

“And if we are fortunate,” Harjeedian said, “we should reach the border in a few days. I spoke with several of the merchants last night, and they said the roads were in good condition.”

The aridisdu was carefully repacking the array of items he had set out when he said his morning prayers—a ritual, Firekeeper noted with uneasy interest, in which not only Plik, but Eshinarvash, Truth, and the ravens as well, had taken part.

The jaguar now padded up to Firekeeper.
“Tell them that when we reach a road that will take us west as well as south, we should leave the coast road.”

“The Voice has told you to do this?”
Firekeeper asked.

“I have divined it,”
Truth replied, but something in the very coolness of how she lifted her burnt-orange stare to meet Firekeeper’s questioning gaze made Firekeeper think there was more behind her knowledge than that.