Wolf's Blood (13 page)

The ravens also had begun to talk what everyone simply called “human.” Even Cousin ravens could learn to mimic some human words, and the Wise Ravens were intelligent enough to understand human speech—as long as it was in a language they knew—perfectly well. The jump to acquiring a few useful words was not a great one, and Derian wondered that more Wise Ravens had not done so. The Liglimom were almost pathetic in their eagerness to understand what the beasts might tell them, so surely they would have welcomed this.

Eshinarvash had translated the raven’s reply: “They say that although they are clever beyond what words can explain …” Here the horse paused and shook his parti-colored mane in comment. “They cannot manage many of the words that are used for more complex terminology. Words that indicate simple affirmative and negative and the like are hardly an improvement over the divination equipment currently used. Moreover, Lovable adds that the boards are fun to play with.”

The raven bobbed up and down, croaking “Pretty! Pretty!” in passable Pellish.

Although the bulk of what the ravens spoke was Liglimosh, where a word was too complex—and Liglimosh had an alarming tendency, at least to Derian’s way of thinking, of stringing words together to make more complex words—they used Pellish instead. Occasionally, they borrowed from one of the other languages in use in the community, forcing everyone to learn a bit here and there.

And reminding us all,
Derian thought,
how clever they are, and that they—if not the rest of us—seem to have learned enough that no one is safe from our feathered eavesdroppers. Well, it could be worse.

Firekeeper and Blind Seer returned in late afternoon, Firekeeper with a freshly slaughtered deer slung over her shoulders, Blind Seer with rounded sides that testified wordlessly that he would not be joining in the venison that evening.

However, even when she had scrubbed off the deer’s blood, and dressed in some of the clean clothing Derian kept for her in his house, Firekeeper did not become talkative. Even the news that Urgana was already immersed in some journals dating back to about the time querinalo was thought to have first appeared did not cheer the wolf-woman.

When Firekeeper came to sit on the sheltered patio behind his house in the evening, Derian decided her being there was an invitation to press for details.

“What’s bothering you, Firekeeper?”

Firekeeper didn’t pretend she didn’t understand his question.

“We not learn anything when we go,” she said. “Nothing.”

Derian knew how impatient the wolf-woman could be, and so said soothingly, “But it was a long shot anyhow. We knew that. Your people don’t keep written records. Anyhow it seems that querinalo didn’t affect them back then.”

Something in how Blind Seer raised his head made Derian anticipate the question Firekeeper obediently translated.

“Blind Seer say, ‘I wonder why this changed.’”

Derian shrugged. “I don’t know, but certainly if you find the source of querinalo, you’ll find the answer to that question.”

“I wonder,” Firekeeper said. She looked at Blind Seer, then up and about, clearly making sure no one—not even a bird—was close enough to overhear. “Derian, I tell you we learn nothing, but I not think this is because there is nothing to know. I think it is because there is something to know, but no one wishes to tell us.”

Briefly, she sketched their encounters with the various wolf packs, and the fearful evasiveness Blind Seer had scented.

“We not so good at knowing if other Beasts, not just wolves, is hiding something, too,” she concluded, “because they is not our people and we not have the same …”

She flapped her hands, searching for a word. “Knowing? Information? Knowing of little things that tell much, like you know I am unhappy when many others not see.”

Derian nodded. “I understand. You and Blind Seer can talk to all the beasts, but you’re going to understand the subtleties of what a wolf says better than you would, say, a bear.”

Firekeeper nodded. “Is that. Am not sure they had anything to tell for real. Might just be a tale such as the Ones teach only to other Ones. I have telled you about this before.”

Derian nodded again. “I remember. I also remember how upset you were last time you learned some of these Ones’ stories. Are you sure you want to know?”

“If is only way to get trail,” Firekeeper said simply, “must.”

“I see your point. Are you planning on running off all the way back to where your birth pack lives?”

“Was thinking,” Firekeeper admitted, “but is very long run back—all the way Hawk Haven, but more to west.”

Blind Seer panted in what Derian knew was laughter, and Firekeeper added, translating what he had said, “And not just run, but maybe boat, and I not do too good on boats.”

Derian grinned. Firekeeper was one of the worst sailors he had ever met, tormented by seasickness so extreme that only through the use of some medicine Harjeedian had supplied had she survived their long voyage south.

“Well,” Derian said, “don’t go running off too fast. Maybe Urgana will find something. Maybe one of the other residents will start telling stories now that Urgana’s cooperation will have given them courage.”

“I not run,” Firekeeper promised, “but somehow my fur prickles. I think that we will need this answer, and that if the hunt is too long, we not have it in time.”

AMELO SOAPWORT HURRIED into Bryessidan’s private office, all but waving a pair of tiny pieces of paper gripped between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“News, Your Majesty. News about the gates. These came in by carrier pigeon just a short time ago.”

Bryessidan knew that the carrier pigeons were tended by a Once Dead with a strong talent for understanding the birds—and with little else to recommend him. In the usual course of things, the man doubtless would have cooed over the birds, checking their every wing and tail feather before thinking to forward the messages they carried. That Amelo had the messages meant that he had somehow managed to stir the man to action.

“I have read them,” Amelo said, “and the report is neither good nor otherwise.”

Bryessidan held up a hand for silence and spread the thin strips of paper on his desk, weighting each end with whatever was convenient. The first was from Hearthome, the nation directly to the west of the Mires, the land his father had briefly conquered and that now served as gatekeeper against the Mires’ ambitions.

“Had not used gate. After missive arrived tried. Were turned back. Vexing.”

It was a measure indeed of how vexing Hearthome must have found being blocked that they had sent this cryptic message by carrier pigeon. A fuller letter could have been sent nearly as swiftly by messenger, as Bryessidan’s own missive had been sent.

“I think we can expect a follow-up from Hearthome by tomorrow morning, afternoon at the latest,” Bryessidan said, “that is, unless there is some suspicion as to our involvement …”

Amelo nodded. “That is always a possibility, but not one I would take too seriously. Hearthome knows better than any other nation the state of our national policy.”

Bryessidan mentally interpreted this as “Hearthome is best suited to have numerous spies on our borders, and, indeed, to see whatever goes in and out via the roads.”

He nodded, and read the message written on the second strip of paper. This one came from Pelland, a land to the distant northwest.

“Gate functional but blocked. Have tried twice. Been warned against third attempt. Very upsetting, especially in light of severe winter illnesses. Must make arrangements soon. Rider en route.”

“Pelland seems mostly concerned with restocking their supplies,” Bryessidan commented.

“And the best thing Your Majesty can do,” Amelo said, “is reassure them in advance of their messenger’s arrival that we do not plan to use this gate malfunction as a reason for renegotiating last autumn’s trade agreement.”

“I know that,” Bryessidan said testily. “Although there are sufficient grounds for doing so. Part of the price agreed upon was based on using the gates for shipping, and thus saving ourselves a great deal of preparation and packing.”

Amelo nodded. As the sorcerer in charge of the gates, he knew this, of course, but unlike the king, he could not say so. Bryessidan did not apologize. To do so would be to show weakness, but he did try and moderate his tone.

“These are from two of our nearer neighbors,” the king said. “I expect more reports will come in fairly rapidly.”

“Probably nothing more until daylight,” Amelo said. “The birds will roost with dusk.”

“Well, I sincerely appreciate your initiative in making certain I received these as promptly as possible,” Bryessidan said. “In turn, be assured I will keep you fully aware of any other developments.”

Amelo bowed respectful thanks.

“If I may return to my more usual post,” he said.

“Do. On your way out,” Bryessidan said, “tell my clerk I will need the minister for trade. He may as well know what we’re facing.”

BRYESSIDAN DIDN’T ARRIVE at the dinner table until the soup had been cleared away. He apologized to Gidji, who replied simply.

“As penalty for your rudeness, I insist on being given a full explanation.”

Bryessidan knew that there were rulers who used every meal as an excuse to curry favor with some noble or important person or other. He reserved only the midday meal for such, saying that to be too frequently available would be to cheapen the honor.

In truth, he had come to need the evening meal as a time when he could talk freely to Gidji about whatever the business of the day had been. Talking to her let him organize his thoughts, clarify issues. Nor was she simply an echo chamber, giving him back the lilt of his own voice, slightly distorted. She had her own opinions, and wasn’t in the least shy about offering them.

Now he sketched an outline, beginning with Amelo’s arrival with the messages, and ending with the exhaustive meeting with Chelm Charlock, the minister for international trade.

“Before the gates,” Bryessidan concluded. “we simply could not ship a good many of the herbal preparations we make. They were too fragile, too perishable. After my father ceased to keep the gates a secret—and needed to find a way to rebuild our economy—someone realized that hurdle had been overcome. The Mires has done well, even has thrived. However, there is a problem I never anticipated.”

“People have come to depend on what the Mires provides,” Gidji said. “What we offer is not a luxury good, no frivolous thing of gold or silver. We offer life itself. No wonder people grow nervous at the thought of doing without our goods.”

Bryessidan had never ceased to be warmed whenever Gidji referred to the Mires as “we” rather than “you,” but he hid his pleasure lest she think she had found a soft spot.

“Correct.”

“And we need the gates to transport what we have to offer at its fullest potency.”

“That is what we have found.”

Gidji, Queen of the Mires, Daughter of the Hammer, frowned thoughtfully, lowering her chin onto a platform made from her folded hands. “So what these people who have taken over the gates have done is to conspire to rob thousands of people of life.”

“I suppose it could be seen that way.” Bryessidan said, rather startled by the thought.

“I think it is a very good way to see the situation,” Gidji went on, “for it permits us to be seen in the very best of light, while making these faceless ones the enemy.”

“Enemy? You speak as if we stood on the verge of war.”

Gidji nodded. “Medicines and culinary herbs from the Mires. Gold that Tishiolo requires to pay its troops, gold for which they have been trading the white pollen of their highland flowers and for which a good portion of Pelland has developed quite a fondness. Gems that the disdum of u-Chival have come to rely upon for adorning that temple they are building—the temple into which they have channeled a frightening amount of their resources, and which must be dedicated this summer, at least according to their own religious traditions.”

Bryessidan said nothing, and Gidji went on, her tone still vague and thoughtful.

“I guess that Amelo has some idea of what has been passing through the Nexus Islands these last ten years. We are not the only land for whom the gates have provided a convenience that has rapidly become a necessity. I suspect that some of those who share those crossroads with us will suffer more greatly than we will. They will be looking for someone to blame. Who better to suspect than the Kingdom of the Mires, that home of treachery and haven to sorcerers?”

Bryessidan’s heart was pounding so hard that his head ached. He had known war all his childhood, and had no desire to pass that legacy on to his own children. Had his father and grandfather’s ability passed to him? Could he lead his land in war as he had in defeat?

“So we need another to be the enemy.” he said, pleased that his voice came out level. “I understand you all too well. Those to whom the gates are now closed will tell each other: ‘The Mires must be involved. Not so long ago, the Spell Wielders were sworn to Veztressidan. What old promises, old alliances has his son brought to bear so they turn against us?’ Yes, my queen, my counselor, we may well need an enemy on whom to turn the wrath we might otherwise face.”

Gidji nodded. “And in any case it would be very nice to have the gates working for us again. After all, I promised my parents I would come and bring the children for a visit.”

VII

  FIREKEEPER WAS ASSURED that the best thing she could do to help Urgana with her research was stay away. She knew this, of course, and for the first time in her life really thought seriously about the advantages to be gained from learning to read.