Capricia’s eyes flickered away. “My mother.”
“And why would the treaty with the cats have anything to do with your mother?”
Capricia sighed. “She was killed by wolflings, Corry…shortly before Sardor-de-lor fell to Demitri. That’s part of the reason father would never do anything to help them.”
“I’m sorry.”
To his surprise, Capricia laughed. “You’re sorry for me?” Before he could answer, she turned and left the archer’s box. “I believe you. I have to go now.”
* * * *
True to their former agreement, Capricia found employment for Corry as a royal clerk, an occupation he discovered he enjoyed, because it gave him access to the royal library. Unfortunately, the publicly available texts only went back about five hundred years, and Corry wanted to look into the more distant past. Capricia, however, said that most of her books in the old picture language had been burned the day he disappeared, and she would not let him view the salvage from the fire. Capricia herself spent little time in her study these days. Her efforts seemed all consumed in the tasks of the new Filinian alliance, in the political maneuvering between her father and Lexis as they worked out the practical details of splitting the former wolfling kingdom between them. Capricia spoke to Corry more and more rarely as he settled into his life at court, and there were times when he even fancied she was still angry with him.
However, Capricia’s coolness towards Corry was nothing compared with Syrill’s attitude towards the new Filinian alliance. He fumed. He raged. He argued. Corry concluded that Meuril must be either very fond of Syrill indeed, or else he felt at least a little guilty about the circumstances of the Filinian treaty, for his patience seemed out of all proportion to Syrill’s worth to the kingdom. Laven-lay was not a big or formal place, and in time of peace, the city had no standing army. Syrill was nominally the captain of the castle guard, but he was so unfailingly rude to feline emissaries that Meuril did not encourage him to fill his role at political functions, and Syrill often did not volunteer.
For better or for worse, cats were becoming more and more common in Laven-lay. Corry saw them drifting in and out of the castle, and the feel of their eyes on him made his skin prickle. Lexis himself visited Laven-lay several times and stayed once for an entire red month.
He seemed to take a special interest in Capricia. One evening Corry was crossing a courtyard, when he saw the graceful bulk of the tiger approaching along the parapet above and to his right. A shelt was standing there, watching the sunset. Not until she turned her head, did Corry recognize Capricia. Curious, he backed into the shadow of the walkway and placed both hands on the wall. Their voices should have been inaudible at that distance, but contact with the stone brought them into sharp focus for Corry.
“Something troubles you, Highness.”
“Trouble is in the air, Lexis.”
“Do you discuss your troubles?”
“No.”
“Monsters grow largest when hidden.”
“Not my monsters.”
A soft laugh. “Do you keep them on leashes, then? Personal pets? I hope that tigers are not among them.”
Capricia’s rare laugh broke the evening’s quiet. “No tigers, Lexis.”
“Would you walk with one then? I am excellent protection against monsters.”
“Yes. I will walk with you.”
“Perhaps even talk?”
“Perhaps.”
Their voices grew fainter as they moved away, and Corry did not try to follow them. He had an idea that Capricia’s “monsters” had something to do with him, and he was vaguely affronted that she would choose a recent enemy as a confidant.
Capricia’s new confidence in Lexis was not lost on Syrill. He began disappearing for long periods into the forest. It was after one of Syrill’s prolonged absences in early winter that Corry woke to a bustle of excitement in the castle. The servant who usually brought his breakfast was late, and Corry could hear shelts whispering as they passed in the hall. He left his rooms early and went to the scriptorium, but he found only a half dozen of the usual thirty plus clerks.
“What’s happened?” asked Corry, approaching the conspiratory knot by the fire.
Several excited voices answered him at once. Corry caught the word “hanging.” “Whose hanging?”
“Sham Ausla.”
Corry was surprised. “The Raider? Fenrah’s cousin?”
“The same,” said the eldest scribe. “Laylan caught him in a trap and brought him here last night. Chance came thundering in this morning.”
“Does Fenrah know?” asked Corry.
Several fauns shrugged. “They say Sham was alone when Laylan took him, and the trap was drugged, so there was no struggle. Laven-lay was closer than Danda-lay.”
“Chance wanted to take the villain to Danda-lay and make the execution a big affair,” said another, “but Laylan says trying to take Sham through the forest would be as good as releasing him, so Chance agreed to have the execution here. Cliff fauns have been working on the scaffold since before dawn! There’s to be a great spectacle.”
Another faun harrumphed. “This will be bad for us if Fenrah retaliates.”
The elder scribe nodded. “I heard that Laylan advised against the show, but Chance is determined to make it public, since he feels the Raiders humiliated him publicly.”
Someone drew a delicate breath. “I heard Jubal came, and Shadock didn’t.”
Corry looked from one face to another. “Who’s Jubal?”
“You don’t know?” asked someone, but another held up a hand.
“He hasn’t been here long enough.”
“It’s an old scandal,” began the eldest scribe. He hadn’t laughed with the others. “And an unproven one. No need to keep blackening the prince’s name after all these years.”
“Prince?” mocked one fauness. “You mean, might-be-prince?”
The older faun shot the others a reproving glare, but they continued anyway. “The cliff faun queen, Istra, didn’t approve of her lord’s treatment of the wolflings, said it was immoral how no one came to their rescue when the cats took Sardor-de-lor. Some of the royal advisors sided with the king, some with the queen. The court in Danda-lay was almost split over it. Rumor has it that she took refuge in the arms of a sympathetic young officer of the guard, Jubal.”
“Pure conjecture,” interrupted the old clerk.
“Barely!” exclaimed someone else. “Rumor is, they’re still lovers. Everyone knows the king and queen haven’t shared the same bed in years.”
“Court gossip,” muttered the elder scribe, but all the others were nodding.
“I don’t see what this has to do with Chance,” said Corry.
“Doesn’t his name say it all? That’s what Shadock called him, anyway. Good chance he’s not even of royal blood. Many say he’s Jubal’s get.”
“Apparently there’s also a chance that he isn’t,” said someone else. “If Shadock knew the child could not be his, surely he would have had the queen banished and Jubal hung. But apparently, there was some doubt. Shadock really can’t do anything without making the situation look worse than it already does. Cliff fauns put considerable stock in appearances.”
“And Jubal has come to the hanging?” asked Corry.
“Yes, leading a mob of cliff fauns. Meuril wants armed support. He’s afraid of what Fenrah might do to Laven-lay in revenge.”
Corry had a sudden thought. “Do you know where they’re keeping Sham?”
Chapter 3. Interrogation
If you wish to discover the what of a creature, find out what he lives for. To know the who, you must discover what he would die for.
—Archemais, Treason and Truth
As he left the scriptorium, Corry almost ran into Syrill. “I haven’t seen you in a yellow month, Syrill.”
Syrill offered no greeting and didn’t slow down. “I don’t know what Meuril is thinking to let Chance execute Sham here.”
> Corry fell into step beside him. “Do you think I could talk to Sham? I want to ask him what I looked like when I shifted.”
Syrill snorted. “I doubt Chance’s interrogation will leave him in a chatty mood, Corellian.” He continued to mutter as they passed to ever lower levels of the castle. A torch was always kept burning at the entrance to the dungeons. Syrill took a cold brand from a bracket, lit it, and they started down the steps. A rat scurried at the edge of their pool of light, its claws hissing over the stone. At last they came to a metal-banded door with a sentry, who took one look at Syrill and opened to them.
Corry surveyed the low-ceiling room. The air held a trace of sewer smells. Meuril and Chance were conversing at the far end before a huge, cold fireplace. They turned as the door opened. “Syrill.” Meuril looked him up and down. “Home for a visit?”
“Where is he?” demanded Syrill.
“In a cell, still unconscious.”
“Fenrah will want revenge.” Syrill glanced at Chance. “No offense, but this isn’t Laven-lay’s quarrel.”
Meuril shook his head. “Not Laven-lay’s quarrel? Syrill, they took you hostage just last summer!”
Syrill opened his mouth to argue, but Meuril held up a hand. “Chance and I have been discussing cliff faun additions to our defenses.”
As Corry moved closer, he saw Chance’s face in the torchlight, exultant. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I am already having the city watched, and more soldiers are arriving every minute. Laven-lay is safe, Syrill.”
At that moment, the door opened to admit Laylan. “You asked me to get you when the drug wore off,” he said to Chance. “He’s awake.”
Behind Laylan, Corry caught sight of another faun, blond like Chance, but perhaps twenty years older. Laylan withdrew, and Chance moved toward the door. As he turned to leave, Corry caught the expression he shot towards the newcomer—pure loathing.
“Jubal!” cried Syrill. “Welcome to Laven-lay. Perhaps you can give me some specifics on these cliff faun reinforcements you’re sending us.”
* * * *
When Chance stepped out the door, Laylan was already partway down the passage. “How long has he been awake?” asked Chance.
“Less than a quarter watch. He was groggy at first, hallucinating from the drug.”
“Did he say anything useful while he was hallucinating?”
Laylan thought of Sham muttering and twitching in the straw. “They’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming.” He means Shyshax and I, Laylan had thought, coming to claim him in the trap. But then Sham had said, “Blood in the water, father. The big spotted one is at the window. He killed Auta. I heard her crunch.”
This is long ago, thought Laylan, the fall of Sardor-de-lor to Demitri’s cats. Sham would have been seven. “Blood is coming under the door,” whispered Sham. “Play louder, father. Play louder.”
Useful? “Not really,” said Laylan to Chance.
Chance frowned and quickened his pace.
“You won’t get anything out of him,” remarked Laylan.
“What?”
“Sham won’t tell you where to catch the pack. Maybe if we’d caught one of the youngsters, but not Sham.”
Chance sneered. “We’ll see.”
They came to a door, guarded by cliff fauns. Chance reached to open it, but Laylan put his hand on the door. “It won’t help to torture him.”
The faun’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?”
Laylan shook his head. “I’ve worked as carefully as you have for this, and I don’t want him spoiled to no purpose. Set a trap. Use him as bait. She will come.”
Chance jerked the door open.
Laylan sighed. “But you’ve paid for my trouble, so do as you like.”
Two torches blazed in the cell, making the shadows jump and twist. The floor might have been stone, but one would have had to dig some distance to find it. Laylan doubted the cell had been used in a hundred years. A whip hung from a nail in one wall. It, at least, looked new.
Laylan found himself thinking of the contrast to Danda-lay’s dungeon. Chance could have gotten creative there, if his father had given him loan of the equipment. Danda-lay still had a few shelts who remembered how to use it. Some of them have probably had recent practice.
He saw that the cliff fauns had already been at work in his absence. Sham was no longer lying in the straw, but standing in the middle of the room, naked, tied by each hand to a ring in opposite walls. He held one paw a little off the ground. The trap had broken his ankle. Sham’s dark hair lay plastered against his brow, and sweat trickled down his neck from the unnatural fever brought on by Laylan’s drugged trap. His chin rested on his chest, and he did not look up when Chance and Laylan entered.
For a moment Chance stood in front of Sham, his blue eyes glittering almost red in the torchlight. He looks mad as a falcon, thought Laylan.
“I’ve kept my promise,” said Chance at last, “I told you I would hang you from the highest scaffold in Panamindorah.”
Sham raised his head. For a moment he squinted at Chance as though trying to decide whether he was real. He licked his dry lips. “What?”
“You will die tomorrow on public display, and your flayed and gutted corpse will dangle from a spike at the gates of Port Ory.”
Sham made a hacking sound. For a moment Laylan thought he was coughing, then realized he was laughing. “A party?” His voice was growing stronger. “I suppose it’s important to teach your little ones the higher forms of entertainment, but I’m trying to remember when you made me this promise.”
Chance’s face twisted. “Standing in the antechamber of this very castle, the day you took Syrill and a palace guest hostage, I swore to you—”
“Oh, oh, that.” Sham appeared to consider. “Strange as it may sound, I was preoccupied at the time. I have no idea what you said to me.”
Chance backhanded him across the face. “I said I would have your pelt,” he hissed, “and hang you from the highest scaffold in Panamindorah. There will be several thousand fauns and cats present. If any wolflings appear, we may have more than one hanging. Two, three...eight.”
“You’ll have only one. If that.”
Chance drew his sword and brought it against the wolfling’s throat. “Where is she, Sham?”
Sham didn’t flinch. “Where is who?”
Chance struck him again. “Where is Fenrah? Where is your den? I can make this easy or difficult.”
Sham spat in Chance’s face.
Chance retrieved the whip from the wall and tossed it to one of the guards. “I will learn what I want to know if I have to drain the blood from your body.”
Laylan almost covered his eyes. They have no idea what they’re doing. It occurred to him that Chance had not been allowed to bring any of his father’s experienced interrogators from Danda-lay—that, or he’d been too proud to ask. These were foot soldiers who’d served under Chance when he fought in the cat wars. They’re accustomed to interrogating cats, not shelts.
Fortunately, Sham showed them the error of their ways by passing out before the faun with the whip had really gotten into his stride. Laylan decided to risk a comment. “Are you trying to soften him up or kill him?”
Chance glared, but after an inspection of the prisoner, he told the faun with the whip to hold back a bit. Sham sagged, his body now slick with blood. As he started to come round, he instinctively pushed his good foot into the straw, trying to relieve the pressure on his wrists.
“I’ll give you another opportunity,” said Chance. “Where is she?”
Sham flicked his tail, sending a shower of blood droplets onto Chance’s lily white tunic.
Chance scowled. “Whip him again.”
Sham stayed conscious longer this time. The faun with the whip showed a little restraint. Still, the wolfling made no sound, and, at last, he went limp. Laylan wondered how many days Sham had been without food by now. Two at least, likely three, perhaps more.
He was conscious again in seconds.
Chance paced around his prisoner like a tiger around a snow-bound deer. He ran a finger along Sham’s shoulder blades and Sham let out a sharp breath. Chance regarded the blood on his fingers. “What will the Raiders do without their healer? When they grow weak and take fever? When they are shot or poisoned or stabbed? How unfortunate that their healer was not wise enough to keep himself well.”
“They have Talis,” muttered Sham.
“Your apprentice?” asked Chance lightly. “A fourteen-year-old bitch-pup? Oh, yes, I’m sure they need fear nothing in her hands.” He reached down and fingered Sham’s limp tail. “I would cut off his tail,” he said to Laylan, “if I did not want to keep the pelt complete. Together with others, it could make a fine rug.” He was talking to Laylan, but he said it in Sham’s ear. Sham must have bristled, because Chance looked pleased. He let go of the tail.
“Where, oh, where? Is it in a tree perhaps? In a cave? Underwater like a muskrat den? Is it in a town or city...in the back of some easily-bribed faun’s house? I’ll make you a deal, Sham. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll kill you here and now. Quick. No more pain. No public execution. No crowds. None of that nasty strangling.”
Sham turned his head to look Chance in the face. “Why don’t I make you a deal. Stop this, and I’ll ask Fenrah not to skin you before she kills you.”
Chance circled back in front of his prisoner. “Now that’s an idea.” He ran the point of his blade lightly across Sham’s belly.
Sham didn’t move, but the line of his jaw tightened. “I thought you wanted to keep your promise.”
“Oh, we have shelts who could keep you alive until noon tomorrow.”
I doubt that, thought Laylan. It’s wolfling medicine that works those kinds of miracles.
Chance toyed with his blade just long enough to be certain the threat would produce no confession. At last he let his sword drop and moved forward until his face was very close to Sham’s. “You’re certain you have nothing to tell me? Well then, I must bid you good evening.” As he said the words, he moved, holding his sword like a walking stick, and drove it straight through Sham’s good paw into the ground.
Sham’s face went nearly as pale as Chance’s, and for the first time he made a sound of pain, somewhere between a yelp and a sob. The guards winced, and even Laylan stood up straight from the wall. Sham scratched feebly with his broken foot. He looked into Chance’s eyes and gritted his teeth. “Go eat deer dung.”