Wolf Hunting (43 page)

“It seems like a good plan,” Derian said aloud. “When do we begin?”

“How long to pack up camp?” Firekeeper asked.

“Not long, if everyone helps,” Derian replied, looking meaningfully at her. Firekeeper had a tendency to disappear when menial tasks were at hand.

In reply, Firekeeper began gathering the items dirtied by their recent meal, clearly intending to wash them.

“Then when we packed,” she said, “we go.”

PLIK STILL WASN’T CERTAIN how long he’d been captive, because he had no idea how long he’d slept either the first or last time. He was a captive, too, for no matter how politely either Isende or Tiniel waited on him, he was not permitted outside of his room.

It was a large room, especially for a small person like himself. Plik never heard anything either moving above or through the walls, so he began to think he might be in a small cottage or hut. There were windows, but his view was truncated by the lustrous growth surrounding them. This was not a growth that tempted him in the least to lean out and take a better look. Closer inspection had confirmed his initial impression that the plants that surrounded his windows were blood briars.

There were four windows, but the view outside of them was much the same. Beyond the window was what might be termed a lawn, although less well tended than those he had seen in their journeys. Beyond that lawn was a thick, tired-looking hedge interwoven with more blood briar. Of all the plants, only the blood briar looked lustrous.

Blood briars are certainly a most cooperative plant,
Plik thought morosely.
They seem to grow everywhere
.

Because he did not wish to invite the blood briar in, Plik made no effort to open his windows. The room had a chimney. It was too narrow for him to even consider using as an exit, but since there was no fire lit upon the hearth and the winds were gusty, sometimes interesting scents were carried down to him.

He sniffed hard, hoping to catch the scent of wolf or jaguar. A few very exciting times he did so—and caught the scents of other animals besides. But none of these scents seemed to belong to those Plik knew, so they unsettled him rather than otherwise. He had not forgotten the tales Night’s Terror had told about those who had gone into the copse but had not returned. Did these scents belong to some of that vanished company? If so, why did he not hear their howls and snarls?

Plik caught human scents, too, but other than those of Isende and Tiniel, these did not belong to any he knew. Indeed, they were so elusive that they might well belong to either of the twins and have been diffused or corrupted before they reached him. Perhaps if he had been a wolf, Plik might have read more, but although raccoons had a good sense of smell, it was not the equivalent of a wolf’s—nor was Plik entirely a raccoon.

When Isende returned, Plik decided to let himself speak bluntly. He could get away with doing this, because the twins had already dismissed the possibility of plotting or calculation from their assessment of him. He knew this from how they no longer shut the door quickly when coming from outside his room, how they would set the food tray down before locking the door behind them, from other little casual lapses.

“Isende,” Plik said, “who are the others here?”

Isende, who had brought some form of yarnwork with her, looked up from what she was doing, her lips still moving in a deliberate count.

“Others?”

“I smell others. Animals and humans, both.”

“I expect you smell the animals in the forest,” Isende replied, speaking with care, her mind obviously groping with whether or not she should address his question in full. “Are you sure the humans you smell aren’t my brother and me?”

Plik just stared at her, trying to make his gaze appealing, that of a child who doesn’t want to argue, but doesn’t quite believe. The twins had no means of judging his age, and treated him as if he were seven years old instead of as many decades and more.

Isende frowned and began picking at her yarn. His question had distracted her enough that she had lost her count, that much was certain.

“When can I go outside?” Plik asked. “I’m sure the blood briar poison is gone from me. I’m restless. I want to climb a tree or go fishing or something …”

“You can’t go outside,” Isende said, her tone permitting no argument. “It would be unwise.”

For all the severity of her tone, Plik also heard something like longing in her voice. He studied her and found confirmation in the manner in which Isende’s gaze went to the window and lingered.

Plik looked at his captor afresh. A new, frightening perspective on the situation rose in his mind, making him struggle to keep from crying aloud in frustration and astonishment.

From their very first meeting, Plik had noted that beneath the natural brown of their skins, the twins were pallid, that despite their youth, they were both fleshy, bearing extra weight. Coming from a loose-skinned, loose-furred stock, he had not considered the implications of these traits, but now he compared Tiniel and Isende with the other humans of his acquaintance.

These were not many, true, but even Aridisdu Harjeedian had lost his remaining fat and gained muscle as the hardships of travel exacted their toll. Now none of the three humans carried any extra weight at all. Even Plik, beneath his fur, had toughened, but his heritage did not lend itself to leanness—and autumn’s abundance combined with traveling with several excellent hunters had meant that he had never to go long without food.

But Tiniel and Isende were both running to fat, and both showed ample signs that they were out of condition. How could this be? They had brought no servants with them when they left Gak. Nor had they carried any tremendous supplies of food. Hadn’t Night’s Terror related how over the preceding winter the local yarimaimalom had fed the newcomers out of curiosity and pity?

So why did both twins show no signs that they were working at all to sustain what was obviously a comfortable—if not opulent—lifestyle? Why did Isende look so wistful when Plik lamented his own desire for physical freedom? Was there another reason for the hard note in her voice when she told Plik he could not go outside of his room? Might she, too, desire a chance to go outside?

All this time, Plik had thought of himself as the prisoner, and these two, for all their solicitude, as his jailers. What if the situation was quite different? What if they were prisoners as well? If so, who was it that kept the prison?

ALTHOUGH THE DAYS HAD GROWN markedly shorter since their departure from u-Seeheera, and even since they had crossed the border from the land of the Liglim into the city-states, there was ample daylight for their venture when camp was packed up, and the group had gone to the segment of forest that grew closest to the copse.

“We will leave from here,” Firekeeper said, “Truth and I. Do not leave this cover until you see or hear our signal.”

She spoke with more confidence than she felt, wishing with heart and soul that Blind Seer could go with them. She had asked Truth, but the jaguar had replied rather tartly that she was not entirely certain she could move Firekeeper, let alone Firekeeper and Blind Seer.

“How will we know?” Derian asked.

“I will howl,” Firekeeper said, “or some such thing. Let Lovable hide high in tree branches, well behind leaves so no one see.”

Harjeedian nodded. “I agree there is no need for a subtle signal. Your opening the door into the copse may be enough—if not, our crossing in will be.”

Firekeeper tried not to glower at the aridisdu. She knew he only spoke in that way to cover his own concerns—for those who went ahead, about what might await. Harjeedian might be the one most out of his depth in these matters. His training had never been intended for this. Neither had Derian’s, but Derian had become very adaptable over the last few years.

Without a word, Firekeeper embraced this oldest human friend; then she knelt and hugged Blind Seer so hard the wolf whuffed mild protest in her ear, but from how he licked her when she released him, he didn’t really mind.

Offering the others a polite inclination of her head by way of farewell, Firekeeper turned to Truth.

“
If you are done acting like you’ll never see your pack mates again,”
the jaguar said,
“we can go
.
I must say that your behavior does not express tremendous confidence in my abilities.”

Firekeeper walked over to the jaguar and straddled her as they had planned. She did not sit on Truth as she might have on a horse, but let her legs grip against the jaguar’s flanks.

“If you’re going to do it,” she replied, speaking Pellish for the benefit of those who listened, “then do it before the briars bear word of our being here.”

The jaguar growled something deep and wordless in her chest, a vibration that carried up Firekeeper’s legs and rumbled in her very bones. Then everything changed.

She had no idea what she expected. When Firekeeper had asked so she might be able to prepare herself, Truth had not been able to tell her, saying that there were no words to describe the sensation. Nor, after sharing the experience herself, did Firekeeper disagree.

There
were
no words for the sensation. Firekeeper might say she felt an icy breath of cold all around her, but she would be equally accurate were she to say she felt feverishly hot. She might say she was smothered by clinging darkness so heavy she could roll it between her hands, but she would be equally accurate to say there was a flash of brilliance that seared rainbows on her inner eyelids and gave colors tastes and textures.

What Firekeeper knew was that the experience was not the same for her and for the jaguar. Truth could navigate through this confusion of sensations, navigate and with some skill. When Firekeeper was next certain of what her senses told her, she was still standing over the jaguar but the forest edge was gone. In its place was a stone wall, its iron gate hanging open and slightly lopsided. Beyond the gate was a towering structure built mostly of stone, except for the shutters that covered its windows. These were wooden, and showed what more than a hundred years of passing seasons could do to wood. Even so, they had kept their trust well. The old house stood solid and strong—and decisively empty.

“We have come to the right place,” Firekeeper said, not wishing to phrase this as a question lest she anger the great cat she held so dangerously close.

“We have,” Truth replied. “See, it is not so without sign that others have been here as I first thought. Look around the side. There is a trail as would have been made by daily foot traffic.”

“It doesn’t look as if it has been used for a good time,” Firekeeper said. “Nor do I smell wood smoke or any of the other signs humans leave. Do you find more?”

“No,” Truth said. “But this is the place. I know it as surely as I know I bore us here. Do we investigate, or do we see if we can bring the others in?”

“Bring the others,” Firekeeper said. “They will worry, and the humans may see signs that would be invisible to you or me.”

“How then might we open a gate without letting those who guard this place know?” Truth asked.

Firekeeper thought the great cat was musing aloud, but she heard the distant touch of the Meddler’s voice in her ears, and realized the jaguar spoke to purpose.

“Turn slowly, side to side,” the Meddler said. “Show me what you see, and I may be able to interpret it for you.”

Truth did so, moving out from beneath Firekeeper, but not before Firekeeper saw how her fur lifted. From this, she knew the jaguar detested the Meddler’s contact.

We may have that jaguar figurine the Meddler carved,
Firekeeper thought,
but he has kept some link with her. Will it be so with the twins, I wonder?

She said nothing aloud, but turned her attention to studying the undergrowth that framed the derelict estate. From within the copse was more clearly a false front. If she concentrated, she could even see the tall grasses growing without.

“There!” the Meddler said triumphantly.

“I really think,” Firekeeper said dryly, “we might have figured this out on our own.”

Truth snorted, and for the first time in quite a while Firekeeper felt a friendly connection with the Wise Jaguar.

What they had both located was a place along the copse’s edge where a section of otherwise unremarkable greenery was flanked by a pair of the bracken beasts. They were dormant. By someone who had not battled them, they might be taken for shrubs clipped into ornamental shapes. One was a bear standing on its hind legs. The other was a great cat of some sort, though specifics of species could not really be told.

The bracken beasts were positioned to face the same direction. It did not take much to imagine them coming to life and lumbering out what must be a door.

“But why a door?” Firekeeper wondered. “If all this forest is false, wouldn’t anywhere do?”

The Meddler’s voice, tinged with mockery, sounded in her head. “So you do not know everything, then, sweet Firekeeper?”

“I never claimed to,” she replied, bristling inwardly. “I only said I thought we could have found this place with our eyes.”

“Why a door?” the Meddler said, not really acknowledging her clarification, a thing Firekeeper found very annoying. “For much the same reason as there are doors in the walls of other structures. It is better for the continued existence of the structure. The analogy is not precise, because what creates the image of a copse of trees here is closer to a fabric than to a wall of stone or wood.”

Truth, who liked both pillows and rugs very much, understood. “And a fabric can only be torn so many times before it begins to fray.”

“Correct. This door was created to enable passage through the fabric that would not destroy the fabric itself.”

“Good,” Firekeeper said. She was eager to get out and bring Blind Seer to her, and afraid, just a little, of what this continued intimate discourse with the Meddler might bring. Once the door was open, she could tell him to stop bothering her. “So we open the door—or better, I think, push aside the fabric.”