Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (90 page)

So far, no alarm had been raised. Indeed, the only guardian they had met was a slim tabby cat who had doubtless been hunting for pickings of his own. Hissing warning and defiance, he had slipped away and Firekeeper had been happy to let him go. If the humans grew hungry, let them eat cat.

Grinning fiendishly, Firekeeper risked opening the garden fences. These—meant to keep out rabbits and deer—again offered no challenge to her.

Wolves are great diggers and Blind Seer plowed the loose soil around cabbages and root vegetables with enthusiasm. Some food might be scavenged after his work, but it would be filthy and scarred.

They took their time, trusting Bold to warn them, choosing stealth over speed, for even if an alarm was raised, they felt certain they could escape.

When the work was done, Firekeeper waited for another cloud, then replaced the bridge. Tossing the bag containing the chickens to the other side of the moat, she paused. Blind Seer seemed to read her thoughts.

"I didn't spoil all the meat," he replied slyly. "I had some hopes of dinner."

She grinned. Another sack was quickly filled with dead rabbits. A young goat was easily slung across her shoulders. Blind Seer hoisted another in his jaws, trotting as lightly as if unburdened.

It was a pity they had to leave so much, but there was no helping it. Firekeeper took some comfort in the thought that the moat—though an effective barrier for humans—would not keep out all the scavengers. Unless the smugglers worked quickly, Bold's relations would claim the rest. A winter-hungry puma would find the moat easy to leap.

After first hiding the bridge, Firekeeper hauled their booty away from Smuggler's Light. Once they were in the depths of the swamp, Firekeeper cached the sacks of poultry and rabbits in a tree. Cold would keep them for a while. Then she gutted the goats, giving the innards to Blind Seer, who accepted them as delicacies.

She didn't forget to give the wingéd folk their share, but try as they might, neither bird could match the wolf's voracious appetite. Firekeeper's own belly growled at the hot, bloody scent, and she satisfied it with a few strips of still warm liver. Proper eating could wait.

At last, liberally gore-splattered from her shaven head to her bare feet, Firekeeper hoisted the goats across her shoulders and let Blind Seer lead the way back to camp.

Doubtless Wendee would scold her for the mess she had made of her clothing, but even with that looming on the horizon, Firekeeper was completely happy.

C
ackling from the old crone roused Waln from an uneasy sleep.

"Why are you laughing, old woman?" he snarled. He had stopped using the courteous address "mother" after learning that the old woman actually was Longsight Scrounger's own mother, but had yet to learn her real name.

Grinning so broadly that her pink gums with their occasional tooth showed plainly, the old woman laughed.

"Can't you hear the ravens? Can't you hear the crows? 'Tis an omen—everyone's saying it, all but the cooks. They're weeping and wailing."

She scuttled out before Waln could ask more, leaving behind her a pot of hot water. He'd decided to forgo his morning tea unless he could brew it himself, lest some rival poison him. Shaking a few leaves of mint into the water, Waln walked to the closed and shuttered window. Without, he could hear the hoarse squabbling of ravens and as he peered out a dark-winged shape passed his line of sight.

Hastening into his clothing and gulping the tea so fast that he tasted it as nothing but heat in his throat, Waln headed downstairs, schooling his feet so that he would not be seen to hurry. That simple act took nearly all his self-discipline, for the closer he came to the lower levels the louder came the sounds of argument and debate.

When Waln emerged into the large, round base of the lighthouse which served as the common room, he found himself the immediate focus of a swarm of unhappy and frightened people who crowded up to him before he could step off the landing at the base of the stairs.

Fragments containing snippets of information shattered against his ears like hail stones.

"… all dead!"

"Blood over everything…"

"… spoiled. Unfit for a dog…"

"Prints the size of a horse's hoof…"

"A host of moles couldn't…"

"Starve…"

Raising one arm into the air, Waln drew in a deep breath and bellowed for silence. Then he cast about until he spotted Longsight Scrounger. The lean man smiled ingratiatingly, ducking his head like a dog expecting to be kicked.

"Longsight, you speak first," Waln ordered, still shouting though the silence was absolute. "The rest of you hold your tongues till I ask to hear."

Straightening now that he had his master's attention, Longsight looked confident, almost as arrogant as he had when he had ruled the Light.

"It's like this, Baron," Longsight said, "to make it short. Something got into the pens in the night. There's not as much as a chicken left alive nor a cabbage that hasn't been uprooted. Cook says that she can make something from the vegetables, but most all of the meat has been spoiled. What the ravens and crows didn't get at has been filled with muck and manure."

Waln didn't want to give credence to this report. It was too incredible for belief, but the nodding heads in the crowd gathered around him confirmed that Longsight was—at least in general—correct.

Some mouths were working in a fashion that made Waln think that there were details yet to be revealed. He ignored these gossips and cast around for someone to blame.

"And who was on watch last night?" he growled, his voice rumbling low in his throat.

Five of the pirates stumbled forward with a jerky motion that made Waln suspect they had been shoved.

All five showed signs of exhaustion brought to wakefulness by a sudden shock. He'd seen the like shipboard when a storm or attack had roused all hands on deck to deal with the crisis. Doubtless the watchmen hadn't been in bed long—if at all—before someone had raised the alarm.

One was pushed forward to act as spokesman for the group. "We were, Your Baron, sir," he said. He was called Red Stripe or, sometimes, Cime, and stood low in the hierarchy, doubtless why he had been forced under Waln's gaze.

"And this slaughter happened without any of you hearing or seeing a thing?" Waln said with brutal contempt.

"Yes, sir."

Red Stripe stared at his feet.

"Where were you?"

"I had a drifting watch, sir, going from window to window just as you ordered, sir. I didn't see a thing, sir, didn't hear a peep."

When Waln only glowered at him, Red Stripe offered an excuse.

"The walls are thick, Baron, and at your orders all the windows were locked and shuttered. Not much sound gets through that, Baron, sir, by your leave. It was dark, too, the moon ain't giving much light, and there were clouds."

Waln could see traces of sympathy on a few faces in the crowd. Lest sympathy give rise to rebellion, he strode off the landing and walloped Red Stripe across one side of his face.

The man reeled back. Now Waln saw no sympathy on any face—only fear.

He stepped back up onto the landing and scanned the company.

"So," he said, making his voice singsong, like a child's making an excuse, "it was dark and it was cold and you couldn't hear a thing…"

The few sycophantic titters were silenced when Waln shifted to his on-deck bellow.

"So something comes and does havoc in the night, and that's the piss-poor excuse you offer. Would I have set a watch if I didn't think there was a reason to do so?"

There was no reply. He repeated his question, even louder.

"No, Baron," the luckless Red Stripe muttered.

"That's better."

Waln scanned the room. Most of the smugglers were united with him, ready to blame those who had failed the watch. A few, however, were still itching to tell him something. He'd listen, but first…

He wheeled on the cook, a greasy woman with a cook's traditional rolls of fat. She was a Waterland native who—rumor said—had turned cannibal when stranded in a lifeboat some years before. It had been unclear whether her victims had been living or dead when she chose to dine on them, so she had been exiled for her transgression rather than executed for murder.

"Cook, you say the meat has been ruined?"

"Buried in shit, Baron," came the blunt reply, "where it isn't torn to shreds."

"Very well. Have someone cut you some nice fresh ham. Our faithful watchers deserve a fit breakfast for their night's work. Season it appropriately. Are there any eggs?"

Cook grinned, appreciating the humor.

"All broken and mixed with straw, Baron."

"What a fine omelet that should make!" Waln said with false heartiness. "Let our watchers have omelet with their ham. Make certain they eat every bite."

Cook chuckled. As she was turning to obey, Waln asked casually:

"The contents of the larders are fine, I suppose?"

"Dry stuff," Cook said, "and salted. Nothing touched, though, if that's what you're asking."

Waln nodded.

"Very good. Arrange for the rest of the meals after our faithful five have had their breakfast."

"Yes, Baron."

Having finished with the watchers, Baron Endbrook turned to the gossips. They'd be careful how they told what they had to say lest they, too, end up eating shit and straw rather than wholesome food.

"You!" he said, pointing to a big-boned, fair-haired woman. "You've been waiting to get a word in. Go ahead."

The woman sauntered forward, enjoying her moment on center stage and clearly unafraid that he would find fault with her report.

"Baron Endbrook," she began with polite deference, "I was one of the first awake this morning, one of the first outside. Everything is just how Longsight tells you, but there's more he didn't tell."

She paused and Waln nodded for her to go on. Judging from the expressions about the room, about half had heard this tidbit and the other half were eager to learn.

"I'm Stonehold-born," the woman said, explaining in those words both her build and pale blonde hair, "and farmed a bit before turning to the sea. My first thought after I saw what had happened was to see what had done the damage."

She paused dramatically, stretching her interlaced fingers, and popping her knuckles into the expectant quiet. Warn let her have her moment. It did him no harm.

"I was taken with the smoothness of the meadow round from the start," she said, "for given the destruction you would have thought an army had been through. There were traces here and there, but to a casual glance there was nothing to show what had passed. Not so in the pens, not so at all. There the dirt was churned and trampled, dug and soft, welcoming prints. I found them, too."

She raised two fingers.

"Two sets only, Baron, at least that I could tell. One was of a set of small bare feet, the other from a wolf so large I'd never even imagined the like—not even in my nightmares. These two alone seem to have done the hunting, these two alone all the killing."

Loud, panicked murmuring arose as the Stoneholder stepped back, satisfied to give up the stage now that her report was complete. Her smug smile showed that the effect of her words was all she had hoped.

Waln had felt the color drain from his face, but he steadied himself. There was only one pair who could have left those marks. Best he admit it and minimize the impact of the news.

He was opening his mouth to speak when a high, shrill giggle cut through the noise.

"I know! I know! I know who it is!"

She'd been in the back of the room, so he hadn't seen her before this moment. Now Citrine Shield clambered onto one of the tables and stood dancing from foot to foot, waving her maimed hand in front of her so none could miss it.

"So do I!" Waln bellowed, but he might have held his tongue. No one was listening.

"It's Firekeeper! Firekeeper! And Blind Seer with her! They're my friends!" The little girl laughed hysterically. "They've come to get me."

She waggled the index finger of her maimed hand at Waln.

"You don't want to see Firekeeper when she's angry! Ask Prince Newell! Ask his ghost, rather!"

Longsight Scrounger had pushed his way through the gathered pirates and now he hauled the girl off the table. The thump he gave one round cheek silenced Citrine, but from across the room Longsight's own mother cackled.

"Look sharp now, my boy," the crone said, her cracked voice full of concern. "Don't break the little lass. Her friends are coming for her and they'll not be kind to those who hurt the little dear. I've always been her friend so I'm not afraid but those who've hurt her…"

The implied threat melted into broken, vindictive laughter. Longsight let Citrine slide from his arms and onto the floor. The girl struggled to her feet and ran—weaving a bit—to the shelter of the old woman's arms.

The eyes that turned on Waln now were fearful indeed, but less so at him than at what he had brought upon them. Anger glinted here and there. More than one hand drifted near a sheathed dagger.

Waln sensed he was losing control of the situation. At that very moment he was saved by a thunderous pounding on the lighthouse door.

S
ince she couldn't avoid meeting Baron Archer, not without stirring up rumors that they were at odds, Elise decided that her first duty on the day following that upon which Sapphire had arrived with her troops was to hunt out her father. To be completely honest, she wasn't certain that they
weren't
at odds.

Elise had written to say that she was safe and to tell her parents not to be angry with Earl Kestrel for letting her go, emphasizing that she'd given her host little choice. However, the peculiar combination of circumstances that had led up to her departure from the Norwood Grant for New Kelvin didn't permit detailed explanations. Even a sealed letter could be read and too much was at stake for her to risk a diplomatic incident.

Before departing the camp, Sapphire had suggested that Elise wait until the next morning to seek out Baron Archer as, at Sapphire and Shad's request, he was in charge of posting sentries around the fringes of the swamp. After all, the current policy of letting the pirates leave the area did not include not keeping track of the situation, and those disaffected enough to steal away might be willing to sell information.