Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

The head of the compound and an heir of Siberys.

This just kept getting better and better.

Kyrin scrambled to his feet.

“Father! He killed Sharihon!”

The elder d’Vadalis turned cold green eyes on his son.

“I see that. Now suppose you tell me what she was doing out of her cage?”

His words quivered with rage, and Kyrin took an unconscious step backward.

“Well? Nothing to say? Maybe your two-crown doxy will tell me, then.” He gestured, and one of his men dragged Gaida in through the now open barn door, her face streaked with tears and a large red mark on her cheek that looked like a handprint. The man threw her to the ground in front of Kyrin’s father, where she collapsed in a weeping heap.

“Father, I-”

“Enough!” he snarled, silencing his son with a dark look. D’Vadalis turned to Greddark. “How about you, dwarf? I’m sure you must have something to add to this tale.”

Greddark drew himself up to his full height, struggling to look professional and competent when all he really wanted to do was thrust his forearm in a barrel of ice-cold water to numb the screaming nerves.

“I am Greddark d’Kundarak, an inquisitive in the employ of one of Aruldusk’s noble houses. I’ve been asked to investigate the murders that have been plaguing the city. During my examination of the body of the latest victim, Demodir Imaradi, I discovered a sword wound hidden by the bite marks of a great cat. When I learned that Kyrin not only had such a creature in his care, but was also one of Demodir’s rivals for the young lady’s”-he nodded toward Gaida-“affections, I naturally wanted to question him.”

“Naturally,” the elder d’Vadalis muttered, but Greddark continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“When I tried to speak to Kyrin, he set the ghost tiger on me. I had no choice but to defend myself, with rather … unfortunate results. During the ensuing struggle, Kyrin admitted to murdering Imaradi. I-”

“I heard.”

“-am therefore obligated to turn him over to the Arulduskan authorities.” Greddark paused to let his words sink in, then added, “Unless you can offer me a better alternative.”

Dealing with fugitives from other dragonmarked Houses was always tricky. Despite what they might profess in public or to the government of whatever country they resided in, very few House heads acknowledged any authority other than their own, especially on their own property. And then there was always the risk of inciting an inter-House war if both the hunted and the hunter were well-known scions. That was one reason inquisitives and bounty hunters from the dragonmarked Houses often refused to go after fugitives from other Houses. Of course, Greddark didn’t have to worry about that. House Kundarak wasn’t likely to go to war over him , as Baron Morrikan had made abundantly clear when he had Greddark expelled from the Twelve. But it made for a tricky political situation, nonetheless. Who knew when some lesser scion with more ambition than sense would decide to use just such an altercation to stir up trouble?

Greddark just hoped d’Vadalis would take the out he was presenting and offer to subject Kyrin to House justice. Having been on the receiving end of such justice himself, Greddark knew it to be far more brutal than any punishment that could be meted out by the courts of Thrane.

D’Vadalis barked out a short, mirthless laugh.

“You’ve got guts, dwarf, I’ll give you that much. You trespass on my property, threaten my son, and kill an animal meant for the courts of King Boranel of Breland-one whose training was paid for in advance, I might add-and you actually have the temerity to ask me to make your life easier?”

Greddark shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. Inside, his heart was pounding as he ran through the options he’d have left if d’Vadalis didn’t agree to either release Kyrin into his custody or bring his son before a House inquiry. The choices were few. None of them were pleasant.

“Your son is a confessed murderer. Your life isn’t going to get any easier, regardless of what you do to me. My partner back in Aruldusk has the same information I do. If I don’t return-with or without Kyrin-he’ll go to Bishop Maellas himself. I don’t think Vadalis wants a war with the Church in the middle of Thrane, but perhaps that’s something you’d like to take up with your House patriarch. Not to mention what might happen if Baron Morrikan d’Kundarak decided to get involved.”

D’Vadalis scowled. “You’re bluffing.”

“Can you afford to take that risk?”

He and d’Vadalis glared at each other, like two old bulls sizing each other up before a charge. Greddark’s right arm throbbed in time with his too-fast pulse, every beat bringing fresh agony. He could no longer feel his fingers. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be needing them if d’Vadalis killed him and fed his remains to some magebred carnivore. No one but Zoden would ever even suspect his fate, and what would the flighty bard be able to do about it, anyway? Go to Maellas? The Bishop would laugh the noble out of his office before having him clapped in irons and left to rot in prison with the shifters. At least, that’s what he would do, if he were the elf Bishop.

Greddark forced his wandering thoughts back to d’Vadalis, though the pain and blood loss were making him feel faint, almost giddy. He focused on the bald man’s pupils-deep black against verdant green. He refused to look away or blink, willing d’Vadalis to back down. He knew his own eyes must be wide and wild, and the thought of what he probably looked like-feral hair, lunatic eyes, awash in blood-brought an absurd chuckle to his lips, but he swallowed it down like bile. If he broke now, he was as good as dead.

Finally, d’Vadalis looked away.

“No,” he answered with a heavy sigh, though Greddark couldn’t help but feel it had more to do with losing the dwarf’s challenge than with Kyrin’s fate, a suspicion which the man’s next words only confirmed. “Unfortunately, thanks to my idiot son, I can’t.”

They sat around a table in the house’s dining room, Greddark nursing his left arm with its new, itchy pink skin. The House Jorasco halfling who’d healed him hadn’t been pleased at being woken. She had the bedside manner of an orc, which wasn’t surprising, considering most of her patients were dumb animals. A category she’d probably classified him in, as well, after he vomited all over her tunic when she’d tried to stitch him up. She hadn’t wanted to use the Mark of Healing on him-she’d seen what he’d done to the magebred ghost tiger, and thought the more pain he suffered, the better. But when it became clear a simple needle and thread would not suffice, she relented. She used her dragonmark to close the blood vessels his leech hadn’t been able to repair, reknit his torn muscles, and grow fresh skin, but nothing more. In retrospect, he didn’t feel too badly about puking on her.

As he sipped appreciatively from a steaming mug of hard cider, Greddark appraised his hosts. The elder d’Vadalis, Pherud, sat across from him, cradling his own mug in large, calloused hands. Kyrin sat at the man’s left, while his aide, a changeling named Jin, sat on Pherud’s right. Jin was trying to pass as human, but telltale signs gave his true nature away to the inquisitive-eyes never quite the same color, features just a tad too symmetrical. The disguise was a good one, though, and Greddark wondered if d’Vadalis even knew about the pretender in his employ. Chances were the changeling was up to no good, but it was no concern of his. The dwarf had his own problems.

“How much is it going to take to make this go away?” Pherud asked.