Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Greddark considered. He was after whoever was murdering Throneholders and blaming shifters for it-if it was, in fact, the same individual. He didn’t give a rat’s hairy nether regions about Kyrin, now that he knew the handler had only been responsible for the one death, but he supposed Imaradi’s parents deserved justice. It was a question of perception, though. If he never revealed that Demodir’s death was not the work of the same killer terrorizing Aruldusk, then when that madman was eventually caught-and executed, for there could be no other punishment for the well-publicized murder spree-the Imaradis would believe justice had been served. They could take some comfort in knowing they were one of many families impacted by the tragedy, perhaps finding solace in their common grief. But if they learned their son’s death had been the result of a fight over a harlot, what consolation would they find for that ignominy? He was inclined to think that what they didn’t know, couldn’t hurt them.

But Kyrin had taken a life, for the favor of a woman whose charms could be bought. And while stupidity was, unfortunately, not a crime, in this case, its consequences were.

Greddark drank his cider in silence, contemplating the dilemma while he relished the warmth that radiated through the metal to fingers that still ached, even with the healing.

Pherud would pay handsomely to ensure that the words “murder,” “Aruldusk,” and “d’Vadalis” were never mentioned in the same breath ever again, and Olladra knew Greddark could use the gold. But in accepting it, would Greddark be absolving Kyrin of guilt? Would the younger d’Vadalis see any punishment more severe than being banned from the arms of his lady love-for-hire?

Bah! Why should it matter to him? He should just pocket the money, walk away, and forget he’d ever heard the names Kyrin or Demodir. Ultimately, the handler’s fate had no bearing on his case. It was, quite literally, none of his business.

But .

He couldn’t help but remember the pain and sorrow he’d seen on the Imaradis’ faces, even on Zoden’s, though the bard had quickly hidden it. Demodir meant nothing to him-he was simply evidence in an investigation-but the Throneholder, his parents’ only surviving child and the last in his line, had meant everything to his mother, his father, and to his friends.

There had to be a reckoning. If he wasn’t an inquisitive to make sure guilty men got punished and innocent ones went free, then why? It wasn’t like he was going to become rich doing this. No, even if he didn’t care about the victim-or the perpetrator-a crime had been committed. A crime that he had solved, and that he was now obligated to see punished. That was his job. It really wasn’t any more complicated than that.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“This isn’t going to go away,” he said, after having finished his cider and set the still-warm cup aside with some regret. “Kyrin killed a man, and not in self-defense. Your coffers can’t exonerate him. Either you see to it that he’s punished, or I will.”

“Done,” Pherud said, too quickly.

As Greddark’s eyes narrowed, Jin chimed in, his eyes vacillating from azure to perse and back again.

“We had every intention of disciplining Kyrin. If not for the death of that boy, then most certainly for the destruction of King Boranel’s property.”

Kyrin, who’d been leaning back inattentively in his chair, confident that he’d be redeemed, sat up now, his eyes wide. He looked back and forth from his father to the changeling in dawning horror.

“I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist,” Greddark warned, his voice a low growl.

“Neither are we,” the changeling replied. “The punishment for a handler who allows any animal to die in his care is forty lashes. If that animal is magebred, it’s sixty lashes, and confinement with only bread and water for nourishment for up to a month. If that animal has already been purchased by a client, especially a royal client, then when the confinement ends, the handler is immediately-and permanently-expelled from the House.”

“Excoriation?” Kyrin breathed, the blood draining from his face. “But, Father-”

“Silence!” the elder d’Vadalis roared, backhanding Kyrin so hard that he fell from his chair. “You are no son of mine!”

Pherud looked over at his aide. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.

“Of course,” Jin replied, smiling. He stood and walked over to where Kyrin still sat on the floor, now crying softly. Yanking the handler up roughly, he pushed d’Vadalis-no, just Kyrin now-toward the door. “It will be my pleasure.”

After watching the two leave the room, Greddark turned back to Pherud, his shock no doubt showing on his face.

Pherud smiled grimly at his expression.

“Don’t look so surprised, dwarf. Unlike many Vadalis branches, I’ve never forgotten that we are a business first and a family second. Not so different from the Kundaraks in that, I think.” His smile widened. “Really, I should be thanking you. You saved my reputation and my bank account, and all for something I intended to do anyway.”

D’Vadalis raised his mug to toast Greddark.

“Here’s to you, dwarf. I’ve never bought silence so cheap.”

Greddark left the compound first thing in the morning. He’d wanted to depart after the scene in the dining room, but he knew with his arm freshly mended, he was in no shape to try and guide his horse over the rough track back to Aruldusk, with no guarantee that they’d open the gates for him when he got there.

He walked the short distance to the thicket where he’d left the mare tethered. Even before he got there, he knew something was wrong.

The horse was gone.

Suspecting d’Vadalis’s hand in this new development, he approached the copse cautiously, his sword out and ready. When he got to his former hiding place, though, he saw he needn’t have worried. The horse’s disappearance had not been a result of House Vadalis vengeance, or even of an attack by some roaming predator, but rather of his own poor horsemanship. The mare had chewed through her too-slack tether, and her tracks led north, toward Lake Arul, and fresh water.

He pulled out his spyglass, but the mount was long out of sight-along with all the food in his saddle bags. He knew he’d lose days trying to follow her-days he didn’t have, since he didn’t want Zoden to starve to death while slumbering under the effects of the potent dwarven soporific Greddark had administered.

No, he’d have to walk, and even then, he was probably going to be facing a very angry client when he got back to Aruldusk. If he didn’t starve to death himself along the way.

The trip took him four days. When he finally reached the shifter tent city outside of Aruldusk, he paid a small fortune for a handful of restorative potions from their resident healer-the Jorasco halfling had done a piss-poor job. He was just slamming one back when warning bells started to ring inside the city walls. He realized what the sound must mean.

Another murder.

And on the heels of that thought, a flash of fear.

Zoden .

With a curse, he began to run, praying that he wasn’t already too late.

Wir, Therendor 25, 998 YK

The city bells were ringing.

There’s been another murder!

Zoden’s eyes snapped open, and he felt a moment of disorientation as he looked at fuzzy wooden staves jutting out of ground as blue as the sea. Then he blinked and the room came into focus. He realized that he was lying on the floor of his study, looking at the underside of his table and chairs. And that the chiming noise he had heard was not the city’s warning carillon, but his own alarm spell.