Tamora Pierce - Wolf-Speaker

Kitten wriggled in the pack, and chirped. ‘Hush,’ Daine whispered as Parlan opened their rooms. ‘I’ll let you out in a moment.’

The room was a small one, but clean and neatly kept, and the bath was all Daine could hope for after weeks of river and stream bathing. The food brought by the maid was plain and good. Daine felt renewed afterwards, enough so that she took a short nap. She was awakened by a scratching noise. When she opened her eyes, the dragon was picking at the lock on the door between the two rooms.

‘Leave it be, Kit,’ Daine ordered, yawning. ‘You’ve seen locks at home.’

The young immortal sat on her haunches, stretching so that her eye was on a level with the keyhole, and gave a soft trill. The door swung open to reveal Numair in a clean shirt and breeches. He was holding a piece of paper.

‘Did I know she could do that?’ he asked with a frown.

‘No more did I,’ retorted Daine.

Numair glared at the dragon, who was investigating his room as thoroughly as she had her own. ‘That door was locked for a reason,’ he told her sternly. To Daine he added, ‘Though actually I do need to speak with you. We’ve been invited to dine tonight at the castle.’

‘Why?’ the girl asked, rubbing her eyes.

‘It’s typical of nobles who live out of the way. A newcomer is worth some attention – it’s how they get news. I don’t suppose you packed a dress.’

Since her arrival in Tortall, when her Rider friends had introduced her to breeches, she had worn skirts rarely, and always under protest. When the village seamstress showed her the only gown that would be ready in time, Daine balked. The dress was pink muslin, with lace at collar and cuffs – a lady’s garment, in a colour she hated. She announced she would go in breeches or not at all.

Numair, usually easygoing, sometimes showed an obstinate streak to rival Cloud’s. By the time their escort came, Daine wore lace-trimmed petticoats, leather shoes, and the pink dress under a wool cloak to ward off the nighttime chill. A maid had done up her stubborn curls, pinning them into a knot at the back of her neck. Kitten’s mood was no better than Daine’s: told she could not go with them, the dragon turned grey and hid under the bed.

Their escort came after dark to guide them across the causeway to the island and its castle. Ostlers took charge of Spots and Cloud, and servants took their cloaks, all in well-trained silence. A footman led them across the entrance hall to a pair of half-open doors.

Behind those doors a man was saying, ‘… know wolves like th’ back of m’hand. I tell ye, these have got to be werewolves or sommat from th’ Divine Realms. They don’t act as wolves should act. See this? An’ this ? Laughin’ at me, that’s what they’re doin’!’

‘My lord, my ladies,’ the footman said, breaking in, ‘your guests are here.’ He bowed to Numair and Daine and ushered them in ahead of him. ‘I present Master Numair Salmalín, of Corus, and his student, called Daine.’

They were in an elegant sitting room, being looked over by its occupants. The footman announced, ‘My lord Belden, master of Fief Dunlath. My lady Yolane of Dunlath, Lord Belden’s wife and heiress of Dunlath. Lady Maura of Dunlath, my lady’s sister.’

Numair bowed; Daine attempted a curtsy. Yolane, in her thirties, and Maura, a girl of ten, were seated by the hearth fire. Though introduced as sisters, there was little resemblance between them. Yolane was beautiful, with ivory-and-rose skin, large brown eyes, a tumble of reddish brown curls, and a soft mouth. Her crimson silk gown hugged a trim body and narrow waist; deep falls of lace at her wrists drew the eye to long, elegant hands. Diamonds glittered around her neck and at her earlobes. Maura was painfully plain, a stocky child with straight brown hair, attired in a blue dress that fit badly.

Lord Belden was of an age with his wife, a lean, bearded man who showed more interest in his wineglass than in his guests. His brown hair and beard were clipped short. His clothing was equally businesslike, though his maroon brocade tunic and white silk shirt and hose were of the finest quality.

Before the nobles stood a man in rough leather. He bristled with weapons, and held a pair of wolf traps. Yolane fanned herself, trying to disperse the aroma that came from the traps; Maura held her nose. The wolfhounds that sat or sprawled at the hunter’s feet rose when they saw Daine. Slowly they went to her, their wire-haired faces eager. She offered her hands for them to sniff.

‘Here!’ barked the hunter. ‘Them ain’t ladies’ dogs! They’re fierce hunters, and no’ t’ be cosseted!’

Daine snickered as the hunters crowded around her, tails wagging.

‘Yes, you’re fine dogs,’ she whispered, returning their welcome. ‘You’re lovely dogs, even if you do hunt wolves.’

We try to hunt them, the chief of the wolfhounds said. The man would like us to succeed, but how can we, when wolves do such strange things?

‘Tait, take those brutes away,’ commanded Yolane. ‘This is a civilized gathering.’

The huntsman stalked out, whistling to his dogs. They followed obediently, with an apology to Daine.

As they went, they brushed past another man who entered, smiling wryly. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, dressed neatly in a white shirt, brown silk tunic and hose, and polished boots. His brown-blond hair was clipped short over a clean and open face. Coming up behind Numair, he said, ‘I hope you forgive my—’

Numair turned to look at him, and the stranger’s jaw dropped. His hazel eyes opened wide in shock. ‘Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith,’ he whispered.

Daine frowned. Until now, the only one she’d ever heard use that particular oath was Numair himself.

‘Arram?’ the man asked in a melodic voice. ‘Is that Arram Draper ?’

Numair gaped at him. ‘Tristan Staghorn? They told me you were still in Carthak, with Ozorne.’

‘Oh, Ozorne,’ the newcomer scoffed. ‘No, I felt too – restricted, serving him. I’m my own man now – have been for a year.’ He and Numair shook hands.

‘Tristan, you know our guest?’ The lady rose from her chair and walked towards Numair, as graceful as a dancer.

‘Know him?’ replied Tristan. ‘My lady, this is Master Numair Salmalín, once of the university at Carthak, now resident at the court of Tortall.’

Yolane offered Numair a hand, which he kissed. ‘How wonderful to find such beauty in an out-of-the-way place,’ he said gallantly. ‘Does King Jonathan know the finest jewel in Tortall does not adorn his court?’

The lady smiled. ‘Only a man who lives at court could turn a compliment so well, Master Salmalín.’

‘But Tristan didn’t call you that,’ Lord Belden said coolly. ‘He called you Arram something.’

‘I was known as Arram Draper in my boyhood,’ explained Numair.

Tristan grinned. ‘Oh, yes – you wanted a majestic, sorcerous name when you got Master status. Then you had to change it, when Ozorne ordered your arrest.’

Yolane and Belden looked sharply at Numair. ‘Wanted by the emperor of Carthak?’ the woman asked. ‘You must have done something serious.’

Numair blushed. ‘The emperor is very proprietary, Lady Yolane. He feels that if a mage studies at his university, the mage belongs to him.’ He looked at Tristan. ‘I’m rather surprised to see you here. You were the best war mage in your class.’

War mage, Daine thought, startled. That’s who Numair said blasted the mines and killed the Riders.

‘I brought the emperor to see reason,’ Tristan replied, looking at Daine. ‘I’m sorry, little one – I didn’t mean to be rude. Who might you be?’