Tamora Pierce - Wolf-Speaker

Her door closed behind her, Daine used a glowstone from her belt purse to find her candle, which she lit. Kitten, sprawled on the bed, peeped drowsily.

‘You prob’ly would’ve hated it,’ Daine told her, shedding her clothes. Hanging them up instead of leaving them on the floor, a habit she’d learned in months of living in the Riders’ barracks, she then slipped into her nightshirt. ‘The little girl is nice – Maura. But the grown-ups—’ Daine shook her head as she climbed under the blanket.

Kitten, listening, chirped a question. Though she was too young to hear or to answer in mind-speech as older immortals did, talking to her was never a problem. Kitten understood Common better than some humans they had met. Daine was glad this was so, since from all she had learned in months of study, Kitten would be an infant for thirty years.

‘Well, they look nice, but they’re cold and proud. And something’s wrong. Maura says the mage from Carthak is canoodling with her sister – Lady Yolane, she is.’ Daine yawned. ‘If Lord Belden knows, he doesn’t seem to care. Put out the light, Kit, there’s a girl.’

Kitten whistled, and the candle went out. Muttering softly, she curled up with her back against Daine. Within seconds they were asleep.

She was dreaming that she ran with the pack, the scent of elk full and savoury in her nostrils, when a voice boomed in her skull. ‘Daine. Daine.’

Wolf body whirling, jaws ready to snap, she realized she was in bed, waking up. A gentle hand on her shoulder tugged her upright. For a brief moment she saw as a wolf saw, with greys and blacks and white the sole colours of her vision. The shadowy figure over her, lit by pale fire, doubled, then steadied back into one form. It was Numair. He had lit no candles; instead, the shimmer of his magic filled the room with a dim glow.

She felt as if she hadn’t slept. ‘What’s the hour?’ she asked, yawning.

‘Just after midnight watch.’ His voice was so quiet it wasn’t even a whisper, but she heard it clearly. ‘Pack. We’re leaving.’

She blinked, wondering if she still dreamed. ‘Leaving? But—’

‘Not here,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll explain on the road. Pack.’

She tumbled out of bed and did as she was told. Within minutes her saddlebags were ready and she was dressed. Numair poked his head through the inner door, which stood open once more, and beckoned for her and Kitten to follow.

He left the saddling of Spots, Mangle, and Cloud to her. She did it quietly, not wanting to rouse the ostlers. Kitten went into her carry-pack, an open saddlebag on Mangle that allowed her to see everything as she rode. At the last minute Numair gave Daine a handful of rags, and motioned for her to cover their mounts’ feet to muffle the sound of their shoes on the streets. ‘Did you leave money for our host?’ she asked as she held Spots for Numair to mount.

‘With a good tip over that, and a note of apology.’ He got himself into the saddle, a process she could never watch without gritting her teeth, and motioned for her to mount up. She did so without effort.

Go, she told Spots. He wants silence over speed, I think.

It is just as well, the patient gelding replied, passing the inn’s gate with Daine and Cloud close behind. He is so tense, I think if I trotted, he would fall off. What’s the matter?

He’ll tell us, the girl promised. Do what you can to make him less tense.

I am a riding horse, not a god, was Spots’s answer.

When they reached the trees where the road along the lakeshore crossed the river that flowed down from the western pass, Numair dismounted. Kneeling on the northern side of the crossing, he scratched a hole in the road, put something in it, and covered it over, patting the earth down firmly. Walking to the southern branch of the road, he performed the same curious rite.

‘If you’re leaving an offering to the crossroad god, his shrine is over there.’ Daine pointed to the little niche where the god’s statue rested.

‘I’m not,’ he replied, dusting his hands. He bowed to the small shrine. ‘No offence meant.’ Remounting, he guided Spots onto the track that led west, and beckoned for Daine to ride beside him.

‘What’s all this?’ she asked. ‘Usually you give warning if we have to skip out in the middle of the night.’

‘I wanted things to seem normal when we got back to the inn, in case someone was listening. We have to get out of here and warn King Jonathan, but I can’t send a message from under this shield. Even if I were to succeed, Tristan and his friends would know of it.’

‘And I guess you don’t want them running off before we can get help.’

‘Exactly. Whatever is going on in Dunlath is big. Anything in which Tristan Staghorn is involved is a danger to the kingdom.’

‘But he said he didn’t work for the emperor any more.’

‘In addition to his other talents, he is an accomplished liar.’

Hearing iron control in his voice, Daine shivered. It took a great deal to anger Numair Salmalín. She would not give a half copper for the well-being of someone who did make him angry. ‘Then why let us go? Surely he knew when he saw you that there’d be trouble.’

‘He let us go because he dumped enough nightbloom powder in my wine to keep me asleep for a century. As far as he knows, I drank it.’

‘Did you?’

He smiled mockingly. ‘Of course not. Those years of working sleight-of-hand tricks in every common room and village square between Carthak and Corus weren’t wasted. The wine ended up on the floor, under the table.’

‘He should’ve known you’d see the potion.’

‘Not particularly. When we were students, I had no skill in the detection of drugs or poisons. I knew nothing practical. People are impressed that I am a black robe mage from the Imperial University, but black robe studies cover esoterica and not much else. Yes, I can change a stone to a loaf of bread, if I want to be ill for days and if I don’t care that there will be a corresponding upheaval elsewhere in the world. Much of the practical magic I have learned I acquired here, in Tortall. From the king, in fact.’

‘But if it’s just Tristan shielding this place, can’t you break through? Oh, wait – you think those other two wizards are helping him.’

He smiled. ‘There were five mages in that banquet hall. Tristan called Masters Redfern and Gardiner merchants, but if they are, it is only as a cover occupation. They have the Gift, too.’

Daine guessed, ‘Another thing Tristan doesn’t know you can tell?’

The man nodded. ‘From the way the others defer to him, he is in charge of what is transpiring here. That means this affair is the emperor’s business. Tristan has been his dog for years – only Ozorne can tell him where to bite.’

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