The Jaguar Knights (12 page)

Grand Master nodded. “But one picket was killed up here on the battlements. He was thrown off, or fell over the rail—or jumped, perhaps—and died when he hit the courtyard. So the matter is not that simple. When the invaders withdrew, taking the Baroness, they very sensibly followed the main shore road down, which is much easier. And that was that. They took all their boats away, despite the men they had lost.”

“How many men?” Wolf demanded. “How many boats?”

“I do not know. Normally you can see Short Cove from this turret, but no one has ventured down to the beach to look for traces, so far as I know. There were no boats in sight when the sun rose.”

“What was the state of the tide during the attack?” Hogwood asked.

“I did not think to ask, I am ashamed to say.” Roland was clearly annoyed at displaying human failings.

“Doesn’t matter,” Wolf said. “The question is, who opened the gate?”

The older man shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. “Let us discuss that when we go inside. What I really want you to see, Wolf—and you, Inquisitor—is up on that lookout.”

He gestured again at the turret. It was unroofed and higher than the rampart, reached by a short flight of steps. Wolf went up them carefully, for there was no handrail and they still bore enough snow to make them treacherous. A hurdle had been stood across the top, as if to bar entry to the turret itself. It was a semicircular space surrounded by a crenelated wall, and at first glance it was totally empty. Most of the snow in it had melted to slush, and even before that the tracks would have been overlain and unreadable by anyone but a skilled woodsman. But in a few places he made out single, distinct impressions, and then he could only stare in disbelief.

A gasp at his shoulder confirmed that Hogwood was seeing what he saw. How could they possibly report
this
evidence to the Council?

Grand Master chuckled below them. “From your reactions, I infer that the prints have not all melted?”

With anyone else at all, Wolf would have suspected a joke in very bad taste. Hogwood did not know Lord Roland as he did.

“Who found these marks and when?” she shouted.

“They were pointed out to me as soon as I arrived.” Grand Master sounded more amused than angered by her suspicion. “I have taken statements from the men who discovered them. I do not believe they are faked, Inquisitor.”

Three toes forward, one behind. Here and there, in the most sheltered examples, imprints of great talons also. The brutes must be as big as ponies. Their feet were larger than human.

Hogwood’s voice was shriller than an inquisitor’s should ever be. “You are testifying that the gates were opened by invaders who flew up to this turret mounted on giant birds?”

“No.” Roland’s tone sharpened, bringing echoes of the authority he had borne for a generation as Lord Chancellor of Chivial. “I merely show you evidence I believe to be genuine. Draw your own conclusions. You can interview everyone in the castle at your convenience. Shall we go indoors now?”

W
orrying about those monstrous bird tracks, Wolf followed Hogwood and Grand Master back down to the bailey. Chivian conjury was supposed to be the best in the world. So he had always been told. But flying horses were something very new. As they reached the bailey, he caught Hogwood grinning to herself. If the fortress had fallen to treachery, she would have faced a straightforward inquisitorial investigation, probably solvable with her skill at truth-sounding. Instead she faced a major problem in conjury, so she was gleeful. She was showing no signs of her former fears, although now she was in Quondam—discard one more theory.

In the hall where so many had died, the only signs of the battle were fresh rushes on the floor and two carpenters noisily repairing furniture. Lord Roland beckoned a passing servant to order fires lit in the guests’ rooms, water heated, hot bricks piled in their beds, then led the way up a creaking staircase to what was obviously the baronial bedchamber, for a massive four-poster occupied most of it. If that been Celeste’s bed for the last four years, there was nothing of her in the room, nor of the Baron either—no fine mirrors, no sumptuous robes discarded over chairs, no lingering scent, no silver toiletries arrayed on gilded furniture. Old and cramped and shabby like the rest of the castle living quarters, the room was as impersonal as an icehouse, although it was warmed by a huge fire of driftwood roaring welcome on the hearth. The only noteworthy object it contained was a rickety table bearing papers, ink, wax, and pens.

“I have been working in here,” Grand Master said, “because the solar is colder than the ocean and the hall is too public. Pray make yourselves at home. So, Inquisitor—this maniac did not kill you on the way here?”

“But not for want of trying, my lord.” She was giving him her professional haddock stare, which was a reminder that she almost never used it on Wolf.

Roland was untroubled. “He drives himself hard, which is why the King sends him out when lions prowl. May I suggest, brother, that you proclaim your commission tonight in the hall? Then, if the weather permits, I can return to my duties in Ironhall tomorrow. Another day of this thaw and the Great Bog will be its deadly old self again.”

“It cannot melt so soon, my lord.”

“It will flood and be more dangerous than ever.”

“Well, I will read myself in if you think it necessary, Grand Master, but I have no intention of letting you escape so easily. I hereby appoint you acting warden of Quondam until His Majesty’s pleasure be known.”

An aging servant brought in a steaming copper jug and three tankards. Lord Roland poured, and they began sipping the fragrant brew. It burned Wolf’s mouth and raised every hair on his chilled body.

Grand Master said, “I will serve as needed, but is that altogether wise, brother?”

“It is the smartest thing I can think of. My charge is to find out who did this terrible thing, not to wait around here in case they try to do it again. I cannot understand why the Council did not send the writ directly to you.”

“I am sure the inquisitor can tell you that.”

“I am somewhat puzzled by His Majesty’s decision,” Hogwood said.

He feigned surprise. “It is simple, surely? Ever since Thencaster, the royal buttocks rest uneasy on the throne. I am not Athelgar’s man, I am an Ambrose leftover. He did not appoint me Grand Master, he approved my election. Now I send in a lurid dispatch, raving of improbable superhuman invaders at a time of year when no sane warrior leaves his fireside. I describe a massacre and announce that I am taking charge. I am the last man he would trust to investigate, Mistress Hogwood.”

Or believe, if he began babbling about pony-sized birds.

“To question your loyalty after such a lifetime of service is blatant insanity, Grand Master,” Wolf said. “But I have no wish to jaundice the royal eye against you. If you wish to suggest a substitute warden, I will accept your recommendation.”

“I am sure you will find an excellent candidate close at hand.” Roland’s refusal was accompanied by just enough smile to take the sting out of it.

“You have been here four days, my lord. You have had time to query, investigate, and ponder. Tell us what happened.”

Grand Master sighed. “Oh, I wish I could!” He scooped a sheaf of papers from the table. “Let’s see…Sir Alden loaded twenty-five seriously wounded, including himself, into a wagon, and brought them to Ironhall. Seven of them died on the journey.”

“And one since,” Hogwood said. “A cook.”

Roland made a note. “The dead he left here totaled twenty—that is two Blades, seven men-at-arms, two visitors, eight male servants, and a page. The invaders killed off any of their own wounded who could not walk, leaving fifty-four corpses behind. I have details here…and some drawings of those tracks you saw. I discovered that one of the grooms is an excellent artist…. An inventory of the enemy dead and their weapons.…Statements from everyone who was present, including a former forester. He read the invaders’ tracks for me.”

Hogwood had the grace to look impressed. “You have been diligent, my lord! You said, ‘everyone’?”

“Everyone I could get. Some witnesses had fled by the time I arrived, but I had them brought back. Except…” He thumbed through the sheets. “This one…‘Nathaniel Dogget, his mark.’A page serving in the hall. His father was slain in the assault, so I let him return to his family. And two young pikemen—Rolf Twidale and Cam Obmouth. They were on watch, so they may have been slain and thrown over the battlements. Or they may still be running, somewhere very far away.”

“Or they were abducted along with the Baroness?”

Roland shrugged, as if to say that anything was possible in a nightmare. “Everyone else awaits your pleasure, Inquisitor. I certify that my own account is the truth as I know it.” He passed her the papers.

While Dolores flipped through them in her infuriating show-off fashion, Wolf said, “What I want to know is: Who were they?”

“Ah.” Grand Master smiled. “There I can show you some evidence. I made a collection of the best examples.” He rose and went around the four-poster to unlock an ironbound chest, returning bearing a familiar-looking wooden billet. “You have seen these? Sir Alden brought one to Ironhall, and we gathered up dozens here. We call them ‘cats’ paws’ because they always have the same five claws, four on the top edge and one so far back as to be useless. The carving on the shaft varies, within narrow limits—cats, birds, flowers, serpents, other symbols I cannot decipher.”

“If a rebel chief wanted to arm his men without attracting notice,” Wolf said, “then he might dream up something like these and have them carved for him in any forest hut. The Dark Chamber keeps track of standard weapon manufacture and importation, does it not, Hogwood?”

She groaned. “Will you explain art to him, Lord Roland, or must I?”

“No need,” Grand Master said, with more tact than truth. “Wolf knows that no Chivian artist could have carved these. They are too unlike any craft he would have ever seen. They are alien, strange. All artists work within their own tradition. This style is enormously different, exotic to our eyes. The invaders came from no nation in Eurania, I am certain.”

“Their weapons did not, you mean?” Wolf asked.

“They did not. Their skin color is wrong. Their features are wrong.”

“So they were not painted? Have you kept some of their dead for us to see?”

“I have kept all of them, because they do not decay in the sort of cold we have been having, and also the balefires for our own dead consumed all the firewood Quondam can spare. The ground is too hard to bury them. If this thaw persists, we may have to give them back to the sea. It brought them here, after all, and from very far away.”

“You cannot say from where?” Hogwood asked.

Roland smiled inscrutably. “I cannot, but wiser men than I will be able to identify the clothes and chattels. Their dead wore strange garments and decorations. None of their weapons were metal, but they would be baneful enough. For example…”

He rose and went back to the chest in the corner, returning with what was obviously a wooden sword, its edges inlaid with obsidian teeth. “Be careful! These are as sharp as razors!”

Wolf took the hilt. “Impractical for battle, surely?”

“You could not parry with it, but two of our dead were decapitated by such weapons, each with a single stroke. No, that is a dangerous thing.”

“But consider the numbers, my lord! Estimates vary but most witnesses thought there were between two and four hundred invaders. And they had the advantage of surprise. Against how many defenders?”

“About fifty men, plus a score of women and children.”

“Yet the invaders’ losses were more than ours, even if you include our wounded. Militarily the result was an upset and that can only mean that our weapons were superior!”

“Or their fighting technique was inferior,” Hogwood said, taking the sword.

“Possibly.” Grand Master handed Wolf a matching stone-toothed dagger from his chest of wonders. He was enjoying displaying the bizarre hoard. “Darts, glass-tipped, and this hooked stick is a thrower for them, called an atlatl, if memory serves. This one is decorated with gold leaf and shell, but most were plainer. They are about as deadly as bows in practiced hands, I’m told. About as many shields as corpses…look at this shield. Made of woven reeds, covered in fur and trimmed with feathers. And this one, of cane with a flower design made entirely of feathers. I wonder what Griffin King of Arms would say to this heraldry, mm?”

“They are superb work,” Wolf admitted, “very light. They might block obsidian teeth, but a rapier would go straight through them. What beast sports this spotted fur?”

“Ah! Perhaps an ounce?” Grand Master smiled as if enjoying a secret joke. “When I was about the age you are now, brother, King Ambrose sent me on a very long journey to a land called Altain, far to the east of Eurania. In the mountains of Altain lives a very large, much feared, spotted cat called the ounce. It is twice the length of the lynx we find in northern Eurania, and is either related to the pard or a highland variety of it. I saw the skin of one and it looked just like that shield.”

“You think the invaders came from Altain?” Hogwood demanded sharply.

“No, I don’t. I still have much to show you. Headdresses, now. Fit for the palace ball. Like this. You would look sweet in this, Wolf.”

He handed over a crown of feathers, brilliant blue and green, trimmed around the headband with gold. He followed it with dozens of extraordinary garments and artifacts, chuckling at his audience’s amazement—a full-length cloak of iridescent feathers, sewn on what seemed to be very delicate cotton, sandals of some mysterious flexible stuff, fabrics of various dimensions and dazzling colors, displaying bizarre images of beings with multiple heads, human or otherwise.

“This is not just stranger than I expected,” Wolf admitted. “It is stranger than I could have imagined.” Athelgar was going to have a thousand fits.

“Now for treasures.” Grinning, Grand Master brought a leather bag and returned to his seat to open it. “A disc of gold, inscribed in unknown glyphs. This bracelet seems to be pure gold, as are these two earrings. These other trinkets are copper. But what of this ornate pin? It held a man’s cloak. Or these?” He passed over three carvings about the size of thumb joints, one of crystal and two of lustrous green stone. “Bizarre, are they not, but have you ever seen such delicate workmanship? A bird of prey and two cats?”