Janrae Frank - [Lycan Blood 02] - Fireborn Law

by Fireborn Law [lit]

  "I have all the control over my fertility that I need."

  Caimbeul gave her a glance full of slightly naughty guilelessness. "Didn't stop me landing you one in the belly."

  "I wanted Gwythyr, damn you. I wanted him and you got him killed. It's your own bloody fault our son is dead."

  Caimbeul sucked in a deep breath and kicked his horse into a canter, turned down a side street and then an alley to lose her. He reined in near a privy behind a tavern and just sat there. His stomach had clenched up and he felt a disturbing pressure in his chest and a tightness in his throat. Caimbeul leaned his head as far back as he could get it and closed his eyes. "I failed you, Gwythyr failed you. And I'm so damned sorry. I miss you."

  A mon opened the door to the privy and emerged lacing his pants up. He stared at Caimbeul for an instant. "Watcha doin' there? You some kind a privy peeper?"

  "I'm lost and need directions."

  "I thought you dog-nosed bastards never got lost. You was peepin'."

  "Why would I do that?" Caimbeul sneered. "My cock is bigger than yours, human." He kicked his gelding into a trot and left the alley, ignoring a string of obscenities shouted in his wake.

  Caimbeul rode down to Main Street it amused him that nearly every town and village he had ever been in had a Main Street and turned off onto Loren Lane. Three blocks farther and he spotted the sign: Scarlet Angel Mage Supply. The name made it sound as if there were dozens of mages in Skullbones. However, unless things had changed a lot since he was last here, most of their customers were ordinary folk who bought potions, charms, candles, and incense. A bell rang on the door as he entered.

  The shop had changed in subtle ways. The shelves along three walls behind glass topped counters were the same. The curtain covering the rear door into the backroom had been replaced with strings of glass and ceramic beads that brushed the floor. The small table in the center, beneath a sign that bore the symbols for tarot readings, palmistry, and casting the stones, was new.

  A small, clean-shaven mon emerged from the backroom. "Can I help you?"

  "Yah. Is Giuliano Albertus around?"

  The mon's eyes narrowed and he studied Caimbeul before answering. "Granddad has been dead fifty years, fireborn."

  Caimbeul tensed. "You know what I am."

  "I can see auras and spirit-forms. The firebird sits on your shoulders. Your aura shimmers like the fires of damnation."

  "Who are you?"

  The mon tilted his head and squinted at Caimbeul as if looking for something more than he had first perceived. "Luciano Albertus. I inherited the shop from my father more or less."

  "What do you mean?" Suspicion crawled along the lawgiver's arms and up the back of his neck.

  "Lemyari have a taste for mages. I'm not one, so they leave me alone."

  "Then what are you?"

  "Can't you tell?"

  "I'm not so rude as to Read people without being asked to."

  "Complaint noted. I'm a psi spiritworker. I don't have enough power to interest them, so the Lemyari haven't tried to sink their fangs into me yet."

  Caimbeul's lips curled back from his teeth. "They probably won't. Folks say spiritworkers taste rancid."

  "Touché." Luciano's mouth pursed into a droll smile. "So what can I do for you?"

  "Two dozen seed crystals. Half a dozen memory stones, capable of holding an encryption. Three ounces of Moon's Mourning Green."

  "That's an expensive order."

  "I have plenty of gold."

  "You'd better. As to the Moon's Mourning, I have the raw white, but not the green. I tell you what, if you'll take the white I don't get much call for it, most people don't know how to process it right I'll throw in a free palm reading and I promise not to peek."

  Caimbeul chuckled. "I'm fairly certain I'm peek proof." He reached into the largest of the three pouches hanging from his belt, came out with thirty Sharani double-gryphons, and made three stacks of coins on the counter. "However, I'll take you up on the offer. Will that cover everything?"

  "More than." Luciano's eyes saucered and his eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. "You're Padruig Caimbeul, aren't you? Fireborn Law? My father told me stories about me when I was little."

  "Keep the change and forget you saw me."

  "Of course. Only let me warn you. The sa'necari are looking for you. Two of them came through yesterday. They know you've left Silverpaw." Luciano gestured at the table. "Sit down while I bag up your purchases. Then I'll give you that Reading I promised you."

  Caimbeul settled into a chair, muttering an old Creeyan proverb. "Reputation is a double-edged sword. It cuts both ways."

  Luciano returned and placed a burlap sack with Caimbeul's purchases on the lycan's side of the table. "Give me you use hand, not your birth hand."

  The lycan extended his right hand. The shopkeeper stroked his finger along the lines in Caimbeul's rough paw. Luciano frowned deeply as if something troubled him. The first part of the reading covered matters that could easily have been gleaned from old tales about Caimbeul and did not explain the look on Luciano's face.

  "There's something you don't like there. Just spit it out and get it over with."

  Luciano's brow wrinkled all the way to his hairline. "So be it. Your lifeline is split into two possible paths. There's a decision in your future."

  "There's a lot of decisions in my future."

  The shopkeeper sucked in a breath. "Yes, but the wrong choice will get you killed. If you follow the path of your heart" Luciano swallowed and his mouth tightened. "If you follow your heart, you won't see the new year. If you keep logic uppermost, you'll see another century of life at the very least."

  The memory of holding his murdered son in his arms flashed through Caimbeul and he jerked his hand from Luciano's grasp, growling. "Maybe I don't want that century."

  Caimbeul grabbed the burlap sack and stalked out of the shop.

  * * * *

  In the course of their travel, Caimbeul's stowage on the pack horse increased steadily, until Pandeena began to wonder what he was buying along the way. When they camped for the night outside Hell's Widow they could have stayed at an inn, but Pandeena had developed a massive dislike for the place after finding Cullen Blackwood's butchered remains she decided the time had come to follow her gut instincts and have a look at everything.

  When Caimbeul went into the trees to relieve himself, she pounced on his packages and bags. The first one contained four bottles of Dragonsbreath, a whiskey more famed for its potency than its taste. She put the bottles aside and kept going through. Bottles of Dragonsbreath were stuffed everywhere. By the time she heard him returning, there were twenty bottles of whiskey lined up.

  Caimbeul sauntered into their campsite, tying his pants closed. "I've a gut instinct, Pandeena. I think we'll" He stopped and stared at the mess she had made of his belongings, the bottles of whiskey standing in a row. "Aww, shit."

  She faced him with her hands on her hips. "You promised to stay sober."

  "I ain't touched a drop since we left Running horse."

  "That's not what this looks like."

  "I only bought a few." Caimbeul's brogue thickened with discomfort. "An' I ain't been drinkin' it."

  Pandeena pointed at the bottles of whiskey. "Twenty is more than a few."

  "Who's counting?"

  "Me."

  "You always did. Look, Pandeena. I only promised not ta touch it while we was on the road. Remember?"

  "Well, I'd hoped you'd give it up."

  Caimbeul forced a half-hearted chuckle. "And ruin my reputation?"

  "It looked fairly wrecked four weeks ago when I found you."

  "Ah, well. I had my reasons."

  "Excuses."

  "You always were a hard bitch." Caimbeul sidled over, wrapped his arms around her, and cupped her breasts while nuzzling her neck. "Forgive me?"

  "None of that you old lecher," she scolded, unable to completely school the fondness from her voice.

  "Just
once for old time's sake?"

  "No. The relationship's been over for a century. Let it go."

  Caimbeul withdrew his hands. "It was nice living in that little house watching the boy grow up."

  Pandeena softened. "I loved our son. It broke my heart when they killed him."

  "It could be nice again."

  "No, Caimbeul. It's over. We're just friends now. I like it that way."

  Caimbeul rocked back on his haunches with a sigh. "The least you could have done was to Jump us to Wolffgard."

  "I don't want them to know what I can do." Pandeena straightened and carried her bedroll to the horses. She tied it to the back of her saddle.

  Caimbeul followed her. "You really think this Malthus is the Butchering Serpent?"

  "I'm certain of it. The evidence, however, is only a little dog and a seriously wounded young lawgiver who can't remember his own name and who everyone thinks is dead."

  Caimbeul pulled at his stubbled lip. "Well, once we get there, I'll think of something."

  "I'm sure you will. You always did before."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CRIMSON LADY

  The morning light shining in Preece's eyes woke him. He cringed away from it, shading his eyes with his hands. His stomach soured and burning bile rose to the back of his throat. Lurching to his feet, he staggered to the window, shoved it open, and vomited onto the roof of the veranda below him. Preece turned about and stared into the room, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten there.

  "Bit of a hangover, dearie?" a droll voice asked from the bed.

  Preece glared at the naked whore lying on her side in the bed with her head propped on her hand.

  She had long, silken black hair and voluptuous curves; and seeing her made some of the pieces click into place in his mind.

  "This is the Crimson Lady?"

  She giggled. "You been here all night."

  "Shit." I was supposed to spend the night at the inn. Preece's glare deepened into a scowl.

  "Hair of the dog's on the table if you need it." She pointed at a bottle of whiskey in the middle of a small round table standing midway between a dresser and a wardrobe.

  "You got White Fire in this place?"

  "Sure. Costs extra." She got out of bed and padded across the room to the dresser where she took a small silver box out and a metal tube. Picking up a hand mirror, the whore carried it all to the table and laid out lines of white powder from the box.

  "Silkie says it's all on the House."

  "So it is." She handed the tube to Preece as he joined her.

  He snorted two lines and smiled as the drug hit his system, banishing all traces of the hangover, and sending a rush of energy through him. Malthus must have incredible influence. I wonder how far it goes? "What's your name?"

  "Lola."

  "Okay, Lola." Preece decided to test the limits of Malthus' influence and Silkie's hospitality. A sneer spread across his lips that almost touched his eyes. "I want to take a bottle of this stuff" Preece tapped the lid of the box. "With me. A big bottle."

  "You're asking a lot. Amphereon that pure is expensive."

  "Is that a no?"

  Lola rose and shrugged into a filmy robe, sashed it closed. "Of course not. How big is big?"

  "Twelve ounces?"

  "Might as well ask for a pound."

  "Can I get it?"

  She looked at him with her head tilted and an expression blended equally of contempt and idle speculation. "Of course. Any thing else you want to take with you?"

  "Two bottles of that good whiskey. A bottle of rum."

  "Is that all?"

  "And you."

  "Hah! You finally hit on something you can't take with you."

  "I didn't want you. I got a flaxen-haired bitch that's just begging for it."

  "What's her name?"

  "Kady."

  Lola flounced from the room.

  Preece did a third line of White Fire and then dressed. He had finished belting his knives on when she returned with a burlap sack. Preece checked out the contents and left without another word.

  When he reached the Inn, he found the common room empty except for the owner, Dymier, who was sitting with two other myn at a table near the bar. Both myn were Waejontori wearing their long black hair tied back. The mon to Dymier's right was nearly as tall as Preece and clean-shaven; the other was of average build and slender. Yet when Preece met their eyes, predator recognized predator. Preece had never been one to stand down from a challenge, so he sauntered over and addressed Dymier. "Anything going back?"

  Dymier handed him two letters and Preece put them into his pouch.

  The tall one sized Preece up with a sweep of his gaze. "So you're Malthus' new courier. What's your name?"

  "Preece Malloy if that's any of your business."

  "It is my business. Next time bring them directly to me."

  "Where?"

  "Offices of the Green Sheaf Grain Merchants. I'm the owner. Heironim Traxton. This is my associate, Dorjan Calendri."

  Preece's eyes narrowed. "And when I mention your names to Malthus, he'll know you?"

  Dorjan chuckled. "Oh, very good."

  "I expect you to," said Heironim and flipped a gold crown at Preece.

  The lycan snapped the coin out of the air without blinking and shoved it into his pocket. "If that's all, I'm gone."

  * * * *

  Kynyr tucked a pair of loaded crossbows under the seat of the wagon and a case of quarrels. Rumors from merchants coming through Red Wolf Valley claimed that the road to Hell's Widow had gotten rougher since he last went there. They were entering in large, armed parties instead of one or two at a time as they once did. The harder that Queen Tomyrilen's forces pressed the Sharani armies; the more Sharani turned their attention in her direction and the more they neglected the isolated districts that they had once patrolled and guarded.

  In times past, Kynyr and his friends had gone to great lengths to avoid being marked out as Clan guardsmyn when in Hell's Widow. This time they would be wearing chainmail under their civilian clothing, and carrying horse bows. If someone shot at them, they intended to shoot back. The lycans were as good with their bows as the freerangers were and could fire accurately from the saddle at a full gallop, getting off each shot in less than half a minute. Kynyr wished he could have barded the horses, but Claw had overruled him on it. They were going to be conspicuous enough as it was.

  His companions waited on their horses. Ramsey Fitzgerald with hair as red as a whore's petticoats and a temperament so mellow and steady that it proved a mon's nature could not be judged by the color of his hair; tow-headed Finn MacIver, Kynyr's spiritbrother since early childhood, who had missed being youngest by two months; and sandy-haired Eideard Doyle, the oldest of them at twenty-four, and the most outspoken. They had all served Claw Redhand since they were sixteen; and were good with their weapons. However, guardsmyn in an informal lycan household did more than guard and fight. They also worked the herds, mended fences, ran errands, and did general tasks around the manor and its properties.

  The lycan saddle had been adapted from those used by the freeranger companies that roamed the continent in service to the Willodarian Temples. It had a front swell and a horn instead of the cavalry pommel favored by many armies, a substantial skirt, and a side flap to hold a horse bow and quiver, as well as a hook for a coiled rope. They were used primarily for herding stock, but the lycans could fight from those saddles as well.

  Heavy sheepskin pads showed beneath the saddle skirts.

  "You think we'll have trouble?" A twig went round and round in Ramsey's mouth: a substitute for his pipe since he did not like trying to smoke in the saddle. Most dog lycans smoked pipes and so did some of the bitches.

  Kynyr climbed up on the wagon before answering, released the break, and started turning it about to drive out of the yard. "I doubt we'll have any on the way out. Most of the trouble seems to be with people heading toward the valley, not away from
it."

  "Bandits, you think?" Finn rode up alongside Kynyr as the wagon rolled out onto the path and they headed for the bridge over the Eirlys River.

  "That's the rumor," Kynyr replied. "We'll need to keep our eyes open on the road."

  "We ought to be able to handle bandits." The twig whirled and bobbed in Ramsey's teeth as he talked around it. "They're usually poorly armed, untrained, and disorganized. Like that band we routed two years ago."

  Stands of white pine and blue spruce shaded the broad dirt road. Shadowy canine forms moved beneath the trees, lycans patrolling in full wolf form, watchers whose job was not to engage the enemy, but to sound the alert should something untoward occur. The wheels of the wagon and the hooves of the horses churned up the dirt on that dry late summer morning. Heat had already begun to gather over the road despite the earliness of the hour.

  Kynyr went quiet as the support columns on the bridge came into view. When Cooley had first arrived, riding his father's horse and carrying a message for Kynyr, the guardsmon's friends had tried various ways to get him to divulge the contents of Silkie's letter. All to no avail. Finn knew more than the others, but even he gained only the merest outline from Kynyr. The questioning had slacked off until three weeks ago, when Pandeena had brought Cullen's broken remains home for a proper burial. Planning for the journey to Hell's Widow for supplies, had sparked a fresh round of them; and Kynyr knew that his three companions expected to finally have their answers. It was getting more difficult to deny them that.

  "It wasn't bandits that killed Cullen." Kynyr's eyes took on a distant look.

  "Sa'necari?" Finn asked.

  "I got a letter from one of the prostitutes at the Crimson Lady saying it was sa'necari that murdered him."

  Ramsey eyed Kynyr closely, curiosity filling his face. "She say how she knew?"

  "She saw them do it."

  That information surprised all but Finn; and it was several minutes before Ramsey ventured another question. "Which one is she?"

  "No." Kynyr shook his head. "I can't tell you that."