Penric's Fox: Penric and Desdemona Book 3

by Lois McMaster Bujold

Mm… Des hummed.

  His demon, Pen decided, wasn’t so much brave as vicious. Are you playing with him? Only his speed allowed him to dodge a few more fierce kicks.

  Wegae had finally located an iron frying pan. He managed one good whack—not hard enough—before he was punched aside again. The pan flew away with a clang. That Halber bent over his fists in agony after was small consolation.

  Try to get your hand on his lower back, said Des. Just for an instant. This is going to take some precision.

  Bastard’s tears! Well, give me all the speed you can, then.

  For the first time, Pen went on the attack, or something vaguely resembling attack. He spun around to face Halber as the man closed the distance trying for another mighty booted kick. Left, right, under, over? The world slowed to its utmost, and Pen, tapping his lips with his thumb, crouched to make springs of his legs. He bolted off the floor and into the air, one hand bracing on Halber’s shoulder, curling his knees to avoid slamming his feet into the low ceiling beams. He swung his other hand, still tingling from the singlestick blow, down to flatten his palm against the man’s lower spine. His touch was quite soft.

  The bone-crack this time was sudden, sodden, and final.

  Halber’s nerveless legs splayed out, and he dropped like a bludgeoned ox. “Eh?”

  Pen’s feet kissed the planks, and his legs bent double to absorb the shock of his landing. He came up and staggered a few steps before finding his balance. His body was dangerously, boilingly hot from the rapid deployment of his magics, even as the pace of the world came back to itself once more. He stood gasping, sweat running down his face, netting in his eyebrows, dripping from his chin. Bending, he tore off his boots and socks, vest and shirt, in a desperate bid to cool.

  On the floor, Halber snarled filthy curses and threats and struggled to stand. Futilely, as his body from the waist down had gone as flaccid and helpless as a sack of custard.

  Wegae recovered his pan and, holding it like a shield in one hand with the other out before him to feel his way, blundered fearfully to Pen’s side. “He said he was going to kill me,” he choked. “I mean, I always knew he despised me, but I didn’t know he hated me that much!”

  “—and that bitch your mother—!” Halber picked up his diatribe; his violence, blocked from physical expression, finding its outlet in words. Venting. Spewing. The targets of his obscene wrath seemed to include Wegae, Wegae’s mother, Penric—not by name, but Pen presumed that you bloodless blond Bastard’s tit meant him—all Temple sorcerers, the demonic fox, and Easthome judges. And his baroness and his brother, both of whom were long dead as far as Pen knew.

  Penric steered Wegae to the door. “Run to the house. Find Oswyl. Find everyone. Bring aid.”

  Wegae needed help determining which brown blur in the distance was the manor house, but once Penric gripped his head and got him aimed, he stumbled off in the right direction.

  Penric turned back to the hut, trying to figure out what in the gods’ names had just happened here. Deposed Baron Halber come back for revenge, obviously, but never before had Pen found the proof of one of his theories to be so appalling.

  Deprived of an audience, Halber had fallen silent. Pen could believe he really had fought in a mercenary company, after he’d fled Easthome three years ago. Would Penric’s brother Drovo have turned into something this brutal, if he’d survived his camp fever? Pen shuddered.

  Halber’s broken hands must hurt, for he was curled around them, but Pen supposed he wasn’t feeling further pain, or anything else, from his lower body. Is that right, Helvia? he asked tentatively. Because the knowledge of exactly what injury to devise and how must have come from her, or Amberein.

  More or less. She didn’t sound happy. Although not nearly as distraught as Pen. He’d never before inflicted a magical wound so intimate and calculated.

  But controlled, put in Des. Consider that.

  Deep bruises were starting on Pen’s forearm and neck. Any number of pulled muscles were already rioting in protest. He bent to collect his shirt, shrugging it on. He wasn’t ready for the rest yet, but he did don his Temple braids, pinning them crookedly to his left shoulder. He had to be the least dignified divine ever, bloodied and sweat-soaked, blond queue gone wildly askew, judging from the hair hanging in his face. He retied it while trying to collect his scattered wits, staring down in bafflement at his abrupt victim, who stared up in loathing.

  Pen cleared his throat. “Do you normally try to murder people you’ve just met?” Although that was what a soldier did, he supposed.

  More cursing, if wearier and not so loud.

  Pen worried. If the man died later from this injury that Pen had done him, would it count as death by demonic magic? Could he still lose Des to the Bastard’s peculiar justice, which had nothing to do with the vagaries of any human court?

  Had Des, if not outright sacrificed herself for him, certainly risked such a fate?

  I wouldn’t fret, she said coolly. He’s bound to be hanged first.

  A dubious hope.

  Pen was sure he needed Oswyl here, with Thala and her notebook, before he started interrogating suspects, but he had to know. “Did you shoot Learned Magal in the woods three days ago?”

  Halber glowered at him from his thatch of hair and hatred. “That stupid Temple woman? It was the only way to get that hag Svedra’s demon out of her to destroy it. If it hadn’t jumped to that accursed fox, I would have been half done.”

  “Half…?”

  “And then there was that bitch my brother’s wife. And her whelp Wegae. It was all her doing from the start. Trying to take what was mine—for that weed.”

  “Surely… you didn’t imagine that if you could murder all those people, you could get everything back? Your rank, your property, your place?”

  Halber snorted contempt. “If I can’t have it, let no one do. Especially not them.” He turned his head away, spat, and added, “Didn’t have much more time. He’s spawning.”

  Pen blinked. “Er… shouldn’t it have been a greater concern how you are to present your soul to your god?” Although Which god? was a good question. The Father of Justice was right out. The Mother and the Daughter likewise. The Bastard, god of all leftovers, seemed unlikely after Magal, although there was no telling. The Brother was a god of vast mercy, as Pen had reason to know, but…

  “Curse the gods. Curse the world. Curse… everybody.”

  Comprehensive, murmured Des.

  “So… so you went through all this effort, perpetrated all this pointless cruelty, just to make yourself feel better?”

  A wordless snarl.

  Pen’s voice went dry; he couldn’t help it. “Is it working?”

  Halber’s arms flailed in helpless rage, but he couldn’t reach Pen. He tried to the last, though.

  Pen went back out to the porch and sank down on the wooden steps. The late afternoon was still bright and sunny. Perfect picnic weather, or to go fishing. After that abysmal bout of Halber, it felt as though it ought to have been midnight, and raining.

  Pen ached. And felt ill. “Well. That was ugly.”

  “You foresaw it,” said Des. Comfort? Cold comfort?

  “It’s one thing to foresee. Another to see. It turns out.”

  She was kindly silent.

  He looked up to find Oswyl tromping toward them across the meadow, followed by a mob. Thala and her notebook, half-blind Baron Wegae being led by the hand of Jons his servant, Nath and Kreil bracketing Treuch between them. Inglis. Pen was relieved to see Inglis. They’d need a couple of men to get the helpless Halber back to the house.

  Oswyl shot Pen a look of sharp inquiry as he neared.

  “Your prisoner”—Pen gestured over his shoulder—“is restrained. Have at him.”

  “Baron kin Pikepool says you saved his life.”

  “Mm, probably. His lunatic uncle was just warming up to beat him to death, I think.”

  “You coming in?”

  “Rather not. I’ve had eno
ugh for now.”

  “Hm.” Oswyl frowned in concern at him, but led the party inside.

  He left the door open, though, and Pen, despite himself, ended up listening shamelessly.

  After some noises indicating them getting Halber sitting up, Oswyl began with what were by now familiar preliminaries, with no cooperation from his surly suspect. But Oswyl shortly managed to get Halber and Treuch started in on each other, which perhaps explained why he’d dragged Treuch out here. The exchanges of blame and recrimination were better than any interrogation an inquirer could have devised, with or without red-hot irons. Oswyl only prodded them a little when they started to slow down.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Treuch declaimed. “He didn’t tell me why he needed me to get the Learned up there!”

  Halber snorted contempt. Thala’s stylus scratched busily.

  “He told me to tell her there was a badger I thought was possessed by an elemental. That I needed her to see if it was so, and take it away to her Order.”

  Certainly a routine task for a Temple sorcerer, if important. A shrewd draw. If Halber had known little of sorcery before his first arrest, he’d likely had an opportunity to learn after.

  Which was why Halber had pressed his old lackey Treuch to be his stalking-horse, of course. He’d been afraid Svedra’s former demon might have recognized him. Possible, that.

  “I didn’t even see! He told me to just bring her and leave her. Tell her I was going to check if the creature was still in its den. I didn’t see anything!” Treuch somewhat spoiled this impassioned defense by adding, “He should have hidden her right then, not gone fooling off after that fox all by himself. It wasn’t my fault!”

  “That will be for the judges to decide,” Oswyl sighed.

  After Thala collected signatures from the listening witnesses, the men collaborated on devising a makeshift litter for Halber to be lugged away to the manor house. He’d be put on a cart to the Easthome magistrates as soon as a horse could be harnessed. Treuch whined horribly at the news that he was to be taken along tied to the rail. Oswyl was plainly unmoved by his protests. By nightfall, they would both be someone else’s problem, though Pen was certain the senior locator would have reports to write.

  Oswyl came out on the porch as Nath and Jons maneuvered the litter down the stairs and marched away with it. Treuch followed with the dolor of a mourner in a cortege, Thala keeping a close watch on him. Kreil guided Wegae like a loyal dog. Oswyl lingered a moment to stare oddly down at Pen.

  “Restrained? His spine is broken. Did you realize?”

  “Oh,” Pen sighed, “yes.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “In the fight,” Pen answered, although that likely wasn’t exactly what Oswyl was asking. “Wegae witnessed it, I believe.” How much the poor fellow could see being an open question.

  “Hm, yes, his description was dramatic, if confused. He sounds wildly grateful to you.”

  “I don’t believe he could have succeeded in defending himself from Halber. The man was terrifying.”

  “And yet you are standing, and Halber is… not.”

  Not ever again. “I’m sitting,” Pen pointed out.

  Oswyl puffed something not nearly a laugh. “Baron Wegae is coming with us to lay his deposition and accusation. What about you?”

  Pen gestured to Inglis, leaning against the porch post and glummer than ever. “The shamans and I will be taking the foxes to their menagerie, for now. Best to keep them well separated from Halber and Treuch. I’m not sure I could control the fox’s demon if she sees them.”

  “Ah.” Oswyl frowned uneasily. “You would know best, I suppose. We’ll need a deposition from you, too, in due course.”

  “I won’t be hard to find. I imagine I’ll be splitting my attendance between the menagerie and the princess-archdivine, for now. And Hamo. I promised to call on Hamo tonight. I didn’t expect to have this much news for him.” Pen wondered if he’d need to apologize for sending Hamo on a blind search through his records all day.

  “Oh. Yes. I had better speak to him myself. Although the next-of-kin may need to come first. Tell him to look for me tomorrow.” Oswyl blew out his breath. “I hope he will be pleased with our success.”

  “Ah. Hm.” Pen wasn’t sure if he should speak this thought aloud. “Best you keep Hamo separated from Halber and Treuch, too. For a few days, till he calms down.”

  Oswyl’s brows flicked up. “Really?”

  “Hamo’s a smart man. I suspect the stupidity of this entire revenge escapade is going to enrage him beyond measure.”

  “…How far beyond?”

  “He’s a man with responsible authority.” And a chaos demon. “Just don’t… bait him. Tempt him.”

  Oswyl took this in, thoughtfully. After a moment, he murmured, “I am advised.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tilting his head, Oswyl asked, “And how tempted were you?”

  “Less than Hamo would have been, I’m sure. But there were difficult parts.”

  Oswyl glanced after the retreating litter. “I shall like to hear more about that. When there is time. But Penric…”

  “Hm?”

  “Subduing a criminal who violently resists always has elements of risk. For everyone. It comes with the task. Things can happen too fast, and no one is in control. It’s understood, in my Order.”

  “Some risks”—Pen scratched absently at the drying scabs on his arms, palpated the throbbing bruise—“are different than others.” He looked up. “Are all your cases this awful?”

  “No. Well, some.” Oswyl’s gaze at him was less than reassured. “We’ll talk later,” he promised, and hurried after his charges.

  “So.” Pen looked up to Inglis. “We have a lost demon to shepherd.”

  “Aye.”

  Sometimes, Inglis’s gloomy silences could be quite soothing. They walked together toward the stable.

  *

  The fox family was loaded into pannier baskets, one pair carried over the haunches of Pen’s horse and the second on Lunet’s. The young passengers whined for a time, restrained under closed lids, but then settled down to sleep. The vixen was granted the courtesy of being allowed to ride behind Lunet in her own basket with the top fastened open. Pen tried to persuade himself that her cynical expression, as she was trundled along, was merely the usual one for a fox. It was nearly dark by the time they’d transported their furry charges to the menagerie of the Royal Fellowship.

  A spare stall was swiftly readied, the animals bedded down for the night with small protest. Pen made promises to the vixen to return on the morrow, with as little assurance that they were understood as that he could keep them. The tired shamans could at last depart to find their own beds, with Pen’s repeated thanks.

  And Pen could crawl atop his horse one more time—he used the mounting block—and make his way up through Kingstown to Templetown and the chapterhouse of the Bastard’s Order, for what he prayed would not be too difficult a report.

  *

  The night porter, recognizing Penric, let him in without demur despite his bedraggled appearance. Pen found his own way to Hamo’s workroom. The candles were burning late as before, although Hamo had put down his quill and sat with his elbows on his writing table, his face resting in his hands. He jerked up at Pen’s knock on the doorjamb, blinked reddened eyes, and said in a blurry voice, “Ah. Good. You’re back at last.” Had he been waiting up?

  Pen fetched his own chair and dropped into it.

  Hamo looked him over. “Five gods. Were you dragged by a horse?”

  “I feel like it,” admitted Pen, running his hand over his grimy face. Yech. “Not quite. But let’s have your tale first.”

  Hamo pursed his lips but complied, shoving a thin stack of papers across his table to Pen. “I found four accounts from Svedra that looked promising. As she grew older, they tended to become more laconic, which was not as much help as you’d think, since they required more cross-checking. Her most difficul
t cases from the past five years, that may have left someone angry but not confirmed dead. I can look back farther if needed.”

  Pen took them up and squinted through them. He puffed relief at finding Halber’s case second in the sheaf. “Locator Oswyl will wish to see all of these. If only for his own reassurance. He means to call on you tomorrow.” He forced himself to at least look at the other three, but set them down when he realized that Oswyl would be better able to evaluate them, and that he was just stalling. “But he has former baron Halber kin Pikepool in custody, and his confession.”

  Hamo went stiff in his chair. Pen could feel his demon stirring from where he sat. Dark, with red flashes like heat lightning.

  “Halber had been in hiding up at his old forest manor, where we flushed him out. Not being a man who does things by halves, Halber also tried to murder his nephew Wegae. Crime of opportunity, as nearly as I could tell. Caught in the act, fortunately for both Wegae and for Oswyl’s case. He also had a try at me. I don’t think we need count me. I’m redundant to need.”

  Hamo’s fists curled into tight balls. “Did he shoot Mags?”

  “Yes. Had his thrall lure her with some tale of a badger possessed by an elemental. Up to his home woods, where he laid an ambush. His aim was to destroy her demon. Magal was just… in his way. He said.”

  A little silence, broken by a growl. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t actually know,” said Pen, glad he could answer, or not-answer, that question honestly. “Wherever the Grayjays usually take dangerous suspects in Easthome.” Not that Hamo couldn’t find out, but anything to slow him down…

  As Hamo’s tight-lipped silence thickened with menace, Pen went hastily on, “He’s not going anywhere. Can’t. His back is broken, and both his hands. If your heart wishes him pain, I promise you he has it. If you wish him dead, well, the magistrates of Easthome will accomplish that task for you as well. Magal’s family and friends may not even have to endure his trial, if they decide to execute him for the murder of his wife, for which he’s already convicted. The wheels of justice will grind him fine, and soon.” Pen hesitated. “No need to… compromise yourself.”