Prince of Wolves

by Dave Gross

  I expected I would rely upon his observation and insight to supplement my own as we entered the Monastery of the Veil. The gates did not immediately open at our approach, but a sentry from each of the flanking towers eyed us silently, crossbows visible but not yet aimed at us. We heard no alarm, no cries of challenge, and I knew there would be none. Every monk in the order was sworn to an absolute vow of silence, not only forgoing speech but also treading barefoot or in soft slippers to avoid disturbing the world with the sound of a footstep. Their devotion was to the unspoken wisdom of Pharasma, Lady of Graves, the keeper of every mortal soul’s last secrets until She had judged and disposed of each upon his dying day. The only member exempt from the proscription against noise was their leader, the Bishop of Ulcazar, also known as Count Senir.

  The Bishop arrived in the time it took for us to dismount and stretch our legs. I had cautioned my companions to leave the talking to me, which elicited a shrug from Radovan and a dismissive snort from Azra. I barely stopped myself from apologizing for a remark that could be construed as insensitive to her mute condition. Over the past few days, she had demonstrated no courtesy deserving of special consideration from a peer of Cheliax.

  When Senir emerged from the gate door, I bowed in Ustalavic fashion. “Your Excellency,” I said, as quietly as possible without resorting to a whisper.

  “Count Jeggare,” he said, hesitating before returning the bow correctly, if not lavishly. “Your arrival is an unexpected honor.”

  “Forgive me for intruding upon the solitude of your monastery,” I said. “I seek knowledge that may lie within your archive.”

  “You must already know that our library is not for common use.”

  “I assure you that it is for no common reason that I make my request,” I said.

  He smiled with just a trace of condescension. “What I mean, Count Jeggare, is that even the lords of Ustalav are prohibited from viewing our archives without great cause. And you, of course, are not of our land.”

  Frustrated but not yet deterred, I resorted to my backup plan. “In that case, Your Excellency, perhaps you will allow me, as a guest of Prince Aduard, to inquire about a visitor you received earlier this year.”

  “We have received no visitors apart from pilgrims and votaries conveying offerings from their villages.”

  “I believe there was one unusual visitor early this past summer,” I said. “My colleague, a Pathfinder.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Senir. The firm line of his jaw betrayed his impatience.

  “I do not think so, Excellency,” I said. “You see, I recovered her journal, which notes a visit on the twelfth day of Gozran. Perhaps you were absent during her visit.”

  He hesitated, frowning. “I am often away attending county matters,” he said. “In my absence, my brothers often experience difficulty communicating with visitors unfamiliar with our customs.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Then would you please allow me to examine your day books, or to interview those who were present?”

  “Let me be direct with you, Jeggare.”

  “I welcome it.”

  “You are a friend to Countess Caliphvasos, so I have been more lenient than I might otherwise incline, but these Pathfinder activities of yours are intrusive at best, more often provocative or even criminal. Our people revere the past as highly as we do our ancestors. We do not welcome those who wish to disturb our ghosts, which after centuries of struggle are legion. Those intruders who survive their adventures leave us Ustalavs to endure the disruptions they have caused.”

  “Your Excellency, I assure you my intentions—”

  “Your intentions, Count Jeggare, are irrelevant. Your actions are what concern me. Were not four members of your Pathfinder Society hanged in Barstoi for graverobbing last year?”

  “I was unaware—”

  “And were you yourself not expelled from the capital of Katapesh for trafficking in stolen statuary?”

  I was surprised that he had heard of that matter. “It was not formally an expulsion but a request from the ambassador that I—”

  “And does not the house of my neighbor and friend Count Galdana stand occupied by the forces of the Bishop of Kavapesta since your recent visit?”

  “I only wished—”

  “And are you not the owner of a red carriage that was seen approaching the Senir Bridge shortly before a catastrophic explosion that required costly and dangerous repairs lest the road from Kavapesta to Caliphas be severed?”

  “Count Senir, I offer you my word—”

  “I am Bishop Senir in this place,” he said evenly. “And I caution you not to offer your word as a Pathfinder.”

  “No, Your Excellency,” I said. “I offer you my word as a gentleman that I have come to your lands as no mere treasure hunter. As for any disruptions that have occurred in the wake of my travels, I beg your pardon.”

  “I would rather you beg your leave, Venture-Captain.”

  He could not have made his feelings more clear, and loath as I was to offer further offense to such a prominent noble of another country, I was not ready to slink away defeated. I drew the spiral of Pharasma upon my breast and said, “In the name of the Lady of Graves, I request the shelter of your roof and provisions for another day’s journey.”

  A snarl flickered on his lips, but the expression melted into a grudging smile. “You have learned our customs well, Count.”

  “Yours is a great nation, Bishop. I have studied its culture and history with great admiration.”

  “You will have a night’s shelter and provender for your servants and beasts. But at dawn you must leave us and make no further requests for another year.”

  I bowed again. “Understood, Your Excellency. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Unfortunately, Senir’s hospitality did not extend to offering me a room, so after a few hours performing certain precautions with my battery of riffle scrolls, I left the wagon to Azra and sat near a central bonfire on the flagstones of the inner courtyard. It had been hours since we broke our fast, and Radovan and I fortified ourselves with strips of venison from the previous night’s werewolf-caught feast. We took turns sharing our meal with Arnisant.

  Shortly after noon, one of the silent monks approached. He was shrouded from head to toe in funereal gray, and he beckoned to me and Radovan.

  “Both of us?” I asked.

  The monk nodded assent. Radovan rapped on the wagon wall to inform Azra of our absence, and we followed the monk into the monastery. We passed through a refectory lit so dimly that the dining brothers appeared as disembodied heads floating above their bowls. Their wooden spoons made not the slightest sound when dipping into their soup, nor did the monks utter so much as a slurp.

  We climbed a spiral staircase past two defensive points through which defenders could fire upon the narrow approach to the monastery, which was as much a fortress as a sanctuary. Upstairs, past an untended scriptorium, we entered the bishop’s parlor.

  “Count Jeggare,” Senir rose from behind a simple table on which lay an open inventory of monastic comestibles. It occurred to me only then that managing the business of a county, however small, in addition to that of a monastery, however simple, may well have contributed to the bishop’s short temper.

  “Your Excellency,” I replied.

  He drew a breath and held it a moment, as if reluctant to speak the words he had prepared for my arrival. He said, “I regret the inhospitable welcome I offered earlier.”

  “And I have no desire to impose upon your duties.”

  “I have asked my brothers about your Pathfinder. As you expected, she did visit this past spring. However, she received only a day’s shelter before continuing north toward Kavapesta.”

  “Are you certain?” I asked.

  “My brothers live by the utmost discipline,” he said. “Along with their vow of silence, they are dedicated to perfection in mind and action, as well as absolute obedience.”

  “I thank y
ou, Excellency,” I said. Considering what I had discovered about the likely date of my Pathfinder’s death in the Virlych Mountains, I knew that what he said could not be true. Moreover, even if I had not already decided that his was an exact and controlling mind, the evidence of the detailed ledgers before him weighed heavily against the prospect of a visitor arriving without his knowledge.

  “As you can see, your Pathfinder has left you a circular trail,” said Senir. “You cannot discount the likelihood that, upon her return to Kavapesta, she recognized that she had exhausted her local resources and returned to Caliphas, and then out of Ustalav entirely.”

  I sighed and lowered my head to pinch the bridge of my nose. After a pause I judged sufficient to offer the impression of reluctant resignation, I lifted my head and said, “Of course you are correct, Excellency. I have simply invested so much effort in my inquiries, you must understand how difficult it is to let go of loose ends.”

  “I suppose that is one of the disadvantages of the inquisitive mind, Count Jeggare.”

  We exchanged bows, and Radovan and I followed a novice out of the parlor and down the steps. I caught Radovan’s furtive look and glanced at his feet, our sign to wait for privacy before asking questions. We walked in silence until the unmistakable sound of a whipping from the courtyard caused us both to quicken our pace. The sharp snap of leather was a startling interruption to the serenity of the monastery. Our accompanying novice did not try to stop us, and we pushed open the refectory doors to a startling scene in the courtyard.

  Beside the bonfire, stripped entirely naked, a monk knelt of his own volition while one of his brothers raised a lash to strike again. Already the penitent monk’s back was flayed raw, blood streaming down his legs to puddle on the courtyard stone. Across from us, Azra stood before a pair of monks who blocked her from reaching the object of the punishment. She looked to me, then to Radovan. Her eyes implored us to intervene, but I shook my head “no.” Here in the seat of his authority, it was worse than futile to interfere with the bishop’s commands.

  “Boss,” whispered Radovan. I followed his chin to the base of the bonfire, where the distinctive spine of my lost Pathfinder’s journal blackened in the heat. The pages had already curled to ash. I could not help but bristle at the violation of her last written words, but I controlled my anger.

  “We shall leave now,” I said.

  Radovan turned to Azra and signed, Where were you?

  Puzzled, she indicated a pail of water and replied, Well.

  “Damn it,” hissed Radovan. “It was all a diversion to get us away from the journal.”

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Hitch the donkey. There is nothing more we can gain here.”

  We spoke no more while we secured the wagon and drove out of the monastery gate, all three of us squeezed onto the driver’s seat since Radovan had dismissed his phantom steed. Twice he began to question me, but I raised a hand for patience. An hour after we had crossed the Senir Bridge, I deemed it safe enough to pause and entertain questions. We climbed down from the wagon, and I stretched my legs with a walk around the wagon while Radovan unhitched the donkey and Azra placed the water pail before the beast.

  Sorry, signed Azra as I finished my circuit of the wagon. She was clever, and I sensed she had a reasonable picture of what had happened.

  “It’s not your fault, sister,” said Radovan.

  I did not say it was my fault, she signed indignantly.

  “It is no one’s fault,” I said before they could get started. “I realized the moment we put ourselves in his custody that Bishop Senir might take exception to my continued investigation.”

  “If you knew they might destroy the journal,” said Radovan, “why did you risk going there?”

  “Because there was much to learn while he felt we were in his power.”

  What? signed Azra. What did you learn?

  “Not a damned thing,” said Radovan.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “We learned several things.”

  “This is where he makes us guess,” sighed Radovan.

  “In other circumstances, that exercise might prove educational, but we must not tarry. There is every chance that Senir has sent agents to follow us.”

  Radovan glanced back along the road. “I was keeping my eyes peeled and saw nothing.”

  I nodded and opened the wagon door, climbing in. “If they have, as Senir boasts, devoted their lives to perfection in thought and deed, then I should be surprised if they allowed us to spot them so soon.”

  “All right,” said Radovan. “Back to what you learned.”

  “First, we learned that Bishop Senir was aware of my Pathfinder’s death.”

  “You told him she was dead, didn’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “I told him only that I had her journal.”

  “Then maybe he just assumed—”

  I turned a disappointed gaze upon him, and he relented.

  “The Bishop is not the sort of man to assume,” he said. “Observing his reaction to my mention of the journal, I noted his surprise. He had expected me to report that I had found her body.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” said Radovan. “That’s a pretty big guess, unless one of your spells lets you read minds.”

  “Never,” I said. I felt an involuntary shudder at the mention of thought-reading spells. While employing them would render many aspects of my avocation much simpler, the inherent violation was abhorrent. “The Bishop also lied about the direction she took when leaving the monastery. Despite the missing pages in her journal, it was clear that she did not return to Kavapesta. To reach the old village where we found her remains by the likely time of her death, she had to have descended westward from the monastery.”

  “Why lie?”

  “My working theory is that he ordered her murder.”

  Radovan made a low whistle, appreciating the magnitude of our challenge if the Bishop were opposed to our efforts. “But why not kill her while she was in the monastery, completely under his power? It’s not as if anyone there was going to talk.”

  I frowned at his jest but said, “Probably he wanted to see where she would go and discover who else she would question about her search.”

  Radovan nodded, letting the thoughts steep in his mind. He burst out, “That still doesn’t make a bit of sense. You said Casomir was the one who helped you follow the Pathfinder’s trail. Besides, if Senir wanted whatever she was searching for, why bury the journal?”

  “Aha,” I said. With a glance at Azra for permission, I unlatched the tinker’s table and lowered it into place. “Now you have touched the crux of the matter. Senir did not want the journal found. The agent who threw it into the Pathfinder’s grave was meant to put it beyond all mortal eyes. Thus, he was punished after Senir learned that it survived, and the journal was destroyed rather than merely hidden.”

  “But he had to know you would see the journal in the bonfire,” said Radovan.

  “I agree.”

  “Why do it?”

  “As a courtesy between gentlemen,” I said, placing one of the two remaining blank folios upon the tinker’s table. “Bishop Senir offers me the opportunity to turn back before our direct conflict becomes inevitable.”

  “We might as well go back,” said Radovan. “That journal was the last clue we had to follow. Unless you’ve somehow managed to memorize it.”

  He knew perfectly well that my memory, while excellent, is far from eidetic. I had another advantage, however, that he could not possibly know. I held up a riffle scroll with a flourish and said, “Better than that.”

  Azra and Radovan exchanged a puzzled glance, rewarding my dramatic presentation. Holding the scroll beside the blank pages, I thumbed it to life. Gradually, the pages filled themselves with characters, all in the flawless handwriting of my late colleague. I released the breath I had been holding, grateful and relieved that the magic retained the contents of the journal even after the original had perished in the bonfire.
r />   “That’s fantastic, boss!” said Radovan. Even Azra nodded in appreciation of the powerful spell.

  I turned the folio pages to admire the exact replica of the contents of the book I had stolen. As I reached the reproduction of the pages that had been torn away, I discovered the true power of the steal book spell. Where there should have been blank sheets lay the missing contents of my late Pathfinder’s journal, including sketches of the Lord of Virholt, several explicit mentions of the Lacuna Codex, and rough maps of the area beyond the tomb beside the old mining village.

  I placed my finger upon the X she had used to designate the site of her next visit. It lay deep within the borders of forbidden, haunted Vyrlich.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Starknife

  The boss and I agreed not to discuss what we had learned in front of the Sczarni. He also brought Azra into his confidence, eliciting a promise to keep the events at the Monastery secret from the Sczarni only after he’d filled her in. The way he spoke to her made me feel—well, not jealous, really, but irritated. He and I had worked together for years before he trusted me enough to explain his plans, but after only a few days he was treating Azra as if she was one of his Pathfinders, despite the fact that she’d made it clear she wasn’t one. Maybe he fancied her, I thought, but that thought annoyed me even more. After all his sniffing and snobbery about fashion and food and the opera and fine manners, he’d be nothing but a hypocrite to cozy up to a hedge witch.

  We stopped briefly at the nearest village, but only for fresh water. The boss consulted the head man for a few minutes, asking him questions I wasn’t close enough to overhear. Whatever it was, he didn’t figure it was important enough to share with me. I watched to see whether he told Azra what he’d learned, but he didn’t.