Instead, Claw had turned the manor into a fortress, tripled his standing army, and according to rumor, booby-trapped the bridge over the Eirlys River.
Malthus walked down the shaded path and gazed at the graves of Claw's sons. The lycans were an emotional race, touch loving and demonstrative. He wished he could have seen the old bastard's face when they dumped the youths mutilated remains in front of him. His grandfather said the style of mortgiefan used to execute them had been the Fifteen Piercings, one of the most artisticand brutalforms of the rite.
He wondered what Claw would do if he discovered the grandson of his sons executioner was now married to his daughter. Perhaps he would inform the old bastard of that fact when he killed him.
A small-carved bear had been laid on Tarrant's grave and it startled Malthus. Many times over the past few months, he had found small offerings left on there, but not on the others. At one time, he had wondered who left them; a few months ago, he had learned that Kynyr Maguire was the son of Tarrant's bastard offspring, Branduff Maguire. Malthus had caught Kynyr leaving those offerings in the past.
He heard giggling and followed the sounds around to the far side of the graves. His nieces sat upon Suleahan's grave, smearing mud on the headstone.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Lyrri yelped and spun about. Ros thrust her lower lip out and scowled at him. Having a little fun."
"You must stop sucking on Darmyk."
"You mean the nasty little lycan cub?"
"He isn't lycan. He felt a flare of annoyance that the girls insisted upon referring to Darmyk Redhand as lycan, when he was Merissa's illegitimate sa'necari-born son by her lover Isranon who was currently in hiding with a bounty on his head from Queen Tomyrilen.
Ros shrugged. He came out of a lycan's belly, didn't he?"
Malthus squatted on his haunches and looked Ros in the eyes. You're making him ill."
"So? You're going to kill him, aren't you?"
"When the time is right."
"I don't know why you're upset, Uncle Malthus, Lyrri interjected.
Malthus glanced at Lyrri, and then focused on Ros again. They mustn't know you've got your fangs already. They'll spellcord you."
"They won't kill me for it. Ros tilted her head with a diffident smile.
"They might. Malthus pulled Ros into his arms and hugged her. I love you, Ros. I would be heartbroken if something happened to you. Please, for my sake, find someone else to suck on."
"I have."
Malthus tensed. Who?"
"Kissie's boy is quite tasty. Ros cocked her head and licked her lips. Timerly lets me play with his dangly bits while I suck him."
"Have you blocked his mind?"
"I'm not a fool, Uncle Malthus. Ros face changed into a mask of pique.
Malthus sighed. At least pick a less obvious place for your sucking than the neck."
Ros shrugged again. Okay."
Malthus walked away, uncertain whether he had gotten through to them or not.
Returning to the manor, he went looking for his wife, Merissa, and found her in the carding room. She sat in a large comfortable chair with three baskets of uncarded wool to her left and two baskets of cleaned wool to her right.
Her heavy golden ginger hair was pulled into a loose tail, leaving it bloused around her ears. One hand lay upon her swollen belly. Malthus moved the baskets aside and knelt at her feet, putting his cheek against her stomach. His twin sons moved inside her, bringing a smile to his face.
"They will be kings one day. He filled with pride at the thought of them.
Merissa flinched from his statement and laid the carding combs aside. Must you be so rough with Darmyk?"
The mention of his stepson irritated him. Her first lover had been Malthus half-brother, Troyes. Isranon, the bastard child's father, had killed Troyes over Merissa. Malthus tried for a moment to hold back his temper and then gave into it. The child is spoiled. I have to take him in hand."
"He's a good cub."
"He's not a cub, Merissa. He's sa'necari. He needs a firm hand."
"Malthus, please..."
He rose to his feet. I was going to suggest a walk in the gardens, but now you've ruined my mood."
Malthus heard his wife sob as he stalked from the room in high dudgeon.
* * * *
Cooley Sinclair and his friends, the Scott cubs, Rory and Hamish, sat on the common with cups and a jug of a thick frothy beverage that John Donegal sold in his candy shop on Locust Street. Cahira had given them a half-holiday because they were being much too helpful which they knew meant they were getting under her feet.
They had been scrounging for returnable containers along the alleyways and raiding people's trash. Eight-year-old Hamish earned two pence a week plus lunch for working five half days at Cahira's Potions and Notions, but often put in far longer hours out of choice. Rory, two years older than his brother, had recently become apprenticed to Cahira and now lived with the Sinclairs above their shop.
Cooley always had pocket money. He had been left well off, with substantial inheritances from his father, Cullen Blackwood, and his Uncle Eideard Doyle. Nonetheless, when his friends decided to go foraging, he went along without complaint.
Small for his age, the cub looked more like nine than just turned eleven. Not even the heels of his horsemon's boots could add enough height to make him seem older. He wore his white at the edge of blond hair in a long tail. The only thing that he had inherited from his Waejontori mother was his velvet brown eyes.
Rory took a long swallow from his cup, leaving a milky pink smear around his lips, and scratched at his reddish blonde mop of hair. Strawberry Delight was made from fresh goat's milk and strawberry syrup with a few other secret ingredients that Old John would not divulge. We need weapons."
"What for? Cooley gave Rory a long sidewise glance.
Despite the shoes and new clothes that Cahira Sinclair had bought for Rory, he still looked like a scamp. He had a snub nose and a sprinkling of freckles, reddish brown hair that never stayed combed for long and azure eyes that glinted with mischief. The citizens of Wolffgard considered him the town sneak because he always knew what was going on and showed up in unlikely places. His pockets bulged with stones and the end of a sling drooped from his left one.
"I gotta kill somebody. Rory ran his tongue over his lips to get every last drop of Strawberry delight and hiccupped.
Cooley choked on a swallow of his drink. K-kill somebody?"
"Kynyr declared war on Malthus. We gotta do our part."
"Where did you hear that? Cooley earned a scowl from his ten-year-old spiritbrother.
"I can't betray my sources."
Cooley knew he was in trouble the moment Rory started sounding like Todd Sinclair. You mean which door you waswere eavesdropping at."
He had gotten into the habit of trying to correct his grammar lapses in response to having them pointed out at every turn by Cahira and Todd. However, it remained a hit or miss effort.
Hamish put his knuckles on his hips in his best imitation of Todd and demanded, Spill it."
"Kynyr thinks Malthus killed the lawgiver. Rory opened his hand and showed them a milky white crystal. Evidence is here. You gotta have a strong stomach to use it."
Cooley leaned close to see it better. Where'd you get that?"
"I borrowed it. If you're gonna look, you better do it now. I gotta put it back before Kynyr knows it's missing."
"Who we gonna kill? asked Hamish, ever the practical one.
"Rheu Lawson. He's a murderer."
Cooley chewed on his lower lip. He had wondered for a long time at what point his friends would get in over their heads and they seemed to have arrived at that point. Do either of you know how to fight with a blade?"
Rory and Hamish shook their heads at him.
"Then you've no business with one. Cooley took a drink, watching his friends over the edge of his cup.
Rory had always told Cooley that he needed to lea
rn to keep his mouth shut; and in many cases, Rory had been right. Yet there were many things that Cooley Sinclair, raised in a brothel until last summer, had kept to himself.
"You don't know nothing about fighting, Cooley."
Cooley's jaw clenched and then relaxed. I don't know much about using my fists, but I know knives. My dad taught me."
"Does that mean you won't buy us weapons? Rory scowled at him.
"That's right. Stick to your slings."
Cooley went home with his thoughts whirling. War was coming, if it was not there already. Dark rumors kept drifting down from the north, and it was impossible not to overhear at least a few of them.
Speculating on that led to a flash of memory that still made his stomach clench.
A pile of bleeding myn had materialized on the floor. Kady's chair toppled over as she jumped to her feet. Todd, however, reached them first, settled on the floor, and cradled his eldest son against his chest.
Trevor's eyes, dulled by pain and blood loss, fixed on his father's face. He coughed hard and blood ran from the corner of his mouth mixed with white froth. His lips moved, but no words emerged. Trevor's eyes closed and he sagged in his father's arms. Only the slight movement of his chest and the froth oozing from his wounds with each struggling breath showed that he lived.
Finn pulled the mon off Branduff, took one look at his eyes, and cursed. Bloody sa'necari. He snapped his fingers at Kady and opened his hand. Give me your knife."
Kady laid her knife in his hands. They rise don't they?"
"This one's not gonna. Finn set to finishing the job that Trevor's earlier blow had started.
The three cubs clustered behind Kady and Finn, watching with macabre fascination as Finn sawed through the sa'necari's neck.
Todd looked stricken, but in command of himself. Cooley, take Larkspur and find Pandeena."
Cooley ran out to the barn behind the house as if someone had set his tail on fire.
He would never forget that ride as long as he lived. Cooley had not bothered to saddle Larkspur, throwing himself onto her back as soon as he got the bit in her mouth and the headstrap over her ears. They raced through town as if they were chasing the wind and reached Pandeena in record time.
Cooley entered the shop and headed for the hallway that led to the stairs to the living area. A flash of movement made him pause and he saw Todd Sinclair emerge from the backroom.
Todd was a living legend, accounted the greatest armsmaster the clans had ever produced. He had studied the fighting arts of the Fae, the Guild, the Creeyans, and the Sharani. Every time that Cooley thought he knew everything there was to know about Todd, he learned something else that renewed his awe of the mon. Cooley had seen Todd working out during the summer, bare to the waist; seen the massive scars on Todd's chest and mid-section. Few things could scar a lycan, but it looked as if Todd must have encountered most of themand lived to speak of it.
"You got that look in your eye, Cooley."
The cub froze and pivoted to face Todd. What look?"
"Trouble waiting to happen."
"I haven't gotten into a fight in weeks. Cooley tilted his head to meet Todd's eyes. Though Lani O'Connor sorely tempts me."
That elicited a smile from Todd. He had a strong, hearty face. The folded lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien suggested a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it.
"Cooley, you have an uncanny knack for finding trouble."
"I don't find it, it finds me. My clothes are clean, my hair is combed. You can see I ain't..."
"Haven't."
Cooley gave an exasperated sigh. I haven't been into any fights."
Todd came closer, forcing Cooley to crane his head back to keep looking him in the eye. The big lycan stood six foot three inches and weighed two fifty; yet despite his one hundred and seven years of age, Todd Sinclair was still mostly muscle and rock hard. His bright red hair was as much a Sinclair trait as was his size.
"Doesn't mean you're not thinking about it."
Cooley exploded. I ain't some whore looking to roll johns."
"It's a good thing that Cahira didn't hear you say that. Todd chuckled.
"I'm trying hard not to talk like that ... but sometimes ... it just gets the best of me."
"I won't deny you're doing better. Todd patted Cooley's shoulder. Iollen Newell stopped by a bit ago. Kady sent you some cookies."
Cooley let out a whoop and ran for the kitchen. Kady made the best cookies.
CHAPTER TWO
ARRESTED
Preece Malloy intended to take the day at a crawl. While he could manage on four hours sleep, he had never liked doing so. Vika Softpaws, the supervisor for the Sanctuary Refugee Camp had awakened him a couple of hours after sunrise, asking why he had not shown up to work. He pointed her toward the larder with six deer carcasses hanging from the ceiling hooks, skinned and draining, which bought him another hour's sleep before Shalto and Oswyl Beggins, who had also been rousted by Vika, pried him out of bed.
Fourteen-year-old Rheu Lawson nestled on the far side of Preece's bed, fast asleep. Rheu was the longest relationshipif you could call it thatwhich Preece had ever had: nearly three years. Rheu had been an eleven-year-old street cub in Skeleton Creek when Preece rescued him from two slavers on a whim and made the cub say thanks by sucking him off. Preece thought that was the end of it until he discovered Rheu had followed him out of town on a stolen horse. The youth worshipped Preece and never said no about anything. Preece liked that, and so he kept him.
"I do my job ... I draw my pay, muttered Preece dragging his pants on and tying them closed. As a gesture to the chill autumn day, he pulled on a shirt and tunic over his slouching pants.
He snatched up his knife belt hanging from a corner on a chair back and buckled them on, lashing the sheaths to his thighs for an easy draw. His gaze drifted to the locked chest at the end of his bed, where he had a cache of anonymous blades that he had filed all identifying marks off. A bottle of poison lay wrapped in cotton and nestled amongst them. Preece had not yet applied it to those bladeshe was saving it for when he found an opportunity to stick Kynyr Maguire.
Years of working in the sun had weathered his fair skin to a nut brown. While his sturdy bones could easily have carried more weight, Preece did not lack for muscle and the long curves of his biceps looked like hammered steel. A length of leather held his long, mustard brown hair in a tail at his neck. The wolf was uneducated and illiterate, but he was not stupid, and he saw deeper, making more connections than the others as a result of growing up in one of the toughest lycan ghettos in Waejontor.
Although Shalto was the leader of their little gang, the Lycamornots, there was nothing at all impressive about him. He had power and influence simply because Malthus loaned it to him and Preece regarded him as little more than a wet-tailed cub. The only thing interesting about Shalto was his black hair and brown sideburns, indicating that in wolf form he was a black and tan.
Shalto reached for Rheu.
Preece's hand shot out, grabbed Shalto by the wrist, and twisted him away from Rheu. Let him sleep.
Shalto sucked in a breath, flinching from Preece's vacant eyes, and withdrew his hand. Preece gave no physical clues to what hid behind his empty gaze; he never let people know what he was feeling or thinking unless he wanted them to know. He spooked Shalto. Right."
Preece fondled Rheu's sleep mussed hair, while giving Shalto a glance that sent a shiver up the younger wolf's spine. You don't touch him. He's mine."
"Yeah. Shalto sucked in a steadying breath. Let's get on with it."
Preece dug a box and a silver tube from the chest by his bed. He
laid out two lines of White Fire and snorted them. The drug hit his system fast, snapping him awake and energized.
"Hey, you gonna share?"
"No. Preece pocketed the box and tube. You earn it, you get some."
Chores went at a slow pace. In the early afternoon, Preece leaned against a longhouse, chatting with a mon who had settled her water buckets on the ground for a moment. Children went about in little groups, raking leaves into piles and then filling burlap sacks with them. The larger children dragged the sacks to a shed where it would be added to the mulch bin. Yren Maddox crossed the yard with an armful of firewood.
A shout drew everyone's notice to the camp entrance. Six guardsmyn, led by Belgair Doherty, stood talking to one of the camp's nibari slaves.
She pointed at Yren.
One of the guardsmyn seized Yren, who dropped his wood. Preece frowned and listened without looking directly. Rheu came over to Preece, and started to peer around the corner. Preece shoved him back. Stay out of sight."
"What's going on? Rheu's eyes were wide.
"They're arresting Yren."
"They know we did it, Thorn. Rheu called him by the nickname Preece had gained on the streets of Skeleton Creek years ago.
"Shut up. Go home. Stay there until I come for you."
Rheu scampered.
"I didn't do nothing, Yren protested. I was home all night. Ask my Ma."
"Bastard. Belgair hit Yren in the stomach, doubling him over.
Another guard hit Yren over the head. Murderer."
Two guards looped spellcord around Yren's wrists and clamped the seals on to prevent the youth from changing shape. Yren struggled in their grasp. They pulled truncheons and beat him to his knees in a rain of heavy blows. The scrawny young wolf collapsed; face bleeding, and blood spreading across the back of his robe. Yren covered his head with his arms, but the guards jerked his wrists back and added heavy ropes to hold them behind him.
The youth writhed and continued his protestations of innocence, but the blows kept coming.
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