Wolf-Speaker

He sniffed again, and caught a whiff of scent from the trench Daine and Numair used as a privy. The girl was amazed. She disliked that smell, and had dug the trench far from the clearing where they ate and slept on purpose. She certainly couldn’t detect it with her own nose. Not only could Russet smell it clearly, but he didn’t think the trench odour was bad – just interesting.

Silly galloped over to leap on Russet’s back, and Daine was back within her own mind. ‘Thank you,’ she told Russet in a whisper.

Thank you, he replied, and trotted off to romp with the pups.

She stretched, not quite comfortable yet in her skin. The change to her own senses was a letdown. As good as her ears were, they were not nearly as sharp as the wolf’s, and her nose was a poor substitute for his. While she was glad not to be able to smell the trench once more, there had been plenty of good scents available to Russet.

‘At least I see colours,’ she told Kitten. ‘That’s something.’

The pack returned with full bellies as she was banking the fire. They had fed on a sheep that had strayed from its flock, reducing it to little more than a handful of well-gnawed bones.

Daine frowned when she heard this. ‘But that’s one of the things that make two-leggers hunt you, when you eat their animals.’

They will not find out, Brokefang said calmly. When you ran with the pack before, you warned us about human herds. We cannot stop eating them. They are slow, and soft, without hard feet or sharp horns to protect them. What we can do is hide signs of the kill. We sank what was left in a marsh, and we dragged leafy branches over the place where we killed, to hide the blood.

Instead of reassuring her, his answer made her uneasy. Here was more unwolflike behaviour, a result of the pack’s involvement with her. Where would it end? She couldn’t even say the change was only in Brokefang, because the rest of the pack helped him. She had to think of a way to protect them, or to change them back to normal beasts, before humans decided the Long Lake Pack was too unusual – too dangerous – to live.

That plan would have to wait. The badger’s lesson had tired her again. She went to bed, and dreamed of men slaughtering wolves.

In the morning Daine and Numair rode to the town of Fief Dunlath, leaving the wolves behind. Reaching the village at noon, they entered the stable yard of the town’s small, tidy inn. Ostlers came to take their horses. Dismounting from Cloud, Daine took the pack in which Kitten was hidden and slung it over her shoulder, then followed Numair indoors. They stood inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted from the sunny yard to the dark common room. In the back someone was yelling, ‘Master Parlan! We’ve guests!’

The innkeeper came out and bowed to Numair. ‘Good day to you, sir. Ye require service?’ he asked with a brisk mountain accent.

‘Yes, please. I’d like adjoining rooms for my student and me.’

‘Forgive me, mistress,’ Parlan said, bowing to Daine. ‘I dinna see ye.’ He looked her over, then asked Numair, ‘Ye said – adjoinin’ rooms, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Numair replied. ‘If there’s a connecting door, it must be locked.’

The innkeeper bowed, but his eyes were on Daine. ‘Forgive me, sir – locked?’

Daine blushed, and Numair looked down his nose at the man. ‘People have sordid minds, Master Parlan.’ Despite his travel-worn clothes, he spoke like a man used to the obedience of servants. ‘I would like my student to be spared idle gossip, if you please.’

Parlan bowed low. ‘We’ve two very nice rooms, sir, overlooking the kitchen garden. Very quiet – not that we’ve much excitement in these parts.’

‘Excellent. We will take hot baths, as soon as you are able to manage, please.’ A gold coin appeared in Numair’s hand and disappeared in Parlan’s. ‘And lunch, I think, after the baths,’ added the mage.

‘Very good, sir,’ the man said. ‘Follow me.’ He led the way upstairs.

Kitten wriggled in the pack, and chirped. ‘Hush,’ Daine whispered as Parlan opened their rooms. ‘I’ll let you out in a moment.’

The room was a small one, but clean and neatly kept, and the bath was all Daine could hope for after weeks of river and stream bathing. The food brought by the maid was plain and good. Daine felt renewed afterwards, enough so that she took a short nap. She was awakened by a scratching noise. When she opened her eyes, the dragon was picking at the lock on the door between the two rooms.

‘Leave it be, Kit,’ Daine ordered, yawning. ‘You’ve seen locks at home.’

The young immortal sat on her haunches, stretching so that her eye was on a level with the keyhole, and gave a soft trill. The door swung open to reveal Numair in a clean shirt and breeches. He was holding a piece of paper.

‘Did I know she could do that?’ he asked with a frown.

‘No more did I,’ retorted Daine.

Numair glared at the dragon, who was investigating his room as thoroughly as she had her own. ‘That door was locked for a reason,’ he told her sternly. To Daine he added, ‘Though actually I do need to speak with you. We’ve been invited to dine tonight at the castle.’

‘Why?’ the girl asked, rubbing her eyes.

‘It’s typical of nobles who live out of the way. A newcomer is worth some attention – it’s how they get news. I don’t suppose you packed a dress.’

Since her arrival in Tortall, when her Rider friends had introduced her to breeches, she had worn skirts rarely, and always under protest. When the village seamstress showed her the only gown that would be ready in time, Daine balked. The dress was pink muslin, with lace at collar and cuffs – a lady’s garment, in a colour she hated. She announced she would go in breeches or not at all.

Numair, usually easygoing, sometimes showed an obstinate streak to rival Cloud’s. By the time their escort came, Daine wore lace-trimmed petticoats, leather shoes, and the pink dress under a wool cloak to ward off the nighttime chill. A maid had done up her stubborn curls, pinning them into a knot at the back of her neck. Kitten’s mood was no better than Daine’s: told she could not go with them, the dragon turned grey and hid under the bed.

Their escort came after dark to guide them across the causeway to the island and its castle. Ostlers took charge of Spots and Cloud, and servants took their cloaks, all in well-trained silence. A footman led them across the entrance hall to a pair of half-open doors.

Behind those doors a man was saying, ‘… know wolves like th’ back of m’hand. I tell ye, these have got to be werewolves or sommat from th’ Divine Realms. They don’t act as wolves should act. See this? An’ this? Laughin’ at me, that’s what they’re doin’!’

‘My lord, my ladies,’ the footman said, breaking in, ‘your guests are here.’ He bowed to Numair and Daine and ushered them in ahead of him. ‘I present Master Numair Salmalín, of Corus, and his student, called Daine.’

They were in an elegant sitting room, being looked over by its occupants. The footman announced, ‘My lord Belden, master of Fief Dunlath. My lady Yolane of Dunlath, Lord Belden’s wife and heiress of Dunlath. Lady Maura of Dunlath, my lady’s sister.’

Numair bowed; Daine attempted a curtsy. Yolane, in her thirties, and Maura, a girl of ten, were seated by the hearth fire. Though introduced as sisters, there was little resemblance between them. Yolane was beautiful, with ivory-and-rose skin, large brown eyes, a tumble of reddish brown curls, and a soft mouth. Her crimson silk gown hugged a trim body and narrow waist; deep falls of lace at her wrists drew the eye to long, elegant hands. Diamonds glittered around her neck and at her earlobes. Maura was painfully plain, a stocky child with straight brown hair, attired in a blue dress that fit badly.

Lord Belden was of an age with his wife, a lean, bearded man who showed more interest in his wineglass than in his guests. His brown hair and beard were clipped short. His clothing was equally businesslike, though his maroon brocade tunic and white silk shirt and hose were of the finest quality.

Before the nobles stood a man in rough leather. He bristled with weapons, and held a pair of wolf traps. Yolane fanned herself, trying to disperse the aroma that came from the traps; Maura held her nose. The wolfhounds that sat or sprawled at the hunter’s feet rose when they saw Daine. Slowly they went to her, their wire-haired faces eager. She offered her hands for them to sniff.

‘Here!’ barked the hunter. ‘Them ain’t ladies’ dogs! They’re fierce hunters, and no’ t’ be cosseted!’

Daine snickered as the hunters crowded around her, tails wagging.

‘Yes, you’re fine dogs,’ she whispered, returning their welcome. ‘You’re lovely dogs, even if you do hunt wolves.’

We try to hunt them, the chief of the wolfhounds said. The man would like us to succeed, but how can we, when wolves do such strange things?

‘Tait, take those brutes away,’ commanded Yolane. ‘This is a civilized gathering.’

The huntsman stalked out, whistling to his dogs. They followed obediently, with an apology to Daine.

As they went, they brushed past another man who entered, smiling wryly. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, dressed neatly in a white shirt, brown silk tunic and hose, and polished boots. His brown-blond hair was clipped short over a clean and open face. Coming up behind Numair, he said, ‘I hope you forgive my—’

Numair turned to look at him, and the stranger’s jaw dropped. His hazel eyes opened wide in shock. ‘Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith,’ he whispered.

Daine frowned. Until now, the only one she’d ever heard use that particular oath was Numair himself.

‘Arram?’ the man asked in a melodic voice. ‘Is that Arram Draper?’

Numair gaped at him. ‘Tristan Staghorn? They told me you were still in Carthak, with Ozorne.’

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_6aff4133-d4fe-568d-bd19-0f13b2a4ba36)