“Compelling.” Isen repeated that one word, then said nothing more, his expression revealing little more than a certain intensity of interest.
Lily recognized the tactic, having used it often enough herself. If you leave a large, blank space in an interview or a negotiation, most people will rush to fill it. Especially if you watch them while you wait.
Lily watched him back.
Finally Isen’s mouth crooked up. “Tried that on you once before and it didn’t work. All right.” He raised his voice slightly. “Benedict.” He continued in his normal voice. “I’ll sniff for you, but not in this form, so I won’t be able to speak. I need to give Benedict some instructions first.”
Benedict was at the other end of the field. Could he really pick out Isen’s voice from so far away?
Apparently so. He started toward them at a trot. “When I look at you,” Lily said, “one nod means the witness is telling the truth. Shake your head if they lie.”
“They won’t. Did you know those are the signals a Lu Nuncio gives?”
She hadn’t, but it made sense. They were what Rule had suggested. “Do you act as judge when you’re in wolf form?”
“Ah. Now you ask a better question. No, I do not.”
In other words, his people weren’t going to react as if he were judging them because he’d be in wolf form, so what he’d said earlier was misdirection. “Then what’s your real objection?”
He sighed, a teacher unimpressed by his student’s progress. “You should be able to figure that out by now.”
She huffed out an impatient breath. “You’re going to make me guess, aren’t you? Fine. My first guess is that it’s a status thing. You don’t think a Rho should do the work of a Lu Nuncio.”
“Not status.”
“Authority, then. But you have the mantle. Nokolai lupi know you for their Rho in a way I can barely imagine.”
“Ah, but Rule now has a Rho’s mantle, too.”
“Not the Nokolai mantle, and Rule would not dispute your authority over Nokolai. Not for a second.”
He nodded. “True. But he and I do not convince Nokolai of that by announcing it. Our actions must make it clear to them. My assuming his responsibility will not reassure them.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
He smiled and patted her on the cheek. “Ask your grandmother.”
THE mountains cradling Nokolai Clanhome were scarcely mountains at all compared to their larger brethren to the north or south, but they were every bit as rugged as those higher ranges. Dirt and rock crumpled by some giant’s petulant fist was mounded in ridges, hills, crags, and gullies—a rough, broken land, hardened by heat and drought.
In spite of the dryness, there were trees—oak and sycamore, manzanita, juniper and pine. The ridge where a single man paced, however, was bare. Perhaps the top of this ridge was too often scoured by wind for seeds to linger and root. This, too, was Clanhome land, but another ridge lay between him and the lights of the interrupted party. That ridge was lost to sight now, invisible in the night.
It was quiet, but not silent; wind fingered the branches of trees and tickled weeds, raising vegetative whispers all up and down the slope. The man’s athletic shoes kicked up little scuffs of dust.
He stopped, peering out at empty air. Riding the darkness was a new sound, the measured beat of wings shushing the wind. His eyes tracked that beat, but there was nothing to see—no blurring of the darkness, no occlusion of stars. Still he watched, his feet shifting restlessly. Eagerly.
Nothing landed on the ridge’s crest—yet dust swirled as if thrown up by unseen wings. He rushed forward, exclaiming in Chinese, “Well? He’s dead, yes? He must be!”
The air shivered. Where there had been nothing, there now stood a woman.
She was tall and thin and nude. Her skin was white—truly white, not some version of beige, however pale. White like the white of an eye. Even the fluffy cap on her head was white, but it was a cap of down, not hair. There was no matching fluff on her pubis, which was as bare as a child’s.
She was no child, though. Her breasts were high and full, set on a prominent rib cage and tipped by nipples that looked pink only because they were set against such a purity of white. Her arms and legs were thin and oddly elongated, her torso brief in comparison.
Her face was beautiful. Asian in cast, perfectly symmetrical, vaguely childlike with the features set low beneath a high, curving forehead. Her eyes startled. They were black, as truly black as her skin was white.
“He lives.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet so clear and lovely the words seemed more a stroking of the air than sound shaped for speech. Those words had a profound effect on the man, who cried out. He threw himself in the dirt, prostrating himself at her feet. “I have failed you! Oh, my beauty, my love, punish me. Hurt me. He is a danger to you, and I failed.”
She bent and stroked his back. “Ah, my little man, do not fret yourself. You did not fail. Your knife was true, and he may yet die. Yet these wolf demons have more magic than we knew.”
Slowly the man rolled over and sat, then stood. He clutched her hand. “You are gracious to forgive, but I do not forgive myself. I will not fail again. The sorcerer will die, but I know what pain it is for you to delay your revenge when—”
She struck out casually. One hand smacked his cheek, sending him tumbling. Her voice was calm, her expression soft and fond. “You do not know. In another hundred years or two you may begin to understand, but not now. Such a thin word, revenge. A human word, as weak as human bodies. You do not know what I mean by revenge, no more than I understand your laughter when things break.”
At that he giggled. “No, you do not understand humor. So wise in so much, but laughter wasn’t given you, was it?” He stood again, brushing at his clothes. “Even if I do not understand fully, I know revenge is like blood for you. Necessary. The delay—”
“I do not delay.”
“But the sorcerer—”
“May die, and if not . . .” She shrugged. “He will be occupied with his healing for some time. You will try again to kill him, but only when it is safe. You will not endanger yourself with haste.”
“Ah, but thanks to you, I am very hard to kill or even to injure.”
“It is not a chance I am willing to take. You say you worry for me. I think you do not like the competition.”
He smiled, placating. “If I worry for myself, well, I am human. But that worry is a dash, a tiny pinch, compared to my feelings for you. If you will not countenance an immediate attack on the sorcerer, what of the sensitive? She is a lesser threat, but still—”
“You know my plans.”
“But if you could alter some small part of them . . .” He came to her then and clasped one of her hands in both of his. “My beauty, my beloved, you will do as you must, but if you could hasten that one aspect of your revenge . . . ?”
She gave a little sigh, a very human-sounding sigh, and wrapped her long, thin arms around him. She was taller by several inches, so she rested her cheek on top of his head. He began stroking her back, and her eyes slitted, almost closing, like a cat’s when it purrs.
“I worry,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I worry for you.”
“How can they harm me? You will kill the sorcerer when it is safe to do so, and I will consider some slight alteration in my plans, to please you. But nothing major, not unless you can give me some reason other than these vague fears. This is a rich place, so much to feed on, and the kine so unwary. I will eat my enemy’s fear, and not rush my meal. And you, beloved . . .” She smiled down at him, both hands moving to cup his face. “You will have your city. Just as I promised.”