Even two-footed Rule’s sense of smell was better than a human’s, but in this form smells burst upon him, wrapping him in a more deeply dimensional world. The air was alive, textured with information more layered and complex than any of Rembrandt’s paintings. His ears pivoted, helping him read that world. He heard Isen’s heartbeat now as well as feeling it pulse through the mantle. He heard the throb of all the other hearts timed to it, and realized his own heart had fallen into that rhythm the way a rock obeys gravity.
Rule stood on four feet and felt a whine try to rise in his throat. This was worse as wolf. Far worse. Wolves live wrapped in instinct, and his were at war. Rule remained four-footed but pulled himself more into the man.
Sometimes thinking helped.
His own men were away from the crowd now, no longer surrounded by the scent of the clan who had been their enemy for so long. They would do well enough even if their hearts did beat faster for a bit. But he didn’t want to be compelled into the rhythm. He was Nokolai and obedient to his Rho, but he was also Leidolf, and he would not be compelled. He turned part of his attention to his breathing once more. His breath answered him, but his heart didn’t want to obey. Fear was clutching at him with clammy hands, trying to wrest control. He knew what the order to Change meant. He knew.
This was the form for Challenge…or judgment.
Isen signaled for Rule to resume his place at his side. He obeyed. Quietly Isen said, “Pete. Name two squads who are all on the field now that you trust completely.”
Pete paused. “Seven and Eight.”
“Squads Seven and Eight!” Isen boomed out. “Change!”
They did. Two of the newer wolves were inadvertently caught up in it. They immediately lowered themselves to the ground in apology.
“Seventh and Eighth squads—disperse so that at least one of you stands with each group.”
Wolves began to move through the crowd. As they did, Isen turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep over the gathering. He made a full circle before he spoke again. “I require you now, all of you, to think. To remember. Who have you spoken with about Cullen Seabourne’s workshop? About what he has been working on? You’ve discussed it with other Nokolai, of course. But perhaps someone who is not Nokolai was curious. Perhaps one of our guests. Such curiosity is natural, but you were told not to discuss this outside the clan, so you will remember if someone asked. Think about this. Call it up in your memory.”
Silence. Several moments of it, hearts beating together…but not all of them. Not Laban. Not Vochi.
And not female clan.
The pull of that demanding pulse continued to build. Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump…
Isen raised his voice once more. “Everyone who remembers being asked about these things by someone outside Nokolai will come forward now.” Then he lowered his voice. “Pete. Make room for them. Forty or fifty, I suspect. Don’t move Laban and Vochi.”
Pete moved away and began directing those groups closest to the center to other parts of the field. Others began moving up in ones and twos. It wasn’t silent now, not with so many moving forward or back, the inevitable excuse mes, feet shuffling as some shifted to allow others to pass. Lily was asking Cynna something again. She kept her voice so low that Rule caught only a few words over the noise…enough to guess her question. She wanted to know what happened to a subordinate clan that screwed its dominant.
Cynna’s whispered response was clear to a wolf’s ears. “Anything. It can be anything, up to and including clan death, if the dominant gets two other dominant clans to agree that a betrayal took place. But if the Rho of the subordinate clan admits his guilt, it’s kept between those two clans. It’s all on him then, see? Not his clan.”
Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump…
Lily asked what happened to that Rho.
Cynna whispered, “He submits and is killed.”
Lily didn’t ask any more questions. She waited. Rule waited.
Most of those making their way forward were female clan.
That, too, he’d expected. Women were the obvious targets for someone out-clan to question. Female clan obeyed their Rho, but they were human, not lupi. They obeyed the way a human obeys a policeman or doctor—from habit, from respect, from the assumption that the cop or physician knows what’s best. They knew that disobedience had consequences, but they didn’t have a gut-deep certainty that it was right to obey. And the consequences of disobedience were different for them.
Lupi didn’t harm women. Ever.
A lupus who erred in a minor way was chastised physically. He might be given some onerous job as well, but the physical defeat was what mattered. It proved that he wasn’t allowed to disobey; those with authority over him could force his obedience, and there was comfort in that. Comfort, too, in the simple expiation of guilt—first pain, then healing, both physical and emotional.
Women couldn’t be punished physically. The idea was deeply repugnant. Besides, it would bring fear, not comfort. For a minor transgression, a female clan might be given chores, a stern talking-to, something along those lines.
Serious disobedience was rare, but it happened. When it did, shunning was the usual consequence for both male and female clan. During the shunning—which traditionally lasted from one day to one week—no one would speak to you, look at you, acknowledge your existence in any way. No one except your Rho. He was the only one who knew you were alive, who might—if he chose—meet your eyes for a moment.
Rule had been shunned for three days before he was named Lu Nuncio. Not because he’d disobeyed. His father had wanted him to understand in his gut how serious a punishment shunning was.
It had worked. Rule had had nightmares off and on for a year.
If a transgression was so severe that a week’s shunning couldn’t expiate it, the punishment was death or removal from the clan. Of the two, lupi considered death more merciful, but both were extremely rare. In Rule’s lifetime, his father had had two Nokolai lupi killed for major offenses. None had ever been banished.
But five female clan had.
One had been a thief. She’d stolen from the clan itself. Two had been simply troublemakers and liars who couldn’t refrain from stirring up those around them. Another had nearly caused the deaths of two children through a combination of willful disobedience, arrogance, and stupidity. Each of those four had been driven to the destination of their choice, given a couple thousand dollars, and cut off forever from Nokolai.
The fifth one had caused the tortuous death of a Nokolai lupus out of petty vindictiveness.
Twenty-two years ago, Nevada, Texas, Georgia, and Mississippi still had shoot-on-sight laws for lupi who were in wolf form, though they were being challenged in court. Most other states still had laws on the books for locking up lupi in either form, but by then the lockup was only until they could be turned over to the feds. The federal government was enthusiastically pursuing its more humane policy toward Rule’s people: catch them, brand them, dose them with gado, then allow them to lead “normal” lives.
Gado weakens lupi, depriving them of both strength and healing. It also blocks moonsong, preventing the Change. Lupi go crazy if deprived of the Change for too long. Different lupi react differently to the drug; for a few, the effects of a single dose linger for months.
Sheila had been angry at Carlos, a fellow clansman and former lover, and had turned him in to the feds. He’d been caught, branded, and dosed. Nokolai found Carlos after the feds released him, and hid him. That was no easy task back then. The brand on his forehead wouldn’t heal until the gado was out of his system, and MCD liked to keep a close watch on branded lupi, hoping to catch others.