“You”—Pen turned again to Treuch—“your baron has commanded your immediate attendance, and is awaiting you at the manor.” Yes, better not to mention the Grayjays quite yet. If the man did break away from his captors, he’d likely be as hard to find in his woods as a fox.
Treuch jerked, taken aback. “What?” Then, “Oh. Young Master Spectacles.”
Pen nodded. “He brought us up for the fox hunt.” He met Treuch’s surly glare. Indeed, Treuch knew what he’d really been hunting, however poorly the sundered fool understood the ramifications. Pen would be taking this up with him as soon as possible, even if he had to get in line behind Oswyl. He gestured at Inglis and Nath. “Go, quickly!”
The pair of shamans, thankfully, didn’t question or argue, but each took one of the forester’s arms and marched him off between them. Between Nath’s hulking size and both their powers, Pen fancied the arrest would hold till they could deliver Treuch to the Grayjays. Treuch glanced in fear over his shoulder at Penric, clearly unaware that this sorcerer-divine might have just saved his life. Twice. So, was that Pen’s good deed for the day, or a regret in prospect?
Pen waved at Lunet, and they both turned to the task, again, of calming the vixen and collecting her offspring. Six languages at his fingertips, and this was the hardest communication task he’d ever undertaken. They were making their way onto the beaten path when Lunet muttered something annoyed under her breath, put down her trio of cubs, whipped a handkerchief from her trouser pocket, and clapped it to her nose. Pen was startled to see it soaking with red.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, moving the cloth off her messy lip to say, “The price of shamanic magic is blood. Did you not know?”
“Mm, yes, but I’m still not clear on the how of it.”
She shrugged. “Small magics, small price. Larger magics, larger price. But always the same coin.”
Pen thought of the array of gruesome scars on Inglis’s forearms, which was why, Pen presumed, he wore long sleeves even in hot weather, and never rolled them up unless among his most intimate friends.
Lunet stopped mopping, frowned at her handkerchief, and folded and pocketed it. She bent and chirped to coax her cubs back; they came readily to her arms, and they started off through the woods once more. She allowed them to reach up and lick her face, which seemed to amuse her vastly. Pen swallowed his urk, almost.
“There are less convenient ways to spontaneously bleed, trust me,” she tossed aside to him, grinning.
Pen wondered what. Or how many different—
Des, with an air of taking pity on innocence, apprised him: She’s talking about monthlies. I imagine that could make for some confusion, for a shamaness.
Pen kept his eyes up. He trusted his flush from the heat masked his blush. He was relieved when the nose-drip died away, and Lunet stopped using the cubs for a substitute handkerchief.
I have to learn more about this.
Of course you do, Des echoed Inglis’s words of—was it only two days ago? At least her tone was more fond.
As they made their way more quickly along the beaten path, Pen’s three cubs were fuzzy weights in his arms, warm and charming, but kept sharply nipping at him. Lunet managed to stay unperforated, which seemed backward, given their respective magics. The vixen still seemed to trust Lunet, and her demon was deeply wary of Des, so by whatever internal truce the two had, the animal’s body followed along. Pen calculated how to house them all once they arrived at the manor. Probably a stable stall, again. With the bottom door closed to contain the cubs, and the top open to give the vixen the illusion of freedom. Toss in a couple of rabbits, place a basin of water, and it would with luck hold them till it was time to decamp for Easthome. Would Oswyl arrest Treuch?
I didn’t shoot her, Treuch had cried. So who had?
Des, did you sense he was speaking the truth?
A pause. Not sure. He was distressed, and I was busy.
Well, it was plain Treuch knew something—far too much—about Magal’s death. Pen imagined Oswyl had proven ways of getting such things out of men.
Bet we could find ways break him open if Oswyl can’t, Des suggested slyly.
Pen bet they could, too, but Oswyl needed more than just knowledge—he needed a case. Father’s Order business, that. “Best wait till we’re asked,” he replied aloud, which made Lunet cast him a puzzled glance.
The path opened out into the meadow on the back side of the manor house. Everyone appeared to have gone within, or elsewhere. They circled to the stables, and Lunet sang the foxes into a suitable stall. Pen breathed relief when he was finally able to swing the lower door shut on them.
“I think you’d better stay with them till I find out where Treuch was taken,” he told her, shaking out his tooth-pricked arms. Would they count as shamanic coin? “To keep them calm. And, if necessary, protect them.” Pen stared a bit doubtfully at Lunet’s slender form, but… powerful shamaness, he reminded himself. If others underestimated her, so much the better. Or so he had found it in his own case. “And, ah—maybe protect everyone else from the vixen. Keep people away from her, certainly.”
Lunet nodded understanding, and Pen made his way around the stable block, heading for the manor house. A movement at the edge of the meadow caught his eye—oh, it was just Wegae. Continuing his diligent inspection of his property, presumably. He followed along behind his elderly gardener-caretaker, Losno, who gestured him in his wake and pointed to, yes, that was Treuch’s hut in the distant shaded verge.
They were too far away for Pen to hear what they were saying, but Losno turned back and Wegae went on in. Wait, Treuch couldn’t be back home already, could he? Surely he must have been delivered to Oswyl just a short time ago.
Someone’s in there, said Des. Not Treuch, no. Someone new. Someone… angry.
Pen thought the Grayjays had taken inventory of all the manor’s servants already. He hesitated, torn between the two curiosities of Oswyl’s interrogation of Treuch and this fresh mystery. He took one step each way.
Something’s very wrong in that hut, said Des suddenly, and Pen angled toward it, planning to intercept the gardener and ask what was going on. Losno glanced his way and shuffled faster, looking oddly frightened.
Pen. Run!
He didn’t think to ask why till he was already in motion. She didn’t volunteer his trick of uncanny speed, so maybe the emergency wasn’t lethal?
Yet, she said grimly.
Pen sped up on his own, the meadow grass slapping around his legs like thin green fingers trying to delay him.
Thumps echoed from the hut. He bounded up the porch and yanked open the door on murky dimness. Shapes moved within it. Des, light! His vision brightened and he saw a small table toppled over, Wegae lying on the plank floor, his hands flung up across his bleeding face. His spectacles spun aside, just out of his reach. A heavyset older man with a staff in his hand heaved forward, stamping down a booted foot; the glass crunched horribly, and Wegae cried out as though he himself had been struck.
“Eh?” The bearded face of the stranger jerked up at the light from the door and Pen’s awkward entry.
Was this the not-Treuch that Nath had encountered in the woods a few hours ago? It seemed they wouldn’t have to hunt him down after all. Lucky chance? Pen had barely opened his mouth to demand explanations, or say he knew-not-what, when the man lunged toward him and the staff whipped around at his head. Ah. Bastard’s luck.