Black Wolf Read online

  The stranger was unimpressed both by the creature and Darrow’s worship. He sneered at the kneeling driver and bellowed at the creature, “If you wish to live long enough to squirm back to the sewers, monster, summon your master.”

  From beneath the shadow creature’s veil came a wet, choking sound. “I am master here.”

  “I want Stannis Malveen,” said the stranger. “I want the scrolls he promised me.”

  Again the creature uttered that halting, coughing sound, and Darrow realized it was laughing. “It looks as though you want an arm, my old friend. Did you leave it with the boy you promised to bring me?”

  “Stannis …?”

  “It has been a long time, Rusk. The years have been kinder to you than to me, as you can plainly see—except, of course, for the issue of your missing arm. Did you have an accident? No matter: You received my sending and agreed to my terms. Talbot Uskevren in return for the Black Wolf Scrolls.”

  “He’s dead,” said Rusk. “I gutted him before he cut me.”

  “I required him alive,” hissed Stannis. “How bothersome of you to bungle it. Very well. Where is the body?”

  “In the playhouse,” said Rusk. He indicated Darrow with a toss of his head. “Your lackey can fetch it, if the clerics haven’t dragged it away.”

  “Clerics, hmm?” Stannis pressed his rubbery fingers together. “Pray tell, who were these clerics in the playhouse? Do you mean real ones, with spells and halos and the rest? I hope you mean players in tall pointy hats, my dear Huntmaster. That is what you mean, isn’t it?”

  Rusk scowled.

  “You simpleton! You’re missing an arm, yet you healed yourself enough to come crawling before me with your petulant demands. What makes you think the boy was not healed as well?”

  “I’ll bring him to you alive or in pieces,” shouted Rusk. “Just give me the damned, bloody scrolls so I can heal this wound!”

  “I’ve seen the scrolls,” said Stannis coyly. “In fact, I have read some singularly interesting passages in them. I did not, however, notice an extra arm among the leaves.”

  “This is your fault!” thundered Rusk, taking a step toward the pool. Blood from his half-healed stump spattered on the floor.

  “Have a care, Huntmaster. You are soiling my favorite rug,” cautioned Stannis. “Mulhorandi, and quite expensive.”

  Rusk lunged toward the water’s edge.

  Before he made it, a dark figure blurred toward him and spun Rusk aside. A long blade pierced his biceps and thrust him against a marble pillar. Rusk roared and thrashed, but he was pinned.

  At the sword’s other end stood a man with long, dark hair tied loosely at his neck. His pale skin was smooth and unblemished but for a trio of tiny moles beside his left eye. His plum-dark lips were impassively composed. A black silk shirt showed through the slashes of his dark purple doublet. Like the fitted leggings and thigh-length boots, they were precisely fitted to his body. The man’s sword arm extended fully above a perfectly bent knee. His large black eyes looked calmly into Rusk’s.

  “My brother is rather protective of family,” said Stannis. “May I suggest you exercise restraint?”

  Rusk growled in response, but the sound gradually transformed into a deep chuckle. He glanced at the fresh wound in his remaining arm. Within seconds, the blood stopped trickling, and the flesh rejoined around the blade.

  “You can’t hurt me with mortal weapons,” he said. “Mine is the Black Blood. I am a child of Malar.”

  “If Radu had intended to visit permanent harm upon you,” said Stannis, “I would already be deprived of the novelty of your company.”

  Darrow never saw the motion, but suddenly Radu was leaning against the bigger man. His right hand held the pinioning sword in place, while the left pressed a slim white dagger against the cleric’s throat. Rusk blanched at the weapon’s touch.

  Stannis clapped his rubbery hands and hooted. “Do you recognize it?”

  “A bone blade,” gasped Rusk, careful of moving his throat. “I told you about them when we were boys.”

  “Can you feel its desire?” crooned Stannis. “Does it call to you, my old friend? Does it yearn for your spirit?”

  Rusk’s jaw barely moved. Darrow could see that it would take Radu only the barest motion to cut Rusk’s throat.

  “While Radu disdains the use of enchanted weapons,” explained Stannis, “he understands the need for the proper tool—a tool for dealing with problems.”

  Rusk bristled as the dagger shifted slightly.

  “You aren’t a problem,” said Stannis, “are you, Rusk?”

  Rusk hesitated only briefly before responding. “No. No problem.”

  Radu withdrew before Rusk could counterattack. He returned the bone blade to its sheath at the small of his back, then wiped his long sword clean with a white handkerchief before returning the blade to its plain leather scabbard. He dropped the soiled cloth carelessly on the floor.

  “You, too, are hurt only by enchanted weapons …” Stannis said, considering the vanishing wound on Rusk’s arm. He turned to Radu. “Dear brother, did you not once say that Talbot Uskevren shares your affectation for plain steel?”

  Radu looked loath to speak. “I did,” he said. Darrow saw Radu’s eyes narrow slightly as he looked at his inhuman brother. Whatever business Stannis had with Rusk, it was news to Radu.

  “He had an enspelled blade in the playhouse,” said Rusk. “After I released him from the cage, he dropped through a trapdoor and—”

  “He was in a cage when you arrived?”

  “He is … unusual,” said Rusk. “I wished to learn—”

  “He put himself in the cage? Did you send a messenger ahead with a request that he should bind and gag himself as well?” pressed Stannis.

  “It’s a common reaction among the reborn,” said Rusk. His rough voice was becoming irritable, almost petulant. “He feared the change, so he—”

  “Are you telling us,” interrupted Stannis, “that you found Talbot Uskevren in a cage, released him, watched him escape through a trapdoor, and let him lop off your arm with a stage prop?”

  Rusk glared at both Malveens, and Darrow saw the muscles in the Huntmaster’s back tense.

  “He tricked me,” spat Rusk. “Besides, you didn’t tell me he was dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Radu fixed his gaze on Stannis. “Talbot Uskevren?”

  “You and he do have the same sword master,” observed Stannis.

  “He is a playhouse buffoon,” said Radu.

  “Perhaps,” said Stannis. “But he’s proven formidable in his way. To take off Rusk’s arm like that … well, perhaps we’ve underestimated this boy.”

  “We?” said Radu, raising one eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

  Stannis glided toward the center of the pool, his chain veil tinkling where it dragged in the water. “Perhaps the Huntmaster wishes to retire after his ordeal, hmm? Visiting the city can be a daunting experience for rural folk.”

  “What I want,” said Rusk, “is what you promised me.”

  “We shall discuss it tomorrow evening,” said Stannis, keeping his eyes on Radu, who looked back with a steady gaze. “Until then, please avail yourself of our humble accommodations—but not here, in the River Hall. You will find the other buildings are not warded—and I trust you will not continue to test the protections on this one. Not all of them are so forgiving as those you triggered.”

  Rusk hesitated, considering whether to repeat his demands. One more glance at Radu persuaded him to keep quiet. Reluctantly, he turned and left the way he came.

  When Rusk was gone, Darrow expected his own dismissal—or worse—but the Malveen brothers spoke as if they were alone.

  “How rude Rusk has become,” said Stannis. “As a younger man he always—”

  “What have you done?” said Radu. “Who was that monster?”

  “I was so hoping to keep it a surprise,” said Stannis with a sigh. “Rusk is an old friend of the family, one I had all b
ut forgotten until Pietro encountered him last month.”

  “The hunting accident.”

  “Indeed. Our little brother would have been among the devoured had he not mentioned the family name in Rusk’s hearing. Fortunately, the Huntmaster remembered his association with our great-uncle. It was his pack the boys encountered in the Arch Wood. Among the survivors was Talbot Uskevren, grandson of our old business partner, Aldimar.”

  “I told you to forget about Aldimar. The Uskevren are no threat to us.”

  “They are the very reason for our present state!” Stannis wheezed as he grew more agitated. “Thamalon could have saved mother from her persecutors, but he … he turned her away like a common criminal! ”

  “She was a criminal,” said Radu, “and the Uskevren were recovering from their own scandal. They could ill afford to harbor a condemned pirate.”

  “They grew rich while she took the greater risks.”

  “That was Aldimar. The same people who persecuted our mother killed him.”

  “It isn’t enough!” said Stannis. “We suffered far worse for our mother’s crimes, while Thamalon escaped all harm. He has already regained everything the Uskevren lost, while you and I must cower in the shadows, scraping shoulders with the scum of Selgaunt just to keep Laskar and Pietro fed and clothed.”

  “It is precisely because of our brothers that we must walk the shadows,” said Radu. “Nothing is more important than restoring them to their rightful place. Never forget that.”

  “It isn’t fair,” complained Stannis. The petulant tone sounded incongruous coming from such a huge, unearthly figure. “I remain a prisoner in the ruin of our family estate.”

  “You were reborn into darkness,” said Radu, “and in darkness you will remain. Do not make the mistake of forcing me to choose between you and our brothers.”

  “Radu! Have I not been your good and faithful confidant? Have I not shared your own dark secrets with sympathy and fidelity?”

  “You are my brother,” said Radu, “but I will not permit you to endanger Laskar and Pietro. They have remained innocent of our business, and we must keep it that way.”

  “Why must the burden fall on us alone?” whined Stannis. “Surely we deserve some indulgence. All I desire is our deserved revenge against those who abandoned our mother.”

  “You cannot murder the son of Thamalon Uskevren,” said Radu. “There’s nothing to be gained from it, and far too much to lose.”

  “What of the men you have slain, dear brother? What’s one Uskevren to a few dozen guild members?” Darrow was only slightly surprised at the implication that Radu had slain so many people, but Stannis said it so casually that he wondered whether the brothers even remembered they were not alone. “Besides, I said nothing about murdering the poor boy.”

  “What else would you do with him?”

  “Our friend Rusk is not merely a cleric of the Beastlord,” said Stannis. “He is a lycanthrope.”

  “What?”

  “A nightwalker,” said Stannis. “A skin-changer. A werewolf.”

  Radu stared at his inhuman brother. His features remained composed, but Darrow saw the faint line of a vein begin to form on his brow. When he spoke, his voice was cool and quiet. “You planned to turn him into a werewolf?”

  “A delicious thought, is it not?” squealed Stannis. “But he is already a werewolf, I’m afraid. We can hardly call such a charming coincidence our own revenge. What we must do is take advantage of his condition, use Rusk to bend Talbot to our will.”

  “You will stop this mad scheme at once,” said Radu. “Send Rusk away, and leave the Uskevren alone.”

  “But brother, it is—”

  “I will hear no more of this,” said Radu.

  “What of your sparring partners?” asked Stannis. “If we are to cower in this hovel like frightened hares, not daring to attract the attention of the hounds, then I suppose I must stop fetching them for you.”

  Radu waved a hand dismissively. “Unlike you, I can deny myself if the risk is too great.”

  “What a pity,” said Stannis. “Then you shan’t be wanting the new arrivals. After all your talk of bladesingers …”

  Radu raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by his brother’s remarks but unwilling to inquire further. “As long as you acquire them outside the city, the risk is negligible.”

  Stannis pressed his fingers together, rising magically from the water to glide slowly toward his brother. Before he could rejoin the argument, however, Radu turned to Darrow as if noticing him for the first time. “Where is the other one?”

  It took Darrow a moment to realize Radu was speaking of Pons. He bowed an apology and said, “He’s dead, master.”

  “Put the body in the carriage,” Radu said to Darrow.

  “I could send my minions—” began Stannis.

  “Keep your filthy spawn off the street,” said Radu. “In the bay or within these walls, I do not care, but they are not to be seen outside.”

  “As you wish,” said Stannis contritely. “Still, I would be only too glad to dispose of your problem personally. It would save you the trouble—nay, the risk—of taking it to Selgaunt Bay.”

  Radu’s eyes narrowed, but he said, “Very well. Bring the body here, then wait for me by the carriage.”

  Darrow felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. He knew he had seen and heard far too much. Radu would kill him rather than risk his gossip.

  Salvation came from an unexpected source.

  “I presume you intend to terminate this young man’s employment, brother?” When Radu did not reply, Stannis said, “I have need of a servant.”

  “You have your creatures.”

  “Dull, tedious things,” said Stannis. “They are good for fetching, but little else. Besides, they frighten our guests, your sparring partners. No doubt that accounts for their disappointing performances recently.”

  Whatever Stannis intimated made Radu scowl.

  “Besides,” persisted Stannis, “it is lonely here, and you visit so very rarely. Don’t be so cruel as to deny my craving for … conversation.”

  “He is no courtier,” said Radu. “His father was a sheep farmer.”

  “So long as he can speak in sentences and laugh at my jests, he will be an improvement. What do you say, my dear boy? Would you like to serve another Malveen?”

  “I should like that very much, Lord Malveen.” Darrow made the best bow he could muster, imitating the noblemen who greeted ladies disembarking from a carriage.

  “Did you hear that, brother?” Stannis giggled and clapped. “Did you hear what the precious young man called me?”

  “You mentioned new arrivals.”

  “A matched set,” said Stannis. “I hope you will adore them as I do. They require some mending, I’m afraid. In a month, perhaps, they should prove entertaining.”

  “Very well,” said Radu.

  Cool relief washed through Darrow’s body. A day ago he wouldn’t have believed his good fortune. To serve such a one as Stannis was far more than he deserved.

  “What are you called, my boy?” asked Stannis.

  “Darrow, if it please my lord.”

  “It pleases him,” said Stannis, wheezing with amusement. “It pleases him very much.”

  CHAPTER 2

  NEGOTIATIONS

  Hammer, 1371 DR

  Talbot Uskevren stood in the parlor of his tallhouse when the callers rapped at his front door. He turned slowly to check the room one last time before letting them in.

  To his right, the door to the small dining room remained slightly ajar. The room beyond was dark, the draperies drawn against the afternoon light. Human eyes could not penetrate the gloom, but Tal nodded to himself as his increasingly keen sight detected the shape he expected there.

  Behind him, tiny sconces of continual flames lit the hallway to the servants’ quarters and the study. Between the sconces, the polished cherry doors gleamed above a rich camel-hair carpet.


  Across from the kitchen, fresh logs rested in the fireplace. Above the unlighted hearth, twin candelabra cast flickering light upon the high, arched ceiling. Above the mantle, a portrait of Perivel Uskevren gazed down at Tal. Perivel’s hands were set firmly on the pommel of a gigantic sword. Tal shot a wink to the uncle he’d never known, wishing he felt as confident as Perivel looked.

  Beside the front door stood a tall oaken wardrobe, a stand for walking sticks beside it. A pair of stuffed leather chairs, a velvet couch, and two small tables ringed the round Thayvian rug that lay in the center of the room. On one of the tables rested a delicate porcelain tea set.

  “All right,” said Tal to the room. “Here they come.”

  He opened the door just as the callers rapped a second time. One of them stumbled forward as the knocker was pulled from her hand, nearly falling into the room with a gust of cold winter air. Tal reached for her arm but checked the habitual gesture before he touched her. It took slightly more effort to restrain his smile at the woman’s loss of composure. Beneath her woolen hood, she scowled.

  Both visitors were almost a foot shorter than Tal. That wasn’t unusual, but at first glance the women looked almost identical. Their deep blue cloaks were clasped with silver brooches in the form of a crescent moon. The woman who had stumbled was slightly more slender than the other, but their cornflower blue eyes were perfect reflections of each other.

  “Feena, Maleva, come in,” said Tal, a little too curtly to be polite. He covered his ungallant tone with a practiced smile. When the women complied, he shut the door against the bright, chilly day.

  The women lowered their hoods, and Tal saw the most striking difference between them: Feena’s flame-red hair might, in another thirty years, burn down to the same ash gray as her mother’s. Despite the decades between them, Maleva did not look particularly old. The faint lines at the corners of her eyes and lips spoke more of laughter than they did of infirmity.