Kynyr's War

THINGS BROKEN AND NEW

Malthus Estrobian stood in front of the ruined shop, cursing under his breath. Anger burned in his sensual face, lending an umber-rose glow to his copper cheeks. He pulled at the long ends of his quill thin mustache, stroked his oak-leaf beard, and snarled.

"What in the Nine Hells happened here?"

It looked like a gang of imps had attacked it. The windows had been shattered. Animal droppings lay piled in the doorway and splattered over the walls. He studied the clumsy writing and the curious misspellings of crude slurs written across the walls in a variety of substances, none of which appeared to be ink: stunk-fase; peeg-zucker; auld stunker; lyar lyar; klaburnaner.

The shop belonged to one of his best cats-paws, Baroucha Seaver, a healer and mid-wife. She had been slipping an arcane, nearly undetectable poison into the heart medicine of the lycan Chieftain Claw Redhand at Malthus' direction. The possible inconvenience that would result if something had happened to her irritated him.

He stepped over the threshold to have a better look at the destruction. The lycan guardsmon, Erskine Faraday straddled a chair in the middle of the devastated shop, arms draped across the back, his long legs outstretched, and his lean body settled at a relaxed angle. Assessment flickered in his gray eyes as he shook his blond head at Malthus. "You'll have to leave. Lawgiver left orders. No one is allowed in until he finishes examining everything."

"Just tell me what happened?"

Erskine shrugged as if the situation mattered not a whit to him. "Baroucha Seaver was murdered last night. Now get out of here."

Malthus acquiesced with a nod and left the building, anger burning beneath his emotionless features.

"I hear they made a mess of her."

Malthus turned and saw Preece Malloy standing at the edge of an alley with his shoulder leaned against a building. "Shouldn't you be working?"

Preece Malloy lazed with his arms loosely folded across his chest. Years of working in the sun had weathered his fair skin to a nut brown. Preece's drawstring pants slouched around his lanky hips and if they had been any looser would have slid to his member. A pair of long fighting knives hung from a worn leather belt, the sheaths lashed to his thighs for an easy draw, and his pants legs bunched around them. While his sturdy bones could easily have carried more weight, Preece did not lack for muscle and the long curves of his biceps looked like hammered steel. A length of leather held his long, mustard brown hair in a tail at his neck. He regarded Malthus with dead, jaded eyes and an indolent smile.

"Probably. The priest has been gone since yesterday afternoon. So not much is getting done."

Malthus withheld his reply until he stood close enough to Preece that his words would not carry to any who might be passing by. "Clodagh…"

"She don't run the camp. But then, you knew that."

Malthus regarded Preece. The wolf was uneducated and illiterate, but he was not stupid, and he saw deeper, making more connections than the others. Of all the wolves working at the camp; of all those that Malthus had brought within his sphere of influence; the only one he considered dangerous was Preece Malloy. It made him a superior tool.

"Who runs the camp?"

Preece's lips spread with a fleeting wisp of sarcasm. "You do."

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough."

"Buy you a drink?"

"Hereward's open."

The Difficult Horse, called that because of its sign that featured a horse sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, stood on Main Street across from the village common. The interior, warm, dark, and pleasant compared to the chill autumn morning outside, provided a welcome relief. Barrels with spigots jutting from them lined the rear wall behind a polished bar of walnut heartwood. Sturdy chairs circled the round tables placed throughout. There were few people in the Difficult Horse that early. Malthus and Preece took a table in the rear corner. Malthus liked having a wall to his back and so did Preece. The corner was a compromise between them.

"So what do you know?"

"Sinclair sent to the coffinmaker this morning. They dropped off two boxes just after Caimbeul left Baroucha's place…"

"Have you heard this one?" Malthus lowered his head with a tiny smirk. "They are saying that Caimbeul murdered Donald Greenlea. That it wasn't happenstance."

Preece scratched his nose. "Yeah, I heard that one. It don't surprise me. Caimbeul is the nastiest Lawgiver we've ever had."

"He condemns vigilante violence and then commits it himself."

"Bloody pig-sucker."

Malthus lowered his head with a small glance to the side. "This inconveniences me."

Preece eyed Malthus. "You had something going with the old bitch?"

"She asked me to help her find a decent apprentice."

"And did you?"

"Bella Montegna should be arriving any day now and there's no shop."

"Why kind of game are you running, Malthus?"

"One that pays very good money."

"Next time you go to Hell's Widow, I'd like to go along."

"I'll think about it."

Preece had been caging for another trip to Hell's Widow, the Waejontori town that lay across the Eirlys River from Clan Red Wolf, for weeks – ever since Malthus had him carry a message to his allies there. The wolf had tested the limits of Malthus' influence and credit, spending the night at the most expensive brothel in nine counties, the Crimson Lady, and came home with a pound of White Fire, one of the highest priced street drugs on the black market, all charged to Malthus' accounts. Preece's audacity had amused Malthus.

GODWAR CENTRAL

Kynyr's War

THINGS BROKEN AND NEW