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.

Cahira's Potions and Notions had display cabinets along two sides with wall to ceiling shelves and drawers behind them and along the back. A table with seven chairs stood at the rear, where customers could discuss their choices and pay for the purchases. The standard merchandise included medicines, salves, creams, and cosmetics on one side and sewing needs on the other. The rest of it changed from time to time as Cahira's suppliers found assorted items of limited availability to offer her. A stack of 'pressed' books occupied the end of one display counter. The city of Havensword in Creeya had three of the new printing presses imported from Iradrim; Red Wolf had none. Whenever a supplier offered her a crate of pressed books, Cahira bought the lot of them, appropriating what looked like a good addition to her own library; then her husband Todd went through to see if any 'naughty' books had been included and made off with those he had not acquired yet; and the remainder were sold in the shop. The newest addition to the shop, a one-time deal, was an array of imported Creeyan blades; high quality swords, daggers, and axes that were selling out fast.

Sitting at the table in the rear, Kady Wiggins ran her hands through her short flaxen curls and watched the hallway door for the return of Padruig Caimbeul. She had begun to hate the lawgiver.

Cahira stirred, her eyes red from weeping over the death yesterday of her son Branduff. "Do you think he did it?"

"Kynyr?" Kady reached over and squeezed Cahira's frail hand without taking her eyes off the door.

"Yes."

She lowered her voice and whispered. "Yes, Kynyr ... murdered Baroucha. I know it for a fact. He went for a long walk after he saw Bran's body. When he came back, he was covered in blood. I burned his clothes."

"You lied to Caimbeul."

"And I'll keep lying to him. I'm in love with Kynyr. I'm not going to let Caimbeul hang him. Hush. Here he comes."

Cahira stiffened, pulling at her long blonde braid as she lowered her head to avoid Caimbeul's gaze.

Despite the lawgiver's aging paunch, the big mon seemed a harsh and unremitting figure to Kady, gray and grim with a bit of stubble on his unshaven chin. He paused at the door to the street and pinned Kady with a look that made her shiver. "If I find out either of you has lied to me..."

Then Caimbeul went out the door and Kady found that she could breathe again. "There are things I need to take care of upstairs. I'll have Rory come sit with you?"

Cahira nodded.

Kady encountered Rory Scott in the hallway. He came down the stairs yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes. The scruffy cub, with hair an indeterminate shade of reddish blond, was Cahira's newest apprentice, although he had been working for her longer than Kady.

"Go sit with Cahira and stay out of trouble."

"I intend to."

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned right, pausing outside the door to the kitchen. The voices of cubs and Kynyr's younger sister, Mallory, came from the room and Kady decided that she was not needed there. She moved on to the parlor and slipped inside.

Two coffins sat upon the long trestle table in the center of the parlor, grave offerings spread across the bodies lying within them. All the lycans in the room were male and Kady felt as if she were intruding as all eyes turned toward her. They were all members of Kynyr's extended family, and Kady knew very few of them by name.

The furniture had been moved back along the walls where more than a dozen lycans spread themselves across the chairs and the floor, while others stood around or leaned against the walls. Six lycans stood lined up at the coffin; one by one they left their grave gifts in the coffin and bestowed the kiss of farewell on the cold faces of Kynyr's father Branduff Maguire and his young cousin, Duggan Sinclair.

Ten-year-old Cooley Sinclair nestled on the lap of a large, red-haired lycan of late years, Cahira's husband Todd.

When the cub saw Kady, he flashed her a wan smile and snuggled against Todd. She wondered what Cooley was doing there instead of being in the kitchen with the other cubs.

Todd looked like age had overtaken him in the night. There was a sprinkling of white in his red-hair that Kady would have sworn had not been there yesterday. He had a strong, hearty face. The folded lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well.

His calm, centered mien had always suggested to her a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it. Now there was a troubling light to those eyes as if he were haunted to the depths of his soul.

Todd had become Kady's guurmondru, an almost untranslatable lycan concept that carried with it the responsibilities of father, brother, mentor and--for the present--protector. She had considered him a bulwark against the world, and it tore at her heart to see him so stricken by grief.

Then she spied Kynyr standing in a corner apart from the others. He wore his chocolate and claret uniform, which meant he intended to report for duty despite his losses. Kady crossed the room, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him, before drawing him out into the hallway by the hand.

"Surely, you're not going in today?" She twined her fingers in his unruly wealth of golden hair, ran her gaze over his chiseled features and lantern jaw, and stared into his deep blue eyes--and wondered how someone like Kynyr could have fallen in love with her.

Kynyr lowered his gaze, and avoided her eyes, uncharacteristically restrained. "I must ... if only to ask for time away until after the funerals."

"Don't be long. We need you here."

"I won't be." He pressed his face against hers, his golden sideburns tickling her cheek. "I guess you know my secret now."

"That you're a prince? Sheradyn spilled that a week ago."

"And you didn't say anything to me?"

"It didn't change my feelings for you, Kynyr. I've always loved you." She nestled tighter against him. "Does Claw know you're his grandson?"

"No. I didn't come here to claim my heritage, Kady. I came to protect my family."

"That's what I love about you."

"I'd better go." He kissed her forehead and walked away.

She waited until he had disappeared down the stairs before heading for the infirmary. It had been rearranged yet again. The far end of the room had been partitioned off with folding screens extended to each side, creating a doorway effect. That gave the three bitches on the other side of it more privacy from the dogs. Three beds and five cots crowded the near side of the screens, containing the wounded males. Trevor Sinclair occupied the nearest bed, his wife Mary sitting beside him in a cushioned chair. The bed beyond Trevor's lay empty, which both amused and annoyed Kady. They were having a hard time getting Wallace Callaghan to rest when he would rather be on the far side of the screen fussing over Leeny and their newborn son.

Although Kady had not yet learned all of their names, it was easy to tell the Sinclairs from the MacIvers. The former were huge and red-haired and the latter slender towheads.

Gillivray Ashby knelt beside the low cots, changing bandages, and Reading the wounded. The silly nancidawg knew his business and looked fresh faced and full of energy--despite having slept in a chair--and she wondered how he managed it. He and his lover, Sheradyn Kelly, both healers, had been spelling each other and Kady tending the wounded, ever since they started to pour in yesterday from the battle at Longbranch.

Kady walked to the bitches section and peered around the screen. Just as she had suspected, there was Wallace Callaghan sitting shirtless with his ribs and side bandaged, twirling a pale yellow curl on his newborn son's head, and beaming at his wife, Kynyr's sister Kathleen whom everyone called 'Leeny.'

She returned to Trevor, where she found Mary bathing the wound in his arm and re-bandaging it. Kynyr's uncle looked much better than he had yesterday, when he suddenly materialized in the shop along with his dying half-brother Branduff and a dead sa'necari soldier. Cahira had thrown all of her power into healing the two sword wounds in his chest, after failing to save Branduff. Trevor's mother was a Mender, not a Healer; and Kady had had to stop her from working on the arm wound, after seeing how drained the act of healing his chest had left her.

Kady dragged a chair up, and sat down beside Trevor's bed. "Should I call you Trevor or Uncle Trevor once Kynyr and I are married?"

Mary perked up. "So it's definite? You're going to marry my obnoxious nephew?"

"Yes. He bought me a house. It needs work."

Trevor frowned. "I heard it was a nice house."

"Oh, it is. It's just not been well-cared for ... and I'm redecorating."

"Getting back to your original question, just call me Trevor. Kynyr does."

"I'm going to feel intimidated living in that big house with just Kynyr, and maybe a few servants." Kady studied her hands, feeling awkward. "I was wondering if maybe some of the family might be willing to come live with us and help out around the place. It's beautiful. It's a good place to raise children. After all that's happened ... Kynyr needs to have some family around. The death of his father has hurt him ... terribly."

Mary glanced at Trevor. "We've been wanting to make a new start...."

"We have four children. Would that be too many?"

"Not at all. Will you stay?"

Trevor nodded. "When I'm feeling stronger, show me the place?"

"I'll be happy to."

Kady's mood brightened as Mary and Trevor began filling her ears with embarrassing stories of what Kynyr had been like as a cub.

The Redhand Manor house had elaborate gardens surrounding the back and east side. A large barn and stables swept out to the west side of it, blocking the view of other barns and storage buildings. The simple practicality of water troughs and hitching posts in the courtyard contrasted sharply with elegance behind it. Blue veins shot through the chinked pale yellow stone of the manor house.

The three-story structure was not as large as some sa'necari manors, but it had sixteen bedrooms in the main part and an equal number in the servants' wing. Lycans did not build their homes for defense. They counted on stopping invaders before they reached the houses and generally, they were alerted by the packs of true wolves, the wild cousins that freely ran their valleys, which were defensible areas in and of themselves.

Kynyr dismounted in the yard of the manor. Lanky Georgie Rogan came out of the barns and took the reins of his horse. The head groom's gaunt, weathered face held a full measure of sympathy and concern.

"I'm sorry about your father, Kynyr."

"Thanks, Georgie." He gave a nod and kept walking. His insides were tied as tight as knots in a rope.

Kynyr let himself into the manor, hoping to avoid as many people as he could. He should have known he could not avoid Kissie, who popped out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.

She was a nibari, one of the genetically altered humans created by the vampires and sa'necari as cattle, bred for thousands of years for complete docility; they were the soul of compliance--unless directed otherwise by their masters. The Redhands preferred to call them servants, but in reality, they were slaves.

Kissie's ample bosom, revealed by the hang of the drawstring neck of her blouse, heaved and she flicked back a strand of blonde hair. "Oh, Master Kynyr, I'm so sorry."

All he could do was nod, his lips tightening.

When he started past the door to the Great Hall, his spiritbrother, Finn MacIver stepped out of it. "What happened last night?"

Kynyr stopped, his head lowered. "War in Longbranch. They killed Duggan. One of your cousins got sliced. If you want details, go talk to Todd. I can't handle it right now."

He managed to reach the second floor without encountering anyone else, only to have the one person he had the least desire to see appear in front of him.

Malthus emerged from a room and stopped in the hallway. "I'm sorry about your family."

Kynyr's lips twisted back in a snarl and he spit in Malthus' face before he could stop himself. "You killed my father."

Then he started walking again, giving Malthus no opportunity to respond to the accusation. Kynyr had no proof that would stand up in court, only Baroucha's dying words: 'Malthus knows. He'll kill you. He'll kill you all.'

"Not if I can help it, Baroucha," he muttered under his breath.

He nodded at condolences and shrugged away from attempts at comfort. There was only one person he wanted to talk to and he knew where to find her--the only member of the ruling Redhand family who knew who and what he really was: Aisha Redhand, the chieftain's wife.

Coming on top of his fresh losses, Caimbeul's brief interrogation concerning the murder of Baroucha Seaver had thrown Kynyr off stride, making him more determined than ever to hold himself together while matters remained uncertain. Having thrown the gauntlet in Malthus face, Kynyr would wait to see if his enemy picked it up. He felt trapped by rules and laws, and with Caimbeul breathing down his neck, Kynyr could not afford to simply call Malthus out--at least not until he had more solid proof of what was going on.

He schooled the grief and uncertainty from his face, stride, and carriage. He ignored his throbbing leg, focusing so far past it that no sign of his usual limp remained.

Pausing at the door to the Rose Room, he knocked.

"Come in." Aisha's voice carried an edge of strain and Kynyr wondered what was going on.

The Rose Room was regarded as Aisha's private preserve; small--by the standards of the manor--decorated in deep shades of rose and mauve. A mural covered the south wall of lycans at a picnic in the middle of a rose garden the males in hybrid form and the females in human while true wolves romped around them. The wall hangings were all of pastoral scenes. Sofas and chairs formed half circles around three low tables, upholstered in matching rose brocades. A woven reed basket, containing knitting, occupied the corner of a sofa. Aisha sat on that sofa, knitting. She straightened and adjusted her skirts.

Aisha Redhand had gone grey with age. Very little of her youthful brown coloring remained in her heavy hair. The legendary beauty had long ago faded from her careworn face, replaced by a maternal warmth that continued to draw people to her.

Claw could call her spiky and crotchety all he wished; Kynyr never would. There might be a side of her that he had never seen, but he doubted it.

"I'm only here for a bit, Gramma. My family needs me." He sat down on a chair close to Aisha. He only called her 'Gramma' where no one could hear.

She set her knitting aside, leaned forward, and patted his knee. "I'm so sorry about your father. I wanted to meet him ... see what kind of mon my son had sired."

"You would have liked him." Kynyr tried to smile, but grief and anger gave it a bitter twist.

"Is that what you came to talk about?"

"No. I'm trying not to think about it. When it's not so fresh ... I'll tell you about him." Kynyr clasped his hands together and glanced off at a point on the wall. "It's a selfish subject I want to talk about."

"Kady?"

Kynyr gave a small nod. "Life becomes more precious after a loss ... and I've had too many of them this year."

"During the Rebellion, my heart broke with every death."

"Last night, as we were helping with the wounded ... Kady Called Courtship. Now what do I do?"

His great-grandmother was the only person he could talk to who had had a Wild Cousins' Courtship. The custom was ancient and had largely fallen out of favor, replaced by various things adopted from the human realms, including the practice of brideprice. Kady had found the custom in an old book, mistranslated and invoked it before either of them fully understood the possible ramifications of doing so, locking them into an extraordinary situation governed by Divine Law. They had a time limit on it, and were entering the final phases. Failure meant exiling himself from Kady's presence--forever.

"A step in the right direction."

"She keeps putting me off about changing." Kynyr had to chase her through the forest in wolf form for the right to mate, repeating a pattern of chase and capture until he quickened her womb--only then would they be allowed to marry.

"So, you want to persuade her to change?"

"How did Claw get you to change?"

"Well, it was a far different situation, Kynyr." Aisha's expression turned thoughtful and slowly dissolved into crafty. "Gifts. Wine. Exercising in the nude?"

Kynyr flushed. "You're joking."

Aisha laughed and patted his knee again. "Not at all. It worked for Claw."

"Thanks, Gramma. I'll try all of them."

Odhran Lafferty, a tinker by trade, worked mostly as an oddjobber, doing anything and everything. He opened the front door to Cahira's Potions and Notions just enough to poke his head inside and glance around. "Is Pandeena here?"

"She's in the infirmary." Kady paused in the middle of shelving jars and eyed his civilian bridge-watcher tabard. "You must have more jobs than a cat has lives."

"Rather." He crossed the threshold and headed for the stairs; stopped at the door into the hallway and glanced back at Kady. "But I'll be back at the house tomorrow and finish the wainscoting."

"You'd better." Kady raised her hand in mock threat.

Odhran ducked with a grin and headed for the stairs. He found Pandeena in the infirmary tending the wounded. Her perfect features, golden hair, and flawless form always caused a physical reaction in Odhran and he pressed his legs together, hoping she failed to notice it. She was the only bitch in Wolffgard that could walk into a room and have every male present--even the gaffers--react.

Trevor sat propped up with a bed table across his lap, a bowl of stew and a glass of water in the middle of it. Mary spooning stew into his mouth.

Pandeena stood beside the next bed over, working on Wallace Callaghan.

"Pardon me, Pandeena. There is a fellow on the bridge asking for you. He wants permission to enter Red Wolf."

Pandeena finished changing Wallace Callaghan's bandages. "All done."

She walked to the table and rinsed her hands in a basin of clean water. "Have Caimbeul talk to him."

"He's asking for you. Says to say Dyna sent him."

Pandeena's expression changed in a flash. "Dyna? Let's go."

Tree trunks formed the support columns of the bridge that spanned the gorge that had been cut through the sheer stonewalls by the deep cataract known as the Eirlys River. The rushing roar of the Eirlys filled the air, drowning out the calls of circling birds. On three sides, the land descended into rugged canyons and twisted valleys that looked like a giant had ripped his fingers through the soil. The lycan clans preferred to make their homes in hard to reach places, areas that could easily be defended against invasion. The half-walls of the bridge's sides offered limited shelter while not blocking the view of people approaching it.

The bridge guards lounged on benches set back among a thick stand of fragrant white pine and cedars three spear lengths beyond the bridge on the lycan side where a heavy barrier of brush and briars offered them concealment from people approaching from the opposite side. They had a policy of getting a look at anyone arriving at the bridge from the Waejontori side before showing themselves, although they were clearly visible from the lycan side.

On a bench across from the guardsmyn, beneath a thin strand of aspens sat a small mon in a knee-length brown tunic, split to his hips for riding, over a pair of loose-legged trousers stuffed into short boots. His beardless face had an effeminate sensuality, full pouting lips in a narrow face, and a long, straight nose. Large, long-lashed eyes the color of glistening black pearls dominated his features.

Odhran pointed at him. "Luciano Albertus." He thumbed at Pandeena. "Our priest, Pandeena Moonbow."

"You wanted to speak with me?"

Luciano stood up and extended his hand, fingers half-curled in a lycan gesture that invited sniffing as a means of confirming his nature.

Pandeena brought his fingers to her nose. "You're hu ... mage!" she yelped.

Embarrassment glowed in Luciano's face as he shook his head. "I'm a spiritworker, but I used to run a mage shop in Skullbones."

"The Scarlet Angel?" Pandeena schooled a flash of irritation from her face. She had never expected the owner of Caimbeul's favorite mage shop to show up in Wolffgard--the ones where he always purchased contraceptives known as seed crystals that absorbed and stored the fertile parts of a male's ejaculate so that he did not impregnate his strings of doxies. Pandeena had always blamed the shop for selling them to him as much as Caimbeul himself for using them during their marriage.

"Yes. Dyna sent me to you. The Waejontori are pushing hard along the borders and I had to flee. The sa'necari don't like spiritworkers. They rite us when they catch us. Can we talk privately?"

"Certainly." Pandeena walked farther into the trees and then turned to face him. She could not deny safety to him, since he was pledged to her ally.

Luciano opened his robes and pushed them off one shoulder, revealing a squiggly Dynannan Godmark. "Touch it."

Pandeena touched the mark and her eyes widened. "It's real. Now I've seen everything. A Waejontori Dynannan Spiritworker."

"There's far more Dynannans among my people than you might realize and we're all coming here."

Pandeena rolled her eyes. "We'll be inundated."

"Well, nothing so bad as that."

"The only single males we have at the Refugee Camp are the lycans that work there."

"I don't need to stay at the camp. I want to open a shop."

Pandeena scanned him. "With just the clothes on your back?"

Luciano reached in his pocket and brought out the tiny carrying globe. "My Lady loaned this to me."

Pandeena laughed. "Then you can stay at the Inn until you find a shop to buy."

"Can you take me there?"

"If you'll buy me a drink at the Difficult Horse."

"I'll be glad to."