Return to Canifis

is weak, being so recent. She was relieved, and yet she wondered if she had any right to feel so. She hadn’t seen Theodore for months, and he was a famous knight at a court of ambitious young women. Had she any right to be jealous?

Especially since I never wrote to him. Perhaps I have lost him.

Kara sighed, and then cursed. She had forgotten to ask Lord William to send a maid to help her dress. Panic gripped her suddenly. She ran to the door and drew it back, to see if he was still near.

But instead it was a woman who approached. A maid of declining years.

“Lady Kara?” the maid asked stiffly.

Kara nodded.

“Lady Kara, my name is Lucretia. I bring compliments from my mistress, Lady Caroline. She has asked me to assist you in preparation for the dance. She has also asked me to tell you that you should arrive a few moments before the time you were advised.” The woman blinked once. “No doubt Lady Anne is playing one of her funny tricks again. She’s a lady only in name, that one. It is unfortunate my mistress associates so closely with her. Now, come along, for we haven’t much time.”

Kara flashed her most brilliant smile.

Lady Caroline. I am in your debt.

9

The Great Hall was a long rectangular room with a very high ceiling. At its southern end was a raised stage where King Roald and his most favoured subjects sat and ate, while below everyone else stood.

On the western side of the hall were great arched windows, stained with the yellow colouring of King Roald’s pennant, admitting the evening sunlight in a bright dazzle. In alcoves on all sides torches chased away shadows, while on tabletops and in chandeliers candles added to the celebration of light. On the eastern edge of the room, two large fire pits cooked pigs and boars on spits, and barrels of ale and wine were supported on a wooden scaffold. Above them, on a balcony, an orchestra played a lively tune that seemed contrary to the serious faces of the King’s closest advisors, who were already discussing the monarch’s promised parliament.

From his position on the stage, seated between Castimir and Ebenezer, Gar’rth watched the sea of well- dressed nobility below. No women were yet present, for their entrance was kept back for the ninth hour, only minutes away now.

“I am nervous for Kara,” Castimir said, looking warily in the direction of an older man who sat at their table some distance away, a green-tinted monocle clutched in his right eye. He was dressed in robes similar to his own, but of grey, not blue.

He is nervous, Gar’rth mused. That man is of the Tower as well, and very senior. And Castimir has not been honest with his masters.

He peered around the room irritably. There were too many people here, too many smells filling his senses, and far too much noise for him to think clearly.

He felt Ebenezer’s hand rest on his arm.

“Are you well Gar’rth?” the alchemist asked quietly. “I see you are drinking beer.”

“Yes.” He detected the old man’s concern easily, so Ebenezer probably meant it to be obvious. “So is Theodore… and Doric, and Castimir. And so are you,” he challenged, his tone harsher than he had meant it to be.

Ebenezer frowned and looked away, and Gar’rth felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. Castimir lowered his drink and gazed at him in concern. Doric, sitting across from them on a raised chair, did likewise. Theodore, sitting near the King himself, was too far away to notice.

Are they so afraid of me that I cannot even celebrate with them? My friends?

“I am sorry, Ebenezer,” he said. “I will only have one. I have been… better recently.”

“Good-it’s not a good idea to drink too much,” the old man cautioned. “Not here. Not when you are so unfamiliar with your surroundings.”

Gar’rth nodded and stood.

“I need air. The smells, the noise here.” He shook his head. “Too much.”

“I’ll come with you, I think,” Castimir said, glancing quickly at the old man in the grey robes who returned the stare with a raised eyebrow.

They descended the steps from the stage and found themselves in among the press of people. Gar’rth felt hands and elbows brush against him as he forced his way to the door which led out onto a terrace overlooking the western bailey.

I hate it here. These people are all so false.

A man barred his way and for a moment Gar’rth was surrounded, pressed in from all sides. Different odours assailed him-the grim decay of a man’s breath illustrated by rotting teeth, the sweat-coated body of another, and the artificial sickly sweetness of fragrance. He heard Castimir call to him from somewhere behind, but the wizard’s words were lost as the orchestra played faster and louder than before.

Then a woman shouted in sudden fear.

And above it all, he could smell blood. Fresh blood.

He couldn’t concentrate. A man pushed him in the back and as he gasped he was free of the crowd. A shape moved next to him, black and red, the scent of blood overpowering.

The woman screamed again.

Suddenly he was face to face with a wolf’s head on a man’s body. An obscene sight made worse by a man’s cackle from behind the wolf’s dead eye sockets.

“Gar’rth! Come on!” Castimir was at his side. The wizard took his hand as the jester with the wolf’s head leapt into the air and cackled again and for the first time Gar’rth saw the sick pantomime in full. A young maiden, dressed in white, ran through the crowds and onto the stage, shrieking with exaggerated gestures, while the wolf pursued her in a game of chase.

“What’s that about?” Castimir asked as the woman shrieked again, barely evading the jester’s groping hand to the laughter of the onlookers. They were near the western door now, and from the terrace beyond, their question was answered.

“It is a tradition,” said a pale-faced man with a hooked nose. “A wolf is killed on this day every year and its head is paraded around upon the jester’s shoulders as he pursues a maiden, pretending to be a werewolf. The maiden escapes, of course. A pity real life is different, for Morytania does not lose those victims it hounds.”

The speaker peered at them through narrow, cold eyes.

“Ah, Lord Ruthven isn’t it?” Castimir said as he bowed.

The man nodded. Gar’rth felt those eyes rest on him.

“You both know something of Morytania,” he said. “And of werewolves also, I believe?”

Gar’rth froze. He caught Castimir’s panicked eye.

“I know that Jerrod is in Varrock, with Sulla,” Lord Ruthven continued. “Kara-Meir told the King this afternoon. You have fought the werewolf before, have you not?”

“We have,” Castimir said. “He was at the monastery, east of Ice Mountain-and before that in Falador, where Kara wounded him.”

“Did your magic not work against him?”

Castimir nodded grimly.

“It did, but the werewolf took my runes. Without them I am powerless.”

“Ah, the runes!” Lord Ruthven lowered his voice. “There are too few of them now. Too few wizards, as well.”

Gar’rth saw a flicker of surprise pass over Castimir’s face, then the wizard and the nobleman exchanged a knowing look before Ruthven continued.

“Nonetheless, with or without magic, Jerrod must be hunted and slain. Werewolves and creatures from Morytania are given no quarter in Misthalin.”

Castimir glanced at Gar’rth, who remained silent, determined not to react.