Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels) (35 page)

“Of course,” said Hawk. “One thing at a time. But there’s always something, isn’t there?”

They followed the glowing light in silence for a while, neither of them looking at each other.

Tiffany had to excuse herself on witchy business for the Academy of the Sisters of the Moon, so Chance went to pick up Chappie from the Castle kitchens. Chappie wasn’t supposed to be there; in fact, he’d been banned several times on hygiene grounds, but when a dog is as big as Chappie, he doesn’t have to observe such restrictions if he doesn’t feel like it. And mostly he didn’t. Chance walked into the kitchens, into the heat and steam and staff running back and forth, tending to pots and pans and large things revolving on spits, and sure enough there was Chappie sprawled out under a table, gnawing happily on an entire leg bone, and cracking it open between his powerful jaws to get at the marrow. His satisfied growls and grunts and sighs would have intimidated anyone not actually wearing full armor and carrying a battleaxe in both hands, so not surprisingly the kitchen staff had left the dog strictly alone. Chance sighed, strode up to the table, reached under it, and grabbed Chappie firmly by one great floppy ear. The dog dropped his bone to the floor and scrambled out from under the table as Chance applied merciless pressure to the ear.

“Ow! Ow! Bully! All right, I’m out, now will you let go of my ear before it ends up twice the length? I’ll report you for cruelty one of these days.”

“I am not letting go of your ear,” Chance said reasonably. “Because if I do, you will dive back under the tables, and I will have to spend the rest of the morning chasing you round the kitchens.”

The dog grinned. “How well you know me. Ease off, dammit. You’ll have it out by the roots in a minute! Where are we going?”

“To the main courtyard,” said Chance, guiding the dog inexorably toward the kitchen door. “The Shaman has sent word he’d like to see me, upon a matter of some urgency.”

“Do we have to? He’s the only thing around here that smells worse than I do, and he doesn’t roll in dead things. What does the old fool want now?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re going to see him. Since he doesn’t normally bother to recognize my existence except to call me a Royal lackey in his speeches, I’m just a little curious as to why he’s finally decided he needs to talk to me. I’m going to let go of your ear now. If you try and run back into the kitchens, I will do something to you of a sudden, violent, and wholly distressing nature. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” growled the dog. “One of these days we’re going to have a long talk about which of us is in charge around here.”

Chance let go of the ear. Chappie continued to trot alongside him. They headed for the main courtyard, following one of the few relatively straightforward routes in the Castle. Things tended to get much less complicated once you approached the outer layers. People smiled and nodded to the Questor as they passed, and a few of the braver souls even stopped to pet Chappie for a while. He wagged his tail vigorously but didn’t ask for snacks, because he could sense Chance’s hand was hovering by his ear.

“You’ve been to see that redheaded girl again, haven’t you?” asked Chappie. “I can smell her on you. And you always sound so much more eloquent after you’ve been hanging around her. I keep hoping some of her courtesy and refinement will rub off on you. Have you had her yet?”

“Chappie!”

“Well, why not? You both want to—I can smell it. In fact, you are practically leaving a trail of musk behind you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“God, I’m glad I’m not a human,” said the dog. “When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need to take a dump, I do. And when I’m feeling randy—”

“I know what you do then,” interrupted Chance. “And I really wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want to discuss this any further. Tiffany will be joining us later, as part of our investigations into the Inverted Cathedral, and I don’t want you discussing things then, either. Is that clear?”

The dog sniggered all the way to the main courtyard.

It was packed, as always; a great milling crowd that stretched from wall to wall. They were mostly peasants, come from all across the Land to worship at the Shaman’s feet, and listen wide-eyed to his teachings on the perfidy of monarchs, or more importantly, the radical concept of peasants’ rights. They’d erected simple tents and lean-tos all over the place, each with its own cooking fire, and its own plume of noxious black smoke. Since they’d been forbidden to cut firewood, they were burning manure. There were designated latrines everywhere, so there was never any shortage. The King had never tried sending the peasants away, because he knew they wouldn’t go, and he didn’t want a bloodbath in his own Castle, which would have been the inevitable result of any attempt to remove them by force. So the peasants stayed, along with their families and any amount of assorted animals. There were traders and peddlers, too, and knife-grinders, clowns, and conjurers, all competing for the limited money the peasants had brought with them. And, of course, there was the Shaman.

He lived in his own simple tent, no better than any of the others, in one far corner of the courtyard. There was an area of open space around his tent, partly out of respect, but mostly because the Shaman didn’t like people getting too close to him, and wasn’t above throwing things at people if they bothered him. He was standing impatiently before his tent as Chance and Chappie slowly made their way through the heavy crowd. The massed heat and smell of so many people and animals crammed together was almost overpowering. Chance tried breathing through his mouth, but it didn’t help. The peasants glared suspiciously at the Questor. They would have liked to give the Royal lackey a hard time, but one look at the huge axe he bore and the large dog at his side was enough to give them pause, and every peasant decided quite sensibly to let some other poor fool start something.

The Shaman had been a hermit, living alone in the Forest for many years, and it showed. A scrawny figure dressed in filthy rags, he’d painted his face entirely with blue woad, overlaid with a stylized skull in white clay. He had a huge mane of bristling gray hair and an equally large gray beard, both of them knotted and tangled beyond any hope of redemption. What could be seen of his mouth was usually stretched in a mirthless grin, and his eyes were unsettlingly bright, like a man possessed of disturbing and unsuspected truths. His fingernails were long and pointed, almost claws, and utterly filthy. When he moved, his actions were swift and jerky, animallike. The animals who shared the courtyard with the peasants, whether as food or companions, were all strangely attracted to the Shaman, and often he seemed more at ease in their company than among the teeming humans.

He had magic. Everyone knew that.

The Shaman nodded briefly to Chance and Chappie as they finally came to a halt before him. Those peasants nearest enough crept forward to eavesdrop on whatever pearls of wisdom might drop from the Shaman’s chalky lips. His response was to scoop up handfuls of animal droppings from the ground and throw them at the peasants until they retreated to a respectful distance. Chance decided immediately that he wasn’t going to shake hands with the Shaman. Despite himself, he wrinkled his nose at the stench coming off the old man. Up close it really was quite appalling. Even the omnipresent flies didn’t want to get anywhere near it.

The Shaman turned back from chasing off the peasants, breathing heavily, and Chance made himself produce a polite smile. He might not like or approve of the Shaman, but as Questor it was his job to listen to all sides of an argument, and to anyone with cause to complain. He felt a pressure against his leg and hip, and found Chappie had pressed in close beside him, his tail tucked tightly between his legs. Chappie had never liked the Shaman. He found the man’s animal presence disturbing, even as he felt the attraction that called to other animals. Chappie could sense magic radiating from the man, and other things besides, and something that might have been insanity; or a mind pushed beyond the normal human boundaries and restrictions.

“Stop growling,” Chance said quietly to Chappie, even as he struggled to maintain his polite smile.

“Don’t trust him,” said the dog. “He’s hiding something.”

“Who isn’t these days? Look, just stay put and let me do the talking. And whatever happens, don’t bite him. God knows what you might catch off him.”

“Him? I wouldn’t bite him on a bet. Besides, he’s got fleas. I can see them hopping.”

“Hush. Sir Shaman! Good of you to see me. An honor, as always. Now what can I do for you?”

The Shaman’s voice was a harsh croak, and Chance had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. “Chance. King’s Questor. Champion’s son. Only the King is dead now. So whom do you answer to now, Champion’s son?”

“Technically the Queen, as Regent. And King Stephen, when he comes of age. Until then I follow my honor and good sense. My business is justice. That hasn’t changed at all.”

The Shaman sniffed. “Heard about the newcomers. Hawk and Fisher. Come to find Harald’s murderer. Are they the real thing?”

Chance frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Can they find the killer? Whom will they support in Castle politics? Whom do they answer to?”

“They’re strictly neutral, as am I,” Chance said carefully. “They have a lot of experience in seeing through lies and identifying killers. They are true and honorable people. And I admire them more than I can say. They’re possibly the only real heroes I’ve ever met. Even if their methods are sometimes … regrettable. Do you want me to arrange for them to meet with you?”

The Shaman scratched at his ribs and looked away. “I’ll find them when I want them. Don’t believe in heroes. Never have.” He looked at the nearest peasants, going about their business and carefully giving the appearance of ignoring him. “See them. All of them. They’d make me a hero, if I let them. They keep coming to me for help or advice or comfort. They worship me, though I’ve told them not to. Only way I can keep them at arm’s length is by yelling at them, and throwing things. Hit them, too, sometimes. But they just keep coming back. All I ever wanted was to teach them to stand on their own two feet, and think for themselves, to not depend or lean on anyone, even me. But it takes time to undo centuries of deference and obedience, and I often wonder if I’ll live long enough to see them reach a point where they don’t need me anymore.”

He sighed and looked back at Chance. “I was happy as a hermit. Living alone, no responsibilities to anyone but myself. Just a man at peace with the Forest and himself. I was a soldier in the Demon War, and I never wanted to have to fight again. I needed the peace and quiet of the woods, far from civilization. And slowly, over the years, I found peace and heart’s ease. But then the peasants found me out and came to me. First for the small magics I had, to help and heal. Then for advice, because everyone knows all hermits are wise men. I couldn’t make them understand I only wanted to be left alone. And then I saw these people, good people, suffering and starving and dying, because of King Harald’s new taxes and high prices, and I had to come here and speak for them, because there was no one else.”

Chance listened intently. This was the most the Shaman had ever said to him at one time, and the first time he’d ever volunteered any information about himself and his past. So the Shaman had been a soldier once, during the long night. Probably saw friends and family die. That could explain a lot. Chance was sure the Shaman was trying to tell him something, that he was building up to confessing something important. Chance tried hard to look as receptive as possible. He was the Questor, and it was his proud belief that anyone could talk to him about anything; that anyone could come to him for justice or relief. Then there was a sudden commotion to one side, and both Chance and the Shaman looked around sharply, and the moment was lost.

The Creature had emerged from the Shaman’s tent, and Chappie had surged forward to back him up against the nearest wall. The two of them were snarling at each other and showing their teeth, but it was clear the much larger Creature was scared of the dog. The Creature had come out of the deep woods to accompany the Shaman. He had a wide, low-browed head squatting directly on broad, hairy shoulders, and his overlong arms fell down past his knees. His stooping body was basically human in shape, and covered in thick, dark, oily hair under a simple shift so filthy, it was impossible to guess what its original color might have been. He had a man’s height even in his perpetual stoop, and great cords of muscle bulged on his misshapen frame. The Creature had a slow and crafty mind, and was quick to anger, and sometimes an almost human intelligence showed in his glaring bloodred eyes.

Like the Shaman, he ate, pissed, and crapped where he felt like, and people made allowances for him because he was with the Shaman. Chance was never quite sure whether the Creature was the Shaman’s bodyguard, his pet, or even his companion, but he knew a demon when he saw one. Anywhere else such a thing would have been killed on sight, or at least driven back into the Darkwood, but in this as in so many things, the Shaman made his own rules. Presumably his mysterious magic enabled the Creature to survive the direct daylight. Chance would have liked to kill the Creature on general principles, but as long as the Shaman kept him under control, it wasn’t worth making an enemy of the Shaman.

Everyone but the Shaman hated the Creature. And the Creature hated everyone but the Shaman.

Chance grabbed Chappie by his ear and pulled, but the dog wouldn’t budge. All his hackles were up and he was growling steadily, like an angry roll of thunder. The Shaman kicked viciously at the dog’s ribs, but Chappie dodged easily, pulling his ear out of Chance’s grasp. The Creature scratched weakly at the air with his claws and howled mournfully. The Shaman raised his hand and magic sputtered on the air. Chance immediately moved forward to stand between the dog and the Shaman, his axe in his hands.

“Stop that right now, Shaman, or I swear I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

There was an angry sound from the watching crowd, and the peasants surged forward to protect their leader. The Shaman lowered his hand, and the magics faded away. He turned and glared at the peasants, and they immediately went about their business. Chance glared at Chappie.