Free The Jaguar Knights by Dave Duncan Page A

child.”
    “Athelgar’s, not Dupend’s!” Lynx shouted. “Everyone knew that.”
    “It died within a few days?”
    “Everyone celebrated! The Baron celebrated. Celeste was the only one who mourned.”
    “Did you not mourn it?”
    That was an unfair question, but Lynx answered before Wolf could object.
    “No. No, we celebrated, too, thinking she might be released then, that the King might let her go and live somewhere better.” He stared down at his thick, scarred arms on the cover. “Even her Blades!”
    “If the death of her child did not make her suicidal, then why this sudden concern for her sanity now?”
    “How much cruelty can a woman take? Four years in jail? Four years of that awful climate? Four years of that awful husband? No ladies-in-waiting for company, no lady’s maids to dress her hair? All her gowns—remember, Wolf, she had three wagons with her when she left Grandon? All that stuff disappeared. She wore her jewels all day long and probably in bed, too, for all I knew. Everything else got pilfered—clothes, silverware, even furniture. All gone.”
    “What did the Baron do about that?”
    “He was behind it. He stole whatever he could and sold it. It was part of the deal, I think.”
    “What deal?”
    Lynx sighed. “We thought Athelgar threw in her jewels when he gave her to Dupend. Dupend seemed to think he had a right to them.”
    That was reasonable, because if Athelgar felt an unwanted mistress was his to dispose of as he pleased, he would not scruple to deal off the finery he had given her.
    The snoop said, “So what were you Blades planning?”
    “We talked,” Lynx said grumpily, “ just talked, about one of us riding into Lomouth to pawn a bracelet or something and hire a ship. Then the other two would bring her. We hadn’t gotten very far.”
    And never would have, if the Baron had sent his men after them. But he might just have shouted, “Good riddance!” Wolf made a mental note to ask Hogwood about dower rights.
    “So,” she said, “her Blades were plotting rescue but had not taken action?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And you know of no other plots?”
    “None.”
    “Could the Baron have faked this attack himself?”
    Lynx snorted. “Never.”
    This had gone far enough. “Can’t my brother be allowed to rest now? It would seem that he has cleared himself of any complicity in this affair.”
    “Not necessarily.” Hogwood continued to stare snakily at her victim. “Sir Lynx, have you deceived me or tried to deceive me in any way, by omission or equivocation, misdirection or evasion?”
    That catchall invitation to self-incrimination was a hoary inquisitorial trick, repeatedly denounced by the courts and repeatedly resurrected. Fortunately Lynx was aware of it. “I refuse to answer that.”
    Intrepid walked in, ending the interrogation. If Wolf was not satisfied with Lynx’s story, he could not expect Hogwood to be.
9
    T he statements you wanted, Dolores,” Master of Rituals proclaimed breezily, handing her a sheaf of paper. “Also some evidence for your, um, weapons expert. Sir Alden brought this along when he ferried over the wounded.”
    Intrepid enjoyed annoying people, especially people with any trace of authority. He handed Wolf a club as long as a man’s arm, carved from some dark wood. It was not too heavy to swing with one hand, although the leather-bound grip had space for two. The shaft was an intricate tangle of fanciful birds, beasts, and vegetation, flaring out like a paddle at the working end, which was inset with teeth of black stone. Three of the original four had broken off, no doubt when that part acquired its ominous bloodstains.
    “It impresses me more as a work of art than a weapon,” Wolf said,“but it could obviously damage people.” He tried it for size against the wounds on Lynx’s scalp. “I’ve never seen its like. Have you any idea where it came from?”
    “No,” Intrepid said, “but Grand Master thought he did. We did not