The Jaguar Knights

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Authors: Dave Duncan
have time to discuss it before he left for Quondam.”
    “No metal? Black stone, sharp as razors.”
    “Allow me.” Hogwood took the weapon, giving Wolf in return the thick wad of eyewitness accounts, which she had already read. “This stone is volcanic glass, called obsidian. It fractures to extremely sharp edges. You will note that the design represents an animal’s paw, probably a cat’s—four operational claws and a smaller one set back so it is not engaged.”
    “Dogs have feet like that.” Wolf hated being lectured.
    “But dogs do not fight with their feet. And there are no dogs shown.” She was peering at the carvings. “Cats and birds—raptors, probably accipiters, and possibly buteos.” Know-it-all smartyskirts!
    Intrepid was amused. “Send it to the Privy Council and let the royal falconers worry about it. I have put you in the Queen’s Tower, Dolores, since Baron Dupend has the Royal Suite. You will find a hot tub ready for you there. You, brother, will have the honor of sleeping in Grand Master’s bed.”
    “No!” Wolf said. “I am not worthy.”
    “We have nowhere else to put you.”
    “I’ll bed down in his study.”
    “I wish you a comfortable night there.”
    Wolf understood the sneer a little later, when he reached the study and found it in chaos: floorboards missing, half a fireplace, stacks of building materials everywhere. Ironhall had been already crowded. With Vicious anxious to replace all the old Ambrose and Malinda men, enrollment had been raised to record numbers and more knights had been brought in to instruct. The Quondam wounded had filled the infirmary.
    Wolf picked his way across to the tower door and went up to Grand Master’s chamber. Unlike other knights who moldered away in Ironhall, Durendal was a wealthy man, and he had already refurbished the turret with opulent rugs and elegant furniture, very unlike the school’s usualrelics. A hearty fire was driving off the chill and illuminating down-filled quilts and silken sheets, shelves of leather-bound books, golden candlesticks, a carved alabaster inkstand on the escritoire. Three oil paintings—a strikingly beautiful young woman, a boy, and a girl—were clearly from some master’s brush. Wolf felt like a trespasser.
    When he had made himself presentable, he headed down to the inevitable pre-dinner assembly, aware that he would be made to feel like a trespasser there, too. Except for Grand Master and a few others, the knights spurned Wolf the Blade-killer.
    Eight or ten knights were already present, as were Inquisitor Hogwood and Master of Rituals Intrepid, who was obviously enjoying the sensation she caused. A few fogeys sulked in the background, shocked to see a Dark Chamber snoop allowed inside Ironhall, but the rest had crowded in to enjoy rare female company. Some would not have seen a woman in years. She wore inquisitorial robes of plain black, without adornments, her sable hair was gathered in a caul, yet adulation converted her into a reigning monarch and her perfectly ordinary chair into a throne. No one could have told from her looks that she had ridden almost thirty hours over winter roads.
    Wolf entered unnoticed and accepted his usual goblet of well-watered wine from old Hurley. Sir Bowman, the new Master of Sabers, made him welcome with his usual wry humor and they stood back to watch as each newcomer reacted to the situation by drifting into one party or the other. The pro-Hogwood faction was ahead by about twelve to seven when a voice like a very rusty trumpet screeched out at their backs.
    “Even inquisitors are better than murderers.”
    “Even female inquisitors are!” croaked another.
    The room stilled. Wolf glanced across at Intrepid, who just shrugged. He turned to face the withered remains of Sir Etienne and Sir Kane, Ironhall’s oldest inhabitants. Kane had been bound by Ambrose III and bore the unwelcome title of Father of the Order, being over ninety. Etienne could not be far behind, and

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