The House of Wolves (Interlude)

The air west of the free cities was tight, electric. On every mind, yet on not a single tongue, was the word all wolves were born to crave, and taught to fear.

War.

Through the ancient halls of castle Uvinholme, Lord Wolshaw Rothe moved without urgency. His bootsteps were even, his countenance steady as stone, his heart was at model pace. He felt the air, he heard the unspoken words. He knew the craving, he shunned the fear.

War threatened to march on the horizon. Lord Rothe walked.

At the castle’s heart was the gallery, wide and vaulted, supported by rows of onyx columns upon which hung the banner of the Wolf. The house’s colors of ash and blood were in their fabrics, in the guiding rug, in the very stonework of gray brick and crimson mortar. They were in Rothe’s own clothes, from his deep gray suit and red tie, to the smokey color of his furred cloak, with its scarlet inner face. It stained even his own features. His gray beard. His sanguine eyes.

The room was long enough to nestle forty hearth fires in its walls, twenty on either side. In times of celebration, it could seat a thousand comfortably. In times of strife, it could harbor many more.

All along the wall were dozens of paintings, some small and clustered together, others nearly as tall as the ceiling. Towards the far end was one still in progress, its massive frame propped up beside it. Strewn about the floor were countless brushes, messy palettes, buckets of so many colors that some of their labels had three or four adjectives to describe them. Enough supplies for a small army of artists, but Rothe had only hired one.

The painting itself was half-done after weeks of labor. The background, mostly finished, depicted a great field, its grasses leveled by storm and fire. Gray clouds roiled above, painted with such skill that, as Rothe passed it by, its gradient streaks seemed to flow along with him.

At the foreground were two figures. One was still only a jumble of sketches in pencil, vaguely feminine, without even a face. The only color was in her hair, long and made from thin streaks of red and orange and yellow, like a flame in the wind.

The other was a man completed in profound glory. He stood resplendent in armor of pelt and steel, with one foot upon a stone, which Rothe himself had visited as a youth, and stood upon under the scrutinous eyes of his father. The man’s wild gray hair was as living as the clouds, and with his arms stretched out above him, he looked as though he meant to drag the very sky down onto his scribbled enemy.

Rothe held his appraisal. He never judged a thing before it was done.

At the end of the gallery, great double doors led into a branching hall. Torch lamps lit the way, anachronistic, but effective and reliable. Fire was much less fickle than electricity, at least to a magi. He followed them down until he came to a black-oaken door. Beside its handle was a keypad, near the upper-side of the threshold, an optical scanner. Other anachronisms, like simple locks, weren’t always sufficient. He punched in his code, verified his eyes. Clicks and hisses from a series of internal mechanisms, then it opened.

The room was wide and rounded, and many times more fortified than the rest of the castle; its reinforced walls made it a bubble of steel in a sprawling rise of stone. Monitors hung in seamless clusters of four and six, several more scattered around above consoles that, normally, were manned ‘round the clock.

Instead, only four people were present. They stood before the screens, watching. Rothe spared a glance up as well.

Every news channel in the Confederacy was aflame with the same report: “Multiple dead in train hijacking by magi. Suspected ties to Hounding.”

It was the matter he’d come to discuss, but it was not the first on his mind anymore. He approached a round table at the center of the room, which had no seats.

“Where are the others?”

The watchers turned to him sharply, their faces a bouquet of emotions. Surprise, fear, eagerness, anger. A stout, graying man who mainly bore the latter, stormed over to the table. He wore fine-wear, but his jacket had been tossed onto one of the consoles, and his dress shirt was a hair too small for his bulk.

“What the hell is this, Rothe?” he demanded.

Rothe decided to generously disregard his tone. “Where are the others?” he repeated.

“They’ve gone to their dens,” said a woman with curled, earthen hair, joining them. “Likely to prepare for war.”

A man in monastic robes, who looked as frail and pallid as a dead twig in winter, shuffled over as well. “Which, I’d add, is likely what we all should be doing as well.”

“Their fear makes them look guilty,” Rothe said. “And makes the House look weak.”

“This makes us look guilty,” the gray man said, jabbing a finger at the muted screens. “Godshit, Wolshaw, we just slaughtered a train full of Foxtail nobility.”

“We did nothing," said the last of them, a woman in dark regalia, with a furred cloak not dissimilar to Rothe’s. She looked younger than the rest, though not by much. “This was an act of rebellion by a few disgruntled magi. Nothing more.”

The others regarded her coldly. Rothe cocked a brow. Everyone else was familiar to him; the irritable man was Hanz Daum, premier ferromancer, and lord of Den Alder; the other woman was Bruna Gisel-Wynn, a geomancer of renown from Den Barrow; the thin man, despite his sheepish demeanor, was far and away the deadliest aeromancer in Gen, a former nomad called Seir.

All of them held positions of great authority, and as was the way in Hounding, none would openly bend their knee to him. But Rothe was lord of Uvinholme, and even the timid foxes of the Confederacy knew that meant the wolves were his.

This woman was entirely unfamiliar, and more importantly, uninvited.

But it appeared she was the only one in the room on his side.

“She’s right,” he said, before the others could tear her apart with their words rather than their eyes. “Falbrite’s death implicates us—as was the intent. The death of the other aristocrats aboard would constitute an act of war, if the motivations weren’t muddied by the excess. As of now there is no concrete link between this attack, and Hounding. The House can claim innocence." 

Daum sneered incredulously. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I just debriefed our assassin,” Rothe said, taking a silent pleasure in the man’s disbelief. He held just long enough for the lot of them to sweat whether or not to ask him to go on, before he did. “Foste is alive. The gunner was killed onboard, and the aeromancer was too injured to continue.” A pointed glance to Seir, who seemed to understand his meaning. On a mission like this there was no room for liability, even from loyal magi. “The other murders were not intended, but he assures me that they were necessary.”

“For what reason?” asked Bruna.

“He was made by one of the passengers.”

“Hell to that,” Daum said. “Who the fuck in Foxtail knows Erric Foste?”

“A child in Flytrap heard his name,” Rothe said. “Providence saw her win her way onto the train. She was in the Suite when he killed Falbrite.”

“Providence? You’re telling me we might have started a war over bad luck? Gods…well did he kill the little shit or what?”

“He did not.”

“Then what the fuck are we talking about here? He’s made! Once he’s named, the foxes will be at our doors in a matter of days!”

“Only he wasn’t named,” Rothe said, calmly, but his words had a halting effect on Daum. “If Erric Foste had been identified, those reports would not claim suspected ties to Hounding. The train made it to a militia depot, and the passengers left for New Cazzer from there. It’s been hours several hours. She didn’t name him.”

The lot of them were silent. Seir was shocked, Bruna and Daum just looked confused. The new woman, however, tapped her cheek and smirked. Amusement. Rothe gave her a permissive look. She nodded thoughtfully.

“How does a little girl evade a master ferromancer like Foste?” she asked. “By every measure, he surpassed Falbrite years ago in capability. Today I’d dare say he’s a match for lord Daum.”

“Ridiculous,” Daum spat. “I’ve ripped castles from the earth. That man is a neophyte in my shadow, whenever he’s lucky enough to stand in it.”

“Yet our House relies on him. To hear it told, the only metal you move these days are your forks, at dinner.”

Daum whirled on her, furious, and it was nearly enough to bring a grin to Rothe’s lips. Instead he huffed, and the look he gave her then was one of warning. Challenge and aid he would permit, but not insolence. She bowed her head.

“That was low of me, lord Daum. My apologies.”

“She doesn’t,” Rothe said, and all eyes returned to him, even Daum’s. “A little girl does not escape a master ferromancer. Foste says he tried to take hold of her prostheses, and each time his efforts slipped off.”

“Then his will is weaker than a child’s,” Daum scoffed, but even he sounded skeptical.

“He claims she was all prostheses.”

Now even the woman seemed confused. “No one is all prostheses.”

“Indeed,” Rothe said. “But regardless of whether or not Foste is correct, this girl survived, and has refrained from naming him. Now she is in New Cazzer, and we have no way of knowing how long that restraint will last. I am not inclined to wait for an answer.”

“Rothe, you aren’t suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting nothing. I’ve already given the order. Foste will infiltrate New Cazzer and eliminate the witness.”

The table erupted in protest. Daum was practically spitting with fury at being kept out of the decision; Bruna, for her part, tried to maintain diplomacy and settle him, but Rothe could tell she was unhappy as well; Seir’s voice was shrill and panicked, though he offered no true resistance.

Even the woman seemed pushed to the boundaries of her support. Her brow furrowed with worry, her finger tapped once again at her cheek. Eventually, however, she was grinning again.

“Enough,” Rothe said sharply. The table quieted, though Daum’s grip on the wood was deathly. “Your concerns are noted, but your council on this matter is not required. I suggest you return to your dens, and conduct yourselves as normal. Should the situation change, you will be notified.”

He let them ruminate in silence. When it became clear the objections were, if not assuaged, then at least finished, he nodded to the door.

“You are dismissed.”

“Dismissed,” Daum puffed. “The next time you plan to risk war without our input, Rothe, just send me a fucking email.”

They all filed out except for the woman, who remained right at the table. She seemed to understand explanations were in order; her grin was gone, her face impassive. The door shut, and they were alone.

For a time she said nothing, simply leaned against the table. Eventually she nodded after the others. “There’s a painting in the gallery that’s only half done," she said absently. "I always assumed the Uvinholme collection were all originals.”

“Hadran’s Folly,” Rothe said. “A recreation. The original was lost more than a century ago.”

She tapped her cheek. “Yes. Painted by a fox, if I recall. An interesting choice, making room in your hall for a piece depicting the death of our god.”

“Important history. Hadran was killed because he underestimated his enemy. He thought Carys weak, and so he expected weakness of her champion. Had he treated Murgatroyd as a worthy adversary, things might have gone differently. We view his virtue as pride, but there is a reason the rest of Gen considers him an arrogant god. He was, and that arrogance cost the magi everything. Cost the House everything.”

“An unacceptable folly.”

Rothe eyed her coldly, raised his chin. “The others know you. They do not like you. My own opinions are yet undecided. You are a stranger. You stand amidst a council of Gen’s strongest and most influential magi—and you defy them, insult them, even.”

“My only insult seems to have been agreeing with you. I’m content to let them suffer it.”

“They were not the only ones slighted,” he said. She seemed confused. “You came to my castle uninvited. Normally we hang trespassers from the boundary gates until they rot from their ropes.”

“But my lord, you did invite me.”

Rothe waited, unwilling to give an inch.

“You invited the den lords and premier magi. Among them you named the lord of Den Rol.” She bowed her head in greeting. “I am she.”

Den Rol, a major stead in Hounding, and the ancestral birthplace of pyromancy. Its history with Uvinholme was tumultuous; pryomancers often saw themselves as the apex magi, and there had been no shortage of violent feuding over respect and leadership. Until Rothe had claimed his place. He had brought the lord of Den Rol to heel, made them true assets to the House of Wolves in their loyalty to Uvinholme.

That lord was Gran Hroken, and his absence today had not been a surprise. He was old and gray. In the years since Rothe had bested him he had lost Bruna’s wisdom, and become as fat as Daum and as frail as Seir.

This woman was not Gran Hroken, nor his wife, or his sister.

She answered his silent question. “My name is Lidri Morne. I killed Gran Hroken in single combat yesterday evening. Den Rol now belongs to me.” A dangerous glint, like the spark of fire, passed through her eyes. “Which means it belongs to you.”

“In exchange for what?” he asked. The why did not concern him as much as the cost. Wolves rarely paid so much as they bartered, or battled, and nothing in Gen was free.

“I didn’t kill Gran for payment,” Lidri said. “I did it for the House.”

“You believe murdering members of my council to be in service to the House.”

“Council, family. Let’s not pretend we’re strangers to the idea of making sacrifices for the greater good,” she said, and paused expectantly, as if she thought he might strike her down for it. A wise consideration. When he did not, she continued. “Besides, I didn’t murder him, I challenged him. You did the same to your brother, your niece did the same to you. It’s wolven tradition, even if many in Hounding are too complacent to make use of it.”

“And what threat did Gran Hroken pose to the wolves?”

“The same threat as the others who didn’t show their faces today. They divide us. If war comes—and I believe it will—our House cannot be weakened. It must be unified, otherwise the foxes will tear us apart limb by limb. I don’t want to see the history of the magi ended under your rule any more than you do.”

It was strange, almost unsettling, to hear a pyromancer of Den Rol proclaim him ruler. Such deference would undoubtedly invite challenge to her own lordship. Rothe suspected that was exactly what she wanted.

“So, my lord, am I to be hanged?”

He would have done well to say yes. Instinct told him this woman was dangerous, not only to himself, but to the House.

“No,” he said at last. “But the noose is ready. You are dismissed.”