The youngsters who had actually partic.i.p.ated in successful creasia killings went through the group, organizing them into small packs, a.s.signing roles, and giving critiques. Kelsy and his mates were always about, and Storm had to admit that they were good teachers. Some of their students had become proficient. Storm suspected that if they survived their first few encounters with creasia, they would become quite deadly. If...

Valla was Sauny's lieutenant and constant shadow. Storm saw her quietly remind Sauny of various ferryshafts' names on more than one occasion. When Sauny was in the midst of animated discussion, Valla made certain that no one threatened her. This was necessary, as Sauny would go into parts of the herd where she was not welcome and talk loudly to anyone who would listen. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but it also angered some of the more conservative and powerful members of the herd.

"She got hurt earlier this summer," Valla told Storm one day. "She told one of the high-ranking males that you weren't dead, and he knocked her down and told her that the cats should have killed her, too. Her clique came running, but I got there first. He didn't say it twice."

Valla had never been exactly shy, only quiet. Now her silence had a grim confidence behind it. In addition, she was distractingly lovely. Her blond fur had darkened just a little-cream with a touch of red-still longer than average and glossy when the sun hit her. She had a wonderful scent, and the males all raised their heads when she pa.s.sed. Storm didn't think any of them would try to make her a ru, though-not after they saw her practice with Faralee, Itsa, and Remy. Sauny told him that Valla had delivered the killing bite to the second of the three cats who'd died. Storm believed it.

In spite of their fierce purpose, there was an air of frivolity to the evening practice sessions, with a great deal of joking and dark, playful humor. Storm often caught sight of ferryshaft he hadn't expected to see, including Pathar, watching from a distance one evening. Storm tried to speak to him, but he vanished before Storm could make his way through the crowd.

So-fet even shocked him by turning up at one of the sessions. After effusive greetings, he ventured, "Where is Dover?"

So-fet tossed her head. "Dover will not be my mate this fall. He no longer suits me."

Storm felt a strange mixture of satisfaction, guilt, and pride. "Did you have someone else in mind?" Someone who doesn't treat you like a ru and me like a disease?

So-fet smiled, as though she could read his thoughts. "I have two incredible foals," she said. "I do not think Lidian is ready for another just now." Storm washed her face, as she had done so many times when he was little. They were the same height now. "If you'd like to learn to tear the throats out of creasia, I believe Remy is offering tips over there," he said.

Sometimes, at night, Storm would hear curbs yipping out across the plain. He even thought he recognized Eyal's voice on several occasions. He hoped the highland curbs were alright. I know you were only repaying a debt. Still, I like to think we were friends.

And some nights, very late, Tollee would come to him. Storm never asked her whether Mylo knew or cared. She would curl up against him, and he would tell her about his day and his thoughts and even his fears that he dared voice to no one else. She would listen. Very rarely, she would offer advice. Storm wished she would tell him about her life in his absence. She seemed vaguely sad, though she never offered an explanation.

Then, one day, it all ended.

Chapter 18. Waiting to Blink.

The leaves had just begun to turn to orange and gold, when a young ferryshaft woke Storm and his friends with the breathless words, "They're here."

Sauny was on her feet in an instant, bristling with excitement. "Where?"

"Last night," panted the youngster, who'd obviously run from a distant part of the herd. "In the woods near the marshy part of the lake-a creasia attacked and killed a spring foal. The cat carried off the body. The mother looked for it in the morning, but found nothing but blood and fur."

"They're eating us now," muttered Valla in disgust, "as though we were deer or sheep!"

"Who was the mother?" asked Kelsy.

Sauny shot him an annoyed look.

Storm had noticed a degree of tension between Kelsy and Sauny since he arrived. He wasn't sure that anyone knew who was the true leader of their group. However, they had so far avoided open confrontations. Kelsy was consistently more interested in the social status of their allies, while Sauny refused to admit that it mattered. Storm knew that Kelsy was hoping that the dead foal had high-ranking parents. It might galvanize the older members of the herd, who were trying to separate themselves from the youngsters.

"Low-ranking," said the foal who'd brought the news. "That's why she was sleeping apart. Her mate was killed last winter, and he was nothing special. The foal was sickly. The mother's friends thought she should not have nursed it to begin with. This morning, she was in distress and talking about the death to anyone who would listen."

That could have been me and Mother three years ago, thought Storm.

Sauny frowned. "She's not one of ours?" By this, she meant that the female had not been coming to their training sessions.

The messenger flicked his ears. "No. I tried to get her to come with me, but her friends had rallied by then to give her some comfort. She'll be welcomed back into their clique now that she's without a sickly foal. I don't think she wants to jeopardize what little status she has by coming over here."

Sauny was already headed towards the lake. "Let's get tracking."

Tracking was a more familiar skill than fighting, since most ferryshaft had to track game in winter. Better yet, Sauny had a.s.sured Storm that the creasia coming to raid were careless and made no attempt to disguise their trail.

She was correct. They tracked the cat easily through the marshy delta where several small streams emptied into Chelby Lake. They didn't even need to use their noses, but followed the enormous prints in the mud. Soon, the creasia was joined by another. "This one killed as well," muttered Sauny. "I smell the blood in the footprints. I wonder who it got? A lone adult, perhaps? Or an orphan who hasn't been missed?"

"If we're lucky, it was one of the elders," muttered Kelsy.

Sauny snorted. "If so, we'll never hear about it. They'll pretend it didn't happen."

Storm was looking ahead. "Quiet," he murmured. "Up there-that's where I'd sleep if I were a creasia far from home."

They all followed his gaze to a thicket on the edge of the marshy ground. It was just far enough into the trees to be dry beneath. Faralee and Itsa came forward at once, running low like foxes. They were absolutely silent, in spite of the sucking mud, stepping daintily around the wettest patches. They circled the thicket and returned to the group. "Storm is right," whispered Itsa. "They're in there. You can't see them. The thorns are too dense, but there's a bit of fur on the brambles and no fresh tracks leading out."

Kelsy and Sauny were both quiet for a moment. Then they both tried to talk at once.

Storm spoke up instead. "Ambush?" I ought to know how this works. Usually I'm the one in the thicket.

"Yes," hissed Sauny before Kelsy could open his mouth again. "We can't attack them in the thicket. We need room to work a creasia in order to kill it."

"And we need as many ferryshaft as possible to see this," cut in Kelsy. "Most of them haven't actually seen us kill a creasia. Let's circulate the word about what will happen this evening. When those cats emerge, we'll fall on them with a hundred ferryshaft or more. The creasia will be dead before they get the sleep out of their eyes, with the whole herd watching."

Sauny quirked a smile. "Why kill them quickly, Kelsy? Like I keep saying: we need practice."

Roup drifted in and out of uneasy sleep in the warm afternoon. Two of his cats had complained privately to him the evening before that they were hungry and homesick. Roup told them that they had come to do a job and would leave when it was finished. However, he was privately inclined to agree. Being away from home territory was beginning to wear on him.

How long can Arcove keep us out here? Arcove had always been a hunter of infinite patience, and he'd shown no signs of being ready to give up. During the war, we would have thought nothing of this, Roup reminded himself. Perhaps we've all become a little too accustomed to regular meals and a solid day's sleep. That, or never unaccustomed. The sour looks on the faces of the younger cats said plainly that they wished they had not been chosen for this mission.

It had all started well enough. They had crossed the Igby on the second night and made their way to the mouth of the river by the fourth. Arcove had been methodical in his examination of the bank-looking for evidence of recent creasia pa.s.sage. On two occasions, they'd found tracks and scent, but Sharmel had identified one as a cat from his own clutter who'd recently lost a mate and would be visiting the Ghost Wood. Ariand had identified the other as a similar case. They were well west of the ferryshaft herd, and Arcove had accepted these explanations.

On the banks of the Igby, beside Chelby Lake, Arcove set sentries and lingered. Roup knew that Halvery had identified this area as the spot where Treace's cats usually left his territory to travel to the Ghost Wood, using the scattered sandbars of the delta for an easier river-crossing. Arcove made no mention of the fact, but Treace and Moro could not miss it. Arcove sent scouts north through Chelby Wood to locate the ferryshaft herd, which was not far away. However, he did not send cats near it again. Roup lost count of the days as they patrolled...and waited.

If Arcove felt as uncomfortable as the others, he hid it well. He slept every day beside Roup, as soundly as he'd used to when they were cubs before the war. During the night, he circulated through the various clutters, hunting with them and listening to them. You've pulled them all out of their territories and given them practically nothing to do, thought Roup. You're making them uncomfortable on purpose...waiting for someone to make a mistake. You think it's Treace, but you're not sure.

Roup had to admit that Treace was nearly as good at hiding his discomfort as Arcove. He has to be on edge. But he didn't show it. Arcove had a.s.signed a rotation of cats from Roup and Halvery's clutters to watch Treace's clutter at all times. They were to report any unexplained departures. They were circ.u.mspect, but Roup had no doubt that Treace realized he was being watched.

Moro was clearly angry that he'd been made to come on the trip. Arcove had requested his presence specifically and had spoken sharply to him on the first day. It was a plain invitation to challenge or attack if that's what Moro wanted, but Moro had flattened his ears, tucked his tail, and turned his head-all perfectly correct submission, though delivered with bad grace.

Roup suspected that Arcove had spoken-and perhaps more than spoken-to Moro in private on the third day, because he suddenly became extremely deferential to Roup. His sullen glares were replaced with downcast eyes. Roup wasn't sure it was an improvement. At least, when Moro was glaring at him, he had a better idea of what Moro was thinking.

Roup figured that if Treace had direct control over these raids, he was racking his brain for a way to get a message to his cats, ordering them to cease their unlawful activities. Arcove's summons had included no details on the nature of their mission until the officers and their clutters arrived, after which the group had left immediately. If Treace was particularly prescient, he might have guessed the nature of the mission and given orders to stop terrorizing the ferryshaft even before responding to Arcove's command. If that was the case, then their mission would be fruitless, and Arcove would be made to look ridiculous.

However, Roup suspected that Treace did not have direct control-that he'd allowed a situation to develop by indirectly encouraging the behavior and then turning a blind eye. In that case, he probably did not even know whether any of his cats were hara.s.sing the ferryshaft herd at the moment.

Roup had no doubt that he would plead ignorance. The only way to demonstrate otherwise would be to catch the offending cats alive and get an explanation from them. In that case, he's as likely to kill them as to warn them.

As days pa.s.sed and no danger or problems presented themselves, the officers and their clutters grew restless. Small birds and fish were plentiful along the edge of the lake, but difficult to catch. Less tasty small prey, like frogs and salamanders, were also in abundance, though one had to hunt all night to fill one's belly with them. Turtles could be caught, but they took half an evening to chew and presented little meat for the effort. Cats who were not on patrol spent most of the night looking for food, and they still often went to sleep hungry. Roup thought that he detected a smug expression on Treace's face when they met in council. You know we're not finding what we're looking for, and you couldn't be happier about that.

Roup took advantage of the long, quiet nights to reacquaint himself with Ariand. They'd gotten along well during the war, and Ariand's territory bordered on Roup's. They'd never been close, but they'd certainly never quarreled. Roup suspected that something had happened with Treace to make Ariand afraid. After several nights hunting together, Roup finally managed to pry the story out of him.

"You remember Dustet?" asked Ariand, when he was sure that they were completely alone amid the tall river gra.s.s of the delta.

"Of course," said Roup. Dustet had been Ariand's beta during the war. They were the same age and had been cubs together. They shared a den. Several years ago, Dustet had lost a fight to another cat, whose name Roup could not recall. He was no longer Ariand's beta, but he was still a ranking member of Ariand's clutter.

Roup frowned. "Where is he?" Arcove had asked for all of his officers' betas. He'd not specified other members of the clutter, but it suddenly seemed strange to Roup that Dustet hadn't come.

Ariand licked his lips. "What about Sandry? Do you remember her?"

This time, Roup had to think longer. "One of your mates?" he ventured.

"The first. Our...first mate. She didn't stay alpha for long, but..."

But you loved her. Roup was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What happened?"

Ariand swallowed. His eyes darted around nervously. "Sandry's sister lives in a den in Treace's territory. They visited each other from time to time. One day, Sandry didn't come back. I sent inquiries and learned that she'd gotten into a fight with Moro, and he...he killed her."

Roup made a face. "Why?" Fights between males and females were rare in Leeshwood. Fatal fights between the s.e.xes were almost unheard of.

Ariand swallowed. Roup could see that the death still pained him. "I still don't know. Treace and I had been getting along well-better than I'd expected after he beat me. I really thought we were becoming friends. I demanded an explanation, but he only said that she had challenged his beta. I could not imagine Sandry doing such a thing! I think she saw something, Roup. I have no idea what, but I think she saw something she wasn't meant to see, and they killed her for it.

"I was furious. I intended to publicly challenge Moro, but before I got the chance, Parod challenged Dustet."

This time, Roup drew a complete blank. "Parod?"

"Yes," said Ariand as though he had to force the words from his throat. "Parod is an eight-year-old who joined a clutter in my territory two years ago."

"He came originally from Treace's clutter?" guessed Roup.

"Yes," said Ariand. "Dustet was my third-in-command, and Parod challenged him, beat him...and killed him."

Roup had antic.i.p.ated this part of the story, but he still flinched. In a fight over dominance, the survival of the loser was entirely at the discretion of the winner. No den or clutter would punish a victor who fought fairly and chose to kill his opponent. It was his right. Still, it wasn't common-not anymore. The only reason to kill an opponent was the expectation of trouble from him in the future. Often a victor found it more troublesome to deal with the resentment of his rival's surviving friends than to simply let him live.

"You think it was a warning?" asked Roup. "To make you drop the issue about Sandry?"

Ariand snorted. "Oh, I know it was a warning. And I...I guess it worked."

"And now you're afraid of your own third-ranking officer," muttered Roup.

Ariand flicked his tail. "He's my beta now. He fought and beat Nissir, although he didn't kill him. It was all very technically correct."

Roup growled. "You do not have to take this, Ariand."

Ariand rounded on him with a resentful expression. "No? Well, explain how I can avoid it, Roup. Treace outranks me. His cats outnumber mine. They join my dens and clutters, and I think they spy for him. It's easy for you to stand up to Treace with Arcove at your back; I'm not that lucky."

He stalked away, stiff-legged. It was rude behavior from a subordinate, but Roup couldn't bring himself to hold anything against Ariand. He's still grieving over close friends.

He told Arcove about the incident when they lay down to sleep that morning. "Sharmel is worried, too," said Arcove.

"Why? Has Treace been killing his friends and mates?"

"No, but he thinks that Treace will challenge him soon and probably kill him if he wins."

"He didn't kill Ariand."

"Ariand is younger."

And more likely to be seen as useful. "Point taken."

Roup did not say, How difficult do you think it would be to turn a frightened cat? He knew it was an unworthy thought. Sharmel had been nothing but loyal since the day Arcove invited him to remain on his council. Still... If the officers start to suspect that Arcove can't handle Treace...will that loyalty hold?

Roup thought of these things as he drifted in and out of uneasy dreams. We're all watching each other. Waiting to see who blinks first.

"Arcove! Roup!" The words came in an urgent whisper. Roup's head jerked up, and Arcove went instantly tense beside him.

One of Sharmel's subordinates was leaning over the top of the riverbank, an excited expression on his face. "Two cats!" he whispered. "Crossing the river delta just now, going north."

Arcove was up and over the riverbank in an instant, Roup close behind him. They followed the sentry at a swift trot through the trees beside the Igby, towards the broad mouth of the river. It was late afternoon. Roup felt a surge of excitement. What creasia would choose to travel at such a time of day...unless they were hoping to avoid other cats?

They found the tracks easily enough-evidence of the recent pa.s.sage of two young males. Roup knew as soon as he caught the scent that they were Treace's cats. However, identifying broad territory by the scent of tracks alone was tricky and easily mistaken. It was not the full proof they needed.

"You are relieved," Arcove told the sentry. "Don't wake everyone else or speak about this until I do."

"Well, your patience has been rewarded," Roup observed when the sentry had gone.

Arcove didn't say anything. He followed the tracks far enough to confirm that they were going towards the ferryshaft herd. Then he sat down in the sun and considered. "If we intercept them before they do anything, this will all be a wasted effort."

"Agreed," said Roup. "They'll say they were just going to the Ghost Wood." He thought for a moment. "So give them a night to get their claws b.l.o.o.d.y, then go after them tomorrow evening. And don't tell Treace."

Arcove inclined his head. "My thoughts exactly. Tomorrow evening, we'll hunt them down and get our answers."

Chapter 19. Blood and Water.