The Clockwork Wolf by Lynn Viehl Page A

quickly to the bed and took hold of his head. “I’m so sorry, mate. I never should have brought that wretched animech down to you.”
    He tried to look round me. “Did you close the door?” When I nodded, both of his eyes opened and he sat straight up. “Good on you. Bloody nurses have eyes like hawks.”
    I let go of his hand. “You’re not dying.”
    â€œCourse I’m not.” He wriggled, reaching back to adjust his pillows before he reclined again, tucking his hands behind his head. “Felt good as new, soon as I woke up. Haven’t slept so comfortable in years. Pity that mech stunk so bad, or I’d jar it and sell it as a slumber potion.”
    I peered down at him. “If you’re not dying, why are you here?”
    â€œCan’t go back, building’s been shut up.” He regarded me. “I don’t have a nice house like you, Kit. I live in the Dungeon.”
    Now I understood. “You’re faking it so you can sleep here.”
    He beamed. “Not just sleep, my gel. They feed me three meals a day, change me sheets every morning—do you know, they even bathe me, with sponges. Right here in the bed, like an infant.” He sighed with contentment. “If this is what heaven is like, I’ll have to leave off sinning.”
    I sank down on the chair beside the bed. “I flew across town because I thought you were done for, Doc.” I glared at him. “Or should I be calling you Sir Reginald?”
    â€œThem bloody do-gooders.” He tried to look indignant. “Pulled me papers out of me wallet. I told them it don’t mean nothing here.”
    â€œIt means you’re either gentry or knighted,” I countered. “So which is it?”
    â€œKnighted,” he mumbled. “Fat lot of good it’s done me. Herself taps me shoulder with a sword one minute, and the next I’m tossed on a boat to Toriana.”
    â€œYou were knighted and deported on the same day.” Some of my temper eased. “Only you, Doc.”
    â€œExplosion only wrecked a little bit of Buckingham, and I did save Herself, didn’t I?” He waved a hand. “Sod them all, ungrateful bastards. Now what about you? Did you find out who sent the rat?”
    â€œNot yet. While the building was shut up someone nicked everything we had, even the smell.” I related what had occurred when I’d visited the Dungeon with Doyle. “The only thing left was a stain on the floorboards where the tea spilled, and they tried to cover that up with a concealment spell.”
    â€œThe stench came from that bit of flesh inside the rat. Stag. I’m sure of it.” His expression darkened. “Afteryou left that day I checked a few of me books. Can’t be certain, but I think it was native magic.”
    Doc’s suggestion set every wheel in my head to spin with a fury. I should have guessed a tribal mage was involved; the smelly gland from the stag or whatever animal they’d killed was an unmistakable giveaway. Natives used blood ritual and animal sacrifice to work their magic, which I found disgusting. For that and other reasons I’d always steered clear of the local shamans, and now I felt perplexed. “Why would a native want me dead?”
    â€œProbably don’t. Could have been part of the ploy,” Docket suggested. “Everyone knows Torian mages won’t dirty their hands with animal magic. So you use a native spell to work your mischief, and afterward everyone blames them.”
    â€œNo one knows native magic but the shamans,” I pointed out, “and they guard their spells and rituals like the Crown jewels.”
    He nodded. “Could be why they came back to clean up. They got that stag gland, but they didn’t nick the mech. Just before I blacked out I put the rat in my pocket.” He nodded toward the trunk sitting at the foot of the bed. “Should still be in me