by Dave Duncan
Those had concerned certain procedures best not discussed in public.
"I've never been responsible for anyone except myself before."
"Good practice for you."
"Rent another boat above the rapids and sail on?" Benard suggested hopefully.
"No. Oliva has had quite enough of boats."
The first time Ingeld had admitted to nausea Benard had flown into a panic and talked wildly of finding a Healer. The riverfolk had leered knowingly. Now he kept his worries to himself.
"How long before Saltaja arrives?"
"I don't know," Ingeld said. "Soon, I think. And Horold close behind her."
She saw them in the campfire every night.
"I suppose you want to investigate that clue the seer gave me, whatever it was?"
"Sixty Ways. Doesn't that sound like a brothel, Pack-leader?"
"It does, my lady," Guthlag said.
"That would not have been my first choice for a refuge." Ingeld's eyes twinkled. "On the other hand, it may be an interesting experience. You remember the password, love?"
"No," Benard lied.
"You are to ask for Poppy Delight and say Mist sent you. And if it really is a brothel, you come straight back here, Benard Celebre!"
"That would attract suspicion. Maybe you should send the packleader instead."
A hint of Ingeld metal glinted through the meekness paint. "No," she said.
♦
Tryfors was ugly, petrified childhood nightmares. Walled cities were rare, relics of far-off days before Weru founded His cult of Heroes, or at least of days almost as ancient when savage hill tribes had not yet been brought to know the benefits of civilization. Tryfors retained only fragments of its ancient fortifications, but it still had a grim, fortresslike air. Its buildings were single-story slabs of somber gray stone, without cornices or pilasters or any other decoration, and that day all the windows were'shut-tered against the rain.
Werists were everywhere on the streets, but not all wore Satrap Therek's orange. Benard also saw Horold's purple, and although those men were not necessarily from Kosord itself, running into Cutrath or his friends would bring disaster. He must complete his mission quickly and leave.
He also saw many Florengians, because slaves had been cheap in Tryfors until the trade dried up. He expected them to be a ready source of information, but in practice this was not quite true. Checking that his hood hid his ears, he fell into step beside a white-haired man pushing a barrow. "Which way to Sixty Ways, brother?"
The carter rolled his eyes. "Man! That's not for the likes of us."
"Got lucky. Master pleased with me."
"Or mistress tired of you?"
"She never tires of me, man."
That won a scornful laugh. "Chickens'll all be roosting, man! Left at the grain exchange, bear right to the temple of Nula, go up the steps beside the—" And so on.
On his third attempt, Benard learned that the house he sought was near the palace and guessed that the palace was the building with the tower. That brought him close, and two more inquiries led him to a door under a crudely painted sign, not artistic but explicit. He reached for the equally explicit bronze knocker, and the door swung open.
"Enter, Master Artist Celebre," said the seer.
♦
She led him through silent corridors and several doors, down into a cellar and back up again, until he was certain they had moved into another building. Eventually they came to a small room lit only by a crackling fire and furnished with two stools, a couple of wicker hampers, and a sleeping platform much too narrow to suit the uses of Sixty Ways. The shutters were closed; several garments hung on nails. The place smelled of herbs and old lady, and now, no doubt, of wet Benard. Producing a towel from a hamper, his hostess bade him remove his cape and be seated. By the time she returned, he was steaming happily. She closed the door and handed him a beaker of a hot, spicy beverage.
"We have important business to discuss, master."
"I was told to ask for Poppy Delight."
"I am Poppy. The other is a code." She was small, slightly stooped, but alert in her movements, businesslike. She sat on the edge of a stool and folded spidery hands in her lap.
"Mist sent me," he told her featureless white veil.
"I guessed as much—sometimes even we have to rely on inference. But it is known that you are worried, probably hunted, that you are very deeply in love, that you are basically an honest man, and although you have no such ambition, you may make your mark on the tablets of history. I confess I knew your name only because you were pointed out to me once in Kosord. Why don't you trust Mist?"
He took a sip of wine while he considered this remarkable speech. "I'm not sure." Something about a woman without a face? He did not feel the same unease with Poppy. "Because I thought that she was not being honest with me."
"Tell me, please."
He told of the seer's warning in the Bull Concourse, back in Kosord.
"Mist must be careful!" Poppy said sharply. "The division in our cult is deep and bitter. I tell you, Hand, that there are five Witnesses in Tryfors just now and all of us are Mist supporters. That did not happen by chance. We and certain others seek the overthrow of the bloodlord and all his house—are you not on our side?"
Could seers be too honest?
"Sides do not attract me. The war does not interest me. I will do anything in the world to defend the woman I love and our unborn child." He smiled apologetically. "That done, I would also help my sister escape forced marriage to the worm Cutrath."
"Horoldson left town two days ago for the mustering at Nardalborg. The weather upcountry is very bad, and he is now beyond my sight anyway. Who is the woman you adore so greatly? She is beyond my range."
Herded by sharp questions, Benard told how he had fled with Ingeld, how Saltaja and Fabia would soon arrive at Tryfors, and how Ingeld believed her husband to be on his way, also. Something about Witness Poppy reminded him of his deportment teacher back in the palace of Kosord—polite, gracious, and inflexible as marble. She had never failed to cuff any juvenile ear in need of cuffing.
"Things may be coming to a head at last," this other old lady mused, "if both Saltaja Hragsdor and Horold Hragson are coming here, to Therek. Or may not be. Opportunities for good or evil are equally manifest. I fear Saltaja more than either of her brothers, and a gathering of all three of them is a baleful development. I shall be happy when Mist arrives and takes charge."
None of which meant anything, but Benard's suspicions had been softened by wine and warmth. A seer would be an invaluable ally. "I, too, have a brother in these parts, I am told."
"Who calls himself Orlad Orladson. It is known that he lives in Nardalborg, three menzils from here, and has just completed his Werist training."
In Benard's sketchy memories, Orlando was permanently a stocky, curly-haired little tyke who laughed a lot. "The curse of the Dark One on whoever did that to him. Would he betray me if I approached him?"
The seer sat very still in the firelight as if watching things far off. Eventually she sighed. "We do not prophesy. The satrap has summoned him here to kill him."
"What! Why?" Was wife-stealing a family trait? "Can you warn him?"
"No. We never advise. Therek is insane. His dementia oppresses me even at this distance. Go and fetch your pyromancer and her warrior, Hand. I will give them sanctuary until Mist arrives."
"You are kind, Witness, although hiding from Werists in a brothel does seem a little foolhardy."
If seers smiled, they did so unseen. "You are not in the brothel now. Since ancient days the Witnesses have maintained secret lodges all over Vigaelia. Extrinsics are very rarely admitted, for any reason whatsoever."
Cuff! That would teach Benard not to waste his humor on a Maynist.
thirty-six
FABIA CELEBRE
fell in love with Tryfors at first sight. It was not inspiringly beautiful, but anywhere must be better than the endless trek up the Wrogg
that had taken such a huge bite out of her life. Morning frost still sparkled on the shingle and her breath steamed as she walked down Mora's gangplank, for yesterday's rain had yielded to a sky of dazzling blue. Here the river had become many little rivers, each with its own collection of boats. The cataracts upstream were the same brilliant white as the hills beyond—that was snow up there and possibly she would be walking on that soon. Tryfors was a gray sprawl on a mesa above the floodplain, and her future husband might be waiting for her up there; he was certainly not in the reception party on the pebbles.
There was no reception party. No trumpets, no honor guard. Saltaja had truculently insisted on camping one last unnecessary night just a couple of hours downstream from the city so she could send word ahead to proclaim her coming, as if she doubted her brother's ability to cope with unexpected visitors. Not trusting one runner, she had sent two, some time apart. Had neither arrived? Or had the message been ignored?
Scar-faced Huntleader Darag trod close on Fabia's heels. Saltaja and Horth were disembarking from Blue Ibis. Other vessels were loading or unloading or being careened, wagons and slave gangs were at work, but the latest arrivals were being ignored.
"Gods save us, my lady," Fabia said brightly. "We appear to be a little early."
Saltaja's answer was a glare. The protracted voyage had aged her. Her pallid face seemed more elongated than ever, although it was still not that of a woman in her sixties. Her black robes had faded to gray, and in some elusive way so had she. That did not mean she was any less dangerous, though; perhaps even more so.
She snarled at Darag. "More desertions, Huntleader?"
"I warned you Heroes would not be used as flunkies." The wolfish Darag was not the obsequious and unlamented Perag, but even Darag would not have spoken to Saltaja like that when they set out from Kosord. Then he had been in command of five boats and forty-eight men. But one day Beloved of Hrada had lost contact with the other craft, taking a dozen Werists with her, and three days later Nurtgata and Redwing had vanished with another sixteen.
As Horth had waspishly pointed out to Fabia, if Stralg's sister could lose half her escort, then the overall desertion rate in the Heroes must be enormous. Where were the deserters going and what might they do in the future? Had they found some way of evading the Witnesses' notice, or were the Witnesses no longer answering the satraps' questions?
"That must be snow up there," Horth said, beaming guilelessly. "Does that make the passes more difficult, do you suppose?"
Since the desertions, the remaining Werists had become sullen and resentful, while Saltaja and Darag snapped at each other in open contempt. In a sort of reverse mockery, Horth had become exaggeratedly polite to them and fatuously cheerful—soaked bedrolls kept snakes away, he would explain, and dysentery was highly beneficial, nature's cleansing. Fabia suspected he had helped the defections along. If so, it was odd that he had not contrived an escape for the two of them at the same time, but she trusted him to have good reasons.
"This must be the harbor master approaching," he added. "Collecting anchorage. Perhaps you might hire one of his helpers to carry word to your honored brother, my lady?"
The scrawny old official hobbling in their direction was being escorted by three adolescent boys carrying staffs, doubtless a guard against unruly riverfolk resentful of the satrap's taxes.
"Gods preserve us!" Fabia exclaimed. "It won't matter which one you choose, will it?" The youths appeared to be identical triplets.
"That won't be necessary." Darag pointed to two chariots descending the long hill from the town.
The sailors referred the harbor master to Saltaja, who angrily referred him to Darag, and an argument developed over payment. By the time it was settled, the onagers and cars were scrunching across the shingle toward them. Fabia could relax again, because one driver was too old to be Cutrath Horoldson and the other wore a huntleader's green sash. Both wore trousers and long-sleeved jerkins under their palls—unlike Darag's men, who owned nothing but palls, now thoroughly waterlogged.
The newcomers reined in nearby, not venturing to descend and leave the onagers unattended. The young officer cheerfully saluting was gaunt, tall even for a Werist, clean-shaven, and young to have reached such rank. His face would have enhanced maidens' dreams had it not at some point lost an engagement with a set of claws that had left four scarlet scars running from just below his eyes to his jawline, twisting his mouth into a jagged line. He reminded Fabia a little of Cnurg, who had been her personal guard and one of the very few in the escort she could tolerate. Cnurg had disappeared in the second exodus.
"Lady Saltaja? Huntleader Fellard Lokison at your service. Welcome to Tryfors, you and your companions."
"Where is the satrap?" Saltaja demanded. "Is this the best reception he can offer?"
"We are short of men just now." Fellard contemplated Darag, each waiting for the other to salute first. When it became clear that neither would—"You are foolhardy not to dress your men better in this climate, Huntleader. Ah! The lady Fabia?" He beamed at Fabia, flashing battlements of ivory. "I have the inestimable honor to be Fellard Lokison, huntleader of the Fist's Own, but you can call me Fellard."
"I would not dream of being so disrespectful."
"Your fiancé has left town—how's that for news, Fabia?"
"How's this for a smile, Fellard?" She gave him her biggest.
His smile was cute, too, in spite of his misshapen lip, and he accompanied it with a faint hint of a nod and wink. "We can drive you ladies to the palace. Men have to walk, I'm afraid."
Saltaja turned to Darag. "Huntleader, make sure Wigson comes with you."
Seizing her chance, Fabia took four long steps and accepted a hand up. Lokison slapped the team and the chariot whirled away in a clamor of shingle. He grinned down at her.
"I am honored, Fabia."
"My pleasure, Fellard." What a joy it was to be free of the Queen of Shadows for a while! "You have made a dangerous enemy," Fabia said as they started up the hill.
"Saltaja? Bah! Their day is over, her and her brothers. Stralg's losing the war, Therek's crazier than a loon in a jug." Fellard leered at her again, paying no attention to his driving. "You really want to marry Cutrath Horoldson?"
"I may have no choice." Fabia suppressed an image of Horth with a noose around his neck.
"He's a slug." Fellard's arm nudged hers again. Like Verk's. Did large young men in chariots always crowd their passengers like this? Skjar seemed very far away now.
"Compared to who?"
"Anyone."
"How long ago did he leave?"
"Three days. The caravan is not due to leave yet; you can still catch him at Nardalborg. Or I could help you escape."
Badmouthing the Hrag family was understandable, but open offers of treason were not.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Hide out in my bedroom. I'll smuggle food in for you and keep you warm at night."
Outrageous! She wondered why she laughed. "No, that sounds much worse."
"I can't tell you how many women have tried it and raved about it."
"I'm sure you won't."
"Wit as well as beauty? The woman lacks nothing."
"Except freedom."
As the chariot left the hill and entered into a wide street between stone buildings, Lokison switched mood. "Crossing the Edge is a horrible ordeal, mistress. The war news is very bad. A lot of people think Stralg will be driven out of Florengia by spring."
That possibility would need some thought. "Why are the roofs so steep?"
"To shed snow."
"Of course. Did the satrap order you to snub his sister?"
"Not exa-a-a-actly. When he heard she was coming he cursed until the rafters smoked, roared at me to prepare a kennel for the ... er, lady, and stormed off to sulk in his nest."
"And a Hero puts duty before danger, of course. What nest?"
"See that high tower? That's the Vulture's Nest. Mad old Therek is up there right no
w, watching you. He has eyes like an eagle and much less compassion. Try not to stare when you meet him."
Fabia was amazed. "You insult your liege and slight his sister. Won't the seers betray you to him?"
"Only if he asks the right question, and Therek wouldn't care anyhow. I'm not plotting treason."
"You really think the House of Hrag is close to falling?"
"Must come soon," Fellard said. "I'm the Vulture's third in command and every night I dream of his head on a tray."
♦
There was a sense of wrongness about the palace, which was a stone labyrinth grimmer than a tomb. If anyone brought a flower into those dismal halls, Fabia decided, it would crumble to dust. The occupants seemed to be mostly scowling Werists, guarding almost every stair and doorway.
Even the women's quarters were utterly without cheer, sourly dank and dusty, as if they had not been aired in a generation. There she found a half-dozen maids, confused and frightened, who soon admitted that they normally worked in the laundry. They had been drafted to attend the noble visitors, although they had no training, nor any idea of where anything was.
By the time Saltaja stalked in, Fabia had organized the girls enough to get fires set in all the hearths. She was lolling in an almost hot bath, inspecting clothes being held up for her approval.
"These," Saltaja proclaimed in her magnificent voice, "are my quarters. You will be shown to yours. Remember that my brother has a seer to help him. You cannot escape!"
"What—and miss my own wedding?" Fabia said sweetly. She was confident that Horth was up to something, although he had refused to say what. She had less faith in the mysterious and well-named Mist, who might or might not be around somewhere.
♦
The day grew only worse for Saltaja and consequently more entertaining for Fabia. Demands for the satrap were met with the excuse that he was busy. Demands for food produced some tasteless gruel from the slave cellars; there would be meat later when the Heroes were fed. Even Darag could not be found. If he still had Saltaja's pelf bag, he might be halfway home to Kosord by now, trailing a white wake.