Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  "I wish you two would speak a language I understand," Benard grumbled.

  Horth inclined his head to the Witness, deferring to her.

  "There are two passes over the Edge," she said. "The Nardalborg Pass is the closer, and the kings of Tryfors taxed trade on it, although there was never much. When Stralg was preparing to move a horde to Florengia, many years ago, he naturally chose the pass nearer the city, where he could billet his men, and it is now a Werist highway, much improved. The other pass has been officially forgotten, but traders still use it. Master Wigson and his accomplices have been running a huge smuggling industry over it for years."

  "You do not trade in slaves, I hope?" Benard demanded.

  "Slaves can tell tales, Hand." Wigson at last protested against Poppy's inquisition, although still in the same mild tones: "Are you seeking to blackmail me, Witness? I fail to see what relevance Varakats has to this meeting."

  "What relevance did it have to you, tonight? You discovered you could not release Fabia from captivity and it was unlikely you could even pass her the calabar and other nasty devices you had collected for her. So you were going to run away to High Timber. You hoped that the satrap's men would follow your trail and discover the rebel threat. That would distract Therek thoroughly, and delay the caravan's departure until after the winter. This was a massive betrayal of your friends."

  "That is unfair!" Fabia shouted. "Horth was kidnapped, too, as a hostage for my good behavior. I would have been very happy if he had escaped. That would not have increased my danger in any way; it would have helped me. How long do you think Saltaja was going to keep him alive once she sent me off over the pass, anyway?"

  Poppy sniffed. "I understand his desire to escape. I cannot stomach his betrayal of Varakats and High Timber."

  "You do me wrong, Witness," Wigson said, still speaking softly. "I was investigating options. Learning that the Varakats Pass is still open, I was contemplating the possibility of hiring a party of dissident Werists from High Timber and sending them over the Edge to rescue Frena on the far side."

  Benard jumped as if an idea had just hit the inside of his skull. He whipped around to look up at Ingeld with delight—Horold would never think to look for her in Florengia! At times she was unhappily reminded how young her lover was. What did it matter if she was pregnant and there was a war raging on the far side of the pass? She smiled and nodded.

  Mist intervened with a chuckle. "I think that's enough. We all play for the same team. If we Maynists try to withdraw our support of the Fist, his men will retaliate with violence. The Eldest could announce a date when we should all remove our veils and vanish. We would have to abandon the Ivory Cloisters and generations of labor on the Wisdom—but it could be done. Our new Eldest, LeAmber, follows her predecessor in refusing to issue the command, and no one else has authority to do so. If we dissidents provoke the split, we shall bring down the Werists' wrath on all our sisters who remain on duty. Tryfors may seem a strange place to launch a revolution ... You disagree, Master Wigson!"

  "I can think of counterarguments."

  "Such as?"

  The trader smiled. "Fords, passes, crossroads—these are all strategic places. I know you seers can read a sealed tablet, so I assume you monitor Stralg's correspondence on its way through here. Then you lecture me on betrayal?"

  Again Mist laughed, breaking the tension. "Leave ethics for another day! It has taken Saltaja an amazingly long time to appreciate that, where once Stralg could promise the Heroes glory and loot, the trip over the Edge has now become a one-way road to the Old One's cold embrace. The new initiates were duped as boys and are doomed as young men. They cannot shed their collars, but they can seek out a leader who offers better hope than that. His name is Arbanerik Kranson. His horde is called New Dawn, and is camped at High Timber, not far from here. Saltaja would give both arms for that information!

  "We are not required to volunteer information to Stralg's agents, and over the years most of us have become extremely skilled at deceiving without actually lying. However, when Saltaja read Stralg's first dispatches this spring, she decided to make a personal tour of inspection—escorting Fabia was incidental—and that decision was a critical turning point, what we refer to as a 'weft.' We sensed it like a clap of thunder. The journey opened her eyes to the fact that the numbers did not add up, that at least a third of the reinforcements being sent to aid the bloodlord were never reaching Nardalborg.

  "Even at Kosord we still managed to hide the details from her, but after that her own guards began deserting. This afternoon she had Therek summon a seer. I knew the moment had come, so I answered the call, and I lied. I told her that the New Dawn rebels were mustering at Nuthervale and I grossly understated their number. I gave False Witness, and for that I shall be expelled from the mystery. I broke my most sacred oath, but I feel no shame or guilt."

  Ingeld said, "In my opinion it is long overdue. Without the seers' complicity, Stralg and his hateful gang would have all died years ago."

  "So it wasn't Father!" Fabia said. "When the Werists disappeared on the way here? It wasn't Father helping, it was you!"

  Mist chuckled. "It was the riverfolk. They receive a bounty for every willing deserter delivered to High Timber. We need not discuss where that silver comes from—agreed, Master Wigson?"

  "Um? No." Horth seemed to be preoccupied in studying Fabia.

  Benard grunted. "I always thought Witnesses couldn't lie."

  "Oh, we can sin as well as you can. We can only do it once, though."

  An uncomfortable silence settled on the room. Everyone there except Fabia was a henotheist, sworn to a mystery, and they were all breaking faith. Ingeld herself had broken her vows—in spirit if not in word—when she had invited Benard to father her child and then fled, the city with him. Benard was neglecting his art, Guthlag had broken faith with his lord, and perhaps Horth Wigson was breaking oaths to Ucr by pursuing Fabia's happiness instead of simply amassing wealth. Now the seers, too!

  At last Ingeld said, "Have you consulted a Speaker? Holy Demern does allow certain oaths to be set aside—those made under duress, for example, or those that conflict with earlier vows."

  "I can quote holy law to better effect than that," Mist said curtly. "That does not matter now. Tomorrow, the satrap will learn that his prisoners have vanished. He will summon his seer again. Do you think he would believe another denial?"

  "So the revolution has begun?" Benard said.

  Ingeld could feel the knots in his shoulders tighten even more.

  Mist said, "It begins tomorrow."

  "No more seers," Benard said, "but... Flankleader?"

  "Hand?" The old Werist still seemed fast asleep, flat as a puddle, but he had not snored in some time, Ingeld realized, and only Benard had noticed.

  "Fabia and Master Wigson have escaped from the satrap's cells. How long will it take his warbeasts to track them to this room?"

  Still the old man did not open his eyes. "Ever drop a raw egg off'na table, so it broke on the floor?"

  "Yes."

  " 'Bout that long."

  Benard looked around. "I've lived with this problem all my life," he said apologetically.

  "We did think of that, Bena," said Mist. "But now you have the Witnesses on your side, which makes a difference. Poppy and I are currently keeping watch on the palace and all is calm. It's highly unlikely that the prisoners' absence will be noted before morning, but we're all going to head down to the river very shortly, just in case. We'll wait there for dawn, unless the tocsin sounds, in which case we'll sail at once. Even Werists can't follow a scent over running water—right, my lord?"

  "Right," Guthlag said, opening his eyes and yawning.

  "So tomorrow the satrap will find no seers in Tryfors. All of them will be heading inward along the Wrogg, spreading the word, and by the time the Eldest hears the news, it will be too late. She can anathematize us, but she will probably be too busy evacuating Bergashamm. Since we cannot continue to shie
ld you here in Tryfors, I suggest that you and your lady accompany us."

  Benard looked around to seek Ingeld's approval.

  "What of my son?" she asked, trying not to show her anger. She had no love left for the brute Horold had become, but she had no love for treachery either, and news of a secret rebel army poised to strike appalled her. She feared for Cutrath, the Fist's nephew, innocently standing in its path. "Is there to be yet another civil war? Tell us what this illegal host at High Timber is planning. I would think any rebels' first logical move would be to seize Nardalborg and block the pass, to trap Stralg on the Florengian Face. What of Benard's brother?"

  Mist sighed. "Orlad is as good as dead. I gave him as much warning as I dared, but his long-awaited initiation day had a black dawn, and he cannot bear it. Your son, my lady, will I think be much more valuable to the rebels as a hostage to be used against your husband than he will as a dead body. I realize that this is small comfort, but it is the best I have to offer. Tomorrow I propose to take word of our revolt to High Timber myself, but I cannot predict what Hordeleader Arbanerik will choose to do. I invite you all to come with me."

  She offered no alternative, Ingeld noted. They were all conspirators now. It was death-to-traitors time.

  Benard had apparently not seen that, or else he was astonishingly willing to trust this faceless seer. "Of course we will. And you, Fabia?"

  "Certainly. You agree, Father?"

  "Possibly. Why don't you introduce me to your other brother, Frena?"

  Benard's shoulders went hard as marble.

  "He calls himself Mist now," the trader continued, "but on the river he was Urth, and long ago was he not Dantio?"

  When no one corrected him, it was Ingeld herself who said, "Praise the gods! Praise holy Veslih, who cherishes families! All four of you?" It was a long time since she had felt such a pain of joy in her throat.

  The reunion was tainted. When the seer removed his veil, he revealed a youthful Florengian face, but his features were no more masculine than his voice. "How did you work that out, Master Ucrist Wigson?"

  "It was fairly obvious, Master Witness Celebre," Horth said with his usual diffidence. "From what 'Mist' just told us, 'she' had been in Kosord and even Skjar at the same time we had. Then 'she' arrived in Tryfors on the same day we did, so I knew that 'she' had traveled with us in our convoy. After that it was merely a process of elimination. When none of the riverfolk I remembered fit, I was left with their Florengian slaves, and I recalled that one of them, Urth, had a treble voice and no beard, so obviously had been castrated in boyhood and was therefore no prisoner of war. He was Mist's size. In age he would match the 'deceased' Dantio, and... Well, I do know your sister very well, Witness, and when she came in here she was bursting with some secret. Although she was pleased to have her brother Benard back again, she was much more interested in you." Wigson's eyes were still as bland as wren's eggs.

  "It is wonderful to have you back from the dead!" Fabia said.

  "It is wonderful to be able to greet my sister and brother without deception." Dantio shook his head sadly. "This is the day I have dreamed of since our parting, fifteen years ago. I have worked for it unceasingly. Today I return and the family is complete again. Today we are reunited at last. But tomorrow we lose Orlad."

  forty-two

  HERO ORLAD

  soon discovered that the seer had not been lying, at least about the wine. Before left flank reached Eriander's temple, its out-of-town guest fell on his knees in the gutter, thus provoking much mirthful comment on overindulgence. He was still puking when they carried him back to the barracks, and by then the cramps had started. Orlad was faking some of it, but he was in enough real pain and distress to know that the conspirators had been dangerously overgenerous with the drug. Had the seer not warned him, they might have seen their planned entertainment ruined by the premature death of the star attraction. They left him on his rug with a bucket and went away laughing to continue the evening's program. Confident that there would be listeners in nearby cubicles, Orlad continued his playacting, and he kept it up much of the night, even after the others returned. Why should they sleep when he couldn't? The effects of the poison wore off, but he was starting to believe that he was going to die on the morrow. Praise the Lord of Battle, who alone decides!

  ♦

  On the morrow, it rained.

  At first light Orlad rose, dressed, and repeated the Heroes' morning prayer. The final words took on a significance he had never truly appreciated before: Today I will win or die.

  Guests were always given the cubicles farthest from the door, where the traffic was lightest, but there were times when that seemed a very sinister courtesy. He tiptoed the length of the barracks and went out as quietly as he could. It was only then that he discovered the glorious mercy of Weru—a steady drizzle falling from a gray murk almost low enough to touch, a total absence of wind. Heroes did not kneel to thank their god, they raised both fists to the heavens, and Orlad barely restrained a scream of joy as he did so. He could not hope to win, but now he could make a fight of it. First score to him!

  There would be food in the mess, but his stomach roiled at the thought. He trotted across the yard to the trough, rinsed his mouth, filled his canteen, and splashed water over a face already soaked. Rain! Oh, great god of battle!

  "Orlad!" Flankleader Leorth came stumbling out of the dormitory wearing his brass collar and nothing else. He looked up at the sky in horror.

  "Thought I'd make an early start!" Orlad yelled. Stealth could not help him now. "Fine day for a run." Recalling that it was polite to give thanks for hospitality, he added, "May holy Veslih reward you as you deserve."

  He headed for the gate.

  "Wait!" Leorth came running to intercept him, wincing as his bare feet impacted the pebbles. "No, no! I'm sure the Vulture won't expect you to travel on a day like this. There will be snow on—"

  "My lord commands and I obey."

  "But after your gripe last night—"

  Orlad spun to face him. "Shouldn't have said 'early' start. Meant 'head' start."

  Leorth's guilt flamed red above his flaxen beard. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that I intend to make a fight of it. You I will send to Weru to announce my coming. And your precious Vulture can flap on his nest all he wants."

  Something genuinely catlike showed in Leorth's eyes. "Would you prefer to make it single combat?"

  "Not after that wine, thank you." Orlad was being unfair in condemning unfairness, because fairness was no part of the code. The road to victory need not be straight, Heth said.

  "Then I wish you an interesting journey." Smile. "I wish you good hunting and an early death." Sneer. Orlad trotted out the gate. Now he believed.

  ♦

  He jogged on cobbled streets between buildings of stone, ran on a muddy track lined by poor-folk shacks, and dropped back to a walk as he reached the vegetable plots and orchards beyond the town. Already the Vulture's Nest was fading into the grayness behind him. He wondered if anyone had yet dared waken the satrap to break the bad news.

  The trail wound interminably through a maze of tiny, stony plots, but the harvest was in and the leaves all shed, leaving a drab, waterlogged landscape that offered no hiding places. He had seen no empty mats in the barracks, and no one had slipped out before he did, so he could assume that the ambush could not be set up yet... unless Leorth's flank was to have help, which seemed unlikely. Twelve against one should be adequate.

  Seers never lied, but that Dantio creature bent truth like a sailor tying knots—going around dressed as a woman, flaunting a distaff! Wasn't that lying? Of course, he wasn't actually a man, either. Gelding was the most fucking horrible thing to do to a kid, and artist Benard's blasphemy in comparing it to Werist training should have cost him half his teeth. Forget him. Forget all three of them. Families were for children. Orlad Orladson would live or die alone.

  Tactics?

  A backward glance revealed nothing
moving among the stark black trees and tumbledown stone dykes. Yet his prints in the mud were clear enough. The skin on his back crawled at the thought of pursuit. Wind and rain would make tracking harder, but there wasn't really enough of either yet to throw warbeasts off the scent. The worst thing he could possibly do was panic, although only an utter madman could stay calm with twelve warbeasts on his track. Breath recovered, he moved up to a trot again.

  Soon he neared the end of the farmland, where even Tryforian farmers gave up. Ahead of him lay more orchards, then pasture rising steadily until mist became fog and fog turned to cloud. This slope overlooking the town and offering prime grazing, which some old-time ruler had claimed for his own, could only be the King's Grass. Today the killing field.

  Tactics?

  Know your enemy.

  Leorth liked being feline and feline meant ambush. Almost certainly this would be his first human kill, so he would want to do the deed himself. In order to let the satrap watch, he would have planned to set up his trap close by the trail, having spread the rest of his flank around King's Grass to make certain the victim did not escape. The wine had been poisoned so the killers would have time in the morning to take up position—nothing slowed a man like a night of vomiting and belly cramps.

  But Orlad had been forewarned, thanks to brother-sister Dantio. Leorth would have to go dog, meaning running the quarry to exhaustion. It would be a straight chase, and holy Weru had sent this glorious mist and drizzle to deny Therek the pleasure of watching.

  Orlad reached the last scabby trees. Boulders of all sizes lay scattered over the King's Grass, everything from nasty cobbles for breaking ankles to monoliths the size of small houses, but he recalled that there was a denser boulder field near the crest of the first rise. That would certainly have been where Leorth had planned to lie in wait, still within the satrap's view. Conversely, the pursuers must go through there, too, so it would be the best place for the quarry to make his last stand and ambush the frustrated ambushers.