by Dave Duncan
A new Guitha would have to wait. The first item of business today must be to confirm that the Celebre girl was a Chosen of Xaran. To give her a fair chance, though, she should be moved to some lower dungeon where she could draw power from the Mother. Then send in the brute Werist that Therek had promised. Back in Skjar, Saltaja would have arranged to have the rape done in a cell with a spyhole, so she could watch how it went, but Tryfors had no such convenience.
No matter. If the thug came out satisfied, the girl was innocent and would just have to take her chances with her future husband. If he wandered out obviously Controlled or didn’t come out at all, then it would be time for Saltaja to sit down with the filly for the confidential chat they had been unable to share on the river. To convince Fabia of the advantages of cooperation, Saltaja would begin by conceding that her nephew, Cutrath Horoldson, was a repulsive choice of husband and then go on to instruct her in means to put him to rights as easily a skilled seamstress could reshape a gown. More easily, in fact. Grain needed thrashing, grinding, kneading, and baking before it became usable; men were much the same.
A knock on the door disturbed her reverie.
Profoundly.
Blazing with fury, she swept along the stark stone corridors. Werists trotted at her heels and hurried ahead of her, their torsos wrapped in striped palls, leaving brawny arms and legs bare. She swept through the outer room, where more Werists pressed back against the walls looking scared. As well they might.
The room beyond was a barren box without even a sleeping platform. The girl’s baggage and clothes lay scattered everywhere, as if the idiots had ransacked them looking for her. Saltaja strode over to examine the single window with its two bronze bars. Satisfied that they were still solid, corroded in place, ancient as the wall, she laid her hand on the stonework and detected only a frail trace of the Old One’s power filtering up from the heart of the world. Even she, with sixty years’ more experience, would never contrive an escape from here. Supposing she could somehow trick the jailers outside into opening the door, she could not Control eight at once. Chosen or not, the girl must have had help.
Outside, a heavy drizzle was sending sheets of water coursing over the paving, making pedestrians hurry. Take away that rain and the daylight, and this was the street in her dream. So Benard Celebre had rescued his sister, had he? That had been the Dark One’s message.
She turned to face the Werists. Her two Controlled bodyguards, Ern and Brarag, were standing close to her, keeping watch on the rest. Six of the incompetent jailers had packed in after her, another two were outside, peering through the door. She could not remember the name of their leader, but it mattered not at all and soon would matter even less.
“Guarding a slip of a girl is beyond your ability?”
The flankleader bared his teeth at her. “All of us spent the night in the outer room. There were no visitors, no coming and going—”
“Except the prisoner.”
“We can’t fight gods! No mortal let that woman out of here.”
“Since when does holy Weru accept excuses? Track her!”
“We tried, my lady.” His stubbled hair and beard were wet. “The rain … We could not pick up her scent at all.”
“And the Ucrist, Wigson? I suppose he’s gone, too? Did you send someone to look?”
Nod.
“I expect he bribed his guards,” she said. “The Witnesses will get the truth out of them.”
“The jail guards have disappeared.” The flankleader obviously wished he could.
“The Witnesses will locate them, and him,” Saltaja said confidently. Even if they had moved out of range already, the seers should be able to tell Therek which way they had gone.
She should not have expected the public jail to hold the richest man in all Vigaelia. Horth Wigson was important only as surety for Fabia’s good behavior. He could have bought his way out even if he had to pay his jailers enough to let them flee the satrap’s anger and make new lives somewhere else. It would have been cheaper to have them permanently silenced, but that was not Wigson’s style. Clever people don’t need to break laws, he said—they can bend them. But even he could not bribe Werists.
Saltaja headed for the door. “Lock this bunch of imbeciles in here until I have spoken with the satrap.”
Suddenly the air reeked of murder and mutiny. Saltaja Hragsdor might be the satrap’s sister, the bloodlord’s sister, a reputed chthonian, but no woman gave orders to Heroes of Weru!
Except she. The six remained inside, the two outside reluctantly joined them, and Ern slid the huge bronze bolts. He looked around, astonished, sweat shining on his forehead.
“How long will it hold them?” she asked.
He shrugged helplessly. “Until they decide to rip out the bars or tear up the floorboards, my lady. Battleformed, some of them could get out between the bars, given time. You can’t imprison Werists!”
“Then we must bring this scum to justice quickly. They are a disgrace to your cult. Stay here, let no one in, no one out. Brarag, go and find the satrap. Tell him to come to my room. At once!”
Warrior Brarag flinched at the thought of giving orders to the Vulture, but he could not refuse. He saluted and ran off.
Alone, Saltaja stalked back toward her dreary room, thinking furiously. What god was meddling? Anziel? Thanks to the Mother’s sending she knew that Benard Celebre was here in Tryfors, instead of tidily rotting in a pauper’s grave in Kosord. The boy was a scatterbrained dreamer, but he was a Hand of Anziel. He was certainly not capable of springing his sister from that cell, but his goddess was, if She chose to answer Her devotee’s prayers.
What of the other brother, the Hero? No, the only god who would answer a prayer from him would be Weru, and this was certainly not Weru’s work. Young Orlad was due to die right about now, murdered so that Therek could gloat over a dead Florengian.
Last night’s dream had not been trivial; it had been a very important warning, perhaps even a hint that Fabia Celebre was now in favor and Saltaja Hragsdor was not. Of course the girl’s sacrifice of Perag Hrothgatson would have raised her in Mother Xaran’s esteem, but if the girl thought she could outbid Saltaja Hragsdor in offerings to the Old One, she had another think coming.
At that point in her journey, the Queen of Shadows stopped to open a creaky little door in a cobwebby alcove and peer out at a small enclosure, a neglected jungle surrounded by blank stone walls. This weed patch was known as the herb garden, and no doubt some long-ago queen of Tryfors had nurtured herbs there as a time-out from her royal duty of breeding princes, but the moment Saltaja had first seen it, years ago, she had known it to be accursed ground, dedicated to the Old One. In today’s gloom and drizzle it seemed more baleful than ever.
Yes, it must be done there.
Back at her room, Saltaja found clothes all over the floor and Guitha sitting staring at the wall because she had been given no specific orders to tidy up. She would not even eat now unless told to do so. Saltaja was still hitting her when Brarag arrived, panting as if he had run all the way up the tower and back.
“Hostleader … not presently in the … palace, my lady … drove off in his chariot, short while ago.”
She almost blurted out a curse but caught herself in time—her curses worked better than most people’s. Obviously Therek had gone to the hill because in this weather he could not watch Orlad’s murder from his tower. Death and corruption! Was that a trap?
“Bring me Huntleader Fellard! Now! Right away! Tell him it’s urgent.”
Huntleader Fellard Lokison, commander of Fist’s Own Hunt, was young to be so senior, even nowadays, when Stralg had stripped the Face of older Werists. He was also an arrogant fool. Yesterday he had deliberately snubbed Saltaja, leaving her standing on the beach when he drove away in his chariot with Fabia. To insult his hostleader’s sister like that would have been stupid even if the rumors of Saltaja being a Chosen were unfounded. Since they were not, he was about to pay dearly for his foll
y.
He strode in, offering Saltaja a mocking smile and a devil-may-care nod instead of a bow. He was tall and lean, typical Werist arrogance sparkling in typically Vigaelian blue eyes. With chiseled jaw clean-shaven and scalp gold-stubbled, he would have been winsome had his face not been marred by four vertical claw scars that had left his mouth twisted. Saltaja, perversely, found this model of beauty marred quite appealing. He folded his arms and watched with no visible alarm as she advanced to meet him, bare feet on stone floor.
“My lady? You asked to see me?”
“Good of you to come, my lord. Flankleader, wait outside, please. Allow no one in.” Guitha was still there, but she would notice nothing. “I need your help, Huntleader.” The moment she came within range, Saltaja immobilized him.
“You will obey me,” she said, taking a grip on his arm.
No response, except eyes rolling in sudden terror.
“You will obey me!” She was pushing power into solid muscle and meeting equally solid resistance. A most determined young man! But she had no time for pity. “In the name of holy Xaran, I command you!”
The shock of hearing that forbidden name collapsed Fellard’s resistance like a bubble. Mumble: “I will … obey you.”
Better! “Kneel!”
Werists knelt to no one, not even to holy Weru Himself. Horrified to find himself obeying, Fellard sank slowly, like some forest giant toppling, but his knees struck the flagstones with a crack that made Saltaja wince. He stared up at her, eyes stretched wide, face white and slick with sweat.
She peered into his mind. It was hard to make out anything through the surging waves of terror, but she could not entrance him yet, not until she had found her way around. Fear … the source of fear … and the object of it, which must be she. This was probably his pain center … she jabbed and he responded with a gasp of agony. Anger? … a twist there and she had him shivering like a horse in fly season. And that must be his sex? Yes, a touch or two there and he moaned with delight.
Now she could put him into a trance and inspect the rest of his mind. Very tidy and precise it was, with motivations ranked like the onyx pillars of Jat-Nogul. She poked the most dominant.
“Speak! Who do you see?”
He gasped a few times, then began babbling, “Weru, god, Hero, Weru, warbeast …”
That was himself, his identity. She left it and tried another.
“Vulture … m-my lord? …”
Therek. She tried the one she thought represented herself.
“The hag …”
Hag, was it? He was going to pay for that. She tried another.
“Puss? Oh, Puss … love …”
Huntleader Fellard was a busy man. She discovered no less than four women in his life, with Puss the current favorite. There were three children, too, which she did not try to relate to mothers. Also parents and a couple of siblings or childhood friends. Those had all faded to background, dead or far away. She ripped them out, ignoring his whimpers of pain. Then the lovers, all four of them—snap, break, cut away. Therek she left, but much decreased. Her own identity she inflated enormously, tying it to fear and sex and his own self-image. This was far more brutal than the simple Dominance she had used on Ern and Brarag. When the conversion was finished, she was the only person left in Huntleader Fellard’s life. He would be devoted to her, obsessed by her. There! She released him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping and weeping.
She tottered over to a chair. She was shaking too, head throbbing. “Come here!”
He tried to stand, failed, and compromised by crawling to her on hands and knees, looking like a corpse escaping from a graveyard. When he arrived, he sank down to kiss her foot. He mumbled something of which only “My lady …” was audible.
Usually she managed to tamper with her subjects’ motivations and leave their other mental processes intact, at least in the short term, but Fellard would not last long after this butchery. In a couple of thirties he would be a gibbering animal. Fortunately, she did not need him for long.
“What do you want?”
“To serve you. Always. To serve you.” He looked up with a hound’s glazed devotion.
“Rise.” She waited impatiently while he struggled to his feet. “You will obey me and serve me, but you will forget what has happened since you walked in.”
He shook his head a few times to clear it, then his pupils dilated and he gave her the same lecherous smile he had given the girl yesterday. He was Saltaja’s, body and soul.
“How may I be of service, my lady?”
“The Celebre prisoner has escaped.”
“I heard.” He tried hard not to grin, but not quite hard enough. “That is extremely distressing, my lady! Apparently Hostleader Therek ordered that she was to be guarded …” The amusement faded into incredulity.
“Yes?”
“… on pain of death. But …” He smiled grotesquely. “But that is only an expression! Werists can’t be put to death. I mean who …? How? I expect your honored brother will punish them severely, but … not put … to …”
“There are eight of them locked in the room. You know where I mean?”
“Yes, my lady.” He was seriously worried now.
“Go and get them. Take them to the herb garden and kill them.”
“My lady! They will resist. Innocent men will—”
“Think of it as a training exercise,” she said. “Kill them. In the herb garden. You will obey me.”
Face white as bone, Huntleader Fellard whispered, “I will obey you.”
FABIA CELEBRE
had never truly expected to be forced into marrying a Werist, but it was nice to think that Cutrath Horoldson no longer lurked in her future. He could vanish over the Edge and enjoy his military career without ever knowing about the wedded bliss he had so narrowly escaped. She had other problems to worry about.
Free Spirit was a typical riverboat—long and shallow, with two masts bearing triangular lateen sails. She might rank a little older and smellier than most, but Dantio knew her of old and had judged that she was speedy enough to outrun any likely pursuit. Her crew and owners were an extended family of around twenty people, ranging from babes to ancients. The boat was their home and the heap of bales and boxes amidships their worldly wealth. By custom, the passengers sat in the bow and the crew stayed huddled in the stern, swathed in red or brown burnooses, chattering in their strange singsong.
The rain had stopped just as Free Spirit left the Wrogg and proceeded up a tributary, the Little Stony. Now the world was steaming in watery sunshine and a ramshackle ferry dock had come into view ahead. The banks were marshy and the surrounding woods scrubby, but to the southeast the dramatic cone of Mount Varakats shone hugely white against a sky of midnight blue.
Fabia was seated on the port shelf next to Horth Wigson, almost touching knees with lady Ingeld opposite. Ingeld was between Flankleader Guthlag and Benard, who presently had his arm around her quite shamelessly. She was being as charming as ever, but she hadn’t eaten anything all morning. Had her idiot brother gotten her with child?
No one was saying much, as they were all lost in their worries. They all knew that Saltaja and Therek could not be written off yet, and Ingeld insisted that Horold was pursuing her upriver, so Hrag jaws might yet close on the fugitives. Orlad had been condemned to die today and might already be dead. Dantio had stayed behind in Tryfors to watch what happened—Witnesses were notoriously nosey people, he admitted, but he would be in no danger because no one could sneak up on a seer. And somewhere there were the mysterious rebels, poised to strike at Tryfors.
Apart from their common concerns, they all had their own worries. Fabia and Dantio wanted to return to Celebre, but the pass might be closed already. Benard was being evasive about going to Florengia, because he could not leave Ingeld. Fabia did not want to abandon Horth, who was much dearer to her than the true father she could not remember. Ingeld must be worrying about Cutrath, on his way to a war that now seemed to
be lost.
“How far is it to High Timber?” Fabia asked. “Father?”
“I don’t know,” Horth said in his customary soft tones. “I suspect the riverfolk don’t, either. I’m not sure High Timber is a real place at all. It may be several places, or just an idea.”
Guthlag snorted contemptuously. The gnarly old Hero had taken a dislike to the wizened little Ucrist. “You can’t hide a horde of Werists in an idea. Men need food and shelter and training grounds.” He snorted again. “And women.”
“Dantio said our journey wouldn’t be long.” Benard grinned as though he would not care if it lasted forever.
On the river “not long” meant anything from an hour to several sixdays. Fabia did not see how the rebel encampment could be anywhere near Tryfors if Arbanerik Kranson had managed to keep it secret from the Werist garrison there for at least two years. Dantio was coming overland to join them; she hoped he was all right, because only the family seer knew how to find the rebel headquarters.
The boat tacked across the stream to enter a stagnant inlet. Sheltered from the wind by treed banks and hampered by reeds and bulrushes, it gently lost way and stopped. This must be the chosen rendezvous, and was obviously a good one, easily identified but hidden from casual view. A Witness like Dantio could find them there even in pitch darkness. Four male sailors rose to begin lowering the sails.
“Free Spirit ahoy!” Like a mythical wood spirit, Dantio appeared amid the shrubbery, a slender young man in the hessian shirt and long breeches worn by slaves in Tryfors. The shabby leather cloak he wore over them hung open, its hood thrown back to show a brown Florengian face and a gleam of white teeth. He waved both fists overhead in triumph. “Therek is dead!”
For a moment no one spoke. Fabia thought of his horde, twenty sixty ferocious Werists, coming screaming after whoever had killed him.