by Dave Duncan
Then everyone, including most of the riverfolk, yelled “What?” or “How?” or “No!” in disbelief.
“Dead!” Dantio insisted. “Orlad killed him! Orlad’s alive!”
He half-turned to indicate the young man pushing his way out of the bushes to stand at his side. Orlad was smiling, too, and that just proved that there was a first for anything, for yesterday he had been as sullen as a hungry boar. His torso was draped in a waterlogged woolen pall, and the brass collar of Weru shone like yellow fire around his neck.
“Orlad!” Benard’s great bellow of joy set birds a-flapping on the river. He started up, as if about to leap overboard and go welcome his brother. Ingeld caught hold of him. “Orlad!” he repeated. “You changed sides!”
The riverfolk were yelling, also, but theirs were cries of alarm. They had no liking for Werists at the best of times—they had grumbled at allowing old Guthlag on board—and a Florengian Werist was an unthinkable freak, perhaps a sign that the war had spilled back over the Edge and Vigaelia was being attacked. Men jumped for the yards and sails. Others produced poles and oars and stabbed them into the water to push Free Spirit clear of the reeds. The boat jerked back the way she had come only moments before.
Orlad barked an order. Heroes erupted out of the woods behind him—Werists with palls and brass collars, but regular, fair-skinned, golden-haired, Vigaelian Werists. Like otters they leaped into the river and surged forward through the reeds, barely slowing as the water deepened. Seven of them, the astonished Fabia counted. By the time the water was up to their shoulders, their hands were clasping the gunwale and Free Spirit was free no more.
A couple of the boatmen raised their poles as if to crack heads or crush fingers. Instantly old Packleader Guthlag was on his feet shouting warnings, but it was shrill yells in Wroggian from the even older Master Nok, the boat’s patriarch, that averted disaster. The sailors froze.
“We will pay!” Ingeld shouted in the silence. “We have silver.”
“Hit a Hero and he’ll rip you apart,” Guthlag grumbled, sitting down.
The riverfolk understood more Vigaelian than they usually admitted, and the poles were hastily hidden away. On the bank, Orlad crouched, pulled Dantio onto his shoulder, and lifted him effortlessly. Then he waded into the water, carrying the seer shoulder-high.
“I can walk, you know,” Dantio said, amused. “It is known that no one has ever seen a Werist acting as a beast of burden before.”
“I can’t get any wetter. You can.”
Yesterday Orlad had been a surly, humorless churl, fanatically loyal to Satrap Therek and his brother the Fist. What miracle had produced this conversion? He almost smiled a second time as he deposited his load aboard the boat, then hauled himself in also. His seven followers scrambled over the side. Suddenly Free Spirit was very crowded.
Dantio warbled at the riverfolk in fluent Wroggian, accepted a weighty bag from Ingeld, and proceeded to negotiate an extortionate fare of two handfuls of silver for the additional passengers. Calmed, if not contented, the sailors set to work to pole the boat out of the rushes, and some of the women began rummaging through the cargo. It seemed Dantio had either bought or rented all the towels and spare clothes aboard.
He turned to the newcomers. “My lords! Pray meet the lady Ingeld, noble dynast of Kosord; her Hordeleader Guthlag Guthlagson; Master Ucrist Horth Wigson; my brother Benard and sister Fabia. And you, gentlefolk, please greet these splendid warriors, lords Waels, Hrothgat, Snerfrik, Namberson, Narg, Prok, and Jungr. Their fame will shine forever!”
Snerfrik was one of the largest men Fabia had ever seen. Despite his obvious youth, he had a mean look. Prok was the smallest of the squad, and even meaner. As they stripped off their rain-soaked palls, many of them revealed fresh red scars, and some still showed traces of blood at the roots of their stubbly beards. The one called Waels had a scarlet stain covering the lower half of his face, but she decided that was a birthmark.
Dantio sat down on the bench next her to explain the miracle. “You know that Therek was planning to have Orlad ambushed on his way back to Nardalborg. Orlad got away, so the assassins had to chase after him. They didn’t know that the commander at Nardalborg, Huntleader Heth, had sent Orlad’s flank to see him safely home. They met up with him on King’s Grass and ambushed the ambushers! It was a wonderful battle.”
Fabia had never heard of this Heth. He must be one of Therek’s most senior officers, yet he had clearly saved Orlad’s life. Deliberately or unintentionally?
“What odds?” Guthlag asked.
“Flank to flank. Only one of Therek’s men escaped.”
The old Hero cackled in delight. “A great victory, then!”
But a full flank was a dozen men and there were only eight here.
“But there’s more. Therek couldn’t see what was happening in the rain,” Dantio continued. “So he drove out to King’s Grass without waiting for his bodyguard!” He grinned wickedly. “That battle was much shorter, but much more important! His death is a crippling blow to the House of Hrag.”
Glances were exchanged. Ingeld put the question.
“So what will happen now in Tryfors?”
Never mind Tryfors!—Now Fabia had all three of her brothers to compare: Benard beefy, amiable, scatterbrained; Orlad scarred inside and out, and, despite his current smiles, basically bitter and dangerous; Witness Dantio … She had not assessed Dantio yet. Clever, of course, and omniscient. And a eunuch. In his Witness robes and veils he had sounded like a woman and hence seemed tall; out of them he was a boyish man of average height, and appeared immature compared even to Orlad, eight years his junior. Werist husbands Fabia could do without, but a Werist brother would be a useful defender. A seer brother should be a perfect adviser. And an artist … perhaps Benard could redecorate the palace in Celebre for her when she succeeded their father as doge. Dogess?
Eight large young men toweling, laughing, and trying on clothes did tend to make the vessel seem rather crowded. More interesting than usual, perhaps, but Fabia had met similar Werist exhibitionism often enough on her journey up from Skjar, and she knew she was meant to keep her eyes averted even if the riverfolk were openly watching and commenting.
At a pause in the conversation, she murmured, “Dantio, what’s the feminine of ‘doge’?”
“Dogaressa. What do you think of the beef, darling? Go ahead and stare if you want. They like it.”
Fabia said, “Oh!” with as much outrage as she could muster. She could feel her face warming up—because she had stolen a few peeks, and he must know that. “Father, this man is making highly improper remarks to me.”
Horth awarded her one of his meek little smiles. “Brothers do that, my dear. Terrible creatures, brothers. That’s why I always spared you the ordeal of having any.” Dressed in rags, the wealthiest man on the Vigaelian Face looked like an aging domestic servant of no consequence whatsoever.
“I hope Orlad can keep his Werists away from her,” Benard remarked solemnly, “or she may be screaming for her other brothers to defend her.”
“Orlad must have had a very narrow escape,” Dantio said. “He didn’t have those terrible scars on his back last night. Oh, look, everybody! Fabia is staring!”
She swung a slap, which he parried easily. “If there is anything worse than a normal brother,” she said crossly, “it must surely be a seer brother!”
“No, artists are the worst,” Benard said. “They keep gazing at you, wondering how to capture your beauty in marble or bronze so that future ages can marvel at it.”
“That’s an improvement. Continue.”
“I like the cut of your dress, but that blue does nothing for your coloring.”
“Her underwear is just hideous,” Dantio said.
Fabia wailed. “Not fair! I’ve worn the same old rags ever since I left Skjar, and I had no chance to visit the Tryfors bazaar. These are the best castoffs I could find in Sixty Ways. Mock me and I shall burst into tears! Then you’ll be sorry.”
> Dantio said, “No, we shall be amazed. Personally I think Orlad is more likely to break down and weep than you are. I know I am.”
“Me too,” Benard agreed. “She’s tough as granite.”
“My lady!” Fabia howled. “Stop them! What do I do?”
Ingeld smiled. “You thank the gods, dear. I think it is wonderful that you four have been reunited after so long. They’re just teasing you to show you that they love you.”
“I’d hate to hear what they’d be saying if they disliked me. I’ll get Orlad to defend me.”
“I suspect Orlad’s sense of humor needs work, too,” Benard said. “What do you think, Dantio? Let’s practice on Fabia for the next sixday or so, and then start in on him.”
“No!” Fabia snapped. “Start with him and I’ll help bandage you.”
Ingeld laughed. “Well done! I award that round to Fabia.”
As flankleader, Orlad had claimed first choice of the available clothes—linen trousers and a leather jerkin left open to display his shiny brass collar and a hairless, badly scarred chest. His seven followers were doing the best they could with what was left, but most of them were far larger than river-folk and had to settle for makeshift loincloths. Leaving them amidships, he came forward to join what Fabia was already starting to think of as the family. Why not? Horth was as dear as a father to her; Benard and Ingeld were lovesick loons, and at a pinch Packleader Guthlag could be cast as Faithful Old Retainer. Moreover, the family had been purged of unwanted hangers-on, specifically Cutrath the Unknown Suitor. Gone and good riddance!
Dantio sensed Orlad coming and slid off the bench to make a space. Orlad accepted the seat as his right and Dantio went off to rummage in the cargo. The boat heeled as it caught the main current of the Wrogg.
Orlad bit into a peach and waited for someone else to speak. He was not smiling now, but he did wear a very satisfied, confident air. Fabia supposed it came from knowing he need fear nobody and nothing in the world except other Werists. And he had already changed the flavor of the world by killing Therek Hragson.
“I take it,” she said, “that you no longer approve of my enforced betrothal to Cutrath Horoldson?”
He flashed her a dark glance. “No.”
“Or command me to be loyal to the House of Hrag?”
“Shut,” he said, “up!” No sense of humor.
Benard said, “Last night Dantio told us about a place called High Timber. He says a lot of Werists have gathered there rather than go to the war. They’re called the New Dawn and they intend to overthrow Stralg.”
“Deserters!” Orlad munched more peach.
“If you say so, brother. I’d say they displayed good common sense. You have just killed a satrap, a hostleader, a Hragson. You need help, you need allies. You can’t take that collar off, can you?’
“Don’t want to.”
“You going home to Florengia?”
“Haven’t decided.”
The conversation did not prosper.
“Don’t pester the man, dear,” Ingeld said. “He has to be careful what he tells and who he tells it to. If he and his men still want to go and fight for Stralg, the New Dawn Werists will regard them as enemies. If they want to fight against Stralg, they’ll be mistaken for his men as soon as they cross the Edge.”
Benard pouted, puzzled. “You mean they shouldn’t go to High Timber?”
“I mean you should let them make their own decision.”
Dantio returned with an earthenware bottle and a beaker. He laid them on the boards and knelt between his brothers, closing off the family group from the riverfolk and other Werists. He worked on the wax seal with his belt knife. “This is an excellent wine. I couldn’t bear to leave it behind for looters. I dedicate it to the gods.” Having poured some into the beaker and sniffed at it, he surveyed his audience. A Daughter, two Heroes, a Hand, a Ucrist, one Witness, and a Chosen masquerading as an extrinsic—the wine ceremony often called for tricky decisions about precedence, but rarely as tricky as that.
“My lady, will you begin?”
Ingeld smiled a dynastic smile as she accepted the cup. “I shall be honored. I give thanks to the Bright Ones for reuniting the four children of Celebre and I pray for their future prosperity and happiness together!” She spilled a drop for the gods, then drank the rest.
The others chorused, “Amen!”
Dantio refilled the beaker. “Flankleader?”
Guthlag beamed with an old man’s long fangs at being granted the honor of speaking second. “I never heard of a Hero killing a hostleader on his first hunt, but it’s long past time someone sent Therek Hragson to the halls of our god, where he will be greatly honored. So I give thanks to Holy Weru for the favor He has shown my cult brother Orlad, and pray that the Fierce One will continue to exalt his name in glory.” He, too, spilled a drop and drank.
This time the amens were less certain. Orlad frowned as if suspecting mockery, making Fabia wonder if his show of indifference, which she had taken for confidence, was really a mask for an aching lack of it. Once, on the long journey up the Wrogg River, she had teased Flankleader Cnurg by saying that Werists had no minds of their own. He had told her quite seriously that life was much simpler when someone else took on all your doubts and worries and gave you orders in return. How could Orlad possibly be as calm as he looked when seven young outlaws now relied on him to keep them alive?
Again Dantio filled the beaker. This time he looked to Horth, but Be-nard’s great paw lifted it from his hand before it could be passed.
“I’ll add to the flankleader’s prayer. I joyously thank the gods for releasing my lady from bondage to Horold Hragson, and I pray that They send him to join his brother as soon as possible.” He offered and drank.
Now the agreement was certainly muted and Fabia was quite shocked. To curse anyone was unseemly, practically a prayer to Xaran. It was also dangerous, in that the Old One might take the curser before the cursed, and for a man to curse his mistress’s husband was utterly shameful. Yet Ingeld actually patted his thigh in approval!
Orlad raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You going to look to that job yourself, Big Brother?”
Benard scowled. “I’d break his neck if he weren’t a Werist.”
“Ah, there is that.” The husky young Hero leered through his patchy black stubble. “I’ll help collect your remains for burial, if they’re not too widespread.”
Maybe he did have a trace of humor?
Dantio passed the next draft to Horth.
“In my experience,” the merchant said shyly, “one should always ask for more than one is prepared to settle for, especially when petitioning gods. One usually has to compromise. Frena and I have been released from captivity, so I give thanks for this deliverance, and I beseech the holy ones to bear us safely home and recompense us for all the wealth Satrap Eide and his wife have stolen from us over the years.”
“Home?” Fabia said. “You mean Skjar, but …” She saw the others grinning at her.
“This city of ours, Celebre,” Orlad said. He kept pulling peaches out from somewhere, popping them whole in his mouth, then spitting the pits overboard. Fabia thought it was a disgusting performance, but Ingeld was watching it raptly. “It is ruled by a doge? What is a doge?”
“It is known,” Dantio began, reverting to Witness, “that Celebre is the grandest and richest city of all Florengia, especially now that the war has destroyed so many others. The doge is supreme magistrate, elected for life by the council of elders. The office has been vested in our family for many generations, but succession is not automatically to the eldest son. In the past they have selected brothers, uncles, even sons-in-law. Hence Saltaja’s idea of marrying Fabia to her nephew. Then Stralg would lay his claws on the table, the council would elect Cutrath, all legal, and everyone would be happy.”
Except Cutrath’s wife. For Ingeld’s sake, Fabia did not say so.
Orlad accepted the beaker from Dantio and raised it. “I thank my lord, holy
Weru, for today’s victory and beseech Him to show this council of elders that the Hero Celebre is the best one to rule their city.”
Guthlag smirked. Ingeld frowned. Benard scowled. Horth was as noncommittal as the Wrogg. The sun went behind a cloud just then, sending cold tremors down Fabia’s backbone. Orlad could not speak Florengian, Benard was unthinkable as a ruler, and what council would elect a eunuch? While her father’s household was considerably smaller than a city, she did have managerial experience. Of the four of them, she was the obvious choice. Why not a dogaressa regnant?
Dantio smiled. “Don’t make the sauce before you catch the fish, brother!” He refilled the beaker and studied the wine in it for a moment. “I have worked long and hard toward this moment. I have served as a resident Witness in the palace of Kosord, Bena, and knew the anguish you felt every time you set eyes on Ingeld. I watched you put my face on the mural in her chamber and wonder whose face it was. As Urth the slave I carried burdens through the streets of Skjar in the monsoon deluge while Frena Wigson presided over great feasts for Saltaja and other rich folk in Horth’s palace. I even went to Nardalborg once, as an itinerant merchant’s slave. There I watched Orlad being systematically beaten up by his friends and could do nothing to help him. But now the gods have rewarded my efforts and granted us reunion!”
He raised the beaker. “For this I thank Them; and I ask only that I may soon watch Saltaja Hragsdor die.”
A chill wind caught the sail and made it flap. No one commented. The prayers were becoming grimmer, yet who could blame Dantio for cursing Saltaja? As he passed the refilled beaker to Fabia, his sly smile was a secret challenge: To which god would she pray? If she mentioned Xaran, she would be lucky just to be thrown overboard.
“My brothers are kind,” she said, gaining a moment to think. “Orlad has already slain Therek, Benard wants to kill Horold, and now Dantio takes Saltaja. I assume you expect me to get rid of Stralg for you?”
Everyone laughed—Guthlag guffawed as if that was funniest thing he had heard in years. Even Orlad smiled, although mockingly.
She raised the wine. “I give thanks to all the gods for the start They have made in righting the wrongs done to the House of Celebre, and I pray … I pray that They will also lead us home and give the council the wisdom to choose the best qualified candidate for doge.”