by Dave Duncan
“Heth!” he screamed. He did not know how he knew, but he had no doubt. “Heth, it’s me, Orlad!” Clothes or not, he could never fight Heth, who had helped him so much, trained him, saved his life from the satrap.
The warbeast hesitated, glaring at him with terrible, bestial blue eyes. Ropes of saliva hung from its teeth and tongue.
“Heth, it’s Orlad. Don’t kill me!” He was a Hero and he was begging for his life? And why was Heth hesitating?
A roaring black warbeast struck the gold one head-on as Waels came to the rescue. The bridge sagged under the impact, cables snapping with cracks like thunder. Snarling and clawing at each other, the two monsters reared up on their hind paws above Orlad. He felt blood spattering his face. The deck sank and twisted as the failing ropes stretched. Heth fell backward, and Waels came down on Orlad with a sickening impact that half stunned him, because he had not expected it. Then Heth was back, and this time all three of them roiled and raged, with Orlad at the bottom of the heap expecting them all to roll off to their deaths.
The bridge sagged again, weakly supported by burning ropes that stretched out impossibly under the tension. The last cables snapped. It fell with a strange lethargy. Roaring and tearing, the two warbeasts somersaulted downhill together toward the fire. Feeling himself slide, Orlad yelled, “Hang on! We’re going!” He twisted over and grabbed the slats with fingers already numbed by the burning cold air. Still supported at the Florengian end, the deck folded downward to slam against the canyon wall and hang there like a ladder.
Jarred by the impact, Orlad almost let go. He saw his mitts fly past him, but if he had still been wearing those he would not have been able to squeeze his fingers between the bars. Waels had flashed out a paw and caught the tangle of burning ropes with his claws. Screeching in pain, he streaked up the net like a giant black cat. The pale warbeast that was Heth Hethson somersaulted down into shadow and was gone. There was no scream, no sound of impact. It was as if he had never been.
With the flames now directly below him and no purchase for his boots, Orlad hauled himself up the ladder by arm strength alone. At the top his wrists were seized by Fabia and a naked Waels. They pulled him to safety. For a moment the three of them coalesced in a great hug.
“Heth!” he said. “That was Heth! Get your clothes on, you maniac. Oh, Heth!” He tucked his hands under his arms and backed away from the smoke and fire. “Why did it have to be Heth?”
Dantio was helping Waels dress.
“I should have brought my seamstress,” Fabia said. “But if we cut a couple of slits in your parka, you ought to be able to keep your hands inside and save most of your fingers.”
Heth, Heth! I killed Heth!
“Can we salvage some of that wood?” Fabia said. “We could improvise a sled and pull Dantio.”
Waels said, “You’re pretty stupid not to have thought of that sooner.”
“Did you?” she snapped.
“Of course not. I’m a Werist.”
On the far side of the canyon, not as far as an athlete could jump in normal circumstances, Pathfinder Hermesk stared blankly across at his former fellow-travelers.
Not far behind him, four young Vigaelians wearing only brass collars stood in the dust field with their arms extended in some sort of impossible appeal, like children wanting to be lifted into their mothers’ arms. They wailed their dismay in a wordless lament; the wind snatched it away.
Other warbeasts, farther away yet, were loping back to their caravan to retrieve their clothes and report the disaster. Waels Borkson and three Celebres were safely across. The Pathfinder was marooned. Saltaja Hragsdor was trapped, done for. Doomed.
All Orlad could say was, “Heth Hethson! Why was he here? Why did it have to be Heth?” Tears froze on his cheeks.
Part V
THE END
IN
SIGHT
OLIVA ASSICHIE-CELEBRE
walked alone in the Hall of Pillars. Expecting company, she had donned a simple, sober gown of forest green silk, the one her dresser tactfully insisted made her look “more slender” than any other she owned. She had never been a small woman. Grief and worry made other people fade away, but she only grew more massive. Not fat, just massive. It was her shoulders. Her one adornment was a double string of pearls, because the effect she was striving for was competence and authority. She must at all costs avoid arrogance or presumption.
Likewise, her choice of the Hall of Pillars. It was without question the largest chamber in Celebre, its huge colonnade rising giddily high to a frescoed ceiling. Beyond the great pillars lay the ducal gardens, sweeping down to the river, while the Bright Ones presided in a great mural on the opposing wall, above the doge’s throne and his consort’s ivory chair. For Oliva to receive the delegates while sitting on that chair would be rank provocation. Doing so in the throne room was—she hoped—a gentle reminder of who ruled and who was suppliant. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she should greet them in the palace kitchen with flour on her nose. Or go to the other extreme and awe them with swordsmen and heralds and trumpets? She still wore Piero’s seal on her wrist as well as her own. She still ruled in his name.
No, she ruled in his memory. She was not expecting company, she was dreading it. The charade was about to end.
Was she so evil, that the gods never answered her prayers? For years she had prayed for her children’s safe return. By the time she realized that they must have made lives for themselves in Vigaelia and might no longer want to return, she had been praying instead for Piero’s swift recovery. A year ago, she had begun to pray for his quick release. Now, she supposed, the limit of her supplication would be that he be allowed to die in dignity, as doge, not as a discarded husk. Was even that small boon to be refused her?
She paced over to the pillars and stared out at the drizzle, the gray weeping sky, the temples on the far bank. The rainy season had begun, but over in Vigaelia this was cold season, and the pass was closed. Few of the trees and shrubs were blooming now—only the exiles, red and white. They were called exile flowers because they bloomed when no others did.
Where were her own exiles, her three sons and her daughter? Where did they bloom today, if they bloomed at all? She would not know them if they walked in the door right now, and they would not remember her. It was a year since Stralg had promised to send for them, or some of them. She had not heard a word from the Fist since, but rumor said he and his horde were being driven ever closer to the walls of Celebre. There were constant rumors of Cavotti victories, Stralg defeats. She no longer cared which side won, if they would just leave the city alone. And give her back her children.
Faint sounds warned her; she turned and saw that her visitors had arrived, accompanied by a dozen or so flunkies. Surprisingly, they remained clustered around the doorway while the chief herald advanced toward her with a single companion, black-robed and black-hooded. Even at that distance Oliva could recognize Quarina Poletani, justiciar of the city. She had not been included in the invitation and her presence was ominous. Nevertheless, she must be shown proper respect. Oliva strode forward to meet her halfway.
She rummaged in memory for the laws Piero had explained to her half a year ago, when he began to fail in earnest. As senior judge in the city, the justiciar came first in precedence after the elders and would chair the council during the interregnum, when it chose the next doge. They couldn’t declare Piero legally dead, could they? If Speaker Quarina said they could, who would argue? The political infighting had begun.
Female Speakers were rare and Piero had raised many eyebrows when he promoted Quarina to head the judicial bench. Unlike most Speakers, male or female, she did have traces of a sense of humor. She had raised two children and had two, perhaps three, grandchildren; she was spare or even frail. Oliva liked her.
Quarina arrived and was presented by the herald in a quiet voice, no trumpets. With the protocol so dubious, Oliva had forbidden excessive formality.
“A pleasant surprise, Speak
er.”
“No cause for alarm, though.” Quarina did not smile, but possibly her eyes twinkled slightly. Did she dislike being used as a weapon of intimidation? “Since the matter that brings the honored councillors to wait upon your ladyship is an affair of state, they persuaded me I should be present as a witness. I agreed only upon condition that you approved.”
“To witness what?” Oliva asked, eyes wide, brain racing. Then she caught herself. “But of course they will wish to tell me themselves. Your counsel and presence are most certainly welcome, Speaker.” She nodded to the herald, who bowed and withdrew.
The moment he was out of earshot, Quarina said, “Also, I bring a message for you. I was not told who sent it, only that it was important.”
Oliva felt every muscle tense. “It must be, to deserve such a messenger.”
Quarina’s smile was ladylike, not judicial. “As upholders of holy law, we Speakers are supposed to be sacrosanct, although I have never felt tempted to put that clause to the test.” She was doing so now, if the sender was who he must be, Marno Cavotti.
“You had better relieve yourself of your burden, then.”
“I was just told to tell you that the tholos urgently needs repairs.”
Oliva let out a long breath. Yes, it was Cavotti. A scaffolding around the tholos atop the temple of Veslih would be a signal that his troops had her permission to enter Celebre. “I see.”
“I admit that I do not. I was also told that there would be no answer.”
“No,” Oliva said. “There is no answer.” Stralg was almost certainly on his way. Refugees were flooding in. One side or other would occupy the city whether she liked it or not, and the other would promptly try to raze it. Why had the gods chosen her to solve such problems?
The two elders who had requested this meeting were Giordano Giali and Berlice Spirno-Cavotti. Oliva had not convened the council in half a year, but she knew that its members had taken to meeting unofficially, in secret. They decided nothing, remaining steadfastly deadlocked, but sooner or later enough of them would die off to shift the balance of power. Meanwhile, this pair were unofficial leaders of the two main factions. Evidently the council had agreed to do something, but was either not sure what or did not trust any one of its members to do it unsupervised.
Berlice was a hard-faced woman of around sixty, leader of the pro-Stralg faction, the do-whatever-the-Fist-says-fast faction. She was also the mother of Marno Cavotti, the Mutineer. Piero had appointed her to the council to replace her husband, who had encouraged his son to rebel and for that had been publicly flayed while his wife and children were forced to watch. Berlice’s face had a right to be hard. That incident had also lost the Cavotti family its standing among the very rich, so her sons and daughters had been forced to marry a few rungs down the social ladder. Whether her loyalty to Stralg was genuine or opportunist, only the blood-lord and his Witnesses knew, but she certainly had no love for Oliva Assichie-Celebre.
Giordano, on the other hand, was head of one of the greatest houses—old, bulky, silver-haired, and gloriously robed. His face, pouchy and florid, bedecked with bushy white eyebrows, wore an amiability that hid the ethics of a snake. He was a stout Piero supporter, leader of the traditionalists, rather stupid. Whatever his private opinion of Oliva, he would defend her against Berlice supporters because Piero would want him to.
“My lord Giordano,” Oliva greeted him as he bowed. “How nice to see you. Councillor Berlice, you look well.” Considering your age.
Then she shut up. This little get-together was their idea. Let them talk.
Berlice said, “Lady Oliva, we are all aware that the lord doge is most grievously sick and unlikely to recover. Is this not so?”
Oliva nodded. She had kept the elders away from Piero’s sickroom for half a year, but to deny the truth any longer would be absurd.
“The council is concerned about the succession,” Giordano rumbled. “We asked the Speaker to advise us on the law. She said—”
Quarina objected. “Not ‘the law’! Holy Demern requires us to be obedient to our rulers and adjures them to rule justly. Never does He stipulate who is to rule. In Celebre the doge’s successor is chosen according to custom. My guidance on custom I give as a judge, not as a Speaker.”
Oliva awarded her a sliver of smile and said nothing. Holy writ could not be changed. Custom could.
“The doge is chosen by the council of elders,” Berlice said.
“The day after his predecessor’s funeral,” Oliva added.
Berlice’s smiles could be even thinner than hers. “At which meeting, the dead man casts the first vote. It is the most important vote, because few councils have ever overruled a doge’s posthumous choice.”
The justiciar said, “Five.”
“And how many doges have there been?” Oliva asked.
“Thirty-two chosen by council. Customs were different earlier.”
Pause.
Giordano coughed heavily. “The council has sent us to inquire of the lord Piero who has his dying voice.”
Mostly they wanted to know just how ill he was. They would be shocked. Piero had not spoken or even known his wife in that last two thirties. Any breath could be his last. As soon as the elders had established that, they would appoint a more suitable regent than Oliva Assichie-Celebre, daughter of a very minor house.
Berlice said, “Custom decrees that the nearest adult male relative shall succeed, but there is no such man available in this instance—yet.” Then she drove in the knife. “Because lord Chies is not yet of age.”
Meaning, Because lord Chies is not of the House of Celebre. Anyone could tell just by looking at him that Chies was Stralg’s. At the turn-of-the-year sacrifice, he would come of age—only yesterday Oliva had helped him choose the insignia for his seal, which was now being carved. He would be the youngest new man in the temple, for he had been born only hours before the end of his actual birth year, but such was the custom in Celebre. The council might not give a sixteen-year-old doge free rein, but he would be eligible to wear the coronet if the elders so wanted.
Had the honorable elders really come to ask if Oliva was ready to declare her youngest child a bastard and disinherit him? Chies would appeal to Stralg. The councillors must know that they were irrelevant as long as the Fist had a vote.
“The lord doge has given me no instructions,” Oliva said.
“Has the bloodlord?” Berlice asked in a voice like an envenomed stiletto.
“No. A year ago we asked him to return the children he took as hostages, and he promised to bring back at least one, probably lord Dantio, our eldest.”
Eyes turned to look at the drizzle and the sodden gardens.
“They cannot arrive before dry season now,” Berlice said.
Oliva sighed. “No. And the doge cannot help you. Put the question to him if you wish. It will be only a formality. He will not hear you.”
“Indeed? How long has he been in this condition?” Berlice meant, When did you usurp the throne?
“It happened gradually,” Oliva spoke as civilly as she could manage. “The doge gave his seal to me and my authority stands until he revokes it or returns to the womb. Is that not correct, Speaker?”
Quarina nodded. “That is the custom of the city.”
“You have done a fine job, my lady,” Giordano said, jowls wiggling. “In very trying times, too. We are all in your debt.”
Berlice made no sound, but her expression was expressive.
Oliva said, “My lord is kind. If you will come with me? I should prefer that we go unattended.”
She led them across the great hall, out into windy, shadowed corridors … servants falling to their knees and bowing heads until the nobility passed … the sad stillness of a house in mourning …
“My husband directed that the state bedchamber not be used as a sickroom,” she explained, in case the delegation assumed that this was her idea. In fact the state bedchamber was where the most valuable pieces of the du
cal art collection were kept. It had been kept shut up for years and apparently Stralg had never learned of it. In accepting the surrender of the city, he had guaranteed no looting, but had he ever seen the treasures in there he would certainly have smashed the treaty tablets and helped himself.
Piero’s sickroom was so small that there was little space to move around the tiny cot on which the dying man lay like a discarded rag doll—a skull face on a pillow, and a barely perceptible shape below the sheet. The air was hot and heavy with the reek of godswood braziers, plus a sour scent of death. On a stool at one side of the bed sat a brown-robed, hooded Mercy, holding the patient’s hand, although for the last two thirties he had been unresponsive even to the Nulists. He was beyond pain. The woman looked up and nodded respectfully, but did not rise.
On the other side of the bed, arms on thighs and head bowed in sorrow, sat a large young man. He sprang to his feet as if startled, then hastily bowed to Oliva and each visitor in turn. He even got the order of precedence right.
Chies never came here! How had he known the elders were coming today? The reason his own mother had failed to recognize him for a moment was that he was draped in an adult chlamys, to which he was not yet entitled. A simple ivory pin fastened it at his right shoulder and the sheet itself was of unbleached linen, quite unlike the rich brocade he favored for his usual loincloths. The dagger at his side was plain bronze, without as much as an alabaster pommel to decorate it, and hung on a simple cord, not even a leather belt. When had she ever seen him wearing no jewelry at all, not even a ring?
She was staggered. Was this the rebellious adolescent pest she fought with every day? The hellion who threw up in corridors, who consorted with street girls and ice devil Werists? He was still slim, of course, but the drapery of the chlamys masked his skinniness, and he was much taller than lord Giordano, who was no mouse. The great hooked Stralg nose no longer seemed so absurd, now that he was gaining the chin and shoulders to justify it.