by Dave Duncan
It took a little while, but she eventually overruled Guthlag’s protests.
For the next pot-boiling or so, Ingeld just sat with her eyes closed and prayed. Praying to Veslih in an open boat was extremely difficult. The sense of warmth and comfort she normally experienced was erratic and intermittent there, but she could hardly ask the riverfolk to build a fire for her. She must return today, because the Festival of Demern had ended and the skies were clear. These were the Dark Days, unofficially regarded as belonging to the Evil One. She was convinced that Nartiash would rise tomorrow, and the city needed her there to declare the turn of the year as her foremothers had done for six sixty years. And then Consort Benard could proclaim the feast.
Even in the Dark Days, it was exceedingly rare to see the city frontage deserted, and yet Joy of Return passed not a single moored boat as she came in. There were people, more people than Ingeld could ever remember seeing. The entire population of the city seemed to be standing along the levee, starting well outside the city proper. They knew her robes and her red hair dancing in the wind, and they sang for her. It began unevenly, a single childish voice barely audible in the wind, completely unplanned, but at once other voices took up the refrain. It swelled as she passed the hovels of the poor on the outskirts. By the time she was level with the first of the great trading warehouses, it was a steady, unanimous choir.
They sang none of the great hymns to Veslih, neither a joyful welcome nor a triumphant victory song. Over and over they sang “Ambilanha,” an old and simple folk song calling for a lover taken by the river, ambiguously vague as to whether the singer was man or woman, and the lover gone on a journey or simply dead. It seemed strangely inappropriate, and yet it filled her eyes with tears.
Captain Mog had no choice of berth. The river was at its lowest now, so only the main traders’ docks were accessible to even the smallest riverboats. Moreover, there was only one place his passengers could easily disembark because the bank was everywhere walled with people except for a gap in front of the Temple of Ucr in the center of the trading district. In this gap, a decorated arch of welcome stood forlorn and pathetic with its feathers and gaudy bunting fluttering in the breeze. The steps below it had been kept empty for the dynast’s return—some effort had even been made to wash them. Two boys stood ready to catch the lines and bend them to the bollards.
Ardial and Benard helped her disembark. Oliva was already making Ingeld unsteady on her feet, and the stairs seemed unnecessarily long. She took them slowly, leaning on Benard’s arm. At their side walked Speaker Ardial in his black robes and permanently bloodless expression. A Speaker was safe enough. Even Stralg had been content to drive Ardial out of the city, when he would have put an extrinsic ruler to death. Witness Tranquility followed them up, carrying her distaff and spindle to record the dynast’s return.
Still the people chanted “Ambilanha.”
Ingeld paused at the top to catch her breath, to survey the enemy, and to smile at the crowd. The arch proved that someone had planned a public welcome. Beyond it, a band with trumpets and drums stood in glum silence, making no effort to overrule the “Ambilanha” dirge. And there was a wagon with a throne on it, all brightly decorated, the sort of contrivance the Lamb Queen rode in at the Festival of Nastrar. The ropes that would draw the wagon lay deserted on the roadway, and the children who would pull them were nowhere to be seen. There was no sign of Sansya or the senior priests and priestesses, the heads of cults and guilds and senior families, all of whom should have been here to greet her.
The great crowd was held back, upstream and downstream, by walls of massed Heroes, at least six deep, perhaps a mustering of the entire city horde. And in the center of the open space stood the self-proclaimed horde-leader, Jarkard Karson, backed up by a dozen Werists—presumably the Benard execution squad, Yabro’s hard cases who didn’t like Florengians. They were all smiling eagerly.
Benard’s hand on her arm was steady, but icy cold. He kept it there as they walked forward and the chanting crumpled away into silence.
Ingeld stopped several paces back from Jarkard. “Return your men to barracks, Huntleader. They are not required.”
Jarkard was big, of course, but more bloated than beefy. Either he had practiced long and hard, or his face had come with a built-in sneer. “They are here to witness our marriage. I see you brought a Speaker. How considerate!”
“He is here to administer your oath of loyalty.”
“Then he will be disappointed.” He pointed at Benard. “You, boy, will leave now. I will count to three.”
“And I,” Ingeld said, “shall count to two.” No need to delay. Either the goddess would support her or She wouldn’t.
“You can count anything you like, my sweet,” the Werist said. Was there a hint of hesitation in his puffy eyes?
Nasty though he was, Ingeld would prefer not to kill him. “Do not provoke my wrath!”
Jarkard’s sneer remained unruffled. “One!”
“One!” Ingeld echoed. “I warn you for the last time.”
“Two!”
“Two!”
Jarkard opened his mouth to say “Three” and Ingeld laid the curse of Veslih on him. He did not so much burn as erupt, as if he had been struck by lightning. His pall and skin charred instantly. A tower of red flame hurtled upward, then his head and belly exploded in fire and steam. His escort leaped back in horror, and every throat in the city cried out—except Be-nard’s, because he had been forewarned, but his grip nearly crushed Ingeld’s forearm. The crowds, even the Werists, fell to their knees in the presence of the goddess. In moments Hordeleader Jarkard was reduced to a smoking, reeking litter of charred bones.
Ingeld was shivering with the relief of tension. She had never cursed a human being before. Once she had dealt with a mad dog, but she had not been certain that she could bring herself to kill a man. Her grandmother had done so twice, reputedly. The crowd was moaning and weeping.
“Dramatic!” Ardial said dryly. “Twenty-seven years ago you did not treat Stralg so harshly.”
Ingeld bit her lip. What could she respond to that? I love Benard but did not love you? Or perhaps, Horold was handsome and you were not? Even, I was only a child back then? She said, “Oliva will need her father, Ardial.” That felt nearest the truth.
“It is unfortunate you did not burn the Fist, though. The world has suffered much since then.”
“I am sure you could quote me a number of texts about missed opportunities. Witness,” Ingeld added quietly, “will there be more challenges?”
Behind her, Tranquility laughed. “Not a peep, my lady.”
“You!” Benard bellowed. “Flankleader! Get those men back to barracks! All of them. Do you want to be next? Bandleader, play!”
The cheering began, rising to a roar and drowning out the brazen shriek of trumpets. Consort and dynast walked forward to the wagon. As they passed the cinders, Ingeld averted her eyes and met Benard’s loving gaze. Those artist’s eyes—dark Vigaelian eyes—missed nothing, not her nausea, her relief, her shame, her joy. His great hand tightened around hers
“Well done!” he said admiringly. “You didn’t warn me you were going to melt his collar.”
“Horrible!”
“But necessary. And there won’t be any more. Everything will be all right now.”
FABIA CELEBRE
had never seen anything as flat as her first view of Florengia. The floodplain of the Wrogg at Kosord had been mountainous by comparison. Dantio called this the Altiplano, and it looked as if it had been raked and rolled, fine gravel stretching off in all directions forever, coated with brownish lichen, not one blade of grass anywhere. Behind them, a ruled white line below the indigo sky marked the Ice they had left two days ago, but even the Ice had been much smoother on this side of the Edge than in Vigaelia. Straight as a javelin, the trail ran ahead, a line of different color rutted by wheels and stained by many years’ animal droppings. Beyond it the world ended in the usual mistiness of the
wall, with just faint hints of very distant hills visible late in the day, when the sun was at Fabia’s back. Every fresh heap of dung was a landmark, and proof that the pass was still being provisioned and patrolled.
A new world and a new year. This morning at sunrise, Dantio had pointed out the holy star Nartiash, whose heliacal rising heralded the turning of the year.
The constant eye-watering cold wind was one problem and Dantio’s limp another, but the gravest concern was water. The shelter at First Ice had been stocked with shabby leather canteens, obviously left there so travelers would know to fill them at the seasonal meltwater pools. There had been nothing at last night’s shelter except timber windbreaks and some jars of pemmican. Now the second day was drawing to a close and the canteens were running dry. The world ahead was flat gravel and more flat gravel.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Waels asked, yet again. The joke had worn as thin as the soles of Fabia’s boots. If he weren’t a Werist, someone would hit him.
“It is not known,” Dantio said, “but it is suspected, that we are nearly somewhere. There’s a dip ahead. I can’t see it, but I can sense it, just barely.”
Waels did something that briefly made his face twist out of shape and his eyes bulge. “Bless my fangs and talons! You’re right.”
Fabia wondered what they would they do when they got “there,” wherever “there” was. Veritano, the Florengian equivalent of Nardalborg, was supposedly a smaller settlement. They had hoped to slip past it unseen, for it would be manned by Stralg’s men, but on this terrain a mouse would be conspicuous.
“Has anyone thought up a good fable yet?” Dantio asked the landscape, tactfully not asking Fabia directly.
Xaran was the Mother of Lies. If anybody could think up a workable cover story, it should be the family Chosen. Fabia had prayed for guidance in the night, but none had come. She was in little danger because she could claim to be a hostage from some obscure place on the far side of the Face. Dantio was merely an escaped slave. But Orlad and Waels would have to talk very fast to convince any Vigaelian Werists they met that they were not Cavotti rebels.
“Not me,” she said. “I can only suggest we tell the truth and call for a seer to verify it.”
“Stralg can’t have many seers left. I very much doubt that he’ll have one stationed out here.”
Waels sighed. “Pity to come all this way just to bleed to death.”
“If the gods are kind,” Orlad said, “there will be someone at Veritano who knew us back at Nardalborg.”
“And what do I say when they ask why I changed color?”
“Look blank and say, ‘I did?’”
From Orlad that was good repartee, so the others laughed.
“You had better start practicing,” Dantio said, “because we are about to have company. Dust ahead.”
This time both Werist faces deformed, their eyes swelling until Fabia turned away, unwilling to watch.
“Chariots. I make it six, my lord.”
“Six it is. A flank on patrol.” After a moment Orlad added, “But they’re Florengians. We don’t have to bleed yet.”
The chariots were low wickerwork structures on two wheels, drawn by teams of four furry things like long-legged, long-necked black sheep. Although smaller than onagers, they could move their little hooves to good effect. Each car carried two brown-skinned young men. They bore no visible weapons, but brass collars encircled their necks and their black hair and beards were close-cropped. Three chariots turned off to one side and two to the other. The leader pulled up in the road ahead, the driver turning the car at the last moment so his superior could look down at the strangers instead of having to stare along the length of his team.
These Werists wore what seemed to be wool blankets, draped over the left shoulder and pinned on their right side, so they left the right arm bare and covered the other down to the elbow. The leader’s was blue and the others’ brown.
The leader looked over the filthy, ragged, and hairy wayfarers with distaste. “What have we here? Deserters?”
“My lord,” Dantio said, “you are a welcome sight! I am a Witness of Mayn.”
The flankleader raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he tucked his left hand behind his back.
“Two,” Dantio said. “Three. Thumb only. All five now.”
“So you are!”
“And we always speak truth.”
“So they say. Welcome back to Florengia, Witness. I am Flankleader Felice Serpanti, proud to serve in the Liberators.”
Dantio was grinning all over, like a boy left to guard a sweetmeat stall. “It is good to be back! I am Dantio Celebre, eldest son of Doge Piero. Orlad Celebre, my brother, formerly a flankleader in the Tryfors Host, now his own man. Hero Waels Borkson, his liegeman. Lady Fabia Celebre, our sister.”
“Welcome all!” Felice looked to his driver, whose eyes were wide with astonishment. “Know any of them, Dimo?”
Dimo was younger and slighter, his beard patchy. His steady stare at Fabia was flattering, especially considering how rumpled she was from her travels. “No, my lord. Before my time. But the doge did have four children taken hostage.”
“Now we are back,” Dantio said. “Three of us. I gather that Veritano has fallen to the, er, forces of freedom?”
“Last night. And the Mutineer plans to burn it tomorrow. Your timing is admirably chosen, lord Dantio.”
“Praise the gods! How goes the war? Our father?”
“The war goes well, but the ice devils have not been brought to bay yet. The doge still lingers, I think. Right, Dimo?”
The boy nodded. “The girl looks very like Dogaressa Oliva, lord.”
“The war goes very well beyond the Edge,” Dantio said. “We bring wonderful news. Do I gather that the Mutineer himself is at Veritano?”
Felice laughed uneasily. “I did not say that. Is there anyone behind you?”
“No. We burned the bridge at Fist’s Leap and closed the pass.”
If a seer said so, it must be true. Fabia had not told the others about her nightmares.
The flankleader said, “Weru’s b—buttocks! Closed the pass? I am going to take all four of you to Veritano directly.” He took the reins from his driver. “Dimo, you can have the honor of reporting that we are returning.”
“My lord is kind.” Dimo turned and was gone in a swirl of cloth. He dove from the chariot, hitting the gravel with two front paws, and a black warbeast streaked off over the plain. The furry things shied, tossing their heads and humming oddly, but they did not panic as onagers would have done. Felice, who had caught the brown chlamys before it dropped, bundled it up and put it at his feet inside the car.
The tension had eased. Felice barked out commands to the rest of his men. Men sprang down from chariots when he named them. His dark eyes looked over the visitors and settled on Fabia with a smile that showed white, regular teeth and an invitation to flirt. Florengia must be full of young men with that glowing brown skin, although surely few of them would show it off as well as this one. For far too long she had been limited to the company of men who were not interested.
He offered a hand. “Lady Fabia? Will you honor me?” Realizing that she had no further use for the smelly, dirty bedroll she had carried so long, she tossed it aside and accepted his hand up. She grabbed the rail as a flip of his reins sent the rig shooting forward. The car was small enough to be intimate and would be a tight squeeze for two big Heroes.
“All right?” He wrapped an arm around her, enveloping her in his chlamys.
“Quite all right, thank you, Flankleader. I am no stranger to chariots.”
“Pity.” He left his arm behind her, but gripped the rail instead of her, which was an acceptable compromise. Why did he bother? She had never felt so like a midden in her life. Her clothes were rotting off her. Her hair, her skin …
“You actually walked over Veritano Pass, all the way?”
“My boorish brothers refused to carry me.” The chariot rode more smooth
ly than hers had, back in Skjar, although the flatness of the terrain helped. Three more teams were following, leaving two chariots and seven men stranded on the Altiplano until another party could be sent to pick them up. “Marno Cavotti is here, at Veritano?”
“I did not say so.” His smile said so.
Incredible fortune! Or was it? Cavotti would soon devise his own plans for the Celebre hostages, and their own wishes might not carry much weight.
“He will be surprised to meet us.”
“Yes, even Marno could not expect to find you here. Of course,” the flankleader added mischievously, “he may have some surprises for you, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wait and see.”
“How long does it take to go from Veritano to Celebre?”
“About a sixday by chariot. The Mutineer can do it in less, but he needs many relays of guanacos.”
“I must go to my mother,” she said, feeling a sudden lump in her throat. Not that she could remember Oliva. It must be the idea of motherhood that affected her—that, and pity for a woman whose life had been so blighted. “I was only a baby when I was torn from her arms. And now my father is dying. This just doesn’t feel real.”
“Our news is a few days old, but the last I heard, the Liberators and ice devils were still feinting at each other near Celebre. So far neither has tried to occupy the city. I heard the … heard someone say just last night that Celebre could be critical. There will have to be one big battle before this thing is over.”
“What will you do with the prisoners when it is over?”
Felice’s face hardened. “I don’t know that word. Prisoners?”
That was a chilling reminder that she was in a war zone, and not a mere bystander either, if Celebre was important.
The road dipped into a gully, which rapidly widened and began to wind, heading steeply downward. Side gullies merged with it. When the trail grew rough, Felice slowed the team, but not so much that he and his passenger would not be bounced together at every lurch. He wrapped his arm around her again, holding all the reins in one large hand and letting the guanacos follow the trail more or less by themselves, taking corners on one wheel. She knew he was showing off, but she was impressed anyway. The cliffs grew higher, sculpted into bizarre pinnacles and towers. Patches of green appeared, brightening the arid ground.