Mother of Lies (10 page)

“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.

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!”