Mother of Lies (11 page)

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.”

“Amen to that!” Orlad shouted.

Dantio said. “There is fighting in Tryfors!”

“Who?” Orlad snapped. “Who is fighting?”

“I can’t tell at this distance. But it has started.”

SALTAJA HRAGSDOR

emerged from her room and told Ern to stay there on guard. Humming happily, she set off in the same direction Fellard had gone. This was going to work out very well, advantage snatched from the jaws of adversity.

Fabia’s escape required a change of plan. In retrospect, Saltaja should have taken the girl into her confidence sooner, but in all her long lifetime, she had never admitted to anyone that she was a Chosen—that was a quick way to a living grave. There had been no way of testing the girl on the river, and it was too late to unchurn that butter now, however helpful it would have been to have a second chthonian in the family. Stralg would have to do the best he could about Celebre without any of the doge’s children—and if the war was heading that way, the city would probably not survive anyway.

No, Saltaja would have to summon Cutrath back from Nardalborg and shape him herself. A wife could have given him the years of care required, but the long journey downstream to Kosord would have to suffice. She chuckled, wondering what her traveling companions would think of a young Werist who sat so close to his dear aunt all day and every day. Cutrath should be happy enough at the change of plan; a Werist would have to be insane to prefer a posting to Florengia nowadays, and her nephew had never struck Saltaja as insane. Petty, mean, and nasty, yes, but not insane. The family was not done for yet—there was the unknown Heth bastard, whom Therek was hiding from her, and probably a few Stralg by-blows growing up in Florengia. Stralg never acknowledged his bastards, but he must have sired a host of them in his time.

She stepped out into the herb garden—sodden, waist-high undergrowth and rain dribbling from foliage overhead, an unmistakable sense of evil. By the time she had forced her way through the jungle to a far corner and found a secluded nook between two trunks, her clothing was soaked through. There she veiled herself, spinning darkness until the court faded into gray around her and no one would notice her unless they actually walked into her. She stripped naked, then knelt and dug her fingers into the soil.