Mother of Lies (21 page)

She unlaced the door and peered out. The fire pit was a faint glow of embers, the only landmark, because clouds had covered the stars. Extrinsics would be effectively blind. The seer would not be and probably not Orlad if he battleformed. Even Benard, when he had rescued her in Tryfors, had been very sure of his way through the dark streets, so his gentle goddess might help him see in the dark, too. The bright side of the darkness was that a Florengian would need very little veiling to be completely invisible to sentries, both Horold’s and Orlad’s. A reconnaissance should be in order, or at least a preliminary look at what a reconnaissance would involve. It would be horribly easy to get lost in a maze of scrubby little islands with no stars to guide her.

Oh! So
that
was what the dream had been telling her!

She whispered a prayer of veiling, cloaking herself in darkness more impenetrable than any she ever had tried before. Then she slipped out of the tent and picked her way carefully through the prickly undergrowth to where
Free Spirit
had been beached. If Orlad had posted sentries, none of them would see the naked Florengian moving through the night.

The water was cold, but not impossibly so. She stepped in, treading squishy mud and weeds, until the channel was deep enough to swim. Even then she kept her head above water and floated in a sort of crouch, propelling herself with her feet. There was just enough current to tell upstream from down even with no stars visible. If she was detected, she could vanish into the dark waters just as her dream self had escaped from Saltaja. Werists could not track in water.

They could probably turn into seals or lobsters if they had to, though. And finding her way back was going to be a lot trickier than she had expected. She had forgotten just how many islands and channels there were. Sometimes she found open water, wide and deep, and had to swim. At other times the branch she was following twisted around or died out in a tangle of weeds and mud, forcing her to backtrack. She passed a score of beached or tethered boats, many of them solitary and easily mistaken for
Free Spirit
. Then suddenly both sides of the channel were lined with them and she knew she had arrived at the Heroes’ camp. She put her feet down and paused to consider the problem. The boats had been beached along one side, tied up on the other, where the bank was steeper and the water deeper. But which one did she need?

Why had she been such a fool as to come alone? She should have gone to Dantio and Orlad and told them her brainwave about swimming. Then she could have gone back to bed and left them to handle the heroics. But obviously they had thought of it for themselves, because there they were—under some shrubbery at the deep side of the channel, chin deep, four eyes and four rows of teeth gleaming in the night. They were staring across at the far bank, obviously balked.

She was equally stymied, because she did not know which boat contained the prisoner. Dantio would. She considered revealing herself and decided to investigate first. She slid away into the water, across to the shallows, then floated, walking on her arms, until she came to the boats. They had been pulled up in a herringbone pattern, sterns still in the river, bows ashore. She sat down between the first and second, with only her head above water. Now what? Four sixty Werists within half a bowshot were not good odds. And the sky was starting to brighten in what must be the east.

She thought back to her vision.
Control works best when there are blood ties.
But it would work with strangers, too. She had Controlled Pukar. She had watched Saltaja Control sentries in Therek’s palace. Those doomed boys kneeling in the cavern had been under Control. Fabia could deal with the guards if she could locate them. Well, the Mother of All must be able to find Her children.

Guide me, I pray You, holy Xaran. Show Your servant where the …

Where the what? Guards? Or victims? Perhaps her brothers had brought knives with them, but she had not. Paola had not gone around cutting men’s throats. But if Witness Tranquility escaped from her captivity, there could be no doubt what would happen to any Werist set to guard her. The vision had shown her how the Hrag spawn dealt with negligence, and she could not expect Horold to be more merciful than his mother-sister. Fabia would be killing two men just as surely as she had killed Master Pukar by pushing him into the chasm.

On the other hand, they
were
keeping an old woman chained up. That was an evil act. Besides, they would almost certainly die in the morning, when New Dawn arrived. Were those arguments strong enough to justify murder?

And if Dantio and Orlad tried to rescue Tranquility on their own, they would both get killed. That felt like a better argument. Fabia had to help her brothers. She shivered in the chill air.

Holy Xaran, my goddess, I dedicate their deaths to Your glory. Show me, I pray You, where to find them.

Ah! Now
there
was a familiar river sound! A faint shape was standing upright in the stern of the fourth boat, watering the water.

“I vaguely remember that this thing has other uses,” he confided to the night air. “You suppose Eriander has a temple in Tryfors?”

Fabia lay down and floated, pulling herself closer.

“A garrison town?” said a voice from the bow. “Streets will be full of cuddlies. I’m planning to set a world record the first night.”

“Follow my arse,” said the man in the stern. “’Tween you and me, Truk m’boy, I’m not too happy at getting so close to Nardalborg. Got a feeling the satrap may not take all of us home with him.”

Fabia floated close in under the stern, below the first Werist. When he finished his business and was about to sit down, she stood up and let him see her. He started. He blinked and peered uncertainly at a hazy shape, dark on dark … Then he found her eyes and she had him.

There is nothing here. Sit down and sleep.

It was easy. He was already drowsy and would see no need whatsoever to stand guard over a chained, frail, elderly female prisoner. In a few minutes he was fast asleep.
Deeper!
She waited.

The man in the bow yawned. “Soon be morning. Wonder what time we’ll get to Tryfors?” Then he said, “Mogranth?”

Deeper, Mogranth! Sleep deeper than you ever have.

“Mogranth?” Truk repeated. “Leader’ll have your balls for knucklebones. Moggie! Wake up!”

Silence.

Grumbling, Truk rose and worked his way aft, stepping around cargo and the prostrate seer. “Moggie!” He bent to shake his friend’s shoulder and Fabia scratched the gunwale with her fingernails.

Huh? He looked to see, found two eyes in the darkness …

Sleep!

He grunted, registered a mild alarm …

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

Truk settled like an autumn leaf alongside Mogranth. She drove them both down deep into coma and then drifted away to hide behind another boat, knowing that Dantio had been watching from the far side of the channel and must have seen what had happened, even if he could not be certain why.

“You’re sure?” That was Orlad, who did not know how well even whispers traveled over water.

“You could cut their ears off and they wouldn’t waken.”

In a moment two pairs of eyes came floating over, predatory water beasts stalking prey. The brothers waded ashore between the third and fourth boats. Fabia stood up to watch. They climbed in over the gunwale and Dantio knelt to waken the woman beside the mast. She was white-haired and seemed very small alongside the two men.

“What? Mist, Mist! This is wonderful! I was frightened you might try something like this.” She spoke softly but obviously had no worries of being overheard. “And you are a close relative, so you must be Orlando.”

“Orlad!” Orlad said. “Give me room, Anto.” He took her chain in both hands and strained.

“Where’s Benard? And your sister?”

“Benard’s looking after Ingeld, of course,” Dantio said. “Fabia is around here … somewhere.” He was probably thinking
quite close.

Brother Orlad’s shoulders grew steadily larger until a bronze link snapped with a sharp crack. He chuckled and lifted Witness Tranquility in both arms as if she weighed nothing. With two quick steps he jumped over the side of the boat to land silently on the grass. “You will have to get wet, lady,” he said, wading into the river.

“You think I mind that, Hero? I am so grateful to you both!”

Dantio followed them into the water. “And New Dawn is on its way.”

“Yes, I know,” the woman said. “Can’t you see them?”

A seer had no trouble finding the way back to
Free Spirit
’s camp, and all Fabia had to do now was follow. The mission had been a complete success, and yet the fruits of victory left a sour aftertaste.

She had killed Master Pukar in self-defense when he tried to rape her. She had killed Perag Hrothgatson in an act of justice for his murder of Paola Apicella. Now she had doomed two men to certain death in order to rescue an abused old lady. Each time the rationale grew weaker. Where would it end? Was she fated to become another Queen of Shadows?

HETH HETHSON

was awakened by a faint tap. He had been sleeping soundly through a barrage of much louder raps, squeaks, wails, and creaks as a moorland wind howled around Nardalborg, but this was business. He was off his sleeping platform and across the room before he was truly awake. A dim predawn light showed around the window shutter. He opened the door a finger-width. Inevitably, the caller was Frath Thranson, leader of white pack, which had the guard tonight.

“My lord, perimeter patrol reports a sighting. Seven warbeasts pulling a sled, my lord. Approaching Cleft Rock.”

Heth said, “Wait.” He recrossed the room, shivering now, and by touch found the stool on which his pall lay ready folded. His wife Femund had not moved, but he knew from her breathing that she was awake. Aided by a lifetime’s practice, he wrapped himself while pushing his feet into his shoes.

He had instituted perimeter patrol very soon after being promoted to lead Nardalborg Hunt. Hostleader Therek, who disapproved of anyone else’s ideas on principle, had sneered: “Who are you afraid of?” That was back in the years when the family had stamped out the last opposition in Vigaelia and the Florengian Mutineer was still no more than an annoyance.

Heth had said, “Only holy Weru, my lord. But it keeps the men on their toes and exercises the stock. And if we ever do have concern that some enemy may try to sever our communications with your noble brother, then we shall not have to seem weak by introducing such precautions at that time.”

The satrap had walked away and never mentioned the subject again, which was his way of giving approval. Every night since then, except in truly lethal weather, a team of twelve men and three mammoths had patrolled the environs of Nardalborg.

The door pivots squealed as Heth opened it, and louder as he closed it. Frath handed him a fur cloak.

“When did this wind get up?”

“Very suddenly, my lord. Less than a pot-boiling ago.”

No sane enemy would launch an assault in such a gale, but there might have been no way to recall it once it had started. The two men strode the gloomy corridor with Frath’s lantern dragging their shadows along the stonework.

“You did say a sled?”

“Yes, my lord. Four pulling it, he said, and the others escorting.”

Heth had known his sins would come home to roost eventually. He had just not expected them this soon. It was only two days since he had bundled Flankleader Orlad’s former classmates into a makeshift flank and sent them off to Tryfors to back up the boy if the satrap tried to carry out his mad threats. That had not been the official purpose of the expedition, of course, but the brighter ones had guessed what was required of them. Strictly speaking, Heth had not been disobeying orders, but he had certainly exceeded his authority and sought to frustrate his commanding officer’s intentions. The timing was tight but possible. Counting Orlad, twelve warriors had departed. Only seven returning? The sled might hold wounded, but a Werist either died or healed himself. If he needed to be carried, he had been maimed for life. Heth would have to justify five men lost, not counting casualties on the other side. Therek would have his liver for breakfast. He might find himself leading Caravan Six over the Edge, leaving Femund and the children forever.

His shadow led him up the stairs. Frath followed with his lantern.

Whatever was making them traverse the snowbound moors at night and in battleform? Such a suicidal overexertion could only be justified by a foe breathing on one’s collar. Therek’s men in hot pursuit? The future looked seriously uninviting.

“What flank?”

“Rear, my lord.” Frath’s voice raised hollow echoes in the staircase.

That was good. Flankleader Verinkar was an excellent youngster, first choice to be promoted the next time Nardalborg Hunt needed a packleader. He would keep his head no matter who or what he had met out there.

Because another possibility was that Heth’s old pessimism might be justified at last. For the last two years, he had been picking up rumors of desertions among forces being posted to Florengia and this summer the losses had become blatant. Men had arrived grumbling about whole packs disappearing. One flank coming overland from the south claimed to be the only remnant of an entire hunt that had failed to reach Tryfors. Heth had listened, questioned, and had his tallyman tally for him. Whenever he had tried to discuss the matter with his father, Therek had refused to listen. Heth had even considered sending a letter directly to Saltaja, in Skjar. He might do so yet, as soon as the downstream winds began to blow. That would be a second act of insubordination, but this was his problem more than anyone’s. Desertion on such a scale required an overall conspiracy, a revolution brewing, and in the past rebels had often chosen to start by trying to cut Stralg’s supply line through Nardalborg.