Mother of Lies (27 page)

“Not at all!” Horth said cheerfully. “He volunteered the information. He mentioned that the pass was now closed for the season. All the traders and all his cult brothers have already gone seaward. Pathfinders are restless folk, never staying in one place for long. And they cannot be bribed, my dear, any more than Werists can. If Hermesk says he is not going, then he is not going, and that is that.”

“Oh.” She huddled small while she brooded over this news. “Why can’t they be bribed?” she asked suspiciously. Bribery was one thing Horth could do better than anyone.

“I told you! They never stay anywhere long. They had to keep moving. Wanderlust is their corban. Wealth is just useless baggage for them to carry and real estate would tie them down.” Horth put an arm around her, an unusual intimacy from him. “So you need not worry any more, my dear. Spring is a long time off, and we shall have each other until then. In summer we shall know more of what is happening in your homeland. And if you still feel that you should accompany your brothers … Perhaps separation will not seem as hard a blow when we have had time to prepare for it.”

He had had half a year to prepare for it already. He was refusing to face facts. Go all the way back to Skjar just to turn around and come back here?

“You’re overlooking something, Father.”

“What?”

“Saltaja. Saltaja has escaped. I mean
if
Saltaja has escaped, then Arbanerik will never catch her. No matter what the risk, she’ll make a run for Florengia. Saltaja is the power behind the sons of Hrag and if she can link up with Stralg, then she may manage to turn the war around. Even if all she does is hold off the Mutineer for a while, that delay will increase the danger to Celebre.” Once Saltaja reached Nardalborg she would have Cutrath to work on—Shaping worked best on blood relatives, she had said—and who could tell how many monsters Stralg had spawned?

Horth smiled blandly. “I fail to see the connection.” He was denying the unpalatable again.

“Orlad and Dantio can’t handle her. It takes a woman to deal with a woman.” Even if the boys outside were listening, that was innocent enough.

“Fabia!” Horth said sternly. “The lady Saltaja can be harsh, I admit, but I refuse to countenance those foul slanders about her. If she were what you are hinting, she would have been brought to book years ago. I certainly fail to see that she is any business of yours. Lord Dantio and lord Orlando are much better equipped to deal with her, whatever her talents or loyalties or gender.
Even
,” he insisted when she tried to interrupt, “if you were a Chosen yourself and wished to oppose the lady, instead of aiding her and her Ancient Mistress, your powers and experience would be so much less than hers that you could not possibly hope to prevail against her.”

That was as far as he could go to admitting the truth he had guessed. And what did Fabia tell him now—that she had already slain four men? That it was she who had made the seer’s rescue possible last night? He would not hear what he did not wish to hear.

“Whatever happened to Quera, Father?”

He jerked away from her. “Who?”

“Quera, the woman who nursed Mother after Saltaja’s men beat her. I have heard rumors that you had her impaled.”

“Impaled?”
he squealed. “Fabia, how you could you possibly suspect me of such an appalling thing? I threw her out the door myself. In fact, I recall that you were there. You saw me do it!”

She nodded sadly. She was convinced now that he was lying, although that did not necessarily mean that Verk had known the true story. Horth himself might not. He paid other people to do his dirty work for him, so he need never know the details. Had Paola helped him that way? He would certainly never say just what services his Chosen beloved had performed to forward his career. Loving support or outright murder or something in between? Xaran might tell, if asked, but Xaran was the Mother of Lies.

When Fabia did not speak, Horth said, “It is starting to rain again. We must invite those fine young men inside. They won’t do much of a job of guarding us if they have to keep stopping to sneeze.” He rose and shuffled over to the door. The discussion was over.

At sunset, Fabia and Horth set out for the Panthers’ mess with their escort of juvenile strong-arms. She reveled in the sensation of being clean and well-dressed again, even if the muddy, root-infested roadway forced her to wear clumsy boots. Another light shower seemed to justify trying out her sable cloak and hat, but they were much too warm for the weather. They were Ice wear, originally intended for merchants heading over the Edge and cut down to fit her.

Sounds of drunken singing floated through the town, and she saw several exuberant Heroes staggering along the road, most supported by women in Nymphs’ red wraps. Once something streaked across the trail a few paces ahead of her—two somethings, giant cats, pale gold. Before she had time to scream, they vanished around a corner. They had been wearing brass collars. Her probationer bodyguards yelled “Runners!” and began gabbling about messengers from Hordeleader Arbanerik bringing news of the battle.

The mess was a circular building, large enough to seat four sixty men. A fire crackled on the central hearth of undressed boulders and a ceiling of white smoke hung just about head height, moving in uneasy swells like an inverted ocean, dribbling out through the thatch reluctantly, as if it would rather stay and attend the meeting. The floor was packed dirt, booby-trapped with tree roots, and the windows were open slots. There were no tables and the benches were merely split logs lashed on to stumps, so they were located at random and most had a slight slope—everything about High Timber was temporary. The only people present were Dantio, Orlad, and the man Fabia had seen earlier, whom Horth had named as Pathfinder Hermesk. From their stiff postures and the way they were spread out around the center, they had not been engaged in a cozy chat.

Wearing a pall of green, blue, and red, Orlad scowled at Horth, but told the probationers. “You can go, maggots. Give my thanks to your herder, and when you wake up dying, remember I told you not to drink so much.” The boys buzzed out the door like bees from a hive.

Dantio remained tactfully inscrutable. He wore a scuffed jerkin and well-worn linen trousers too short for him.

The Pathfinder looked like an elderly woodsman or farmer, tall and spare, with a face well-weathered, almost haggard. The tip of his nose was missing, as was the top of one ear. When he spoke, his mouth twisted to one side. As a cultist, he had high status and wore a seal on his wrist, but his clothes were shabby leathers. Horth introduced him to Fabia.

He did not stand up. “I am honored to meet the daughter of Ucrist Horth. I have often had the privilege of serving him.”

“He speaks highly of you, Pathfinder.” Fabia spread her robe on a bench for Horth to share with her.

“I brought the Pathfinder along,” Orlad said, “in the hope of convincing him our mission is urgent.”

Hermesk’s smile was dangerously close to a sneer. “Brought me by the scruff of the neck! Perhaps you, young lady, can convince your impetuous brother that urgency is irrelevant when no one will be crossing the Edge now before spring? In fact I am here because Nils Frathson asked me to be here. Otherwise I would have already left High Timber. My canoe is packed, ready to go. We Pathfinders have restless feet, always eager to walk new roads.”

Anyone who addressed Fabia Celebre as “young lady” was taking unnecessary risks. “How about the other pass? If Saltaja has escaped as far as Nardalborg, can she cross the Ice from there?”

“She can certainly try, of course. Whether she succeeds will depend on holy Weru, Who is god of storms. I do not predict His whims.” The Pathfinder sighed with exaggerated patience. “Holy Hrada guides me. I never lose my way, but I cannot move through snow or quicksand any faster than you extrinsics can. I can freeze or starve like other mortals.” He held up his hands, displaying a total of six fingers. “I know the Edge as well as any, and it is deadly. I have lost most of my toes, also, and this sinister leer of mine was another brush with frostbite. I am sympathetic to the flankleader’s impatience, but I decline to commit suicide.”

Fabia now understood why Orlad looked so grumpy. “Nardalborg Pass is well furnished with shelters, I understand, and the shelters are provisioned.”

“Then the lady Saltaja may win her gamble.”

“Would it be possible for us to slip past Nardalborg before she sets out? Could we get ahead of her?”

Orlad said, “Never! That’s stupid! Nardalborg was built where it is to guard the road. There are bogs on one side and a canyon on the other. I suppose you might find another way over the moors, but it would take you days. You would need good weather; and then the patrols would see you.”

So much for her efforts to be helpful. “And there is no one in High Timber except you, Pathfinder, who can guide us over Varakats Pass? No merchants?”

This time it was Horth who smacked her down. “I told you the merchants have all gone seaward, dear.”

“Packed their boats and gone,” Hermesk agreed.

Fabia had her back to the door and jumped when a man moved in silently around the end of her bench. He was a brass-collared, pall-wrapped Werist, but a Florengian. He sat down beside Orlad.

“Any luck?” Orlad asked.

The newcomer shook his head.

Then came the shock of recognition. Waels had a whole new skin. His birthmark had gone. His close-cropped beard and hair were jet black.

“Have you been
dyeing
yourself, my lord?” Horth asked.

“No.” The changeling beamed. “Aren’t I beautiful? Orlad thinks I am, don’t you?” He flinched at Orlad’s glare and muttered, “My lord is kind.”

There were a lot of emotional breezes eddying around this evening.

“How did you do that?” Fabia demanded.

“I didn’t. Benard did.”

“Should have guessed!” Nobody produced random miracles as casually as Benard seemed to.

Dantio had been leaning forearms on knees, glumly staring at the ground. Now he looked up. “Our brother is on his way here from the bathhouse, with six angry Heroes in pursuit.”

Waels laughed. “All still the same pretty pink?”

“But with mud in their hair. Ah! Lady Ingeld!”

All the men rose and bowed to the Daughter. Even the Pathfinder did. She was introduced to him and chose a nearby bench to share with her usual shadow, old Packleader Guthlag.

Fabia asked, “Is Benard completely recovered, my lady?”

“Yes, thank holy Sinura! He is still badly bruised. The Healers admit that they did not think their goddess would save him. Witness Tranquility is resting, but insists that she feels no ill effects.”

“And you are planning to return to Kosord?”

Ingeld smiled wistfully. “I have no choice, my dear! I must go home, just as you must follow your destiny and head for Celebre. And Benard will not abandon his unborn daughter.”

“Will not abandon you, you mean. I have rarely seen a man so in love.”

Dantio rose and stepped over to Fabia, holding out a hand. Puzzled, she responded. He merely touched her fingers, went to Orlad, repeated the gesture; then resumed his seat. “There is something you should know, both of you. You will respect our confidence, Master Pathfinder?”

“You wish me to leave?” Hermesk asked stiffly.

“No, I rely on you to be discreet.” Dantio looked around the group. “I congratulated Benard on his recovery tonight, just before Orlad’s horde carried him off to the bathhouse. When I hugged him, I learned that he has lost his seasoning. I don’t know when the change happened, but I suspect it was when he snared Horold. Or it may have been in the bathhouse with Waels. He still had it when we left Tryfors.”

There was a puzzled pause until Ingeld appointed herself spokesperson.

“What does it mean, though?”

“I don’t know,” the seer said. “I honestly do not know. Seasoning is very rare, very mysterious. I
think
it means that Benard has done everything he ever can to change the world. He had his chance at glory and he took it. I don’t think it means he is about to die.” He shrugged. “But even that I don’t know. Seers do not prophesy. Orlad and Fabia still have theirs.”

“And you?” Orlad barked.

“I can’t taste my own flavor, brother.”

“So what does Witness Tranquility say?” Waels asked softly.

Dantio’s chuckle sounded forced. “A Werist with brains is against nature! Yes, mine has gone also. It’s up to Orlad and Fabia from now on. Ah, listen!”

Orlad frowned suspiciously. “Cheering?”

“Certainly cheering! Two runners arrived in town a little while ago, probably from Arbanerik. They reported to Huntleader Nils and he went over to Revengers’ Mess, where the remains of the celebration is collapsing into a collective stupor. Whatever his news is, they have stopped heaving long enough to cheer it.”

“You could hear what he said, couldn’t you?”

The seer smiled. “Well, yes, but I’ll let him tell you. He’s on his way. Have you met him yet, Fabia?”

She shook her head.

“Nils Thranson and Hordeleader Arbanerik are lifelong friends. They trained together, were initiated together, crossed the Edge in the same summer. They were even disabled the same day, in the ambush at Merilan, which was the Mutineer’s first big victory. Arbanerik’s arm was torn off, and Nils lost half his face. Orlad will tell you that one-eyed Werists and one-armed Werists are equally useless. Both men were invalided back to Vigaelia. They founded New Dawn together. And here comes our sculptor. No more miracles, brother?”

Benard loomed in from the gathering dusk and went straight to Ingeld’s side. He was soaking wet and scowling ferociously.

“No! They wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t
do
anything to Waels, the goddess did it, and all I could ever do was
ask
, and he was special. They made me ask Her for each and every one of them!”

“Why is Waels special?” Fabia asked.

“Ask him. Or ask Orlad. Stupid, bone-headed …” Benard’s growl faded into angry muttering as the rest of Orlad’s men trooped in. They were all still Vigaelian pink, apparently unhappily so.