by Dave Duncan
"And Verk found me on Temple! I have never been more glad to see anyone in my life. You must give him a really big gift, Father!"
"I shall indeed!" Horth glanced around and then lowered his voice, excluding the servants. "Did Perag and his men pester you after I left?"
"They forced their filthy kisses on me. I do not like Huntleader Perag Whatever-his-name-is, Father."
"He fouls the world like dog dirt!"
Fabia was startled to see naked hatred flame up in his eyes. She had never known the gentle merchant speak so or look so.
"You know him of old?" she asked cautiously.
"He is suspected of ..." Horth's bland visor dropped back in place, as if he caught himself about to say too much. "... very serious crimes. But no one can prove such allegations."
The Witness had indicted Saltaja's involvement in Paola's death. But what had the satrap's wife to fear from the satrap's justice? With new understanding of Verk's cynicism about Skjaran courts, Fabia sought a safer topic.
"That brute is unimportant. Whatever can we do here? We are ruined! Your ships? The house! Oh, Father, you have lost everything."
He smiled and squeezed her hand. "I have not lost what matters most. I have greater resources than this. My ships are safe in Weather Haven, my competitors' are sunk. They will be ruined and I shall rise stronger than ever." He sighed and she guessed what was coming. "But I do have important news for you, my dear." He glanced around again and the few servants still clustered nearby hastily returned to work. Only old Master Trinvar was close, holding a torch, and he was hard of hearing. "This seems wrong, my dear—telling you in this midden. Let us go upstairs and send for some wine."
"No, spit it out here. The floors upstairs are clean. I was right? Silver trumpets and ribboned sweetmeats?"
He nodded ruefully. "I truly had no choice, my dear, as you foresaw. I keep thinking of you as a child, but you're truly a very resilient young woman now. Very few could shrug off such a day so easily. We must get you to a Sinurist before you leave, so you are in shape for—"
"Leave?"
"The lady Saltaja—" Horth fell silent, scowling angrily over her shoulder. Half a dozen Werists had entered the hall, with the distinctive figure of Satrap Eide himself rolling along behind. Hateful, sour-mouthed Perag was not among them, but behind the hostleader, with white robes glimmering in the gloom, came a seer, picking her way daintily through the nauseating debris and holding her skirts above her ankles.
Fabia sent a quick but silent prayer off to her goddess, the Mother of Lies. Nine Witnesses in Skjar, she had been told. This one was too short and too plump to be the one who had accosted her at the Pantheon, so whose side was she on?
Eide was peering around. "We seem to be too late, lads, hm? But it must have been quite a party!" He bellowed laughter while his men smilingly said that their lord was kind. The satrap enjoyed his own jokes, while rarely understanding others'.
"Such a party it would have been, too," Horth said sadly, to Fabia or just to himself. "I often think that the harder one pursues happiness, the faster she runs away."
"But if you would just sit down under a tree she would come and join you!" Fabia gave him a one-armed hug. "Come, let us offer our guests a friendly beaker of hemlock." She led the way forward to greet the satrap.
Eide Ernson had the largest head Fabia had ever seen on a human being, although thinking was not what he used it for, as evidenced by the horn stubs on his temples. His neck and shoulders were to scale, but from there he tapered down to quite spindly legs, and his arms were unexceptional—all his limbs being visible because he wore a Werist pall. Naturally top-heavy, he always swayed as he walked; now the weight of waterlogged cloth made him roll like a cockleshell in a high sea. She had never known him to be anything but cheerful and courteous, but she suspected his bovine stupidity was not entirely genuine—his habit of making mooing mmm? noises while he talked was too good to be true—and he was undoubtedly ruthless, powerful, and dangerous.
"Fire and blood, girl!" he boomed as Fabia rose from her curtsy. "Your father is strict, mmm? Who won this battle? Did he finally beat a consent out of you?"
"She took a fall from a chariot, my lord," Horth explained. "I have not even had time to pass on the good news."
"News?" Fabia said brightly. "What news, Father?"
"You are betrothed," the satrap said, staring at her with huge, sad, bovine eyes. "My nephew—wife's nephew, rather. Son of her brother Horold, up in Kosord, mmm? Name of Cutrath."
"He is just two years older than you, dear," Horth added, eyes sending anxious warnings. "And newly initiated into the Heroes."
Bliss! Teenage monster, what every girl dreamed of. Even forewarned by the seer, Fabia needed all her self-control to feign pleasure. "Oh, Daddy! How wonderful! What is he like? Tall? Handsome? And our roots are so humble! What have I done to be so honored?"
Horth would be grateful for the support. Eide would not care whether she meant what she said or not, and his escort probably expected her to swoon with joy at such news. She hoped the dumpy seer in the background had a strong stomach for hypocrisy.
The satrap shrugged his mountainous shoulders. "It's a long story, mmm? Wife can explain on the way. Going to go with you for the wedding, mmm? In Kosord."
So Saltaja would be her jailer? The only ray of sunshine on this pestilent landscape was that Kosord was a long way off, so there would be plenty of time to consider a plan of escape. The deepest blight was the prospect of many sixdays in the company of Saltaja Hragsdor.
Endure!
"Oh, that will be nice! Gods!—the trousseau I will need! And of course I must help Daddy kins redecorate here." She sighed. "It will be just ages before I can meet my new lord. But, oh, I can't wait!"
She was overdoing it. The Werists exchanged smirks. Even Eide's big eyes narrowed a fraction.
"You won't have to, child. If my wife says you're leaving tomorrow, you leave tomorrow."
"And I am coming with you," Horth said.
She gaped at him, speechless. He, who rarely even left the house and never the city? Where would he find his barley cakes and ibex milk in a riverboat?
He gave her hand a warning squeeze. "We shall organize a great wedding in Kosord to make up for your spoiled dedication."
She faked a squeal of joy so she could hug him and whisper "Hostage?" in his ear.
He kissed her cheek with a soft uh-huh of agreement.
So any plan of escape would have to include both of them—the Florengian hostage and the hostage for the hostage. "That is so kind of you, Father! But what about your business? What about this house?" She gestured at the disaster all around them.
"I have good men to run my affairs until I return, dear." He turned. "Master Trinvar, there must be many, many homeless in Skjar now. Pray convert this house into a shelter for them until I return. The satrap and his lady have very generously offered Mistress Frena and me hospitality at the palace until we leave, for it escaped damage."
Of course a few sixty squatters in Horth's mansion might discourage the satrap himself from moving in during the owner's absence. Before Fabia could comment, a new voice spoke—a throaty, vibrant voice as musical as a silver flute.
"Your benevolence is commendable, trader," said the Queen of Shadows.
Saltaja Hragsdor was a tall woman who invariably wore the black robes of a widow, even to a black wimple and floppy black cuffs covering her hands. In the glimmer of Trinvar's torch she was only a disembodied face. It was a remarkable, not a beautiful face, very pale even for a Vi-gaelian, with bloodless lips and prominent nose and mouth; it was also unusually long and narrow, as if her head had been squeezed in a vise. She advanced through life with high disdain, seemingly expecting walls to open at her approach.
Fabia hastily curtsied as Horth bowed and spoke an apologetic welcome.
Behind Saltaja loomed a pair of very large young men. Where other highborn ladies went attended by maidservants, Saltaja preferred a bod
yguard of Werists, usually just two, but always young and handsome. Bazaar gossip naturally insisted that they followed her into her bedchamber, but her husband must assign them to her service and did not seem to mind. Nothing could have interested Saltaja herself less than bazaar gossip.
The icy arrogance turned its attention to Fabia. "Your dedication, child? Did you make your vows today as planned?"
Fabia sent another fast prayer winging to the Mother of Lies.
"Yes, she did," Horth said.
"She has a tongue of her own."
"I made my vows, lady. Very hurriedly, I admit. I was just telling Father about—"
"Witness?" The satrap's wife never took her pale eyes off Fabia. "Is she telling the truth?"
For an instant that felt longer than a sleepless night, Fabia contemplated an open grave and the shortest-ever career as a Chosen. Even if the unknown Mist and her minions preferred her cause to Stralg's, they could not be expected to tell outright lies. No Witness ever did that.
The satrap picked up his cue. "Answer the question. Is she telling the truth?"
"Yes, she is," said the seer.
Fabia bowed her head lest her face betray relief and glee. The Queen of Shadows had not asked the right question.
Eide mooed ruminatively. "Then that's all right?"
"Apparently," his wife said.
"Mmm? Then welcome to the family, Fabia Wigson, or whatever your name is. That nephew of my wife's is no great thinker, but if he's anything like his uncles, you'll have no complaint in bed, mmm? Strong as a horse, mmm, lads? May holy Eriander bless your union."
Holy Eriander could go and do horrible things to herself, as far as Fabia was concerned. A Werist husband? Would nightmares make him change into a warbeast in his sleep? Would he have hunting dreams like a dog, wiggling his paws in bed?
Would he ripple his muscles for her to admire ...
... perhaps posing in front of an open window ...
... several stories up ...
?
twenty-two
ORLAD ORLADSON
felt his teeth rattle every time the great drums spoke, their sepulchral roll reverberating through the high-corbeled chapel. Man-sized flames danced in the fire pit, illuminating rough-cast walls of boulders and giant timbers, and also the figure of the god, huge and terrible in white mosaic—certainly made of bone chips, but whether or not they were truly human bone, as the probationers were taught, was known only to Satrap Therek. Brmmm! Eleven runts knelt in a horseshoe before the great central blaze, sweating rivers in their palls. The Hero witnesses stood farther away, in comfort—tonight these were the warriors of gold pack, four dozen of them. But other initiates lurked in the shadows at the back of the chapel, and Orlad was sure those included Packleader Ruthur Landarson and probably Hostleader Heth, who kept a close watch on the cadets. Tonight was First Call, said, to be the most critical moment in the whole training program.
Brmmm! The echoes faded. Everyone in Nardalborg knew that the Heroes were meeting in conclave tonight and no extrinsic who valued his life would approach the shrine.
Runt Vargin was being examined, kneeling on the far side of the pit, with firelight shining on his naked back. Packleader Frath Thranson was examiner, standing directly under the god. He was farther from the fire, but his pall probably made him even hotter than Vargin. He held a two-handed bronze sword before him, resting on its point.
"What is life?"
Brmmm! roared the drums.
"My life is my corban!" Vargin shouted.
"Louder!"
"My life is my corban!" Vargin screamed.
He would not be warned again—he was lucky to have been warned once. There were twelve questions in the catechism. The first and last were fixed; the other ten could be asked more than once and in any order. Responses must be correct and instantaneous.
"What is victory?"
Brmmm! No eavesdroppers would hear the sacred responses over that thunder.
"Victory is my duty!"
"What is pain?"
Orlad wiped sweat from his eyes. He could not remember when he had last slept or sat down to eat. Life seemed to have been a single long torment of drill, practice, study, and exercise ever since Satrap Therek hung the chain collar on him, three sixdays ago, so that now he was simultaneously reeling from exhaustion and more keyed up than he had ever been in his life. He was runtleader and he should be out there leading, but the rules said that Vargin and Ranthr must go before him. Ranthr had sailed through the catechism and had made First Call successfully. He was now back kneeling with the rest, getting bloody from trying to grin while gnawing a meaty bone, which was the traditional award but obviously not something he craved.
Idiot Vargin was not doing as well. He was hesitating on every response, although Orlad had drilled him half the night on the catechism.
"What is blood?"
Brmmm!
"Blood is my.,. er ... blood is ..."
"Wrong!" Frath roared, raising the great sword.
At this point in the ritual, that move was merely the gesture of dismissal, but Vargin screamed in terror and hurled himself back, almost tumbling into the fire pit. By the time the sword descended on the place he had left—slowly, so as not to break the bronze—he was running full-tilt for the door, not fully upright yet, but still howling.
Orlad streaked. Two Heroes in the line of witnesses jumped aside to let him through and he caught Vargin in a flying tackle before he had pulled the heavy flap open. They crashed into the timber together, slamming it shut. Boom!
"Let me go!" Vargin howled, eyes rolling in terror. He tried to struggle free, but Orlad clung like lichen.
"You're not going anywhere! You have one more chance at First Call. You'll take it tonight and you'll pass!"
"No!" Still Vargin fought. He was larger than Orlad and slippery as an oiled eel. "Not tonight! Next sixday!"
Orlad hooked a foot behind the madman's ankle and flipped him hard against the door again, winding him; then pinned him there. "No! You're going up again tonight!" It was obvious that a sixday from now the man would have worried himself into complete idiocy. In the Heroes, "last chance" meant last chance.
"Leader?" said Waels. He, Snerfrik, and Charnarth had come to help. The runts were not supposed to go running around making a scene in the middle on this most solemn occasion.
"Hang on to him," Orlad said. "Stay here unless they order you back to the fire, and drill him, drill him, drill him! Make him give you the answer to every question the light asks—quietly, of course. He knows it, really. He's going up again tonight and he's going to pass!" He grabbed both of Vargin's ears and pulled the bigger man's head down so he could glare right in his eyes, nose-to-nose. "Shame me and I will rip your throat out! Understand?"
Vargin did not reply, but he looked as if he believed.
Orlad trotted back to kneel in his place. Frath had gone and two Heroes were adding logs to the fire and poking it with bronze rods to make it burn hotter. Ranthr had curled up on the floor and gone to sleep, a permissible reaction to the release of stress.
Brmmm!
Now came Orlad's turn at last. He was unafraid. He could recite the responses backward or sideways. All that really mattered, as Hostleader Heth had told them several times, was that a man must believe in the ways of Weru. The Heroes were the best of men, the manliest to rule all others.
Then a new examiner came marching forward, bearing the great sword. He stopped before the image and turned to call out Orlad's name—Heth himself! That was an unexpected honor, and a brief mutter of surprise from the witnesses suggested it was an unusual one. Orlad tried to keep his face solemn as he rose, bowed, dropped his pall, and walked around the fire to kneel on the far side, facing Heth and the god. Werists always stripped before changing.
He waited. The fire was going to take the skin off his back. Rivers of sweat ran from his armpits, his hair, everywhere, while the stone flags under his knees were cold and hard. Smoke nipped
at his eyes.
"Who are you?" Heth asked. He gave no warning, but the drummers' warrior reflexes brought the thunder instantly: Brmmm!
"The footprint of the god!" Orlad screamed. Echoes rolled.
"What is terror?" Brmmm!
"Terror is my weapon!"
"What is blood?" Brmmm!
"Blood is life!" Louder yet.
"What is rage?" Brmmm!
"Rage is my friend!"
"What is life?" And so on. It was easy enough when a man really believed. Why had Vargin found it so hard? In what seemed no time at all he heard the last question:
"What is fear?" Brmmm!
"I do not know!"
Orlad was annoyed to hear a small cheer greet his success. The catechism was only the beginning.
"Rise."
Only the savagely crackling fire disturbed the silence. The drums spoke no more. Orlad stood, staring confidently, even happily, into Heth's eyes. How long he had longed for this moment!
"Who comes?"
Orlad reached for Heth's brass collar with his left hand. The metal was cool and damp. He waited, mind searching, for he must not give the next response until he was sure. Yes! Yes, there was something new in the hall—a power, a presence between him and the mosaic on the wall... or perhaps behind him. Location did not matter, there was something. Huge. Dangerous. Dark? This Bright One was bright with the brightness of blood. Amazingly in that furnace, he shivered.
But he could speak in truth: "It is my god."
Heth nodded approvingly, a smile flitting over his lips. He raised his right hand. "Do this." His face reddened. Sweat beaded on it, trickled down into his stubble beard. Changing was easy enough in battle, when a man's life was at stake and all his friends were changing also. To convert one limb in cold blood was a vastly different prospect, requiring deliberate acceptance of pain. There were tales of guides losing control and changing completely, then turning on the novices who had caused their distress.
Even the stoic hostleader could not suppress a whimper as his hand began to swell. Fascinated, Orlad watched it grow to twice its normal size, and change—black pads on the underside, white fur on the back, and five great deadly talons on the edge. The bear's paw was the simplest of all transformations.
