by Dave Duncan
Saltaja arose, terrible as a black sun. "I am going to see the satrap."
Fabia looked interested. "Yes, my lady?"
"And you will come with me."
Saltaja knew her way around the palace. Four times Werist guards tried to block her, then flinched and let her pass—armed men twice her size and a third her age. That might be a useful technique to learn, Fabia thought, but it was a dangerously obvious use of chthonic power.
When they reached a stone staircase, steep and narrow, Saltaja motioned for Fabia to go first. The treads were worn, uneven, and poorly lit. Suspecting that her own abilities were being tested, Fabia was careful to stumble a few times, but she kept up a pace that soon had the older woman puffing. The stair curved continuously, periodically passing narrow window slits on the right and closed doors on the left.
The door at the top stood ajar. Fabia pushed it wide and walked into the Vulture's Nest, which was larger than she had expected, a circular room with many windows, bright with sunlight but also windy and cold, for all the shutters stood wide. It was just as unkempt and neglected as the rest of the palace—rugs and mats littering the sleeping platform in the center; discarded clothes, clay tablets, and wine bottles scattered around the floor among disordered stools and tables. There were two men there.
Or one man and a thing.
"Who are you?" it cried in a warbling, high-pitched voice. Then, "Oh, it's you!," as Fabia recoiled and was pushed aside by Saltaja.
Upright, the Vulture would have been grotesquely tall, but he was bent at the hips until he was almost horizontal, his leathery head thrust forward on a bizarrely elongated, leathery neck. He wore a brass collar and a dirty orange pall. With his hands behind his back, he came strutting forward, glaring at the visitors with sunken yellow eyes. He moved like a barnyard rooster, lifting each clawed foot high. Click... click...
"Yes, it's me!" Saltaja advanced two steps to meet him.
He stopped. For a moment they glared at each other. Therek backed off first, jerking his head away. He unfolded a ropy arm to point a taloned finger.
"Who's she?"
Belatedly recalling Fellard's advice not to stare, Fabia lowered herself in a deep curtsy. He detoured around Saltaja to approach her. She found herself gazing at scrawny bare legs, perhaps the strangest part of him—thighs of normal length, shins and feet grossly extended. He stood on long, scaly toes, and each heel bore a deadly spur.
"Fabia Celebre," Saltaja said. "Daughter of the doge of Celebre and future wife of Cutrath Horoldson. Where is he?"
"Don't grovel. Up!" croaked the monster. "Pretty!" Beaming toothlessly, he touched Fabia's cheek with a talon just to see her flinch. "Celebre, you said? Well! Holy Cienu is playing tricks again! Right, Leorth?" Cackling, he swung his head around to peer across the room.
Fabia had vaguely registered the other man as slumped on a stool and gazing out a window. Now he looked around, casually. He was a young Werist, his sash a flank-leader's blue. "It would seem so, my lord." Still taking his time, he rose, stretched, and only then began to stroll over.
"Where is Horoldson?" Saltaja repeated.
"The maggot? You want to see?" Therek demanded of Fabia. "I'll show you where. Here." Gripping her arm in scaly fingers, he moved her around the room toward an easterly window. Smiling, Leorth stepped aside to let them past, but not quite far enough, as if he intended to rub against her. She managed to avoid him, squirming in the satrap's harsh grasp.
The tower room stood high above the sawtooth roofs of the town, looking out over rolling, snowy moors, painfully bright under an indigo sky. To the northwest they opened up to display the winding Wrogg and its endless plains, with faraway storms as lines of white froth on the landscape.
"There, child, up there?" Therek cackled again, pointing east. "No, you can't see Nardalborg from here. Even I can't see Nardalborg from here. But that's where he is, behind those hills. If it wasn't for the hills, I could see Halfway Hall. You couldn't. That's where your dear betrothed was last night, or else he froze to death." He uttered his absurd laugh again. "I couldn't see him, not even me. I saw a mammoth this morning."
"Release her!" Shouldering Leorth aside, Saltaja strode over. "Call the boy back here. I want to see the girl married and bedded before they leave."
"No time." Her brother tossed his nightmare head and stalked away. Click... click ... "Caravan's late already. Send her up there. She can be married at Nardalborg. Or just bedded, mm?" He released a shrill bray. "Imagine the oaf can manage that much."
Saltaja was smoldering dangerously. "Very well. We'll leave first thing in the morning—you, me, your Witness, the girl—"
"Not tomorrow!" He swung around in a squeal of splintering wood. "Not safe tomorrow, right Leorth, mm?"
"My lord is kind," the flankleader murmured—softly, but as if he meant it. He gave Fabia a shy, satisfied smile. He, too, had yellow eyes, but if the satrap was a human bird the boy was a cat.
"Moving the herds," Therek said. At least, that was what Fabia thought he said. His lack of teeth made him whistle.
"Not all the herds, my lord," Leorth corrected, still amused.
"Not quite all. She can go the next day. Leorth's going to be leading the last contingent for Six. Caravan Six. His flank and the men you brought, if they're any good. Leorth's good, aren't you, lad? Tell them why you're eager to go over the Edge."
Golden eyes turned to Saltaja. "Revenge, my lady." His voice was low and husky. "Both my brothers were killed by Florengian turncoats. Those traitors swore loyalty to the bloodlord and then betrayed their oaths." Still he smiled.
Therek cackled. "Can't trust Florengians!"
"Indeed not, my lord."
Their private joke was clearly riling Saltaja. "What are you up to? Why are you skulking up here?"
"Watching!" said her brother. "Been watching half the day, haven't we, Leorth?" Cackle. "Seer says he's coming. Saw the mammoth and sent for the seer. Sent for Leorth. Been watching the road."
"Who's coming?"
The raptor's eyes turned on Fabia. "Cienu likes his little jokes. Celebre, mm?"
Then Fabia guessed who was coming. Although holy Cienu was usually thought of as god of wine and jollity, He was also god of odd coincidences.
♦
For a long time Fabia stood and shivered by a window, staring out at the snowy hills. Saltaja and Therek conversed in low tones beside another, on the downwind side so that their words were inaudible. Leorth sat hunched on a stool, endlessly stropping a dagger on his sandal while keeping a fixed stare on Fabia.
A boy walked in. She had known what to expect, and yet a Werist with brown Florengian arms and legs and face was a considerable shock. He wore his hair and beard trimmed close, in whorls of black stubble, and his limbs bore random white marks that puzzled her until she realized they were old scars. He had Benard's deep-set eyes and wide cheekbones, and although he lacked the massive shoulders, he was still impressively solid. He looked very young.
He bowed low to the satrap with a lack of revulsion that showed they had met before, but he ignored Saltaja, so he certainly did not know who she was. He did not even glance at Fabia, no doubt assuming she was a servant.
"Ah, Warrior Orlad!"
"Flankleader Orlad," Leorth murmured.
"Flankleader!?" Therek reared up—towering over everyone else even though he was still far from vertical—then sank back into his usual stoop. "So? At ease. What happened to blue pack?"
The youth straightened. "They are safe, my lord, except for six unaccounted for. They had two cold nights in the shelter, but we delivered food to them this morning and they were going to proceed to Nardalborg on mammoths."
"I saw. Good ... good ... This is Leorth. He and his flank will be joining Caravan Six."
Orlad nodded respectfully to the Vigaelian, who smiled without rising from his stool.
"I envy him, my lord! I have applied for transfer, but Huntleader Heth is still considering my request."
&n
bsp; "Six has too many flankleaders already."
"I would be happy to revert to warrior. I am most eager to serve under your noble brother, my lord."
For a moment the satrap seemed to hood his deadly yellow eyes. "Of course, of course ... You would say that, of course."
Pause.
Orlad glanced around warily. Even if his air of juvenile eagerness was genuine, he could not be naive enough to miss the reek of conspiracy filling the room—Saltaja studying him in inscrutable silence, Therek smiling at Leorth, Leorth smiling back, Fabia being ignored.
"You summoned me, my lord?"
"Er... Yes, of course I did. I wanted you to meet your sister."
"I did not know I had a sister." Orlad stared accusingly at Fabia as if that situation were her fault.
"I did not know I had any brothers." She walked over to him with hands outstretched. "And then I discovered I had three. My name is Fabia Celebre."
He ignored her hands, looking her up and down without expression. "Who are the other two?"
"Dantio, the eldest, is dead. Benard is an artist in Kosord, a very good one." She had not minded being reunited with Benard under the acute gaze of Ingeld Narsdor, but she much resented Saltaja's snaky stare now. "You are Orlando Celebre."
"No! I am Orlad Orladson! Why are you here?"
His manner made everything seem her fault. It peeved her and yet she sensed terrible hurt behind it. She wanted to hug him until his ribs ached, as Benard had hugged her, and she suspected he would hurl her to the ground if she tried. The world was forbidden to touch Flankleader Orlad.
"How much do you know of our family?"
"Nothing and I don't want to."
Fabia knew this must be harder on him than it was on her. She had been prepared and he had not. He was on show before his lord. Flames of pain flickered behind his eyes.
"Even that name," he said bitterly. "Celebre! To be called after the traitor's city!"
"The what?"
"You didn't know? The vile Cavotti was a Celebrian."
Cavotti must be one of the Florengian partisans. "So are you, Brother. Our father is the doge."
"What's that?"
"The ruler, elected for life. He's old now, and ailing."
"Let him die. He gave up without a fight."
"He did fight! His army was wiped out. When he dies, the elders will choose one of us to succeed him. I am going back to Florengia. I am to marry Cutrath Horoldson and—"
"Who?"
"You know him?"
Orlad glanced quickly at Saltaja; then at Therek, who was leering gleefully; then at Leorth's feline smirk; then back to Fabia. "To be chosen to marry into the noble house of Hrag is a far greater honor than your ancestry justifies. Try to be a worthy wife to him." He turned to Therek. "In Celebre succession goes in the female line, my lord?"
Saltaja said grimly, "It will this time."
He must have felt that they were coming at him from all sides. "My lady? I have not had the honor ..."
"Saltaja Hragsdor."
He bowed again. "A very great honor."
"Perhaps." As usual, her face was inscrutable. "Do you speak Florengian?"
"Not at all, my lady."
Therek said, "You did fifteen years ago."
"Then I have forgotten it," Orlad said stubbornly. "I am Vigaelian—by adoption, true, but proud of it."
"Have you need or wish to talk further with your sister?"
"No, my lady ... Except to command her to be as true to your noble house as I will always be."
Therek muttered, "Quite, quite, quite ..." Then he spread his lips and gums in a predatory gape that was possibly intended as a smile. "I think you should go on Caravan Six. You can keep your sister company ... when her husband doesn't need her! You tell the huntleader I ordered it. Such touching fidelity should be rewarded, shouldn't it, Leorth?"
"My lord is kind!" Orlad exclaimed.
"Expect Leorth can make room for you in the left flank, can't you, Leorth? Find him a billet for the night."
"We don't need Fabia here any longer," his sister said. "I want her locked up and well guarded. Not harmed as long as she behaves."
"See to that, Leorth."
"Guarded on pain of death!" Saltaja snapped.
"Yes, yes, yes," her brother said. "On pain of death, you hear, Leorth?"
"On pain of death, my lord." The warrior returned the hostleader's grin.
"Good, good. I wish you an interesting journey home tomorrow, Flankleader Orlad."
thirty-seven
SALTAJA HRAGSDOR
waited until the youngsters had left, and then said, "You are crazy, truly crazy. That boy worships you."
Therek swung around, flushing. "You can't trust Florengians! He'll break his oaths as soon as he gets the chance!"
"You were not exactly encouraging him to stay loyal."
"Stay loyal? They slew all three of my sons!" He stalked across to the far side of the room, as far from her as he could get.
She sighed and wandered closer to the bell rope. Of the four sons of Hrag, Therek had been the hardest to mold. Left to his own devices, Therek would probably have grown up to be a reasonable farmer, but she and Hrag had shaped him into the son his father wanted, and in some ways Therek had become the deadliest fighter of them all. He was no strategist, but even Stralg, for all his brilliance and ruthlessness, had never matched Therek at suicidal close combat. He had always been unstable, of course—how else could he have been?—and now age and deformity were bringing insanity oozing closer to the surface.
"They slew three of mine, too, but Orlad wasn't there." The Celebre boy had been impressive. She would send him home instead of his sister if he knew any Florengian, but a doge who couldn't speak the language would be useless. Besides, the drastic Shaping needed to make him biddable would turn his wits to mush. "I haven't seen Cutrath for a couple of years. Has he improved any?"
"Erch! Poisonous little mama's brat! He's the sort who turns up dead of a broken neck after a party—if the Florengians don't get him in his first battle, his buddies will."
In Saltaja's opinion, Cutrath's problem had been his father, not his mother. "What d'you think of the Celebre girl?"
"Like to suck on her melons. What am I supposed to think of her?"
"She's a Chosen."
The satrap brayed like an onager. "What!? You're joking!"
"I'm not quite certain. If she is, she's good." Extraordinarily good for her age. Perag's death, those blatant desertions—bad things happening, but not so many that they might not be mere chance. The hussy had been too clever to try anything against Saltaja directly.
"Can't you tell?" Therek's tone implied, If you can't who can?
"Not for certain. We can test her tomorrow."
"How?" He eyed her suspiciously.
"Have you any real brute Werists, the type who have no scruples at all and look it?"
He chuckled. "Several dozen."
"We'll send the ugliest into her cell with orders to rape her. If he can, then she's clear." If he couldn't, then Saltaja would sit down with Fabia and explain the facts of life—and death—including how to Shape Cutrath into something useful. Having another Chosen in the Family again would be a big help.
"That's your nephew's betrothed you're discussing."
"He needn't know." Saltaja's wandering had brought her to the window beside the bell rope.
"Anyway, it's four!" Therek said. "Not three, four." He stalked farther away from her.
"Four what?"
"Sons. You've been missing your mail. Deeply sorry to tell you that Huntleader Kwirarl has died." His toothless sneer could not have looked less sympathetic.
Kwirarl Eideson, her youngest! For a moment she was speechless, dazzled by memories of his smile, his laugh, and racked by a sense of betrayal. Mother of Death, You test Your servant hard! After all the oceans of blood she had spilled to honor the Old One, it seemed unfair that she should lose so many of her own children so young.
It was not for me, Mother, it was for the Family! A dynasty needs heirs, and You have taken too many!
She drummed her fists on the window ledge. Oh, Kwirarl, Kwirarl! None of the sons she had given Eide had made warriors to compare with the sons of Hrag, partly because Eide was not Hrag and partly because she'd had to Shape them without Hrag's help. Kwirarl had turned out the best of her second brood, probably because Eide was not his father. Gone?
"Died how?"
"It was back in the spring sometime. Stralg just said he was ambushed while on patrol. If the rebels took him alive, it would have been long and nasty."
She shuddered. Bad, bad news, ever since she left Skjar! First Horold, then Therek. Now Kwirarl. On the way home she would have to waste time in Kosord repairing Horold, and Therek had deteriorated enormously since she had last seen him. She wondered how much useful life he had left in him, really. Perhaps she could use him as an exhibit while teaching Fabia the finer points of Shaping. In a moment she would look and see how bad the problem was.
"I need a couple of bodyguards."
"Pretty ones, of course." He sneered. "You still hanker after the pretty ones?"
"I want two who came here with me, Ern Jungrson and Brarag Braragson. Send for them." It was true that they were strikingly good-looking kids, but these days she chose pretty ones only out of habit and because it amused her to let people think she had a weakness. She had not bothered with sex for years, although she was probably capable of bearing children, even yet. "And a seer. I want to ask about these desertions."
Therek wasn't mad enough to shut himself off completely in this aerie; he kept heralds on duty in the room below: "Pull on that rope," he growled.
"You pull it." She turned to stare out the window.
Eyeing her warily, he came just close enough to reach it, but that was close enough to put him within range of her Dominance. As he was about to back away again, she took control, keeping it gentle so he did not feel her touch. He stayed where he was.
A boy came scampering up the stairs, doubling over in a bow almost before he stopped moving. "My lord?"
