by Dave Duncan
books by dave duncan
“The Dodec Books”
Children of Chaos
Mother of Lies
Chronicles of the King’s Blades
Paragon Lost
Impossible Odds
The Jaguar Knights
Tales of the King’s Blades
The Gilded Chain
Lord of Fire Lands
Sky of Swords
The Great Game
Past Imperative
Present Tense
Future Indefinite
“The Omar Books”
The Reaver Road
The Hunters’ Haunt
The Seventh Sword
The Reluctant Swordsman
The Coming of Wisdom
The Destiny of the Sword
The King’s Daggers
Sir Stalwart
The Crooked House
Silvercloak
A Man of His Word
Magic Casement
Faerie Land Forlorn
Perilous Seas
Emperor and Clown
A Handful of Men
The Cutting Edge
Upland Outlaws
The Stricken Field
The Living God
Stand-Alone Novels
West of January
The Cursed
A Rose-Red City
Shadow
Strings
Hero!
Writing as “Sarah B. Franklin”
Daughter of Troy
Writing as “Ken Hood”
Demon Sword
Demon Rider
Demon Knight
Please see www.daveduncan.com for more information.
Mother
of Lies
dave duncan
a tom doherty associates book new york
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MOTHER OF LIES
Copyright © 2007 by Dave Duncan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Edited by Liz Gorinsky
Maps by Ellisa Mitchell
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Duncan, Dave, 1933—
Mother of lies / Dave Duncan.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-1484-0
ISBN-10: 0-7653-1484-3
I. Title.
PR9199.3.D847M68 2007
813′.54—dc22 2007004544
First Edition: May 2007
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
With thanks to
Cliff, Eileen, Janet, Robert, Tony
(and several others over the years),
who have read my manuscripts and
helped me make them better
Preface
THE GODS
Anziel, goddess of beauty
Cienu, god of mirth and chance
Demern, god of law and justice
Eriander, god-goddess of sex and madness
Hrada, goddess of crafts and skill
Mayn, goddess of wisdom
Nastrar, god of animals and nature
Nula, goddess of pity
Sinura, goddess of health
Ucr, god of prosperity and abundance
Veslih, goddess of the hearth and home
Weru, god of storm and battle
Xaran, goddess of death and evil (known as the Mother, the Old One, Mother of Lies, Womb of the World, &c.)
PRINCIPAL MORTALS
Most of the characters in the story are initiates of mystery cults, meaning each has sworn allegiance to a single god or goddess. They are listed here with their loyalties and their locations at the end of Children of Chaos:
On the Florengian Face
Doge Piero, ruler of the city of Celebre, is reported to be near death.
Dogaressa Oliva Assichie, his wife, is reported to be acting as his regent.
Marno Cavotti, a Hero of Weru, is leading the Florengian Resistance, from an unknown location.
Stralg Hragson, bloodlord of the Heroes of Weru (“the Fist of Weru”), location unknown, is still fighting a war he began fifteen years ago.
On the Vigaelian Face
The Children of Hrag:
Saltaja Hragsdor, Stralg Hragson’s sister and greatly feared regent—and a Chosen of Xaran, known as the Queen of Shadows—is asleep in the palace at Tryfors.
Horold Hragson, her youngest brother, a Hero of Weru and satrap of Kosord, is on his way to Tryfors to reclaim his fugitive wife, Ingeld Narsdor, because it is only his marriage to her that gives him legal claim to rule as consort of Kosord.
(Ingeld Narsdor, a Daughter of Veslih and hereditary dynast of Kosord, is in a boat heading downstream from Tryfors, but knows by pyromancy that Horold is heading in her direction.)
Cutrath Horoldson, son of Horold and Ingeld, a Hero of Weru, is in the fortress at Nardalborg, waiting to cross over the Edge to fight in the Florengian war.
Heth “Hethson,” a Hero of Weru and bastard son of Therek Hragson, is commandant of Nardalborg.
The children of Doge Piero:
Eldest son Dantio, who is also a Witness of Mayn known as Mist, is driving a chariot cross-country in the Tryfors area.
Son Benard, a Hand of Anziel, is fleeing Kosord in the same boat as his lover, Ingeld, knowing that he will die if Horold’s warbeasts catch him.
Son Orlad (formerly Orlando), a newly initiated Hero of Werist, is in the Tryfors area, having just killed Therek Hragson.
Daughter Fabia, a Chosen of Xaran, is traveling with Benard, fleeing a forced betrothal to Cutrath Horoldson.
Others:
Arbanerik Kranson, a Hero of Weru and hordeleader of “New Dawn,” the Vigaelian rebels, is believed to have his headquarters not far from Tryfors.
Horth Wigson, a Ucrist reputed to be the richest man in Vigaelia, and Fabia’s foster father, is with Fabia.
Deceased but relevant to the story:
Karvak Hragson, a Hero of Weru and satrap of Jat-Nogul, was slain in self-defense by Paola Apicella.
Paola Apicella, a Chosen of Xaran, originally Fabia’s wet nurse and later her foster mother and wife of Horth Wigson, was slain by Perag Hrothgatson on Saltaja’s orders in retribution for the death of her brother Karvak.
Perag Hrothgatson, a Hero of Weru, was slain by Fabia for murdering Paola.
Therek Hragson, a Hero of Weru and late satrap of Tryfors, lies dead on a hillside near the city, slain by Orlad Celebre.
Part I
AN
UNWELCOME
VISITOR
MARNO CAVOTTI
was better known as the Mutineer. Bloodlord Stralg, the Fist of Weru, had promised years ago that he would buy the Mutineer’s corpse for its weight in gold or pay six times that much for the man alive and fit enough to be tortured. The offer still stood. Any hamlet or city that gave him refuge would be razed and all its inhabitants slain—this offer was still good, too. The Mutineer was coming home, to the city of his birth, which he had not seen since his childhood. It was entirely fitting that he travel under the shadow and protection of a storm.
The storm’s approach had been visible for days, for it was one of the great sea storms, born above the steamy wate
rs of the Florengian Ocean. From there it had spun out edgeward, over coastal jungles and swamps, to wreak havoc in the Fertile Circle that made up most of the Face. Like most of its kind, it came at Celebre from the east. Day by day it rose higher over the hazy wall of the world, white at noon and black at dawn; bloodred at sunset, ruling the sky and looming above the landscape. By the time it reached the city walls its greatest violence was spent, but it could still lash with gales and drench with killer rains. It could lift roofs and fell trees, flood low areas, wash out bridges. Amid so much evil a little more would not be noticed, so the storm closed its black wings around the traveler and hid him from those who looked for him to slay him.
He splashed along the muddy track beside a small wagon laden with amphorae of wine, drawn by an ancient guanaco named Misery, whose persistent humming showed that it was, indeed, unhappy—justifiably so, although Cavotti was careful to stay on the upwind side, where he could protect the animal from flying branches and other debris. Delayed by fallen trees and swollen streams, he worried that he would not arrive before the gates closed at sunset. The day had already faded to a twilight gloom when the walls and towers of Celebre emerged from the mist, but the rules said that the gates must stay open until the curfew bell sounded, and rules were rules.
Head down, Cavotti plodded under the great archway into the narrow barbican, where the strident creak and rattle of his wheels reverberated from the walls and wind howled along the canyon, driving rain before it. This was the moment of greatest peril, when he must satisfy the guards, when the inner and outer gates could be swung shut to trap him. Sure enough, a man shouted and ran out from the guard room.
He was a skinny black-haired Florengian, a boy sporting a bronze helmet and sword, both too large for him, but he wore a baldric in the doge’s colors slung across his chain-mailed chest, and the bull’s horn hanging on it gave him authority. Armed or not, a mere extrinsic was no threat—Cavotti could break his neck before he even drew. Even if he blew his horn and summoned another dozen like him, the intruder would be in little danger.
“Snotty scum, the Foul One take you, dragging honest men out in this fuck’n weather!” The boy squinted into the rain. Only the most junior member of the guard would be sent out on such a day.
Cavotti hauled on Misery’s cheek strap; the wagon rattled to a halt. He bowed respectfully. “May it please your honor, I am Siero of Syiso, bondman of noble Master Scarpol of Treianne, bringing produce from his estate to his palace here in Celebre, on the Piazza Colonna. And more fuck’n rain has gone down my fuck’n neck than yours, may it please your honor.” All the names he mentioned were genuine, except that they did not apply to him. He kept his eyes humbly lowered.
“Pig filth!” said the boy with the sword. “What sort of produce?”
Then two more men emerged from the guard room, and the odds shifted drastically, because they were pale-skinned Vigaelians, with flaxen hair and beards cropped to stubble. They wore only leather sandals and striped cotton loincloths tied with a colored sash, but their brass collars marked them as Heroes of Weru. They moved around the wagon and out of Cavotti’s view.
Awareness of the peril lurking behind him was almost enough to make Cavotti’s hair stand on end. If it literally did so, it would reveal his own brass collar, and then he would die. It was to hide that collar on occasions such as this that he had let his hair and beard grow in. The collar was the reason he had timed his visit for this howling storm, as it was the only time he could reasonably wear a cloth tied over his head and a leather cloak with a high neck, instead of just the loose-draped chlamys that was young men’s normal garb on the Florengian Face. The garments that disguised him made him vulnerable, for a Werist who tried to battleform with clothes on ran the risk of being entangled in them, and would certainly be distracted and hampered by them. The two near-naked ice devils could rip off their rags in an instant.
“Wine, may it please your honor,” he told the boy. “The chalk marks on the bottles say that they are bound for my master’s palace, not for sale.” Writing might impress the guard, although he would not be able to read it any more than Cavotti could.
“Open the stinking cover, you diseased, ditch-borne progeny of a toad.”
Cavotti obeyed, rain-chilled fingers fumbling with waterlogged ropes, but as he pulled back a corner, he could turn enough to take surreptitious note of the ice devils. They were just standing there, staring at him, arms folded, backs to the wind. Wearing only those wet wisps of cotton, they ought to be freezing in this deluge, but Vigaelians felt the cold less. The warriors Stralg had brought over the Edge fifteen years ago had worn massive garments called palls. Florengia’s climate had taught them to wear as little as possible.
Stralg maintained a small garrison in Celebre, but his men normally left routine guard duty to the doge’s Florengians. Why were these two on the gate today, and why would they bother coming out in the year’s worst weather to stare at a solitary peasant?
“All of it!” shouted the boy, adding some salacious imperatives.
Cavotti unlaced more rope and the wind threw the cover up in his face, revealing that the wagon held only sealed clay jugs. But he had to fight the cover with one hand and control the guanaco with the other as Misery stamped feet and flicked ears.
“Don’t go away.” The swordsman helped himself to an amphora and staggered back into the guard room with it.
The Vigaelians said nothing, did nothing, just studied the imposter carter with colorless eyes. Their brown sashes denoted mere front-fang warriors. Surely their flankleader would have come in person if he thought there was the faintest chance of apprehending the infamous Mutineer? But Celebre had other gates to watch.
Very large Florengian male, twenty-eight years old, dark-skinned and dangerous—his description must be too vague to be useful. His size might give him away, but his face would not. Holy Weru had been kind to him—in ten years of battle, Cavotti had taken no serious wounds and consequently showed none of the bestial “battle hardening” most older Werists did. If the ice devils had any doubts about him, they need only demand to see his neck.
The guard emerged with another man, older and not so wet. They grabbed two more amphorae. “All right, you can go,” the second man said. They departed with their prizes.
“Wait!” said the larger Werist, in a harsh accent. Leaving his companion, he began wandering around the wagon, ghostly eyes inspecting the rig. His stripes were hard to read in the gloom, but they seemed to be black, brown, and green—which meant nothing, because the invaders’ horde was being so badly mauled these days that half their units were makeshift collections of survivors. His fair skin was scarred and peeling from sunburn, meaning he had only recently come over the Edge.
Cavotti suppressed mad thoughts of making conversation, professional small talk: Pardon my curiosity, swine, but have you heard about Napora yet? Me and my men butchered three sixty of your buddies there not two thirties ago. We did to your wounded what you used to do to ours.
The big Vigaelian came close, still silent. He probably did not speak or understand much Florengian; few of them did, no matter how long they had been here. Carefully watching Cavotti, he reached out and hooked a finger through the handle of yet another amphora. He lifted the bottle out at arm’s length, a feat few men would be inclined to try. Cavotti displayed humble admiration, as any sensible peasant would. He would give five teeth to know what the one at his back was doing.
The big Vigaelian smiled and deliberately threw the bottle to the paving. Cavotti jumped back with a cry, clothes soaked by wine. Black eyes met pale blue. The next step in this sort of harassment was for the Vigaelian overlord to order the subhuman Florengian serf down on his knees to start licking up the wine. That would not only put him at an impossible disadvantage, it would expose the back of his neck to view. There were limits; he would rather die on his feet.
The final, fatal challenge did not come. The other Werist laughed and said something in guttural
Vigaelian. The big one shrugged, spat contemptuously at the Florengian, and then they went back into the guard room, slamming the door.
Cavotti’s hands were shaking as he wrestled the cover back in place, but apparently he had merely been a victim of Vigaelian humor, two bored young thugs having some fun with the oversized native. Probably they were being punished for some minor offense, required to go outside and inspect every traveler in person. So the test had been good news in disguise. If the Vigaelians had the slightest suspicion that the army of liberation was starting to move in on Celebre, these two would have made sure they saw his neck.
He was home for the first time in fifteen years, and there was no one to see him. The inhabitants had fled the storm, leaving the streets to thrashing trees, leaping torrents, and a steady sleet of roof tiles, which exploded like thunderbolts as they landed. It would be a jest of holy Cienu if the war of liberation failed now because the partisan leader got brained by falling terra cotta.
Home at last! Incredible! In all the long years of war and struggle, he had clung bitterly to the hope that one day he would return, but only recently had he truly believed it would ever happen. His dream had been to return victorious, of course, to drive a chariot along this avenue waving to tumultuous crowds cheering Cavotti the Mutineer, Cavotti the Liberator. This skulking in dark corners was a poor substitute, but it was probably what he would have to settle for. If Stralg did not destroy Celebre before the end, the Freedom Fighters might have to.
