by Dave Duncan
“Seems wrong to kill for a living.”
How could such a hunk of a man be so unmanly? “You don’t want to be doge of your father’s city?”
Benard guffawed. “Me? You’re joking!”
How could a man with such incredible courage have so little ambition?
Pause.
“Waels …”
“Mm?”
“You love Orlad?”
Any other man who had the cheek to ask that would learn not to very swiftly. “What’s it to you?”
“Just that I’m very happy about it. Orlad’s been hurt more than any of us, even Dantio. He reminds me of castings I do sometimes—a coating of hard bronze outside and a clay center. Of course, in the casting the clay is baked hard, but I think there’s still some human softness left deep inside Orlad. I hope you can find it. He loves you?”
Waels debated breaking another neck, but three in one day seemed excessive. The alternative was to trust this bewildering, tangled sculptor person. “He says he thinks he does. He says he’d rather be with me than with anyone else, and he will never do anything to hurt me.”
“Then he’s being honest, and that’s rare in love affairs. You can’t expect more from him yet. Ask Ingeld. She knows more about love than Eriander, who just peddles lust. Her goddess does, I mean. She’ll advise you. No, I mean it. Talk to Ingeld.”
After a moment, the sculptor shrugged, raising ripples. “I don’t know if this would help … I can’t promise anything. If that birthmark bothers you, I can ask holy Anziel to remove it. She sometimes does favors like that for me. Often she won’t, of course, but you would be incredibly beautiful without it. It would be a sort of present to Orlad.”
Great murderous, frightful, wonderful Weru!
Waels had not really believed Orlad’s account of how his sister had escaped from the satrap’s palace. But … He looked down at his paler limbs, glimmering under the muddy water. Benard’s were almost invisible. He was a black-stubbled brown face floating above nothing.
Trying hard to keep his voice steady, Waels said, “If you can do that, can’t you change all of me?”
Benard looked startled. “What? Why?”
“Because Orlad’s going over the Edge to win back his city and he won’t let us go with him! Fair-haired Werists die on sight over there, he says. I’ve told him I don’t care, but he insists.”
“You love him that much, that you’d go and fight for him?”
“And die for him if I must.”
“You’re sure, absolutely sure …?”
“Oh, yes!”
“That’s beautiful too,” the artist said. “Be quiet a moment.”
He stared at Waels and for a while his lips moved. Then just a stare. At last he frowned in annoyance. “This is harder than I thought it would be. Look, grab a couple of handfuls of mud and rub it in your hair.”
“Why?”
“Shut up and do it.”
Waels hesitated. An extrinsic telling a Hero to shut up? If this was a juvenile joke … If anyone came in … He pulled up two handfuls of black muck and did as he was told, rubbing it into his stubble.
“Now your face,” Benard said.
The mudface said! Admiration of a man’s courage only went so far. Either this artist was gibbering crazy or he was trying to sucker a Hero and ought to be dismantled. But Waels thought about losing Orlad and nothing would be worse than that. He spread more of the revolting ooze over his face.
“And your ears. And neck. Down to your collar. Then either cover your shoulders too or put them under water where I can’t see them. And be quiet again.”
Any moment now half a dozen men would come storming in and start laughing their guts out.
Benard sighed. “All right, wash it off now. I’m sorry. I must be out of favor today. I’m not supposed to meddle in wars.”
Waels ducked under the surface and rubbed his hair and beard clean, or so he hoped. The water went up his nose. He emerged spluttering. His hands were still dirty. He rubbed them. They stayed dirty, didn’t feel dirty, arms the same color …
Benard nodded happily. “Seems I am in favor after all. Praise the lady!”
Waels erupted out of the pool and confirmed that he really was brown all over, the exact shade Orlad was. Miracle! Palms and nails pinker … Black hair! Even the hairs on his arms.
“Oh … Hero?” Wearing a stupid grin, Benard waded out and thumped him on the shoulder.
The new Florengian had to try twice before he managed to croak, “What?”
“I love that baby brother of mine too! Look after him for me, won’t you? Wherever you two go and whatever you do together, you keep him safe!”
HETH HETHSON
—or Heth Therekson, as he must now call himself—said, “Now that my father has gone, of course I am happy to claim his name and acknowledge my membership in such a distinguished family, my lady. To be related even just to you alone is a wonderful honor, a cause to boast.”
He walked across the guard room to a bench and sat down. He felt as if he had been standing a very long time and yet that couldn’t be, because—
Saltaja delicately licked fingertips. She had eaten almost everything on the tray, which had been a meal fit for a Hero in training. She pushed it to the far side of the table. Heth suddenly realized that he was starving. He couldn’t recall eating anything since—
“And what do you think of your cousin Cutrath?” she asked, with one of her wonderful little smiles.
“Honest opinion, my lady?”
“You will always answer my questions honestly.”
“Of course! I think he is a thoroughly spoiled brat, but he does not lack courage or self-confidence. A few years of life’s rough-and-tumble could turn an overgrown child into quite a decent man.”
“Then we must oblige him! You are certain we cannot leave today?”
Heth glanced at the sunlight falling through the window. It was a little shy of noon. He slid off the bench and dropped to his knees. “Forgive me, my lady! I did not know that there would be this terrible urgency. The last supply train is not due back until this evening, and we must not leave without those mammoths.”
“Get up! Men go past that window all the time. You must not kneel to me when there is the slightest chance that anyone else will see you. You may do so when we are quite alone, if you wish.”
He scrambled to his feet. “Thank you, my lady.” He did not resume his seat, feeling it was disrespectful to sit in her presence. “But I fear that the few hours’ advantage we might gain by setting out today would be wasted or even harmful, my lady. The first campsite—”
She stopped him with a dismissive wave. “Dawn it shall be, then. I depend on you to see me safely to Florengia. How long to reach the Edge?”
“At least twenty days, my lady, but it depends entirely on the weather. Thirty would be good going at this season. The descent on the far side is reputedly easier, but at least another ten days to Veritano, I understand.”
“I should send a letter to my brother advising him that I am coming.” She sensed his alarm and smiled again. “No?”
“We do not know what is happening on the Florengian side, my lady. If the Mutineer intercepted your letter he might bring up enough forces to intercept you also.” To be responsible for her safety was a terrifying responsibility. “And now we even have the problem of traitors on this Face. They could try to stop us from reaching the pass, or might even cross over and ambush us on the far side, since you tell me that they are concentrated near Varakats.” She had not said how she knew that, but he did not doubt her word for a moment. “And then there is the uncertain situation in Tryfors. Your plans should be kept secret.”
She sighed. She did look a little tired, but then she was older than Therek and must be close to sixty, so it was amazing that she had withstood her journey as well as she had. “Yes,” she said. “Now, about those men from Tryfors who were escorting me when your patrol appeared—they all know about th
e satrap’s death. I don’t want them chattering.”
“No, indeed, my lady! No one else in Nardalborg should know about that. I imagine they are all still unconscious, recovering from their exertions, but do you want me to … to …” To do what? She wouldn’t ask him to put them to death, would she?
“I will have a word with them,” she said.
“Flankleader Verinkar, my lady? He was quite right to bring you in by the fastest means possible, but technically he was disobeying—”
“Do whatever you judge best, Huntleader. Kill him or pardon him and say it is a favor to me. It doesn’t matter. He is of no importance.”
“Of course not, my lady. Forgive me for wasting your time.” It would be best to put Verinkar to death, in case he babbled things that might imperil the lady.
She said, “I am a little weary. I shall lie down for a while. I know you have duties to attend to. How many children do you have, Huntleader?”
“Three, my lady. A daughter and two sons.”
“How old?”
“Ten, seven, and three, my lady.”
“Ah, then the boys are too young to be warriors. But the girl might make a good lady’s companion. Send her to me. If she seems promising, she can accompany us to Florengia.”
“That would be a great honor, my lady.” Heth knew that Femund would complain at not being consulted, but he had always been considerate of her wishes, and she would have to understand that a man sometimes had higher responsibilities.
“I shall require a room on the ground floor with a good bolt on the door and a squad of—Ah, that must be my other nephew at last.”
Heth did not recall sending for Hero Cutrath, but he barked, “Enter!” and the face that peered in was indeed that of his parboiled young cousin.
“I said, ‘Enter!,’ not ‘Play peekaboo!’”
Cutrath jumped in like a startled coney and slammed the door behind him. He looked terrified out of his wits—such as they were—which was perverse of him so soon after Heth had praised his courage.
“You may greet your aunt, boy!”
Saltaja rose and held out her black-draped arms. “My, what a fine, upstanding warrior you have become since I saw you last! Come and give your old auntie a kiss, Hero.”
Cutrath made a choking noise, fumbling behind him for the door latch. Heth took him by the arm and marched him across the room. Cutrath went reluctantly. Something in the air suggested that he had a urinary problem.
FABIA CELEBRE
and Horth Wigson arrived back at their quarters, still escorted by their two grumpy Werist bodyguards. Huntleader Nils had assigned them a long barnlike building knocked together out of great undressed tree trunks, reeking of pine. The crude painting above the door showed that it was normally home to the men of gold pack, Panthers Hunt. Although daylight shone through the roof in places and there were no shutters to keep rain from blowing in the window slits, it was certainly roomy enough, and Fabia would not be staying long. That was another problem—time was desperately short. She must have a serious talk with Horth, and Orlad, and Benard … and just about everybody else.
The rest of the clothes she had bought had not been delivered yet, but her brother was waiting for her—her youngest brother, the dangerous one—accompanied by six gangly boys armed with cudgels. They wore peasant garb and unsightly hemp collars that must signify something to Werists.
Orlad bore a satisfied air. He was a seasoner. In the last two days two sons of Hrag had died by his hand, more or less. War was easy, wasn’t it? He had added a new scar, a jagged line, still red, from the corner of his mouth almost to his ear, as if a claw had ripped his face open.
“You can go,” he told Namberson and Snerfrik, and they vanished along the trail while still telling their lord that he was kind. He indicated the newcomers and rattled off some names.
“Probationers,” he told Horth. “They will look after you.”
The boys were regarding Fabia with interest, as if Florengian women were rarities thereabouts. She could see nothing in them to interest her.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Her brother shrugged. “You want to hear what I’ve promised to do to these maggots if you get molested, or insulted, or even annoyed?”
“No.”
“I warned them that I always carry out my threats. Didn’t I, maggots?”
They chorused nervously that their lord was kind.
“I must talk with you,” Fabia told him. “Come in here.”
She marched into the barracks, and continued along the narrow walkway that ran the full length of the building, between two raised platforms of packed earth. A thick litter of blankets and other personal gear on them suggested that Panther Hunt’s gold pack had left town in a hurry, no doubt right after Dantio’s letter had brought the news that Saltaja was entering the trap.
She turned. Orlad had chosen to sit down just inside the door, and Horth was perched on the edge of the platform opposite. Angrily she stalked back to them.
“I don’t want those boys eavesdropping!” She remained standing.
Orlad shrugged. “You think they haven’t noticed the windows?”
“Will they listen?”
“Certainly. Will it matter?”
That would depend on what was said. “You are going to Celebre?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“Soon as Arbanerik gives permission. Nils has sent him my request. Tomorrow if we can.” Orlad was very sure of himself now. Yesterday’s outlaw had become today’s warrior leader. He killed sons of Hrag. He was on firstname terms with huntleaders. He needed practice smiling, but he could smirk.
“You don’t speak the language!”
“I can learn it faster than you can become a man.”
She scowled. “You think you can be doge?”
“Certainly. Benard isn’t going, he says. Dantio can never produce an heir, and that’s one of a ruler’s duties.”
“I’m coming with you!”
Orlad smiled for the first time. It was not much of a smile, and it was directed at Horth, sharing amusement at Fabia’s performance. “Dantio insists Celebre has never had a female doge. They’re hardly likely to want one at a time like this.”
“But Stralg may,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “After you have sold us to him, you mean—me and Dantio?”
“Of course not! But I am coming with you.”
Orlad rose to his feet, surprisingly tall at close quarters. Her eyes were not much higher than his brass collar.
“It’s no journey for a woman.”
“I crossed as a babe in arms.”
“You don’t understand the dangers, kitten.”
“Of course I do!” In fact she knew the Ice better than he did. She had seen a vision of her infant self almost dying there. She must not lose her temper.
“Do you?” He put a knuckle under her chin and raised it so they were eye-to-eye. “Only twice has Nardalborg sent out a caravan this late in the season, and neither one arrived. There’s death and frostbite out there, also rock boar and catbears. At the Edge there’s no air, no water. You can’t sleep, can’t breathe, your skin cracks. Rivers of dust will swallow you whole.”
“You know all this personally, I suppose?”
“Yes I do.” Nothing fazed him now. “I worked on the bridge at Fist’s Leap. Also, when we get to Florengia, if we ever do, we will have to avoid Stralg loyalists guarding the far end. The Mutineer and his men will have their own ideas about who’s going to run Celebre after Father. We may find when we get there that the city does not even exist any more. Are you still sure you want to risk your pretty little neck?”
Ignorant, arrogant boy! Saltaja was out there, bloated with evil and a much worse danger than any he had mentioned.
“Yes!” she shouted. Remembering the probationers, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “You need me!”
“Of course we do.” Orlad pulled her to him and kissed h
er, full on the mouth. It was definitely not a brotherly kiss, and yet somehow it did not ring true.
She struggled free, still angry at his mockery. “That means you give your permission, my lord?”
“It means we both need you and want you, tigress! We’re going to discuss it with the huntleader in the Panthers’ mess at sunset.” He headed for the door.
“My lord!” Horth said softly.
Orlad stopped, turned. “Master Merchant?”
“You know Nardalborg Pass, you say?”
“The first part of it. Not the Edge itself.”
The Ucrist smiled diffidently. “I know both passes, but only by hearsay. Nardalborg Pass is well signposted. Varakats is not. You have no hope of finding it without a guide, no hope at all. Anyone will tell you that. Have you spoken with the Pathfinders?”
Orlad shook his head. “No, but I will, right away. Thank you.”
The door banged and he was gone.
Fabia slumped down on the edge of the platform beside Horth. “This is awful, just awful! The family has been reunited just one day and already it’s splitting up—Ingeld and Benard going back to Kosord, Orlad and Dantio rushing off into the war. And I must go with them, even if it’s just to say farewell to my dying father, who deserted me, although that means deserting you, who have always been my father.”
Horth patted her hand diffidently. “Orlad and Dantio will not be rushing off anywhere, my dear.”
“What? How can you say that?”
“Because that man I was speaking to while you were buying your new gown was Pathfinder Hermesk. I have known him for years.”
She knew what that subtle little smile meant and her heart dropped. Here was a complication she had not foreseen. She should know better than to underestimate Horth Wigson.
“I confess I don’t know what pathfinders do. A guild?”
“No, no. The Pathfinders are a cult of holy Hrada. Hermesk is head of the local lodge. You could say he is the light of Hrada on High Timber, but that seems a little pretentious.”
