by Dave Duncan
Soon huge black birds screeched and flapped, some fighting up into the air, others just cavorting along the ground. Vigaelia had similar creatures, although smaller. Whatever their names, they fed on carrion. As the chariot hurtled past the first kill, she caught a glimpse of a large, yellow-furred dead thing, ripped and bloody, a glint of brass. Then she saw more of them. Some of them were visibly human, some indeterminate. No black or brown ones, though. Those would have been treated with more respect.
“Last night’s losers?”
“They tried to break out to the pass,” Felice said carelessly. “Of course our leader had anticipated that and posted a full hunt here to stop them. You should thank the gods that none of them got past us.”
Thinking about that, she did not speak again for a while.
The valley was still spreading out on either side, flat bottomland carpeted with lush vegetation and flanked by cliffs receding into the distance. She was amazed at how far they had descended. The air was gentle, wonderfully easy to breathe. Florengia was much warmer than Vigaelia, Orlad had warned her, quoting his friend Gzurg. According to Dantio, much of the time it was a steam bath. Thinking of which …
“Is that steam?” She pointed at the nearest of several plumes.
“Warm springs,” Felice told her. “The source of the Puisa.”
“Who?”
He gave her an odd look. “The river that flows through Celebre. Veritano is famous for its hot baths.”
“Now I know I’m dreaming. Don’t make any loud noises.”
Soon they passed a string of chariots heading out to rescue the rest of Felice’s men. He released Fabia long enough to make a hand signal that probably meant the situation had not changed since Dimo’s report. The other leader waved acknowledgment.
Brown and black guanacos grazed in emerald fields. Obviously that was Veritano ahead, a complex of adobe buildings with red tile roofs and strange, feathery trees—and several lazy columns of steam.
“Finest place in the Altiplano,” Felice said. “Used to be a sanctuary. Lords and ladies came here to enjoy the warm springs. When the Fist took it over, Sinura left.”
“Smart goddess.”
The car rattled through an arch into a wide courtyard. Along one side many chariots stood in rows, their shafts pointing skyward. A small paddock had been railed off on the other, and men grooming guanacos there stared in surprise at Felice’s passenger as he drove past them, heading to a gate at the far side. She noted signs of neglect—tiles missing, walls crumbling, creepers and other greenery running riot. The chariot rattled to a halt.
At the gate stood a giant, fists on hips. Fabia had seen big Werists and bestial Werists, but this one was both, grotesquely misshapen and thickly furred with black hair. All of him, especially his face, seemed cruelly lopsided. A stub of horn the size of a thumb protruded from his forehead and massive brows overhung his eyes like the roof of a cavern, while his chin was lost under a toothy protruding muzzle. He wore the same sort of knee-length chlamys Felice did, but his was green, and linen instead of wool. Oddly shaped boots and a brass collar completed his attire. Could this monster be the celebrated Mutineer, the man who had outwitted and outfought Bloodlord Stralg?
He was the most repulsive parody of a man she had ever seen. Even Horold Hragson had seemed more human than this.
She liked him even less when he smiled, for that muzzle was all teeth, too many huge, onager-sized teeth. He stepped forward and offered a very large hand. Fabia had trouble not shuddering as she accepted it, noting black claws tipping the thick fingers.
Murmuring, “Thank you, Flankleader,” to Felice, she stepped down.
“Lady Fabia? I am Marno Cavotti.” He did not bow, and for her to curtsey in the rags she wore would be ridiculous.
“I used to be Fabia Celebre, my lord. I hope to be so again, once I have bathed and dressed. I am happy and honored to meet you. All Vigaelia knows your name and supports your cause.”
He bore a strong animal odor—not as repellent as Horold Hragson’s had been, but not human. He glanced over his shoulder. A woman emerged from the gate and came to stand at his side. Her simple wrap clung to an angular, bony figure. She was not young—white-streaked hair, care-lined face, penetrating eyes—but women aged rapidly during their bearing years. His wife?
She said only, “I am Giunietta, my lady.”
“I am honored to meet you.”
The second chariot had arrived. Dantio stepped down, favoring his gimpy ankle. He bowed—to the woman. “Witness Mist, sister.”
She smiled as if caught out. “Witness Giunietta, brother.”
Another bow. “Dantio Celebre, my lord Mutineer. I am greatly honored to meet you again.”
Cavotti responded with a bend of his bull neck. “I would not have known you.”
“Boys notice their elders more than their juniors. I remember you, but only dimly.”
“Faugh! My own mother would not know me now. Welcome home, lord Dantio. You arrive at an interesting time.” Again he glanced at Giunietta, and they exchanged the sort of looks that couples exchange. He was puzzled by this soft-spoken young man; she was saying she would explain later.
Orlad sprang down and saluted. He introduced himself and Waels in very stilted Florengian. Fabia noted Cavotti’s manner cool. A Florengian who had been initiated in Vigaelia was suspect. “Piero had a fourth child, as I recall.”
“Benard,” Dantio said. “He remained behind, having just become consort of Kosord.”
“Kosord? Why is that name familiar?”
Dantio grinned. “Because it was previously ruled by Horold Hragson. You want the news, my lord Mutineer? Brace yourself. Benard killed Horold with a little help from Orlad and his men. Orlad killed Therek Hragson with his own bare, er, teeth. Hordeleader Arbanerik and his New Dawn rebels took Tryfors and were poised to take Nardalborg when we left. Saltaja Hragsdor tried to flee over the pass with a large escort of Heroes. She closed the road behind her, but we closed it ahead of her, leaving her trapped near the Edge without supplies or a way out. She may be presumed dead.”
“Hands of death!” Cavotti roared. “Is any of this true, love?”
“All of it.” Giunietta clapped her hands. “Oh, most wonderful news!”
Cavotti bared teeth in a monster’s leer. “You Celebres don’t play for cakes, do you? Hero Orlad, I hail you as worthy of our god!” He grabbed Orlad in a bear’s embrace, lifting him right off the ground.
Orlad did not like that. The moment he was set down he snarled, “And you likewise, Mutineer,” and treated the giant likewise. Just to show he could, probably.
Cavotti laughed and thumped his shoulder. “The whole foul brood dead except for Stralg, then?”
Fabia did not want to reveal her suspicions yet, but she could not leave him misinformed. “A warning, my lord. I agree that Saltaja’s position seemed hopeless, but you know that the Queen of Shadows has always been a tool of the Ancient One. When we burned down the bridge at the Leap, we inadvertently left our Pathfinder on the other side. No one knows any other way to cross the Dust River, but if there is one, he will have found it for her. You should post a watch on this end of the pass, my lord, just to be quite certain.”
She had not mentioned that possibility to her companions, but their frowns were nothing compared to Cavotti’s. He said, “I will do so, with orders to kill her on sight. What comes first, my lords and lady—hot water? Food? News? Talk? Sleep?”
“You have the right order exactly,” Fabia said. She doubted they would have much time left over for sleep.
FABIA CELEBRE
was conducted to a bathing pool that would have held sixty women without a jostle. She had it to herself, in a courtyard so steamy and overgrown by feral garden that it would have been private even without the high wall surrounding it. Although paving, statuary, and stone benches were all cushioned in green moss, the water itself was clear, gushing up from a corroded bronze grating and trickling away through anot
her. She sank into bliss, submerging totally until she had to come up for air. The gods knew that she had earned this! Nothing in her life quite compared.
Soon Giunietta came bustling in with a pile of clothes. “Try rubbing yourself with this paste, my lady. It cleanses and freshens the skin. These are the only women’s garments I could find. I’ll hold them up, and you can tell me what color you like and what you think will fit you …”
After that Giunietta dusted off a bench and sat down to chat while Fabia washed, soaked, swam a little, and generally luxuriated. Whenever her head was above water, she freely recounted the family adventures: how she had learned Florengian from Paola, why Orlad spoke it so badly, how Benard had risen so high so fast, how Waels had changed color, and so on. Some of it only a seer would believe, and Giunietta must know that she had an ulterior motive in telling it. After Fabia had dried herself off with the softest towels she had ever encountered—alpaca wool, whatever that was—Giunietta offered to rub her with lavender oil. That was an offer not be refused, and she stretched out on the bench, facedown. It was nice to feel kneaded.
“But now it’s my turn. Tell me about the Mutineer. How did you meet him?”
Gentle fingers spread cool oil on her shoulders. “The rule our Goddess decreed for Her mystery here is not quite the same as She set out for Vigaelia. We do not go veiled, for example, unless we are testifying. Both cults are forbidden to meddle in events, but when Stralg perverted Her mystery in Vigaelia and then brought this evil over the Edge with him, our Eldest decreed that any Florengian Witnesses who wished to assist the opposition would be allowed to do so, within certain limits. I am forbidden to send men to their deaths, for example, but I may warn of ambushes. Very few of us can bear to do even that much. I fear I have more tolerance for brutality than most.”
Unsure how to respond to that, Fabia said, “How long have you known Marno Cavotti?”
“About two thirties.”
Oh. No children, no marriage.
“He broke into Celebre itself to appeal to the doge.” Giunietta’s voice was soothing, but she lacked skill at oiling and pummeling. Fabia longed for Lilin, back in Skjar. “Your father was incapable and your mother was ruling in his name. Marno spoke with her and then escaped by the skin of his heels. He takes absurd risks sometimes! I had agreed to help his men locate him, and that was when we met. One thing led to another, and … Later I discovered that his real purpose had been to lure the Vigaelians into a trap, and he won a great victory by it. When he says victory he means massacre, so my involvement was not as harmless as I had hoped, but that is typical of Marno.”
She worked on Fabia’s thighs. “We very nearly lost him a few sixdays ago. He got trapped between two Vigaelian squads and was horribly wounded and tortured, very nearly died.”
“How awful!”
“Until then he could pass for an extrinsic—big, yes, but handsome as a god. Some of his men rescued him in time to save his life, but he could not heal all his injuries. He does not complain, but it must be hard for him.”
Hard on anyone who had to look at him. That bestial face would give Fabia shudders even without the horn. “You are lovers?”
“Seers do not fall in love, my lady. Love is a form of blindness.”
“I am sorry. It is none of—”
Giunietta chuckled quite crudely. “But we take pleasure together. You cannot imagine me coupling with that great unicorn bison? Well, I do, and eagerly, every time I can get him to take a moment away from the war. I confess I am sadly promiscuous where Werists are concerned. Sometimes we Witnesses can be snared by our own powers, and I know that some of my sisters have become as addicted as I have. We have more talents than just sight, you know. One of our abilities is to detect the inner nature of things or people. We call it ‘smell,’ but it has nothing to do with noses or scent. We have to call it something, and it has about the same range as an odor. We can sniff out lies and liars, poison in a goblet, bad news in a letter, disease or rotting beams. I can tell boy babies from girls before their mothers are even aware of their existence. Will you turn over now?
“Many Werists are brutal all the way through. That type usually enlists voluntarily, seeking out the god. They can be handsome as maidens’ dreams outside and solid monster inside. Marno wanted to be an artist and a patron of the arts, but he was snatched off the streets of Celebre and coerced into the service of Weru. Had the gods never inflicted the Fist on Florengia, he would have been a different person. Your brother Orlad is much the same. But all that is might-have-been, and gossamer for Voices of Anziel to spin.
“Deep inside Marno Cavotti I still sense the gentle boy artist, much like your brother Benard as you described him. Outside that sweetness is a crust of murder and ferocity that outdoes even Stralg. Between them rages a zone of fire I cannot describe. For a Witness to give herself to such a man is an experience at once terrifying and exalting. He could crush me, destroy me in an instant, as he has destroyed uncounted men, and yet he is so vulnerable, so in need of care and love … Only a Witness could understand the turmoil of fury and despair, of hatred and need. Marno is like no other man. I fear what will become of him after this war is ended. He will win it, if he lives, but then his life will be empty. He cannot go back. He can never have a normal marriage and children. What does he do? Invade Vigaelia?”
Fabia could not resist asking, “Does that horn get in the way much?”
Giunietta laughed. “No more than noses!”
“And he has seasoning, as I do?”
The hands kneading her thigh stilled. “Your brother told you about that?”
“Orlad has it also. Benard and Dantio did have it, but they have lost it.”
“Four of you? That is incredible.”
“So I am told. The Mutineer must have it, so how does a Witness react to whole-body contact with Marno Cavotti?”
“There are no words for it,” Giunietta said. “I believe the food will be ready soon, my lady. If you care to sit up, I will comb out your hair for you.”
Once splendid, the dining hall showed the ravages of many years’ neglect under the Stralg regime. Plaster had fallen from walls and lay in heaps in corners. The tables and benches were battered as if they had survived fights or very rough sport, and the windows looked out on a jungle where there should be a fine park. In among the tangle of lank vegetation shone flowers like red and white stars.
“Exiles!” Dantio said, leaning out to pick some. “Also called Outcasts. And they are blooming to welcome us!” He handed a sprig to Fabia.
“Can I eat it?” she asked. “Don’t you feel drafty in that towel?”
The men were transformed, clean and curried, but all three wore brown Hero chlamyses, doubtless the only male garments to be found in this outpost.
“The man who wore this yesterday never came back for it,” Dantio said bleakly.
“Oh.” Who would be a seer and know such things?
Then Cavotti entered with Giunietta, plus a short, heavyset Werist who was presented as Huntleader Melchitte. Fabia lost interest in him almost immediately because servants followed him, bringing food. For about a thirty she had eaten nothing but pemmican and beans. Now she saw real food again at last, and more than enough of it for two women and five men, although she recognized almost nothing. There was no cutlery, only fingers to take what they fancied from steaming bowls being passed around. If these were proper Florengian table manners, not just crude Werist habits, she would have to learn a whole new code of behavior. She chose something like a roll of pastry; when she bit into it hot gravy spurted down her chin. Waels sniggered like an idiot. It was meaty and tasty, though. She passed on a bowl of mysterious paste and took a small fish on a twig from the next. At least the flagon of wine that was placed in front of her seemed to be for her own use, not for sharing.
“We do not normally eat this well,” Cavotti said. “The Veritano garrison commander was a gourmet. Now his cooks work for us. They had brought in many delicacie
s for a year-end feast, which he unfortunately is not present to enjoy. He is treating the vultures. Try these curried lizard heads.”
The Mutineer was a restless man, and not as famished as his guests. He soon began talking business. He wanted to hear—and wanted Melchitte to hear—all about Saltaja and the closing of the pass. Dantio obliged between mouthfuls.
“How many men did she have with her?”
“We do not know, although Orlad saw at least a sixty. Four sixty if she brought all of Caravan Six. We know there were about eight sixty in Nardalborg, but the pass was not provisioned for that many.”
When a hefty elbow jabbed her ribs, Fabia realized that she had Waels on one side of her, Orlad on the other, and had been elected interpreter. She explained in a whisper as Dantio described the events at Fist’s Leap.
“Surely,” Melchitte said, “if they knew you had torched the last food cache, they would be more inclined to turn back than press on? Coming this way they faced a harder journey and a war when they arrived.”
Dantio hesitated, eyed Fabia as if wondering what she knew that she had not told him, and then said, “I agree, my lord, and with anyone else I would not worry. But Saltaja does have chthonic powers and she would certainly want to press on to Florengia to join up with her brother. Only death waited for her at home in Vigaelia.”
Cavotti was skeptical. “She was old. She had no food. Even if she had four sixty men with her, they would be more inclined to kill her in anger than help her escape. How long will you need to destroy the shelters, Melchitte?”
