by Dave Duncan
In no time they went hurtling past the charred remains of the first shelter.
“Whoa!” Sesto said. “Slow down there, Killer. Looks like we have company. Two of them?”
It was three. Chies had excellent eyes, even if they were watering madly in the wind, but he knew not to contradict Werists.
In a few moments it became clear that there were indeed three men, and they were staggering—literally staggering—along the road toward them. They were muffled in furs, but obviously Werists. Sesto took back the reins and brought his flank to a halt about sixty paces away. By then the visitors had fallen to their knees.
“Mercy? They want mercy!” Sesto pulled out the ax and surveyed his men. “They should have thought about mercy sixteen years ago. Orders are to kill on sight. Volunteers?” Ten hands went up. “Raul, you missed out last time. Don’t battleform unless you have to.”
Raul jumped down from his chariot and trotted forward, grinning. He took the ax and Chies looked away. Even three against one would be no fight, for the Vigaelians were totally spent. Whatever Raul did was quick and undoubtedly fatal because the other Florengians cheered, but the victims did not sound dead when the patrol drove away.
Sesto jeered. “Squeamish, sonny?”
“We could have questioned them.”
“You understand that gobble-gobble of theirs?”
“Some,” Chies admitted. He was fluent.
“Then show me what you can find out from this next one.”
Sure enough, there was another approaching along the road. He seemed very tall, but soon resolved into a large man carrying another on his back.
By the time the chariots arrived, the big man had knelt down to release his burden, and then collapsed altogether. The other just stood over him, hands out, as if to hold off the execution squad racing toward them. His white hair blew loose in the wind, his rags flapped, his nose had turned black with frostbite, and he had lost two or three fingers. Sesto pulled up close, so Chies could ask questions
But Werists never wore their hair long like that. It wasn’t a Werist. Nor a man, neither. But whoever it was, she did have extraordinary eyes. Crazy eyes. Mad, mad eyes, staring up at him as if she knew him.
Part VI
THE DOGE
IS DEAD,
LONG LIVE
THE DOGE!
ORLAD CELEBRE
was much impressed by the famous Mutineer. He was everything a leader should be—decisive, quick-witted, successful, and adored by his men; a giant’s physique never hurt, either. He had demanded no oath from Orlad, just offered a spade-sized hand and said, “Your foes are my foes!” That was how Heroes committed to each other when they were equals, so Orlad had been happy to agree. An oath would have been tricky, because obviously their priorities must differ if Marno thought killing Stralg required the destruction of Celebre.
Nor was Cavotti one to sit around and digest. If the Celebres wanted to go with him, they had to leave immediately. He had his own chariot, bigger than most and pulled by a team of six guanacos, and he usually traveled with a bodyguard of six Werists. He replaced three of them with Orlad, Waels, and Dantio, remarking that Orlad and Waels more than made up for Dantio’s lack of fighting skills. This might be true normally, but was not necessarily so after a thirty or more crossing the Edge. He told Fabia she could squeeze in beside him as long as she promised not to breathe and she did not seem displeased by the suggestion. Orlad had hoped for a Hero-to-Hero chat with the Mutineer, but could see that there would not be room in the car for both of them.
His driver was Packleader Tabbeo, a five-year, tough-as-bronze veteran, who claimed to have slaughtered seven Vigaelians with his own hands—and teeth, of course. Orlad could claim a greater score than that, but the two that Tabbeo wanted to hear about were the sons of Hrag. He was also willing to learn about Saltaja and remarkably patient at correcting his companion’s Florengian.
The countryside was lush, fascinating, totally different from the bleak Nardalborg moors of Orlad’s childhood. The animals were different, the trees, the houses—everything! The weather was about the same, sun and rain alternating, except that the rain was warm here. Cavotti set a bone-shattering pace, changing llamoids frequently. This might officially be Stralg country, but obviously Cavotti had it well organized, and the inhabitants could not do enough for him.
He did not hesitate to travel by night; he rarely slept more than a couple of pot-boilings at a time. Meal breaks never lasted longer than it took the hands to harness up new llamoids. Fatigue settled around Orlad like a fog. He barely exchanged a word with the others for the next three days, although he dearly wanted to know what Fabia was learning from the Mutineer. He still hadn’t managed a private chat with her when they came to a ranch outside Montegola, less than half a menzil from the fabled city of Celebre.
Orlad awoke to the sound of wagon wheels and an unexpected scent of hay. Memory returned with a thump—Montegola. Celebre was visible from the ranch, he had been told; he would see it in the morning. The sun was up now, obviously, and what they called a winter day here already seemed hot to him. Waels slept on at his side. It was the work of a moment to turn a blanket back into a chlamys and slither down the ladder. By the time he paused in the barn doorway to take stock of the yard, he could hear Waels following.
There was the wagon that had woken him, with four guanacos hitched and a spotty-faced youngster slouched on the bench. Beyond it stood the house and a couple of other buildings, built of wicker and thatch, but seemingly well kept. And yes, even from where he stood, that gleam of white towers across the plain must be Celebre itself. It was much bigger than he had expected. His heartbeat rose.
“Could eat a mammoth,” Waels said, stretching and blinking at the sunshine.
“Nice day, feels like summer.”
“We are not in Nardalborg anymore, my lord.”
Rain clouds far to the east suggested a change later. Dantio and Fabia were just emerging from the house, followed by their host. Cavotti had disappeared the previous evening on other business.
The rancher, Eligio, wore a peasant’s loincloth and flaunted a brass collar in full view. That seemed like rank insanity in Stralg country. When Orlad had asked his rank he had answered merely, “Spy.” He had good reason to be surly, for he looked no older than Waels but had lost an arm and one eye and would never battleform again. He ran thirty or so llamoids and a staging post for the Liberators. His wife, Carmina, seemed impossibly young to be the mother of the two children. She was an excellent cook, but Orlad reluctantly postponed thoughts of breakfast.
“You might have warned us that you were leaving.”
Eligio barely looked at him. “You’re staying here. Go back to the loft and keep out of sight.” He greeted the driver with a fast twitter of Florengian.
Fabia said, “Or go and beg Carmina to run you up a stack of her onion pancakes. The gods dine here.” She hooked a foot in a wheel and swung up to the wagon as if she had been doing it for years.
Dantio said, “Nice legs,” and followed more circumspectly.
Eligio and the boy were still yammering away, both at once, with much hand-waving. Orlad stepped to within biting distance of Eligio.
“Why are they going? Why are we not?”
“Don’t worry. We can trust them, Orlad,” Dantio said quickly.
“I still want to know what’s going to happen.”
Eligio looked at him as if he were moronic. “They’re going to a safe house in the city, and don’t ask me what they’re going to do there because I don’t know. You stay here for now. No one enters Celebre without showing his neck to the scum on the gate.”
“So how do Waels and I get in?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time.”
“Why not now?”
“The less you know the safer.”
“Why don’t they wait and come with us?” Orlad was surprised at how protective he felt toward his siblings now.
Eligio rolle
d his eyes. “Because they’re not Heroes, stupid. You want my help or not? If you do, throttle your gullet.”
“You’re speaking Vigaelian!” Orlad said, realizing belatedly.
The Florengian showed a set of teeth as jagged as a saw blade. “I help interrogate prisoners. It’s a hobby of mine.” He looked up to Dantio. “Leave the stuff I gave you at the triple fountain after dark. Check if they’ve picked it up every pot-boiling or so. If they haven’t arrived by dawn, try again tomorrow night. If they don’t appear then, they won’t be coming. If it isn’t safe to meet up, try to leave a broken pot there instead. Then they’ll come back here and wait for news.”
Putting on the best face he could, Orlad smiled up at Fabia and Dantio. “Until tonight then. Twelve blessings on you. Give my love to Mama. Tell her I like my steak raw.”
“Twelve blessings on you,” Dantio said. “Raw it will be.”
Fabia said, “Try and stay out of fights, you two.”
Waels flashed her his heart-stopping smile and said, “Why?”
As the wagon rattled out of the yard, Eligio growled, “You want to eat?”
“Very much we do, my lord,” Waels said. “And then we want some lessons in looking after guanacos. All I’ve learned so far is that they don’t smell as bad as onagers.”
Orlad had learned that they didn’t kick as hard, either, but he wasn’t going to mention that.
CHIES STRALGSON
had never been so frightened in his entire life. Not even on the night he was kidnapped, because then he had been falling-down drunk. But now …
Now the sun was setting and Chies was driving down the gully road at breakneck speed because he couldn’t control the team. The car leaped and bounced and rocked, heading steadily closer to Veritano with Sesto following, yelling at him to slow down. The best thing that could happen now would be for him to tip the car and fall out and break his neck. Or throw Saltaja out, but he was certain that would never happen.
He had always known he had half-brothers and a half-sister somewhere beyond the Edge. No one had ever mentioned an aunt. Certainly not a foul, mad, murderous, gangrenous aunt. An aunt who invoked Xaran! An aunt who had cast the evil eye on him and murdered ten Werists.
Sesto had promised, speaking in his curious new singsong, that they could pass Veritano on a trail so far from the buildings that Witness Giunietta would not notice. But Chies couldn’t control his rig. And Melchitte had at least two other patrols out, somewhere. And the dead Werists up on the Altiplano would be missed soon, so searchers would go looking. And war-beasts could outrun llamoids with one paw behind their backs and follow a scent for days. When they caught the killers they would tear them to pieces.
Saltaja was haggard and stank of rotting meat. She had lost fingers and toes and most of her nose. And teeth. She was so weak that Chies had to keep one arm around her to hold her in the chariot. He had tied the reins around his waist so he wouldn’t fall out, but that was hunting technique and he had never practiced driving that way. He ought to head straight to Veritano and scream for men to bring ropes and spades to tether and bury a Chosen. He wouldn’t, because she wouldn’t let him. He would do exactly as he was told.
He would also tell Sesto to do whatever she said, and Sesto would obey, too. She spoke no Florengian, yet that had not stopped her using her evil eye. She’d first enslaved Chies and Sesto, then given her orders through them to the other men. She had made them line up so she could hobble along the line, muttering at them, one by one. Then they had been told to strip and kneel down. And then they had just stayed there on their knees while their flankleader split their heads open with a wood ax and she chanted a hymn to the Evil One!
If a Werist flankleader had killed his own men on her orders, what chance did a boy like Chies have of resisting her? But he was not proud of himself, even so. He had thrown up when the killing started, and lost control of his bowels when she kissed him. He must smell as bad as she did. Now he was terrified by the chariot’s breakneck plunge down the hill and she did not seem worried at all.
“How old are you, Nephew?”
“Sixteen. Just turned.”
“And so tall! Have you made your vows to the gods yet?”
He shivered, wondering why she wanted to know that. “No. The rebels kidnapped me before the turn of the year.”
“That will help. What’s that smoke?”
“Steam. Hot springs.”
“Ah, I could use a good soak. So could you. Stop at a warm pond.”
“I’ll try,” he mumbled. He could not turn the team of four with only one hand, but if he let go of his aunt she might be hurt, and he knew he mustn’t let that happen, whatever he did.
“Tell me about the war,” she mumbled.
“Dunno nothing. The Mutineer seems to be winning. All the battles are his victories.”
“Then tell me about your father.”
“Which father?”
“Don’t play games with me, boy, or I’ll curse the balls off you.”
“I don’t know!” Chies howled. “Stralg? I’ve never met him, not that I remember. He doesn’t …” He was going to say “doesn’t love me” but that would sound ridiculous. How could anyone love him now? He was in league with Xaran, helping one of Her Chosen. Murdering people.
Sesto caught up with them and shouted instructions on how to turn the team. When the llamoids had been slowed to a walk, Chies told him they must find a hot pool. With Sesto leading this time, they reached a place where he said they could bathe. She told Chies to tell him to lift her down from the car.
“Undress me!” she ordered Chies, waving her mutilated hands, and of course he did. She was a horrible sight, the color of old bone, tufts of white hair, every rib showing, dried out dugs like empty meal sacks. “Help me into the water. You get in, too. And tell him to follow.” Sesto had blood all over his hands and arms.
So the three of them sat in the steaming water as the stars came out. Chies had little chance to brood on all the dead men, because she kept mumbling questions and he had to answer, or find out from Sesto for her—the war, the assault on Veritano, yesterday’s unexpected visitors. She listened eagerly to that part. She made Chies tell her all the things the Celebres had talked about with the Mutineer, so far as he had heard. It was a long agony. She was in no hurry, yet the warbeasts might be on their trail already.
“Now, how will you get your dear old aunt to Celebre?”
Chies translated. “We have to take her to Celebre. How can we do that?”
Sesto’s face kept twitching strangely and he spoke funny. “We’ll have to take to the river, or the others will track us.”
“There are boats?”
“Small boats. It’s a small river until we get near the city.”
Chies hugged himself in misery. “Won’t they just run along both banks until they find us?”
“Warbeasts can’t run forever, boy. Boats can.”
Chies told the hag about the river, and boats.
She cackled with satisfaction. “You will arrange whatever we need. He will obey your orders if you say they come from me. If you need anything from someone else, tell me and I will Control them just like I’m Controlling him.”
“And me,” he muttered.
She patted his shoulder with a ruined claw of a hand. “No, Nephew. I’m not Controlling you. I’m forcing him, I admit. He knows I’m doing it and he can’t help responding. But you’re helping your poor old auntie because you want to, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Aunt.” He thought he was just too frightened to argue.
“You want to punish the people who did these terrible things to me, don’t you? You want to help your father defeat the Mutineer, don’t you? You want to be doge, don’t you?”
Had he heard right? “Is that possible, Aunt?”
“Bah! If I can send a flank of Heroes to Xaran, you think a ragtag herd of elders will stop me making you doge?”
Chies said, “No, Aunt!” Holy Twelve! Tha
t made a difference.
“You get me near this Marno Cavotti and there won’t be any rebellion.”
“Yes, Aunt. I mean ‘No,’ Aunt.” Hello, Papa. Aunt Saltaja and I have tamed the Mutineer for you. I have his head in this bag. And the elders elected me doge …
“We children of Hrag stick together and help one another!”
“Of course I will do whatever you say, Aunt!”
“How will you get us into the city itself?”
Chies turned back to Sesto, whose twitch seemed to be growing even worse. Giving orders to a rebel flankleader was a heady sensation. “How do we get into Celebre?”
“I can’t go in. The ice devils watch all the gates. They’ll kill me.”
“I can. How about her?”
Sesto blinked, chewed his lip, flicked eyebrows as if his face had gone crazy. “They’ll question a Vigaelian woman. Don’t see them around often.”
Chies turned it into Vigaelian for her.
She was undoubtedly madder than a burning cat, but she was not stupid. “The Celebre boy is a Werist too. And had another Werist with him, you said. How will they get in?”
Translation …
Sesto whimpered, as if in pain. “The Mutineer was going to take the Celebres to Flankleader Eligio. He runs a ranch north of Cypress Gate. He has friends. He gets people in and out.”
“You know this place?” Chies asked.
“Never been there, but it will be easy to find. Just south of Montegola.”
The news made the Chosen cackle again. “Then we will go there and speak with Flankleader Eligio. We’d best be on our way. Chies, you will dress me. Now you see why I told you to collect the men’s robes before Sesto got blood all over them?”
