Mother of Lies (14 page)

They did not like it.
(fury—frustration)
They were young, immensely powerful, had recently won a stunning victory, and why shouldn’t they see their hero elected doge?

“Where are we going now, today?” Orlad demanded.
(worry)

“I must go to High Timber to inform the seers and Hordeleader Arbanerik that I have abrogated the compact between the Witnesses and the bloodlord. I will also pass on the news of your noble victory, of course.”

“But if we come with you, we will be recruited?”

“Seers cannot prophesy, but I expect so.”

“Or killed?”

Dantio sighed. “Detained, possibly. You will be hailed as great heroes, but the rebels must use extreme methods to keep their base secret.”

The Heroes were displeased.
(anger—arrogance—belligerence)

Waels put it into words. “Or we could stop you going there. We could make the boat sail on down the Wrogg.”

“That is so, my lord,” Dantio said humbly. “But to where? Who else will give you refuge from the bloodlord’s wrath?”

They could hide their fear from his eyes, but not from his seer’s feeling.

One of the sailors said, “The Werists are talking about High Timber. Will we camp at Milk tonight?”

“If this wind holds,” Nok decreed. “The slave wants us to.”

“Saltaja told Fabia you were dead,” Orlad said suspiciously. “The seers must have told her.”

Dantio shrugged. “No Witness ever said that. It wouldn’t be true, would it?”

ORLAD CELEBRE

was sorely perplexed. For years his course had been laid out for him. He had no experience making decisions, but now his choices would be matters of life and death. Seven men expected him to lead them somewhere, anywhere, and also see that they were clothed and regularly fed from now on. Yet he did not know the world outside Nardalborg or how to deal with people, even on the most trivial levels. He was repeatedly reminded of his ignorance as the day wore on. People kept shifting around the boat for variety, and sooner or later he found himself in private talks, one-on-one, with all his new-found siblings.

The dark-eyed, self-important sister he had suddenly acquired, for instance. He did not understand her at all.

“I will trade you,” she told him pertly.

“Trade me for what?”

“I mean I need someone to escort me home to Celebre. There can be no finer protector than a Werist, yes? You defend me and in return I will teach you Florengian.”

“You speak it?”

“Fluently.”

It was maddening that he was the only one of the four who couldn’t. “How? I mean who taught you?”

“My foster mother. I grew up speaking Florengian with her and Vigaelian with Horth. Now, do we have a deal? Language lessons for protection?”

“Why not ask Benard to protect you?”

She laughed, running hands through her black mane. “Benard couldn’t guard a river from a duck, and Ingeld is in no state to tackle the Edge.”

“What’s wrong with her? She’s no kitten, but she looks healthy.”

“She is with child. I think she is. Even if she isn’t, she’ll have to go back to Kosord soon, and she has Benard by a ring through his nose.”

That was obvious. “Your old man, then?”

“Horth is far too old.”

“Dantio?”

“I love your dry sense of humor! No, it’s up to you to escort me safely home, brother, and in return I will teach you the language. You were three years old, for gods’s sakes! You must have known lots of words. You’ve just forgotten them.”

Orlad ran a hand over his stubbled scalp. “I don’t understand. If you want a Werist to take you back to Celebre, why didn’t you agree to marry Cutrath Horoldson? He has the appeal of a dead toad, but he’s bigger and stronger than I am. He also has an army guarding him and you’ll have sex every night.”

His sister pulled a face. “Brawn may impress other men, but not women. You cannot seriously expect Celebre to accept a Stralg nephew as doge? You really—”

He just did not understand her. “Why go at all, then? Horth is rich, I’m told. You’re his heir, aren’t you? Why don’t you stay in Vigaelia and buy yourself whatever husband you fancy?”

“Duty!” She glared at him. “Don’t Werists know that word? Our family has ruled Celebre for centuries. It is my duty to go back and see if I can help the people.”

Did
help
mean
rule
? “My duty too?”

“That is what I have been trying to explain, Hero.”

“If I decide to go, I’ll let you come.”

She pouted. “How much do you know about the pass?”

“I don’t remember any more of our crossing than you do,” he admitted. “But I do know Nardalborg Pass as far as the Fist’s Leap. I helped rebuild the bridge there.”

“Then you’re hired,” she said.

That was probably a joke.

Fabia might be too devious ever to trust, but Orlad thought he could grow to like her, given time. Benard, on the other hand, was historically weird. Conversations with him made no sense at all.

“Orlad?” the big man said. “Or do I still have to call you ‘my lord’?”

“I suppose not.”

“Good. You used to call me Bena. That man with the birthmark?”

“Warrior Waels.”

“Would he take his clothes off for me if I asked him nicely?”

“He had them off earlier.”

“But I didn’t get a good look at him.”

Orlad mulled the query for a while, then asked, “I thought you were humping Ingeld, Bena?”

The artist promptly turned redder than Waels’s chin. “That wasn’t what I had in mind!”

“What did you have in mind, then?”

“Holy Cienu! He has such a wonderfully cute smile.”

Orlad gave up. “It isn’t worth the risk, Bena. Snerfrik plays that way sometimes, but if you suggest it to Waels he will disarticulate your skeleton.”

Benard frowned in annoyance.

Orlad said, “Did you really get Fabia out of a Werist dungeon last night?”

“No. It wasn’t a dungeon and I didn’t do anything you could understand.”

If Benard was bizarre, the Witness was downright spooky.

“Fabia wants me to take her back to Celebre, so she can wear the crown,” Orlad told him.

Dantio said, “Coronet.”

“Whatever. We’ll need permission from this Arbanerik oath-breaker?”

The seer gave him a wistful boy-girl smile. “I am sure the hordeleader will be happy to assist you. Anything that confounds Stralg is fine by him, and Cavotti can surely make good use of both of you, although perhaps not in ways you will like.”

Orlad wondered if he was being mocked. “You will be coming with us?”

“I’d like to, but it’s getting very late to start over the Edge. Every snow flurry will delay you. If you can’t make it in a thirty you won’t make it at all.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing won.”

“Spoken like a true Hero. Trouble is, I may not even have a thirty.”

“Because you lied to Saltaja? You’re serious about the curse thing?”

The seer stared at him with eyes as dark as his own. “It will take a thirty or longer for the news to reach Bergashamm, but as soon as Eldest LeAmber hears that I broke the compact, she will pronounce anathema on me. Then I die.”

“Right away?”

“Within a few days.”

“You drop dead, just like that?” Orlad asked skeptically. Holy Weru was known to strike men with thunderbolts, but not on request.

Dantio laughed oddly. “Dropping dead would be easy. You really don’t want to know the details.”

“Heroes don’t shock easy.”

“No? Well, then,
it is known
that when the Eldest pronounces anathema on a False Witness, the Goddess withdraws all the transgressor’s senses. I will be struck blind and deaf, unable to taste, smell, or feel anything. I will soon go mad, of course, locked up alone inside my skull. I will scream a lot, but I won’t hear my screams. I will thrash around and not know when I hurt myself. Eventually I will die of thirst, unable to know when to swallow.”

“That’s horrible!”

“This penalty keeps us from abusing the Lady’s gifts to us. Absolute wisdom is absolute temptation.”

“And you deliberately risked this punishment?”

“I invited it. It is not a risk. It is certain execution.”

Orlad decided he had to believe this. Holy Weru took his Heroes’ lives if they stayed in battleform too long at a time.

“You will die for revenge?”

“For justice, Orlando!” The eunuch’s face no longer seemed weak or effeminate, in fact his smile was as terrible as Weru’s. “For justice on all of them, the whole vile Hrag crew. For what they did to me and you and all of us and a million others. Given the same chance I had, would you find the price too high?”

“No, but I would rather die in battle.”

“Who wouldn’t? But families must hang together. If you will swear to kill me as soon as it happens, I will gladly come over Varakats Pass with you.” After a moment he said, “Well? Will you?”

“Break your neck, you mean?” Orlad would certainly want someone to do that for him under those circumstances.

“That will do nicely. Or just choke me. I won’t know the difference. Will you?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“Spoken like a true brother. Thank you.”

Weird.

The old man in the brass collar, the one they addressed as a packleader although he wore civilian clothes—he was obviously an oath-breaker. So was Orlad, of course, although his liege had broken faith with him first. They were all oath-breakers, even the mysterious Arbanerik. But old Guthlag did know some good stories. He joined the other Heroes amidships for a while and told them about the fall of Kosord and the coming of Stralg; and how Ingeld had been forced to marry Horold Hragson.

Yes, talking with other Werists was easier, and his flank-mates were best of all. Waels was Tryfors born, so the next time they were close, Orlad asked if he’d ever heard of High Timber. He knew Waels well enough by now to guess from his smile that something interesting was coming.
Cute
, Benard had called that smile; Waels would kill him if he knew.

“No, my lord. It doesn’t sound like a real name. But the seer said it was near the Wrogg. Not on it, he said. Riverfolk can go there. And it’s near Varakats Pass.”

“So?”

“Then it can’t be far away.” Waels pointed Iceward, to the conical peak peering between the trees, Mount Varakats. “We’ll come to Milk pretty soon, the first village down from Tryfors, where the river splits between lots of islands. The mouth of the Milky River is there. The Milky is a major tributary of the Wrogg—good hiding for boats! I’d guess that High Timber is a short way up the Milky.”

“Well done!”

Waels looked pleased at the praise. “Your brother the seer has been holding out on you, my lord.” His smile was even cuter when he explained what he meant by that.

Sure enough, although the sun was still well above the hills, when
Free Spirit
entered the maze of brush-covered islands, the riverfolk steered into a minor channel and, after some argument, tied up to the island of their choice.

“Not like I’m trying to give anyone orders, flankleader,” Guthlag said, “but boats have been known to untie knots in the night.” He leered long yellow teeth.

“Appreciate the warning, packleader,” Orlad said. “Hear that, Jungr? The boat stays here. You and Narg take first watch.”

The rest of the passengers were jumping ashore, glad to stretch their legs. Orlad put Namberson in charge, telling him to see the palls spread on bushes to dry. Then he went exploring, as a leader should. The islands were less secure than they looked, for an agile man could wade, swim, or sometimes jump from one to another, and all of them were wooded more or less heavily with spindly trees and high shrubbery. Those would make good cover, but the ground was thick with twigs and dead leaves, so nobody should manage to sneak up on anyone in the night.

He found himself a small, sunny glade, where he could stretch out and do some serious thinking. Or perhaps he just needed to be alone, after his tumultuous day. He clasped his hands under his head and stared up at a cloudless sky through a weave of canes and bare branches. The girl had tried to lecture him about duty. Duty to whom? To what? He certainly owed no allegiance to a bloodlord whose deputy had tried to murder him. Nor any to Arbanerik. Did he owe anything to a father who had given him away? His oath was to Weru, of course, but he owed his life to his followers, his flank, and he certainly couldn’t lead them over the Edge to be mistaken for Stralg men and slain in the upcoming massacre. If Cavotti eventually chased Stralg back into Vigaelia, then Orlad would be the odd one out on this side, liable to be killed on sight. Under Cavotti or Arbanerik, he would be just one more front-fang Werist. As the doge’s son, he would be unique. He certainly couldn’t let the eunuch outdo him in raw courage or the girl in duty. It was confusing.

A shift in the wind brought him a whiff of bungweed, and that provoked a rush of unhappy memory. As the only Florengian child around Nardalborg, he had always been appointed the Mutineer, so all the rest of the boys could be Stralg’s Heroes, who would then hunt him down and beat him up. Bungweed grew in the moorland bogs where the best hiding places were, so its scent whispered of long hours of shivering in concealment, waiting for the inevitable ordeal to follow. He had taught them to do their hunting in groups, though. He had become very good at ambushing the strays.