Children of Chaos

thirty-six

FABIA CELEBRE

fell in love with Tryfors at first sight. It was not inspiringly beautiful, but anywhere must be better than the endless trek up the Wrogg that had taken such a huge bite out of her life. Morning frost still sparkled on the shingle and her breath steamed as she walked down Mora's gangplank, for yesterday's rain had yielded to a sky of dazzling blue. Here the river had become many little rivers, each with its own collection of boats. The cataracts upstream were the same brilliant white as the hills beyond—that was snow up there and possibly she would be walking on that soon. Tryfors was a gray sprawl on a mesa above the floodplain, and her future husband might be waiting for her up there; he was certainly not in the reception party on the pebbles.

There was no reception party. No trumpets, no honor guard. Saltaja had truculently insisted on camping one last unnecessary night just a couple of hours downstream from the city so she could send word ahead to proclaim her coming, as if she doubted her brother's ability to cope with unexpected visitors. Not trusting one runner, she had sent two, some time apart. Had neither arrived? Or had the message been ignored?

Scar-faced Huntleader Darag trod close on Fabia's heels. Saltaja and Horth were disembarking from Blue Ibis. Other vessels were loading or unloading or being careened, wagons and slave gangs were at work, but the latest arrivals were being ignored.

"Gods save us, my lady," Fabia said brightly. "We appear to be a little early."

Saltaja's answer was a glare. The protracted voyage had aged her. Her pallid face seemed more elongated than ever, although it was still not that of a woman in her sixties. Her black robes had faded to gray, and in some elusive way so had she. That did not mean she was any less dangerous, though; perhaps even more so.

She snarled at Darag. "More desertions, Huntleader?"

"I warned you Heroes would not be used as flunkies." The wolfish Darag was not the obsequious and unlamented Perag, but even Darag would not have spoken to Saltaja like that when they set out from Kosord. Then he had been in command of five boats and forty-eight men. But one day Beloved of Hrada had lost contact with the other craft, taking a dozen Werists with her, and three days later Nurtgata and Redwing had vanished with another sixteen.

As Horth had waspishly pointed out to Fabia, if Stralg's sister could lose half her escort, then the overall desertion rate in the Heroes must be enormous. Where were the deserters going and what might they do in the future? Had they found some way of evading the Witnesses' notice, or were the Witnesses no longer answering the satraps' questions?

"That must be snow up there," Horth said, beaming guilelessly. "Does that make the passes more difficult, do you suppose?"

Since the desertions, the remaining Werists had become sullen and resentful, while Saltaja and Darag snapped at each other in open contempt. In a sort of reverse mockery, Horth had become exaggeratedly polite to them and fatuously cheerful—soaked bedrolls kept snakes away, he would explain, and dysentery was highly beneficial, nature's cleansing. Fabia suspected he had helped the defections along. If so, it was odd that he had not contrived an escape for the two of them at the same time, but she trusted him to have good reasons.

"This must be the harbor master approaching," he added. "Collecting anchorage. Perhaps you might hire one of his helpers to carry word to your honored brother, my lady?"

The scrawny old official hobbling in their direction was being escorted by three adolescent boys carrying staffs, doubtless a guard against unruly riverfolk resentful of the satrap's taxes.

"Gods preserve us!" Fabia exclaimed. "It won't matter which one you choose, will it?" The youths appeared to be identical triplets.

"That won't be necessary." Darag pointed to two chariots descending the long hill from the town.

The sailors referred the harbor master to Saltaja, who angrily referred him to Darag, and an argument developed over payment. By the time it was settled, the onagers and cars were scrunching across the shingle toward them. Fabia could relax again, because one driver was too old to be Cutrath Horoldson and the other wore a huntleader's green sash. Both wore trousers and long-sleeved jerkins under their palls—unlike Darag's men, who owned nothing but palls, now thoroughly waterlogged.

The newcomers reined in nearby, not venturing to descend and leave the onagers unattended. The young officer cheerfully saluting was gaunt, tall even for a Werist, clean-shaven, and young to have reached such rank. His face would have enhanced maidens' dreams had it not at some point lost an engagement with a set of claws that had left four scarlet scars running from just below his eyes to his jawline, twisting his mouth into a jagged line. He reminded Fabia a little of Cnurg, who had been her personal guard and one of the very few in the escort she could tolerate. Cnurg had disappeared in the second exodus.

"Lady Saltaja? Huntleader Fellard Lokison at your service. Welcome to Tryfors, you and your companions."

"Where is the satrap?" Saltaja demanded. "Is this the best reception he can offer?"

"We are short of men just now." Fellard contemplated Darag, each waiting for the other to salute first. When it became clear that neither would—"You are foolhardy not to dress your men better in this climate, Huntleader. Ah! The lady Fabia?" He beamed at Fabia, flashing battlements of ivory. "I have the inestimable honor to be Fellard Lokison, huntleader of the Fist's Own, but you can call me Fellard."

"I would not dream of being so disrespectful."

"Your fiancé has left town—how's that for news, Fabia?"

"How's this for a smile, Fellard?" She gave him her biggest.

His smile was cute, too, in spite of his misshapen lip, and he accompanied it with a faint hint of a nod and wink. "We can drive you ladies to the palace. Men have to walk, I'm afraid."

Saltaja turned to Darag. "Huntleader, make sure Wigson comes with you."

Seizing her chance, Fabia took four long steps and accepted a hand up. Lokison slapped the team and the chariot whirled away in a clamor of shingle. He grinned down at her.

"I am honored, Fabia."

"My pleasure, Fellard." What a joy it was to be free of the Queen of Shadows for a while! "You have made a dangerous enemy," Fabia said as they started up the hill.

"Saltaja? Bah! Their day is over, her and her brothers. Stralg's losing the war, Therek's crazier than a loon in a jug." Fellard leered at her again, paying no attention to his driving. "You really want to marry Cutrath Horoldson?"

"I may have no choice." Fabia suppressed an image of Horth with a noose around his neck.

"He's a slug." Fellard's arm nudged hers again. Like Verk's. Did large young men in chariots always crowd their passengers like this? Skjar seemed very far away now.

"Compared to who?"

"Anyone."

"How long ago did he leave?"

"Three days. The caravan is not due to leave yet; you can still catch him at Nardalborg. Or I could help you escape."

Badmouthing the Hrag family was understandable, but open offers of treason were not.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Hide out in my bedroom. I'll smuggle food in for you and keep you warm at night."

Outrageous! She wondered why she laughed. "No, that sounds much worse."

"I can't tell you how many women have tried it and raved about it."

"I'm sure you won't."

"Wit as well as beauty? The woman lacks nothing."

"Except freedom."

As the chariot left the hill and entered into a wide street between stone buildings, Lokison switched mood. "Crossing the Edge is a horrible ordeal, mistress. The war news is very bad. A lot of people think Stralg will be driven out of Florengia by spring."

That possibility would need some thought. "Why are the roofs so steep?"

"To shed snow."

"Of course. Did the satrap order you to snub his sister?"

"Not exa-a-a-actly. When he heard she was coming he cursed until the rafters smoked, roared at me to prepare a kennel for the ... er, lady, and stormed off to sulk in his nest."

"And a Hero puts duty before danger, of course. What nest?"

"See that high tower? That's the Vulture's Nest. Mad old Therek is up there right now, watching you. He has eyes like an eagle and much less compassion. Try not to stare when you meet him."

Fabia was amazed. "You insult your liege and slight his sister. Won't the seers betray you to him?"

"Only if he asks the right question, and Therek wouldn't care anyhow. I'm not plotting treason."

"You really think the House of Hrag is close to falling?"

"Must come soon," Fellard said. "I'm the Vulture's third in command and every night I dream of his head on a tray."

♦

There was a sense of wrongness about the palace, which was a stone labyrinth grimmer than a tomb. If anyone brought a flower into those dismal halls, Fabia decided, it would crumble to dust. The occupants seemed to be mostly scowling Werists, guarding almost every stair and doorway.

Even the women's quarters were utterly without cheer, sourly dank and dusty, as if they had not been aired in a generation. There she found a half-dozen maids, confused and frightened, who soon admitted that they normally worked in the laundry. They had been drafted to attend the noble visitors, although they had no training, nor any idea of where anything was.

By the time Saltaja stalked in, Fabia had organized the girls enough to get fires set in all the hearths. She was lolling in an almost hot bath, inspecting clothes being held up for her approval.

"These," Saltaja proclaimed in her magnificent voice, "are my quarters. You will be shown to yours. Remember that my brother has a seer to help him. You cannot escape!"

"What—and miss my own wedding?" Fabia said sweetly. She was confident that Horth was up to something, although he had refused to say what. She had less faith in the mysterious and well-named Mist, who might or might not be around somewhere.

♦

The day grew only worse for Saltaja and consequently more entertaining for Fabia. Demands for the satrap were met with the excuse that he was busy. Demands for food produced some tasteless gruel from the slave cellars; there would be meat later when the Heroes were fed. Even Darag could not be found. If he still had Saltaja's pelf bag, he might be halfway home to Kosord by now, trailing a white wake.

Saltaja arose, terrible as a black sun. "I am going to see the satrap."

Fabia looked interested. "Yes, my lady?"

"And you will come with me."

Saltaja knew her way around the palace. Four times Werist guards tried to block her, then flinched and let her pass—armed men twice her size and a third her age. That might be a useful technique to learn, Fabia thought, but it was a dangerously obvious use of chthonic power.

When they reached a stone staircase, steep and narrow, Saltaja motioned for Fabia to go first. The treads were worn, uneven, and poorly lit. Suspecting that her own abilities were being tested, Fabia was careful to stumble a few times, but she kept up a pace that soon had the older woman puffing. The stair curved continuously, periodically passing narrow window slits on the right and closed doors on the left.

The door at the top stood ajar. Fabia pushed it wide and walked into the Vulture's Nest, which was larger than she had expected, a circular room with many windows, bright with sunlight but also windy and cold, for all the shutters stood wide. It was just as unkempt and neglected as the rest of the palace—rugs and mats littering the sleeping platform in the center; discarded clothes, clay tablets, and wine bottles scattered around the floor among disordered stools and tables. There were two men there.

Or one man and a thing.

"Who are you?" it cried in a warbling, high-pitched voice. Then, "Oh, it's you!," as Fabia recoiled and was pushed aside by Saltaja.

Upright, the Vulture would have been grotesquely tall, but he was bent at the hips until he was almost horizontal, his leathery head thrust forward on a bizarrely elongated, leathery neck. He wore a brass collar and a dirty orange pall. With his hands behind his back, he came strutting forward, glaring at the visitors with sunken yellow eyes. He moved like a barnyard rooster, lifting each clawed foot high. Click... click...

"Yes, it's me!" Saltaja advanced two steps to meet him.

He stopped. For a moment they glared at each other. Therek backed off first, jerking his head away. He unfolded a ropy arm to point a taloned finger.

"Who's she?"

Belatedly recalling Fellard's advice not to stare, Fabia lowered herself in a deep curtsy. He detoured around Saltaja to approach her. She found herself gazing at scrawny bare legs, perhaps the strangest part of him—thighs of normal length, shins and feet grossly extended. He stood on long, scaly toes, and each heel bore a deadly spur.

"Fabia Celebre," Saltaja said. "Daughter of the doge of Celebre and future wife of Cutrath Horoldson. Where is he?"

"Don't grovel. Up!" croaked the monster. "Pretty!" Beaming toothlessly, he touched Fabia's cheek with a talon just to see her flinch. "Celebre, you said? Well! Holy Cienu is playing tricks again! Right, Leorth?" Cackling, he swung his head around to peer across the room.

Fabia had vaguely registered the other man as slumped on a stool and gazing out a window. Now he looked around, casually. He was a young Werist, his sash a flank-leader's blue. "It would seem so, my lord." Still taking his time, he rose, stretched, and only then began to stroll over.

"Where is Horoldson?" Saltaja repeated.

"The maggot? You want to see?" Therek demanded of Fabia. "I'll show you where. Here." Gripping her arm in scaly fingers, he moved her around the room toward an easterly window. Smiling, Leorth stepped aside to let them past, but not quite far enough, as if he intended to rub against her. She managed to avoid him, squirming in the satrap's harsh grasp.

The tower room stood high above the sawtooth roofs of the town, looking out over rolling, snowy moors, painfully bright under an indigo sky. To the northwest they opened up to display the winding Wrogg and its endless plains, with faraway storms as lines of white froth on the landscape.

"There, child, up there?" Therek cackled again, pointing east. "No, you can't see Nardalborg from here. Even I can't see Nardalborg from here. But that's where he is, behind those hills. If it wasn't for the hills, I could see Halfway Hall. You couldn't. That's where your dear betrothed was last night, or else he froze to death." He uttered his absurd laugh again. "I couldn't see him, not even me. I saw a mammoth this morning."

"Release her!" Shouldering Leorth aside, Saltaja strode over. "Call the boy back here. I want to see the girl married and bedded before they leave."

"No time." Her brother tossed his nightmare head and stalked away. Click... click ... "Caravan's late already. Send her up there. She can be married at Nardalborg. Or just bedded, mm?" He released a shrill bray. "Imagine the oaf can manage that much."

Saltaja was smoldering dangerously. "Very well. We'll leave first thing in the morning—you, me, your Witness, the girl—"

"Not tomorrow!" He swung around in a squeal of splintering wood. "Not safe tomorrow, right Leorth, mm?"

"My lord is kind," the flankleader murmured—softly, but as if he meant it. He gave Fabia a shy, satisfied smile. He, too, had yellow eyes, but if the satrap was a human bird the boy was a cat.

"Moving the herds," Therek said. At least, that was what Fabia thought he said. His lack of teeth made him whistle.

"Not all the herds, my lord," Leorth corrected, still amused.

"Not quite all. She can go the next day. Leorth's going to be leading the last contingent for Six. Caravan Six. His flank and the men you brought, if they're any good. Leorth's good, aren't you, lad? Tell them why you're eager to go over the Edge."

Golden eyes turned to Saltaja. "Revenge, my lady." His voice was low and husky. "Both my brothers were killed by Florengian turncoats. Those traitors swore loyalty to the bloodlord and then betrayed their oaths." Still he smiled.

Therek cackled. "Can't trust Florengians!"

"Indeed not, my lord."

Their private joke was clearly riling Saltaja. "What are you up to? Why are you skulking up here?"

"Watching!" said her brother. "Been watching half the day, haven't we, Leorth?" Cackle. "Seer says he's coming. Saw the mammoth and sent for the seer. Sent for Leorth. Been watching the road."

"Who's coming?"

The raptor's eyes turned on Fabia. "Cienu likes his little jokes. Celebre, mm?"

Then Fabia guessed who was coming. Although holy Cienu was usually thought of as god of wine and jollity, He was also god of odd coincidences.

♦

For a long time Fabia stood and shivered by a window, staring out at the snowy hills. Saltaja and Therek conversed in low tones beside another, on the downwind side so that their words were inaudible. Leorth sat hunched on a stool, endlessly stropping a dagger on his sandal while keeping a fixed stare on Fabia.

A boy walked in. She had known what to expect, and yet a Werist with brown Florengian arms and legs and face was a considerable shock. He wore his hair and beard trimmed close, in whorls of black stubble, and his limbs bore random white marks that puzzled her until she realized they were old scars. He had Benard's deep-set eyes and wide cheekbones, and although he lacked the massive shoulders, he was still impressively solid. He looked very young.

He bowed low to the satrap with a lack of revulsion that showed they had met before, but he ignored Saltaja, so he certainly did not know who she was. He did not even glance at Fabia, no doubt assuming she was a servant.

"Ah, Warrior Orlad!"

"Flankleader Orlad," Leorth murmured.

"Flankleader!?" Therek reared up—towering over everyone else even though he was still far from vertical—then sank back into his usual stoop. "So? At ease. What happened to blue pack?"

The youth straightened. "They are safe, my lord, except for six unaccounted for. They had two cold nights in the shelter, but we delivered food to them this morning and they were going to proceed to Nardalborg on mammoths."

"I saw. Good ... good ... This is Leorth. He and his flank will be joining Caravan Six."

Orlad nodded respectfully to the Vigaelian, who smiled without rising from his stool.

"I envy him, my lord! I have applied for transfer, but Huntleader Heth is still considering my request."

"Six has too many flankleaders already."

"I would be happy to revert to warrior. I am most eager to serve under your noble brother, my lord."

For a moment the satrap seemed to hood his deadly yellow eyes. "Of course, of course ... You would say that, of course."

Pause.

Orlad glanced around warily. Even if his air of juvenile eagerness was genuine, he could not be naive enough to miss the reek of conspiracy filling the room—Saltaja studying him in inscrutable silence, Therek smiling at Leorth, Leorth smiling back, Fabia being ignored.

"You summoned me, my lord?"

"Er... Yes, of course I did. I wanted you to meet your sister."

"I did not know I had a sister." Orlad stared accusingly at Fabia as if that situation were her fault.

"I did not know I had any brothers." She walked over to him with hands outstretched. "And then I discovered I had three. My name is Fabia Celebre."

He ignored her hands, looking her up and down without expression. "Who are the other two?"

"Dantio, the eldest, is dead. Benard is an artist in Kosord, a very good one." She had not minded being reunited with Benard under the acute gaze of Ingeld Narsdor, but she much resented Saltaja's snaky stare now. "You are Orlando Celebre."

"No! I am Orlad Orladson! Why are you here?"

His manner made everything seem her fault. It peeved her and yet she sensed terrible hurt behind it. She wanted to hug him until his ribs ached, as Benard had hugged her, and she suspected he would hurl her to the ground if she tried. The world was forbidden to touch Flankleader Orlad.

"How much do you know of our family?"

"Nothing and I don't want to."

Fabia knew this must be harder on him than it was on her. She had been prepared and he had not. He was on show before his lord. Flames of pain flickered behind his eyes.

"Even that name," he said bitterly. "Celebre! To be called after the traitor's city!"

"The what?"

"You didn't know? The vile Cavotti was a Celebrian."

Cavotti must be one of the Florengian partisans. "So are you, Brother. Our father is the doge."

"What's that?"

"The ruler, elected for life. He's old now, and ailing."

"Let him die. He gave up without a fight."

"He did fight! His army was wiped out. When he dies, the elders will choose one of us to succeed him. I am going back to Florengia. I am to marry Cutrath Horoldson and—"

"Who?"

"You know him?"

Orlad glanced quickly at Saltaja; then at Therek, who was leering gleefully; then at Leorth's feline smirk; then back to Fabia. "To be chosen to marry into the noble house of Hrag is a far greater honor than your ancestry justifies. Try to be a worthy wife to him." He turned to Therek. "In Celebre succession goes in the female line, my lord?"

Saltaja said grimly, "It will this time."

He must have felt that they were coming at him from all sides. "My lady? I have not had the honor ..."

"Saltaja Hragsdor."

He bowed again. "A very great honor."

"Perhaps." As usual, her face was inscrutable. "Do you speak Florengian?"

"Not at all, my lady."

Therek said, "You did fifteen years ago."

"Then I have forgotten it," Orlad said stubbornly. "I am Vigaelian—by adoption, true, but proud of it."

"Have you need or wish to talk further with your sister?"

"No, my lady ... Except to command her to be as true to your noble house as I will always be."

Therek muttered, "Quite, quite, quite ..." Then he spread his lips and gums in a predatory gape that was possibly intended as a smile. "I think you should go on Caravan Six. You can keep your sister company ... when her husband doesn't need her! You tell the huntleader I ordered it. Such touching fidelity should be rewarded, shouldn't it, Leorth?"

"My lord is kind!" Orlad exclaimed.

"Expect Leorth can make room for you in the left flank, can't you, Leorth? Find him a billet for the night."

"We don't need Fabia here any longer," his sister said. "I want her locked up and well guarded. Not harmed as long as she behaves."

"See to that, Leorth."

"Guarded on pain of death!" Saltaja snapped.

"Yes, yes, yes," her brother said. "On pain of death, you hear, Leorth?"

"On pain of death, my lord." The warrior returned the hostleader's grin.

"Good, good. I wish you an interesting journey home tomorrow, Flankleader Orlad."