Children of Chaos

thirty-nine

HERO ORLAD

dimly remembered Tryfors from his childhood. It had shrunk. His most vivid memories were the daily fights and nothing had changed there, except that now his opponents would be Werists. Nardalborg had learned not to challenge him, but this place festered with Heroes measuring him up for impairment: Brownie brother? Can't have that in the cult. They took their lead from Hostleader Therek, no doubt.

Therek had been lying. Why would Cutrath Horoldson have left town if his betrothed was here? If Therek had known she was coming, why hadn't he kept Cutrath here, instead of just summoning Orlad?

Heth's warning sawed away at the back of his mind: He blames you for his sons' deaths. He wants you at Tryfors so he can kill you. Not in person, obviously. Everyone knew the Vulture's battleforming days were over. But Leorth, now ... gracious, considerate, hospitable Leorth? Charming Leorth.

Leorth found the visitor a berth in the barracks and took him along to the mess for chow—much too spicy, not as good as Nardalborg's—and there introduced him to many people, including every member of his flank. Beer and wine flowed, but Orlad drank very little but water at the best of times. Leorth and his friends knew something they weren't sharing. They persisted in addressing him as "Brother Orlad" and he would trust none of them as far as he could throw a mammoth. A bull mammoth.

Leorth was what they called a preener, one who acted his warbeast all the time, as if he couldn't leave it alone. That was bad tactics, because any fool could see that Leorth would go cat, and there were ways of dealing with cats. Young Werists were versatile and should avoid settling upon a single battleform for as long as possible, Heth said, because the predictable die first.

While the west still burned in scarlet, stars poured into the black eastern sky. Slaves hurried around the mess, lighting lamps. Orlad lingered at table with Leorth and half his flank; the others had gone on duty.

"Eaten enough?" The flankleader stretched languidly.

"Too much."

"Anyone feel like tickling a little swansdown?"

"Get in before the rush!" said big Merkurtu, who was obviously the leader's henchman and doer-of-heavy-stuff in the flank.

Orlad had been expecting this. For years he had promised himself that he would hold back on women until he'd won his brass, and now he had done that. That same night he'd learned of his summons to Tryfors, and the fit was perfect, for here there would be anonymity and a wider choice. He had not counted on a group party for his first outing, but that would allow him to take his time and see how it was done. Tonight was going to be it! He had three copper twists on a pelf string under his pall.

The others were engaged in a highly technical argument as to whether a man should go for Nymph first and commercial women after, or the other way around. Pros and cons were presented.

Leorth settled it. "Sixty Ways is just down the road. We'll drop our loads there first and then travel light." The flankleader had spoken. Everyone rose. With no visible signal given, the flank closed in around Orlad as it escorted him out of the mess.

♦

The room in Sixty Ways was dim, too large for its three little oil lamps, and furnished only with rugs and cushions. Leorth had negotiated hospitality for eight Werists in return for a gift of four coppers—taken from his own pelf string, much to everyone's surprise and approval. They would be of no use to him in the Edgelands, he explained, without saying where they had come from. Some men hailed and claimed old friends; the rest soon found suitable companions, and everyone settled down to cuddle.

"I think Florengian men are wonderfully sexy!" Orlad's partner announced, cuddling close. He thought she was one of the youngest, although it was impossible to be sure in this light. She was certainly wonderfully plump and soft; and smelled nice. She held a beaker to his mouth. "What's your name, Hero?"

He tasted the wine; it was sweetened with honey. "Orlad." She sniggered and explored his mouth with a fingertip. "You don't have pointed teeth!" She leaned close to whisper. "Do you have fur?"

He knew that humor was not his strong point. "What's your name?"

She took a sip from the same beaker, regarding him with huge dark pupils. "Musky."

He doubted that was her real name, but he did like her scent. He established that her thigh felt as smooth as it looked. He learned that kissing involved more than just touching lips. He was both alarmed and reassured by the urgency developing under his pall. Clearly, he didn't need to worry that anything down there would not perform as required. Very soon Musky established this also, while leaning on him to lick up some wine she had accidentally spilled on his chest.

"Darling, you brought me a present, didn't you?" she murmured in his ear.

He muttered something while his hands explored her breasts.

"Lover man, why don't we go and get started?" She rose and he went with her. Other couples were already disappearing out the door. He was glad that there would be no public performances, because his previous idea of holding back to watch no longer seemed necessary or even possible.

"Mmm," he said.

Entwined, they followed a dim corridor lined along one side with poky cubicles, even dimmer. Some were emitting whispers or sniggers, some were empty, but Musky clearly had a specific destination in mind. Her arm was around his waist inside his pall, which was starting to unravel, seemingly of its own accord.

She opened a door and guided him into a larger, brighter room, heavily scented and obviously intended for grander clients than mere front-fang Werists. To his left was the largest sleeping platform he had ever seen, to his right a hearth with a crackling fire, plus a table bearing a wine jar and beakers. Directly opposite, beside a second door, stood a Witness in white robes, head and face concealed by a white cloth. She was spinning with distaff and spindle.

"Twelve blessings, Flankleader Orlad," she said.

He kept a firm grip on Musky. "Let's find somewhere else."

"No, listen to her."

"I will leave if you wish," the seer said, "but I warn you that the wine in that jug is drugged. The woman knows it."

Musky broke free and shut the door. " 'Fraid she's right, darling. I was warned not to drink any." She sauntered over to the table and sniffed at the wine. "I can't tell."

"I have said it is, so it is. The meal they fed you was highly spiced, to make you thirsty. Don't worry, the wine won't kill you, just make you ill."

Orlad's romantic dreams had turned to burning fury already. "Who? Why?"

The shrouded woman shrugged. "The satrap ordered it. He did not say why. After a night of cramps and vomiting you may not fight as well in the ambush tomorrow, but I doubt that was the real intention. Because he would not want to spoil the show. Spite, perhaps, or just to keep you from slipping away before first light. He does want to watch."

"I don't believe you." But he must believe her. Even the skeptical Heth said seers never spoke false.

"You have a triangular scar on your right hip, claw marks under your navel, and your left nipple is missing. Before you went to the mess you hid four coppers under the sleeping rug in your billet. Do I speak true?"

He wanted to scream and smash something. "Ambush? What ambush? It's another joke, must be."

Her flat, emotionless voice never changed. "Leorth was given very specific orders. The herds have been removed from the hillside known as the King's Grass, which you cannot avoid if you head for Nardalborg. The flank is to run you down and kill you there, where the satrap has a clear view from his tower."

"No!" But Heth had warned him of his danger, and he trusted Heth even more than he trusted a Witness. "What can I do?" he whispered. "How can I convince my lord that I am true to him?"

"I offer no advice on that." The Witness touched her spindle to the floor and pulled it up to wind the new thread around it "I can call in people who wish to help you, but I must have your word that you will not betray them or reveal what is spoken in this room."

"My word?" Orlad said bitterly. "If my liege lord cannot trust my oaths after I have worked so hard and long to be able to serve him, why should you believe a casual promise?" He felt nauseated.

"Because I will know if you are lying."

The hardest part of fighting was thinking clearly. So he had been told often enough. So life had taught him. But to stay calm in the face of cold-blooded treachery was something else. Everything he had worked for—shattered! Seer or not, he could not believe that. He tried to consider his options and could think of none. Needing time to think, he said, "I promise."

The seer said, "Fetch them."

Musky sauntered over to the other door and went out, leaving it open. The Witness set the spindle turning again. Orlad leaned back miserably against the door he had come in by. Tonight was not working out as he had hoped.

In walked the girl who claimed to be his sister. She was supposed to be locked up, so there was a conspiracy afoot, and the seer was not loyal to the satrap, as she was supposed to be. But that was absurd! The Witnesses were always loyal to Stralg and his hostleaders, and now they said Therek had ordered the ambush. Orlad was the best—Heth had said so! Why would Therek want to kill his best new Hero?

Maybe he didn't want to! Maybe this was just another test, a test to find out if a Florengian really could be trusted. After all, Therek could change his orders before morning! Orlad was required to prove his loyalty by betraying his supposed sister. The only oath binding on a Werist was the oath he had sworn to Weru, and the light of Weru in his case had been Satrap Therek. It was a loyalty test.

Having worked that out, he felt much better.

The girl came to him. "Oh, Orlad! I am sorry!"

He folded his arms. "For what?"

"Sorry for you, of course." She shook her head, frowned. "I know how terrible you must feel. I want to help you."

"Do you really? Well, seer? Who is lying now?"

"No one. She is sorry for you and frightened by your anger."

"She is really my sister?"

"She is. I did not lie to you about the ambush."

Then they were mocking him. They must be mocking him. Who would not laugh at a warrior betrayed by his lord?

A man had followed her in and closed the door. He was about Orlad's height, clean-shaven, with black hair hanging below his shoulders—enviable shoulders and a thick chest to match. He, too, approached, but the girl held out a hand to stop him.

"He doesn't like emotional greetings. Orlad, meet our brother, Benard."

"You're an artist? You look more like a woodcutter to me."

The newcomer blinked a few times. He smiled, starry-eyed. "You have grown, too, Little One."

"Amazing."

"It is wonderful to see you again. I wish we could have met in happier circumstances."

"Sit, all of you." The Witness remained standing, twirling. The newcomers obediently sat on the edge of the platform. Orlad stayed where he was.

"You still have doubts," the seer said. "Will you confirm for the others that you promise not to repeat what is said here, Flankleader?"

"I promise. But stop prying in my mind!"

"I cannot read thoughts. I can smell mood and emotion. You are naturally very troubled and unsettled. However... quickly, because time is short. This is the story as it is told. I can testify personally to a few parts of it, but to save time I will not specify which. It is known: When Celebre fell, the doge yielded his four children as hostages—"

"Don't be too quick to condemn him, Orlad," the girl said. "He saved his people from massacre. He saw this as his duty and paid a terrible price for it. That is not cowardice. That is high courage."

"Depends who's judging." Weru accepted no excuse for failure. All that ever mattered was winning.

"You boys were brought here, to Vigaelia," the Witness continued. "You were left with Therek, Benard went to Horold in Kosord, and Dantio to Saltaja herself, in Skjar. Fabia followed later, in the care of a wet nurse, Paola Apicella. They were sent to Satrap Karvak, in Jat-Nogul. The next year, rebels sacked the city and the nurse escaped in the confusion, taking the child. She made her way to Skjar and married a wealthy merchant. Fabia grew up knowing nothing of her past. Apicella was later murdered on Saltaja's orders."

"How old was ... were the boys?" Orlad asked. Some of this might be true.

"Eleven, eight, and you were three. I assume you remember little or nothing of those days. Benard was nurtured by Horold's wife, Lady Ingeld, who encouraged him to develop his artistic talents."

"Must you keep up that accursed spinning?"

"It is part of our mystery. We seek to gather myriad events into a single history; spinning aids us in this."

"You're telling stories just now, not 'gathering events.'"

"While talking with you, I am also watching Leorth and his flank. When they have finished their business they will come looking for you. I told you time is short."

"What did happen to Dantio?" Benard asked. "I never heard."

The seer sighed. "He was old enough to try fighting back, but too young to understand the extent of his danger. He kept running away. Saltaja warned him that he'd pay for it. She prides herself on never making a vain threat. Eventually she raised the punishment so high that it killed him. Was he brave or just stupid, my lord Werist?"

Before Orlad could rise to the bait, the chunky artist said, "So here we are! Fifteen years later, the survivors reunited. The gods are not without mercy."

Orlad looked at the two firelit faces and the shrouded Witness. "And this doge-king is dead?" The eldest son was dead. An artist would never make a ruler. But a Werist could. If, temptation whispered, your liege lord has betrayed your trust, then your oath to him is void and you owe loyalty to no man, only Weru. Better a Hero to rule than a woman. He rejected the thought. That was part of the test, to see if he could be bribed.

"It has been reported that the doge is close to death," said the seer. "It was also reported that the Vigaelian horde is falling back on Celebre. All such news is out of date, but I have more recent information than Saltaja or Therek do."

"How can that be?" Orlad asked, with a sudden return of anger. Mention of the war had jabbed like a fingernail in the tattered wounds of his loyalty. He could not cheer for the Florengian oath-breakers! Therek was just pretending, testing. "And who are you, that you betray the bloodlord you are sworn to aid?"

"My name is Mist. Do you know how Stralg won the aid of the Maynists?"

"I don't care," Orlad shouted. "The treaty was sworn in the names of gods!"

"He tortured one hundred and fifty helpless women and five equally helpless men to death. He was quite prepared to do the same to all the rest of the cult. How does even a Werist justify that?"

"Please let's not bicker," the girl said. "Orlad, what do you want to do? If you try to go home tomorrow as you have been ordered, then Leorth will kill you. Will you set out for Nardalborg tonight and hope to be safe there, or will you seek out another life?"

"There is no other life. You are not going to marry Horoldson?"

She screwed up her face in exaggerated disgust. "I hope not."

"I almost broke his neck this morning until I found out who he was." Orlad wished he had; then the satrap would have had good reason to kill him and he wouldn't feel this terrible sense of betrayal. "How did you escape from the dungeons?" Looking down at the unlined face, the shiny hair, he realized how little he knew about women. Musky had been a lot older than this alleged sister of his.

"I had help." She smiled at the artist beside her.

More treason! Yet Orlad could not imagine that bovine lump letting a songbird out of its cage, let alone rescuing a prisoner from the satrap's palace.

He said, "So what will you do now? You and your brother? You are going to sneak over the Edge to Florengia and steal back our city? Two against the Fist?"

She flushed at his mockery. The artist was ignoring both of them, scowling at the seer as if he disliked her as much as Orlad did.

"I don't know," the girl admitted. "The most urgent problem is yours, Orlad. What can you do? If Mist can find you safe refuge, is that what you want?"

What sort of a name was Mist? Who were all these people that he must trust them before his liege lord? "Witness, what is your interest in me? Why warn me of this supposed plot?"

She set her spindle going yet again. "Our blessing includes more than just seeing, Flankleader. We are interested in you because you have potential to transform the world. I do not prophesy that you will do so, I merely affirm that you may have the opportunity, just as a sharp sword has power to kill but may never see battle. We call it 'seasoning' or 'flavor.' All of you are seasoners and so was Dantio, although four in one family is unprecedented. So if fame is your ambition, you may well succeed. At the moment, Orlando, you are also important, which is not the same thing. Importance is not uncommon and usually short-lived. A paid assassin may seem important, but the person who paid him is more likely to have flavor. Because you are currently important, you were visible to my sight this morning before you even reached King's Grass, far outside my normal range. Your coming mattered!"

Orlad did not feel important. "Why are you betraying the satrap's plans to me? Tell me why he should want to kill me?"

"Because he is insane. Because he and all the children of Hrag are evil. Tell me why you support them, why you want to fight for Stralg against your own people."

"I want to fight against false Werists," he shouted. "Traitors who broke their oaths! Extrinsics have nothing to fear if they stay out of our road and do as they are told."

"How will you distinguish the oath-breakers?" the seer asked. "A few dozen Florengian youths swore loyalty and then reneged, led by Marno Cavotti, but they are almost all dead now. They trained many sixty-sixty others to succeed them and those men are as true to the vows they made as you want to be to yours. How will you—"

Red anger propelled Orlad one step forward. The girl jumped up and squealed, "No!" Even the artist lurched to his feet, as if mere bulk could stop a Hero.

"Killing me will solve nothing," the seer said, but her voice was squeaky. She had stopped spinning at last

"I will fight the Florengians because I am true to the Fist!" If they would just let him, just trust him!

"Why?" the seer asked. "Stralg has murdered and pillaged and shattered your homeland. Do you know why? You know what started the war?"

"What does it matter? If they had submitted to the rule of the Heroes as they should, they would not have been hurt."

"Tell him, Bena."

"Tell him what?" the artist growled, still frowning.

"Tell him why Stralg invaded the Florengian Face."

Muscleman shrugged. "Because he had too many men. In his struggle to conquer Vigaelia he'd built the cult up too big. With no one left to fight, they'd just start fighting one another. So he took half of them over the Edge to get them killed off."

Orlad laughed. "He told you this, I suppose?"

"He told his sister-in-law," Benard said absently. "She told me." He turned to stare again at the seer.

"Don't believe you."

No one answered. Somehow the mood of the room had changed.

"Stop that!" the Witness shouted, raising her distaff threateningly.

"Stop what?" Benard took a step toward her, looking puzzled.

"Stop it!" she shrieked.

"I know you!"

"No you don't! How could you?" She tried to strike at him with her distaff.

Parrying the blow easily, he reached out and ripped away her veil.