Mother of Lies

FABIA CELEBRE

and Horth Wigson arrived back at their quarters, still escorted by their two grumpy Werist bodyguards. Huntleader Nils had assigned them a long barnlike building knocked together out of great undressed tree trunks, reeking of pine. The crude painting above the door showed that it was normally home to the men of gold pack, Panthers Hunt. Although daylight shone through the roof in places and there were no shutters to keep rain from blowing in the window slits, it was certainly roomy enough, and Fabia would not be staying long. That was another problem-time was desperately short. She must have a serious talk with Horth, and Orlad, and Benard… and just about everybody else.

The rest of the clothes she had bought had not been delivered yet, but her brother was waiting for her-her youngest brother, the dangerous one-accompanied by six gangly boys armed with cudgels. They wore peasant garb and unsightly hemp collars that must signify something to Werists.

Orlad bore a satisfied air. He was a seasoner. In the last two days two sons of Hrag had died by his hand, more or less. War was easy, wasn’t it? He had added a new scar, a jagged line, still red, from the corner of his mouth almost to his ear, as if a claw had ripped his face open.

“You can go,” he told Namberson and Snerfrik, and they vanished along the trail while still telling their lord that he was kind. He indicated the newcomers and rattled off some names.

“Probationers,” he told Horth. “They will look after you.”

The boys were regarding Fabia with interest, as if Florengian women were rarities thereabouts. She could see nothing in them to interest her.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Her brother shrugged. “You want to hear what I’ve promised to do to these maggots if you get molested, or insulted, or even annoyed?”

“No.”

“I warned them that I always carry out my threats. Didn’t I, maggots?”

They chorused nervously that their lord was kind.

“I must talk with you,” Fabia told him. “Come in here.”

She marched into the barracks, and continued along the narrow walkway that ran the full length of the building, between two raised platforms of packed earth. A thick litter of blankets and other personal gear on them suggested that Panther Hunt’s gold pack had left town in a hurry, no doubt right after Dantio’s letter had brought the news that Saltaja was entering the trap.

She turned. Orlad had chosen to sit down just inside the door, and Horth was perched on the edge of the platform opposite. Angrily she stalked back to them.

“I don’t want those boys eavesdropping!” She remained standing.

Orlad shrugged. “You think they haven’t noticed the windows?”

“Will they listen?”

“Certainly. Will it matter?”

That would depend on what was said. “You are going to Celebre?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“Soon as Arbanerik gives permission. Nils has sent him my request. Tomorrow if we can.” Orlad was very sure of himself now. Yesterday’s outlaw had become today’s warrior leader. He killed sons of Hrag. He was on firstname terms with huntleaders. He needed practice smiling, but he could smirk.

“You don’t speak the language!”

“I can learn it faster than you can become a man.”

She scowled. “You think you can be doge?”

“Certainly. Benard isn’t going, he says. Dantio can never produce an heir, and that’s one of a ruler’s duties.”

“I’m coming with you!”

Orlad smiled for the first time. It was not much of a smile, and it was directed at Horth, sharing amusement at Fabia’s performance. “Dantio insists Celebre has never had a female doge. They’re hardly likely to want one at a time like this.”

“But Stralg may,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “After you have sold us to him, you mean-me and Dantio?”

“Of course not! But I am coming with you.”

Orlad rose to his feet, surprisingly tall at close quarters. Her eyes were not much higher than his brass collar.

“It’s no journey for a woman.”

“I crossed as a babe in arms.”

“You don’t understand the dangers, kitten.”

“Of course I do!” In fact she knew the Ice better than he did. She had seen a vision of her infant self almost dying there. She must not lose her temper.

“Do you?” He put a knuckle under her chin and raised it so they were eye-to-eye. “Only twice has Nardalborg sent out a caravan this late in the season, and neither one arrived. There’s death and frostbite out there, also rock boar and catbears. At the Edge there’s no air, no water. You can’t sleep, can’t breathe, your skin cracks. Rivers of dust will swallow you whole.”

“You know all this personally, I suppose?”

“Yes I do.” Nothing fazed him now. “I worked on the bridge at Fist’s Leap. Also, when we get to Florengia, if we ever do, we will have to avoid Stralg loyalists guarding the far end. The Mutineer and his men will have their own ideas about who’s going to run Celebre after Father. We may find when we get there that the city does not even exist any more. Are you still sure you want to risk your pretty little neck?”

Ignorant, arrogant boy! Saltaja was out there, bloated with evil and a much worse danger than any he had mentioned.

“Yes!” she shouted. Remembering the probationers, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “You need me!”

“Of course we do.” Orlad pulled her to him and kissed her, full on the mouth. It was definitely not a brotherly kiss, and yet somehow it did not ring true.

She struggled free, still angry at his mockery. “That means you give your permission, my lord?”

“It means we both need you and want you, tigress! We’re going to discuss it with the huntleader in the Panthers’ mess at sunset.” He headed for the door.

“My lord!” Horth said softly.

Orlad stopped, turned. “Master Merchant?”

“You know Nardalborg Pass, you say?”

“The first part of it. Not the Edge itself.”

The Ucrist smiled diffidently. “I know both passes, but only by hearsay. Nardalborg Pass is well signposted. Varakats is not. You have no hope of finding it without a guide, no hope at all. Anyone will tell you that. Have you spoken with the Pathfinders?”

Orlad shook his head. “No, but I will, right away. Thank you.”

The door banged and he was gone.

Fabia slumped down on the edge of the platform beside Horth. “This is awful, just awful! The family has been reunited just one day and already it’s splitting up-Ingeld and Benard going back to Kosord, Orlad and Dantio rushing off into the war. And I must go with them, even if it’s just to say farewell to my dying father, who deserted me, although that means deserting you, who have always been my father.”

Horth patted her hand diffidently. “Orlad and Dantio will not be rushing off anywhere, my dear.”

“What? How can you say that?”

“Because that man I was speaking to while you were buying your new gown was Pathfinder Hermesk. I have known him for years.”

She knew what that subtle little smile meant and her heart dropped. Here was a complication she had not foreseen. She should know better than to underestimate Horth Wigson.

“I confess I don’t know what pathfinders do. A guild?”

“No, no. The Pathfinders are a cult of holy Hrada. Hermesk is head of the local lodge. You could say he is the light of Hrada on High Timber, but that seems a little pretentious.”

Hrada was goddess of useful skills and crafts, like pottery and writing, but those were regulated by guilds. Offhand, Fabia could not have named a single Hrada mystery. “And you bribed… I mean you discouraged Pathfinder Hermesk from supporting any further travels over Varakats Pass before spring?”

“Not at all!” Horth said cheerfully. “He volunteered the information. He mentioned that the pass was now closed for the season. All the traders and all his cult brothers have already gone seaward. Pathfinders are restless folk, never staying in one place for long. And they cannot be bribed, my dear, any more than Werists can. If Hermesk says he is not going, then he is not going, and that is that.”

“Oh.” She huddled small while she brooded over this news. “Why can’t they be bribed?” she asked suspiciously. Bribery was one thing Horth could do better than anyone.

“I told you! They never stay anywhere long. They had to keep moving. Wanderlust is their corban. Wealth is just useless baggage for them to carry and real estate would tie them down.” Horth put an arm around her, an unusual intimacy from him. “So you need not worry any more, my dear. Spring is a long time off, and we shall have each other until then. In summer we shall know more of what is happening in your homeland. And if you still feel that you should accompany your brothers… Perhaps separation will not seem as hard a blow when we have had time to prepare for it.”

He had had half a year to prepare for it already. He was refusing to face facts. Go all the way back to Skjar just to turn around and come back here?

“You’re overlooking something, Father.”

“What?”

“Saltaja. Saltaja has escaped. I mean if Saltaja has escaped, then Arbanerik will never catch her. No matter what the risk, she’ll make a run for Florengia. Saltaja is the power behind the sons of Hrag and if she can link up with Stralg, then she may manage to turn the war around. Even if all she does is hold off the Mutineer for a while, that delay will increase the danger to Celebre.” Once Saltaja reached Nardalborg she would have Cutrath to work on-Shaping worked best on blood relatives, she had said-and who could tell how many monsters Stralg had spawned?

Horth smiled blandly. “I fail to see the connection.” He was denying the unpalatable again.

“Orlad and Dantio can’t handle her. It takes a woman to deal with a woman.” Even if the boys outside were listening, that was innocent enough.

“Fabia!” Horth said sternly. “The lady Saltaja can be harsh, I admit, but I refuse to countenance those foul slanders about her. If she were what you are hinting, she would have been brought to book years ago. I certainly fail to see that she is any business of yours. Lord Dantio and lord Orlando are much better equipped to deal with her, whatever her talents or loyalties or gender. Even,” he insisted when she tried to interrupt, “if you were a Chosen yourself and wished to oppose the lady, instead of aiding her and her Ancient Mistress, your powers and experience would be so much less than hers that you could not possibly hope to prevail against her.”

That was as far as he could go to admitting the truth he had guessed. And what did Fabia tell him now-that she had already slain four men? That it was she who had made the seer’s rescue possible last night? He would not hear what he did not wish to hear.

“Whatever happened to Quera, Father?”

He jerked away from her. “Who?”

“Quera, the woman who nursed Mother after Saltaja’s men beat her. I have heard rumors that you had her impaled.”

“Impaled?” he squealed. “Fabia, how you could you possibly suspect me of such an appalling thing? I threw her out the door myself. In fact, I recall that you were there. You saw me do it!”

She nodded sadly. She was convinced now that he was lying, although that did not necessarily mean that Verk had known the true story. Horth himself might not. He paid other people to do his dirty work for him, so he need never know the details. Had Paola helped him that way? He would certainly never say just what services his Chosen beloved had performed to forward his career. Loving support or outright murder or something in between? Xaran might tell, if asked, but Xaran was the Mother of Lies.

When Fabia did not speak, Horth said, “It is starting to rain again. We must invite those fine young men inside. They won’t do much of a job of guarding us if they have to keep stopping to sneeze.” He rose and shuffled over to the door. The discussion was over.

At sunset, Fabia and Horth set out for the Panthers’ mess with their escort of juvenile strong-arms. She reveled in the sensation of being clean and well-dressed again, even if the muddy, root-infested roadway forced her to wear clumsy boots. Another light shower seemed to justify trying out her sable cloak and hat, but they were much too warm for the weather. They were Ice wear, originally intended for merchants heading over the Edge and cut down to fit her.

Sounds of drunken singing floated through the town, and she saw several exuberant Heroes staggering along the road, most supported by women in Nymphs’ red wraps. Once something streaked across the trail a few paces ahead of her-two somethings, giant cats, pale gold. Before she had time to scream, they vanished around a corner. They had been wearing brass collars. Her probationer bodyguards yelled “Runners!” and began gabbling about messengers from Hordeleader Arbanerik bringing news of the battle.

The mess was a circular building, large enough to seat four sixty men. A fire crackled on the central hearth of undressed boulders and a ceiling of white smoke hung just about head height, moving in uneasy swells like an inverted ocean, dribbling out through the thatch reluctantly, as if it would rather stay and attend the meeting. The floor was packed dirt, booby-trapped with tree roots, and the windows were open slots. There were no tables and the benches were merely split logs lashed on to stumps, so they were located at random and most had a slight slope-everything about High Timber was temporary. The only people present were Dantio, Orlad, and the man Fabia had seen earlier, whom Horth had named as Pathfinder Hermesk. From their stiff postures and the way they were spread out around the center, they had not been engaged in a cozy chat.

Wearing a pall of green, blue, and red, Orlad scowled at Horth, but told the probationers. “You can go, maggots. Give my thanks to your herder, and when you wake up dying, remember I told you not to drink so much.” The boys buzzed out the door like bees from a hive.

Dantio remained tactfully inscrutable. He wore a scuffed jerkin and well-worn linen trousers too short for him.

The Pathfinder looked like an elderly woodsman or farmer, tall and spare, with a face well-weathered, almost haggard. The tip of his nose was missing, as was the top of one ear. When he spoke, his mouth twisted to one side. As a cultist, he had high status and wore a seal on his wrist, but his clothes were shabby leathers. Horth introduced him to Fabia.

He did not stand up. “I am honored to meet the daughter of Ucrist Horth. I have often had the privilege of serving him.”

“He speaks highly of you, Pathfinder.” Fabia spread her robe on a bench for Horth to share with her.

“I brought the Pathfinder along,” Orlad said, “in the hope of convincing him our mission is urgent.”

Hermesk’s smile was dangerously close to a sneer. “Brought me by the scruff of the neck! Perhaps you, young lady, can convince your impetuous brother that urgency is irrelevant when no one will be crossing the Edge now before spring? In fact I am here because Nils Frathson asked me to be here. Otherwise I would have already left High Timber. My canoe is packed, ready to go. We Pathfinders have restless feet, always eager to walk new roads.”

Anyone who addressed Fabia Celebre as “young lady” was taking unnecessary risks. “How about the other pass? If Saltaja has escaped as far as Nardalborg, can she cross the Ice from there?”

“She can certainly try, of course. Whether she succeeds will depend on holy Weru, Who is god of storms. I do not predict His whims.” The Pathfinder sighed with exaggerated patience. “Holy Hrada guides me. I never lose my way, but I cannot move through snow or quicksand any faster than you extrinsics can. I can freeze or starve like other mortals.” He held up his hands, displaying a total of six fingers. “I know the Edge as well as any, and it is deadly. I have lost most of my toes, also, and this sinister leer of mine was another brush with frostbite. I am sympathetic to the flankleader’s impatience, but I decline to commit suicide.”

Fabia now understood why Orlad looked so grumpy. “Nardalborg Pass is well furnished with shelters, I understand, and the shelters are provisioned.”

“Then the lady Saltaja may win her gamble.”

“Would it be possible for us to slip past Nardalborg before she sets out? Could we get ahead of her?”

Orlad said, “Never! That’s stupid! Nardalborg was built where it is to guard the road. There are bogs on one side and a canyon on the other. I suppose you might find another way over the moors, but it would take you days. You would need good weather; and then the patrols would see you.”

So much for her efforts to be helpful. “And there is no one in High Timber except you, Pathfinder, who can guide us over Varakats Pass? No merchants?”

This time it was Horth who smacked her down. “I told you the merchants have all gone seaward, dear.”

“Packed their boats and gone,” Hermesk agreed.

Fabia had her back to the door and jumped when a man moved in silently around the end of her bench. He was a brass-collared, pall-wrapped Werist, but a Florengian. He sat down beside Orlad.

“Any luck?” Orlad asked.

The newcomer shook his head.

Then came the shock of recognition. Waels had a whole new skin. His birthmark had gone. His close-cropped beard and hair were jet black.

“Have you been dyeing yourself, my lord?” Horth asked.

“No.” The changeling beamed. “Aren’t I beautiful? Orlad thinks I am, don’t you?” He flinched at Orlad’s glare and muttered, “My lord is kind.”

There were a lot of emotional breezes eddying around this evening.

“How did you do that?” Fabia demanded.

“I didn’t. Benard did.”

“Should have guessed!” Nobody produced random miracles as casually as Benard seemed to.

Dantio had been leaning forearms on knees, glumly staring at the ground. Now he looked up. “Our brother is on his way here from the bathhouse, with six angry Heroes in pursuit.”

Waels laughed. “All still the same pretty pink?”

“But with mud in their hair. Ah! Lady Ingeld!”

All the men rose and bowed to the Daughter. Even the Pathfinder did. She was introduced to him and chose a nearby bench to share with her usual shadow, old Packleader Guthlag.

Fabia asked, “Is Benard completely recovered, my lady?”

“Yes, thank holy Sinura! He is still badly bruised. The Healers admit that they did not think their goddess would save him. Witness Tranquility is resting, but insists that she feels no ill effects.”

“And you are planning to return to Kosord?”

Ingeld smiled wistfully. “I have no choice, my dear! I must go home, just as you must follow your destiny and head for Celebre. And Benard will not abandon his unborn daughter.”

“Will not abandon you, you mean. I have rarely seen a man so in love.”

Dantio rose and stepped over to Fabia, holding out a hand. Puzzled, she responded. He merely touched her fingers, went to Orlad, repeated the gesture; then resumed his seat. “There is something you should know, both of you. You will respect our confidence, Master Pathfinder?”

“You wish me to leave?” Hermesk asked stiffly.

“No, I rely on you to be discreet.” Dantio looked around the group. “I congratulated Benard on his recovery tonight, just before Orlad’s horde carried him off to the bathhouse. When I hugged him, I learned that he has lost his seasoning. I don’t know when the change happened, but I suspect it was when he snared Horold. Or it may have been in the bathhouse with Waels. He still had it when we left Tryfors.”

There was a puzzled pause until Ingeld appointed herself spokesperson.

“What does it mean, though?”

“I don’t know,” the seer said. “I honestly do not know. Seasoning is very rare, very mysterious. I think it means that Benard has done everything he ever can to change the world. He had his chance at glory and he took it. I don’t think it means he is about to die.” He shrugged. “But even that I don’t know. Seers do not prophesy. Orlad and Fabia still have theirs.”

“And you?” Orlad barked.

“I can’t taste my own flavor, brother.”

“So what does Witness Tranquility say?” Waels asked softly.

Dantio’s chuckle sounded forced. “A Werist with brains is against nature! Yes, mine has gone also. It’s up to Orlad and Fabia from now on. Ah, listen!”

Orlad frowned suspiciously. “Cheering?”

“Certainly cheering! Two runners arrived in town a little while ago, probably from Arbanerik. They reported to Huntleader Nils and he went over to Revengers’ Mess, where the remains of the celebration is collapsing into a collective stupor. Whatever his news is, they have stopped heaving long enough to cheer it.”

“You could hear what he said, couldn’t you?”

The seer smiled. “Well, yes, but I’ll let him tell you. He’s on his way. Have you met him yet, Fabia?”

She shook her head.

“Nils Thranson and Hordeleader Arbanerik are lifelong friends. They trained together, were initiated together, crossed the Edge in the same summer. They were even disabled the same day, in the ambush at Merilan, which was the Mutineer’s first big victory. Arbanerik’s arm was torn off, and Nils lost half his face. Orlad will tell you that one-eyed Werists and one-armed Werists are equally useless. Both men were invalided back to Vigaelia. They founded New Dawn together. And here comes our sculptor. No more miracles, brother?”

Benard loomed in from the gathering dusk and went straight to Ingeld’s side. He was soaking wet and scowling ferociously.

“No! They wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t do anything to Waels, the goddess did it, and all I could ever do was ask, and he was special. They made me ask Her for each and every one of them!”

“Why is Waels special?” Fabia asked.

“Ask him. Or ask Orlad. Stupid, bone-headed…” Benard’s growl faded into angry muttering as the rest of Orlad’s men trooped in. They were all still Vigaelian pink, apparently unhappily so.

Before anyone else could speak, Dantio warned: “Nils is here.”

The current ruler of High Timber was small for a Hero, and younger than Fabia had expected, no more than middle twenties. He wore a two-colored pall and a curiously tied head scarf, one end draped down the left side of his face and tucked into his brass collar. He marched straight to the hearth and turned to survey the group with a menacing one-eyed stare. Knowing or guessing who everyone was, he dispensed with formal introductions.

“Heroes… Daughter Ingeld… Ucrist Horth… Herm…” He nodded to each in turn, ending with Fabia. The half-face smiled. “The news is good, as you probably heard. Tryfors has fallen. The Hordeleader confirms that Satrap Therek is dead, as you already knew. His successor, Huntleader Karrthin, has sworn allegiance to New Dawn. There was almost no bloodshed at all at Tryfors.”

Orlad’s Heroes raised a cheer, but it sounded halfhearted. Bloodless victories were in poor taste.

“Saltaja?” Fabia asked.

The solitary eye swung around to regard her coldly. “Escaped. Yesterday she fled upcountry with Huntleader Fellard and the Fist’s Own. By now she is almost certainly at Nardalborg. Two of our hunts, the Fangs and Weru’s Sons, set off in pursuit. At Halfway Hall they met considerable resistance from Fellard and his men. Heavy losses on both sides.” No cheers. “The hordeleader feels no great urgency about this. He can starve Nardalborg into submission if necessary. If the woman escapes over the Edge, she will no longer be our problem.”

But she would certainly be a problem for Florengia and Celebre. Fabia opened her mouth and Horth laid a warning hand on her arm. She closed it again-Orlad was watching them suspiciously.

Nils Thranson said, “So the Hragson tyranny has collapsed, and much of the credit goes to the sons of Celebre gathered here. Witness Mist has been a tireless supporter of our efforts for years. Flankleader Orlad and his Heroes disposed of Therek Hragson by seizing a god-given opportunity with commendable courage and resolution. Hand Benard displayed incredible, legendary courage when he led Horold Hragson into our ambush.”

Pause for more cheering. Benard looked bashful. Ingeld kissed him.

“For the first time,” the hostleader said, “I am free to acknowledge the vital contribution of Ucrist Horth, who unstintingly financed our revolution. Without his gold and his courage, there would have been no New Dawn.”

Gasps of surprise turning into wild cheering. Horth smiled shyly. Fabia hugged him; others flocked over to shake his hand.

When order had been restored, the huntleader said, “Now we must consider the future and your rewards. Hordeleader Arbanerik has ordered me to extend any assistance within my power. At Daughter Ingeld’s request I asked our resident Speaker to join us. He will also witness any other oaths that may be required.”

Fabia wondered why a backwoods rebel cantonment would need a resident Speaker at all, then decided that every Werist who had enrolled in New Dawn must be already sworn to another loyalty. Speakers spoke the laws of holy Demern, but they also knew loopholes in them, ways to undo inconvenient oaths.

Benard eyed Ingeld suspiciously. “Why do you need a Speaker?”

The dynast somehow managed to look arch and supremely innocent at the same time. “Because Horold’s dead, dear. Don’t you want to make an honest woman of me and give your daughter a legal father?”

“Er. Yes. Course. But you’re a Daughter. Can’t you marry us?”

Dantio was grinning. So was Huntleader Nils. Everyone else seemed as puzzled as Benard.

“No Daughter can marry me,” Ingeld said. “As dynast of Kosord, I must be married by a Speaker, who will administer the oath to my husband.”

“Oath?” Benard was thoroughly alarmed now. “What oath?”

“Oath of office, darling. A dynast’s husband is city consort.”

His howl of horror was audible even over the massed laughter of everyone else. The Werists were convulsed.

“ Me? I can’t rule a city!”

Ingeld wrapped an arm around him and laid her head on his meaty shoulder. She was clearly sublimely happy. “Why not? You can just order other people to do all the work!”

“But… I can?”

“Yes, you can. Everyone in the city knows you.”

“That’s what I mean. You can’t make Kosord accept me as ruler!”

“Watch me!” she said.

“Then that’s settled,” Nils said. “Flankleader Orlad?”

Orlad’s new scar made his scowls more menacing than ever. “Dantio and I are going home to Celebre. Waels wishes to accompany us. So does Fabia. Pathfinder Hermesk refuses to guide us.”

The hostleader frowned. “That so, Herm?”

“It is not a matter of refusal, Nils. It is a matter of impossibility. I thought Heroes understood campaigning.” The Pathfinder turned a world-weary look on Orlad. “Listen, lad. You must carry your own food, because you cannot live off the land. You must also pack clothes and at least a bedroll, if not a tent, and even weapons until you reach the real Ice, where nothing else lives. The bigger and stronger you are, the more food you need. At the very most, you can carry about ten days’ rations, and when you reach the Edge itself, any burden at all seems impossibly heavy, even your own body. Understand now?”

The Pathfinder obviously enjoyed lecturing, but he would not dare use this tone to a Werist if he were not a friend of the huntleader. “At Nardalborg, you start with mammoths. On Varakats Pass the merchants use canoes to carry provisions up the Milky. Either way, you cache food upcountry before the caravan proper even leaves. Huntleader Heth has spent years building shelters and bridges. In either case you come to an end. Neither mammoths nor canoes can climb First Ice. From there you must use human muscle. So you set off from the trail head and after ten days you run out of food. No? Of course not. You build a pyramid. You start with thirty men, say, and after four days twenty of them drop their loads and head back. The other ten carry on, taking the extra rations the others left. They can go another ten days before they start to starve, which is still only fourteen days from the trail head. So you really needed to begin with sixty men, didn’t you? Or twice that? Or four times? In the end a very few have enough food to complete the journey. Nardalborg has tallymen who can work it out, allowing for bad weather and men dying of Ice sickness. Understand? Nardalborg has done all that work ahead of time on the Nardalborg Pass. You have not provisioned Varakats Pass and therefore it is not presently passable.”

Orlad was flushed with fury. “We have the men! Didn’t the hordeleader say to give us all the help possible?”

“I can’t command the Pathfinders,” Nils said unhappily.

Hermesk smirked as if the quarry had just stepped into his trap. “Men, yes, but you have no canoes. The merchants took them when they set off seaward to trade their goods. Even if you did, we do not have time. It takes at least a thirty to set up a caravan, and by then winter will be upon us.”

“The witness speaks the truth,” Dantio murmured.

Orlad bared teeth at him in a silent snarl.

“There has to be a way,” Fabia said. They must catch Saltaja before she linked up with Stralg!

The Pathfinder laughed. “Do tell us.”

“I’m just the pretty little woman. You’re the expert. You tell me. Or you, Orlad. You say we cannot go around Nardalborg. The Pathfinder says we cannot go over Varakats. Suppose New Dawn takes Nardalborg, or surrounds it-”

“Puts it under siege?” Orlad said.

“Yes. Couldn’t we follow Saltaja over Nardalborg Pass?”

Orlad rolled his eyes to indicate that women should not meddle in manly matters.

Dantio said, “If Saltaja does attempt the pass, she will close it behind her, to prevent pursuit. She will leave no supplies. She may even tear down the bridges and burn the shelters. Here comes the Speaker.”

Fabia turned to watch the newcomer stride in the door. Night was falling fast and he was muffled in Speakers’ black, from his hood to the hem of the ankle-length robe swirling around his boots. She had met more than enough Speakers in Skjar. Without exception they had been sour, joyless, literal-minded people who would win any argument with a quotation from the Arcana, usually expressed in a tongue so ancient than no one else could understand it. A Speaker’s only virtue was absolute incorruptibility, which was both his blessing and his corban. In theory a Speaker would even sentence himself to death-but only in theory, because he would never be guilty of a crime.

“Speaker Ardial Berkson,” the huntleader announced, and even he gave way, stepping aside to let the newcomer take the place of honor beside the fireplace.

Only then did Ardial throw back his hood. Unsurprisingly, his face was narrow and bony, scored by deep lines. Also, he was tall and lean. Speakers always were, because holy Demern forbade gluttony. This one was elderly, with a striking mane of white hair. He would be handsome if he could seem just a little more human.

“Good of you to come, Speaker,” Nils said. “Daughter Ingeld, dynast of Kosord, wishes you to conduct her marriage to-”

“That is not possible, Huntleader.” Predictably, Ardial spoke with a sonorous orator’s voice. “The years have been kind to you, Ingeld.”

Ingeld’s face was stark with horror and pale as bone.

Benard said, “What? What’s wrong?” and started to rise. She clung to him, pulling him back down.

“What’s wrong is that she is already married,” the Speaker said. “Release my wife, young man.”

Orlad stood up. “Is that so?” Instantly seven other Werists sprang up also and menace echoed through the mess hall.

“That is so,” the Speaker said calmly. “Sit down, boy. All of you boys sit. I am still her husband and rightful state consort of Kosord. Are you incapable of speech, wife?”

Ingeld moved her lips several times before she produced an audible sound. “You ran away! When Stralg came you ran away!”

“On, no, wife.” Ardial smiled bloodlessly. “You misstate the facts. The bloodlord’s brother, Horold Hragson, swore by his god that he would kill me if I did not leave the city directly, or if I ever returned to Kosord. You know that the fourth paramount duty is to preserve one’s own life, subject to the first three duties. Furthermore, it is written in the laws of holy Demern, chapter two, clause eighteen, that a man should prevent a crime even if a lesser crime may result. I will quote you the exact text if you wish, but it is quite long, listing numerous crimes in their rankings. Faced with the promise of death, wife, I asked you if you would satisfy Therek Hragson’s carnal demands, on the premise that he had been imposed in my place as consort of the city and your person. You said that you would, having no reasonable choice. I obtained from him a promise that he would use no violence upon you as long as you were obedient and true to him only. Thus I had assurance that the result would be adultery, not forcible rape, and that is a lesser crime than my own murder would have been. I therefore left the city in obedience to the law.”

“Murder?” Benard still had an arm around the Speaker’s alleged wife. “Suddenly I appreciate the brighter side of murder.”

“Let the professionals handle it,” said Orlad, stepping forward with a commendable awakening of family solidarity. His men began to move in unison.

Hostleader Nils roared, “Silence!” He glared around, one-eyed. “Sit down, all of you! You know the penalty for injuring a Speaker.”

The Werists sat down, glowering.

Ardial said, “Thank you. I ordered you to unhand my wife, Florengian.”

“No.” Benard had paled, so that bruises stood out as blotches all over his face. “I killed Horold Hragson for her and she is mine! Now and always. And her child is mine, also.”

“Child? Was the babe conceived according to the rituals of Veslih’s holy mystery, Daughter?”

Ingeld nodded mutely.

Ardial shrugged. “Then she will be your legitimate heir and I will see she is raised accordingly. Under chapter seven, clause forty-nine, your sacred duty to provide a successor in my enforced absence excuses your adultery. I will accept you back as my wife once you have undergone ritual purification. The man, however, is guilty of adultery and usurpation. I hereby sentence him to death under chapter one, clause seven, also chapter three, clause fourteen. Huntleader, arrest that man.”

Orlad’s flank growled like surf in a major storm

Dantio chuckled and stood up. “ It is known that I am a Witness of Mayn.”

The Speaker frowned at him. “You are not dressed as one. Establish your claim.”

Dantio’s smile turned frosty as the Ice. “It may be legal, but I find it unseemly for a man to accuse his alleged wife of adultery when he has two Nymphs of Eriander in his quarters.”

Ardial’s shrug was barely perceptible. “It is both legal and irrelevant. I acknowledge your credential but not your relevance to this situation. I was present at the events I described, so I know them to be as stated. Did my wife just give perjured testimony?”

“ It is known that she did not. A Witness may ask a Speaker to rule on the holy laws.”

“She… I mean he may.”

Dantio clasped his hands behind his back and rocked a few times on the balls of his feet, but then spoiled the solemn effect by winking across at Benard. “ The Witness asks: If a man does not lie with his wife, after how many years may she have their marriage nullified?”

“In chapter one, clause eight,” the Speaker declaimed, “it is written that she may make application to a Speaker to have her marriage nullified after seven years. But,” and now Ardial displayed his first faint hint of human emotion, triumph, “has any Speaker set foot in Kosord since I departed?”

“ It is known that none has, prior to her departure.”

“Then she cannot have made such application, and if she makes such application now, I shall refuse it under the clause subsequent to the aforementioned clause because our reunion here tonight is a significant change of circumstance.”

Dantio bowed. “The Witness thanks the Speaker for this determination of the holy Arcana. The Witness further asks: Is it not permitted, when legitimate or traditional authority-which in the case of Kosord would be the dynast’s consort-has been evicted or overthrown by force, for the people to accept and obey edicts of the hegemonic power as if they were legitimate?”

“It is so written in chapter seven, clause ninety-five,” Ardial conceded, and now he was definitely frowning.

“It is known,” the seer said blithely, “that seven years and seven days after the city of Kosord was bereft of its most recent consort, namely your learned self, Speaker Ardial, Satrap Therek celebrated his marriage with the dynast, Daughter Ingeld Narsdor, having publicly declared her previous marriage nullified. It is also known that no protests were lodged against his proclamation within the time duly allotted.”

Ardial looked at Ingeld, who was glowing in the twilight, then at Benard, who now had both arms around her, and finally at the half-grin of Huntleader Nils.

“Then my initial ruling was based on incomplete information and it is possible for me to marry this woman to this man.”

“And you will!” Orlad said, loud enough to be heard over the cheering. “You most certainly will!”