Mother of Lies

ORLAD CELEBRE

was much impressed by the famous Mutineer. He was everything a leader should be-decisive, quick-witted, successful, and adored by his men; a giant’s physique never hurt, either. He had demanded no oath from Orlad, just offered a spade-sized hand and said, “Your foes are my foes!” That was how Heroes committed to each other when they were equals, so Orlad had been happy to agree. An oath would have been tricky, because obviously their priorities must differ if Marno thought killing Stralg required the destruction of Celebre.

Nor was Cavotti one to sit around and digest. If the Celebres wanted to go with him, they had to leave immediately. He had his own chariot, bigger than most and pulled by a team of six guanacos, and he usually traveled with a bodyguard of six Werists. He replaced three of them with Orlad, Waels, and Dantio, remarking that Orlad and Waels more than made up for Dantio’s lack of fighting skills. This might be true normally, but was not necessarily so after a thirty or more crossing the Edge. He told Fabia she could squeeze in beside him as long as she promised not to breathe and she did not seem displeased by the suggestion. Orlad had hoped for a Hero-to-Hero chat with the Mutineer, but could see that there would not be room in the car for both of them.

His driver was Packleader Tabbeo, a five-year, tough-as-bronze veteran, who claimed to have slaughtered seven Vigaelians with his own hands-and teeth, of course. Orlad could claim a greater score than that, but the two that Tabbeo wanted to hear about were the sons of Hrag. He was also willing to learn about Saltaja and remarkably patient at correcting his companion’s Florengian.

The countryside was lush, fascinating, totally different from the bleak Nardalborg moors of Orlad’s childhood. The animals were different, the trees, the houses-everything! The weather was about the same, sun and rain alternating, except that the rain was warm here. Cavotti set a bone-shattering pace, changing llamoids frequently. This might officially be Stralg country, but obviously Cavotti had it well organized, and the inhabitants could not do enough for him.

He did not hesitate to travel by night; he rarely slept more than a couple of pot-boilings at a time. Meal breaks never lasted longer than it took the hands to harness up new llamoids. Fatigue settled around Orlad like a fog. He barely exchanged a word with the others for the next three days, although he dearly wanted to know what Fabia was learning from the Mutineer. He still hadn’t managed a private chat with her when they came to a ranch outside Montegola, less than half a menzil from the fabled city of Celebre.

Orlad awoke to the sound of wagon wheels and an unexpected scent of hay. Memory returned with a thump-Montegola. Celebre was visible from the ranch, he had been told; he would see it in the morning. The sun was up now, obviously, and what they called a winter day here already seemed hot to him. Waels slept on at his side. It was the work of a moment to turn a blanket back into a chlamys and slither down the ladder. By the time he paused in the barn doorway to take stock of the yard, he could hear Waels following.

There was the wagon that had woken him, with four guanacos hitched and a spotty-faced youngster slouched on the bench. Beyond it stood the house and a couple of other buildings, built of wicker and thatch, but seemingly well kept. And yes, even from where he stood, that gleam of white towers across the plain must be Celebre itself. It was much bigger than he had expected. His heartbeat rose.

“Could eat a mammoth,” Waels said, stretching and blinking at the sunshine.

“Nice day, feels like summer.”

“We are not in Nardalborg anymore, my lord.”

Rain clouds far to the east suggested a change later. Dantio and Fabia were just emerging from the house, followed by their host. Cavotti had disappeared the previous evening on other business.

The rancher, Eligio, wore a peasant’s loincloth and flaunted a brass collar in full view. That seemed like rank insanity in Stralg country. When Orlad had asked his rank he had answered merely, “Spy.” He had good reason to be surly, for he looked no older than Waels but had lost an arm and one eye and would never battleform again. He ran thirty or so llamoids and a staging post for the Liberators. His wife, Carmina, seemed impossibly young to be the mother of the two children. She was an excellent cook, but Orlad reluctantly postponed thoughts of breakfast.

“You might have warned us that you were leaving.”

Eligio barely looked at him. “You’re staying here. Go back to the loft and keep out of sight.” He greeted the driver with a fast twitter of Florengian.

Fabia said, “Or go and beg Carmina to run you up a stack of her onion pancakes. The gods dine here.” She hooked a foot in a wheel and swung up to the wagon as if she had been doing it for years.

Dantio said, “Nice legs,” and followed more circumspectly.

Eligio and the boy were still yammering away, both at once, with much hand-waving. Orlad stepped to within biting distance of Eligio.

“Why are they going? Why are we not?”

“Don’t worry. We can trust them, Orlad,” Dantio said quickly.

“I still want to know what’s going to happen.”

Eligio looked at him as if he were moronic. “ They’re going to a safe house in the city, and don’t ask me what they’re going to do there because I don’t know. You stay here for now. No one enters Celebre without showing his neck to the scum on the gate.”

“So how do Waels and I get in?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“Why not now?”

“The less you know the safer.”

“Why don’t they wait and come with us?” Orlad was surprised at how protective he felt toward his siblings now.

Eligio rolled his eyes. “Because they’re not Heroes, stupid. You want my help or not? If you do, throttle your gullet.”

“You’re speaking Vigaelian!” Orlad said, realizing belatedly.

The Florengian showed a set of teeth as jagged as a saw blade. “I help interrogate prisoners. It’s a hobby of mine.” He looked up to Dantio. “Leave the stuff I gave you at the triple fountain after dark. Check if they’ve picked it up every pot-boiling or so. If they haven’t arrived by dawn, try again tomorrow night. If they don’t appear then, they won’t be coming. If it isn’t safe to meet up, try to leave a broken pot there instead. Then they’ll come back here and wait for news.”

Putting on the best face he could, Orlad smiled up at Fabia and Dantio. “Until tonight then. Twelve blessings on you. Give my love to Mama. Tell her I like my steak raw.”

“Twelve blessings on you,” Dantio said. “Raw it will be.”

Fabia said, “Try and stay out of fights, you two.”

Waels flashed her his heart-stopping smile and said, “Why?”

As the wagon rattled out of the yard, Eligio growled, “You want to eat?”

“Very much we do, my lord,” Waels said. “And then we want some lessons in looking after guanacos. All I’ve learned so far is that they don’t smell as bad as onagers.”

Orlad had learned that they didn’t kick as hard, either, but he wasn’t going to mention that.