Mother of Lies

OLIVA ASSICHIE-CELEBRE

hurried along Wheelwrights’ Alley with her cloak clutched tight so that the hood concealed her face. Every day she came to the Vigaelians’ barracks close to sunset, because Huntleader Purque was almost always there at that time. None of the other ice devils would speak civilly to her. He would, although he would not answer her summons. She had to come to him.

She uncovered her head as she stepped through the open door. The room was dingy, stinking of urine and dogs, just a vestibule with a few ramshackle benches and a barred window. Three ice devils were sitting there, growling in their guttural speech and gnawing on meaty ribs. The floor was half covered with mangy street curs waiting for their turn at the bones.

One Hero looked up at her and said something he thought was funny.

Another, wearing a flankleader’s sash, gestured at the inner door. “Go in. He wants you.”

Her heart jumped-she would have said it leaped and sank at the same time, were that possible. Purque had news for her? Good or bad? She stepped carefully between dogs. The hall beyond was where the Werists exercised, and she was relieved to see it deserted, because they usually did so naked and used that as an opportunity for more coarse humor at her expense. She crossed to the huntleader’s room and found him there, talking with a couple of his men. In contrast to the general squalor of the rest of the barracks, his quarters were clean and fully furnished with fine-quality chairs, no doubt looted from their legal owners. He gestured and the men jumped up and left. Oliva closed the door. He did not suggest she sit down.

“You have news of my son?” she demanded.

He shook his head. Sitting with his half leg propped up on a second chair as if it hurt, Purque looked wearier and older than usual, but certainly no wearier and older than she felt. It was almost two sixdays since Chies had disappeared. If he lived, she should have received a call for ransom by this time.

“No,” the Werist said. “But I have heard from the bloodlord. He was displeased. He clawed my messenger, almost tore the man’s eye out. He talked of sending a Witness here to find out what happened and who was responsible.”

Considering her son’s disappearance an affair of state, Oliva had sent for Speaker Quarina right away. She, in turn, had summoned a Witness to investigate. Purque himself had heard the woman testify that two Werists had kidnapped Chies, lowering him from the balcony. Purque had set Werists to track the kidnappers. They had followed the scent across the city, then lost it just outside the wall, where the fugitives had boarded a boat. Stralg must have been told all this, so whom did he disbelieve? He reputedly never let his Vigaelian Witnesses out of his presence, so if he wanted one of them to investigate, he would have to come in person. That might explain the huntleader’s worried look.

But there was worse. “He also talked of reprisals.”

“What sort of reprisals? Against whom?”

Purque sighed. He was basically a decent man, the only Vigaelian she had ever met she could imagine growing to like. No longer a combatant, he had allowed his hair and beard to grow in, and their original flaxen had turned to a deader sort of white. Years of Florengian sun had crinkled his pale Vigaelian skin into a red, wrinkled brick. A man missing half a leg could neither fight nor cross the Edge, and his chances of finding some bucolic haven to coddle him in his old age here on the Florengian Face seemed poorer by the day. The best future he could hope for now was a quick death. He did keep his Hero rabble under some sort of control, unlike the callow louts who had preceded him.

“Against anyone. My lady, the boy is the Fist’s son also, and has been abducted or… or worse. Stralg is not the sort of man to accept that.”

“He has never cared two grapes for Chies!”

“But he values his reputation. I don’t know what he has in mind. He may have just spoken in the heat of anger.”

“Or not?”

“Or not. He has been known to order random killings. This time he hasn’t, so far.” As his regent, Purque would have to see such an order carried out. He studied her face. “Any change?”

“No, but the Mercies are confident that it will be very soon. They can no longer get him to swallow.” The sooner the better! Why did the Bright Ones not take pity on Piero and end his suffering? How long would they let the Evil One torture him?

“Tonight, you mean?”

“Probably.” And she should be sitting with him at the end, not wasting time with this Vigaelian hoodlum.

“You will send word here?”

“The trumpets will sound.”

“Before that! I’ll pull my patrols off the streets. I don’t want trouble.”

“Neither do I. Thank you. And in turn you will warn me if you have any important visitors? I don’t want him bursting in on me unexpectedly.”

Purque smiled wanly. “I will warn you if I can. If he does come, he will burst in on me unexpectedly, too.”

She went away. As she was passing through the vestibule, the thugs sitting there threw bones down ahead of her, so she was almost bowled over by the dog pack. She waited until the winners had bolted out the door with the losers in hot pursuit. She followed the losers.

Head covered again, she hurried back along the darkling alley to the private door. As she fished the heavy key from her pocket, she realized that she might be doing so for the last time. The moment Piero died, the last trace of her shadowy authority vanished. She would not even have the right to live in the palace. For generations, Piero’s ancestors had succeeded one another on the throne, so the problem had never arisen before, but now his line was ended. Even Chies, whose claim had been a polite fiction, was no longer available to serve as a puppet for the elders, had they ever managed to accept that solution. A dynasty was falling.

She had just reached the stairs when she heard someone calling for her to hurry.

It was not quite over. For a short while she sat holding his hand. His death throes were barely visible, just a few bubbling gasps, but at least she was there when the royal physician proclaimed that they had ended. Her eyes stubbornly refused to shed tears. The Piero she had known and loved had passed through the veil a long time ago. She shooed away the remaining Mercies, declining their offers of comfort. Yes, she would allow a couple of them to remain in the palace and would call on them if she needed them, and yes they could give solace to any of the servants who wanted it.

When she was alone with him, she knelt by the bed and repeated the prayer for the dead as a personal farewell. Its ancient sonorities comforted her. Then she stepped outside to where the senior palace officials had gathered. She told them to begin doing all the innumerable things that must be done, everything they had been planning for so long. Piero’s body must be washed and taken to lie in state in the Hall of Pillars. Notifying Huntleader Purque was already on the list. But the first and most important message must be advance warning to the justiciar. Only when Speaker Quarina had formally declared the reign of Piero VI ended could the real wheels began to turn.

It was a relief. His sufferings were over; Oliva’s burdens were lifted. She had no one left to worry about except herself. Even Chies had gone, and what happened to the city did not concern her now. She would almost welcome Bloodlord Stralg roaring in on her. Then she could ask him what he had done with her other children, and he could claw her eyes out for impudence.

She bathed and dressed in the black of mourning. She prayed briefly in the palace chapel before going to inspect the Hall of Pillars. The catafalque stood in the center, a lonely block of carved and gilded wood. The throne was draped in black silk and everything else had been removed. Beyond the giant columns the gods wept, rain pattering on leaves and puddles. Tomorrow the citizens could come and pay their respects, filing in at one end of the long hall and out at the other. How many would come? For years Piero had been despised as a loser who had given away his birthright, but lately she had sensed the mood changing as the war growled ever closer, as city after city was wasted, as tides of refugees flowed over the land. The people were being reminded just what they had been spared sixteen years ago, and if they had wits at all they must mourn the loss of the faithful doge who had stood between them and the evil, sacrificing his own children.

Around the bier stood twelve great silver candlesticks, each one as high as a man and holding a tall black candle, which the chamberlain’s men were just lighting. Piero had never been big, but he had seemed big when Oliva married him; now he was tiny. Only his head was visible; the rest of him lay hidden under a shroud of golden cloth pulled up to his chin. His hair and beard had turned completely white during his sickness. He wore the ducal coronet, and the jeweled sword of state lay at his side. As the candle flames brightened, the catafalque began to glitter in sad majesty.

The chamberlain solidified out of the darkness.

Oliva handed him the ducal seal and spoke the words she had been told tradition required: “Deliver this to the justiciar, Speaker Quarina, and inform her that the gods have placed the city in her hands.” The man bowed and disappeared as gently as he had come.

Bats wheeled high overhead. The rain grew louder beyond the pillars. Servants bowed and departed, leaving Oliva alone with memories. It was over. She had completed her duties. Soon Speaker Quarina would take charge. No doubt she was already rounding up a seer and her scribes and anyone else she needed for the formalities… And then what? The Winner? Those last words from Piero seemed more and more like a sending from the gods. He had shown no signs of awareness for a thirty before or after that moment, but Celebre had been his life, and why should They not let him name his successor? Except, he hadn’t. It still made no sense. Why not a name?

Something moved in the north doorway — thump, thump- and Oliva turned to glare at the big man limping toward her. Purque leaned heavily on the spear he used as a staff, the impacts of its butt syncopating with the lighter tap of his ivory stump. His striped smock was soaked, his white hair all rattails. At least he had had the decency to leave his escort outside, but she still half-turned from him to show that his intrusion was an insult to the dead.

He halted at the far side of the bier, studied the corpse for a moment, then looked across at her. “He was one of the bravest men I ever met, my lady.”

She thought he was mocking and snapped, “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. He did not just go into danger himself, he took you and his children as well, because he had to. Most rulers would have long since fled. I have never seen such dedication. It was duty beyond the limits of courage!”

“You were there?” She felt her face flame scarlet. To mention that day of her shame was unspeakably cruel. She had not thought Purque was that sort of Werist. Bah! All Werists were scum, animals, dregs.

“I was the Fist’s driver that day. I know what happened after, too. I helped guard your prison. You were not without courage yourself, my lady.”

She turned her back on him. Chies was what had happened. Now even Chies had gone.

They were alone in the great chamber, and yet Purque dropped his voice. “What you asked me earlier… I have had no official word, but my scouts report a column of chariots approaching the Meadow Gate.”

“Stralg?” she whispered.

“It could be, my lady. The force is about the right size to be his bodyguard. It may bypass the city, of course. He never forewarns of his coming.”

She nodded her thanks, her skin crawling at the thought of seeing the monster again. He had visited Celebre twice since his conquest, but the last time had been almost ten years ago. Both times he had publicly mocked her, reminiscing about her days of slavery. Surely she need not endure that again, and on the very day of Piero’s death? Intolerable! As soon as these last formalities were completed, she would flee to the Refuge of Nula. Even the Fist’s seers would not find her there.

More movement and voices, this time at the south door. The chief herald led in a parade: the justiciar, the high priest, a blindfolded Witness, two scribes with their satchels, the chamberlain… and Berlice Spirno-Cavotti! What right had that awful woman to be here so soon? Certainly the elders would assemble to pay their respects before anyone else did, but why should that sour-faced woman have precedence over all the rest of them? And she had even had the gall to bring an attendant with her, a girl in servants’ dress carrying what looked like a bundle of laundry.

The priest went to the bier and covered his eyes to pray.

Speaker Quarina frowned at the Werist, then extended the frown to include Oliva. “Stand back, please.”

Oliva took a few paces backward. So did Purque- thump, thump — deliberately ignoring the hint that he should withdraw completely.

The justiciar bit her lip, but did not comment. She began the ritual. “Witness, who is that?”

The seer was male, surprisingly-a youngish man wearing a simple black robe and a white blindfold. When he spoke the formal reply, his voice was high-pitched and quavered with emotion that Oliva had never heard from a Witness before.

“This is our doge and he is dead.”

Quarina turned to the herald. “Let the trumpets sound.”

The scribes were already sitting cross-legged under the candles, producing clay and boards and styli.

It was finished. Oliva could leave. But when she turned to go, her path was blocked by scrawny Berlice Spirno-Cavotti wearing a strangely sly expression. Oliva and the Mutineer’s mother were definitely not on intimate terms and never had been, yet now the woman moved as if to embrace her. Oliva was too startled to dodge.

And even more startled by the whisper in her ear. “We bring wonderfully good news, my lady!”

Oliva recoiled. Good news? On this day, of all days?

“Oh, what is that stupid girl doing?” Spirno-Cavotti said loudly, gripping her arm and turning her. “Do go and speak to her, my dear.”

Her dear? Her servant was furtively heading for the columns and the rain-washed darkness beyond, still clutching her washing. Speaker Quarina was dictating something utterly incomprehensible to the scribes. The Werist was watching the proceedings. Berlice’s eyes were urging: Do as I say!

Too bewildered or battered to argue, Oliva said, “You, girl! Where are you going? Come here!” She strode toward the girl, who edged away from her instead of responding to the summons. Oliva caught up with her in the shadows near the columns and found herself looking at eyes full of tears, set in a face strangely familiar. Her long-dead sister Pina? No. Just a chance resemblance. It could not possibly be-

“Mama!” A whisper. Then brazen trumpets began to wail from the palace roof, strident screams in the night. Echoes rang back from the temples and mansions of Celebre. The air in the hall seemed to tremble as the city itself cried out its loss. Now the girl could speak louder. “I’m Fabia, Mama! The Witness is Dantio. Chies is safe. Benard is well, but chose to stay in Vigaelia. He’s a wonderful sculptor. And Orlad, I mean Orlando-he’s probably out there in the grounds, but he’s a Werist, so that ice devil mustn’t see him. I must go and warn them, er, him!”

Fabia? Chies? Benard?… Werist? Now Oliva recalled Piero’s strange rambling discourse on the night Marno Cavotti had broken into the palace: Remember we used to say Orlando was the fighter? he had said. And that Fabia had looked just like her. Had the gods been speaking through the dying doge? The Winner. He had said that much later. Their children had been returned to her, but not to him.

It seemed to Oliva then that the hiss of rain swelled to a roar and the floor tilted under her feet. The Witness sprinted across the hall and caught her before she fell. The candles faded for a moment, then came back. She stared in disbelief at the two young people holding her. The girl, so like her younger self. The boy had lifted his blindfold and was smiling, yet his eyes were bright with tears. She knew him now.

“Dantio! My son!”

“We’re back. We’re all well, all your children.”

Too late! she thought. Just a pot-boiling too late. No, half a year or more too late. Piero would not have known them had they come even in late summer. Their arrival now would do little good, but at least they were home, safe. The priest and the herald arrived to help. Dantio replaced his ritual blindfold. They carried her to the black-draped throne and sat her on it, ignoring her protests. The priest went back to mumbling prayers. Berlice smirked surreptitiously from the far side of the catafalque: what sort of double game was she playing? Trying to find the winning side? Quarina was still dictating her gibberish to the scribes, but she kept flicking amused glances toward the group around the throne. She must be in on the secret too; she had brought the Witness.

“Must go and warn Orlad,” Fabia whispered.

“No,” Dantio said. “They’re watching from the bushes. That Werist is suspicious. They won’t come in while he’s there. He’s worried, too. Why is the Werist so worried?”

“Stralg,” Oliva said. “He thinks Stralg is on his way.”

Dantio groaned. “Oh, is that who I keep seeing on the periphery?”