Mother of Lies

THE STRANGER

disembarked late in the day, when the shadows were long and the summer heat lay heavy on the city. Young and powerfully built, he leaped ashore even before the riverboat tied up. His bundle of possessions was notably slim, his loincloth frayed, and the rag around his neck was grubby and sweat-stained. Even his golden hair and beard could have benefited from some attention.

No one questioned him or contested his arrival, although most cities had rules for dealing with young men who wore scarves like his. Usually the authorities would send them packing right away. He might be given the option of removing the scarf, but only on condition that he immediately swear allegiance to the city and its horde.

The stranger barely glanced at the busy frontage, with its hawkers and stalls, its traders and porters, and all the cargoes being moved between boats and carts. He headed straight to the nearest alley and vanished into its shadows. Thereafter he kept to the right-hand wall and carried his bundle on his left shoulder, shielding his face. Although the streets were merely gaps between a jumbled maze of mud brick buildings, he strode along without hesitation.

Other pedestrians mostly moved out of his way. The few men who did not, and came face-to-face with him in contested passage, took sudden note of the scarf and his scars and the look in his eyes; then they, too, stepped aside, muttering apologies. It was the eyes, mostly.

At last he came to a turning he did not remember, a wall so obviously fresh that it must have been built within the last year or two. He had anticipated an open space there, but no space stayed open long in a heavily populated city. He tried bearing right, then left, and eventually found himself below a flight of marble steps and the facade of a large stone building. He had forgotten how big it was. He remembered other things, though. With a snort of annoyance, or possibly disgust, he strode up the steps and entered.

He stood, then, within a single large, circular chamber that resembled a giant birdcage. The entrance he had used was one of twelve, all very high, separated by twelve walls like elongated, curved pillars that supported a domed roof. On this sweltering day in late summer the interior was shadowed and cool, but it would be wildly uncomfortable in winter. The floor was notably devoid of furniture, a total waste of space, but there was a shrine at the base of each wall. Above each shrine stood a god or goddess, shaped from honey-colored marble. This was the Pantheon, home of the Bright Ones. Their images were so lifelike that the stranger could almost imagine Them stepping down at the end of the day and strolling off in laughing groups to Their carefree homes in Paradise.

One quick walk around and he could leave. If he could return to the riverbank before sunset he might find passage on a boat out; otherwise he would spend the night at the temple of Eriander and go as soon after dawn as possible. A dozen or so other people were at worship, mostly elderly women and attendant priests. Since they all happened to be to his right, the stranger turned to his left, feeling the marble cool and smooth underfoot.

The first idol was neither male nor female, just an ambiguous youth clutching a cloth in front of Himself or Herself. His or Her arm obscured His or Her breasts and the cloth covered His or Her groin. Yet why so sad? If the deity in charge of lust could not look happy, who ever could?

The stranger bowed his head and muttered the briefest possible prayer: “I honor You, holy Eriander; give me Your blessing.”

A fat, shaven-headed priest came shuffling over, rubbing his hands. Then he noticed the stranger’s neckcloth and cringed away from his glare. “If I can be of help, my-”

“No! You cannot.”

The priest offered a meaningless smile and limped away on very flat feet.

The stranger strode on to the next shrine. He had seen this statue before. Hiddi! He knew the model intimately and had many happy memories of tumbling her in Eriander’s temple. Even for a Nymph, she had been an incredible rollick. Here she depicted holy Anziel, holding a hawk on Her arm-goddess smiling down, bird turned to peer up at Her. Every feather on the bird was as perfect as every curl on Hiddi’s head. Just looking at her image was enough to arouse him. He felt certain that the statue’s leg would feel warm and supple to the touch.

Resisting that sacrilegious temptation, the stranger mumbled the same curt prayer and went on to the next god, a naked young man with a dove on his shoulder, smiling down at a fawn held in the crook of his elbow. Oh gods! That face! That smile! Was it Finar? Or Fitel? His brothers had looked exactly like that early in their Werist training, before their teeth and noses got smashed in the roughhousing. Finar, probably, but even their mother had been mistaken sometimes. The sculptor must have known which twin he was depicting, but how could he possibly have remembered them so well? “I honor You, holy Nastrar, give me Your blessing.”

Seething with fury now, the stranger strode on. Beyond the next entrance was the idol he especially wanted to see. Or not to see. But there He was, holy Weru Himself, holding a sword, His emblem. He differed from all the others in that He was shown seated. Seated, and yet the same height as all the others! The implication took a moment to register-that Weru was twice the size of all the other gods.

That was what Satrap Horold had ordered. But Horold had died long before that statue was made. Why had the artist obeyed a dead man’s instructions at the cost of spoiling the symmetry of the Pantheon? Why should a Hand so honor the war god?

The Terrible One deserved a longer prayer. “I honor You, most holy Weru, my lord and protector, mightiest of gods. I will live in Your service and die to Your honor.”

“I promised I would be generous,” said a quiet voice behind him.

The stranger’s fists clenched into mallets of bone. He knew that voice. It was the last voice he wanted to hear. The face he would see if he turned around was the very face he had been trying so hard not to meet.

“Go away!”

There was no reply. He continued to study holy Weru. Weru studied him. The god’s nose had never been flattened, his ears had not been bloated out like tubers. Otherwise their faces were the same face. The god was perhaps a few years older. Wide shoulders, thick calves… everything as it should be. More or less. More, probably.

“You were not stingy,” the stranger admitted, just to discover if his unwelcome companion was still there.

“I was sent to fetch you.”

The stranger turned around.

The Florengian was still big and hairy and dark of hide. He wore a leather smock smeared with clay and paint. If anything, he had grown even broader in the last three years or so. Life had left marks on his face, and robbed his smile of some teeth, but it had also given him more confidence-possibly even arrogance. Werists did not take kindly to extrinsics putting on airs.

Not even homeless hungry Werists didn’t.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Cutrath! We thought you were dead. Where have you been?” Benard whipped his great stonemason’s arms around the stranger and crushed all the breath out of him. “Thank the gods!”

Cutrath tried to break free and was dismayed to find that he couldn’t-not without using a wrestling trick or two, and that was not proper behavior in a temple. Masterless Heroes who disturbed the peace by brawling soon found themselves in serious trouble.

“Let me go,” he whispered in the sculptor’s ear, “or I will tear out your guts and strangle you with them.”

Benard released him with a puzzled look. “Only trying to be friendly! I really am overjoyed to see you. Ingeld has been going out of her mind for days, staring in the fire day and night. Half a pot-boiling ago she started screaming, ‘He’s here! He’s here! He’s going to the Pantheon!’ So we came to get you.”

Dismayed, Cutrath said, “We?” Not his mother here too? Then he saw that the third person present was very small.

The Hand bent and raised her. She was another Florengian, with dark curls and very large, dark eyes. Thumb in mouth, she stared at the stranger from the safety of her father’s arms.

“Your sister Oliva. This is your brother Cutrath who Mommy’s been telling you about. What do you say to him?”

Oliva thought for a moment, then took her thumb out of her mouth. “Twelve blessings!”

“That’s very good. Cutrath?”

“Twelve blessings on you too, Oliva. Now, why don’t you run outside and catch pigeons while I break your daddy’s neck?”

Benard set the girl down. “Pardon me,” he said, and brazenly reached out to untie the rag hiding Cutrath’s collar. “You don’t need to wear this in Kosord-not you. You are not a masterless out-of-work unwanted Werist here, you are the dynast’s son. You are also-if you will pardon my mentioning it-her consort’s stepson. Old Guthlag is too old and I need to find a new hordeleader. Cutrath Horoldson is the logical man.”

If Cutrath did not hit this mucker soon he would explode. He must smash him into rubble or die of frustration. Unfortunately the priests were nosily watching this encounter between the vagrant Werist and the consort, not to mention the dynast’s heir apparent.

“ You need a hordeleader? Oh, isn’t that kind of you! You killed my father. You raped my mother. And now you have the gall to offer me a job? To work for you?”

The Florengian raised heavy black eyebrows. “Work for her, actually. Kosord belongs to your mother. I was not the one who raped her, Horold was. Repeatedly. I rescued her and took her away where he could not abuse her. And yes, I led him into the ambush that killed him. He came two eyelashes short of beating me to death while I was at it.”

“My ambition is to finish the work my father started.”

Benard sighed. “I should warn you that Ingeld forbids me to travel anywhere outside the palace without a bodyguard, a full flank of Werists. They are an accursed nuisance. Or have been up until now. Suddenly they feel sort of useful to have around. Why didn’t you come straight home to the palace? Did you find religion? Develop a sudden interest in art?”

“I’m not staying. I won’t go to the palace. I’m leaving as soon as I have walked around this craft shop of yours.”

Infuriatingly, the Florengian laughed. Laughed at a Werist!

“That won’t make my life any easier. Ingeld will order me to order the hordeleader to run you down and bring you back. What’s the matter, really, my lord? Whatever it is, you’re safe here in Kosord. How can we help you?”

Cutrath swallowed a mouthful of bile. A Hand offering to help a Hero? The world had gone mad. “You can’t. I’ve been having bad dreams is all, terrible dreams. I keep dreaming I’ve become your Weru idol. I dream that instead of carving my likeness, you somehow turned me into stone, and there I am, sitting here in the Pantheon in Kosord, and people are going in and out and worshiping me-worshiping Weru I mean, but offering me the sacrifices. And nobody can see that it is really me! I can’t cry out or move or anything. I finally went to an oneiromancer. He said the dreams were a sending from holy Cienu. Don’t ask me how he knew that. His job to know. He said they meant I should come to Kosord and pray in the Pantheon. And when I had done that, the nightmares would stop.”

Benard shrugged. “Go ahead and do it, then. If we keep your mother waiting too long, she’ll spoil all your fun by strangling me herself.”

Cutrath turned and strode on to the next god. “Holy…” The figure wore a robe and held a deck of clay tablets in his hand, but he was far younger than the Lawgiver as traditionally represented. Color him brown instead of pink…

“You are getting mighty uppity, aren’t you, showing your own brother as holy Demern?”

“Orlad’s a fine figure of a man,” Benard protested, but he looked a little guilty at Cutrath’s accusation. “He feels very strongly about oath-breaking. I had to use mortal models, you know. Gods don’t do modeling. I used you, and your brother Finar, and my other brother, and Hiddi… and Orlad looks the part!”

His expression certainly looked stubborn enough. “I honor You, holy Demern, give me Your blessing.”

“And here’s Cienu!” Benard said eagerly. “I love His smile! I’m prouder of that than anything else in the whole temple.”

Cienu, god of mirth and chance; Cienu as a naked young man holding a wine jug and wearing a mischievous, knowing smile. It was another masterpiece, of course. Oh, that face! Cutrath’s fists balled, his arms and shoulders flexed. He thought he was going to burst.

“What’s the matter?” Benard said, not looking a fraction as worried as he should. “Did you know him? Waels Borkson? Wonderful man!”

Cutrath swung around to stare at him. No, it was not deliberate. Even Benard could not be so suicidally offensive deliberately. He had always been a genius at blundering into trouble by accident.

“I met him at Nardalborg.”

“He and Orlad were very close, so-”

“I know that,” Cutrath said through clenched teeth. “I had barely walked in the gate when that Waels came over and said he heard I’d insulted a friend of his.”

Benard said, “ Oo! Ahem! Oh! I mean, he never told me this, Cutrath, I swear he didn’t! If you would rather not talk-”

Cutrath looked again at the image. “He smiled at me just like that. Exactly like that. I thought it would be fun to rearrange his pretty face. So I told him what I thought of his mudface friend. In detail.”

Pause.

“Surprise?” Benard said warily.

“Yes, you could say that.” Why in the world was Cutrath telling this stonemason about it? “Like fighting a stampede of mammoths.” The worst beating of his life. After he came to, he’d had to ask permission to battle-form so he could heal his broken ribs and fractured jaw. The man to ask had been the commandant of Nardalborg, Heth Hethson, and Heth Hethson had not only been the one person who could possibly have told Waels Bork-son about Cutrath’s wrangle with Orlad at Halfway Hall, but had later turned out to be Cutrath’s cousin as well. Cutrath hadn’t known that at the time, but Heth must have.

The sculptor avoided his eye. “Didn’t know that. Waels died. Killed by Stralg, if it makes you feel any better.”

Much better. “Tell me!”

“Don’t know any details, just what my sister wrote. She said that Waels and Orlad took on Stralg in the throne room at Celebre. It was a standoff until Waels deliberately let Stralg catch him, so Orlad could get inside the Fist’s guard.” The artist hesitated. “Then Orlad killed Stralg.”

“And Therek too, I heard. Earlier.”

“Yes.”

Curiously, Cutrath felt less worked up now than he had been at first. Trying to pick a fight with Benard Celebre was totally unsatisfying, somehow. “You and your brother really thinned out my family tree, didn’t you? What happened to Fabia? At one time I was supposed to marry her.”

“She’s fine! A healthy son and another due about a thirty ago.”

“Married to?”

“Marno Cavotti. Doge of Celebre.”

Cutrath did not comment on that. He glanced up again at the haunting face of Cienu-Waels. How could even a Hand of Anziel make a lump of rock look as if it was trying to tell you something?

“Where have you been all this time?” Benard asked. “We thought you died on the Edge with Saltaja.”

Cutrath shrugged. “Hoeing fields, chopping wood, digging irrigation ditches. People only hire Werists as Werists so that they can hold killing matches with them.”

“I know,” Benard said. “It’s Horth Wigson and some of his cronies. After your uncles died and the war ended, he hired most of their men and just about all of New Dawn. He rents out hordes to towns, and that frightens their neighbors into renting larger hordes, and so on. Sooner or later two or three get together and hold a war. That reduces the supply and also makes the towns want even larger hordes. So the price goes up.”

Cutrath had never heard it explained that way. It would be believable if it didn’t came from Benard Celebre.

“How do you know all that? You’re a stonemason.”

Benard scratched his head. “Your mother explained it to me last night in… in a discussion about your coming home.”

“Dada, I wanna come home too!” Oliva announced.

“Come along, then. How did you escape from the Edge?”

“You don’t want to hear that,” Cutrath said, and told him anyway, to see how he reacted. “Some of us headed back west. We’d agreed we’d draw lots at mealtimes, but then we discovered there were other groups going the same way and we had better keep our numbers up. We preyed a lot.”

The sculptor pulled a face. “Don’t tell your mother. What I heard was that you collected the largest band of survivors, disciplined it, and led it out without losing a man to the other gangs, and they all were hailing you as their bloodlord, but you disappeared. Why didn’t you come straight home after that, for gods’s sakes?”

Cutrath swallowed the last dregs of his pride. “Because I knew you would laugh at me. Because I knew I would rip your head off and that would upset Ingeld. Because I was Horold’s son and the people would hang me. They still will, won’t they?”

“No. You’re Ingeld’s son, so they won’t.” The Florengian stared at him with a puzzled expression. “You are home again and most welcome.”

“Shut up!”

That worked. Cutrath prayed his way around the rest of the Pantheon without being interrupted, the priests carefully keeping well away. Benard followed in silence, with his daughter skipping alongside, clutching his finger.

When they came to Eriander again, Cutrath looked back. Weru was ignoring him, staring across at holy Veslih. So He didn’t care.

But Cienu was still smiling at him.

“What are you looking at?” Benard murmured softly.

“Damn you! That smile.”

“And what do you see?”

“I see Waels Borkson saying, ‘Remember how you screamed when I stomped your kidneys?’”

“But what you are supposed to see,” Benard said, “is holy Cienu, Who called you here. And what He’s telling you is, ‘Waels Borkson is dead and all that remains of him are memories and this block of stone; but you’re still alive, so go and enjoy life while you can.’”

He started down the steps, holding Oliva’s hand so she could jump each one. “Come on!” he called back cheerfully. “Now you’ve done what the oneiromancer said, everything will be all right. Cienu is god of parties, remember. Wait until you see what Ingeld’s planning.”

Cutrath shrugged and trotted down the steps after them. One chariot stood there, with a grinning urchin proudly holding the reins.

“Um?” Cutrath said. “Where’s the bodyguard you mentioned?”

Oliva took her thumb out of her mouth. “Dada sneaked out without them,” she said solemnly. “Mommy said she’d spank him if he did it again.”

Benard swung her up into his arms. “So you’d better not tell her. I’ll hold you, and brother Cutrath will drive the chariot.”

“Is Cutrath a good driver?”

“He’s a very good driver.” Tossing the urchin something shiny that made him whoop with glee, Benard stepped up into the car.

Oliva said solemnly, “Mommy says you’ll kill someone someday.”

“I know. That’s why Cutrath will drive. Come along, Hordeleader.”

In spite of himself, Cutrath climbed aboard and took the reins. “I really should try that gut extraction on you. I’m sure I won’t rest until I do.”

“Messy,” Benard said. “I’m cutting a statue of your father that’s going very well. Hiddi’s back in town, by the way. You must see the new temple of Nula I’m designing.” He grinned happily. “Veal for dinner tonight! Ingeld says it’s your favorite.”

“Fat one?”

“Fat and greasy as they come.”

Cutrath’s mouth started watering fit to drown him. He sighed. “All right. Feast tonight, murder you tomorrow.”