Winterheim

15

Experience had taught Stariz ber Bane that in the most secret matters of the human heart-that is, the insatiable desire for freedom-normal procedures of intelligence gathering rarely applied. Slaves who were inclined to gossip casually about trysts and alliances, who would gladly discuss thievery and betrayal in matters of lust or greed, became unreasonably tight-lipped when it came to matters of rebellion. Even bribery or torture was of little use once they clamped their mouths shut.

Thus, neither bribery nor torture was the favored tactic of the high priestess as she sought to investigate the sedition in the Nobles’ Market. Oh, certainly Garnet Dane, with his wily ways, might be able to discover a useful bit of knowledge, perhaps even a name, but when it came to learning the full truth behind such a movement, the queen of Suderhold would have to put her trust in a higher source.

Besides, she had a more important use in mind for her spy. The time was near for that crucial task, and she did not want him distracted by mundane matters.

She would pray. Her acolytes, young ogresses sworn to the service of the Willful One, came forward with her tall mask and her sleek black robes. She stood still while they climbed up onto stools around all sides of her. Two of them lowered the obsidian visage over her head, until the comfortable weight rested upon the queen’s square shoulders. She could barely see through the narrow eye slits of the mask, but it was not her eyes that would serve her best now. When she felt the fullness of the robes draped from her back and her bodice, the smooth wool rustling against the skin of her arms, she was ready.

The acolytes withdrew silently, except for one who tripped and dropped a stool. Stariz stiffened but didn’t turn. The others would identify the clumsy wench, and the high priestess would deal with her later. Instead, she fought for a return to the focus and serenity that had accompanied her donning of the ceremonial garb. Soon she was breathing deeply, seeing only slits of firelight through the mask, but aware of so much more beyond her clothing, beyond the room, the realm, and the world.

She advanced with measured steps, feeling the rumble in the floor as the great door to the inner sanctum rolled to the side. Her strides remained steady as she continued forward, until finally she stopped before the massive black statue that was, in Winterheim, the physical representation of her mighty god. Her heart filled with awe and devotion for her mighty god.

The image of that great bull ogre, carved from shiny black stone and rising more than twenty feet high, loomed in her mind. She imagined the stony eyes turning down to look at her, and she perceived the curiosity, the strength there. More than that, she knew her god was pleased with her, and she silently, solemnly pledged that he would always be pleased with her.

“O Great Gonnas,” she began, “Willful Master of this humble ogress, may it please you to open my eyes and my ears, to fill my senses with the knowledge that will protect your people from the basest of threats.”

With great dignity she slowly knelt on the floor, relishing the feel of the smooth stone against her knees. Carefully she leaned forward to brace herself on her hands. The mask, with its formed shoulder brace, rested firmly over her head as she lowered herself to lie flat upon the floor.

“Please give me a sign, O my Great Lord … a sign that I may use to work against those who seek to do your people harm. Let me know where I may find them, how I may know them.… I will do the rest in your name.”

She lay still, her face pressed to the floor, her vision nothing but blackness. Gradually, however, this impenetrable veil became shot through with stabs of light, flashes that originated in the center of her mind and seemed to radiate outward in pulsing and brilliant waves.

“You are real, O Willful One, and I feel your strength,” murmured the high priest.

The lights pulsed brighter, swirling now, remaining within the confines of her awareness instead of blasting away into nothingness. The flashes merged into a whole, a whirling image of white, and the high priestess held her breath, sensing that revelation approached.

Fear stabbed through her bosom, her guts, her loins-fear of powerlessness, of failure. She was pierced by the knowledge that her king was trying to abandon her, that he would try to escape her-and that if he did, she was finished. This was a warning, clear and direct from her deity. Her worst fears would be realized if she did not do something drastic.

Yes, indeed, it was time for Garnet Dane to perform his task.

She was prepared to rise, to put her plan into motion, but she felt the pressure of the Willful One’s presence forcing her back down for another message. She lay flat again and opened herself to communication with her god. At once she saw there was more to this vision.

She fought for the serenity, the clarity to understand. At last, there it was: an image as clear in detail as it was murky in meaning. Stariz studied that picture, memorizing every detail, unconcerned with the fact that she didn’t, as yet, understand. Full knowledge would come later after she had time to digest and analyze the vision bestowed upon her by her god.

When the image faded at last, once again leaving utter blackness, she remained prostrate for a long time, breathing slowly, reflecting, remembering. At last she pushed herself to her feet, and walking somewhat shakily, she withdrew toward the door that rumbled open to allow her egress. She stood alert without speaking, puzzling over the image she had seen.

She knew what to do about the matter of the king; that plan needed only one final command. As to the rebels, perhaps she would consult with her husband about this matter, for the significance of the sign continued to elude her. She knew there was truth there, but what? How?

Why had her god shown her an image of a dozen blocks of salt?

Grimwar Bane made his way back into his apartment, grateful that Stariz was gone. He allowed his slaves to disrobe him and draw him a bath, and as soon as it was ready he settled into the steaming water, allowing the warmth to soak into his body. He left instructions with his two bodyguards to guard the door and prevent him from being disturbed, even if it meant angering the queen herself.

He thought about Thraid, shaking his head in amazement. He had told her only yesterday about his intentions to send Stariz away. Her delight had been thrilling and her gratitude so intense that he had been left weak in the knees. In those moments of ecstacy the king saw beyond any doubt that he was making the right decision. He had promised to return to her tomorrow, as soon as he could get away, and already he was anticipating that delightful encounter.

The matter of explaining this new reality to Stariz was an unpleasant detail that he would continue to relegate to the future. He had begun to wonder if perhaps he might be rushing things a little too much by speaking to her immediately after the ceremony of Autumnblight, only five days away. There would be plenty of good opportunities as the season waned toward the end of the sunny days in which he could break the news to the queen, informing her that her royal presence was no longer required.

Of course, he would see to it that she had a chance to make a life for herself. Probably he would send her back to Glacierheim. Her father was baron there and in his dotage, but the king would send along a gift-a generous gift-of gold, and count on that to soothe any injured diplomatic feelings. He had two things in his favor: Glacierheim was a long distance away; and the baron’s army was barely a tenth of the size of King Grimwar’s, should it come to that.

Though they did raise some ferocious warriors in Glacierheim, the ogre monarch reminded himself with a shiver. He remembered one particular brute who had come to Winterheim with Stariz a decade before. That fellow, Karyl Drago, was the largest ogre Grimwar Bane had ever seen, strong enough to break the necks of any two normal warriors in a fair fight. Drago had been a strange contrast, brutal in battle yet reduced to a happy sigh by the sight of a little golden mirror or some trinket made from the precious yellow metal. He had actually caused some problems with his uncouth behavior. Fortunately, they had found a post for him some place very much out of the way. At least, the king consoled himself, they couldn’t have too many brutes of Karyl Drago’s size, not in Glacierheim or anywhere else.

He emerged from his bath feeling much refreshed and was pleased when he went into the great room to find that though Stariz had returned, she had waited for him to come out instead of trying to barge in and disturb his reverie. She did have a matter that she wanted to discuss, and his mood was pleasant enough that he was happy to indulge her.

“Do you remember we discussed the slaves in the Nobles’ Market?” she asked him.

“Of course. Did you learn anything?”

“I believe so,” Stariz replied. “That is, the will of Gonnas was revealed to me. After I meditated upon the vision, I could discern what our immortal god in his wisdom was trying to tell me.”

“These rebels? Where can we find them?” Grimwar pressed.

“I think you will find them in the warehouse where the salt is stored. There are many men working there, and I think the proper course of action is to have all of them arrested and killed. It might be hard to sort out the rebels from the ordinary folk, but bad apples spoil the barrel, you know.”

The king stroked his chin. Like so many of Stariz’s tactics, this one seemed drastic. On the other hand, if she had this problem to distract her, that would take her attention away from the king, Thraid Dimmarkull, and the Highlander slave.

“Interesting thought,” he declared, putting on an air of great contemplation. “Of course you would perform these executions at the ceremony of Autumnblight.”

“Hmmm. I had not carried out my planning to that level of detail, but yes, that would make perfect sense. As always when dealing with sedition, our ideas are in concert, my king. These enemies of the state can be drawn and quartered in different sections of the hall so that everyone can get a good view. The slave king can be gutted at the climax of the festival!”

“Yes, that would make a nice climax,” agreed the king, as he began to think about his dinner. What would the chef be making tonight, he wondered. “It shall be done. I will give the order myself.”

“Good. They can be taken soon, then?”

“I will send a whole company of grenadiers, my queen. They will be taken like fish caught in a strainer net.”

Stariz stood and smiled at him almost tenderly. “Excellent decisiveness, my lord. That is what makes you such a splendid king.”

For once, Grimwar Bane agreed with his wife.

Stariz summoned her spy after her husband had retired for the night, and as usual he wasted no time in arriving at her secret door. Garnet Dane’s eyes flickered nervously as she invited him to enter her chambers, even offering him the unprecedented courtesy of a glass of warqat. She was almost giddy and enjoyed the nervousness tinged with excitement that she saw reflected in her human slave’s eyes.

“You wonder why I have summoned you here so late, do you not?” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I do,” he confessed, “though I should be eager to answer your call, no matter what the time or the cause.”

“That is what I thought. Tell me, how sharp is your knife?” she asked him bluntly.

Garnet Dane’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “In your service, it is a razor, my queen.”

“Splendid,” she said. “It is time for you to use it.”

He leaned close, his thin lips creasing into a smile as she outlined her orders.

“Whalebone!”

Strongwind heard the snap of Thraid’s fingers as she summoned him into the great room where she indolently lay as usual upon her divan. It was late morning, but she had slept late on this day, as was also usual.

“I need you to make a trip to the market for me, but there is no hurry.”

“As you wish, my lady,” he said. “Am I to fetch anything in particular?”

“Yes … make it a lamb, this time.” She fished several gold coins out of a purse. “Do not come back until this evening.”

“Of course, mistress,” he replied.

Strongwind was delighted at the timing of the request and relieved to get away from the voluptuous ogress for a few hours. Her attentions to him had been unnerving. She had insisted that he help her with her bath, an experience leaving memories that would require gallons of warqat to wash away.

Now he had important news about the connection between Thraid Dimmarkull’s apartment and the royal palace and was eager to report his discovery to the nascent rebel group. He went immediately to the market and made his way to the window at the salt alcove. Black Mike was at the counter, and when he saw the Highlander approaching he quickly called for a replacement, then moved sideways to open the door so that Strongwind could join him in the evaporation room.

As before, they made their way through the aisles of stacked salt into the storage room in the back. The slave king noticed other men throughout the room setting their tasks aside and gradually, casually converging on the room.

A few minutes later the band had gathered, perhaps twice as many men as the dozen Strongwind had seen on his first meeting here. The group circled close, regarding him with interest as Black Mike folded his arms and waited.

“Well, did you learn anything?”

“Yes. The king did come to visit the Lady Thraid. There were guards-the King’s Grenadiers-outside her apartment, and they wouldn’t let me pass.” Some measure of modesty caused Strongwind not to mention the disheveled appearance of the ogress when later he had returned to the apartments.

He was about to describe his search for the secret door when one of the men at the back of the throng held up his hand and whispered urgently, “Hsst! be silent!”

They all heard the thump of heavy boots. There were cries of consternation from the market, screams of frightened humans mingled with harsh ogre commands. Something heavy crashed to the floor outside of the room, and guttural roars bellowed above a growing din of panic.

“Out the back!” declared Black Mike. “Move!”

Strongwind was carried by the throng, as the men surged toward the shadowy nether reaches of the room. The Highlander could make out a door there and saw one slave pull it open.

In the next instant a spear darted into the opening, striking the man in the chest and erupting from his back in a shower of gore. Gasping, he tumbled back into the room, kicking weakly, dying very slowly.

There was light beyond the doorway, but that illumination only served to outline the shape of a hulking ogre, one of the red-coated grenadiers. He reached forward to retrieve his weapon, shaking the spear contemptuously to cast the corpse aside. With a rumbling chuckle of deep amusement, he advanced into the room, while more of his comrades followed behind-a dozen huge, armed ogres blocking the escape route.

At the same time the door on the other side of the room burst open. Strongwind was not surprised to see more ogres there, the rest of the company apparently. They separated, weapons raised, as the human captives stood frozen. One man fell to his knees and started to cry.

“Shut up!” Black Mike ordered, and the fellow’s blubbering ceased. The slave leader cast a murderous glare at Strongwind before the ogre captain came swaggering through the two ranks of his men.

“Search them for weapons and lock them in chains,” he barked. Grenadiers came forward to begin frisking the rebels, while others followed with heavy coils of iron chain. The captain looked at his ragged captives, tusks bared in a lip-curling sneer of disdain. “You lot are coming with me-we have a little appointment with the queen.”

He chuckled, a sound like a bubbling vat. “No doubt she will have some of you talking-soon, while you still have yer tongues.”

Things were going pretty well, thought Grimwar Bane, leaning on the railing of his lofty balcony, admiring the view of the harbor far below. Goldwing was sparkling again, fully repaired and freshly painted. The sight of his gleaming galley made him happy. A small mountain of timber was stacked nearby in his shipyard, and he idly considered the notion of building another ship, a vessel to replace the lost Hornet. Perhaps that work could begin this winter?

He was happy to see slaves toiling busily in the lumber yard as well. Hundreds of humans bustled back and forth under the eyes of a couple of whip-cracking overseers. Elsewhere there were more humans, throngs of them carrying goods to the marketplace, selling and buying alongside ogres.

His wife was busy with her own little projects, staying out of his way. Indeed, he had been able to visit Thraid twice in the past three days, a state of affairs he found very satisfactory. There were plenty of advantages in the current arrangement. Idly, he wondered if there might not be some way to keep his wife as queen and his mistress as his lover. Certainly Stariz had her uses. It was hard to imagine Thraid being much help in tracking down sedition among the slaves, for example. There she had acted decisively. Just an hour ago he had learned that two dozen slaves had been arrested in the Nobles’ Marketplace … she worked quickly, did Stariz ber Glacierheim ber Bane.

Nevertheless, he shook his head at the thought of both ogresses competing for his attention. He had been living that misery for too long, and he had made up his mind, yet there was no sense of urgency, no reason for him to act prematurely. The execution of the salt-cellar slaves from the Nobles’ Market would provide splendid entertainment at the Rites of Autumblight. That was another task for which Thraid, for all of her voluptuous qualities, was clearly not suited.

Ah, but those qualities she did possess, she possessed in such abundance! The memory of those charms made him smile, stirred him deeply. In fact, they were much on his mind, because he knew that she was waiting for him in her suite. She had sent her slaves away and promised to be alone. Soon he would be there, in her arms.

Stariz had informed him that she would need more time to interrogate the prisoners-she would be occupied thusly for the rest of the day. The king nodded in satisfaction. No doubt she would get to the bottom of this latest insurrection. In the meantime, he had some time to himself.

He sauntered down the passage leading around the edge of the royal palace, walking casually, nodding to a couple of ogresses who waddled past. They were bedecked in gold and black sealskin furs and giggled happily at the royal attention. The king stopped to chat with the grenadier who stood guard at the next intersection. Another glance around left him feeling fairly certain that he was not being followed, so he turned down the alley and darted into the Slaves Way.

In a minute he was at the secret door, his heart already pounding as he turned the now-familiar latch to slip the portal open. Quickly slipping through, he pulled the door shut behind him and took the oil lamp that Wandcourt had left for him in the little alcove by the door. A spark ignited the wick, and he started down the long, winding stairway that in recent days had taken him so many memorable times to the Terrace Level and to the delights of his mistress.

Long strides carried him down the steps, anticipation building as he spiraled through the descent. His voluptuous ogress was waiting for him at the terminus of the long, secret stair. He relished the little circle of light around him, the pleasant glow of the lamp that was like his own little sun.

At last he was there, stepping off the bottom step, crossing the last few steps to the second secret door, the passage into his lady’s chambers. Feeling very gentle, he touched the wall almost affectionately, working the metal lever that caused the portal to slowly slide toward him.

He stepped through, relishing the familiar surge of desire, taking his time to let the feeling grow within him. The apartment was quiet-good, she had followed through on her promise to send her slaves away. With soft footfalls he crossed the small room and entered the large central chamber. Nothing stirred here, though several lamps burned in the wall sconces, providing a soft and romantic illumination. The king uttered a low, affectionate growl as he realized that his mistress awaited him in the bedroom.

Gently he opened that door. He could see the outline of his lover’s body on the bed, the soft curves actually making him short of breath. With trembling hands he moved the door mostly shut, allowing just a sliver of light into the room. This dimness was the perfect illumination for lovemaking, he knew.

“My pet?” he whispered.

Ah, the coy wench was playing with him, lying still. Hesitancy gone, he crossed the room in three long strides, sat on the edge of the bed and touched her shoulder.

“I am here-” he began then stopped.

Something was wrong. His touch had provoked no reaction, not even the trembling playful stillness she sometimes affected, knowing it increased his desire.

“Thraid, my lady,” he said, shaking her gently.

No response. In growing confusion he pulled the blanket back and rolled her from her side onto her back. He saw those red lips, so carefully rouged for him, but there was more redness, too, a horrible crimson gash through her throat, the wound gaping like some ghastly caricature of her sensual mouth. Blood soaked the sheets and her sleeping cloak, still sticky but already cool to the touch. He gagged and staggered across the room, crashing into the wall. His hands flew to his face, but they could not stifle his moans, could not wipe away the cruel truth.

The Lady Thraid Dimmarkull was dead.