He peered at her wonderingly. 'Nowhere, my lady. I mean, I was just wandering around here in Kosord. I admit that holy Ucr is my patron god, but feasting has little appeal for a man with my fastidious digestion. I met up with various old friends instead.' He beamed like some inane middle-aged child.
As his gaze wafted past Fabia, he blinked, but his eyelids were oddly out of step, so that the blink could almost be classed as a pair of winks.
She hugged him. 'Wonderful to see you, Father!' He must have returned to the captivity of the river voyage solely for her sake, whatever he was up to. 'Oh, Father, I wish you had been there! I met my brother Benard! He is a wonderful sculptor, and such a warm, loving young man! I am surprised that he did not come here to see me off, but I suppose it is festival time... I do wish I could have spent more time with him and the wonderful lady Ingeld, getting to know them...'
She knew quite enough about Benard Celebre already. Even a Chosen could not look after her own when he was as featherbrained as that one. She had another brother waiting at Tryfors. Perhaps he would be better.
'Go and prod those riverfolk, Huntleader,' Saltaja growled. 'It's time for us to leave.'
Part III
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Fall
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thirty-three
HUNTLEADER HETH
had ruled Nardalborg for many years and initiated more Heroes for his father than he could bear to think about. Wherever the sacred rituals allowed, he had devised his own ways of doing things.
Not everything in life must be solemn ritual and blood-sweating grind. For two whole days now the runts had been allowed to rest and eat as much as they wanted—in preparation for the Fortitude Test, they had been told. Every Werist in Nardalborg was in on the leg-pull, wincing whenever the mythical ordeal was mentioned; there was much ominous shaking of heads. Some carried the warnings to absurd extremes, but the kids never caught on. After what they had been through, nothing would seem impossible. Summoned by the beat of the drums, twelve apprehensive young warriors presented themselves at the chapel door that bitter night—and gaped at the slave who opened it to admit them.
'If my lords would be so kind...' Heth stepped aside and bowed low. 'We most humbly beg your lordships' forgiveness, but we do not have enough couches in Nardalborg. Honored lords at a real banquet recline on couches, of course, but never before has Nardalborg had a full, twelve-man flank of cadets, and I cannot recall any class where every man qualified for initiation. If your lordships will forgive stools ...'
Flames danced in the fire pit below the terrible image of the god, but on the far side of the pit stood a table set for twelve, with silver dishes, roast meats, and fresh beer. The six flunkies waiting to serve them, clad in the sackcloth smocks and leggings worn by slaves here in the uplands, were the Nardalborg Hunt's five packleaders and the huntleader himself. As the striplings stared aghast at the sight, the packleaders erupted in guffaws; then Heth began to laugh, too, and the cadets followed one by one. Relief made them howl with mirth.
All except one. Runtleader Orlad did not laugh. The glitter in his dark eyes was anger. Just because he did not see jokes? Or had he somehow learned of the extreme peril that now hung over him?
Somewhere a loose shutter was banging, and Heth made a mental note to have it fixed, but the blizzard howling outside set a fitting mood for merriment safe indoors. Snow and thunder were a killer combination, a Nardalborg speciality, but he had only himself to blame. He had scheduled this ceremony and he had never known an initiation night not to be stormy. With all three mammoth trains out in a frantic dash to stockpile supplies for Caravan Six, he must just hope that the storm was only local. Half the men due to go on Six were in-house already and many more might be strung out between Tryfors and Nardalborg, camping on the moors. There was no time to lose.
Usually Heth loved inductions, because he steadfastly believed in the Heroes. He had a set speech for inductions. There would always be wars, he would explain, so there must always be warriors. The Werists were not perfect, certainly, but at their best they let extrinsics live in peace by keeping conflicts to themselves. He personally took pride in every boy he raised to manhood in the cult, and he was especially proud tonight, he would tell them, with Nardalborg gaining a full dozen warriors who would free up a dozen others to reinforce the Fist's horde on the Florengian Face. So he would say.
In truth he wasn't proud tonight. He was sick with shame at what was going to happen.
¦
The feast went well. Humbly served by their superiors, the cadets ate well, drank even better, and became stupidly raucous. Heth delivered his speech and was cheered. An ensemble of six flankleaders dressed as women dropped in to sing very badly, play pipes and drums even worse, and dance a striptease that left them wearing nothing except their collars and a total of a dozen melons. By then the audience was helpless with drunken mirth. Except the runtleader. Orlad drank mostly water and never relaxed his vigilance, as if he knew that this nonsense must presage treachery.
After the dancers had gone and the diners had eaten their fill, it was he who broke the spell. Watching him fidget, Heth was not surprised when the question came, but he saw with genuine admiration how the quiet words cut through the drunken gabble and stopped it. A born leader, that one.
'My lord? What happens next? In our training, I mean?'
'Nothing. You're done. It's over.' Heth paused a moment to let the implications seep through the beer. Then he gave them another speech, and no one was drunk enough to interrupt a huntleader. 'Congratulations, warriors! You know you have achieved what no men ever have. Your runtleader told me he would see you all qualified before the last caravan departed. I told him he was crazy. He has done it with days to spare and no dropouts. Yours is the honor, but you know who to thank for your success. I am going to break a host rule and promote Runt Orlad directly to flankleader.'
