Children of Chaos

be an invaluable ally. 'I, too, have a brother in these parts, I am told.'

'Who calls himself Orlad Orladson. It is known that he lives in Nardalborg, three menzils from here, and has just completed his Werist training.'

In Benard's sketchy memories, Orlando was permanently a stocky, curly-haired little tyke who laughed a lot. 'The curse of the Dark One on whoever did that to him. Would he betray me if I approached him?'

The seer sat very still in the firelight as if watching things far off. Eventually she sighed. 'We do not prophesy. The satrap has summoned him here to kill him.'

'What! Why?' Was wife-stealing a family trait? 'Can you warn him?'

'No. We never advise. Therek is insane. His dementia oppresses me even at this distance. Go and fetch your pyromancer and her warrior, Hand. I will give them sanctuary until Mist arrives.'

'You are kind, Witness, although hiding from Werists in a brothel does seem a little foolhardy.'

If seers smiled, they did so unseen. 'You are not in the brothel now. Since ancient days the Witnesses have maintained secret lodges all over Vigaelia. Extrinsics are very rarely admitted, for any reason whatsoever.'

Cuff! That would teach Benard not to waste his humor on a Maynist.

thirty-six

FABIA CELEBRE

fell in love with Tryfors at first sight. It was not inspiringly beautiful, but anywhere must be better than the endless trek up the Wrogg that had taken such a huge bite out of her life. Morning frost still sparkled on the shingle and her breath steamed as she walked down Mora's gangplank, for yesterday's rain had yielded to a sky of dazzling blue. Here the river had become many little rivers, each with its own collection of boats. The cataracts upstream were the same brilliant white as the hills beyond—that was snow up there and possibly she would be walking on that soon. Tryfors was a gray sprawl on a mesa above the floodplain, and her future husband might be waiting for her up there; he was certainly not in the reception party on the pebbles.

There was no reception party. No trumpets, no honor guard. Saltaja had truculently insisted on camping one last unnecessary night just a couple of hours downstream from the city so she could send word ahead to proclaim her coming, as if she doubted her brother's ability to cope with unexpected visitors. Not trusting one runner, she had sent two, some time apart. Had neither arrived? Or had the message been ignored?

Scar-faced Huntleader Darag trod close on Fabia's heels. Saltaja and Horth were disembarking from Blue Ibis. Other vessels were loading or unloading or being careened, wagons and slave gangs were at work, but the latest arrivals were being ignored.

'Gods save us, my lady,' Fabia said brightly. 'We appear to be a little early.'

Saltaja's answer was a glare. The protracted voyage had aged her. Her pallid face seemed more elongated than ever, although it was still not that of a woman in her sixties. Her black robes had faded to gray, and in some elusive way so had she. That did not mean she was any less dangerous, though; perhaps even more so.

She snarled at Darag. 'More desertions, Huntleader?'

'I warned you Heroes would not be used as flunkies.' The wolfish Darag was not the obsequious and unlamented Perag, but even Darag would not have spoken to Saltaja like that when they set out from Kosord. Then he had been in command of five boats and forty-eight men. But one day Beloved of Hrada had lost contact with the other craft, taking a dozen Werists with her, and three days later Nurtgata and Redwing had vanished with another sixteen.

As Horth had waspishly pointed out to Fabia, if Stralg's sister could lose half her escort, then the overall desertion rate in the Heroes must be enormous. Where were the deserters going and what might they do in the future? Had they found some way of evading the Witnesses' notice, or were the Witnesses no longer answering the satraps' questions?

'That must be snow up there,' Horth said, beaming guilelessly. 'Does that make the passes more difficult, do you suppose?'

Since the desertions, the remaining Werists had become sullen and resentful, while Saltaja and Darag snapped at each other in open contempt. In a sort of reverse mockery, Horth had become exaggeratedly polite to them and fatuously cheerful—soaked bedrolls kept snakes away, he would explain, and dysentery was highly beneficial, nature's cleansing. Fabia suspected he had helped the defections along. If so, it was odd that he had not contrived an escape for the two of them at the same time, but she trusted him to have good reasons.

'This must be the harbor master approaching,' he added. 'Collecting anchorage. Perhaps you might hire one of his helpers to carry word to your honored brother, my lady?'

The scrawny old official hobbling in their direction was being escorted by three adolescent boys carrying staffs, doubtless a guard against unruly riverfolk resentful of the satrap's taxes.

'Gods preserve us!' Fabia exclaimed. 'It won't matter which one you choose, will it?' The youths appeared to be identical triplets.

'That won't be necessary.' Darag pointed to two chariots descending the long hill from the town.

The sailors referred the harbor master to Saltaja, who angrily referred him to Darag, and an argument developed over payment. By the time it was settled, the onagers and cars were scrunching across the shingle toward them. Fabia could relax again, because one driver was too old to be Cutrath Horoldson and the other wore a huntleader's green sash. Both wore trousers and long-sleeved jerkins under their palls—unlike Darag's men, who owned nothing but palls, now thoroughly waterlogged.

The newcomers reined in nearby, not venturing to descend and leave the onagers unattended. The young officer cheerfully saluting was gaunt, tall even for a Werist, clean-shaven, and young to have reached such rank. His face would have enhanced maidens' dreams had it not at some point lost an engagement with a set of claws that had left four scarlet scars running from just below his eyes to his jawline, twisting his mouth into a jagged line. He reminded Fabia a little of Cnurg, who had been her personal guard and one of the very few in the escort she could tolerate. Cnurg had disappeared in the second exodus.