He tried to stand, failed, and compromised by crawling to her on hands and knees, looking like a corpse escaping from a graveyard. When he arrived, he sank down to kiss her foot. He mumbled something of which only “My lady…” was audible.
Usually she managed to tamper with her subjects’ motivations and leave their other mental processes intact, at least in the short term, but Fellard would not last long after this butchery. In a couple of thirties he would be a gibbering animal. Fortunately, she did not need him for long.
“What do you want?”
“To serve you. Always. To serve you.” He looked up with a hound’s glazed devotion.
“Rise.” She waited impatiently while he struggled to his feet. “You will obey me and serve me, but you will forget what has happened since you walked in.”
He shook his head a few times to clear it, then his pupils dilated and he gave her the same lecherous smile he had given the girl yesterday. He was Saltaja’s, body and soul.
“How may I be of service, my lady?”
“The Celebre prisoner has escaped.”
“I heard.” He tried hard not to grin, but not quite hard enough. “That is extremely distressing, my lady! Apparently Hostleader Therek ordered that she was to be guarded…” The amusement faded into incredulity.
“Yes?”
“… on pain of death. But…” He smiled grotesquely. “But that is only an expression! Werists can’t be put to death. I mean who…? How? I expect your honored brother will punish them severely, but… not put
… to…”
“There are eight of them locked in the room. You know where I mean?”
“Yes, my lady.” He was seriously worried now.
“Go and get them. Take them to the herb garden and kill them.”
“My lady! They will resist. Innocent men will-”
“Think of it as a training exercise,” she said. “Kill them. In the herb garden. You will obey me.”
Face white as bone, Huntleader Fellard whispered, “I will obey you.”
FABIA CELEBRE
had never truly expected to be forced into marrying a Werist, but it was nice to think that Cutrath Horoldson no longer lurked in her future. He could vanish over the Edge and enjoy his military career without ever knowing about the wedded bliss he had so narrowly escaped. She had other problems to worry about.
Free Spirit was a typical riverboat-long and shallow, with two masts bearing triangular lateen sails. She might rank a little older and smellier than most, but Dantio knew her of old and had judged that she was speedy enough to outrun any likely pursuit. Her crew and owners were an extended family of around twenty people, ranging from babes to ancients. The boat was their home and the heap of bales and boxes amidships their worldly wealth. By custom, the passengers sat in the bow and the crew stayed huddled in the stern, swathed in red or brown burnooses, chattering in their strange singsong.
The rain had stopped just as Free Spirit left the Wrogg and proceeded up a tributary, the Little Stony. Now the world was steaming in watery sunshine and a ramshackle ferry dock had come into view ahead. The banks were marshy and the surrounding woods scrubby, but to the southeast the dramatic cone of Mount Varakats shone hugely white against a sky of midnight blue.
Fabia was seated on the port shelf next to Horth Wigson, almost touching knees with lady Ingeld opposite. Ingeld was between Flankleader Guthlag and Benard, who presently had his arm around her quite shamelessly. She was being as charming as ever, but she hadn’t eaten anything all morning. Had her idiot brother gotten her with child?
No one was saying much, as they were all lost in their worries. They all knew that Saltaja and Therek could not be written off yet, and Ingeld insisted that Horold was pursuing her upriver, so Hrag jaws might yet close on the fugitives. Orlad had been condemned to die today and might already be dead. Dantio had stayed behind in Tryfors to watch what happened-Witnesses were notoriously nosey people, he admitted, but he would be in no danger because no one could sneak up on a seer. And somewhere there were the mysterious rebels, poised to strike at Tryfors.
Apart from their common concerns, they all had their own worries. Fabia and Dantio wanted to return to Celebre, but the pass might be closed already. Benard was being evasive about going to Florengia, because he could not leave Ingeld. Fabia did not want to abandon Horth, who was much dearer to her than the true father she could not remember. Ingeld must be worrying about Cutrath, on his way to a war that now seemed to be lost.
“How far is it to High Timber?” Fabia asked. “Father?”
“I don’t know,” Horth said in his customary soft tones. “I suspect the riverfolk don’t, either. I’m not sure High Timber is a real place at all. It may be several places, or just an idea.”
Guthlag snorted contemptuously. The gnarly old Hero had taken a dislike to the wizened little Ucrist. “You can’t hide a horde of Werists in an idea. Men need food and shelter and training grounds.” He snorted again. “And women.”
“Dantio said our journey wouldn’t be long.” Benard grinned as though he would not care if it lasted forever.
On the river “not long” meant anything from an hour to several sixdays. Fabia did not see how the rebel encampment could be anywhere near Tryfors if Arbanerik Kranson had managed to keep it secret from the Werist garrison there for at least two years. Dantio was coming overland to join them; she hoped he was all right, because only the family seer knew how to find the rebel headquarters.
The boat tacked across the stream to enter a stagnant inlet. Sheltered from the wind by treed banks and hampered by reeds and bulrushes, it gently lost way and stopped. This must be the chosen rendezvous, and was obviously a good one, easily identified but hidden from casual view. A Witness like Dantio could find them there even in pitch darkness. Four male sailors rose to begin lowering the sails.
“ Free Spirit ahoy!” Like a mythical wood spirit, Dantio appeared amid the shrubbery, a slender young man in the hessian shirt and long breeches worn by slaves in Tryfors. The shabby leather cloak he wore over them hung open, its hood thrown back to show a brown Florengian face and a gleam of white teeth. He waved both fists overhead in triumph. “Therek is dead!”
For a moment no one spoke. Fabia thought of his horde, twenty sixty ferocious Werists, coming screaming after whoever had killed him.
Then everyone, including most of the riverfolk, yelled “What?” or “How?” or “No!” in disbelief.
“Dead!” Dantio insisted. “Orlad killed him! Orlad’s alive!”
He half-turned to indicate the young man pushing his way out of the bushes to stand at his side. Orlad was smiling, too, and that just proved that there was a first for anything, for yesterday he had been as sullen as a hungry boar. His torso was draped in a waterlogged woolen pall, and the brass collar of Weru shone like yellow fire around his neck.
“Orlad!” Benard’s great bellow of joy set birds a-flapping on the river. He started up, as if about to leap overboard and go welcome his brother. Ingeld caught hold of him. “Orlad!” he repeated. “You changed sides!”
The riverfolk were yelling, also, but theirs were cries of alarm. They had no liking for Werists at the best of times-they had grumbled at allowing old Guthlag on board-and a Florengian Werist was an unthinkable freak, perhaps a sign that the war had spilled back over the Edge and Vigaelia was being attacked. Men jumped for the yards and sails. Others produced poles and oars and stabbed them into the water to push Free Spirit clear of the reeds. The boat jerked back the way she had come only moments before.
Orlad barked an order. Heroes erupted out of the woods behind him-Werists with palls and brass collars, but regular, fair-skinned, golden-haired, Vigaelian Werists. Like otters they leaped into the river and surged forward through the reeds, barely slowing as the water deepened. Seven of them, the astonished Fabia counted. By the time the water was up to their shoulders, their hands were clasping the gunwale and Free Spirit was free no more.
A couple of the boatmen raised their poles as if to crack heads or crush fingers. Instantly old Packleader
