somehow released Fabia from her cell. Orlad Celebre had murdered Therek. Saltaja had always had doubts about the death of the eldest, Dantio. The Witnesses insisted he was dead, but she had never seen his body. Even the Old One, Who certainly knew the dead, had never given her a clear account of what had happened to him.
Meanwhile, who should she appoint as replacement hostleader?
“Fetch Huntleader Fellard,” she told Brarag. “And who are the other… What did you just say?” She had not been listening. Why were they both looking so terrified?
“I said you must flee, my lady!” Ern shouted. “They’re saying…” he gulped nervously. “… saying terrible things about you, my lady! They’re talking about…” He peered over his shoulder at the closed door.
Saltaja could guess what They were talking about, whoever They were. They were talking about her being a chthonian, about safety in numbers, about coming to get her. They were talking about burial facedown in the cold earth. That was what they did to Chosen-no trial, no testimony by Witnesses of Mayn, no divine judgment from Speakers of Demern, no delay. All her life, almost, she’d had Werist brothers around to defend her, if not the terrible Hrag himself. She shivered-because she was frightened, not because she was smeared with mud and blood under rain-soaked clothes. All her great powers could not stop a mob.
“Fetch Huntleader Fellard! At once! At once!”
He came so quickly that he must have been very close. His earlier nonchalance was gone, and it was clear that Fellard had not had an easy morning. He had cleaned himself, yet he still smelled of blood and his face twitched with discordant emotions-hatred for what she had made him do, shame that he had done it, the overwhelming compulsion to please her that she had imposed on him… and fear. Incredibly, Fellard was afraid of something. A man in command of five packs of Werists, four sixty, afraid?
She stood by the window, the light at her back. “I understand my brother has been slain?”
“Apparently so, my lady.” He did not care.
“It will be necessary to appoint a replacement-subject to the blood-lord’s confirmation in due course. Who are the Huntleaders in Therek’s Host, apart from yourself?”
Fellard put his fists on his hips and stared at her with what seemed to be disbelief. “Karrthin of Tryfors Hunt, Heth up at Nardalborg. My lady.”
“Only three?”
“That’s all we have. The Cullavi Hunt and the Fiends were disbanded, and the men sent over the Edge. I believe Nardalborg Hunt is at full strength, but I’m down to two sixty, and Tryfors has three. That was before this morning, you understand.” Shame blazed up in his face. “Several sixty in transit are billeted at Nardalborg, but those men are not truly under Heth’s command.”
Therek had whined about being under strength and she hadn’t listened. The unknown deserter horde must outnumber the forces in Tryfors handily, and she had sacrificed fifteen men to the Mother. Wait a moment!-
“Did you say ‘Heth’?”
“Heth Hethson, my lady.”
“And who was his father, really?”
Fellard looked puzzled. “Gossip says the satrap, my lady.”
Mother of Death! Heth was quite a common name. She had been thinking of Therek’s missing bastard as a child, but she must have presumed wrong. Therek had been slyer than she thought. He would have given Nardalborg to his most trusted deputy. The family still controlled the pass!
And shaping worked best on blood relatives.
“Heth’s work at Nardalborg is too important to interrupt. Bring me this Karrthin.”
Fellard chewed his lip. “He’s not here. I’m told he drove out to inspect his herds. His mistress, more likely. Runners are on the way to him.”
“And what will happen when he returns?”
“It will be interesting.” Now his fear made more sense.
So men of the Fist’s Own Hunt, on her orders, had slaughtered men belonging to Tryfors Hunt, which outnumbered it handily. Revenge was a powerful motive in itself, but ambition always came first with the Heroes, and there was a promotion to be claimed. Small wonder Fellard was nervous, facing an unequal battle with his troops already made restive by the massacre.
“Karrthin will naturally accuse you of arranging my brother’s death because you were here, and you will accuse him because he was not. Is there any evidence who did do it?” Not that evidence would matter.
“The witnesses reported discarded orange-green-red palls.”
Yesterday Orlad Celebre had been wearing orange-green-red: orange for Therek and green for Nardalborg. So Heth was prime suspect in the murder of his father. Did Heth know who his father was? Fellard had known of Therek’s plans for Orlad-had Heth? Had he deliberately set a countertrap? Or had it been a horrible misunderstanding?
She said, “At the moment you have effective control of the city. Under the circumstances, you had best arrange to have Huntleader Karrthin met on his return, preferably at a narrow place on the trail with poor visibility.”
“You think his packleaders are so stupid they would stand aside and let me try?” Fellard’s face twisted in torment. “My lady, there is a lynch mob brewing!”
She knew she was not disguising her own fear as well as should, so she flaunted it in poor-little-woman mode. “But you will protect me!”
That was an order. “I will try, my lady. They’re talking of digging a grave in the herb garden and throwing you in it.” Facedown, of course.
Rumors about her being a Chosen had seethed for years. Yesterday she had suggested the pain-of-death order; today she had made Fellard carry out the execution. Sometimes a mob got things right. She shuddered. Fear was a new and strange experience for her, although she had always found it amusing in others. She was surprised how much it muddled her thinking, like trying to run in deep mud.
“If I appoint Karrthin as the new-”
“Lady, anyone you appoint to anything will die very soon.”
“Then explain how you will defend me.”
“We must flee, my lady. I’ll send men to seize all the boats they can, and we’ll head off downstream before Karrthin returns.”
No! That felt impossibly wrong. She would be fleeing inward, away from the Edge, abandoning Stralg. The rebels would close the pass, divide the Children of Hrag. “Let me think!” she barked, and began to pace. There was something not right about this. She needed to sleep on it to obtain the Old One’s guidance. Impossible at the moment, of course.
The lynch mob was the most urgent, but blood would be shed over Therek’s disputed succession, an army of deserters was waiting to pounce, and the Florengian war effort must be sustained somehow.
Therek, Orlad, Fellard, Karrthin, Hethson, Orlad, deserters, Nardalborg, Fabia, Orlad-
Rain! That was what was wrong. Heth could have planned Orlad’s rescue, but not the satrap’s death, which had been caused by the rain. Without rain, Therek would have watched the murder from the safety of his tower.
Heth commanded the largest hunt and Nardalborg controlled the road to the Edge. If she could Shape Heth, she might bring some order to the situation yet. Fellard was fidgeting, repeatedly shooting nervous glances at the door.
“You will escort me to Nardalborg,” she said.
“But-” Fellard turned to the window. The rain had stopped. “There will be fresh snow up-”
“Don’t argue. We leave at once.”
He bowed hastily and turned.
“Wait! I need more guards on these rooms. And do you know a girl called Puss?”
“I think there’s a kitchen maid by that name.”
“Send her to me. And on your way out…” Saltaja looked with disgust at Guitha, who was staring at the walls again. “Take that to the herb garden. Make sure you’re not observed. Say aloud, ‘Beloved Mother Xaran, your servant Saltaja sends you this.’ Then cut her throat.”
Ivory pale, Fellard stared hard at her, seeming at a loss for words.
“You will obey me!”
