“I don’t know!” Dantio snapped with less humility than Werists expected from extrinsics. “My blessing does not allow me to spy on the actions of gods, and he must have had help from holy Anziel. Even those shoulders could not budge bronze bars.” He had watched Benard go to the palace and return with Fabia, but he had not seen how the miracle had been done. He had asked her later, and she had not known. Benard had just mumbled about cult secrets. It was very annoying!
Orlad scowled. “How do you think he did it?”
How to explain art to a mob of Werist louts? “I think, my lords, that an artist sees the world as it is, but displays it as it should be. Benard sees a figure inside a block of marble and releases it so the rest of us can see the shape he saw.”
“He didn’t chisel a hole in the wall, though!”
“No. I am guessing, but I think he is such a superbly great artist that his goddess sometimes lets him just shape the world itself as it should be. Fabia said there were no bars on the window when Bena pulled her out. They were back there this morning.”
The warriors did not like that suggestion of personal miracle-working.
“I do not trust Werists,” old Nok warbled at the stern. “We must escape in the night and leave them.”
“Urth vouches for them,” said one of the women.
Fifteen years ago, at just about this point on the river, young hostage Dantio had decided that honor forbade him to learn Vigaelian, the language of his enemies. Instead he would learn the riverfolk tongue, so that one day soon he could escape and sail back up the river. By the time he reached Skjar, he had been almost fluent. His escape attempts had never prospered, and of course he now spoke Vigaelian like a native, but his Wroggian had proved very useful during his years as an itinerant Witness when he wanted to be Urth, the slave.
Orlad said, “If we go to High Timber, would we be allowed to leave?”
“Possibly not,” Dantio admitted.
“We would have to swear fealty to this Arbanerik?” (distrust)
“That seems likely, lord.”
“We might have to join in an attack on Nardalborg,” said one of the others, provoking an eruption of emotion. (hate-fear-disgust-outrage) Many of them were Nardalborg bred; all must have friends there, and some would have family also.
Orlad was registering joy. “But if Stralg loses Nardalborg, he will be crippled.”
“We might have to invade Florengia,” Snerfrik said.
This comment brought a roar of denials and argument-
“We’ve gone over that, Hrothgat!”
“Arbanerik would be crazy to try it.”
“He can shut Stralg out of Vigaelia and let the Mutineer finish him off.”
“He’d still have to hold Nardalborg against Horold and Eide.”
“Hold Tryfors, you mean! They’d starve him out of Nardalborg.”
When the argument wound down, Orlad said, “Where is this High Timber, Dantio? And why are you smirking?”
Again Dantio wished he had a veil. “Because that’s the first time you ever spoke my name, Orlad.”
Scowl. “Back in Celebre I must have.”
“No, you called me, ‘Anto.’” Orlad had been a beautiful baby, but to say so now would be suicide. “I am under oath not to reveal the rebels’ location.” Dantio winced at the resulting surge of anger and suspicion. “Near the Wrogg, but not on it. We can probably arrive tomorrow.”
“Anto?” sneered Snerfrik, the huge one. “Well, little Anto, suppose we decide we want to go over the Edge with Orlad and help him take power in this city of his-we have to get past Nardalborg?”
“No, lord. There is another pass, Varakats Pass.” Dantio sensed a breathtaking rush of interest in his listeners. “Indeed, Varakats was originally the easier of the two. Nardalborg Pass has been much improved, as my lords are aware.”
“So it would be possible?”
No, it was impossible, but Dantio would have to guide them to that conclusion gently. “The passes may stay open a short time yet. The problem would be on the other side. With respect, my lords, my skin and Orlad’s are not so very much darker than yours, but our hair is black, while yours is mostly pale gold, and it is hair color that determines warbeast color, yes? The opposing forces in Florengia are like pieces on a game board, black and white. If Orlad sets foot over the edge, he’ll be one of Cavotti’s. All the rest of you will automatically be Stralg’s, whether you like it or not.”
They did not like it. (fury-frustration) They were young, immensely powerful, had recently won a stunning victory, and why shouldn’t they see their hero elected doge?
“Where are we going now, today?” Orlad demanded. (worry)
“I must go to High Timber to inform the seers and Hordeleader Arbanerik that I have abrogated the compact between the Witnesses and the bloodlord. I will also pass on the news of your noble victory, of course.”
“But if we come with you, we will be recruited?”
“Seers cannot prophesy, but I expect so.”
“Or killed?”
Dantio sighed. “Detained, possibly. You will be hailed as great heroes, but the rebels must use extreme methods to keep their base secret.”
The Heroes were displeased. (anger-arrogance-belligerence)
Waels put it into words. “Or we could stop you going there. We could make the boat sail on down the Wrogg.”
“That is so, my lord,” Dantio said humbly. “But to where? Who else will give you refuge from the bloodlord’s wrath?”
They could hide their fear from his eyes, but not from his seer’s feeling.
One of the sailors said, “The Werists are talking about High Timber. Will we camp at Milk tonight?”
“If this wind holds,” Nok decreed. “The slave wants us to.”
“Saltaja told Fabia you were dead,” Orlad said suspiciously. “The seers must have told her.”
Dantio shrugged. “No Witness ever said that. It wouldn’t be true, would it?”
ORLAD CELEBRE
was sorely perplexed. For years his course had been laid out for him. He had no experience making decisions, but now his choices would be matters of life and death. Seven men expected him to lead them somewhere, anywhere, and also see that they were clothed and regularly fed from now on. Yet he did not know the world outside Nardalborg or how to deal with people, even on the most trivial levels. He was repeatedly reminded of his ignorance as the day wore on. People kept shifting around the boat for variety, and sooner or later he found himself in private talks, one-on-one, with all his new-found siblings.
The dark-eyed, self-important sister he had suddenly acquired, for instance. He did not understand her at all.
“I will trade you,” she told him pertly.
“Trade me for what?”
“I mean I need someone to escort me home to Celebre. There can be no finer protector than a Werist, yes? You defend me and in return I will teach you Florengian.”
“You speak it?”
“Fluently.”
It was maddening that he was the only one of the four who couldn’t. “How? I mean who taught you?”
“My foster mother. I grew up speaking Florengian with her and Vigaelian with Horth. Now, do we have a deal? Language lessons for protection?”
“Why not ask Benard to protect you?”
She laughed, running hands through her black mane. “Benard couldn’t guard a river from a duck, and Ingeld is
