Mother of Lies (8 page)

The river left the city over a weir, dropping into a narrow, walled canyon. The current was very fast, and the lip of the weir was armed with bronze blades to discourage exactly the feat he was attempting. This defense was effective, but frequently claimed swimmers who ventured too close, usually young boys, who were either gnashed into gobbets or drowned in the gyre in the canyon. Cavotti knew all about the weir because it had killed one of his cousins.

The river that night was much higher, faster, and colder than usual, and turgid as soup after the storm. Very fast. There was the spire of the Temple of Cienu already. He began his change, sending prayers to Weru, asking the god of storm and battle to arrange that the rain had raised the flow high enough to carry him over the knives.

Weir gone. The sky tilted above him and he was falling. The gyre was vicious, turning faster than any man could swim, sucking people down and holding them at the bottom of the river, spinning helplessly. Cavotti was still mostly human when he went over the weir, but not when he reached the gyre. He broke free with a few strokes of his flippers and went on his way downstream, to rendezvous with Butcher.

The current slackened at the irrigation lagoon, where the Puisa was dammed to feed canals, and there he surfaced to hunt for the signal. He saw it right away, two bonfires like blazing eyes sending wheel tracks of light across the ripples. Someone was jumping up and down and waving.

He struck out in that direction, and the next time he raised his head, the woman had sat down to wait for him. Since his black seal-shape would be invisible to human sight in this darkness, she must be a seer. Stralg, curse his bowels, could command the service of Witnesses he had brought over from the Vigaelian Face, whereas the Florengian Maynists would help Cavotti and his helpers only sometimes, when they wished, as they chose. They would never even explain how they decided.

On reaching the rushes, he began to retroform. Battleforming was usually done in haste; the reversal had to be achieved in cold blood and always hurt more. This one needed longer than usual, because he had not been his normal warbeast. He was still sobbing with pain as he scrambled up the bank.

Without a word, the woman offered him a raw steak in one hand and a cloth in the other. He took the steak first.

The storm had faded to stray damp puffs like some monster’s hot breath, leaving the trees weeping from its mauling. Only Butcher and the Witness had come to meet him. Their camp was a bag of food and a leather ground-sheet in the long wet grass—no tent or lamp to reveal their presence. Two chariots were hidden in the bushes; four hobbled guanacos grazed nearby.

The Mutineer sat and gorged on more raw meat. It was not as fresh as he would have liked, but meat was essential after battleforming. This was the pattern of his life. Most of the last ten years had been like this—danger, hardship, hasty withdrawal—and today’s nostalgia trip to Celebre had made him aware how incredibly tired of it he was. Surely there had to be more to life than violence and concealment, death and flight, sorrow and atrocity? But another half-year should do it. He had promised himself Stralg’s hide, stuffed.

The cloth was big enough to serve as his bedroll by night and chlamys by day, when hung over his left shoulder and pinned under his right arm. For now he laid it across his lap where he sat, not bothering to dress. For once there were no mosquitoes, all blown away by the storm. The Witness had her back turned to him, but that meant nothing—Vigaelian seers wore bags over their heads. In Florengia Maynists settled for bandaging their eyes when testifying in court. This one was not young, nor old either. Butcher had given her name as Giunietta, but she had not spoken one word yet. Cavotti was much aware of her, though. Because she was there, his body was reminding him that a woman was a Werist’s second most urgent need after raw meat. Seers must not be asked.

“I’m grateful for your help, Witness. You’d have been a lifesaver if I’d gone past the signal.”

“And I’m a good watchdog in case of burglars.”

Not a promising opening.

“That, too.”

Butcher bulked large on his other side, arms wrapped around shins and chin on knees. He was big, slow-spoken, rarely made eye contact. He and Cavotti were the last of the original impressed Celebrians who had won their collars in the first—and only—graduation at Boluzzi. His name had begun as an insult directed at his father’s trade and become an honored title. Butcher could not play even one-color
tégale
, but no one matched him at killing Vigaelians, whether it was ripping out their throats on the battlefield or entertaining the wounded after it. He was also fanatically loyal to Cavotti, which was becoming an issue as victory drew closer. Nobody was yet admitting that the defeat of the Vigaelians would not end the fighting. Florengia had been shattered, but who owned the pieces?

“It worked?” Butcher asked his toes.

Cavotti tossed the last bone away and wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Like a charm. The doge is farther gone than we thought, but his wife took it all—head, shaft, and feathers.”

“She accepted?”

“With four children supposedly still hostage? I don’t
want
it accepted, Butcher, remember?”

“Will the Vigaelians believe it was really you?” the seer asked without turning.

“Certainly. They saw me off.” He chuckled. “They’ll catch Dicerno and force the story out of him.” He took another bite. “I was lucky. Stralg’s bastard was there.”

“Hope you killed it,” said a low mutter on his left.

“No. He’s just a dumb kid. Not stupid-dumb, though. He guessed I’d moved a shutter that needed a little more than the real me. He was so screamingly suspicious that I scratched my neck. The gown Dicerno had given me had fleas anyway, which gave me the idea, and I let the baby Stralg spot the shape of the brass under the cowl. He damned near wet his sandals! Took off like an arrow to find his Vigaelian buddies. I let them smell my feet as I dived off the wall. Never hurts to add a little drama.”

“A Speaker would judge you criminally crazy,” Giunietta told the darkness. “Why take such an insane risk for a mere bluff?”

“A big hook needs good bait.”

“So what happens tomorrow?” Butcher said.

“Tomorrow you and I get busy.” Cavotti yawned ostentatiously and lay down—too weary to explain it all again to Butcher and too wary to talk in front of a woman he’d never met before. He turned away from her and pulled the cloth over himself.

“Busy doing what?” Giunietta’s whisper came from right behind his head. He had not heard her come to lie beside him. His heart skipped a beat.

“Sorry, can’t say.”

“A battle. Fighting, slaughter.” Seers could read emotions, not specific thoughts.

“I’m planning a killing ground.”

She snuggled against him. “Tell me.”

He had flogged men who breached security by discussing operations, but the seer already knew enough to betray him and in his present condition the bribe was irresistible.

“The baby ice devils in Celebre must be in a screaming panic. They will send word to Stralg that I’m sniffing around. Warbeasts cannot run all that way, so they will have to use chariots, and that means the message will go via the Vigaelian reserves camped near Umsina. The commander there is Hostleader Franin. He’s a greenhorn, too, because Stralg needs to keep all his experienced men active in the field. He will send the message on, of course. Stralg’s been burned often enough to suspect a trap, but I’m gambling that Franin will decide to move his camp closer to Celebre without waiting for orders. So two or three days from now an entire host, more than twenty sixties, will set off at the double.”

Her arm slid around him. “And?”

“And I’ll ambush them.” Unless Cavotti had totally lost his touch, Franin would bivouac the first night in the eminently suitable campsite at Black Lake, with his troops exhausted by a day’s forced march, ripe for slaughter.

“That’s wonderful!” Giunietta pulled the cloth off him and he realized that she had removed her wrap. Oh, yes!

He rolled over, face to face, and whispered, “Thanks.”

Seers must not be asked, because they knew what a man wanted as soon as he did, or sooner. This one was certainly not one of the chatty ones. Infected by his unspoken desire, she was just as urgent as he was, which was fine. She kissed his mouth fiercely. He cooperated with lips and hands, tongue. His body had already completed its own battleforming. The lady brazenly reached down to encourage it. Soon she rolled over and pulled him on top of her.

Apparently Butcher was still staring at the night and hadn’t noticed what was happening nearby. “Who’s going to be doge after Piero dies?”

The lovers paused. Cavotti felt her shaking with laughter in his arms.

He said, “Don’t know, don’t care. Chances are there won’t be anything left to be doge of.”

Butcher said, “Ah! Carry on then.”

He lay down and turned his back.

Part II
E
SCAPES
AND
R
ESCUES

SALTAJA HRAGSDOR

awoke with a snarl. For a moment she was confused by chinks of daylight peering around shutters, by solid masonry walls and paneled ceiling. Then she remembered she was in Tryfors, lying under clean blankets on a level sleeping platform, not some lumpy riverbank. So why the oppressive mood? Ah, yes! She had been dreaming of Benard Celebre.

Benard Celebre?
Jarred, she sat up and peered at her arm. Last night she had sought guidance from the Mother, offering blood. She had felt the power flow and the cut was already healed, so what sort of reward was a useless dream of Benard Celebre ambling along a Tryforian street like some amiable half-wit bear? She had not seen him on her way through Kosord in the summer, but she had no doubt that it was he that she had just dreamt, and here in Tryfors, too.

That was ridiculous! She had given Horold leave to kill him. Her brother was a pathetic relic of the fearsome warrior he had once been, but he should be able to dispose of one penniless hostage. And even if Ingeld had somehow smuggled her boy lover out of the city, the satrap’s Witnesses should have reported where Benard was and Horold’s Werists should have run him down within hours.

Saltaja yelled to waken Guitha, who was sleeping on a mat near the door.

Benard? Was this some doing of his sister? Was this the final proof that Fabia Celebre was indeed a Chosen?

Not for nothing was holy Xaran known as the Mother of Lies. She spoke to all Her children, but not always with a clear voice, lest they betray Her secrets to lesser gods, who were young and foolish. She was usually helpful to Her Chosen, although even they could never count on Her absolutely. If two came into conflict, She might aid both, or aid one and deceive the other. Or deceive both.

As she attended to her toilet, Saltaja continued to puzzle. Her problems never grew any less. Her brothers, especially Therek, had become dangerously irrational. She would have to waste several days here in Tryfors repairing him and might not extend his useful life by more than a year or two. On the way home she would have to stop off in Kosord to mend Horold also. At times she even wondered about Stralg himself. As a natural-born warrior, he had required far less Shaping than any of his brothers, but the steadily worsening news of the war made her wonder if he were decaying also. Then there was yesterday’s news about Kwirarl, the last of her sons dead, and these “New Dawn” rebel Werists massing at Nuthervale. With winter coming on, they were the most urgent problem. Last night she had dispatched warnings to both Horold and Eide, telling them to prepare for a spring campaign before the traitors grew any stronger.