She handed the reins to Verk and prepared to climb down.
"The master sent for me," he said, not looking at her.
She paused. "But did not impale you."
"No, mistress. He was very concerned to know why you insisted on approaching the mob."
So was she. What had led her to be stupid? That was not like her. "I hope you explained that I was merely being nosy?"
"Not in those words, mistress." His tone was oddly flat.
She could have rescued that man!
Verk handed her down. Slinging her leather satchel on her shoulder, she braced herself for the climb. The headache pounded harder than ever, not helped by the wailing of beggars trying to extract alms from stolid citizens going by. The stolid citizens ignored them, as did the clergy in their many-colored Pantheon robes. When the cadgers noticed Frena's purse, they redoubled their howls, scrambling after her on their knees with hands outstretched, but she hurried past them and began the ascent, following a couple of priests. The stair zigzagged, changing slope and direction frequently. It was wide enough for two people going up to pass two coming down, but the treads were in alarmingly poor condition, the handrails splintered and not entirely secure. Renovations were clearly overdue.
"Fabia Celebre?"
Something touched her arm. She ignored it, plodding painfully upward.
"Frena Wigson, then."
Frena was startled to discover that she was being addressed by a seer—a woman, judging by her voice, tall, slender, and completely swathed in white cloth. Her lower body was covered in a white skirt or robe, a cape fell below her waist, hiding even her hands, and another cloth draped her head. She must be melting inside all that.
"I am Frena Wigson." She had never spoken with a Witness before.
The speaker moved alongside. "Keep climbing and do not act surprised. I have an important warning for you."
"How do I know you are what you pretend to be?" And why were they speaking Florengian?
"You have an unhealed cut on your right shoulder and your shift is embroidered with blue daisies." She sounded young. "Am I a seer?"
"Er, yes. What warning, Witness?"
"You do believe that I speak only truth?"
"You addressed me by another name."
"I wanted to see if you knew it. You were not always Frena Wigson."
"I wasn't?" Frena croaked. Her heart was pounding much harder than it should be. Her mouth was dry, her headache excruciating, and the two old priests ahead were climbing faster than she was. She did not need crazy seers babbling riddles at her.
"No. You have been lied to all your life, but only to keep you out of danger. Now your ignorance may put you in worse danger."
If anyone other than a seer mouthed such nonsense ...
"Then who am I?"
"Your real name is Fabia. You are the fourth child of Piero, doge of the Florengian city of Celebre, and his wife, the lady Oliva. You were taken hostage when Celebre fell to Bloodlord Stralg, fifteen years ago. Your heartbeat is alarmingly fast, my dear. Take a moment's rest."
Frena leaned against a mossy rock and the seer stood beside her, one step up. A family group climbed past.. A group of women descended. The headache was flashing streaks of green light brighter than sunshine.
"Fabia?"
"Fabia Celebre."
"What's a doge?"
"A sort of elected king."
"What is the danger?" Besides dying of headache.
"Premature death. Very briefly: You and your three brothers, all older than you, were brought to Vigaelia as hostages. For the last fifteen years, your father has ruled his city as the bloodlord's puppet, thereby keeping war and grief away from it. Our sight cannot extend to another Face and my most recent information is about a season old. He was said to be very ill then. Celebre is becoming strategically important again, as it has not been for many years. One of his children will be returned to Florengia to take over after his death. The others will not be left alive as potential challengers. Now do you appreciate your danger?"
"Brothers? Where? Who?"
"We have no time for irrelevant detail. The Queen of Shadows is Stralg's regent on this Face. She will decide which one of you will live. At the moment she leans toward marrying you off to a man she can trust and sending you back with him to legitimize his rule, but she may change her mind."
"She organized this dedication?"
"Certainly. She terrified your father by threatening to denounce you as a Chosen of Xaran."
Frena hung to the rotted handrail and tried fiercely to focus on the seer through the flickering green lights. Pain was wringing out her brain like a wet cloth. "Why are you telling me this? I thought Maynists were Stralg supporters and counselors. Why are you pretending to thwart his sister?"
"Never pretending!" The seer's voice displayed some welcome human emotion at last—anger. "Fabia, Fabia! We serve the monster unwillingly, believe me, and only to fulfill an ancient compact, which most of us believe must now be discarded. Although only a minority in our cult think as our leader does, only her views count, and by accosting you I am sorely bending my vows of obedience. Do you feel well enough to proceed? Some officious priest will certainly start prying if you remain here very long."
Frena forced herself to resume the climb, although her feet felt like boat anchors. People coming down were glancing curiously at the seer, not at her.
"I don't think I can believe all this."
"Try, because your life is at stake. I am a Witness of Mayn! We speak only truth."
"Yes, Witness. I am sorry. Does my father know of this?"
"Of course."
"And as soon as I have made my vows, he will receive an offer for my hand?"
"An offer he will not dare refuse."
"Who is the lucky bridegroom?"
"Saltaja's present choice is a son of her brother Horold, satrap of Kosord. The youth's name is Cutrath and he has just been, or is about to be, initiated as a Hero."
A Werist? Ugh! Frena could not imagine a worse choice of husband. "My father ... Horth ... has always promised that I will not be forced to marry against my will."
"You will be now. No one who opposes Saltaja Hragsdor ever prospers."
"Why are you bothering to tell me if I have no choice?"
"Suicide is always an option," the seer said cheerfully. "But rarely an attractive one. Partly because I serve the goddess of truth and you should know the truth. Partly to try and frustrate the Queen of Shadows, for she is evil. Partly—and I am not supposed to tell you this—because you are what we term a seasoner. It is a subtle concept, almost impossible to explain to an extrinsic. Seasoning is a potential for greatness, and very rare. High Priestess Bjaria is an important woman in this city but has no 'flavor' at all. Your foster father is completely insipid, despite his unbounded wealth. Stralg is a seasoner, and so is Saltaja."
"Then why should I want it? What's it good for?"
"It is found in those who make history. It does not guarantee that they will do so, for many seasoners are buried by the wayside, their destiny unfulfilled. But when the gods wish to change the flavor of the world, they use a seasoner to do so. We rarely encounter seasoning before it is manifest, which is one reason we are interested in you, Fabia Celebre. Your time has not yet come."