"No, spit it out here. The floors upstairs are clean. I was right? Silver trumpets and ribboned sweetmeats?"
He nodded ruefully. "I truly had no choice, my dear, as you foresaw. I keep thinking of you as a child, but you're truly a very resilient young woman now. Very few could shrug off such a day so easily. We must get you to a Sinurist before you leave, so you are in shape for—"
"Leave?"
"The lady Saltaja—" Horth fell silent, scowling angrily over her shoulder. Half a dozen Werists had entered the hall, with the distinctive figure of Satrap Eide himself rolling along behind. Hateful, sour-mouthed Perag was not among them, but behind the hostleader, with white robes glimmering in the gloom, came a seer, picking her way daintily through the nauseating debris and holding her skirts above her ankles.
Fabia sent a quick but silent prayer off to her goddess, the Mother of Lies. Nine Witnesses in Skjar, she had been told. This one was too short and too plump to be the one who had accosted her at the Pantheon, so whose side was she on?
Eide was peering around. "We seem to be too late, lads, hm? But it must have been quite a party!" He bellowed laughter while his men smilingly said that their lord was kind. The satrap enjoyed his own jokes, while rarely understanding others'.
"Such a party it would have been, too," Horth said sadly, to Fabia or just to himself. "I often think that the harder one pursues happiness, the faster she runs away."
"But if you would just sit down under a tree she would come and join you!" Fabia gave him a one-armed hug. "Come, let us offer our guests a friendly beaker of hemlock." She led the way forward to greet the satrap.
Eide Ernson had the largest head Fabia had ever seen on a human being, although thinking was not what he used it for, as evidenced by the horn stubs on his temples. His neck and shoulders were to scale, but from there he tapered down to quite spindly legs, and his arms were unexceptional—all his limbs being visible because he wore a Werist pall. Naturally top-heavy, he always swayed as he walked; now the weight of waterlogged cloth made him roll like a cockleshell in a high sea. She had never known him to be anything but cheerful and courteous, but she suspected his bovine stupidity was not entirely genuine—his habit of making mooing mmm? noises while he talked was too good to be true—and he was undoubtedly ruthless, powerful, and dangerous.
"Fire and blood, girl!" he boomed as Fabia rose from her curtsy. "Your father is strict, mmm? Who won this battle? Did he finally beat a consent out of you?"
"She took a fall from a chariot, my lord," Horth explained. "I have not even had time to pass on the good news."
"News?" Fabia said brightly. "What news, Father?"
"You are betrothed," the satrap said, staring at her with huge, sad, bovine eyes. "My nephew—wife's nephew, rather. Son of her brother Horold, up in Kosord, mmm? Name of Cutrath."
"He is just two years older than you, dear," Horth added, eyes sending anxious warnings. "And newly initiated into the Heroes."
Bliss! Teenage monster, what every girl dreamed of. Even forewarned by the seer, Fabia needed all her self-control to feign pleasure. "Oh, Daddy! How wonderful! What is he like? Tall? Handsome? And our roots are so humble! What have I done to be so honored?"
Horth would be grateful for the support. Eide would not care whether she meant what she said or not, and his escort probably expected her to swoon with joy at such news. She hoped the dumpy seer in the background had a strong stomach for hypocrisy.
The satrap shrugged his mountainous shoulders. "It's a long story, mmm? Wife can explain on the way. Going to go with you for the wedding, mmm? In Kosord."
So Saltaja would be her jailer? The only ray of sunshine on this pestilent landscape was that Kosord was a long way off, so there would be plenty of time to consider a plan of escape. The deepest blight was the prospect of many sixdays in the company of Saltaja Hragsdor.
Endure!
"Oh, that will be nice! Gods!—the trousseau I will need! And of course I must help Daddy kins redecorate here." She sighed. "It will be just ages before I can meet my new lord. But, oh, I can't wait!"
She was overdoing it. The Werists exchanged smirks. Even Eide's big eyes narrowed a fraction.
"You won't have to, child. If my wife says you're leaving tomorrow, you leave tomorrow."
"And I am coming with you," Horth said.
She gaped at him, speechless. He, who rarely even left the house and never the city? Where would he find his barley cakes and ibex milk in a riverboat?
He gave her hand a warning squeeze. "We shall organize a great wedding in Kosord to make up for your spoiled dedication."
She faked a squeal of joy so she could hug him and whisper "Hostage?" in his ear.
He kissed her cheek with a soft uh-huh of agreement.
So any plan of escape would have to include both of them—the Florengian hostage and the hostage for the hostage. "That is so kind of you, Father! But what about your business? What about this house?" She gestured at the disaster all around them.
"I have good men to run my affairs until I return, dear." He turned. "Master Trinvar, there must be many, many homeless in Skjar now. Pray convert this house into a shelter for them until I return. The satrap and his lady have very generously offered Mistress Frena and me hospitality at the palace until we leave, for it escaped damage."
Of course a few sixty squatters in Horth's mansion might discourage the satrap himself from moving in during the owner's absence. Before Fabia could comment, a new voice spoke—a throaty, vibrant voice as musical as a silver flute.
"Your benevolence is commendable, trader," said the Queen of Shadows.
Saltaja Hragsdor was a tall woman who invariably wore the black robes of a widow, even to a black wimple and floppy black cuffs covering her hands. In the glimmer of Trinvar's torch she was only a disembodied face. It was a remarkable, not a beautiful face, very pale even for a Vi-gaelian, with bloodless lips and prominent nose and mouth; it was also unusually long and narrow, as if her head had been squeezed in a vise. She advanced through life with high disdain, seemingly expecting walls to open at her approach.
Fabia hastily curtsied as Horth bowed and spoke an apologetic welcome.
Behind Saltaja loomed a pair of very large young men. Where other highborn ladies went attended by maidservants, Saltaja preferred a bodyguard of Werists, usually just two, but always young and handsome. Bazaar gossip naturally insisted that they followed her into her bedchamber, but her husband must assign them to her service and did not seem to mind. Nothing could have interested Saltaja herself less than bazaar gossip.
The icy arrogance turned its attention to Fabia. "Your dedication, child? Did you make your vows today as planned?"
Fabia sent another fast prayer winging to the Mother of Lies.
"Yes, she did," Horth said.
"She has a tongue of her own."
"I made my vows, lady. Very hurriedly, I admit. I was just telling Father about—"
"Witness?" The satrap's wife never took her pale eyes off Fabia. "Is she telling the truth?"
For an instant that felt longer than a sleepless night, Fabia contemplated an open grave and the shortest-ever career as a Chosen. Even if the unknown Mist and her minions preferred her cause to Stralg's, they could not be expected to tell outright lies. No Witness ever did that.
The satrap picked up his cue. "Answer the question. Is she telling the truth?"
"Yes, she is," said the seer.
Fabia bowed her head lest her face betray relief and glee. The Queen of Shadows had not asked the right question.
Eide mooed ruminatively. "Then that's all right?"
"Apparently," his wife said.