The platform bore soft mats of red and purple, which clashed with the wall hangings, which fought with the rugs. The room held far too much ill-sorted stuff—chairs, chests, tables, even a grotesque image of Eriander, which he had covered with a drape before joining Hiddi on the sleeping mat to repeat their earlier love-making in the bathtub. The entire house was an artistic junk heap, an obscene misuse of wealth. Her cooks and gardeners were skilled, her house servants well trained and respectful, but the only real beauty in the place was Hiddi herself. Sometime during the afternoon Benard had removed all her assorted jewels, having persuaded her that she was both lovelier and more cuddlesome without them.
He should not be so petty. All his bodily needs had been satisfied without stint. Life bore a rosy glow.
"When can I see you again?" he asked.
Her smile was a purr. "You enjoyed romping with your little Nymph, mm?"
"A day to be remembered always. I trust I gave satisfaction?'
"Indeed you did." He waited for her to bring up the subject of his gold.
But what she said was "You are a true artist! Come and see me any time you like, Benard. I serve the god at night. I'm here all day." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I don't have many friends. I have to sleep sometimes, but I won't mind you waking me. I'll tell Nerio to let you in whenever you want."
twenty-four
FABIA CELEBRE
came awake with a start. She had been sleeping soundly, with one hand, as had become her habit, stretched out beyond the edge of her mat to rest on the cold earth. She had been dreaming of darkness and how to make it. She opened her eyes and saw nothing.
The Wrogg was certainly the greatest highway of the Face, writhing in vast loops of reeds and sluggish water across the flat lands, navigable from Lake Skjar almost to its source in the Ice. Prevailing winds blew sunwise in summer and the Wrogg flowed the other way, so the swarming riverboats, which in sum housed more people than any city of Vigaelia, could ride the breezes upstream and rely on the current to bring them back. The riverfolk were almost a race apart, worshiping simple nature gods and speaking their own tonal dialect known as "Wroggian." They shunned villages and towns, preferring to pitch tents on the levees at sunset. Many of them boasted that they had never slept under a roof. At dawn they raised red triangular sails and moved on.
Fabia was in her personal leather tent, so tiny that she could not sit up in it. She could not have been asleep long, for the riverfolk were still singing, celebrating a chance reunion with friends they had not seen in years and might not meet again for many more. She was used to that by now. What had awakened her?
Came a whisper, "Fabia Celebre!"
Ah! She nodded.
"I am Mist." The voice came from outside and at her level, as if the speaker were lying on the grass to evade the guards' notice.
Wide awake now, Fabia rolled over on her side. "It is about time! Why have I heard nothing from you until now? It's ages since we—"
"Not so loud. When did you expect to hear from us? The nights you spent in the palace next door to its mistress? During the voyage across the lake, when you were hung over the rail like bright green laundry? Or perhaps at Yormoth, where you shared a room with the Queen of Shadows? Or since then, while you've been guarded by a dozen Werists and never a stone's throw away from her? Are you not worried that she may keep watch on you in her own dark ways? You think it is easy for us to come at you unobserved?"
"Sorry." Tolerating mockery was a skill Fabia had only recently acquired, although this soft-spoken teasing was easier to take than the Werists' vulgarities. "Is tonight different?"
"Slightly less lethal. Saltaja has withdrawn downstream to bathe, and the Werists are still distracted. But we must be quick."
The Werists had been distracted for several nights now, because a boatload of Nymphs had been tracking the flotilla, camping nearby and offering participation in their strange worship. Eager though his men were to oblige them, Huntleader Perag saw to it that the captives were never left unguarded.
"Can you smuggle Horth and me away?"
"Why? Where to?"
"But we'll be in Kosord any day now and I cannot sleep for nightmares of being married to one of those brutes."
"Your snores were louder than a hungry onager," the seer said dryly. "So you spurn the honor that the children of Hrag offer you, marriage to one of their own? Are you still of the same mind you were in the Pantheon?"
"I am opposed to Saltaja and her brood, but what can I accomplish against the Queen of Shadows?"
"More than you may think, child." Surely that soft, wry voice was familiar? "You are a seasoner."
"Born to greatness?"
"Only if you admit both good and evil greatness—Stralg and Saltaja both have seasoning in abundance. And it cannot shield you against ill chance. You may still die young and unfulfilled. Again I ask: Are you still on our side?"
"I think so. I am on my side, and my brothers', and Horth's, and my true parents'..."
The seer chuckled. "Spoken like a Chosen. No, do not protest. I speculate, merely. Chthonians do look after their own. So, Fabia, my ally, I tell you that Light-of-your-heart Cutrath has left Kosord, heading for Tryfors and the Edge. No wedding trumpets will sound for you in Kosord."
Fabia breathed a very long sigh of contentment. "Thank you!"
"Be very careful with this wisdom. Saltaja does not know yet. She is without news. Several boats bearing dispatches to her have passed you on the river. For that we must thank the disaster in Skjar, because the satrap could not leave with his city half ruined, and without him she cannot command the Witnesses."
"How can you possibly know—"
"I must go," the seer said. "She is coming back. You will find Satrap Horold's wife a fine lady who understands what forced marriage to a Werist means. Keep cultivating Flankleader Cnurg. I also have news for Horth Wigson. Tell him that he may find old friends in Kosord at the Jade Bowl. But again—be careful!"
"Wait! What happens when we find my beloved is flown? And tell me about my brothers."
"What has Saltaja told you of them?"
"Nothing that seems helpful. The youngest is a Werist in Tryfors, the middle one an artist in Kosord, and the oldest dead."
"Close. Orlando is still a cadet, but near the end of his training. He is said to be formidable, so he could aid your cause considerably if he chose; but he is unfailingly loyal and thus much more likely to betray you to his lord. Benard is a Hand. You have met some of those?"
"Many. Practical as a wax ax?"
The seer chuckled. "But a beautiful wax ax! Twelve blessings—"
"Wait! Who killed Paola Apicella—Perag Hrothgatson?"
There was a pause. "Where did you learn that?"
In a nightmare. Soon after Yormoth, Fabia had started praying for enlightenment about the murder. At first her petition had been refused, but she had persisted, and a few nights later had been shown the start of the attack—her mother walking home with her swordsman escort, shapes leaping from the shadows. Fabia's own screams had awakened her before she saw any more, and had roused the entire camp as well. Ever since then, the young Werists had been generous with advice about what would help her sleep better and offers to provide it. But in those few ghastly moments she had heard Perag Hrothgatson's voice directing the assault.
"Horth suspects," she said, knowing the seer would detect the equivocation. "So it is true?"
"Perag was in charge. Now I must—"
"No, wait! I know your voice. It was you who accosted me in the Pantheon."
"Well done," the seer said, without sounding pleased.
"But not the Witness who testified to Saltaja that I had made my vows."
"Did she speak untruth?"