As they strolled off, his arm was a bar of bronze around her, wonderfully comforting. The street was deserted under the stars. Oh, the stars! Skjar or even Kym never saw such skies.
"You are so welcome!" she said, fighting back tears of relief. "Where have you been all my life? I'm just realizing what I missed all these years as an only child. I met Orlad! Is there any hope of rescuing Horth? Where are we going? When did you get here?"
"Yesterday. Horth is free, the seers said."
"But how did you know where I was?"
"Mist told me the right window."
"So Mist is ... Wait a minute! There were bars on that window!"
Even sculptor muscles could never have removed those bars. Besides, the sill had been smooth, unmarred by broken stone or metal stubs.
"There were," her brother agreed vaguely. "Ugly things! I just thought it would look more beautiful without them."
thirty-nine
HERO ORLAD
dimly remembered Tryfors from his childhood. It had shrunk. His most vivid memories were the daily fights and nothing had changed there, except that now his opponents would be Werists. Nardalborg had learned not to challenge him, but this place festered with Heroes measuring him up for impairment: Brownie brother? Can't have that in the cult. They took their lead from Hostleader Therek, no doubt.
Therek had been lying. Why would Cutrath Horoldson have left town if his betrothed was here? If Therek had known she was coming, why hadn't he kept Cutrath here, instead of just summoning Orlad?
Heth's warning sawed away at the back of his mind: He blames you for his sons' deaths. He wants you at Tryfors so he can kill you. Not in person, obviously. Everyone knew the Vulture's battleforming days were over. But Leorth, now ... gracious, considerate, hospitable Leorth? Charming Leorth.
Leorth found the visitor a berth in the barracks and took him along to the mess for chow—much too spicy, not as good as Nardalborg's—and there introduced him to many people, including every member of his flank. Beer and wine flowed, but Orlad drank very little but water at the best of times. Leorth and his friends knew something they weren't sharing. They persisted in addressing him as "Brother Orlad" and he would trust none of them as far as he could throw a mammoth. A bull mammoth.
Leorth was what they called a preener, one who acted his warbeast all the time, as if he couldn't leave it alone. That was bad tactics, because any fool could see that Leorth would go cat, and there were ways of dealing with cats. Young Werists were versatile and should avoid settling upon a single battleform for as long as possible, Heth said, because the predictable die first.
While the west still burned in scarlet, stars poured into the black eastern sky. Slaves hurried around the mess, lighting lamps. Orlad lingered at table with Leorth and half his flank; the others had gone on duty.
"Eaten enough?" The flankleader stretched languidly.
"Too much."
"Anyone feel like tickling a little swansdown?"
"Get in before the rush!" said big Merkurtu, who was obviously the leader's henchman and doer-of-heavy-stuff in the flank.
Orlad had been expecting this. For years he had promised himself that he would hold back on women until he'd won his brass, and now he had done that. That same night he'd learned of his summons to Tryfors, and the fit was perfect, for here there would be anonymity and a wider choice. He had not counted on a group party for his first outing, but that would allow him to take his time and see how it was done. Tonight was going to be it! He had three copper twists on a pelf string under his pall.
The others were engaged in a highly technical argument as to whether a man should go for Nymph first and commercial women after, or the other way around. Pros and cons were presented.
Leorth settled it. "Sixty Ways is just down the road. We'll drop our loads there first and then travel light." The flankleader had spoken. Everyone rose. With no visible signal given, the flank closed in around Orlad as it escorted him out of the mess.
♦
The room in Sixty Ways was dim, too large for its three little oil lamps, and furnished only with rugs and cushions. Leorth had negotiated hospitality for eight Werists in return for a gift of four coppers—taken from his own pelf string, much to everyone's surprise and approval. They would be of no use to him in the Edgelands, he explained, without saying where they had come from. Some men hailed and claimed old friends; the rest soon found suitable companions, and everyone settled down to cuddle.
"I think Florengian men are wonderfully sexy!" Orlad's partner announced, cuddling close. He thought she was one of the youngest, although it was impossible to be sure in this light. She was certainly wonderfully plump and soft; and smelled nice. She held a beaker to his mouth. "What's your name, Hero?"
He tasted the wine; it was sweetened with honey. "Orlad." She sniggered and explored his mouth with a fingertip. "You don't have pointed teeth!" She leaned close to whisper. "Do you have fur?"
He knew that humor was not his strong point. "What's your name?"
She took a sip from the same beaker, regarding him with huge dark pupils. "Musky."
He doubted that was her real name, but he did like her scent. He established that her thigh felt as smooth as it looked. He learned that kissing involved more than just touching lips. He was both alarmed and reassured by the urgency developing under his pall. Clearly, he didn't need to worry that anything down there would not perform as required. Very soon Musky established this also, while leaning on him to lick up some wine she had accidentally spilled on his chest.
"Darling, you brought me a present, didn't you?" she murmured in his ear.
He muttered something while his hands explored her breasts.
"Lover man, why don't we go and get started?" She rose and he went with her. Other couples were already disappearing out the door. He was glad that there would be no public performances, because his previous idea of holding back to watch no longer seemed necessary or even possible.
"Mmm," he said.
Entwined, they followed a dim corridor lined along one side with poky cubicles, even dimmer. Some were emitting whispers or sniggers, some were empty, but Musky clearly had a specific destination in mind. Her arm was around his waist inside his pall, which was starting to unravel, seemingly of its own accord.
She opened a door and guided him into a larger, brighter room, heavily scented and obviously intended for grander clients than mere front-fang Werists. To his left was the largest sleeping platform he had ever seen, to his right a hearth with a crackling fire, plus a table bearing a wine jar and beakers. Directly opposite, beside a second door, stood a Witness in white robes, head and face concealed by a white cloth. She was spinning with distaff and spindle.
"Twelve blessings, Flankleader Orlad," she said.
He kept a firm grip on Musky. "Let's find somewhere else."
"No, listen to her."
"I will leave if you wish," the seer said, "but I warn you that the wine in that jug is drugged. The woman knows it."
Musky broke free and shut the door. " 'Fraid she's right, darling. I was warned not to drink any." She sauntered over to the table and sniffed at the wine. "I can't tell."
"I have said it is, so it is. The meal they fed you was highly spiced, to make you thirsty. Don't worry, the wine won't kill you, just make you ill."
Orlad's romantic dreams had turned to burning fury already. "Who? Why?"
The shrouded woman shrugged. "The satrap ordered it. He did not say why. After a night of cramps and vomiting you may not fight as well in the ambush tomorrow, but I doubt that was the real intention. Because he would not want to spoil the show. Spite, perhaps, or just to keep you from slipping away before first light. He does want to watch."