"This must be the harbor master approaching," he added. "Collecting anchorage. Perhaps you might hire one of his helpers to carry word to your honored brother, my lady?"
The scrawny old official hobbling in their direction was being escorted by three adolescent boys carrying staffs, doubtless a guard against unruly riverfolk resentful of the satrap's taxes.
"Gods preserve us!" Fabia exclaimed. "It won't matter which one you choose, will it?" The youths appeared to be identical triplets.
"That won't be necessary." Darag pointed to two chariots descending the long hill from the town.
The sailors referred the harbor master to Saltaja, who angrily referred him to Darag, and an argument developed over payment. By the time it was settled, the onagers and cars were scrunching across the shingle toward them. Fabia could relax again, because one driver was too old to be Cutrath Horoldson and the other wore a huntleader's green sash. Both wore trousers and long-sleeved jerkins under their palls—unlike Darag's men, who owned nothing but palls, now thoroughly waterlogged.
The newcomers reined in nearby, not venturing to descend and leave the onagers unattended. The young officer cheerfully saluting was gaunt, tall even for a Werist, clean-shaven, and young to have reached such rank. His face would have enhanced maidens' dreams had it not at some point lost an engagement with a set of claws that had left four scarlet scars running from just below his eyes to his jawline, twisting his mouth into a jagged line. He reminded Fabia a little of Cnurg, who had been her personal guard and one of the very few in the escort she could tolerate. Cnurg had disappeared in the second exodus.
"Lady Saltaja? Huntleader Fellard Lokison at your service. Welcome to Tryfors, you and your companions."
"Where is the satrap?" Saltaja demanded. "Is this the best reception he can offer?"
"We are short of men just now." Fellard contemplated Darag, each waiting for the other to salute first. When it became clear that neither would—"You are foolhardy not to dress your men better in this climate, Huntleader. Ah! The lady Fabia?" He beamed at Fabia, flashing battlements of ivory. "I have the inestimable honor to be Fellard Lokison, huntleader of the Fist's Own, but you can call me Fellard."
"I would not dream of being so disrespectful."
"Your fiancé has left town—how's that for news, Fabia?"
"How's this for a smile, Fellard?" She gave him her biggest.
His smile was cute, too, in spite of his misshapen lip, and he accompanied it with a faint hint of a nod and wink. "We can drive you ladies to the palace. Men have to walk, I'm afraid."
Saltaja turned to Darag. "Huntleader, make sure Wigson comes with you."
Seizing her chance, Fabia took four long steps and accepted a hand up. Lokison slapped the team and the chariot whirled away in a clamor of shingle. He grinned down at her.
"I am honored, Fabia."
"My pleasure, Fellard." What a joy it was to be free of the Queen of Shadows for a while! "You have made a dangerous enemy," Fabia said as they started up the hill.
"Saltaja? Bah! Their day is over, her and her brothers. Stralg's losing the war, Therek's crazier than a loon in a jug." Fellard leered at her again, paying no attention to his driving. "You really want to marry Cutrath Horoldson?"
"I may have no choice." Fabia suppressed an image of Horth with a noose around his neck.
"He's a slug." Fellard's arm nudged hers again. Like Verk's. Did large young men in chariots always crowd their passengers like this? Skjar seemed very far away now.
"Compared to who?"
"Anyone."
"How long ago did he leave?"
"Three days. The caravan is not due to leave yet; you can still catch him at Nardalborg. Or I could help you escape."
Badmouthing the Hrag family was understandable, but open offers of treason were not.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Hide out in my bedroom. I'll smuggle food in for you and keep you warm at night."
Outrageous! She wondered why she laughed. "No, that sounds much worse."
"I can't tell you how many women have tried it and raved about it."
"I'm sure you won't."
"Wit as well as beauty? The woman lacks nothing."
"Except freedom."
As the chariot left the hill and entered into a wide street between stone buildings, Lokison switched mood. "Crossing the Edge is a horrible ordeal, mistress. The war news is very bad. A lot of people think Stralg will be driven out of Florengia by spring."
That possibility would need some thought. "Why are the roofs so steep?"
"To shed snow."
"Of course. Did the satrap order you to snub his sister?"
"Not exa-a-a-actly. When he heard she was coming he cursed until the rafters smoked, roared at me to prepare a kennel for the ... er, lady, and stormed off to sulk in his nest."
"And a Hero puts duty before danger, of course. What nest?"
"See that high tower? That's the Vulture's Nest. Mad old Therek is up there right now, watching you. He has eyes like an eagle and much less compassion. Try not to stare when you meet him."
Fabia was amazed. "You insult your liege and slight his sister. Won't the seers betray you to him?"
"Only if he asks the right question, and Therek wouldn't care anyhow. I'm not plotting treason."
"You really think the House of Hrag is close to falling?"
"Must come soon," Fellard said. "I'm the Vulture's third in command and every night I dream of his head on a tray."
♦
There was a sense of wrongness about the palace, which was a stone labyrinth grimmer than a tomb. If anyone brought a flower into those dismal halls, Fabia decided, it would crumble to dust. The occupants seemed to be mostly scowling Werists, guarding almost every stair and doorway.
Even the women's quarters were utterly without cheer, sourly dank and dusty, as if they had not been aired in a generation. There she found a half-dozen maids, confused and frightened, who soon admitted that they normally worked in the laundry. They had been drafted to attend the noble visitors, although they had no training, nor any idea of where anything was.
By the time Saltaja stalked in, Fabia had organized the girls enough to get fires set in all the hearths. She was lolling in an almost hot bath, inspecting clothes being held up for her approval.
"These," Saltaja proclaimed in her magnificent voice, "are my quarters. You will be shown to yours. Remember that my brother has a seer to help him. You cannot escape!"
"What—and miss my own wedding?" Fabia said sweetly. She was confident that Horth was up to something, although he had refused to say what. She had less faith in the mysterious and well-named Mist, who might or might not be around somewhere.
♦
The day grew only worse for Saltaja and consequently more entertaining for Fabia. Demands for the satrap were met with the excuse that he was busy. Demands for food produced some tasteless gruel from the slave cellars; there would be meat later when the Heroes were fed. Even Darag could not be found. If he still had Saltaja's pelf bag, he might be halfway home to Kosord by now, trailing a white wake.
Saltaja arose, terrible as a black sun. "I am going to see the satrap."
Fabia looked interested. "Yes, my lady?"
"And you will come with me."
Saltaja knew her way around the palace. Four times Werist guards tried to block her, then flinched and let her pass—armed men twice her size and a third her age. That might be a useful technique to learn, Fabia thought, but it was a dangerously obvious use of chthonic power.
When they reached a stone staircase, steep and narrow, Saltaja motioned for Fabia to go first. The treads were worn, uneven, and poorly lit. Suspecting that her own abilities were being tested, Fabia was careful to stumble a few times, but she kept up a pace that soon had the older woman puffing. The stair curved continuously, periodically passing narrow window slits on the right and closed doors on the left.
The door at the top stood ajar. Fabia pushed it wide and walked into the Vulture's Nest, which was larger than she had expected, a circular room with many windows, bright with sunlight but also windy and cold, for all the shutters stood wide. It was just as unkempt and neglected as the rest of the palace—rugs and mats littering the sleeping platform in the center; discarded clothes, clay tablets, and wine bottles scattered around the floor among disordered stools and tables. There were two men there.