Brarag straightened up and eyed her apprehensively. "My lady?"
Smiling, Saltaja walked over until she was within range. He was certainly the prettiest of the troop that had accompanied her from Skjar, all young and dewy. She applied Dominance, with all the power she could muster this far above the ground: "You will guard me with your life."
His blue-blue eyes glazed. "I will guard you with my life."
She released him. He blinked uncertainly.
"Er... great honor, my lady. To be your guard." He was lying as he had never lied in his life before. His lies stank up the room.
"My pleasure. Wait for me downstairs. I'll be down shortly ... Check on Fabia Celebre for me. She's locked up. Make sure she is well secured. Tell her guards: If she escapes I'll see they hang by their balls for a thirty."
Brarag grinned. "My lady is kind!"
She affected surprise. "You think that's a kindness? By the Twelve, you have strange ideas of fun, Flankleader. What else do you enjoy?"
His astonished flush glowed through his stubble as he spluttered an apology, trying to explain that he had never intended... She was amused. If she ever were tempted to try sex again, Brarag would do nicely to start with. "Be off with you!" she said, and he ran.
Therek was plastered back against the wall like a great snake, staring at her in deathly horror. He always reacted like that when she let him watch her using power, and she always wiped his memory later, as she would do today before she left.
"Is that what you did to us?" he croaked. "Me and the rest?"
"No. I never did that to you, or the others."
"You swear?" His voice quavered.
"I swear by holy Xaran," she said, just to watch him gibber more. "It doesn't last, honestly. I reinforce it every few days and release them after a thirty or so. They come to no harm."
This was true, so far as it went. Dominance was trivial compared with Shaping, but in large doses it destroyed much faster. Ern and Brarag would likely survive, whereas her maid, Guitha, was almost useless now, after less than a year. Although Perag had lasted much longer than most, he had been insane at the end. She would soon have ordered him to kill himself, had the Celebre girl not saved her the trouble.
Saltaja shuffled back to her stool to wait for Em and the seer. Kwirarl, Kwirarl! Her baby... Tonight she would offer blood to the Old One and pray for a change of fortune.
A Witness entered and closed the door behind her. Without proceeding any farther, or acknowledging either the satrap or his sister, she raised her distaff and began spinning. She was tall, thin, and probably young, for the long climb had not left her short of breath.
"Ask her," Saltaja said, "where my escort went. Half the Heroes who left Kosord with me never reached Tryfors. Where are they?"
Therek continued to cower against the wall, as if intent on staying as far from Saltaja as he physically could. "Answer, Witness."
"They were never within my range," the seer said.
"What is the Wisdom on them?"
"Answer."
"That I cannot know yet." Her spindle continued to twirl hypnotically.
"Many sixty others bound here last year did not arrive either. Do you know where any of them went?"
Prompted again by Therek, the seer said, "Yes. I can list them for you, but it will take a pot-boiling or so."
Aha! Information at last! "Where are most of them?" Saltaja demanded eagerly.
Therek bade her answer.
"Most of them have arrived at the rebel camp near Nuthervale."
Therek came off the wall. "Rebels!? What rebels?"
"It is known that the rebels assembled near Nuthervale refer to themselves as the New Dawn."
Therek strode closer to the seer—but still not near his sister. "How many? Who is their leader?"
"It is known that he is Hordeleader Arbanerik Kranson. The latest total known to me is sixteen sixty, four dozen, and three, but that was three thirties ago."
"Arbanerik! I know him. Lost an arm in Florengia. He came home through here a year or two ago." Therek was practically foaming. "Traitor! Oath-breaker!"
Saltaja was calculating how fast she could get a letter to Eide, back in Skjar, and whether he could be trusted to handle the matter. Perhaps she should send Horold to help him. She would never have thought to look for the rebel nest anywhere near Nuthervale. This Arbanerik must be stamped out before he grew any stronger.
thirty-eight
FABIA CELEBRE
was close to panic. Her room was not a dungeon, just the next best thing to it. The door was solid timber and she could hear the voices of guards outside when she put her ear to the keyhole. She had a dusty blanket but no sleeping platform, a water jug but no lamp, the remains of her evening meal, and a slop bucket. She cursed herself for waiting too long, for ignoring the dread reality of her position. All Horth's wealth could not help her now.
The window was large enough to squeeze through. Granted, it looked down on a busy street, but it was little more than head high and the drop would not be impossible. The traffic would surely end after sunset. The only problem with the window was a pair of stout bronze bars set firmly in the stonework, and she had no answer to those.
If the Old One granted her Chosen some power that let them break out of jail, Fabia did not know what it was or how to invoke it. Saltaja would know, and also know how to counter it. Ominously, this room had a timber floor, so Fabia was cut off from the cold earth, and could detect only a very faint trace of the Mother's power welling up through the stone windowsill.
Hustling a reluctant maiden into matrimony would be child's play for Saltaja Hragsdor, who had ruled Vigaelia no-holds-barred for so long. She would force Fabia's compliance at the wedding by threatening Horth, and would no doubt dispose of him later somewhere in the Edgelands. Verk and the rest of Father's swordsmen were half a Face away and useless against Werists. The deluded Orlad was completely on Saltaja's side. Benard was either a fugitive or a corpse by now. Even if he were here and available, Master Artist Benard could never be of any practical use. The mysterious Mist had not been heard from since before Kosord. It seemed certain: two days from now, three at the outside, Fabia was going to find herself married to the despised Cutrath, whose mother, even, never praised him.
Darkness fell. Street noise dwindled to occasional passing voices. Too frightened to undress, Fabia curled up in her blanket. Somehow she must have worried herself asleep, because she began to dream that someone was throwing rocks at the shutter. Eventually the noise irritated her so much that she woke up to complain.
Plink!
She scrambled loose from the blankets and almost fell headlong in her rush to reach the window. She hauled the flap open and looked down. Florengian faces did not show up well in the dark.
"Get dressed," Benard whispered. "I'll catch you."
She was dressed already, but she needed a moment to catch her breath. How had Benard come here, how had he found her? Could he be an illusion, a Saltaja trick? Saltaja might be watching ... Veil! Even as she fumbled to find her shoes, Fabia hastily spun a web of darkness around herself—not so much that Benard would not be able to see her, but enough to blur her to any distant watcher. She leaned out of the window. "Ready."
Benard ignored her, staring along the street, keeping watch. She threw her shoes at him and he jumped. Then he reached up, gripped, and hauled; she slid over the sill like a fish and tumbled into his arms. He didn't even stagger.
He hugged her and kissed her cheek. He wrapped a dark woolen cloak around her against the night chill. "Shoes ... Don't run. Walk as if you owned the place."