At last Ingeld said, "Have you consulted a Speaker? Holy Demern does allow certain oaths to be set aside—those made under duress, for example, or those that conflict with earlier vows."
"I can quote holy law to better effect than that," Mist said curtly. "That does not matter now. Tomorrow, the satrap will learn that his prisoners have vanished. He will summon his seer again. Do you think he would believe another denial?"
"So the revolution has begun?" Benard said.
Ingeld could feel the knots in his shoulders tighten even more.
Mist said, "It begins tomorrow."
"No more seers," Benard said, "but... Flankleader?"
"Hand?" The old Werist still seemed fast asleep, flat as a puddle, but he had not snored in some time, Ingeld realized, and only Benard had noticed.
"Fabia and Master Wigson have escaped from the satrap's cells. How long will it take his warbeasts to track them to this room?"
Still the old man did not open his eyes. "Ever drop a raw egg off'na table, so it broke on the floor?"
"Yes."
" 'Bout that long."
Benard looked around. "I've lived with this problem all my life," he said apologetically.
"We did think of that, Bena," said Mist. "But now you have the Witnesses on your side, which makes a difference. Poppy and I are currently keeping watch on the palace and all is calm. It's highly unlikely that the prisoners' absence will be noted before morning, but we're all going to head down to the river very shortly, just in case. We'll wait there for dawn, unless the tocsin sounds, in which case we'll sail at once. Even Werists can't follow a scent over running water—right, my lord?"
"Right," Guthlag said, opening his eyes and yawning.
"So tomorrow the satrap will find no seers in Tryfors. All of them will be heading inward along the Wrogg, spreading the word, and by the time the Eldest hears the news, it will be too late. She can anathematize us, but she will probably be too busy evacuating Bergashamm. Since we cannot continue to shield you here in Tryfors, I suggest that you and your lady accompany us."
Benard looked around to seek Ingeld's approval.
"What of my son?" she asked, trying not to show her anger. She had no love left for the brute Horold had become, but she had no love for treachery either, and news of a secret rebel army poised to strike appalled her. She feared for Cutrath, the Fist's nephew, innocently standing in its path. "Is there to be yet another civil war? Tell us what this illegal host at High Timber is planning. I would think any rebels' first logical move would be to seize Nardalborg and block the pass, to trap Stralg on the Florengian Face. What of Benard's brother?"
Mist sighed. "Orlad is as good as dead. I gave him as much warning as I dared, but his long-awaited initiation day had a black dawn, and he cannot bear it. Your son, my lady, will I think be much more valuable to the rebels as a hostage to be used against your husband than he will as a dead body. I realize that this is small comfort, but it is the best I have to offer. Tomorrow I propose to take word of our revolt to High Timber myself, but I cannot predict what Hordeleader Arbanerik will choose to do. I invite you all to come with me."
She offered no alternative, Ingeld noted. They were all conspirators now. It was death-to-traitors time.
Benard had apparently not seen that, or else he was astonishingly willing to trust this faceless seer. "Of course we will. And you, Fabia?"
"Certainly. You agree, Father?"
"Possibly. Why don't you introduce me to your other brother, Frena?"
Benard's shoulders went hard as marble.
"He calls himself Mist now," the trader continued, "but on the river he was Urth, and long ago was he not Dantio?"
When no one corrected him, it was Ingeld herself who said, "Praise the gods! Praise holy Veslih, who cherishes families! All four of you?" It was a long time since she had felt such a pain of joy in her throat.
The reunion was tainted. When the seer removed his veil, he revealed a youthful Florengian face, but his features were no more masculine than his voice. "How did you work that out, Master Ucrist Wigson?"
"It was fairly obvious, Master Witness Celebre," Horth said with his usual diffidence. "From what 'Mist' just told us, 'she' had been in Kosord and even Skjar at the same time we had. Then 'she' arrived in Tryfors on the same day we did, so I knew that 'she' had traveled with us in our convoy. After that it was merely a process of elimination. When none of the riverfolk I remembered fit, I was left with their Florengian slaves, and I recalled that one of them, Urth, had a treble voice and no beard, so obviously had been castrated in boyhood and was therefore no prisoner of war. He was Mist's size. In age he would match the 'deceased' Dantio, and... Well, I do know your sister very well, Witness, and when she came in here she was bursting with some secret. Although she was pleased to have her brother Benard back again, she was much more interested in you." Wigson's eyes were still as bland as wren's eggs.
"It is wonderful to have you back from the dead!" Fabia said.
"It is wonderful to be able to greet my sister and brother without deception." Dantio shook his head sadly. "This is the day I have dreamed of since our parting, fifteen years ago. I have worked for it unceasingly. Today I return and the family is complete again. Today we are reunited at last. But tomorrow we lose Orlad."
forty-two
HERO ORLAD
soon discovered that the seer had not been lying, at least about the wine. Before left flank reached Eriander's temple, its out-of-town guest fell on his knees in the gutter, thus provoking much mirthful comment on overindulgence. He was still puking when they carried him back to the barracks, and by then the cramps had started. Orlad was faking some of it, but he was in enough real pain and distress to know that the conspirators had been dangerously overgenerous with the drug. Had the seer not warned him, they might have seen their planned entertainment ruined by the premature death of the star attraction. They left him on his rug with a bucket and went away laughing to continue the evening's program. Confident that there would be listeners in nearby cubicles, Orlad continued his playacting, and he kept it up much of the night, even after the others returned. Why should they sleep when he couldn't? The effects of the poison wore off, but he was starting to believe that he was going to die on the morrow. Praise the Lord of Battle, who alone decides!
♦
On the morrow, it rained.
At first light Orlad rose, dressed, and repeated the Heroes' morning prayer. The final words took on a significance he had never truly appreciated before: Today I will win or die.
Guests were always given the cubicles farthest from the door, where the traffic was lightest, but there were times when that seemed a very sinister courtesy. He tiptoed the length of the barracks and went out as quietly as he could. It was only then that he discovered the glorious mercy of Weru—a steady drizzle falling from a gray murk almost low enough to touch, a total absence of wind. Heroes did not kneel to thank their god, they raised both fists to the heavens, and Orlad barely restrained a scream of joy as he did so. He could not hope to win, but now he could make a fight of it. First score to him!
There would be food in the mess, but his stomach roiled at the thought. He trotted across the yard to the trough, rinsed his mouth, filled his canteen, and splashed water over a face already soaked. Rain! Oh, great god of battle!
"Orlad!" Flankleader Leorth came stumbling out of the dormitory wearing his brass collar and nothing else. He looked up at the sky in horror.
"Thought I'd make an early start!" Orlad yelled. Stealth could not help him now. "Fine day for a run." Recalling that it was polite to give thanks for hospitality, he added, "May holy Veslih reward you as you deserve."