He grabbed her hand to kiss it and was gone, racing across the terrace.
Then she guessed where he thought he was going, but that way was blocked. “There are knives on the weir!” she screamed.
She turned to the noise inside. Three… four… great beasts bunched in the doorway of the presence chamber, snarling and spitting, claws screeching on the tiles. She caught a fleeting glimpse of brass collars half-hidden by silver manes as they flashed across the hall, out through the opening, going almost too fast to see, going so fast she felt the wind stir her robe. More scraping claws and bestial baying as they saw their prey, then they were all gone in flying leaps over the balustrade.
MARNO CAVOTTI
heard the warbeasts’ fury as he dived from the parapet. He very nearly dashed his brains out on a floating tree trunk, which was not part of the plan. It must have blown down within the city itself, because the Puisa River entered Celebre through siphons under the north wall. Floating debris remained in the pool outside, while any would-be intruder who tried to swim through the tunnels would be swept against bronze gratings and drowned.
He surfaced, rolled over on his back, and floated. Even if the Vigaelians had followed him in, they would not find him now. The world was silent when his ears were submerged, but stars were starting to show through the clouds, so the storm had gone. If he could just pull off this escape, he could rank his trip a complete success. Hoodwinking an aging, pompous pedant and a terrified bereaved mother was no great feat to brag of, but news of his visit here, far behind Stralg’s lines, would fan the flames of freedom.
The river left the city over a weir, dropping into a narrow, walled canyon. The current was very fast, and the lip of the weir was armed with bronze blades to discourage exactly the feat he was attempting. This defense was effective, but frequently claimed swimmers who ventured too close, usually young boys, who were either gnashed into gobbets or drowned in the gyre in the canyon. Cavotti knew all about the weir because it had killed one of his cousins.
The river that night was much higher, faster, and colder than usual, and turgid as soup after the storm. Very fast. There was the spire of the Temple of Cienu already. He began his change, sending prayers to Weru, asking the god of storm and battle to arrange that the rain had raised the flow high enough to carry him over the knives.
Weir gone. The sky tilted above him and he was falling. The gyre was vicious, turning faster than any man could swim, sucking people down and holding them at the bottom of the river, spinning helplessly. Cavotti was still mostly human when he went over the weir, but not when he reached the gyre. He broke free with a few strokes of his flippers and went on his way downstream, to rendezvous with Butcher.
The current slackened at the irrigation lagoon, where the Puisa was dammed to feed canals, and there he surfaced to hunt for the signal. He saw it right away, two bonfires like blazing eyes sending wheel tracks of light across the ripples. Someone was jumping up and down and waving.
He struck out in that direction, and the next time he raised his head, the woman had sat down to wait for him. Since his black seal-shape would be invisible to human sight in this darkness, she must be a seer. Stralg, curse his bowels, could command the service of Witnesses he had brought over from the Vigaelian Face, whereas the Florengian Maynists would help Cavotti and his helpers only sometimes, when they wished, as they chose. They would never even explain how they decided.
On reaching the rushes, he began to retroform. Battleforming was usually done in haste; the reversal had to be achieved in cold blood and always hurt more. This one needed longer than usual, because he had not been his normal warbeast. He was still sobbing with pain as he scrambled up the bank.
Without a word, the woman offered him a raw steak in one hand and a cloth in the other. He took the steak first.
The storm had faded to stray damp puffs like some monster’s hot breath, leaving the trees weeping from its mauling. Only Butcher and the Witness had come to meet him. Their camp was a bag of food and a leather ground-sheet in the long wet grass-no tent or lamp to reveal their presence. Two chariots were hidden in the bushes; four hobbled guanacos grazed nearby.
The Mutineer sat and gorged on more raw meat. It was not as fresh as he would have liked, but meat was essential after battleforming. This was the pattern of his life. Most of the last ten years had been like this-danger, hardship, hasty withdrawal-and today’s nostalgia trip to Celebre had made him aware how incredibly tired of it he was. Surely there had to be more to life than violence and concealment, death and flight, sorrow and atrocity? But another half-year should do it. He had promised himself Stralg’s hide, stuffed.
The cloth was big enough to serve as his bedroll by night and chlamys by day, when hung over his left shoulder and pinned under his right arm. For now he laid it across his lap where he sat, not bothering to dress. For once there were no mosquitoes, all blown away by the storm. The Witness had her back turned to him, but that meant nothing-Vigaelian seers wore bags over their heads. In Florengia Maynists settled for bandaging their eyes when testifying in court. This one was not young, nor old either. Butcher had given her name as Giunietta, but she had not spoken one word yet. Cavotti was much aware of her, though. Because she was there, his body was reminding him that a woman was a Werist’s second most urgent need after raw meat. Seers must not be asked.
“I’m grateful for your help, Witness. You’d have been a lifesaver if I’d gone past the signal.”
“And I’m a good watchdog in case of burglars.”
Not a promising opening.
“That, too.”
Butcher bulked large on his other side, arms wrapped around shins and chin on knees. He was big, slow-spoken, rarely made eye contact. He and Cavotti were the last of the original impressed Celebrians who had won their collars in the first-and only-graduation at Boluzzi. His name had begun as an insult directed at his father’s trade and become an honored title. Butcher could not play even one-color tegale, but no one matched him at killing Vigaelians, whether it was ripping out their throats on the battlefield or entertaining the wounded after it. He was also fanatically loyal to Cavotti, which was becoming an issue as victory drew closer. Nobody was yet admitting that the defeat of the Vigaelians would not end the fighting. Florengia had been shattered, but who owned the pieces?
“It worked?” Butcher asked his toes.
Cavotti tossed the last bone away and wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Like a charm. The doge is farther gone than we thought, but his wife took it all-head, shaft, and feathers.”
“She accepted?”
“With four children supposedly still hostage? I don’t want it accepted, Butcher, remember?”
“Will the Vigaelians believe it was really you?” the seer asked without turning.
“Certainly. They saw me off.” He chuckled. “They’ll catch Dicerno and force the story out of him.” He took another bite. “I was lucky. Stralg’s bastard was there.”
“Hope you killed it,” said a low mutter on his left.
“No. He’s just a dumb kid. Not stupid-dumb, though. He guessed I’d moved a shutter that needed a little more than the real me. He was so screamingly suspicious that I scratched my neck. The gown Dicerno had given me had fleas anyway, which gave me the idea, and I let the baby Stralg spot the shape of the brass under the cowl. He damned near wet his sandals! Took off like an arrow to find his Vigaelian buddies. I let them smell my feet as I dived off the wall. Never hurts to add a little drama.”
“A Speaker would judge you criminally crazy,” Giunietta told the darkness. “Why take such an insane risk for a mere bluff?”