“How far is it to High Timber?” Fabia asked. “Father?”
“I don’t know,” Horth said in his customary soft tones. “I suspect the riverfolk don’t, either. I’m not sure High Timber is a real place at all. It may be several places, or just an idea.”
Guthlag snorted contemptuously. The gnarly old Hero had taken a dislike to the wizened little Ucrist. “You can’t hide a horde of Werists in an idea. Men need food and shelter and training grounds.” He snorted again. “And women.”
“Dantio said our journey wouldn’t be long.” Benard grinned as though he would not care if it lasted forever.
On the river “not long” meant anything from an hour to several sixdays. Fabia did not see how the rebel encampment could be anywhere near Tryfors if Arbanerik Kranson had managed to keep it secret from the Werist garrison there for at least two years. Dantio was coming overland to join them; she hoped he was all right, because only the family seer knew how to find the rebel headquarters.
The boat tacked across the stream to enter a stagnant inlet. Sheltered from the wind by treed banks and hampered by reeds and bulrushes, it gently lost way and stopped. This must be the chosen rendezvous, and was obviously a good one, easily identified but hidden from casual view. A Witness like Dantio could find them there even in pitch darkness. Four male sailors rose to begin lowering the sails.
“ Free Spirit ahoy!” Like a mythical wood spirit, Dantio appeared amid the shrubbery, a slender young man in the hessian shirt and long breeches worn by slaves in Tryfors. The shabby leather cloak he wore over them hung open, its hood thrown back to show a brown Florengian face and a gleam of white teeth. He waved both fists overhead in triumph. “Therek is dead!”
For a moment no one spoke. Fabia thought of his horde, twenty sixty ferocious Werists, coming screaming after whoever had killed him.
Then everyone, including most of the riverfolk, yelled “What?” or “How?” or “No!” in disbelief.
“Dead!” Dantio insisted. “Orlad killed him! Orlad’s alive!”
He half-turned to indicate the young man pushing his way out of the bushes to stand at his side. Orlad was smiling, too, and that just proved that there was a first for anything, for yesterday he had been as sullen as a hungry boar. His torso was draped in a waterlogged woolen pall, and the brass collar of Weru shone like yellow fire around his neck.
“Orlad!” Benard’s great bellow of joy set birds a-flapping on the river. He started up, as if about to leap overboard and go welcome his brother. Ingeld caught hold of him. “Orlad!” he repeated. “You changed sides!”
The riverfolk were yelling, also, but theirs were cries of alarm. They had no liking for Werists at the best of times-they had grumbled at allowing old Guthlag on board-and a Florengian Werist was an unthinkable freak, perhaps a sign that the war had spilled back over the Edge and Vigaelia was being attacked. Men jumped for the yards and sails. Others produced poles and oars and stabbed them into the water to push Free Spirit clear of the reeds. The boat jerked back the way she had come only moments before.
Orlad barked an order. Heroes erupted out of the woods behind him-Werists with palls and brass collars, but regular, fair-skinned, golden-haired, Vigaelian Werists. Like otters they leaped into the river and surged forward through the reeds, barely slowing as the water deepened. Seven of them, the astonished Fabia counted. By the time the water was up to their shoulders, their hands were clasping the gunwale and Free Spirit was free no more.
A couple of the boatmen raised their poles as if to crack heads or crush fingers. Instantly old Packleader Guthlag was on his feet shouting warnings, but it was shrill yells in Wroggian from the even older Master Nok, the boat’s patriarch, that averted disaster. The sailors froze.
“We will pay!” Ingeld shouted in the silence. “We have silver.”
“Hit a Hero and he’ll rip you apart,” Guthlag grumbled, sitting down.
The riverfolk understood more Vigaelian than they usually admitted, and the poles were hastily hidden away. On the bank, Orlad crouched, pulled Dantio onto his shoulder, and lifted him effortlessly. Then he waded into the water, carrying the seer shoulder-high.
“I can walk, you know,” Dantio said, amused. “ It is known that no one has ever seen a Werist acting as a beast of burden before.”
“I can’t get any wetter. You can.”
Yesterday Orlad had been a surly, humorless churl, fanatically loyal to Satrap Therek and his brother the Fist. What miracle had produced this conversion? He almost smiled a second time as he deposited his load aboard the boat, then hauled himself in also. His seven followers scrambled over the side. Suddenly Free Spirit was very crowded.
Dantio warbled at the riverfolk in fluent Wroggian, accepted a weighty bag from Ingeld, and proceeded to negotiate an extortionate fare of two handfuls of silver for the additional passengers. Calmed, if not contented, the sailors set to work to pole the boat out of the rushes, and some of the women began rummaging through the cargo. It seemed Dantio had either bought or rented all the towels and spare clothes aboard.
He turned to the newcomers. “My lords! Pray meet the lady Ingeld, noble dynast of Kosord; her Hordeleader Guthlag Guthlagson; Master Ucrist Horth Wigson; my brother Benard and sister Fabia. And you, gentlefolk, please greet these splendid warriors, lords Waels, Hrothgat, Snerfrik, Namberson, Narg, Prok, and Jungr. Their fame will shine forever!”
Snerfrik was one of the largest men Fabia had ever seen. Despite his obvious youth, he had a mean look. Prok was the smallest of the squad, and even meaner. As they stripped off their rain-soaked palls, many of them revealed fresh red scars, and some still showed traces of blood at the roots of their stubbly beards. The one called Waels had a scarlet stain covering the lower half of his face, but she decided that was a birthmark.
Dantio sat down on the bench next her to explain the miracle. “You know that Therek was planning to have Orlad ambushed on his way back to Nardalborg. Orlad got away, so the assassins had to chase after him. They didn’t know that the commander at Nardalborg, Huntleader Heth, had sent Orlad’s flank to see him safely home. They met up with him on King’s Grass and ambushed the ambushers! It was a wonderful battle.”
Fabia had never heard of this Heth. He must be one of Therek’s most senior officers, yet he had clearly saved Orlad’s life. Deliberately or unintentionally?
“What odds?” Guthlag asked.
“Flank to flank. Only one of Therek’s men escaped.”
The old Hero cackled in delight. “A great victory, then!”
But a full flank was a dozen men and there were only eight here.
“But there’s more. Therek couldn’t see what was happening in the rain,” Dantio continued. “So he drove out to King’s Grass without waiting for his bodyguard!” He grinned wickedly. “That battle was much shorter, but much more important! His death is a crippling blow to the House of Hrag.”
Glances were exchanged. Ingeld put the question.
“So what will happen now in Tryfors?”
Never mind Tryfors! — Now Fabia had all three of her brothers to compare: Benard beefy, amiable, scatterbrained; Orlad scarred inside and out, and, despite his current smiles, basically bitter and dangerous; Witness Dantio… She had not assessed Dantio yet. Clever, of course, and omniscient. And a eunuch. In his Witness robes and veils he had sounded like a woman and hence seemed tall; out of them he was a boyish man of average height, and appeared immature compared even to Orlad, eight years his junior. Werist husbands Fabia could do without, but a Werist brother would be a useful defender. A seer brother should be a perfect adviser. And an artist… perhaps Benard could redecorate the palace in Celebre for her when she succeeded their father as doge. Dogess?
Eight large young men toweling, laughing, and trying on clothes did tend to make the vessel seem rather crowded. More interesting than usual, perhaps, but Fabia had met similar Werist exhibitionism often enough on her journey up from Skjar, and she knew she was meant to keep her eyes averted even if the riverfolk were openly watching and commenting.