“Past time,” said another.
Chies dropped the lamp and tried to draw his sword. The men stamped out the wick before the spilled oil caught. They stuffed a rag in his mouth before he got the blade free of the scabbard, then tied his arms behind his back. He protested, “Uuuungh!” If he vomited behind this gag he would choke.
“Don’t mumble,” one of them said as they hustled him out on the terrace. “Bad manners.”
They were Heroes-he saw starlight reflected on their collars. But they were Florengian Heroes. And they were big. Huge. They tied a rope around his waist, then one lifted him over the balustrade and the other lowered him to ground level. It occurred to him as he went down, spinning around and around, that he was being kidnapped.
INGELD NARSDOR
was confident of a safe homecoming and a warm welcome. She had been watching the mound that was Kosord draw steadily closer for several days, and now she could make out the palace itself. Even Oliva seemed to be kicking harder, as if anxious to be let out to survey her future domain. The crew promised that the aptly named Joy of Return would dock by noon. Every night Ingeld viewed auguries in the campfires, and lately they had shown her back at work, relighting the sacred fire on the apex of the pyramid, which was her most solemn public duty.
Deserters from the city had been joining her procession for days, for while Horold’s original host had been outsiders, its younger Heroes were Kosord-born and news of the satrap’s death had caused many of them to revert to their ancestral loyalty to the dynast. They reported that Daughter Sansya had done a superb job of substituting for Ingeld in her absence, and had recently taken to proclaiming the dynast’s imminent return. Sansya must be seeing the same visions she was. Holy Veslih had things well in hand, then, and no doubt the star Nartiash would appear at tomorrow’s dawn to proclaim the turning of the year, right when it would show to maximum effect.
So Ingeld herself would be safe, but the flames had shown her nothing of Benard. The gods gave no guarantees for his safety anymore, nor for old Guthlag’s. If there was going to be fighting, those two were the most vulnerable and the usurper’s horde must still outnumber her tiny force by a sixty to one. She might survive, but without Benard her happiness would not.
Those doubts she tried to keep to herself. She sat close to Benard in Joy ’s bow and watched the winter birds swoop low above the water. The day was cold, but sunny and not too windy. The half flank of Werists serving as today’s guard of honor were all formerly Orlad’s men-Jungr, Snerfrik, Hrothgat, Narg, Prok, and Namberson-and she was sure Hordeleader Guthlag had good reasons for that assignment. The other six boats that now made up her flotilla were following in close formation. Although river traffic was light at midwinter, once in a while some hardy crew would go past, struggling upriver against wind and current. Usually now they knew whose fleet this was, and cheered her.
Witness Tranquility was no doubt busily recording, but nothing of her was visible under her veils.
A head surfaced and disappeared again.
Snerfrik sang out, “Here comes another one!”
Something splashed alongside the boat. A whitish flipper slapped at the gunwale and became a hand. Snerfrik and Prok reached over and grabbed, hauling the man up until he could cling to the side, half in and half out of the boat, blinking water from his eyes. He wore a brass collar, naturally.
“Next boat behind!” Prok said. “Hordeleader Guthlag is aboard and will take your oath. There’s a Speaker there to help you get out of the present one.”
This happened all the time now, and usually that was the end of it as far as Joy was concerned, for she was a small boat and already crowded. But this time the newcomer stopped puffing long enough to say, “Got a message for the dynast from Daughter Sansya.”
“He speaks the truth,” Tranquility said cheerfully.
“I’m sure he does,” Ingeld declared. “Bring Packleader Yabro aboard.”
They had a procedure for that. She decorously studied water birds and shipping on one side of the boat, while Prok and Snerfrik helped the recruit over the other, Namberson handed him a pall to act as both towel and covering, and Narg went to the meat crock they kept for just this purpose. The clink of the lid going back on the jar was a sign that the newcomer was respectable and it was safe for Ingeld to look. Safe, except that Oliva did not appreciate her landlady watching men tear at raw meat.
She looked to Benard instead. “Packleader Yabro Yorgalson and I are cousins,” she explained. Fourth or fifth cousins. Her foremothers had been dynasts for so many generations that hardly a family in Kosord was not related to her in some contorted fashion.
Benard nodded. “He has your ears. I thought he was only a flankleader?”
Yabro was a youngish man, not large by Werist standards, with hair and beard closer to red than gold; his good looks were not limited to the shape of his ears. His mother was a Nulist, and had been Palace Mercy for many years, so he had been a playmate for both Benard and Cutrath. Ah, where was Cutrath? Sansya had chosen a credible messenger.
He gulped down the last bloody lump, wiped his stubble with a brawny, furry forearm, licked his fingers, and said, “Flankleader, yes, my lady.” He glanced longingly at the meat crock.
“Speak up, then.”
“The Daughter says that Huntleader Jarkard, who now calls himself hordeleader, intends to force you to marry him, my lady. He’s stationing men all along the waterfront and in all the boats he could commandeer. Everyone with you, all the Heroes, are to be put to death.” He glanced apologetically at Benard. “Especially you, Hand. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Kind of you,” Benard said dryly.
“Did she say she foresaw this?” Ingeld had not.
“No, my lady. She learned it from men who don’t like the orders they’re getting. She say she sees you as dynast again, but she has not been shown your return.” Yabro’s plaintive interest in the meat crock paid off when Narg pulled out a leg of mouflon and passed it to him.
Ingeld was not at all surprised by Sanysa’s news, for it only confirmed what they had been hearing for days. “He really is a nastiness,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. News of the satrap’s death had provoked the predictable power struggle in the city, and the winner so far was Jarkard Karson, leader of Vulture Hunt. The fall of the House of Hrag had left Kosord with far too many Werists, and the same would probably be true of all Vigaelia for years to come.
“Very well. I know I am in no danger, so I will go on alone. Flankleader, tell Master Mog to signal a parley, please.”
Snerfrik pouted rebelliously, but scrambled aft to tell the eavesdropping riverfolk what they had just overheard anyway.
“Alone except for me,” Benard said.
They had worn this argument to death over the last three days. Trouble was, she wanted his support. She hated to admit that she needed it.
“If you insist on that, my love, you will make it much harder for Guthlag and his men to stay out.”
“Then they can kill me themselves right away and save Jarkard doing it. Otherwise, I will be at your side when you step ashore.” He set his face in his most moronically stubborn expression.
The crew were turning the boat. It tilted, the sail flapped unhappily.
“Put away that snack for a moment,” Ingeld told Yabro. “I need to think. Thank you. About three score Heroes have come to join us already. Not nearly enough for a pitched battle, of course. You say the rest don’t like their orders. If the usurper tries to use force, will he be obeyed?”
The messenger squirmed. “Against you, my lady, no. Some might obey, but the rest would swat them. But…”
“But her mudface gigolo will be fair game,” Benard completed helpfully.
Pink under his stubble, Yabro nodded. “He has a special flank picked out, hard cases who don’t like, er, Florengians. Volunteers, all of them. They’ll be right there on the waterfront, my lady, drooling blood.”