“It is unfortunate you did not burn the Fist, though. The world has suffered much since then.”
“I am sure you could quote me a number of texts about missed opportunities. Witness,” Ingeld added quietly, “will there be more challenges?”
Behind her, Tranquility laughed. “Not a peep, my lady.”
“You!” Benard bellowed. “Flankleader! Get those men back to barracks! All of them. Do you want to be next? Bandleader, play!”
The cheering began, rising to a roar and drowning out the brazen shriek of trumpets. Consort and dynast walked forward to the wagon. As they passed the cinders, Ingeld averted her eyes and met Benard’s loving gaze. Those artist’s eyes-dark Vigaelian eyes-missed nothing, not her nausea, her relief, her shame, her joy. His great hand tightened around hers
“Well done!” he said admiringly. “You didn’t warn me you were going to melt his collar.”
“Horrible!”
“But necessary. And there won’t be any more. Everything will be all right now.”
FABIA CELEBRE
had never seen anything as flat as her first view of Florengia. The floodplain of the Wrogg at Kosord had been mountainous by comparison. Dantio called this the Altiplano, and it looked as if it had been raked and rolled, fine gravel stretching off in all directions forever, coated with brownish lichen, not one blade of grass anywhere. Behind them, a ruled white line below the indigo sky marked the Ice they had left two days ago, but even the Ice had been much smoother on this side of the Edge than in Vigaelia. Straight as a javelin, the trail ran ahead, a line of different color rutted by wheels and stained by many years’ animal droppings. Beyond it the world ended in the usual mistiness of the wall, with just faint hints of very distant hills visible late in the day, when the sun was at Fabia’s back. Every fresh heap of dung was a landmark, and proof that the pass was still being provisioned and patrolled.
A new world and a new year. This morning at sunrise, Dantio had pointed out the holy star Nartiash, whose heliacal rising heralded the turning of the year.
The constant eye-watering cold wind was one problem and Dantio’s limp another, but the gravest concern was water. The shelter at First Ice had been stocked with shabby leather canteens, obviously left there so travelers would know to fill them at the seasonal meltwater pools. There had been nothing at last night’s shelter except timber windbreaks and some jars of pemmican. Now the second day was drawing to a close and the canteens were running dry. The world ahead was flat gravel and more flat gravel.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Waels asked, yet again. The joke had worn as thin as the soles of Fabia’s boots. If he weren’t a Werist, someone would hit him.
“It is not known,” Dantio said, “but it is suspected, that we are nearly somewhere. There’s a dip ahead. I can’t see it, but I can sense it, just barely.”
Waels did something that briefly made his face twist out of shape and his eyes bulge. “Bless my fangs and talons! You’re right.”
Fabia wondered what they would they do when they got “there,” wherever “there” was. Veritano, the Florengian equivalent of Nardalborg, was supposedly a smaller settlement. They had hoped to slip past it unseen, for it would be manned by Stralg’s men, but on this terrain a mouse would be conspicuous.
“Has anyone thought up a good fable yet?” Dantio asked the landscape, tactfully not asking Fabia directly.
Xaran was the Mother of Lies. If anybody could think up a workable cover story, it should be the family Chosen. Fabia had prayed for guidance in the night, but none had come. She was in little danger because she could claim to be a hostage from some obscure place on the far side of the Face. Dantio was merely an escaped slave. But Orlad and Waels would have to talk very fast to convince any Vigaelian Werists they met that they were not Cavotti rebels.
“Not me,” she said. “I can only suggest we tell the truth and call for a seer to verify it.”
“Stralg can’t have many seers left. I very much doubt that he’ll have one stationed out here.”
Waels sighed. “Pity to come all this way just to bleed to death.”
“If the gods are kind,” Orlad said, “there will be someone at Veritano who knew us back at Nardalborg.”
“And what do I say when they ask why I changed color?”
“Look blank and say, ‘I did?’”
From Orlad that was good repartee, so the others laughed.
“You had better start practicing,” Dantio said, “because we are about to have company. Dust ahead.”
This time both Werist faces deformed, their eyes swelling until Fabia turned away, unwilling to watch.
“Chariots. I make it six, my lord.”
“Six it is. A flank on patrol.” After a moment Orlad added, “But they’re Florengians. We don’t have to bleed yet.”
The chariots were low wickerwork structures on two wheels, drawn by teams of four furry things like long-legged, long-necked black sheep. Although smaller than onagers, they could move their little hooves to good effect. Each car carried two brown-skinned young men. They bore no visible weapons, but brass collars encircled their necks and their black hair and beards were close-cropped. Three chariots turned off to one side and two to the other. The leader pulled up in the road ahead, the driver turning the car at the last moment so his superior could look down at the strangers instead of having to stare along the length of his team.
These Werists wore what seemed to be wool blankets, draped over the left shoulder and pinned on their right side, so they left the right arm bare and covered the other down to the elbow. The leader’s was blue and the others’ brown.
The leader looked over the filthy, ragged, and hairy wayfarers with distaste. “What have we here? Deserters?”
“My lord,” Dantio said, “you are a welcome sight! I am a Witness of Mayn.”
The flankleader raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he tucked his left hand behind his back.
“Two,” Dantio said. “Three. Thumb only. All five now.”
“So you are!”
“And we always speak truth.”
“So they say. Welcome back to Florengia, Witness. I am Flankleader Felice Serpanti, proud to serve in the Liberators.”
Dantio was grinning all over, like a boy left to guard a sweetmeat stall. “It is good to be back! I am Dantio Celebre, eldest son of Doge Piero. Orlad Celebre, my brother, formerly a flankleader in the Tryfors Host, now his own man. Hero Waels Borkson, his liegeman. Lady Fabia Celebre, our sister.”
“Welcome all!” Felice looked to his driver, whose eyes were wide with astonishment. “Know any of them, Dimo?”
Dimo was younger and slighter, his beard patchy. His steady stare at Fabia was flattering, especially considering how rumpled she was from her travels. “No, my lord. Before my time. But the doge did have four children taken hostage.”
“Now we are back,” Dantio said. “Three of us. I gather that Veritano has fallen to the, er, forces of freedom?”
“Last night. And the Mutineer plans to burn it tomorrow. Your timing is admirably chosen, lord Dantio.”
“Praise the gods! How goes the war? Our father?”
“The war goes well, but the ice devils have not been brought to bay yet. The doge still lingers, I think. Right, Dimo?”
The boy nodded. “The girl looks very like Dogaressa Oliva, lord.”
“The war goes very well beyond the Edge,” Dantio said. “We bring wonderful news. Do I gather that the Mutineer himself is at Veritano?”
Felice laughed uneasily. “I did not say that. Is there anyone behind you?”
“No. We burned the bridge at Fist’s Leap and closed the pass.”
If a seer said so, it must be true. Fabia had not told the others about her nightmares.
The flankleader said, “Weru’s b-buttocks! Closed the pass? I am going to take all four of you to Veritano directly.” He took the reins from his driver. “Dimo, you can have the honor of reporting that we are returning.”