Thinking of that disgusting pile of corpses at the bird feeder, Chies did not comment. He was half ice devil himself.
The jaunt turned interesting again when they emerged on the Altiplano. After the guanacos had gotten their wind back, Sesto told him to give them their heads, and they took off like a sea storm. Whee! The wind whirled Chies’s hair around and the wheels hardly seemed to touch the ground. Best of all, Sesto needed both hands to hang on. It was a shame that the road was so straight, and that a bank of cloud hid the Ice itself. But this was living! One day Chies would have his own racing stable.
In no time they went hurtling past the charred remains of the first shelter.
“Whoa!” Sesto said. “Slow down there, Killer. Looks like we have company. Two of them?”
It was three. Chies had excellent eyes, even if they were watering madly in the wind, but he knew not to contradict Werists.
In a few moments it became clear that there were indeed three men, and they were staggering-literally staggering-along the road toward them. They were muffled in furs, but obviously Werists. Sesto took back the reins and brought his flank to a halt about sixty paces away. By then the visitors had fallen to their knees.
“Mercy? They want mercy!” Sesto pulled out the ax and surveyed his men. “They should have thought about mercy sixteen years ago. Orders are to kill on sight. Volunteers?” Ten hands went up. “Raul, you missed out last time. Don’t battleform unless you have to.”
Raul jumped down from his chariot and trotted forward, grinning. He took the ax and Chies looked away. Even three against one would be no fight, for the Vigaelians were totally spent. Whatever Raul did was quick and undoubtedly fatal because the other Florengians cheered, but the victims did not sound dead when the patrol drove away.
Sesto jeered. “Squeamish, sonny?”
“We could have questioned them.”
“You understand that gobble-gobble of theirs?”
“Some,” Chies admitted. He was fluent.
“Then show me what you can find out from this next one.”
Sure enough, there was another approaching along the road. He seemed very tall, but soon resolved into a large man carrying another on his back.
By the time the chariots arrived, the big man had knelt down to release his burden, and then collapsed altogether. The other just stood over him, hands out, as if to hold off the execution squad racing toward them. His white hair blew loose in the wind, his rags flapped, his nose had turned black with frostbite, and he had lost two or three fingers. Sesto pulled up close, so Chies could ask questions
But Werists never wore their hair long like that. It wasn’t a Werist. Nor a man, neither. But whoever it was, she did have extraordinary eyes. Crazy eyes. Mad, mad eyes, staring up at him as if she knew him.
Part VI
ORLAD CELEBRE
was much impressed by the famous Mutineer. He was everything a leader should be-decisive, quick-witted, successful, and adored by his men; a giant’s physique never hurt, either. He had demanded no oath from Orlad, just offered a spade-sized hand and said, “Your foes are my foes!” That was how Heroes committed to each other when they were equals, so Orlad had been happy to agree. An oath would have been tricky, because obviously their priorities must differ if Marno thought killing Stralg required the destruction of Celebre.
Nor was Cavotti one to sit around and digest. If the Celebres wanted to go with him, they had to leave immediately. He had his own chariot, bigger than most and pulled by a team of six guanacos, and he usually traveled with a bodyguard of six Werists. He replaced three of them with Orlad, Waels, and Dantio, remarking that Orlad and Waels more than made up for Dantio’s lack of fighting skills. This might be true normally, but was not necessarily so after a thirty or more crossing the Edge. He told Fabia she could squeeze in beside him as long as she promised not to breathe and she did not seem displeased by the suggestion. Orlad had hoped for a Hero-to-Hero chat with the Mutineer, but could see that there would not be room in the car for both of them.
His driver was Packleader Tabbeo, a five-year, tough-as-bronze veteran, who claimed to have slaughtered seven Vigaelians with his own hands-and teeth, of course. Orlad could claim a greater score than that, but the two that Tabbeo wanted to hear about were the sons of Hrag. He was also willing to learn about Saltaja and remarkably patient at correcting his companion’s Florengian.
The countryside was lush, fascinating, totally different from the bleak Nardalborg moors of Orlad’s childhood. The animals were different, the trees, the houses-everything! The weather was about the same, sun and rain alternating, except that the rain was warm here. Cavotti set a bone-shattering pace, changing llamoids frequently. This might officially be Stralg country, but obviously Cavotti had it well organized, and the inhabitants could not do enough for him.
He did not hesitate to travel by night; he rarely slept more than a couple of pot-boilings at a time. Meal breaks never lasted longer than it took the hands to harness up new llamoids. Fatigue settled around Orlad like a fog. He barely exchanged a word with the others for the next three days, although he dearly wanted to know what Fabia was learning from the Mutineer. He still hadn’t managed a private chat with her when they came to a ranch outside Montegola, less than half a menzil from the fabled city of Celebre.
Orlad awoke to the sound of wagon wheels and an unexpected scent of hay. Memory returned with a thump-Montegola. Celebre was visible from the ranch, he had been told; he would see it in the morning. The sun was up now, obviously, and what they called a winter day here already seemed hot to him. Waels slept on at his side. It was the work of a moment to turn a blanket back into a chlamys and slither down the ladder. By the time he paused in the barn doorway to take stock of the yard, he could hear Waels following.
There was the wagon that had woken him, with four guanacos hitched and a spotty-faced youngster slouched on the bench. Beyond it stood the house and a couple of other buildings, built of wicker and thatch, but seemingly well kept. And yes, even from where he stood, that gleam of white towers across the plain must be Celebre itself. It was much bigger than he had expected. His heartbeat rose.
“Could eat a mammoth,” Waels said, stretching and blinking at the sunshine.
“Nice day, feels like summer.”
“We are not in Nardalborg anymore, my lord.”
Rain clouds far to the east suggested a change later. Dantio and Fabia were just emerging from the house, followed by their host. Cavotti had disappeared the previous evening on other business.
The rancher, Eligio, wore a peasant’s loincloth and flaunted a brass collar in full view. That seemed like rank insanity in Stralg country. When Orlad had asked his rank he had answered merely, “Spy.” He had good reason to be surly, for he looked no older than Waels but had lost an arm and one eye and would never battleform again. He ran thirty or so llamoids and a staging post for the Liberators. His wife, Carmina, seemed impossibly young to be the mother of the two children. She was an excellent cook, but Orlad reluctantly postponed thoughts of breakfast.
“You might have warned us that you were leaving.”
Eligio barely looked at him. “You’re staying here. Go back to the loft and keep out of sight.” He greeted the driver with a fast twitter of Florengian.
Fabia said, “Or go and beg Carmina to run you up a stack of her onion pancakes. The gods dine here.” She hooked a foot in a wheel and swung up to the wagon as if she had been doing it for years.
Dantio said, “Nice legs,” and followed more circumspectly.
Eligio and the boy were still yammering away, both at once, with much hand-waving. Orlad stepped to within biting distance of Eligio.