bodyguards, Ern and Brarag, were standing close to her, keeping watch on the rest. Six of the incompetent jailers had packed in after her, another two were outside, peering through the door. She could not remember the name of their leader, but it mattered not at all and soon would matter even less.
“Guarding a slip of a girl is beyond your ability?”
The flankleader bared his teeth at her. “All of us spent the night in the outer room. There were no visitors, no coming and going—”
“Except the prisoner.”
“We can’t fight gods! No mortal let that woman out of here.”
“Since when does holy Weru accept excuses? Track her!”
“We tried, my lady.” His stubbled hair and beard were wet. “The rain … We could not pick up her scent at all.”
“And the Ucrist, Wigson? I suppose he’s gone, too? Did you send someone to look?”
Nod.
“I expect he bribed his guards,” she said. “The Witnesses will get the truth out of them.”
“The jail guards have disappeared.” The flankleader obviously wished he could.
“The Witnesses will locate them, and him,” Saltaja said confidently. Even if they had moved out of range already, the seers should be able to tell Therek which way they had gone.
She should not have expected the public jail to hold the richest man in all Vigaelia. Horth Wigson was important only as surety for Fabia’s good behavior. He could have bought his way out even if he had to pay his jailers enough to let them flee the satrap’s anger and make new lives somewhere else. It would have been cheaper to have them permanently silenced, but that was not Wigson’s style. Clever people don’t need to break laws, he said—they can bend them. But even he could not bribe Werists.
Saltaja headed for the door. “Lock this bunch of imbeciles in here until I have spoken with the satrap.”
Suddenly the air reeked of murder and mutiny. Saltaja Hragsdor might be the satrap’s sister, the bloodlord’s sister, a reputed chthonian, but no woman gave orders to Heroes of Weru!
Except she. The six remained inside, the two outside reluctantly joined them, and Ern slid the huge bronze bolts. He looked around, astonished, sweat shining on his forehead.
“How long will it hold them?” she asked.
He shrugged helplessly. “Until they decide to rip out the bars or tear up the floorboards, my lady. Battleformed, some of them could get out between the bars, given time. You can’t imprison Werists!”
“Then we must bring this scum to justice quickly. They are a disgrace to your cult. Stay here, let no one in, no one out. Brarag, go and find the satrap. Tell him to come to my room. At once!”
Warrior Brarag flinched at the thought of giving orders to the Vulture, but he could not refuse. He saluted and ran off.
Alone, Saltaja stalked back toward her dreary room, thinking furiously. What god was meddling? Anziel? Thanks to the Mother’s sending she knew that Benard Celebre was here in Tryfors, instead of tidily rotting in a pauper’s grave in Kosord. The boy was a scatterbrained dreamer, but he was a Hand of Anziel. He was certainly not capable of springing his sister from that cell, but his goddess was, if She chose to answer Her devotee’s prayers.
What of the other brother, the Hero? No, the only god who would answer a prayer from him would be Weru, and this was certainly not Weru’s work. Young Orlad was due to die right about now, murdered so that Therek could gloat over a dead Florengian.
Last night’s dream had not been trivial; it had been a very important warning, perhaps even a hint that Fabia Celebre was now in favor and Saltaja Hragsdor was not. Of course the girl’s sacrifice of Perag Hrothgatson would have raised her in Mother Xaran’s esteem, but if the girl thought she could outbid Saltaja Hragsdor in offerings to the Old One, she had another think coming.
At that point in her journey, the Queen of Shadows stopped to open a creaky little door in a cobwebby alcove and
“Guarding a slip of a girl is beyond your ability?”
The flankleader bared his teeth at her. “All of us spent the night in the outer room. There were no visitors, no coming and going—”
“Except the prisoner.”
“We can’t fight gods! No mortal let that woman out of here.”
“Since when does holy Weru accept excuses? Track her!”
“We tried, my lady.” His stubbled hair and beard were wet. “The rain … We could not pick up her scent at all.”
“And the Ucrist, Wigson? I suppose he’s gone, too? Did you send someone to look?”
Nod.
“I expect he bribed his guards,” she said. “The Witnesses will get the truth out of them.”
“The jail guards have disappeared.” The flankleader obviously wished he could.
“The Witnesses will locate them, and him,” Saltaja said confidently. Even if they had moved out of range already, the seers should be able to tell Therek which way they had gone.
She should not have expected the public jail to hold the richest man in all Vigaelia. Horth Wigson was important only as surety for Fabia’s good behavior. He could have bought his way out even if he had to pay his jailers enough to let them flee the satrap’s anger and make new lives somewhere else. It would have been cheaper to have them permanently silenced, but that was not Wigson’s style. Clever people don’t need to break laws, he said—they can bend them. But even he could not bribe Werists.
Saltaja headed for the door. “Lock this bunch of imbeciles in here until I have spoken with the satrap.”
Suddenly the air reeked of murder and mutiny. Saltaja Hragsdor might be the satrap’s sister, the bloodlord’s sister, a reputed chthonian, but no woman gave orders to Heroes of Weru!
Except she. The six remained inside, the two outside reluctantly joined them, and Ern slid the huge bronze bolts. He looked around, astonished, sweat shining on his forehead.
“How long will it hold them?” she asked.
He shrugged helplessly. “Until they decide to rip out the bars or tear up the floorboards, my lady. Battleformed, some of them could get out between the bars, given time. You can’t imprison Werists!”
“Then we must bring this scum to justice quickly. They are a disgrace to your cult. Stay here, let no one in, no one out. Brarag, go and find the satrap. Tell him to come to my room. At once!”
Warrior Brarag flinched at the thought of giving orders to the Vulture, but he could not refuse. He saluted and ran off.
Alone, Saltaja stalked back toward her dreary room, thinking furiously. What god was meddling? Anziel? Thanks to the Mother’s sending she knew that Benard Celebre was here in Tryfors, instead of tidily rotting in a pauper’s grave in Kosord. The boy was a scatterbrained dreamer, but he was a Hand of Anziel. He was certainly not capable of springing his sister from that cell, but his goddess was, if She chose to answer Her devotee’s prayers.
What of the other brother, the Hero? No, the only god who would answer a prayer from him would be Weru, and this was certainly not Weru’s work. Young Orlad was due to die right about now, murdered so that Therek could gloat over a dead Florengian.
Last night’s dream had not been trivial; it had been a very important warning, perhaps even a hint that Fabia Celebre was now in favor and Saltaja Hragsdor was not. Of course the girl’s sacrifice of Perag Hrothgatson would have raised her in Mother Xaran’s esteem, but if the girl thought she could outbid Saltaja Hragsdor in offerings to the Old One, she had another think coming.
At that point in her journey, the Queen of Shadows stopped to open a creaky little door in a cobwebby alcove and
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