Free Mother of Lies by Dave Duncan Page A

ancients. The boat was their home and the heap of bales and boxes amidships their worldly wealth. By custom, the passengers sat in the bow and the crew stayed huddled in the stern, swathed in red or brown burnooses, chattering in their strange singsong.
    The rain had stopped just as Free Spirit left the Wrogg and proceeded up a tributary, the Little Stony. Now the world was steaming in watery sunshine and a ramshackle ferry dock had come into view ahead. The banks were marshy and the surrounding woods scrubby, but to the southeast the dramatic cone of Mount Varakats shone hugely white against a sky of midnight blue.
    Fabia was seated on the port shelf next to Horth Wigson, almost touching knees with lady Ingeld opposite. Ingeld was between Flankleader Guthlag and Benard, who presently had his arm around her quite shamelessly. She was being as charming as ever, but she hadn’t eaten anything all morning. Had her idiot brother gotten her with child?
    No one was saying much, as they were all lost in their worries. They all knew that Saltaja and Therek could not be written off yet, and Ingeld insisted that Horold was pursuing her upriver, so Hrag jaws might yet close on the fugitives. Orlad had been condemned to die today and might already be dead. Dantio had stayed behind in Tryfors to watch what happened—Witnesses were notoriously nosey people, he admitted, but he would be in no danger because no one could sneak up on a seer. And somewhere there were the mysterious rebels, poised to strike at Tryfors.
    Apart from their common concerns, they all had their own worries. Fabia and Dantio wanted to return to Celebre, but the pass might be closed already. Benard was being evasive about going to Florengia, because he could not leave Ingeld. Fabia did not want to abandon Horth, who was much dearer to her than the true father she could not remember. Ingeld must be worrying about Cutrath, on his way to a war that now seemed to be lost.
    “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