Mother of Lies by Dave Duncan

of her good standing with the Mother.
    Those accursed Celebrians! Paola Apicella, Fabia’s wet nurse, had killed Karvak. Now Saltaja had lost a second brother because of those same iniquitous hostages. They were everywhere, like vermin. Benard Celebre had somehow released Fabia from her cell. Orlad Celebre had murdered Therek. Saltaja had always had doubts about the death of the eldest, Dantio. The Witnesses insisted he was dead, but she had never seen his body. Even the Old One, Who certainly knew the dead, had never given her a clear account of what had happened to him.
    Meanwhile, who should she appoint as replacement hostleader?
    “Fetch Huntleader Fellard,” she told Brarag. “And who are the other … What did you just say?” She had not been listening. Why were they both looking so terrified?
    “I said you must flee, my lady!” Ern shouted. “They’re saying …” he gulped nervously. “… saying terrible things about you, my lady! They’re talking about …” He peered over his shoulder at the closed door.
    Saltaja could guess what They were talking about, whoever They were. They were talking about her being a chthonian, about safety in numbers, about coming to get her. They were talking about burial facedown in the cold earth. That was what they did to Chosen—no trial, no testimony by Witnesses of Mayn, no divine judgment from Speakers of Demern, no delay. All her life, almost, she’d had Werist brothers around to defend her, if not the terrible Hrag himself. She shivered—because she was frightened, not because she was smeared with mud and blood under rain-soaked clothes. All her great powers could not stop a mob.
    “Fetch Huntleader Fellard! At once! At once!”
    He came so quickly that he must have been very close. His earlier nonchalance was gone, and it was clear that Fellard had not had an easy morning. He had cleaned himself, yet he still smelled of blood and his face twitched with discordant emotions—hatred for what she had made him do, shame that he had done it, the overwhelming compulsion to please her that she had imposed on him … and fear. Incredibly, Fellard was afraid of something. A man in command of five packs of Werists, four sixty, afraid ?
    She stood by the window, the light at her back. “I understand my brother has been slain?”
    “Apparently so, my lady.” He did not care.
    “It will be necessary to appoint a replacement—subject to the blood-lord’s confirmation in due course. Who are the Huntleaders in Therek’s Host, apart from yourself?”
    Fellard put his fists on his hips and stared at her with what seemed to be disbelief. “Karrthin of Tryfors Hunt, Heth up at Nardalborg. My lady.”
    “Only three?”
    “That’s all we have. The Cullavi Hunt and the Fiends were disbanded, and the men sent over the Edge. I believe Nardalborg Hunt is at full strength, but I’m down to two sixty, and Tryfors has three. That was before this morning, you understand.” Shame blazed up in his face. “Several sixty in transit are billeted at Nardalborg, but those men are not truly under Heth’s command.”
    Therek had whined about being under strength and she hadn’t listened. The unknown deserter horde must outnumber the forces in Tryfors handily, and she had sacrificed fifteen men to the Mother. Wait a moment!—
    “Did you say ‘Heth’?”
    “Heth Hethson, my lady.”
    “And who was his father, really?”
    Fellard looked puzzled. “Gossip says the satrap, my lady.”
    Mother of Death! Heth was quite a common name. She had been thinking of Therek’s missing bastard as a child, but she must have presumed wrong. Therek had been slyer than she thought. He would have given Nardalborg to his most trusted deputy. The family still controlled the pass!
    And shaping worked best on blood relatives.
    “Heth’s work at Nardalborg is too important to interrupt. Bring me this Karrthin.”
    Fellard chewed his lip. “He’s not here. I’m told he drove out to inspect his herds.