Mother of Lies by Dave Duncan Page A

His mistress, more likely. Runners are on the way to him.”
    “And what will happen when he returns?”
    “It will be interesting.” Now his fear made more sense.
    So men of the Fist’s Own Hunt, on her orders, had slaughtered men belonging to Tryfors Hunt, which outnumbered it handily. Revenge was a powerful motive in itself, but ambition always came first with the Heroes, and there was a promotion to be claimed. Small wonder Fellard was nervous, facing an unequal battle with his troops already made restive by the massacre.
    “Karrthin will naturally accuse you of arranging my brother’s death because you were here, and you will accuse him because he was not. Is there any evidence who did do it?” Not that evidence would matter.
    “The witnesses reported discarded orange-green-red palls.”
    Yesterday Orlad Celebre had been wearing orange-green-red: orange for Therek and green for Nardalborg. So Heth was prime suspect in the murder of his father. Did Heth know who his father was? Fellard had known of Therek’s plans for Orlad—had Heth? Had he deliberately set a countertrap? Or had it been a horrible misunderstanding?
    She said, “At the moment you have effective control of the city. Under the circumstances, you had best arrange to have Huntleader Karrthin met on his return, preferably at a narrow place on the trail with poor visibility.”
    “You think his packleaders are so stupid they would stand aside and let me try?” Fellard’s face twisted in torment. “My lady, there is a lynch mob brewing!”
    She knew she was not disguising her own fear as well as should, so she flaunted it in poor-little-woman mode. “But you will protect me!”
    That was an order. “I will try, my lady. They’re talking of digging a grave in the herb garden and throwing you in it.” Facedown, of course.
    Rumors about her being a Chosen had seethed for years. Yesterday she had suggested the pain-of-death order; today she had made Fellard carry out the execution. Sometimes a mob got things right. She shuddered. Fear was a new and strange experience for her, although she had always found it amusing in others. She was surprised how much it muddled her thinking, like trying to run in deep mud.
    “If I appoint Karrthin as the new—”
    “Lady, anyone you appoint to anything will die very soon.”
    “Then explain how you will defend me.”
    “We must flee, my lady. I’ll send men to seize all the boats they can, and we’ll head off downstream before Karrthin returns.”
    No! That felt impossibly wrong. She would be fleeing inward, away from the Edge, abandoning Stralg. The rebels would close the pass, divide the Children of Hrag. “Let me think!” she barked, and began to pace. There was something not right about this. She needed to sleep on it to obtain the Old One’s guidance. Impossible at the moment, of course.
    The lynch mob was the most urgent, but blood would be shed over Therek’s disputed succession, an army of deserters was waiting to pounce, and the Florengian war effort must be sustained somehow.
    Therek, Orlad, Fellard, Karrthin, Hethson, Orlad, deserters, Nardalborg, Fabia, Orlad—
    Rain! That was what was wrong. Heth could have planned Orlad’s rescue, but not the satrap’s death, which had been caused by the rain. Without rain, Therek would have watched the murder from the safety of his tower.
    Heth commanded the largest hunt and Nardalborg controlled the road to the Edge. If she could Shape Heth, she might bring some order to the situation yet. Fellard was fidgeting, repeatedly shooting nervous glances at the door.
    “You will escort me to Nardalborg,” she said.
    “But—” Fellard turned to the window. The rain had stopped. “There will be fresh snow up—”
    “Don’t argue. We leave at once.”
    He bowed hastily and turned.
    “Wait! I need more guards on these rooms. And do you know a girl called Puss?”
    “I think there’s a kitchen maid by that name.”
    “Send her to me. And on your