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  "I'm hungry. Haven't eaten all day!"

  Jasbur shrieked in derision. "All day? It's barely dawn! You mean you didn't eat all day yesterday!"

  "And I'm still hungry."

  "Who's fault is that? You're supposed to be a beggar, but you look so bad you give children hysterics. Women set their dogs on us because of your ugly face."

  "You too!"

  "Half the people in this town don't eat. It was your idea to come to Tolamin and it was a stupid idea."

  Ordur didn't think it had been his idea, but he wasn't going to argue with Jasbur today. Maybe tomorrow would be better. "You eaten today?"

  "No, nor yesterday neither!"

  "Don't like this town," Ordur announced. "It smells."

  "Curd brain! It's all the burned buildings. It was sacked, you numskull."

  As if to emphasize the point, a ruined shell of a house farther up the hill collapsed out into the street in a cascade of bricks and charred timbers. Dust flew up in black clouds. People screamed.

  "There!" Jasbur cackled. "Months it's been standing, and it falls down now. I tell you, there's somebody influencing!"

  "Who?"

  "How should I know?"

  Lightning flashed, and thunder cracked almost overhead. Ordur jumped. "Oughta get out of here!"

  "Naw. Thunder at this time of day? How often d'you see that?"

  "Don't see thunder, Jasbur. See lightning. Hear thunder."

  "Bah! There's an Ogoalscath around here somewhere. Let's find him." Jasbur hobbled off down the hill on bandy legs.

  Ordur strode after him. "Why? How'd yu know he's this way?"

  "I don't, but he will be, you'll see."

  Surely wise people would go away from an Ogoalscath, not toward him? But if Jasbur said to go this way, then Ordur would have to. Jasbur wasn't being very nice to him just now, but he did seem to be the smart one. He said he was, so it must be true.

  Lightning flashed again, thunder rumbled, rain began to fall in grape-sized drops.

  4

  Emerging from the trees at the brow of the hill, Bulion Tharn turned off the path and reined in Thunder, so he could gaze back over the vale. He was certain he was taking a last look, but he would not admit that, even to himself. He could feel the others exchanging glances as they rode up to join him, but they would not dare comment—they knew he always did this. To make his usual inspection was normal, to ride on without it would be an admission of defeat.

  Pain hammered hot nails in his jaw. The morning air was cold on his fevered face. Some of the men had doffed their smocks already and seemed content enough in their breeches, whereas he was still swathed in a heavy wool cloak and struggling not to let his shivering show.

  From here he could see all of Tharn Valley—cattle on the hills, hay, crops, orchards, buildings, stockade. From this very spot he had seen it the first time, as a child at his father's side.

  "This should do," his father had said, and tousled his hair. "Think you can conquer this place for us, young un?"

  The women had laughed, and probably Mogion and Thilion had laughed too, although he could not recall if his brothers had been close enough to hear. He knew the women's laughter had annoyed him, so he had shouted and gone running ahead down the slope, waving his boy-size spear. He had been the first Tharn to enter the vale. Ever since that moment, there had been Tharns in Tharn Valley. Last night, kept awake by the pain, he had tried to tally them in his head, but had not been able to remember them all. He knew the total well enough, though. Including wives and husbands brought in from outside, there were three hundred twenty-six.

  Truth be told, he could not see the valley as well now as he could still see it in his memory. The bright sun of summer trailed cloud shadows over the hills and the unripe grain. It flashed on the pools of the stream. But to make out people down there was quite beyond his aging eyes; even the cattle he could not be sure of.

  He could call it all to mind, though: the barns, the workshops, the water mill, the neat circles of houses, the few stone buildings still standing, but fitted now with new thatch to replace the fallen tile roofs. The unfinished fort.

  Half a century ago, it had been different. It had not been Tharn Valley then—just broken fences, stumps of fruit trees, a ruined villa dating from imperial times, a few more recent farm buildings in even worse decay, and the buried remains of a castle dating from before the empire. Even now, children found rusty swords and armor in the long grass. War, the curse of Muol, had rolled to and fro over the land, squeezing the people out like juice from a press. The vale had been lying there for the taking.

  So Gamion Tharn had taken it, for himself and his three sons, and now Gamion's great-great-grandchildren were playing down there under their mothers' watchful eyes. How they would scream and rush away in terror if they could see that long-dead Zardon stalking in upon them! He had been born in Kuolia, and his father before him too, but they had still been Zarda warriors, and thus on reaching manhood they had mutilated their faces to strike terror into their foes.

  Gamion had decided to become civilized, to harness his warhorse to a plow. He had done so in full measure. In Tharn Valley he had taken to wearing real clothes instead of an animal skin. He had forbidden his sons to cut off their noses when they came of age, forbidden them to collect enemies' genitalia as trophies, forbidden them to go raping and pillaging the neighbors.

  The last of those sons was now an aging, fat old farmer dying of a bad tooth. He was the son of a Zardon warrior, and he had never killed a man in his life. Would the reformed savage have appreciated that as his epitaph?

  The fates had collaborated, of course. All Bulion's life, they had kept war and pestilence and famine away from Tharn Valley. Their benevolence could not last much longer. Tolamin had fallen. Trouble was brewing. There would never be a good time to die, but this time might be better than most.

  The cold was making his eyes water. He turned to Brankion, sitting patiently at his side, knowing it was Brankion from the color of his horse. He blinked until he could make out his son's worried face.

  "As soon as the hay's in, you must get them working on the fort again. I know it's hot, but a few hours every morning will keep it growing."

  Pause. Brankion always seemed to count to ten before he spoke.

  "We'll be back before the hay's in, Father."

  Bulion would not be back, and they both knew it. "I told you you're not coming. I told you who is." Fates, but he couldn't speak above a mumble! He stared around angrily. He had detailed fifteen—more than enough, more than he ought to be taking. At least a dozen others had attached themselves, and they had all brought bedrolls and saddlebags. If the accursed agony in his jaw had not been driving him crazy, he'd have noticed sooner. "You think I'm going to sack the city? Think I need an army?"

  "No, Father. But..." Brankion wasn't head of the clan yet, and he knew it. He tried again, his heavy, weather-beaten face screwed up as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. "Father. Leave the women! You'll go faster without them."

  There was gray in Brankion's beard and his chest hair was white. He had always been solid; age was making him torpid. Even my sons are growing old! He wasn't head of the clan yet, but he would be in a couple of days—if the others would accept him. Zanion might rally a lot of support. Himion thought the position was his by right of seniority—which was why Bulion was taking Himion along on the trip, of course. Maybe Bulion should nominate a successor before he left, but to do so would be to admit more than he was willing to admit, just because of an accursed tooth. No! He'd never chosen an heir, and he wouldn't now. Only fools made decisions they could not enforce.

  But a lesson in tactics... Not that, either. If Brankion couldn't see such things for himself, he had brothers and cousins who would soon do his thinking for him. The reason for taking the women was to make this seem like a normal Tharn Valley excursion to the city, an outing that happened every three or four weeks, but hadn't for a long time because of the star sic
kness in Daling in the spring—an outing that was therefore long overdue. Sometimes they drove livestock to the market, sometimes they just went shopping. Bulion Tharn scurrying off to a surgeon with only a few armed men would start a lot of head scratching in the countryside. Trouble was coming. That was certain. His death might be the spark to set the land ablaze. He wouldn't admit to thinking of that. So the women were camouflage. Besides, he couldn't out-ride a pregnant cow right now; every jerk and jar was a torment.

  "Chance for them to buy supplies, of course. Don't forget to post guards at night."

  That was another sign of trouble. Ever since Tolamin was sacked, there had been reports of marauders loose in the countryside. A family had been murdered in their beds just outside Wideford less than a month ago.

  He glanced around, noting who was within earshot.

  His gaze settled on a stringy youth astride a piebald pony two hands too short for him. He was hatless, his dark hair standing up like young corn. His fuzzy cheeks glinted in the sun, and his eyes were tortured with hope. He had brought a blanket and saddlebags—and even a sword.

  "Humph!" Bulion said, a twinge of something like amusement cutting through the fire of his jaw. "Maybe Polion, too." Should have thought of him.

  "Why him?"

  "He has a duty to perform."

  Brankion grunted with surprise and frowned at his son. "What duty?"

  "Making me more great-grandchildren of course."

  Polion blushed scarlet with delight. The onlookers laughed uproariously. Bulion tried to smile and pain brought sweat spurting from his skin.

  "Need a wife for that one. He's been getting too accursed cozy with Meilim in the hay. Inbreeding's bad for the stock; you know that."

  Now the onlookers hooted knowingly. Young Polion shrank, guilt flaming all over him as he glanced in the direction of Zanion, Meilim's father.

  "Give him your horse, Sasion," Bulion said. "He'll end up carrying that one." More laughter, rather forced. Time to go. Brankion again: "Keep those walls growing!"

  Brankion's leathery face puckered like a child's. "I'll have 'em an ell higher by the time you come back, Father," he said harshly.

  He might as well promise three ells, or a league. What did a man say now? "You're in charge while I'm gone?" Or, "Be guided by Zanion?" No. Anything like that would be a farewell and Bulion Tharn was not going to admit defeat until he was cold. He turned away from Brankion, taking a last quick glance at the valley.

  "I'll hold you to it. Look for us in a week."

  Polion and Sasion were busily exchanging mounts and gear.

  Bulion wheeled Thunder and rode off along the trail.

  5

  By the time Jasbur reached the waterfront, rain was falling in barrelfuls, accompanied by sleet, lightning, thunder, and a baby hurricane. So much for dawn on a summer morning! All on its own, such freakish weather suggested Ogoalscath influencing. Combined with the runaway wagon and the collapsing house, it left no doubt at all in his mind. Ogoalscaths were unnerving. Anything could happen around a Cursed of Ogoal, for Ogoal was bringer of fortune, good or bad. There could be danger, therefore. There could also be opportunity.

  Trusting that Ordur had enough wits to stay close to him, although that was by no means certain, Jasbur pushed his way through the rain, wrestling the wind aside by brute force. Water streamed in his eyes, his teeth were chattering. The rags he wore were useless; he might as well be bathing naked in ice water. This was crazy! This was well beyond the call of duty. He fought to a standstill as the wind ducked around behind him and tried to hurl him off the wharf, into the cold khaki flood of the Flugoss. Boats bobbed and rocked at their moorings, ropes groaning. Visibility was negligible.

  Suddenly the wind let go. Jasbur staggered backward into Ordur. Ordur failed to catch him. The wind neatly reversed direction and sent him sprawling headlong in the cold, muddy street.

  Ordur blinked in surprise. "Whatcha doin' down there, Jasbur?"

  "Drain-brain! Moss-wits! Help me up, you wall-eyed toad!"

  "You too!" Ordur hauled him to his feet.

  "Now let's get out of this storm so I can think!"

  The storm cooperated, with all the eager friendliness of a yearling bull. An empty barrel came rumbling out of the curtains of rain. It bore down purposefully on Ordur and bowled his legs out from under him while he still had hold of Jasbur's arm. Jasbur was hurled sideways like a stone from a sling. Suddenly there was no world under his feet.

  He dropped about a span, sprawling on a heap of wet straw. While not exactly soft, it broke his fall more gently than the wooden deck would have done. The barrel exploded nearby in a shower of staves.

  He caught his breath, then raised his head warily to see what impossibility was coming next. He noted he had just boarded a barge tied up alongside the wharf. The wind was considerably less violent than it had been up at street level. In consequence there even seemed to be less rain, although dirty torrents of water were streaming down from the road, much of it falling on him.

  River craft were long, ungainly vessels, shaped more like boxes than boats. Most had a single mast, set well forward, to maintain steerage way when going downriver. Oxen on a towpath pulled them upstream, so they usually carried their own oxen. There were none present at the moment, but the state of the deck nearby told him that they had been present recently. The straw would be for them.

  To his left was a rail; to his right a cabin wall, with a door in it. The woodwork was scrolled and carved, bearing faint traces of the bright colors it had sported in its heyday. River craft this size were invariably very old, dating from imperial times. Nobody built them any more. How sound could its timbers be after all these years? With an Ogoalscath using influence, no timbers were reliable. Jasbur heaved himself painfully to his knees, planning to return to dry land as soon as possible. Surely someone would have heard his arrival and would soon come to investigate. Then he wondered if there might be something to eat here...

  The cabin door opened. He took one look at the woman standing there, and instantly his desire to disembark became much more urgent. Discomfiture became open fear.

  It was Labranza Lamith herself. Labranza was an Ogoalscath, which explained why he had been brought here, but she was also president of the council at Raragash, and quite the most intimidating woman he had ever met. Most of the time she frightened him; the rest of the time she scared him witless.

  For a moment he wondered if she could have come to Tolamin to check up on him, but he dismissed the thought at once. He was not nearly important enough to drag Labranza away from Raragash. She had sent him here with Ordur, but their mission was far too trivial to involve the president herself. So his best course of action was to give her a very wide berth and ever afterward deny having seen her.

  He knew her, but she could not know him. The one advantage of being an Awailscath was not being recognized.

  "Beg pardon, Saj!" he bleated, struggling to his feet. "Just fell off the wharf. I'm going, I'm going!"

  Labranza frowned. She was very large—taller than he was at the moment, and bulky in a very masculine way. Her age was indeterminate, for there was no gray in the thick black hair neatly coiled on top of her head, but her hard, solid face was wrinkled around the eyes and mouth. She wore a full-length silvery gown, a Nurthian garment that did not belong here in Da Lam. It was barely moving, as if the wind did not affect her.

  Before she could speak, Ordur peered down from the road and bellowed, "Whatcha doin' down there, Jasbur?"

  Labranza raised thick black eyebrows. "Jasbur?" She pursed her lips in distaste. She looked up at Ordur and blinked disbelievingly. "And I suppose that's Ordur? My sympathies! Well, come in here, both of you." She turned away, never doubting they would obey her.

  Thunder roared overhead.

  #

  The cabin was large and low. It was also dim, the rows of ports along both sides being covered with glass too grimy to admit more than a vague daylight. It smelled of milde
w, oxen, people, old cooking. The carpet was scruffy, a row of chests lined each side. Labranza's carefully coiffured hair almost touched the roof.

  Ordur limped in and the wind blew the door shut behind him Then he just stood in silence close to Jasbur, and they both dripped on the rug. Ordur was having a very bad transition. His face was badly lopsided, with lank blond hair plastered over a blue eye on the right side. On the other side he had a dark eye and tightly curled black hair. Nothing else matched; his nose was not remotely symmetrical.

  Labranza regarded him with more disgust than pity. "You'll catch your deaths standing there. There may be towels in one of these boxes, certainly something you can dry yourselves with, probably clothes too. Get those wet rags off."

  The two men glanced at each other uneasily.

  "Fates!" Labranza boomed in her most imperious manner. "You're the last ones who should worry about that! Do you think I've never seen naked men before? Don't be ridiculous." Nevertheless, she stalked over to the river side to rub a clear spot on a port and peer out.

  Jasbur stripped with relief. He advanced cautiously to the nearest chest. There was no telling what he would find in there with an Ogoalscath at work—a box of deadly snakes would not surprise him. He threw the lid open and jumped back quickly.

  "Food!" Ordur yelled, rushing past him. The chest was half full of hard biscuit. The two men fell on their knees and began to eat greedily, their wetness and nudity forgotten.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The ovation of rain on the roof slackened abruptly.

  "This weather is your doing, Labranza Saj?" Jasbur mumbled with his mouth full.

  "Some of it," she said coldly. "I probably started it, but you flatter me if you think I could do so much without help. There must be at least one other Ogoalscath out there, probably several. They sensed my influence at work and reacted with their own."