“As a matter of fact,” Ulvana admitted, “I do have a lodge on the edge of the woods. You can see it from here.”

Aloê could not see it from there, in the dim light that was leaving the world as they spoke. But she followed Ulvana’s lead, both women leading their horses, and they soon came in sight of a round bark-covered lodge. There was no open garth, but there was a neat little horse barn in back.

Ulvana seemed less happy with the food in this lodge, but Aloê didn’t care. The thought of squeezing more mass into her flesh was disgusting to her. She just drank some water from her bottle and staggered off to fall in the nearest bed.

And after a moment leapt out of it cursing. “Chaos bite me on both elbows!”

“What is it?” Ulvana asked, quite concerned.

The bed was polluted with the same greasy musk that had haunted her last night. Did every lumberjack in Easthold use the filthy stuff?

“Not worry,” she said incoherently to Ulvana, and staggered off to another bed.

This, fortunately, only smelled like the sweat of a thousand dead pigs. She drifted off to dreams of murder—one murder after another, all of them committed by a cunning pig in quest of vengeance for the invention of bacon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Among the Vraids

The dark, spiralling towers of the castle glittered with the force-wefts that held their stones in place. Moving over them, pointing out various features of defense or offense, was Ambrosia’s long-fingered hand. Its shadow fell on the blue brightstone trail meant to represent the River Tilion. Ambrosia leaned over the castle in her enthusiasm and invited Morlock to look at details in the courtyard.

But Morlock was stuck on a broader issue. “Is there an island in the river where you’re planning to build this?”

“It’s worse than that—much worse! There isn’t even a river. We’ll have to divert it after we dig a decent port some distance away from the Old City of Ontil.”

“What will you call the new city?”

“Ontil, obviously, Morlock. Don’t be so dense. We will get people to accept this new empire by pretending it is the old one returned.”

“Which it will not be.”

“Obviously not. Obviously not. We wouldn’t want any follies like the Ontilians committed in the Fimbar Dynasty.”

“Er.”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Honestly, brother. You people in the Wardlands never study any history but your own, and since you don’t really have any history. . . . What do you do with your time, again?”

“We enjoy dancing and other amusements.”

“I’ll bet you do. I’ll just bet you do. Go choke on your own elbow, you supercilious son-of-a-bitch, or at least give me some advice on the supports for these walls.”

“Eh.” Morlock looked at the model again. “I’ve never constructed something on that scale. There’s nothing like it in the Wardlands. I’d want Vetr’s opinion: he’s a good builder; it was his mastery before Oldfather Tyr died.”

“It’ll be something new then.”

“Everything in your empire will be new. Except the name.”

“And it won’t be my empire. These fat-headed Vraids won’t accept a woman ruling in her own name.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t grunt at me. Do not do that. I’m warning you for the last time.”

Morlock grunted dubiously and then went so far as to add, “But you seem to be ruling it now, while this Lathmar the Old occupies himself with breeding heirs.”

“People tolerate that because it will all come to end when Uthar becomes king. Whichever Uthar it is.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“You’re not stupid enough, is the problem. If you were it would be obvious that the King of the Vraids must be named Lathmar Utharson or Uthar Lathmarson.”

“It must make their history confusing.”

“They don’t really have history, either—just chronicles and myths.”

“In the future, they will have a history.”

“Yes.”

“And it will be of the Second Ontilian Empire—not the Kingdom of the Vraids.”

“Yes.”

“Why not an Empress Ambrosia then?”

“Stop mocking me, Morlock. The fact that you’re the only one who would dare do it does not mean that you get to do it all the time.”

Morlock held out his hands and opened them. “I’m not mocking you. I’m saying the future is not the past. That’s all.”

“All right, then. Now that I’ve showed you my toy, tell me about this dragon business again. I don’t think I like it.”

Morlock told it to her again.

“Good fortune to you, Prince Uthar. I’m here with Prince Uthar to see Prince Uthar. Could you send Prince Uthar to ask Prince Uthar where Prince Uthar might be?”

“Which Prince Uthar?” asked Prince Uthar.

“Well, there you have me, I’m afraid,” Deor admitted. “This lad and me are supposed to see the Prince Uthar in charge around here. The Regent requires it.”

“Oh,” said the Prince Uthar who was lounging behind the table. “That’ll be Uthar-Null Landron.” He turned to a young boy in a gold-worked tunic standing by the door of the booth. “Prince Uthar—”

Kelat drew his stabbing spear. “The next man or dwarf that says the name ‘Uthar’ will get this spearblade through his nose. And it you think I’m joking, remember what happened to Magister Harbim.”

The atmosphere in the tent grew perceptibly chillier. The Uthar behind the table lounged more stiffly, at any rate, and glared at Kelat. The Utharling at the door suppressed a snorted laugh.

“You don’t take your heritage seriously enough, young Pr—Kelat,” the Uthar behind the table said sternly. “You there—Glennit. Quit your giggling and find out where Landron is. If he can’t come here, come back here and lead these . . . these two back to him. Regent’s orders.”

“As the Regent commands!” shouted Glennit enthusiastically, and ran like a shurgit out of the booth into the dim day.

“What happened to Harbim?” Deor asked, when the silence became uncomfortable—which was right away.

“He could tell you himself,” said the Uthar behind the table grimly, “if your friend there hadn’t broken his jaw.”

Kelat sheathed his sword and looked ashamed and angry.

“Never mind it, my friend,” Deor said. “I bet it was a rotten jaw that deserved breaking.”

“I don’t know,” Kelat said guiltily. “He was always riding me about something. Saying I wasn’t good enough to be the next King of the Vraids. As if anyone ever said that was going to happen.”

“How many of you are there, anyway?”

“Too many.”

“Three hundred and fifty and three,” said table-Uthar proudly, “as of this morning, when the King’s ninth alternate wife gave birth to a son.”

From the crazy look in Kelat’s eyes, they were about to see the color of his spearblade again. Deor silently said a prayer to Oldfather Tyr for something to calm down the young man or at least distract him. Then he readied himself to tackle Kelat if he drew his weapon again. Prayer was all right, but Deor strongly believed that Those-Who-Watch helped those who helped themselves.

A new shape darkened the doorway of the booth: a very tall man, broad-shouldered, his back straight, and with a majestic mane of gray hair and a beard to match. Deor took beards seriously, and he felt immediately that this was a man to respect.

“My boy!” cried the old man and rushed in. “I heard you were back! We were so worried about you, your mother and I.”

“You don’t even remember my name. Or my mother.”

“Your name’s Uthar, of course. And you mother was Kyllia—is Kyllia. We had a late supper just last month. A very late supper! I think we understand each other, oh? Oh? Oh?”

“I understand you perfectly, sire.”

“She’s as fertile a cow as any I’ve put in kindle. How many of you are there? Seven?”

“Five brothers and four sisters, sire.”