Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  "My lord is kind." Amazingly so.

  "All Florengians are artists, not fighters. That was what we were told. You suppose my brother still believes that?" The piggy eyes glinted dangerously.

  "My lord, I am ignorant of such matters." The Florengian war was far away and what Bloodlord Stralg believed was of no interest to Benard.

  "A hostage should keep himself better informed. Well, what do you want?"

  That was what a sixty of much worthier petitioners were wondering.

  "My lord is aware," Benard said, this being the formula for I'm sure you don't know, "that his lowly servant has been contracted to supply statues of the Bright Ones for the new Pantheon."

  "I know the priests talked me out of a wagonload of gold for some useless project." The satrap clicked claws impatiently on the arm of his throne. "What of it?"

  "Holy Weru, lord. As my lord is the light of Weru on Kosord, I had hoped he would give his slave direction on how the majestic Weru should be portrayed. I presumed to bring a sketch... lord..."

  He gestured to the herald who had taken his board from him. The man approached and knelt to show it to the beast on the throne. Satrap Horold, with his snout and tusks and evil little piggy eyes, looked down at the godlike face he had possessed fifteen years ago.

  He grunted. Then he beckoned Benard to rise and approach the throne. This was a signal honor, but it involved no small danger. As Guthlag had hinted, Horold might decide he was being mocked and disembowel Benard with one slash of his paw.

  "When did you do this?" he asked, in a low, slurred growl. He had trouble speaking below a bellow.

  "This morning, lord."

  The ancient throne of Kosord was not an especially high seat, yet Benard had to look up to see the giant's tusks, and it was an effort not to pull faces at his rank animal stench.

  "From memory?"

  "Yes, lord."

  "Incredible."

  "My lord is kind."

  "Describe this new Pantheon."

  "My lord, the gods will stand above their respective shrines ..." Life-size freestanding statuary was a new art form, an idea imported from Florengia. Before the war, Vigaelian artists had rarely ventured beyond bas-relief or faience figurines. Since man-size statues could not be packed over the Edge, artists like Odok and now Benard were working from sketches and making up the rest as they went along. They could follow old traditions or flaunt them almost at will.

  "How big are these figures?"

  "The priests wanted human—I mean—life size, my lord." Sweat, fool!

  "And wearing what?"

  "Whatever tradition and the priests require, lord." Benard must be careful not to get carried away in describing this wonder he was to create. A man must keep all his wits about him when dealing with a despot. "With appropriate attributes. Some clothed ... some not."

  "What will Weru be wearing?"

  "Whatever my lord directs."

  "Then show Weru unclothed."

  "My lord is kind."

  While Benard considered how to ask for an edict of protection while he worked without mentioning Cutrath, the satrap forestalled him.

  "Give him a sword—but no collar for a god, of course." The monster's jowls distorted in what might have been a smile. A long black tongue came out and washed his tusks. He snuffled. "You have given me grave offense in the past, little Bena. What misdeeds have you been up to now that you suddenly seek my favor?"

  There was no possibility of lying in the presence of a Witness. Benard found enough saliva to whisper, "Uh. My lord's most miserable slave, while drunk, used... er... insulting language to my lord's glorious son, the magnificent warrior Cutrath Horoldson, and now fears for his life... my lord."

  The monster chuckled and scratched a hairy ear with a curved talon. "I should hope so. That's all?"

  "May it please my lord."

  "Seer?"

  The white-shrouded Witness glided closer without interrupting her spinning. "Lord?"

  "What really happened?"

  "My lord!" Benard wailed. Not here!

  "Silence!" snarled the satrap.

  "The artist challenged your son to a fight over a woman and knocked him out cold, lord."

  Seers did not whisper. All the court heard.

  It held its collective breath.

  Horold snuffled. He opened and closed a fist a few times; the long black claws seemed to extrude farther. "My son?" he croaked. "This trash did? When?"

  "Just before dawn."

  "Who saw this?"

  "The woman, and two warriors of Cutrath's flank."

  Benard waited to die. The satrap's own questions had exposed both himself and the heir he had so recently honored to utter ridicule. A Werist's normal reaction to such insult would be lightning homicide, and Horold was visibly trembling with the effort needed to maintain control. But such public violence would make matters even worse, showing how deeply he had wounded himself. His piggy eyes scanned the appalled court, seeking any hint of a smirk or a snigger. He released a long breath ...

  "Well, that is most interesting! Where is my son now?"

  "Up in the gallery near the west stair, my lord." The seer stopped her spinning long enough to wind the thread up on the spindle.

  "Herald, call for Cutrath Horoldson."

  Benard wondered why his jangling emotions had not knocked the seer flat on her back by now. Was Horold going to let Cutrath perform the execution? With his teeth ...

  "Artist!"

  "My lord?"

  "Weru is patron god of Kosord. You will make the Terrible One twice as tall as any of the others. More than twice."

  But my contract with the priests ... "My lord is kind. Alas, the marble..."

  "What of the marble?" The satrap's roar echoed. The congregation shimmered back a pace, but Benard could do nothing but sweat faster.

  "The blocks are already cut or on order, my lord. And the difficulties of transporting so large a block, and of finding a large enough slab which is not marked by unsightly veins of mineralization—"

  "Scribe, record that the hostage Benard is to be supplied with transportation to our marble quarry and all the help he needs to cut the block he selects and transport it back to Kosord, all at our expense. Advise the guard that his parole is extended to permit this. Give him coppers to ..." The black lips curled again. "No, not our little Bena! I'll send someone more responsible along to take care of the expenses."

  "My lord is kind!" This was better than anything Benard could have dreamed of! A journey to the quarry could probably be spun out indefinitely. Cutrath would have to wait.

  "Your escort can also make sure you find your way home safely. Herald, return that sketch to him when he leaves." Evil porcine eyes studied Benard for a moment. "Take it to our wife. Let her have it as a keepsake. Ah, my misbegotten excuse for a warrior son approaches."

  Not having been summoned as "Warrior Horoldson," Cutrath was creeping forward like a civilian.

  "You may rise," his father said.

  "My lord is kind." Cutrath sat back on his heels and stared agonizing death at Benard.

  "Always," the satrap growled. "You pride yourself on your manly physique, do you not?"

  "My lord is—"

  "Answer!"

  Cutrath choked, as if he were about to vomit from sheer rage. "I believe I am not unworthy of my noble ancestry, my lord."

  "Girls tell you how handsome and strong you are?"

  "Some do, my lord."

  "How many, exactly?"

  "Um ... Two?" Cutrath whispered, eyeing the seer uneasily.

  "Have any ever called you a useless runt?" Horold roared.

  His son shuddered and seemed to shrink. "None, my lord."

  "They should be more perceptive. Our artist hostage here needs a model for his portrayal of holy Weru. You will pose for Benard. As often and as long as he requires. Nude! Scribe, record this edict. Record, also, that the artist remains under my mercy. This forbiddance applies to all members of our
host. There will be no inexplicable accidents, Cutrath! No beatings in dark alleys."

  "My lord is kind." He was white to the lips.

  "You think so? You have disgraced all the Heroes of Kosord. Report to Huntleader Kwirarlson for punishment and beg him not to demean you further with any show of clemency. Scribe, we are indebted to the hostage Benard Celebre for exposing the worthlessness of our son." Horold tugged off one of his gold armbands. "Record also that we give him this ring as a token of our favor. Next case."

  The entire court exploded in roars of approval as the smarmy courtiers cheered the satrap's leniency and wonderful generosity. They quite drowned out Benard's astonished thanks. He bowed and backed away from the throne, wondering what in the world he was supposed to do with a slab of gold.

  seven

  FRENA WIGSON

  knew there was something wrong the moment she swept into the mansion. Servants bowed to her or knelt, depending on rank; they smiled, or looked shocked if they saw the cut on her shoulder. But there was something wrong. Master Trinvar, the steward, was hastily summoned to proclaim a formal welcome.

  She thanked him. "Inform the master that I have returned. Tell Inga I want a hot bath right away. Has Plumna had her baby yet? Have my jewel cases brought from the vaults. I trust my rooms have been cleaned and aired? Swordsman Uls has broken his arm. Verk will bring him to the Chatter Place Sinurists for healing tomorrow, so pray dispatch a generous gift to them. I shall want music this evening. Verk still has my chariot, but inform the stable master that the left wheel is slightly off-true. Are the extensions to the servant quarters finished yet?"

  Her queries answered, she hurried up to her rooms. Horth had broken with the Skjaran tradition of building in wood. The Wigson mansion was of stone, faced with tile, marble, and mosaic, shimmering inside and out. He never stopped enlarging, decorating, and furnishing with art. New things of beauty were displayed in prominent places, but after a few thirties they would be ousted by even newer prizes and moved to less public sites. When they were in danger of sinking to the servants' quarters, he would resell them. He boasted that he never lost on such trading, although it was the merest hobby.

  Several life-size carvings in ebony had been added to the main staircase since Frena left, and she made a note to admire them in detail when she had a moment. She was not surprised to discover that the priceless Ashurbian funeral urns they had replaced now adorned her current rooms. No, the surprise was that her wardrobe had not been moved to somewhere even larger and grander while she was gone. The urns were an improvement on some now-absent malachite fish.

  Her mother had always insisted on a bedroom overlooking gardens, but Frena preferred the waterfront. She loved the bustle and excitement, ships coming and going, brawny sailors and longshoremen toiling away. Ocean was bizarrely different from land. It seemed just as flat, and yet it ended in a sharp horizon not half a menzil offshore. Ships went over that edge, so that their hulls disappeared before their sails, or appeared after them. She found this fascinating and incomprehensible. Her longtime secret dream was of a handsome sailor sweeping her away in his ship in a trading voyage all around Ocean, lasting for years, visiting dozens of exotic cities and romantic islands. Father could supply the ship; the problem would be finding a suitably hunky sailor with refined manners.

  Soon Inga led in a parade of damsels with jars on their heads, and in no time Frena was floating dreamily in her porphyry bathtub. Plumna sponged away her coat of road dust while Lilin busily laid out clothes, scents, and other necessities. Inga frowned at the cut on her shoulder and suggested summoning a Sinurist.

  "It's nothing. A rock flew up and hit me. Now tell me all the news."

  Good ladies' maids never gossiped, of course, so they had to make a mild pretense of resistance before serving up all the meaty dishes they had been saving. They began by repeating what Verk had already told her—Horth had been abducted before dawn the previous day by the satrap's Werists, and returned later in an unusually agitated condition. He had even called for wine, although he normally drank only ibex milk, and had gulped it while dictating the summons to his daughter. Verk and Uls had left before noon.

  "There's talk of a big party, mistress!" Ni confided. "Stuff being brought in from the country."

  Since her mother died, Frena had been Horth's hostess. She had organized some of the biggest parties Skjar had ever seen. She could not imagine why he should want to entertain when everyone with any wits had fled the city, but that would certainly explain why he had sent for her.

  Later Lilin, who was married to one of the tallymen, let slip that Horth had been closing negotiations and calling in loans, as he did when he needed large amounts of bullion on hand. No feast could require gold on that scale.

  By the time Frena swept down the stairs, past the ebony sculptures, she had learned everything the household staff knew, which was normally fifty-nine-sixtieths of what mattered. Ominously, she had only just missed meeting High Priestess Bjaria, who had come calling on her father with a sneer of lower priestesses in train. They had all been treated like royalty and laden with gifts when they left. What the two principals had discussed had not been audible to anyone else, but the servants clearly thought they could hear wedding trumpets in the near future. So could Frena. She was girded for war.

  ♦

  Horth's normal workplace was opulent and designed to impress. His gilded chair was inset with ivory, jade, and mother-of-pearl, and also raised so he could look down on visitors and petitioners—servants, scribes, guild masters, ship captains, rival traders. In the hall's vastness he could negotiate without being overheard, yet a gesture would bring scribes and tallymen running from the far end. For more honored guests he descended from his glory and sat with them at equal level, on stools near the windows. The truly revered—the satrap or his wife, consular agents of other cities, the four or five heads of mercantile houses he chose to regard as his equals—were usually received outdoors, in the greater privacy of the water garden.

  It was to this shaded glade that Frena was directed, being given the customary warning not to brush against foliage on the way in. A narrow curving path brought her to the little pentagonal court concealed within the fleshy jungle. Trilling fountains muffled whatever was said there, and any spy approaching to eavesdrop would learn nothing except the deadly properties of Navarian choke cherries.

  Horth was slumped despondently on a chair, gazing at the paving, half turned from her. She wondered if she had been taking her summons too personally. His troubles might have nothing to do with her at all, other than a need for support. They had no family except each other.

  "Father?"

  He looked up sharply. "Frena, my love!" He rose to embrace her. She knew by his awkwardness that his back was hurting him again, and responded carefully. He was wearing thick-soled shoes, which normally meant company was coming, but there were only two chairs present.

  Horth Wigson was singularly unimpressive at first glance and on closer inspection even more so—short of stature, spare and narrow, hollow-chested. His head was hairless, too large, and egglike, with prominent ears and a face tapering downward to a wispy beard. He lived on barley cakes and ibex milk, so the only excessive flesh on him anywhere was under his eyes, two crescents like pale segments of grapefruit. Those wan eyes blinked a lot, peering at the world in a permanent state of sad incomprehension. He was hard to overestimate. Yet even Frena, who must know him better than anyone, rarely knew what he was really thinking.

  "Did you have a good journey? Please, please be seated. Have you eaten? We can go indoors if you wish... hoped it might be cooler out here. So hot... It will be better when the rains come." He was massively overdressed as usual, enveloped in brocade robes of gold and peacock blue.

  The best method of defense, in Frena's experience, was not attack—for that could lead to pitched battle against overwhelming odds—but a vigorous flanking movement with enough implied threat to disturb established positions. As she sat d
own, she sent her skirmishers onto the field.

  "Father, I heard a horrible story recently. I was told that rich people steal farmers' lands away from them by foreclosing on loans the poor men had to take out when their crops failed. Is that really true?"

  The pale eyes blinked. "You mean is that really stealing? Or do you mean do starving peasants borrow from rich people? Or do rich people foreclose their loans? Or do you mean do I do such things?" He had a soft, disarming voice.

  "Do you?"

  He spread jeweled hands. "My agents are authorized to make loans to hungry peasants, yes. Usually sacks of grain, repayable when the harvest is in. They do require security, of course. If they didn't, do you think the debts would ever be repaid? Should my servants just give my grain away? Is that what you mean?"

  "Well, no... But—"

  Horth rarely came nearer a smile than a look of tolerant amusement, which is what he displayed now. Frena remembered that he must know her a lot better than she knew him.

  "Let me ask you this, my dear. A peasant dies and his six sons divide the land between them. Each of them raises six sons and so on. Eventually the plots must become too small to support their owners, do you see? A young peasant may get by at first, but he will want a wife, and year by year his brood will grow in size and number. Drought, blight, and flood are the peasant's lot, and children his curse. Sooner or later he will fail and need help. Once he falls into debt, the chances that he will ever climb out again are very, very slim. Should he borrow from me at all? Should I help him when he asks?"

  "Er... I don't know."

  "I'm not sure I do either, my dear," he said sadly. "But were I in that peasant's fix, I would exchange my scrap of land for something more rewarding—a mill, say. Or a kiln, or a fishing boat." He sighed. "But then, I am not a peasant."

  No, he was a very shrewd negotiator. Frena had been routed. He usually let her spin out the maneuvering longer than this.

  When she did not speak, he placed his hands together in a familiar gesture, fingertip to fingertip. "As I'm sure you have already heard from the servants, my dear, I was called to the palace yesterday. A matter of business, mostly, but your name was mentioned."