by Dave Duncan
The fan Ni was wafting at her made no difference whatsoever. Everyone was staggering and gasping in the steamy air, hurrying to ready her ladyship for her departure—Inga making final adjustments to the mother-of-pearl combs holding up her hair, Plumna applying the final touches to the silvered fingernails, Lilin kneeling to adjust the flower petals on her slippers. The rest were trying to tidy up, and outside the sun had disappeared.
"If the gods are kind my lady will make it home again before the storm," Inga said soothingly. Efficient Inga had led the team dressing Frena for the great occasion—several pot-boilings of bathing, primping, curling, scenting, powdering, and painting.
Or the gods might rain on her procession as a penance for ever having flirted with the Old One. These visions she had been having—were they anything more than evil deception from the Mother of Lies? If the Old One wanted Frena to swear to Her, then why had She not shown her how it was done? She was so giddy from stress and lack of sleep that she hardly cared which god or gods she would accept today. Since before dawn she had danced a wild gavotte of overseeing cooking, baking, table preparation, the arrivals of fresh produce, wine decanting, stabling, checking and double-checking a myriad of other details. No one had ever organized so large a feast in so little time! Then had come the preparation of Frena herself, but even in her bath she had been kept abreast of the preparations by a constant stream of reports. The jugglers had arrived, the geese had been put in the ovens, some of the guest gifts were late, the wine jars were being cooled in wet rags...
A mere three days ago this miraculous white gown had not existed. White was the traditional color for dedications and all agreed that it set off her coloring to advantage. Overruling impertinent protests from Inga, Frena had chosen a daringly low-cut bodice. She had the figure to support it, so why not let the world admire? For three days and nights, legions of sleepless seamstresses had labored to pleat and hem and, above all, stitch on pearls. More than ten sixty pearls shone like summer dew, defining and stiffening the bodice. Another few sixty formed the choker she wore on her neck, about as many the two matching bangles, and there were even more in her tiara. She preferred not to think about recent mortality among oysters.
Inga held up the mirror so she could make a final inspection. No great beauty peered back at her. White face powder was the customary makeup for maidens going to make their vows; on her complexion it would look ridiculous, so she had spurned it. An adequate face, but no one would ever mistake her for holy Anziel come visiting mortals. A young Veslih, just maybe—motherly, competent, defender of the hearth. Not, she hoped, Mother of Lies, Womb of the World, or any of the Dark One's even less flattering titles. No one ever made images of the Old One.
"Thank you all," she said. "You have done marvelously. Let us go down so my father and everyone else may see the fruits of all your hard work."
"The master is waiting outside, mistress."
"Then bring him in at once!" Frena said crossly. When Horth appeared, she curtsied low.
He bowed. "Oh, my chick has grown up! Behold the swan."
Not a swan, a cuckoo. He had lied to her all her life, but she did not hold it against him. He had raised her, protected her, cherished her. The doge man in Florengia had given her away.
She was amused to see that Horth was not resigned to skulking in her shadow, even on this, her special day. His robes were more dazzling than hers, ablaze in embroidery and gems ... a jeweled cap to hide his baldness, dye to make his beard less hazy, shoes even higher than normal. She embraced him carefully, not wanting to knock him over.
"Exquisite, my dear! Turn around. Your mother would be proud. You are truly gorgeous, Frena! Oh, I shall have to summon half a dozen of my best tallymen to keep track of all the marriage offers I will hear tonight."
"It's quite easy, Father. You just keep saying no! Yes?"
He chuckled. "Yes, 'no' it will be. I keep my promises." But according to the Witness, he would shortly be offered a candidate who could not be refused.
As they set off along the corridor arm-in-arm, with her skirts whispering exciting secrets to the tiles, she sensed his limp and knew his back still troubled him. She slowed down, taking this last chance for a private word with him.
"Father, listen. I don't truly believe that the satrap's wife cares one raindrop about my reputation."
"Frena—"
"Let me finish, please. Gods know her own reputation stinks high enough, and if Skjar had to vote for the most likely Chosen in—"
"Frena! I asked you not to—"
"Listen to me! If it turns out that the Queen of Shadows has a match in mind for me, you will be in trouble if you do not cooperate. I hope I'm wrong, but please don't put yourself in danger by sticking to that promise you gave me."
She glanced at him to see his reaction, but he showed no signs of taking her words seriously. Indeed, he laughed as they turned the corner and started downstairs.
"Frena, Frena! Don't worry. I hope you won't rush into matrimony, my dear. I don't want to share you with anyone. But if any woman can afford to pick and choose, you can. I shall be very lonely when you fly off to a husband, and all my wealth cannot dispel loneliness." That was an unusual concession from him, but he was keeping something from her, some plot, perhaps.
Halfway down the stairs, she paused to enjoy the applause. Most of the household staff had gathered to watch her arrival, and all the shop employees were there as well. She was running late, for there must still be well-wishing and gift-giving from the employees, with exactly five of the most senior men being allowed to kiss the debutante—those selected having been advised beforehand. Master Pukar was not one of them. Then off to the Pantheon and...
She was still five or six treads from the bottom when shouts of protest from the doorway alerted her to trouble. Horth staggered to a halt; she steadied him, and heard him mutter something she suspected was a prayer. Brass collars were advancing through the crowd, people shuddering away in alarm from brutal stubbled faces, massive bare limbs. Their leader halted at the bottom of the stairs, fists on hips. He had eight Werists at his back.
"Huntleader Perag Hrothgatson!" Horth exclaimed, resuming the descent with Frena still on his arm. "Twelve blessings on you, Hero, and your fine warriors. You have doubtless come to inspect the security arrangements for the visit by our noble satrap and—"
Perag had a sneer to swallow an ox. "Ain't he gorgeous, lads? Which one's the prettiest, do you think?"
Horth's smile did not waver. "May I offer you and your men some refreshment, Huntleader? Too early in the year for wine, I'm afraid, but we have some fresh-made beer."
Including two soured batches that would do perfectly for these brutes.
"I came for you, boy. My lord wants you."
"There must be some misunderstanding." Horth halted two steps up, so his eyes were more or less level with the intruder's. "Satrap Eide and his lady are invited to our feast."
At close quarters the Werist smelled bad and looked worse. His height and width were incredible. Verk and Uls and the rest of the house swordsmen stood against a distant wall, livid with fury and shame, completely irrelevant.
The Werist shook his head contemptuously. "Tell him when you see him. Take him, lads!"
It had been rehearsed, obviously. Moving impossibly fast for their size, two younger thugs jumped forward and grabbed Horth's arms. Hoisting them high, like flagpoles, they wheeled around and ran him out of the hall, bearing him backward with his humiliation visible to everyone. His jeweled cap slid down over one eye and his head only barely cleared the lintel.
"This is outrageous!" Frena yelled. "The satrap himself ordered this ... ordered ..."
The Werist's leer stopped her.
"Not bad! Dusky beauty, they call this, lads. Tradition is, men get to kiss the maiden."
Frena bleated, "No!" She tried to back away, up the steps, but his great arms reached out and plucked her like a berry. He crushed her to him and forced her lips apart with hi
s. It was the most disgusting experience of her life—feet clear of the floor, back bent almost to the breaking point, and that animal slobbering in her mouth. She punched and kicked and gained nothing. When he had done, he laughed and handed her to the man beside him, who repeated the process. Fingers pawed and squeezed her. Without letting her touch the floor once, the brutes passed her along the line as if they were sharing a wineskin. The last one set her down on her feet and she fell backward into somebody's arms. Now she had some idea of what a collective rape would feel like—performed in front of the whole household, including all of Horth's swordsmen.
"Wine!" she gasped. "Vinegar! Brine! Anything!"
Someone handed her a beaker of wine. She rinsed her mouth and spat into a bowl conveniently offered. "Ugh! Filthy brutes! Don't they ever bathe?" The intruders had gone.
"It makes little difference with that lot," Verk said. He was white-lipped with fury.
"My lady, your hair," Inga bleated. "Oh, your train!"
Frena drained the rest of the wine. "Mother of Death take my hair!" she roared. "And take them! Verk, follow me. Are the chariots ready?" Without waiting for an answer, she plunged into the crowd and it opened for her.
nineteen
HORTH WIGSON
was dumped roughly in a chariot and his elbows tied to the rail, so he was bent over backward facing the rear. That position would have been awkward for any man; for him it was torture, and he was certain the two Werist whelps knew that. They pulled his hat down over his eyes and left him to suffer while they waited. Normally he would just add such humiliation to the bill, and the pain in his spine was trivial compared to the agonies of molten bronze the gods churned in his belly after every meal, but such open brutality was a very bad omen. Obviously his secret plans had been discovered. He had been very careful to commit no illegal act, nor had he confided in anyone, even Frena, but a tyrant who commanded the powers of seers could condemn a man for even thinking treason.
Thunder roared. A gust of icy air whirled through the heat and disappeared again.
Then Perag Hrothgatson said, "Ready?"
"The load's on board, my lord. Did you get a good grope?"
"Indeed. That's prime stuff, lad! Don't get to play with dugs like that very often."
This was all for Horth's benefit, of course. Hrothgatson was Saltaja's favorite henchman and had very probably led the mob that killed Paola. Had Horth ever managed to buy proof of that, he would have arranged for the Werist to die, but very probably was not enough to justify execution. The real culprit had been Saltaja, anyway. Alas, a Chosen was vulnerable to nothing less than a maddened mob. Or perhaps another Chosen—Master Pukar had been working on the problem for years without finding any sure way to strike at her. Now time had run out.
The man who jumped aboard, making the chariot lurch, certainly smelled like Perag, but nothing more was said. He whipped up the team, and they rattled off over the cobbles. With thunder roaring almost continuously the streets must be almost empty, but more speed meant more bouncing and so was of little consolation to Horth, who was flapped up and down like a rug until he thought his back would snap.
♦
The chariot rumbled over only four bridges before it stopped, so it had not gone as far as the palace. That was another bad sign. From the reek of urine and rotting meat, Horth could guess he was on Blackstaur, which was the tanners' island, but also home to other unsavory trades, as if evil stench attracted evil deeds. Many hands hauled him from the car and ran him indoors and down steps. When a door creaked open and then slammed shut behind him, the noise echoed spookily. A push sent him sprawling on slimy flagstones, stinking of sewer.
"Up!" Something hit him in the ribs, not hard enough to break any. He rose and pulled off his hat. He was in a cellar or crypt without windows, lit dimly by a single lamp and very crowded by three Werists, one of whom was Hrothgatson. "String him up!"
The same two bruisers as before tied ropes around Horth's wrists and hung him in the center of the cell with his toes barely touching the ground. Then they armed themselves with cudgels and waited, grinning eagerly. Horth was not in the least surprised when the huntleader produced a cloth and blindfolded him. This was all standard technique to put him in a cooperative mood. He had never been subjected to quite so much of it before, but he knew of others who had. He also knew of many who might have been, but had never returned to tell.
"Now, lord?"
"No hurry. Give him time to think."
The door thundered shut.
More bluff. Horth was supposed to start worrying that his tormentors might still be in there with him, about to strike without warning. They had left him fiendishly uncomfortable, dividing his weight between strangled wrists and toes already cramped; and yet that position did ease the fire in his back.
Although Werists were known for their brutality, the satrapy was popular in Skjar. The plutocracy Stralg had overthrown had favored the rich, taxing the poor and keeping them firmly in their place. Eide Ernson kept everyone in place, but he levied no taxes at all. On clay, he owed Horth more than sixty-sixty-sixty measures of gold, probably the largest single debt in all Vigaelia. Horth knew he would never see one copper twist of it again, because any request for repayment would be answered with bronze rather than gold. This did not trouble him. When another "loan" was demanded, he would negotiate some small favor that would cost the satrap himself nothing—a ten-year monopoly on salt, for instance. Thus Eide levied no taxes; Horth waxed even richer, ready to be fleeced again in the future; and the poor paid anyway.
This time the satrap or his wife wanted more than mere gold. Obviously they were after Frena—as even she had guessed—and Horth would give up everything he possessed rather than surrender his precious daughter into their talons. Saltaja was capable of understanding that, even if her blockhead husband was not. Alas, all pleasures were temporary, as a Ucrist well knew. All loved ones were hostages.
Tomorrow's joys and yesterday's,
Are sweeter than today's.
He had learned of the danger four days ago, when Perag had dragged him up to the palace at dawn so the Queen of Shadows could issue her absurd threats of denouncing Frena as a Chosen. Even the identity of the bridegroom she had in mind had been so obvious that Horth had seriously contemplated sending the two swordsmen to Kyrn with orders for Frena to flee. After a little consideration, that plan had seemed too risky and impetuous. Besides, a girl's dedication ought to be the finest celebration of her life, and he had not wanted to deny her that. Happiness was too rare to waste. He had decided to wait until tonight, after all the guests left, and then break the news and offer her the choice. The ship would have been ready. Knowing Frena, he was certain she would rather be a lifelong fugitive than the wife of a Werist.
He had been careful, but no one could outwit the Witnesses of Mayn. Now Saltaja would cut his throat or beat him to death, whichever pleased her, and then use his seal to transfer everything he owned to the satrap. It had been done to others before him. Frena would go to her fate as broodmare to a brute.
♦
Horth—the Wigson came later—was born in a wattle hovel on a scrubby islet in Ocean, to a mother who never quite recovered from one baby before starting another. Small, undernourished, and generally picked on, he had an utterly miserable childhood. His father was a sailor who came home at long intervals to drink up his pay, launch another baby, beat his wife, abuse his children, and brawl with his friends. His departures were cause for universal rejoicing. There was more to eat when he wasn't there.
Horth was roughly the tenth of twelve or fifteen, depending on how one counted stillbirths and miscarriages. The survivors all disappeared at puberty, heading for golden Skjar to find work, which was very easy at that age if you were not fussy about what you did or was done to you. Horth minded. He minded very much, and he was not cut out for hard labor, either.
What he wanted was wealth, and he soon decided that a steady supply of eggs beat one meal of roast
goose. In a moneyless economy, that was not a trivial insight. Most rich people saw wealth as ownership of land or power and despised trade as beneath their dignity. Even merchants often thought of things bought with copper as different from those bought with silver, and likewise with gold. Converting one metal to another was just another barter, more haggling, so a universal scale of value was a difficult abstraction.
Having a knack for numbers and bargaining, young Horth talked himself into a job in a market and then an apprenticeship in the tallymen's guild. As soon as he had been inducted master tallyman, he was invited to join the Ucrist mysteries. It was typical of that cult that it had no priesthood and claimed no grandiose name for itself or its members: no "Heroes of..." or "Hands of..." Just Ucrists. Its shrine was a stuffy rented cellar and it met only when one of the brothers or sisters nominated a candidate for membership. Most initiates were far too busy to bother attending and knew that their god would approve of that attitude. Besides, there was something ridiculous about a congregation of wealthy merchants, ranchers, and mine owners standing around by lamplight singing psalms.
The rules called for a minimum of five sponsors, a quorum that could be mustered only by bribery. The aspirant borrowed a measure of gold from each sponsor at a ruinous rate of one sixtieth every sixday. Even in Skjar, that interest was worth having, and since the postulant would likely need several years to repay the principal, the total return was substantial.
Horth easily convinced his employer and four of the man's friends to sponsor him. He so impressed some others that almost a dozen people turned up to witness. By the rules, after the sponsors had testified that the tokens they had loaned him were of full weight and purity, the aspirant divided the five between two pots, one of gold and one of clay. Only then did he make his vows. Whatever had gone in the gold pot was an offering to the god and disappeared—holy Ucr expected to be recompensed for the trouble of attending rituals. The contents of the clay pot remained for the new initiate, who could either repay some of his creditors on the spot or use it as grubstake for his future fortune.
