Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  But it wasn't as simple as that.

  Postulants seeking initiation into a mystery were never left in doubt about the blessings its members received. The price the god extracted was sometimes less clearly expressed—"written on the back of the tablet" as they said in the bazaar. Thus holy Ucr offered prosperity, while the oath that He required contained no mention of a corban, just an innocent-seeming mention that the postulant would make prosperity his "only joy." It was understood—a gentlemen's agreement between mortal and divine—that wealth and happiness would follow in the proportion of the measures in the two pots. Few candidates dared give the god more than three of the five, reserving two for themselves. To give Ucr four was regarded as foolhardy.

  Horth was a man in a hurry. He dreamed of really great wealth, not mere comfort. He wanted to go home—just briefly, admittedly—to rescue his mother from her benighted poverty. He would probably also modestly assist his brothers and sisters, were he able to find them. He especially dreamed of showing his father what a rich man looked like and what a good team of bodyguards could do to repay certain ancient grudges. This being his highest ambition, he put all five measures in the gold pot.

  Judging by subsequent events, the god was impressed by this offering. The mortal witnesses certainly were, to the point that many were receptive when Horth came calling a few days later to propose, in strictest confidence, partnership in a venture he had in mind. Within a sixday of being initiated, he had paid off his inaugural debt completely by borrowing more at much lower rates. Within a year he was free of debt and two of his sponsors had become his employees.

  He never found time to revisit his birthplace. When he finally got around to sending someone in his stead, the man returned to report that Master Wigson's parents had been dead for some years and no one knew where his brothers and sisters were. As usual, tomorrow's joy had failed to materialize. Today's work soon drove it from his mind.

  ♦

  Vicious cramps were knotting his legs and pain made his eyes water under the blindfold. Tears were for trivia, not for real grief. He had not been able to weep when Paola died, and he would not if they took Frena from him now. Corpses shed no tears.

  Poor Frena! He had so wanted to give her a splendid day!

  Tomorrow's joys and yesterday's,

  Are sweeter than today's.

  Where did that come from?

  ♦

  The two great joys of his life had come to him late one afternoon a few years after his initiation, when he received a caller—a young Florengian woman with black hair in ringlets and fierce, dark eyes. He was upstairs in his counting room and had given orders that he was not to be disturbed, yet somehow she won her way past the doormen, walking in and taking a seat without being invited. She had a girl child with her, a toddler who stood by her mother, holding on and staring at Horth in silence, with unfathomable eyes.

  Horth stared back, for he trusted the instincts the god had given him and they said there was profit to be made from this woman.

  "What can I do for you, mistress?"

  "Much. And I can do much for you."

  He waited. The dark eyes grew even fiercer.

  "This child is a hostage from an important city in Florengia."

  "If you expect me to help you extract ransom from the children of Hrag, then you are sadly deranged."

  She shook her head contemptuously. "I was hired as wet nurse to bring her here." She had remarkably little accent if the story was true, for the war was only a year old, so she could not have arrived in Vigaelia more than a season or so ago. "Later they tried to take her away from me."

  "It is customary," Horth said, "to guard hostages closely. Granted that one so young would not think of escape, her guardian might."

  "Her guardian did." She smiled grimly.

  "When and where? I have no wish to find a pack of Werists clawing their way in through my window." He was puzzled by his increasing certainty that she would bring him profit; it was a feeling he often experienced when looking at a cargo of copper ore or swan feathers, and it was never wrong. But he could not see the means yet.

  "Jat-Nogul."

  "Ah!" The fish began to bite. "Rebels? The palace was burned in the sack, I understand. Satrap Karvak died."

  "Yes, he did." The woman's smile sent a tremor of dread prickling all the way up his backbone. Surely not!

  That possibility changed matters considerably.

  But why not? Two gods might be better than one.

  He took a moment to think before saying, "I do not view the slaying of any child of Hrag to be a crime. If anything, the reverse. Public statues may be in order. Do you know any of the details?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you—"

  "Do not ask."

  They stared at each other in thoughtful silence. She was no longer smiling. He who fences with the Old One needs a long sword, as they said in the bazaar. On the other hand—and Horth could play more hands simultaneously than almost anyone—his god was still whispering "profit" in his ear. Two gods would be better than one.

  "You want sanctuary here, or transportation home to Florengia?"

  "Marry me. Adopt the child. You are rich and going to be richer. You can afford a wife. I make a good wife." She smiled mockingly. "Wet nurses are seldom virgins."

  "I suppose not." Horth, to his astonishment, felt himself returning that smile. She had an undeniable attraction, in an earthy sort of way. He had been meaning to look around for a wife but had never found time. "And what else do I get out of this, apart from your very appealing company?"

  "We look after our own."

  "Wives are expected to. Be more specific."

  "Prosperity to you and ruin to your enemies."

  "I do not approve of murder, if that is what you mean." She had endangered herself by saying as much as she had, and he was now in peril, too. If he refused her and she were genuine, she might put the evil eye on him. And if he did not report her, he might find himself an accessory to charges of rebellion. Or worse. Since holy Mayn's Witnesses would not testify in chthonic trials, holy Demern's Speakers could not pass judgment, and justice belonged to the mob.

  "I am not in the habit of killing people," she said huffily.

  "Can you offer me any evidence that you are what you are hinting you are?" He could not bring himself to say the word.

  "I found you, did I not? Your lackeys let me pass, didn't they?"

  He nodded. Those were convincing arguments.

  The child turned and held up her arms. The woman lifted her onto her lap. "I have made you a fair offer. Do you accept or not?"

  He took one more moment to think. He considered throwing her out—assuming he was able—but the prospect felt very wrong. "Marry you?"

  Cuddling the child, she said, "My baby here says we have been married at least two years. You can invent a story."

  He said, "Yes. All right. We're married. What's your name?"

  She laughed. He laughed.

  Strangely, after all these years, he remembered that unexpected shared laughter as vividly as he remembered the shared bed that eventually followed, although the sheer intensity of the pleasure she revealed to him that night had been one of the greatest surprises of his life. He had been a reasonably competent husband thereafter, until failing health affected his virility.

  She shrugged. "How does 'Paola' sound? Paola Apicella. Name your daughter, master."

  "Frena," he said at once, his mother's name.

  It had taken his agents almost a year to pry out the rest of the story and establish the child's identity. By then it had not mattered. He never learned the details of Paola's background, for she had been a person of no importance.

  Had she truly been a Chosen? He had never again tried to ask her. She had been loving and well loved. She could not be compared with the Queen of Shadows, whose foes died with ghastly speed and regularity. He had wondered, sometimes, when a business rival had sickened or met with misfortune, whether Paola's cu
rses had assisted Ucr's blessing, but there had never been any way to tell for certain. He did not even know if the odious Pukar was what he claimed to be, or just a very slick imposter fleecing him.

  Yesterday's joys ... Three years ago he had lost the mother and now he was going to lose the daughter. There was no joy in that prospect, no joy today. Alas, he had long ago learned that nothing replaceable was worth a care. All the incomparable wealth he had gathered, and the thing he prized most—

  The door of the cellar creaked open.

  ♦

  There were several of them. They let him hear their footsteps moving around him, but took their time before speaking. Despite his confidence, he was strung tight in expectation of sudden bone-shattering agony. "Ready to talk?" growled a low voice. "Mmm?" Even without his familiar mooing mannerism, Eide Ernson always sounded like a hungry, rather sullen, bull. He thought like one, too.

  "How may I serve my lord?" Horth was admitting nothing. Any man dangling in a dungeon would address his captor as "lord."

  "I want your daughter as wife for... a certain young man." Eide, simple soul, had almost said more than he had been told to say.

  "A match approved by my lord would be an enormous honor. But I fear our ancestry is not worthy."

  "Yours, no. Do you know who she is, mmm?"

  Who else was present? Saltaja included her bovine husband in important meetings only when she needed testimony from a Witness. If a seer were present, Horth must not lie.

  "I know. She does not. Her foster mother did not tell me—I made it my business to find out." There were times in negotiation when knowledge must be concealed. There were other times when it could be volunteered to advantage. "I have made it my business to keep abreast of Celebrian affairs ever since. Frena's father the doge rallied somewhat in the spring, but his health still causes great concern. I understand that a successor must be found, but I naturally assumed that one of Frena's brothers would be selected."

  Outflanked by unexpected information, the satrap grunted.

  "Is he telling the truth?" inquired the throaty voice of Saltaja Hragsdor.

  Silence.

  "Is he telling the truth?" Eide echoed.

  "He is speaking what he believes to be the truth, lord," a woman said in the singsong voice of a seer witnessing. "His information concerning Celebre must be hearsay, as is yours."

  "Mmm? Hadn't heard about the doge man rallying before."

  Eide and the seer were both in front of Horth, and Saltaja lurked somewhere behind, and very likely there would be Perag or another henchman to wield the club if the meeting turned sour.

  "The prisoner's information may be more up-to-date than yours, lord. I can judge only what he believes."

  Eide grunted again. "Do you consent to the match, mmm?"

  Horth drew a deep breath. "Will my lord do me the honor of describing the young man I shall be so honored to welcome into my house?"

  "Who do you expect?" asked the Queen of Shadows.

  "It would be absurdly presumptuous of me to—"

  "Answer, or I'll have Perag break your legs." Saltaja had the reputation of never bluffing.

  "My lady is kind," Horth sighed. "The last I heard from Kosord, the city was preparing to celebrate the imminent initiation of the satrap's youngest son into the Heroes. He is two years older than Frena. Since all your own sons and all your nephews were sent over the Edge as soon as they were blessed, Cutrath would seem to be a very logical candidate to become puppet ruler of Celebre."

  "Mmm?" Eide bellowed. "He's been spying on us! Seer, how does he know that?"

  "Ask him, my lord."

  "How do you know that, prisoner?"

  "Speculation based on public knowledge, my lord," Horth said.

  "He speaks the truth."

  Saltaja's voice cut through like a silver knife. "And do you welcome this match, merchant?"

  He drew a deep breath. "No. I have always promised Frena that I would let her choose her husband. Meaning no personal disrespect to your nephew, my lady, for I have never met him, I do not think my foster daughter would favor a Werist."

  "So what were you planning to do about it?" The menace was clear.

  "Submit, of course! What else could I do about it? You have seers, you have Werists. Could we run away? Leave all my wealth behind? You think I am crazy?"

  "Then why have you been packing chests with gold?" Saltaja demanded. "Why did you have them moved aboard a ship in Weather Haven in the night? Why did you send hampers of your clothes and the girl's with them?"

  Trapped!

  There was no acceptable answer, and Horth remained silent, waiting for the battering to start. They would kill him and take it all, declaring Frena underage and a ward of the satrapy. They had done as much to others before him. He ran sweat and every muscle in his body cringed.

  He was saved from having to answer by the voice of the Witness. "I am not normally permitted to volunteer information, but under the circumstances I should advise you that a major storm surge has struck the city. Many sixty have drowned already and this cellar is about to be flooded to the roof."

  twenty

  FRENA WIGSON

  flew out into a yard darkened by the black tent of storm now pitched over the gorge. A deafening flash welcomed her, whirlpools of leaves danced across the stable yard, flights of black birds gyrated in panic, and a steady drum-roll from the stables told of onagers kicking their stalls. Three teams had been harnessed already and old Permiak was struggling to keep them all calm, which was an impossible job in this turmoil, even for a Nastrarian. One of the chariots was hers, all bedecked with ribbons and blossoms in celebration, with Dark and Night harnessed to the yoke. She boarded in a flying leap, holding her skirts up around her knees. She pulled the reins free and smacked the onagers with them in one wild move. The chariot seemed to spring clean off the ground. She hit them again before it came down.

  "Mistress!" Verk screamed, sprinting after her.

  "You follow!" Her yell was probably lost in another bellow of thunder. She took the gate on one wheel. Lavender fire streaked the clouds. Hauling the whip from its socket, she gave the onagers more hard whacks. They shrieked and went even faster.

  The road was empty, of course. No sane person would be outdoors now. Thunder roared, and the first raindrops, big as grapes, splashed icily on her skin. The bridge to Blueflower was straight ahead. It came at her like an arrow, but even as it grew, it faded behind a gray gauze of rain. By the time she reached it water was falling from the sky in rivers, beating on her like sixty-sixty hammers.

  Wheels growled as they raced over the timbers. Up on to Chatter Place, another big shipping island. Tearing down a street with not a soul in sight. She lacked her alms bag, her veil, the two lily blossoms, and several other things needed for the ritual. Not to mention the sad state of her dress, her hair, her makeup. These things mattered not to Fabia, because she wasn't going to the Pantheon. She was going to the palace to give Eide and Saltaja a piece of her mind. Two pieces, one each. She was driving under water, barely able to recognize the way from Chatter Place to Eelfisher. Huge swells were running, surging up almost to the bridge deck—indeed, she could see the bridge swaying ahead of her. That was ominous. She glanced seaward and saw only fog.

  Where were those Werist swine? She had expected to catch up to them by now. Even if the satrap owned the finest onagers in the world, Dark and Night should have been able to outrun them when they only had Frena as cargo. The brutes might have gone by way of Lobsterclaw instead. She peered around but saw no sign of Verk and Uls behind her, or anyone at all for that matter, but she couldn't see far. Streets were brown rivers. The air was a sea, the train of her dress a mess of filthy tatters. Shivering violently and trying to remember the last time she had been cold, she took another one-wheel corner and shot out onto the bridge to Temple. The deck was empty, booming under the wheels.

  Lightning turned the gloom milk-white; instant thunder struck like sixty-sixty sledgeham
mers. Night and Dark panicked and bolted. She dropped her whip and almost lost the reins; when she regained them she clung like death to the rail and screamed at the onagers to go faster. Under the roar of the rain lay a deeper, more sinister sound. Something that should not be there loomed up in the mist downstream, something advancing purposefully up the channel. Fabia howled and tried to rein in.

  She couldn't see much, but there was a ship, certainly, and what looked like the remains of houses, and this wall of death rode relentlessly up the channel on a high gray wave. The bridge was doomed and so was she, unless she could reach the far side before that mess arrived.

  "Faaaaaster!" She flogged the onagers with the reins. The car took several long leaps, veering madly from side to side, when one nudge against the paling would spill Frena out and very likely smash the chariot to fragments. The ship was above her now, tilted so she could see weeds encrusting the hull, riding a tumbling wall of froth full of gnashing timbers. The chariot's wheels spun along the deck, faster than they had ever gone before and still slow as nightmare, for the end of the bridge seemed to come no closer and death was reaching for her in that swelling mountain of water.

  Fortunately, she made it out from under the ship and other flotsam before the wave hit close behind her, crumpling and burying the bridge. The onagers saw it or felt it, and seemed to redouble their speed. As the final span lifted and broke apart under their hooves, they reached land, but certainly not dry land. The chariot sprayed up the slope with the storm surge frothing at its wheels, then raced along a street with a smaller wall of water still pursuing. Frena no longer pretended to be in control, or even aware where on this rock pile of an island she was. They had missed the turnoff to the Pantheon. The onagers took a right fork, then a left, and came to an intersection where a muddy torrent raced across their path. Then she saw a door she recognized from her dreams.

  "Whoa!" She reached for the brake just as one wheel dropped into a pothole as big as a bathtub. The river was cold as death and deep enough to break her fall. It lifted her, rolled her, and seemed to be carrying her straight back into the killer storm surge. Dazed and choking, she struggled to her knees and grabbed hold of the wall. She caught a glimpse of one wheel disappearing downstream, but otherwise her chariot and onagers had vanished.