Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  "Why, the lady Hiddi." Nerio had learned his wide-eyed innocence from her.

  "She is married? Or had a rich father?"

  The wide-eyed innocence was very close to wide-eyed mockery. "I cannot discuss the lady's affairs, master artist. I am sure you may ask her yourself." He spoke a more citified brand of Vigaelian than Hiddi did, and his smile was almost a smirk, brazenly hinting that he enjoyed his employer's favors.

  Hiddi now approached, having descended from her chair still cool and ravishing, and now openly amused by her guest's breathless, sweat-soaked condition. He had never seen woven mist like her dress. There was very little of it to see.

  "You approve of my residence?" she inquired, spider to fly.

  "It's magnificent, my lady." It had been until she started making it over.

  "Only my very special friends get invited here, Benard."

  "I am honored."

  "It will be a treat for you. My cook is an expert. I always eat off gold plate, of course."

  In Benard's experience, gold plate was absurdly impractical stuff, chilling hot food instantly. "I am really impressed."

  "I think, though, that you should be rubbed down before being fed your hot mash. Follow me." Hiddi floated toward the house.

  He followed, fascinated by the movement of her hips and keeping his hands off her only by great effort. "Your goddess rewards you well."

  "Of course She does." She swept into a shadowy chamber where one of the younger slaves was tipping water from a steaming jar into a bath. "That will do, Cosimo. We shan't need more."

  The bath was set below floor level, unpractically wide and shallow. The room was luxurious, with glazed tiles on the walls and floor depicting flowers and shrubs full of birds that made the room's dimness burn with brilliant colors. Unfortunately, Hiddi's taste predominated. The effect was hideous enough to hurt Benard's eyes. He could guess the hack artist who had done it; wealthy people heaped gifts on him for creating such monstrosities. Suspecting a trap, he scanned the room carefully for inconspicuous images of holy Eriander, but found none.

  The boy padded out on bare feet, sneaking a monumentally inscrutable glance at Benard as he passed.

  "You favor Florengians, I see."

  "Animals, like all men," Hiddi said, testing the water with a foot no goddess would spurn and no peasant could even imagine. "All slaves, since I can enslave any man I fancy anyway. Of course, I march them through my bedroom all night."

  He squirmed at her sarcasm. No woman had ever disconcerted him so much, not even Ingeld. But there was no drawing back now.

  "Of course. Six at a time, I presume?"

  "Are you going to bathe like that, or undress?"

  "I don't need help to wash myself."

  "Wash? You never had a woman in a bathtub, Florengian?"

  None of her business. "I shall need instruction."

  "I'll call for Nerio." The pink gossamer floated down around her feet. Without removing a single jewel, Hiddi stepped into the water and turned to face him. "You only need a moment, don't you? One quick yowl, you said?"

  "What I need," Benard said, pulling off his smock, "may be a lot less than what I take."

  As it turned out, there were several yowls and a terrible lot of splashing at the end.

  ♦

  Much later, and in another room, Hiddi said, "Sun's setting. I must go and serve my god."

  They were sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform. She was running a tortoiseshell comb through her silken hair, and Benard had been mentally rearranging furniture. He still had an arm around her. He wondered where his clothes were.

  The platform bore soft mats of red and purple, which clashed with the wall hangings, which fought with the rugs. The room held far too much ill-sorted stuff—chairs, chests, tables, even a grotesque image of Eriander, which he had covered with a drape before joining Hiddi on the sleeping mat to repeat their earlier love-making in the bathtub. The entire house was an artistic junk heap, an obscene misuse of wealth. Her cooks and gardeners were skilled, her house servants well trained and respectful, but the only real beauty in the place was Hiddi herself. Sometime during the afternoon Benard had removed all her assorted jewels, having persuaded her that she was both lovelier and more cuddlesome without them.

  He should not be so petty. All his bodily needs had been satisfied without stint. Life bore a rosy glow.

  "When can I see you again?" he asked.

  Her smile was a purr. "You enjoyed romping with your little Nymph, mm?"

  "A day to be remembered always. I trust I gave satisfaction?'

  "Indeed you did." He waited for her to bring up the subject of his gold.

  But what she said was "You are a true artist! Come and see me any time you like, Benard. I serve the god at night. I'm here all day." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I don't have many friends. I have to sleep sometimes, but I won't mind you waking me. I'll tell Nerio to let you in whenever you want."

  twenty-four

  FABIA CELEBRE

  came awake with a start. She had been sleeping soundly, with one hand, as had become her habit, stretched out beyond the edge of her mat to rest on the cold earth. She had been dreaming of darkness and how to make it. She opened her eyes and saw nothing.

  The Wrogg was certainly the greatest highway of the Face, writhing in vast loops of reeds and sluggish water across the flat lands, navigable from Lake Skjar almost to its source in the Ice. Prevailing winds blew sunwise in summer and the Wrogg flowed the other way, so the swarming riverboats, which in sum housed more people than any city of Vigaelia, could ride the breezes upstream and rely on the current to bring them back. The riverfolk were almost a race apart, worshiping simple nature gods and speaking their own tonal dialect known as "Wroggian." They shunned villages and towns, preferring to pitch tents on the levees at sunset. Many of them boasted that they had never slept under a roof. At dawn they raised red triangular sails and moved on.

  Fabia was in her personal leather tent, so tiny that she could not sit up in it. She could not have been asleep long, for the riverfolk were still singing, celebrating a chance reunion with friends they had not seen in years and might not meet again for many more. She was used to that by now. What had awakened her?

  Came a whisper, "Fabia Celebre!"

  Ah! She nodded.

  "I am Mist." The voice came from outside and at her level, as if the speaker were lying on the grass to evade the guards' notice.

  Wide awake now, Fabia rolled over on her side. "It is about time! Why have I heard nothing from you until now? It's ages since we—"

  "Not so loud. When did you expect to hear from us? The nights you spent in the palace next door to its mistress? During the voyage across the lake, when you were hung over the rail like bright green laundry? Or perhaps at Yormoth, where you shared a room with the Queen of Shadows? Or since then, while you've been guarded by a dozen Werists and never a stone's throw away from her? Are you not worried that she may keep watch on you in her own dark ways? You think it is easy for us to come at you unobserved?"

  "Sorry." Tolerating mockery was a skill Fabia had only recently acquired, although this soft-spoken teasing was easier to take than the Werists' vulgarities. "Is tonight different?"

  "Slightly less lethal. Saltaja has withdrawn downstream to bathe, and the Werists are still distracted. But we must be quick."

  The Werists had been distracted for several nights now, because a boatload of Nymphs had been tracking the flotilla, camping nearby and offering participation in their strange worship. Eager though his men were to oblige them, Huntleader Perag saw to it that the captives were never left unguarded.

  "Can you smuggle Horth and me away?"

  "Why? Where to?"

  "But we'll be in Kosord any day now and I cannot sleep for nightmares of being married to one of those brutes."

  "Your snores were louder than a hungry onager," the seer said dryly. "So you spurn the honor that the children of Hrag offer you, marriage to
one of their own? Are you still of the same mind you were in the Pantheon?"

  "I am opposed to Saltaja and her brood, but what can I accomplish against the Queen of Shadows?"

  "More than you may think, child." Surely that soft, wry voice was familiar? "You are a seasoner."

  "Born to greatness?"

  "Only if you admit both good and evil greatness—Stralg and Saltaja both have seasoning in abundance. And it cannot shield you against ill chance. You may still die young and unfulfilled. Again I ask: Are you still on our side?"

  "I think so. I am on my side, and my brothers', and Horth's, and my true parents'..."

  The seer chuckled. "Spoken like a Chosen. No, do not protest. I speculate, merely. Chthonians do look after their own. So, Fabia, my ally, I tell you that Light-of-your-heart Cutrath has left Kosord, heading for Tryfors and the Edge. No wedding trumpets will sound for you in Kosord."

  Fabia breathed a very long sigh of contentment. "Thank you!"

  "Be very careful with this wisdom. Saltaja does not know yet. She is without news. Several boats bearing dispatches to her have passed you on the river. For that we must thank the disaster in Skjar, because the satrap could not leave with his city half ruined, and without him she cannot command the Witnesses."

  "How can you possibly know—"

  "I must go," the seer said. "She is coming back. You will find Satrap Horold's wife a fine lady who understands what forced marriage to a Werist means. Keep cultivating Flankleader Cnurg. I also have news for Horth Wigson. Tell him that he may find old friends in Kosord at the Jade Bowl. But again—be careful!"

  "Wait! What happens when we find my beloved is flown? And tell me about my brothers."

  "What has Saltaja told you of them?"

  "Nothing that seems helpful. The youngest is a Werist in Tryfors, the middle one an artist in Kosord, and the oldest dead."

  "Close. Orlando is still a cadet, but near the end of his training. He is said to be formidable, so he could aid your cause considerably if he chose; but he is unfailingly loyal and thus much more likely to betray you to his lord. Benard is a Hand. You have met some of those?"

  "Many. Practical as a wax ax?"

  The seer chuckled. "But a beautiful wax ax! Twelve blessings—"

  "Wait! Who killed Paola Apicella—Perag Hrothgatson?"

  There was a pause. "Where did you learn that?"

  In a nightmare. Soon after Yormoth, Fabia had started praying for enlightenment about the murder. At first her petition had been refused, but she had persisted, and a few nights later had been shown the start of the attack—her mother walking home with her swordsman escort, shapes leaping from the shadows. Fabia's own screams had awakened her before she saw any more, and had roused the entire camp as well. Ever since then, the young Werists had been generous with advice about what would help her sleep better and offers to provide it. But in those few ghastly moments she had heard Perag Hrothgatson's voice directing the assault.

  "Horth suspects," she said, knowing the seer would detect the equivocation. "So it is true?"

  "Perag was in charge. Now I must—"

  "No, wait! I know your voice. It was you who accosted me in the Pantheon."

  "Well done," the seer said, without sounding pleased.

  "But not the Witness who testified to Saltaja that I had made my vows."

  "Did she speak untruth?"

  Fabia cursed herself for stupidity, trying to match wits with a seer. Should she answer yes or no?

  "I was in Skjar that day," the voice went on, "and I saw you take your vows, Fabia Celebre. It is true that the disastrous storm was overloading us, but the eyes of Mayn do not see as your eyes do. We see truth and my sisters and I saw you take your vows. What you said, where, and with whose help were not revealed to us. You may have been in the house of the Bright Ones or below it in the realm of the Mother. Few of my sisters would agree with me, I admit, but I personally do not care if you gave a lily to Veslih or spilled blood to the Old One, just as long as you oppose the vile Saltaja. If you are now a Chosen and she discovers this, she may destroy you or try to enlist you. I do not pretend to read anyone's thoughts, let alone hers. May whatever gods you serve guide you through perils to come, Fabia Celebre."

  "Wait! What happens when I reach Kosord?"

  There was no reply.

  ♦

  At first light Fabia dressed hastily, hoping for a private word with Horth, but Flankleader Cnurg was asleep across her tent door as usual, and came instantly alert, like a watchdog. She nodded sourly and walked around him. The levee swarmed with Werists in various stages of nudity as they turned their palls from bedclothes into day wear.

  Horth was already kneeling in the crowd around the fire, participating in the group's usual hasty breakfast. Strangely, the endless boredom of the river seemed to agree with him; he had gained an appetite and lost his painful leanness. He was being idle for the first time in his life.

  The party numbered fifty-three. Fabia and Horth had brought no servants and Saltaja only a single handmaid, the moronic Guitha, but the Queen of Shadows had not skimped on guards—Huntleader Hrothgatson led a pack of young Werists on their way to join Stralg's horde in Florengia. They were more jailors than protectors, of course. Cnurg, flankleader of the center, was Fabia's shadow, and Ern, his counterpart of the rear, kept equally close watch on Horth. The rest were never far away.

  They traveled in a convoy of five boats: Blue Ibis, Mora, Redwing, Beloved of Hrada, and Nurtgata. The sixty or so men, women, and children who crewed these vessels lived in complicated, ever-changing relationships never explained to passengers. New faces might appear overnight and others vanish. People changed vessels from day to day, just for variety in company, and Fabia was certain they exchanged sleeping partners as readily—argument and bad feeling would build toward explosion and then suddenly vanish, leaving new smiling pairings and new scowls of jealousy.

  With so many people striking camp, attending to toilet, and snacking on leftovers from the evening meal, the dawn departure was predictable confusion. She found herself a safe haven between a smoldering fire and a heap of bales and there, where she would not likely be stepped on, hunkered down to chew a crust and shiver herself properly awake. She laid her free hand on the cold earth of the levee and registered the power of the Old One.

  Perag was strutting around, being objectionable. The huntleader was a foulmouthed bully, detested even by his own men. No doubt Fabia's nightmare of him murdering Paola had been sent by the Dark One, but the Mother of Lies had not lied in that instance, because a Witness had now confirmed his guilt It was time to bring the murderer to justice, lest he vanish out of Fabia's reach when they reached Kosord. Ever since Yormoth she had been requesting and receiving instruction from the Dark One and now she had dreamed everything she needed.

  Saltaja had not yet emerged from her pavilion. There was time, but it must be done before they left land and Fabia lost contact with the Mother.

  First Fabia must create a darkness to shield herself from notice. Dearest mistress, You must sometimes cloak Your children and obscure the sight of others. Do so now, I pray You, and protect Your servant. Thinking veil, she wove strands of obscurity around herself. This was her newest skill, but she felt confident that she was using it correctly. The sparkle of light on the river dimmed, and even the chattering voices seemed to fade as if muffled by fog.

  Now the hex. She had never seen snow in her life that she could remember, but she had heard tell of it, and in her dreams she had been standing in a field of malice like black snow. Gathering up a handful, she began small: One for spitefulness and maltreating the men you command. Then she squeezed a second handful into the first to make a black snowball: Two for disrupting my dedication party. Three for forcing your foul kisses on me that day. And so on. For twice abducting and humiliating Horth Wigson. Finally much larger handfuls for the despicable assault on Paola Apicella. By then Fabia had amassed a seething mass of hatred. It felt adequate, but if noth
ing happened in a few days, she could try a stronger hex. By blood and birth; death and the cold earth, she mentally threw the malice at Perag. There were no visible results at all, which was as it should be. She dissolved her veils of darkness.

  Saltaja had emerged with Guitha and her tent was already being dismantled. It was time to embark. All that Fabia had left to do to complete her hex was the lie: Instruct them, my lady, that if I were truly one of Your Chosen, I would not dare strike at him so blatantly in front of another chthonian who is my foe and has vastly greater experience and knowledge of Your ways. Convince them all that Perag's misfortunes must be pure chance, a sending from holy Cienu, and nothing to do with me. Amen.

  ♦

  The passengers followed the riverfolk custom of shifting from boat to boat, and that morning Fabia scrambled down the bank to embark in Ibis, closely followed by Cnurg and another eight Werists, mostly from right flank. Generally the riverfolk kept to the stern, leaving the area between the two masts for baggage and cargo, reserving the bow and its seating for passengers. She took her favorite place at the end of the starboard shelf, where she could lean back against the side and watch what the sailors were up to. Cnurg sat close to her, inevitably. Most of the Werists shunned the benches and perched on various barrels and crates they had collected. Two remained standing as punishment for some minor offense, their haggard expressions suggesting that they had been on their feet most of the night. The last to board were Perag and Saltaja, who took the bench opposite. Fabia smiled a welcome, mentally consigning the day to a dunghill.

  "Twelve blessings on you, my lady. And on you, Packleader."

  Saltaja inclined her head in imperious acknowledgment. However evil, she was at least courteous. The Werist just scowled at the mockery. Although he now commanded only a pack of four flanks, he still wore a huntleader's green sash; everyone but Fabia still granted him his former rank.

  The moment the lines were cast off, the riverfolk began squabbling. Fabia watched with amusement, unable to understand their curious twanging speech, but reading their gestures and emotions easily enough. Evidently some of the male sailors had been helping Nymphs worship Eriander in the night, so the women were threatening to start offering favors to Werists. The brighter Werists caught on and called out promises of cooperation until Perag barked at them to stay out of it. The argument spread wider when Hrada came near enough for shouted exchanges.