Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  Benard, in blue-green festive cloak and garland of roses, was a maiden's dream, an astonishing contrast to his habitual scruffiness. Ingeld wondered briefly which god he could model after himself, and decided with amusement that it would have to be holy Demern. Only the Lawgiver should portray that rocky stubbornness.

  He could hardly take his eyes off his newfound sister, but when he saw Ingeld in full regalia, he sobered and dropped on one knee. Fabia was already down.

  "Up, up!" Ingeld said. "This is a family conference, not a temple ceremony. Fabia, you look breathtaking! The feast has its queen. Are you not proud of your sister, Benard? What goddess will you style after her?"

  He frowned and stared at Fabia. And she stared right back—cryptic, inscrutable, waiting.

  "I... I don't know," he muttered. "Hrada, perhaps?"

  Fabia was amused. "Me? With a loom or a needle? Or are you thinking stonemason's mallet and chisel?"

  He shook his head and did not reply, still frowning.

  "Come over here, dear," Ingeld said, "this is Cutrath."

  "It's a good likeness," Benard growled from behind them, "except that in reality his ears are bloated like cabbages, his nose is all bent over, his teeth—"

  "That will do, Benard!"

  Fabia made some tactful remarks about brawn, but clearly would still not admit that Cutrath had relevance for her.

  Ingeld explained the rest of the images—her parents and the twins. Then she pointed up at the frieze of the Bright Ones—Cienu with his wine jug, Nula comforting a child, and so on. "That is Benard's work. You have a very talented... What's wrong?"

  The girl had lost color. "Nothing ... nothing at all... Is that not Bloodlord Stralg, my lady?"

  "It's not a great likeness," Benard said. "I barely remember him."

  "It's close enough to give me nightmares," Ingeld countered.

  "But you were only a pudding, so you can't possibly remember," he told his sister. "So how—"

  "I do believe Saltaja showed me his picture once," Fabia said hastily, seeming flustered. "In Skjar. And of course he is your brother-in-law, my lady! I suppose he is an appropriate model for holy Weru ... And that is you—as holy Veslih, of course! Oh, it's wonderful! Who are the rest, Benard?"

  He was grinning again. "Most are composites of several people. Can you recognize any more?"

  "No. How could I?"

  "Holy Nula is based on Mama. Now you see how I recognized you this morning? Demern, over there, is Papa. They're not true likenesses, just childhood memories, and of course the coloring is Vigaelian, not Florengian."

  "You are most wonderfully clever! I am honored to have such a brother. Will you draw Dantio and Orlando for me?"

  Benard winced. "I never think about Dantio. Orlando was so young that my memories would mean nothing. He must be a grown man by now."

  Fabia had made a very good recovery, but Ingeld was certain it had not been Stralg that had startled her. She had been looking toward Nula, and while Master Artist Benard might see a resemblance between the picture and the girl, Ingeld had not until he pointed it out. Fabia had not exclaimed, "That's me!" If she had been taken from her mother as a babe, how could she have retained any memory of her face? And why lie about it if she had? Curious! Nor could Ingeld recall seeing any likenesses of Bloodlord Stralg in Skjar the time she had visited her sister-in-law there.

  Now it was past time Ingeld took her place at the feast, and she still had Hiddi to settle. "Benard, I do think you should ask Saltaja to let you accompany your sister to Tryfors for her wedding."

  He frowned. He was hopeless at lying, and almost never did, but he must see the need to keep their plans secret even from Fabia.

  "You heard the bride's views on the wedding," he said. "It will not happen. Why should I want to go to Tryfors? I remember it as an absolutely horrible place." Never had Ingeld seen him look more like a mud-brick wall. "I have a commission to finish here. I have obligations to my apprentice. You can have Celebre, so far as I am concerned, Sister. Congratulations. Give Mama my regards."

  Ingeld caught Fabia's eye and they pulled faces in unison. Men!

  "How about Papa, if he still lives?"

  Benard shrugged. "Him, too, if you want. Ingeld worries that Horold will kill me if I stay here, but she knows that her son would certainly kill me if I turned up in Tryfors."

  Amusingly, the girl now looked equally stubborn. Accustomed to getting her own way, she was close to losing her temper. "It seems a shame after all these years to find my brother and so soon have to mourn him."

  To keep up the pretense, Ingeld had to say, "She's right, Benard."

  His scowl became even more mulish. "I don't think so. You're proposing I evade murder by committing suicide. Horold won't kill me until I've finished immortalizing Cutrath for him. You know that. Come, Fabia, I want to show you off. By your leave, my lady? If this is to be my last feast, I mustn't miss any of it."

  Ingeld nodded permission and he left with his sister on his arm.

  ♦

  Like a huge brown caterpillar, the Nymph shuffled on bare feet into Ingeld's chamber. Penitent garb was the ultimate in indignity, a narrow, sleeveless sack that left only the upper half of her face visible. She could neither sit nor kneel, and to move at all she must struggle to hold up the trailing hem and take tiny steps. Hiddi had been prodded along on her tour of the palace by two husky Daughter acolytes armed with long toasting forks.

  Ingeld posed in state on the platform, a white-shrouded Witness stood near the arches, and two cross-legged scribes held styli ready. Tene and Sansya had chosen to attend, wanting to learn how to conduct such a trial. If this one went as planned, it should not seem difficult.

  "Witness of holy Mayn," Ingeld proclaimed, "I am dynast of this city and I have summoned the Nymph Hiddi here before the holy Bright Ones to answer my charge that she has abused the powers granted her by holy Eriander. Do you recognize this court?"

  "I do," the Maynist said.

  "Are the holy ones present?"

  "Their images testify that They are."

  "Is the prisoner the accused I named?"

  "She is."

  Ingeld turned her attention to Hiddi. What could be seen of her face was scarlet with fury, and her eyes glittered like bronze knives. Ingeld could only hope that Benard had explained why this charade was necessary.

  "Nymph Hiddi," Ingeld continued, "you worship Eriander in your own home instead of in the temple and enrich yourself with gifts that should have been made to your god or not made at all. I abhor you and your like. You pervert your god's purpose. Instead of dispensing His joy, you torture men with unslaked desire. The powers He gives for your defense you use to enslave. I have lost count of the wives who have come to me in tears because their husbands have given away everything to holy harlots like you, so that they and their children will be sold into slavery to pay their debts. In the last year, at least three have told me that you were the leech responsible. Do you deny these charges?"

  "They are lies!" Hiddi screamed.

  "Witness?"

  "She is guilty."

  "Then I can pronounce sentence. Nymph, will you plead for mercy?"

  "Bitch!" Hiddi screamed. The onlookers gasped in horror. If that was fake anger, it was well done.

  "I am the light of Veslih and greater than you, slut. I sentence you to confiscation of all your property plus eight sixty lashes with an oxhide whip, followed by eviction from our city, living or dead."

  Hiddi muttered something inaudible but unrepentant.

  Ingeld waited for the scribes to catch up. "We shall remit part of that sentence if you will confess your victims by name, beseeching your god to release them evermore from your toils."

  "How much will you remit?"

  "That will depend on how repentant I judge you." Ingeld nodded to the scribes. "We shall not have the names of innocent men recorded. You may leave. And you, Tene. Sansya, please stay."

  The moment the door closed, Ingeld
smiled and stepped down from the platform. "I hope I did not frighten you, Hiddi? You do understand that this was the only way I could get you in here?"

  "But you were enjoying it!"

  "And you earned it. Sansya, will you help Mistress Hiddi out of that appalling garment, please? There is a robe for her on that chest and I have some sweet wine here."

  Sansya gaped at her. Possibly the Witness did, too, under her shroud, because Ingeld and Benard had done most of their plotting in the adytum, where Mayn was not permitted to pry. Hiddi was extricated from her penitent's sack and provided with a gown of finest silk. She was much younger than Ingeld had expected and quite obviously the model for one of Benard's goddesses.

  She perched on an ivory chair and accepted wine in a carved crystal goblet, suspicion crawling over her pretty face like maggots. "Now what?"

  "First you release your victims and the Witness testifies that you are sincere in your petition to the god. This room is consecrated. Eriander is up there."

  Hiddi looked up and regarded the frieze. "That's Benard's work!"

  "Yes it is, and if it satisfied High Priest Nrakfin, it will do for you. After that I shall remit all the rest of the sentence—I'll let you keep your loot, because I suppose some of it you earned. You may sleep here tonight. I will see that my husband comes to join you. You know what to do then, and I wish you every success."

  Hiddi smiled, catlike. Sansya was aghast.

  "I'm only doing this for Benard!" Hiddi said.

  "You mean you won't accept presents from the satrap?"

  Hiddi shrugged. "Maybe one or two."

  "He's dangerous, Hiddi. Be very careful, because he can see in the dark like a bat. Remember, too, that he has violent followers who may try to rescue him."

  "Men!" Hiddi said contemptuously. "Animals. This is very high class wine, Ingeld."

  thirty

  HOROLD HRAGSON

  had known some bad experiences in his life, the worst being a rebel ambush outside Jazkra, when he was jumped by four warbeasts at once. It had happened soon after the twins' death, when he was less alert than usual, and by the time his host rallied to him, he had killed one of his assailants and the other three had killed him—or so his men thought. He had needed most of a day in battleform to heal and had failed to retroform properly. He had never looked in a mirror since.

  His second worst experience, and also the third, fourth, and continuing on as high as he could count, had involved his sister Saltaja. He had no memory of his parents, or any ruling force in his life besides Saltaja. Terrible as Weru, she never made a threat she would not carry out. Nor had age softened her. Nay, it had not even dared touch her, for she was unchanged from his earliest memories. He had heard the rumors that she was his mother, not his sister, and did not believe them. Therek, the eldest, was not so sure, but you could never believe much of what Therek said. That she was a Chosen seemed very believable, but in sixty lifetimes Horold would never dare ask her.

  Mother or not, she had always been able to cow him when she wanted to, and she was in a cowing mood that day. A daylight nightmare in her black robes, she led the way into his private courtyard, sat on the marble wall enclosing the fishpond, and began questioning him relentlessly on recruitment of reinforcements for Stralg. Forewarned of her arrival by Ingeld, Horold had ordered his tallymen to have answers ready for the sort of questions Saltaja usually asked, and had even made some effort to memorize a few responses, though numbers had never been his strong point. This time she ignored crops, taxes, and plagues, concentrating instead on how many recruits had passed through Kosord on their way upriver. How was he supposed to know that? They rarely even came to the palace. They'd storm the temple of Eriander and be on their way by dawn.

  He summoned the tallymen and their baskets of tablets—and Saltaja tangled all of them in knots. Later, when the minions had been sent away and there were just the two of them again, she delivered the Truth as she saw it.

  "At least six sixty have deserted in the last year. That's the least it can be. The real loss must be much worse."

  "There's always some wastage in training," he protested. "We run them down and make examples of them."

  She gave him a look he recalled from his childhood. "I am talking of initiates, not boys! Have they found some way to shed their collars and live? If not, then where are they going?"

  "Probably mostly nowhere. Any governor likes to collect a larger host than he'll admit to."

  "You were smarter when you still had your milk teeth. Listen and we'll try again. Either eleven-twelfths of the governors are suddenly holding back far more men than usual—which means there is a Face-wide rebellion brewing—or else about twenty-five out of every sixty recruits heading for Tryfors disappear on the way there. Or both," she added, frowning. "The leak seems to be upstream from here."

  "They're recruiting trash, that's the trouble."

  "They always did. But the loss in senior men is greater than it is in the youngsters. Why do you think I arrived with an escort of wet-eared boys?"

  "You were frightened the older ones might gang up on you and mutiny on the way here!"

  "Was that a flash of lightning I just saw? Yes. But I want a really senior man to escort me to Tryfors and back—one with a family here, so he won't be tempted to desert. Call your seer."

  The satrap obediently rose and went like a page to pass the word. He was intrigued by the thought of a boatload of Werists trying to throw Saltaja overboard—which side would he bet on? If he was Cutrath, sailing off to join the Florengian slaughter, he would certainly be tempted to desert, but the lad ought to be fairly safe playing tyrant in Celebre, married to that curvy little piece, Whatshername.

  A Witness came waddling into the courtyard like an ambulatory bolster. He knew this fat one. She had been around for a couple of years, and Horold normally hated to see her answer his summons, because getting information out of her was like getting eggs from a gander. He wondered if the Queen of Shadows would fare any better with her. Saltaja began snarling questions; his part was just to tell the woman to answer each time.

  Even with Saltaja asking the questions, the fat seer got away with giving very few firm answers. If recruits were absconding, it was happening nowhere near Kosord.

  "Where is Horth Wigson?" Saltaja demanded at last.

  "Who? Er, answer the question."

  "Horth Wigson is Fabia Celebre's foster father. He is not presently visible to my sight."

  "And Fabia Celebre?"

  "Answer."

  "She is in the Hall of Hawks in the company of her brother."

  "Go!" Saltaja snapped and the seer obeyed in silence.

  "Almost sunset!" Horold tried not to sound relieved. "Have to go host the feast."

  "Wait. The brother?" Saltaja said. "Could he rule a city?"

  Horold's bellow of laughter probably startled the fish. "Benard? He'd start by tearing it down so he could remake it better. He's a Hand!"

  "Would he take orders?"

  "He never has before. If he hears them at all he just forgets them. Er, you don't need him as a hostage anymore now, do you?"

  Saltaja gave him a long, steady stare. "Why do you dislike him so much?"

  "Personal reasons." If she snooped around the palace, she would hear about Cutrath, not the bedroom problem.

  "I see. Come here."

  A stab of inexplicable terror raised his all-over fur. "Why?" he demanded, rising. Why was he so frightened? She was only a bossy old woman; he could break her neck with one hand if he wanted. Why did she arouse such panic in him that his knees shook? Just vague memories of childhood? Or that day in Jat-Nogul? Was that all? Why was he obeying her, edging closer, dragging his feet, shivering like a terrified child? Why didn't he just tell her to go to the Dark One and stay there?

  ♦

  Gods! Horold started upright on his chair. He must have dropped off. The sun had set already. Where had the day gone?

  Saltaja was already at the door. "Do
what you like with the artist then, but wait until the girl and I have left."

  At last! Horold smiled contentedly, cherishing visions of Benard in a soundproof dungeon, just the two of them. "You sure you won't attend the feast?" he asked unhopefully.

  His sister just shook her head. Her taste ran to intimate Skjaran dinner parties with endless, pointless, incomprehensible conversations, not jolly Kosordian-style feasts that faded off into orgies on the edges. As soon as she had gone, he bellowed for a jug of mead.

  Having drained that, he felt even better. Get the feast out of the way and then dismember Benard Celebre! Something to look forward to very much. He donned a fresh, well-scented pall and strode off to see if the procession from the temple had arrived yet.

  ♦

  The feast began in the lowermost courts, with more praise for holy Ucr and appeals to holy Cienu to bless the festivities. Street level was where most people remained, with standing room only and hasty grabbing at whatever went by. Citizens of substance, who had been sent festive wreaths, were allowed up to middle-rank halls featuring benches at long tables. There the food was still cold, but the beer was drinkable. The real elite, those given both wreaths and robes, could progress on up to royal levels, and there recline on couches, nibble delicacies, and quaff wine while dancers writhed and musicians twanged and chirped. Because the harvest feast of Ucr lasted four days, the upper halls also featured dimly lit side rooms where senior guests could seek holy Nula's gift of sleep to restore their strength. Holy Eriander was worshiped there also.

  Horold began at the top, where he ran into the Celebre girl, a sight to warm the cockles of any man's loins. Lucky Cutrath! Surely even that sorry excuse for a warrior should manage to breed some bulls on this buxom heifer?

  "You are enjoying yourself, daughter?"

  "Indeed I am, my lord. This is not like feasts in Skjar."

  "I hope not. Keep her in the well-lit rooms!" he told her escort. "Mustn't have any gossip."