Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  Her escort was, of course, the cesspool artist, Benard. Horold gave him a big smile. "You see you enjoy yourself, too, boy." Then it will be my turn.

  ♦

  Eventually his progress through the halls and courts brought him to the lowest levels, where he discovered his wife, wearing what he always thought of as her bonfire costume. She was surrounded by doting throngs, of course. As always. Kosord would have been a much harder place for him to rule without the support of its hereditary dynast, and twenty-five years ago it had looked close to impossible. Stralg had been planning a major massacre to bring it to heel—he had estimated a quarter of the population—but once Ingeld consented, the people had followed her lead. She had been a beauty then and was still lustable enough, although no one could know it when she was packaged in that absurd outfit. Horold wandered in her direction, and his presence swiftly thinned out the crowd of admirers.

  "Come, wife. You have wasted enough time here. There are more important people to greet."

  She agreed with little enthusiasm. "I must go, friends. I shall return later. Please do enjoy yourselves ... Lead on, my lord."

  As they headed up the corridor together, she said, "You didn't used to be such a boor. The rich you can control easily enough, you know. If the poor ever rise, though, then you will fall."

  "Over their dead bodies."

  She looked up at him for a moment. Once her head had been level with his shoulder; now it was closer to his elbow. "It's hard to tell now, but... You drink a lot, don't you?"

  "There's a lot of me to satisfy."

  "Not tonight!" she said sharply. "We have guests, at least sixty-sixty guests."

  He chuckled. "Every night I said, and every night I meant. I have last night to make up for, too."

  "You spurned me for years. Why the sudden rush?"

  "Because I have a lot of catching up to do." He had believed all the stories of battle-hardened Werists killing their women by fathering monsters on them, but there was nothing wrong with the slave girl's whelp. She'd carried it a few thirties too long, was all. That error could be avoided next time.

  "I can't oblige you in this dress."

  "You won't wear that until dawn. You never do."

  She sighed, and her fingers moved on his arm. "Very well. When I go to my room to change, I'll send word."

  Aha! This was starting to sound more like the old days. "Getting back in practice, mm?" He'd known she'd soon start enjoying it again.

  thirty-one

  BENARD CELEBRE

  was not known for staying sober at feasts, but that night he was going to need a clear head. Besides, he had to be nice to his long-lost sister.

  "This is called the Bull Concourse," he said, pausing at the mouth of the great passage. The inside was shadowed and apparently deserted. He had escorted plenty of other men's sisters in there in his time, usually persuading them to go all the way to the end. "There's a lot of old statuary stored in there, so it's a popular place for, um, private cuddling. Your reputation will be absolutely ruined if you're seen going anywhere near..." He laughed clumsily. "I'm behaving like a jealous husband, am I not?" He must have told her a dozen times to stay in well-lit places. He found himself glowering at every man who came close, especially Werists. "I have no experience at brothering."

  Fabia chuckled. "I've had none at being brothered. It's very flattering."

  He enjoyed her smile. It did not appear very often, but it was worth watching for. Flighty she was not. Fabia was an extremely down-to-earth young lady and knew her own mind. He'd loved the determined way she had told Ingeld she would never marry a Werist.

  They continued their tour. Fabia was puzzled by Kosordian informality, especially when Benard introduced her simultaneously to honored guests and the flunkies waiting on them, all of them his friends, from High Priest Nrakfin to Nils the carpenter. "I'm an unusual case," he admitted. "Not many palace brats join artists' guilds."

  "More than a guild, though? Only a cultist could create such wonders."

  "I don't create them. Anziel does. I'm just Her Hand."

  They had so much to discuss! He asked about her childhood, of course, but it was no longer relevant to either of them. She asked why he disliked Cutrath Horoldson so much.

  He explained, "Briefly, Cutrath's only redeeming feature is that he is not hypocritical enough to have any redeeming features. He's a lying, thieving, sadistic, tale-telling, lecherous, blasphemous, bullying, foul-mouthed braggart. He also picks his nose."

  Her eyes widened like forest pools brimming over. "No! Both nostrils? Isn't it your duty to defend me from this unsavory marriage?"

  "Don't nag! If your Ucrist foster daddy can't help you, what can a starving sculptor do?"

  They went up on the roof near the sacred flame in the tholos and admired the infinity of stars, trading Skjaran and Kosordian names for the constellations. He was to meet Ingeld when Hrada's veil was overhead. It had a long way to go yet.

  "Brother," Fabia said softly, "I'm eager... I'll understand if this is too painful to talk about, but I would very much like to know what happened at Celebre all those years ago. Why did Stralg kidnap all four of us?"

  She was picking scabs off his nightmares.

  "Because," he said, "he's a Werist and rules by terror. He wiped out any town that defied him, spared any that surrendered. Celebre is a big, rich city and Papa had no way to defend it. He was ordered to come out and bring his family. Stralg made him swear allegiance and said he would take all of us as hostages for his loyalty. Papa quoted divine law about children not yet ten. Stralg said Weru was his god, not Demern. Papa protested that a child at suck could not be separated from its mother. So Stralg took Mama as well. That's not lawful, either."

  He paused to let Fabia comment, but she just waited for more, her face a pale mask in the firelight.

  "So you and Mama came with us, but that evening we were separated, leaving Dantio to look after Orlando and me. I never set eyes on Mama again—until I saw you this morning." He laughed. "This has been wonderful, Fabia, meeting you after all these years!"

  She said, "Was it me Stralg wanted, or Mother?"

  "Her, I suppose. She was a beautiful woman."

  "But she had already borne four children." Benard shrugged. "Maybe he just needed to rape the loser's wife to show he was the winner. Werists get sex and violence mixed up." Like Cutrath and Hiddi. Like Ingeld being raped every night by that Horold monster. "I never heard whether Mama was brought here to Vigaelia, just you. We three boys almost died on the trip over the Edge. Orlando was left at Tryfors; me, here; and Dantio went on to Skjar and did die there, soon after."

  "How? How did he die?"

  "I have no idea. Didn't you ask Saltaja?"

  Fabia said, "She said he met with an accident."

  Benard shivered like a dog shaking off water. "This is a feast! Let's not talk about it."

  They went back down and he showed her more of the palace.

  ♦

  She stopped to peer at another dark entrance. "What's down there?"

  "Rats and spiders." He laughed uneasily. "Don't ask! It's called the Old Ramp, but there's nothing at the bottom except a cellar. It has a grim reputation."

  "Like the Bull Concourse?"

  "Worse! Dark rites," he explained, lowering his voice. "Definitely not for honest folk." As a child he'd hidden down there from Cutrath's gang a few times, but only as a last resort.

  "Just stories to scare children?"

  "More, I think. I've seen ... sort of... shadow-shapes moving. Stay away!" That was where he was to meet Ingeld, the one place in the whole palace where they would certainly not find drunken revelers.

  He led her out to the courtyards to meet more people. They joined a group at the table and ate a meal. Soon after that, Ingeld materialized like a red and gold haystack beside them.

  "Fabia, I must show off my gorgeous daughter-in-law-elect to some people. Benard, have you spoken to Thod?"

  "Not yet."
>
  "Do so." She whisked Fabia away into the mob.

  ♦

  Thod was wearing a green and orange cloak with a wreath of yellow flowers, which he was probably flaunting before his friends down on the lowest level. But Sugthar the potter was sure to be at the guild heads' table, and Benard should ask him first anyway.

  Sugthar was a wizened little man, burdened with too many children and too many unsold pots. His wife was much larger than he, with an ugly mouth and bitter, suspicious eyes. They were chatting with Sagrif the seal maker.

  Benard tapped the potter's shoulder and knelt down behind him to open negotiations. "Master, I wish to make you a gift."

  The potter's wife said, "It is wrong to talk of trade at a feast."

  "A gift of ten measures of best-quality silver."

  "Eh?" barked the seal maker from the far side. "Who's that?" Like his father and grandfather before him, Sagrif could see nothing beyond the end of his nose, although he created miracles of art too small for anyone else to appreciate.

  "That is most wonderfully generous of you, master artist," Sugthar said. "But what can I possibly give you in return to show you my gratitude?"

  "You know my apprentice, Thod—"

  "A fine lad," the potter said. His wife's mouth grew even grimmer.

  "Indeed he is," Benard said. "He is eager beyond measure, most adept and quick to learn, although I think he might be better off serving holy Hrada than my own lady Anziel. He is greatly enamored of your daughter, the lovely Thilia. I had in mind that you might take Thod as your apprentice and her betrothed."

  "Only ten measures of silver?" Thilia's mother barked. "Why, we have turned down offers—"

  "Be quiet!" her husband snapped, to her evident astonishment "Your gift is exceedingly generous, Benard! Far too generous! Of course, Thilia will not be fourteen until next year, but she does look with favor on Thod. He is agreeable?"

  "I'm sure he will be. Haven't had time to discuss it with him. Here is the silver. I know you are an honest man. In fact, take two more measures as a wedding gift for them. I must rush. Please keep the arrangement quiet for a few days. And give them both my best wishes, won't you? My thanks, master, mistress ... twelve blessings ..."

  Leaving them openmouthed, Benard took his leave.

  "Twelve measures of silver?" Sagrif exclaimed. "And a girl child settled? Who was that? I need him."

  ♦

  Benard gave up looking for Thod. The stars moved slower than fingernails grew. Had the satrap gone looking for his wife yet? Would Ingeld be able to slip away unnoticed? Suppose Guthlag had failed to find a boat! Saltaja Hragsdor was in the palace, supposedly resting, but definitely a danger. Fabia seemed to have disappeared.

  "Master Artist Benard?"

  He looked up at a weary adolescent eye.

  "You shouldn't grow so fast, Keev. It's unhealthy."

  The page grinned. "I'm trying to give it up! Bena, I was told to tell you to go to the Bull Concourse to learn something important."

  "Told by whom?"

  "I was told not to say."

  Benard dismissed the boy with a nod and absentmindedly crumpled the drinking beaker in his fist into a nugget while he pondered. He was not in the mood for any impromptu trysts, and no one had dropped any hints, so far as he had noticed. But the message might have come from Ingeld or Guthlag, so he decided on a cautious reconnaissance.

  The great and gloomy corridor still seemed to be uninhabited. He could hear none of the give-away sounds of low-jinks in progress. He walked about a third of the way along it before a voice spoke his name from the shadows. White-draped and anonymous, a Witness of Mayn stood in an alcove between two gigantic winged bulls. She was spinning, of course.

  He did not go close. "How do I know you're genuine?"

  "The shapeless lump of metal in your fist was a pewter beaker until very recently. Convinced?"

  "No." He slid his other hand behind his back. "How many fingers am I holding out?"

  "Three. Now four."

  "So you're a seer. Seers serve the satrap. I don't trust you."

  "We serve unwillingly. My name is Mist."

  Something about her made his skin creep. "What do you want of me?"

  "To pass on a warning. Today Saltaja Hragsdor gave her brother leave to kill you."

  It had come! Benard felt as if he had been slugged with a blunt plank. "And will he?"

  "Oh, yes. Every time the satrap sets eyes on you, his bloodlust echoes through the palace like a scream."

  "Nice imagery. What do you recommend I do about it?"

  She lowered her spindle to touch the floor, then lifted it to wind the finished thread around it. "Exactly what you and your lady are already planning to do. Just make sure you don't fail."

  "Snoop!" Benard turned to go, then changed his mind. "How is Hiddi?" He had horrible visions of an infuriated Horold breaking her neck.

  "Hiddi is still waiting for the satrap, but he believes his wife is waiting for him and is heading for her bedchamber as fast as he can stagger. Sober, he might have a chance. As it is ... well, if you wish to gamble, Bena, I'll bet ten oxen on Hiddi to a rabbit pelt on Horold." The Witness set her spindle turning again and began feeding it wool from her distaff.

  "Thank you," Benard said. Good for Hiddi! "Twelve blessings—"

  "Wait! Obviously you must flee downstream. The current will help you outrun Horold's warbeasts and it leads to more densely settled lands where fugitives can hide in a forest of people. Upstream is a dead end and you may run into Saltaja or Cutrath."

  "You're hinting that Horold knows that, so we should go upstream?"

  The seer chuckled. "If you believe that, then you should double-bluff him and go downstream anyway."

  "Horold is cunning enough to work that out, too!" Benard said angrily, sensing mockery. "I won't tell you which way we're going!" He was planning to spin a knife and let holy Cienu decide. "The satrap'll send his host whichever way you seers tell him to!"

  As he started to turn, the seer again said, "Wait!"

  "What?"

  "It is known that I am the only Witness presently in Kosord whose sight extends all the way across the river. And I am leaving."

  "So?"

  "So, hope that when Horold discovers your absence, he will ask 'Which way did they go?' and not 'Where are they heading?' Understand?"

  She meant he should start one way and then double back. That was worth knowing. Benard nodded to the darkness. What was it about this woman that he found so repellent?

  "Flankleader Guthlag," she said, "has hired Ucr Blessed, which is a very fast boat with a skilled crew. If you go to Sixty Ways in Tryfors and ask there for Poppy Delight, you will find friends who can help you."

  "Friends? Friends against the Hrag gang?"

  "Very much against the Hrag gang. Say Mist sent you. And may holy Cienu shower good fortune on you and your lady."

  If this was a trap, why would the seer not just tell Horold what his wife and her lover were plotting? Or even tell Saltaja? Puzzled and not entirely convinced, Benard could say only, "Thank you. We'll consider your words."

  thirty-two

  FABIA CELEBRE

  soon tired of the fat old women who formed the upper crust of Kosordian society, and they had even less interest in her. She did not know why Ingeld had dumped her on them, although she had her suspicions. When an aggrieved discussion of the outrageous price of slaves sprang up, she quietly spun a veil, as the Old One had taught her. Once she was well obscured, she backed away unseen.

  She had an exploration in mind. The place Benard called the Old Ramp had beckoned her. He had implied worse danger than just amorous drunks, but she was confident she could handle those easily enough, and the uncanny held no terrors for her now.

  Wheel ruts in the flagstone floor showed that the spooky corridor had once been a chariot road, and grandiose bas-reliefs suggested that it might have been the main entrance to the palace. At the bottom of the long slope she came to
an unlit crypt, reeking of damp and decay. Absence of light did not trouble her, although she had brought no lamp. The only sound was a distant drip of water, whose echoes told her that this was a large, high place.

  Whatever it had been in the past, now it lay buried under newer construction and was used to stash unwanted junk between its ancient brick pillars. No, more than just that. A familiar tang of mystery and the slow drip brought whispers of welcome. This was the Kosordian equivalent of the secret grotto under Skjar's Pantheon, officially ignored but secretly tolerated for the performance of chthonic rites.

  She wondered how safe the roof was, for both wooden rafters and brick pillars must decay in this drippy damp. More urgently, she wondered what she would say to Saltaja if they ran into each other here. Nevertheless, her instincts said that this was Xaran's temple, so she set off to find the altar and offer prayer.

  Even a Chosen need step warily through such terrain in the dark. She had not gone far—just past some decaying chariots—when a faint glow began playing around her feet She stepped behind a spiral pillar and strengthened her veiling. Down the ramp came the Florengian hostage-Daughter, Sansya, carrying a small oil lamp in one hand and a bundle under the other arm. She paused when she reached the crypt, peering around and then moving cautiously to one side so she could not be seen from the hall above. There she put her back against the wall, but continued to hold her tiny light high, obviously afraid of the darkness.

  Time dragged, but the Chosen had patience.

  Eventually another lamp glowed in the passageway. There was no mistaking Lady Ingeld in her spectacular red and gold robes as she swept downward, hastened by the weight of her regalia, arriving almost at a run. No one could serve two gods, so the pyromancers were not here to worship the Dark One. Why were they creeping around in crypts during a religious feast?

  "What news?" Ingeld asked urgently.

  "He went in and closed the door, my lady. He has been in there long enough to perform a simple act of worship ... possibly even long enough to start considering another, my lady, except he was very drunk."