Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

The monster sighed. "The years pass! Master artist? Sworn to Anziel? This was well done."

"My lord is kind." Amazingly so.

"All Florengians are artists, not fighters. That was what we were told. You suppose my brother still believes that?" The piggy eyes glinted dangerously.

"My lord, I am ignorant of such matters." The Florengian war was far away and what Bloodlord Stralg believed was of no interest to Benard.

"A hostage should keep himself better informed. Well, what do you want?"

That was what a sixty of much worthier petitioners were wondering.

"My lord is aware," Benard said, this being the formula for I'm sure you don't know , "that his lowly servant has been contracted to supply statues of the Bright Ones for the new Pantheon."

"I know the priests talked me out of a wagonload of gold for some useless project." The satrap clicked claws impatiently on the arm of his throne. "What of it?"

"Holy Weru, lord. As my lord is the light of Weru on Kosord, I had hoped he would give his slave direction on how the majestic Weru should be portrayed. I presumed to bring a sketch... lord..."

He gestured to the herald who had taken his board from him. The man approached and knelt to show it to the beast on the throne. Satrap Horold, with his snout and tusks and evil little piggy eyes, looked down at the godlike face he had possessed fifteen years ago.

He grunted. Then he beckoned Benard to rise and approach the throne. This was a signal honor, but it involved no small danger. As Guthlag had hinted, Horold might decide he was being mocked and disembowel Benard with one slash of his paw.

"When did you do this?" he asked, in a low, slurred growl. He had trouble speaking below a bellow.

"This morning, lord."

The ancient throne of Kosord was not an especially high seat, yet Benard had to look up to see the giant's tusks, and it was an effort not to pull faces at his rank animal stench.

"From memory?"

"Yes, lord."

"Incredible."

"My lord is kind."

"Describe this new Pantheon."

"My lord, the gods will stand above their respective shrines ..." Life-size freestanding statuary was a new art form, an idea imported from Florengia. Before the war, Vigaelian artists had rarely ventured beyond bas-relief or faience figurines. Since man-size statues could not be packed over the Edge, artists like Odok and now Benard were working from sketches and making up the rest as they went along. They could follow old traditions or flaunt them almost at will.

"How big are these figures?"

"The priests wanted human—I mean— life size, my lord." Sweat, fool !

"And wearing what?"

"Whatever tradition and the priests require, lord." Benard must be careful not to get carried away in describing this wonder he was to create. A man must keep all his wits about him when dealing with a despot. "With appropriate attributes. Some clothed ... some not."

"What will Weru be wearing?"

"Whatever my lord directs."

"Then show Weru unclothed."

"My lord is kind."

While Benard considered how to ask for an edict of protection while he worked without mentioning Cutrath, the satrap forestalled him.

"Give him a sword—but no collar for a god, of course." The monster's jowls distorted in what might have been a smile. A long black tongue came out and washed his tusks. He snuffled. "You have given me grave offense in the past, little Bena. What misdeeds have you been up to now that you suddenly seek my favor?"

There was no possibility of lying in the presence of a Witness. Benard found enough saliva to whisper, "Uh. My lord's most miserable slave, while drunk, used... er... insulting language to my lord's glorious son, the magnificent warrior Cutrath Horoldson, and now fears for his life... my lord."

The monster chuckled and scratched a hairy ear with a curved talon. "I should hope so. That's all?"

"May it please my lord."

"Seer?"

The white-shrouded Witness glided closer without interrupting her spinning. "Lord?"

"What really happened?"

"My lord!" Benard wailed. Not here !

"Silence!" snarled the satrap.

"The artist challenged your son to a fight over a woman and knocked him out cold, lord."

Seers did not whisper. All the court heard.

It held its collective breath.

Horold snuffled. He opened and closed a fist a few times; the long black claws seemed to extrude farther. "My son?" he croaked. "This trash did? When ?"

"Just before dawn."

"Who saw this?"

"The woman, and two warriors of Cutrath's flank."

Benard waited to die. The satrap's own questions had exposed both himself and the heir he had so recently honored to utter ridicule. A Werist's normal reaction to such insult would be lightning homicide, and Horold was visibly trembling with the effort needed to maintain control. But such public violence would make matters even worse, showing how deeply he had wounded himself. His piggy eyes scanned the appalled court, seeking any hint of a smirk or a snigger. He released a long breath ...

"Well, that is most interesting! Where is my son now?"

"Up in the gallery near the west stair, my lord." The seer stopped her spinning long enough to wind the thread up on the spindle.

"Herald, call for Cutrath Horoldson."

Benard wondered why his jangling emotions had not knocked the seer flat on her back by now. Was Horold going to let Cutrath perform the execution? With his teeth ...

"Artist!"

"My lord?"

"Weru is patron god of Kosord. You will make the Terrible One twice as tall as any of the others. More than twice."

But my contract with the priests ... "My lord is kind. Alas, the marble..."

"What of the marble?" The satrap's roar echoed. The congregation shimmered back a pace, but Benard could do nothing but sweat faster.

"The blocks are already cut or on order, my lord. And the difficulties of transporting so large a block, and of finding a large enough slab which is not marked by unsightly veins of mineralization—"

"Scribe, record that the hostage Benard is to be supplied with transportation to our marble quarry and all the help he needs to cut the block he selects and transport it back to Kosord, all at our expense. Advise the guard that his parole is extended to permit this. Give him coppers to ..." The black lips curled again. "No, not our little Bena! I'll send someone more responsible along to take care of the expenses."

"My lord is kind!" This was better than anything Benard could have dreamed of! A journey to the quarry could probably be spun out indefinitely. Cutrath would have to wait.

"Your escort can also make sure you find your way home safely. Herald, return that sketch to him when he leaves." Evil porcine eyes studied Benard for a moment. "Take it to our wife. Let her have it as a keepsake. Ah, my misbegotten excuse for a warrior son approaches."

Not having been summoned as "Warrior Horoldson," Cutrath was creeping forward like a civilian.

"You may rise," his father said.

"My lord is kind." Cutrath sat back on his heels and stared agonizing death at Benard.

"Always," the satrap growled. "You pride yourself on your manly physique, do you not?"

"My lord is—"

"Answer!"

Cutrath choked, as if he were about to vomit from sheer rage. "I believe I am not unworthy of my noble ancestry, my lord."

"Girls tell you how handsome and strong you are?"

"Some do, my lord."

"How many, exactly?"

"Um ... Two?" Cutrath whispered, eyeing the seer uneasily.

" Have any ever called you a useless runt ?" Horold roared.

His son shuddered and seemed to shrink. "None, my lord."

"They should be more perceptive. Our artist hostage here needs a model for his portrayal of holy Weru. You will pose for Benard. As often and as long as he requires. Nude ! Scribe, record this edict. Record, also, that the artist remains under my mercy. This forbiddance applies to all members of our host. There will be no inexplicable accidents, Cutrath! No beatings in dark alleys."