Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

"My lord is kind." He was white to the lips.

"You think so? You have disgraced all the Heroes of Kosord. Report to Huntleader Kwirarlson for punishment and beg him not to demean you further with any show of clemency. Scribe, we are indebted to the hostage Benard Celebre for exposing the worthlessness of our son." Horold tugged off one of his gold armbands. "Record also that we give him this ring as a token of our favor. Next case."

The entire court exploded in roars of approval as the smarmy courtiers cheered the satrap's leniency and wonderful generosity. They quite drowned out Benard's astonished thanks. He bowed and backed away from the throne, wondering what in the world he was supposed to do with a slab of gold.

seven

FRENA WIGSON

knew there was something wrong the moment she swept into the mansion. Servants bowed to her or knelt, depending on rank; they smiled, or looked shocked if they saw the cut on her shoulder. But there was something wrong. Master Trinvar, the steward, was hastily summoned to proclaim a formal welcome.

She thanked him. "Inform the master that I have returned. Tell Inga I want a hot bath right away. Has Plumna had her baby yet? Have my jewel cases brought from the vaults. I trust my rooms have been cleaned and aired? Swordsman Uls has broken his arm. Verk will bring him to the Chatter Place Sinurists for healing tomorrow, so pray dispatch a generous gift to them. I shall want music this evening. Verk still has my chariot, but inform the stable master that the left wheel is slightly off-true. Are the extensions to the servant quarters finished yet?"

Her queries answered, she hurried up to her rooms. Horth had broken with the Skjaran tradition of building in wood. The Wigson mansion was of stone, faced with tile, marble, and mosaic, shimmering inside and out. He never stopped enlarging, decorating, and furnishing with art. New things of beauty were displayed in prominent places, but after a few thirties they would be ousted by even newer prizes and moved to less public sites. When they were in danger of sinking to the servants' quarters, he would resell them. He boasted that he never lost on such trading, although it was the merest hobby.

Several life-size carvings in ebony had been added to the main staircase since Frena left, and she made a note to admire them in detail when she had a moment. She was not surprised to discover that the priceless Ashurbian funeral urns they had replaced now adorned her current rooms. No, the surprise was that her wardrobe had not been moved to somewhere even larger and grander while she was gone. The urns were an improvement on some now-absent malachite fish.

Her mother had always insisted on a bedroom overlooking gardens, but Frena preferred the waterfront. She loved the bustle and excitement, ships coming and going, brawny sailors and longshoremen toiling away. Ocean was bizarrely different from land. It seemed just as flat, and yet it ended in a sharp horizon not half a menzil offshore. Ships went over that edge, so that their hulls disappeared before their sails, or appeared after them. She found this fascinating and incomprehensible. Her longtime secret dream was of a handsome sailor sweeping her away in his ship in a trading voyage all around Ocean, lasting for years, visiting dozens of exotic cities and romantic islands. Father could supply the ship; the problem would be finding a suitably hunky sailor with refined manners.

Soon Inga led in a parade of damsels with jars on their heads, and in no time Frena was floating dreamily in her porphyry bathtub. Plumna sponged away her coat of road dust while Lilin busily laid out clothes, scents, and other necessities. Inga frowned at the cut on her shoulder and suggested summoning a Sinurist.

"It's nothing. A rock flew up and hit me. Now tell me all the news."

Good ladies' maids never gossiped, of course, so they had to make a mild pretense of resistance before serving up all the meaty dishes they had been saving. They began by repeating what Verk had already told her—Horth had been abducted before dawn the previous day by the satrap's Werists, and returned later in an unusually agitated condition. He had even called for wine, although he normally drank only ibex milk, and had gulped it while dictating the summons to his daughter. Verk and Uls had left before noon.

"There's talk of a big party, mistress!" Ni confided. "Stuff being brought in from the country."

Since her mother died, Frena had been Horth's hostess. She had organized some of the biggest parties Skjar had ever seen. She could not imagine why he should want to entertain when everyone with any wits had fled the city, but that would certainly explain why he had sent for her.

Later Lilin, who was married to one of the tallymen, let slip that Horth had been closing negotiations and calling in loans, as he did when he needed large amounts of bullion on hand. No feast could require gold on that scale.

By the time Frena swept down the stairs, past the ebony sculptures, she had learned everything the household staff knew, which was normally fifty-nine-sixtieths of what mattered. Ominously, she had only just missed meeting High Priestess Bjaria, who had come calling on her father with a sneer of lower priestesses in train. They had all been treated like royalty and laden with gifts when they left. What the two principals had discussed had not been audible to anyone else, but the servants clearly thought they could hear wedding trumpets in the near future. So could Frena. She was girded for war.

♦

Horth's normal workplace was opulent and designed to impress. His gilded chair was inset with ivory, jade, and mother-of-pearl, and also raised so he could look down on visitors and petitioners—servants, scribes, guild masters, ship captains, rival traders. In the hall's vastness he could negotiate without being overheard, yet a gesture would bring scribes and tallymen running from the far end. For more honored guests he descended from his glory and sat with them at equal level, on stools near the windows. The truly revered—the satrap or his wife, consular agents of other cities, the four or five heads of mercantile houses he chose to regard as his equals—were usually received outdoors, in the greater privacy of the water garden.

It was to this shaded glade that Frena was directed, being given the customary warning not to brush against foliage on the way in. A narrow curving path brought her to the little pentagonal court concealed within the fleshy jungle. Trilling fountains muffled whatever was said there, and any spy approaching to eavesdrop would learn nothing except the deadly properties of Navarian choke cherries.

Horth was slumped despondently on a chair, gazing at the paving, half turned from her. She wondered if she had been taking her summons too personally. His troubles might have nothing to do with her at all, other than a need for support. They had no family except each other.

"Father?"

He looked up sharply. "Frena, my love!" He rose to embrace her. She knew by his awkwardness that his back was hurting him again, and responded carefully. He was wearing thick-soled shoes, which normally meant company was coming, but there were only two chairs present.

Horth Wigson was singularly unimpressive at first glance and on closer inspection even more so—short of stature, spare and narrow, hollow-chested. His head was hairless, too large, and egglike, with prominent ears and a face tapering downward to a wispy beard. He lived on barley cakes and ibex milk, so the only excessive flesh on him anywhere was under his eyes, two crescents like pale segments of grapefruit. Those wan eyes blinked a lot, peering at the world in a permanent state of sad incomprehension. He was hard to overestimate. Yet even Frena, who must know him better than anyone, rarely knew what he was really thinking.