Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

"Did you have a good journey? Please, please be seated. Have you eaten? We can go indoors if you wish... hoped it might be cooler out here. So hot... It will be better when the rains come." He was massively overdressed as usual, enveloped in brocade robes of gold and peacock blue.

The best method of defense, in Frena's experience, was not attack—for that could lead to pitched battle against overwhelming odds—but a vigorous flanking movement with enough implied threat to disturb established positions. As she sat down, she sent her skirmishers onto the field.

"Father, I heard a horrible story recently. I was told that rich people steal farmers' lands away from them by foreclosing on loans the poor men had to take out when their crops failed. Is that really true?"

The pale eyes blinked. "You mean is that really stealing? Or do you mean do starving peasants borrow from rich people? Or do rich people foreclose their loans? Or do you mean do I do such things?" He had a soft, disarming voice.

"Do you?"

He spread jeweled hands. "My agents are authorized to make loans to hungry peasants, yes. Usually sacks of grain, repayable when the harvest is in. They do require security, of course. If they didn't, do you think the debts would ever be repaid? Should my servants just give my grain away? Is that what you mean?"

"Well, no... But—"

Horth rarely came nearer a smile than a look of tolerant amusement, which is what he displayed now. Frena remembered that he must know her a lot better than she knew him.

"Let me ask you this, my dear. A peasant dies and his six sons divide the land between them. Each of them raises six sons and so on. Eventually the plots must become too small to support their owners, do you see? A young peasant may get by at first, but he will want a wife, and year by year his brood will grow in size and number. Drought, blight, and flood are the peasant's lot, and children his curse. Sooner or later he will fail and need help. Once he falls into debt, the chances that he will ever climb out again are very, very slim. Should he borrow from me at all? Should I help him when he asks?"

"Er... I don't know."

"I'm not sure I do either, my dear," he said sadly. "But were I in that peasant's fix, I would exchange my scrap of land for something more rewarding—a mill, say. Or a kiln, or a fishing boat." He sighed. "But then, I am not a peasant."

No, he was a very shrewd negotiator. Frena had been routed. He usually let her spin out the maneuvering longer than this.

When she did not speak, he placed his hands together in a familiar gesture, fingertip to fingertip. "As I'm sure you have already heard from the servants, my dear, I was called to the palace yesterday. A matter of business, mostly, but your name was mentioned."

"By whom? The satrap or that awful wife of his?" Saltaja, without a doubt !

Her father winced. "I know we cannot be overheard here, but remember that the satrap has Maynists to advise him. They can probably see us and hear us even here. A careless word could cause a lot of trouble, Frena."

Not the satrap! Frena could not imagine dumb old Eide bothering to spy on anyone, but she wouldn't put it past the Queen of Shadows.

"Of course, Father. Just in case a seer's watching, I'll tell you that I quite like the satrap. Even if he does have horns, he's a lot less grotesque than some of the other monster Werists I see wandering around the city." She laughed at his frown. "Don't worry! I'm old enough to guard my tongue where it matters."

"I hope so. It was your age that was mentioned. You're sixteen now."

"Yes, I know."

He tapped fingertips together. "Satrap Eide and his lady wife are... The problem is the Pantheon. It's falling apart, in great need of repair. The satrap wants to rebuild it. But the cost will be—"

"He wants you to rebuild it, you mean? Well, that's hardly fair. You're not a polytheist. You never go near the Pantheon."

"He wants me to make a contribution," her father said reprovingly, "which I said I would do gladly. And if my god does not object, then I fail to see what business it is of yours."

Startled by the rebuke, Frena nodded. "I'm sorry, Father."

"Your name came up because High Priestess Bjaria is wondering when you—"

"When I was going to have my dedication, I suppose? What business is that of hers?"

"Don't be tiresome, Frena. Of course it's her business. Most girls make their vows at fourteen or younger. It is very irregular to wait past fifteen."

"Only for the poor. The rich often wait longer." The dedication ceremony was official recognition that a girl had become a woman, so it was also the signal that her parents were open to offers. Unless they were wealthy enough to be choosy, a wedding would usually follow within a season. Nubile maidens were always in demand to replace wives who died in childbirth. "You promised me faithfully—"

"I know what I promised you, child!"

She jumped. He never raised his voice to her!

"I spend my life making and keeping promises, and I know exactly what I promised you—that I will accept no marriage offer you do not approve. Gods know I do not need a bride price. Nothing in the world could reward me for losing you, my dear, and I have missed you terribly while you have been away. But I never promised you could put off puberty until you reached menopause. You're my hostess, you wear a seal, you give orders to servants—it's unseemly that you have never made your vows. Scandalous, almost. It's being remarked on."

Stern did not suit him.

"By whom ? Since when have you ever cared for gossip? You never go near the Pantheon. Mother never went near the horrible—"

"And see what happened!"

"What do you mean?" Frena cried, leaping to her feet.

Horth looked very small, sometimes. "The reason I do not offer sacrifice in the Pantheon is that I am a henotheist, as you well know. As everyone knows. Your mother did not have that excuse. Florengians worship much the same gods, but she found our rites strange. She was undoubtedly lax in her religious observances, and I blame myself bitterly for not foreseeing the danger. Most people did not understand her reasons. They jumped to fearfully wrong conclusions."

Frena shuddered. "I am sorry, Father." She began pacing, to the nearest fountain and back. They never discussed this, normally.

"It is too late for recrimination, but I should have seen that you are running the same risk. You must make your vows right away. High Priestess Bjaria has agreed to officiate in person, and I want you to organize a very lavish celebration. Spare no expense! Let the whole city know that you have done homage to the Bright Ones."

He had begun by mentioning his visit to the palace. Then he had implied that the dedication ceremony had been suggested by High-Mucky Bjaria, although she had come calling on him this morning, after he had sent for Frena. Had she also been present at the palace yesterday, or was he molding the truth to a more convenient shape?

"Who is hiding a needy bridegroom behind this, Father? Am I to be fighting off some snotty, spotty priestess's grandson, or a brutal, brainless relative of Satrap Eide's?"

"Frena!"

"Sorry," she muttered, although she wasn't. Bridegrooms and marriage and babies could wait. She wanted to travel and see more of Vigaelia. She had plans to set up an art factory, to encourage artists and craftsmen. Horth's wealth ought to defend her from unwanted suitors, but it would not keep the satrap away. "When do you want to do this?"

"The high priestess and I agreed on six days from now."

" What ? You're crazy! Half a year!"

Horth rose. In his present footwear he was taller than she. "I am tolerant, Frena, but I am entitled to more respect than that."