Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

They shouted denials like good little Werists.

Orlad smiled approval. "I can't wait."

thirteen

FRENA WIGSON

gazed out her window at the lifeless docks. Not even slaves could work on a day like this, when the sun was a blur of brightness in a pallid sky and Ocean a lead sheet behind masts and rigging. She wore an appropriately virginal robe of white linen with a sprinkling of pearls. Her tar-black hair was demurely coiled but adorned with a ruby comb, which was somewhat daring for the Pantheon, a subtle display of insurrection.

Accepting noon for her appointment with High Priestess Bjaria had been a misjudgment. By the time she crossed to the bedroom door, she was damp with perspiration. Her chariot was waiting for her at the front door, with Dark and Night in the traces, but she was surprised to find Verk driving. Servants set down mounting steps for her, and he offered a strong hand to help her aboard.

"Uls is well?"

"The lady is kind to ask. He is fully recovered."

She took the reins and he raised the brake. Why Verk to escort her, instead of her usual driver or one of the other house guards? Had Father arranged this, or was Verk contriving to speak with her in private? She did not inquire, because she had developed a stabbing headache, and it was growing steadily worse. As the chariot rocked and bounced across the bridge to Temple, thunder and lightning inside her skull felt fit to burst it.

Having no female relatives, she had informed Father that he would be Mother to drive her there. Although he had not driven a chariot in years, he had laughed and said he would be honored. She would drive home, though. She was determined to follow tradition and lead the chariot parade back from her dedication. So this trip was rehearsal as well as the obligatory preliminary call upon the garrulous high priestess.

"Are you all right, mistress?"

She wondered how green her face must be for him to have noticed. "I am fine. I just wish I had thought to bring wool to plug my ears." High Priestess Bjaria was the worst blabbermouth on Dodec.

Temple was one of the larger islands, the most rugged and irregular of all, and clearly had been formed when a section of the canyon wall collapsed and the river cut new channels through the resulting dam. Houses had spread over most of it so that it looked like a lumpy reptile scaled with roofs, but in places its bones were exposed as piles of gigantic rocks. The Pantheon stood on a green-furred hump, one of the few wooded areas in the city, and was reached only by climbing a long flight of stairs. Score twelve extra points for the weather, twelve more for the headache.

From the bridge to a busy street, then another, which headed straight to a cliff, snaked through a notch in it, and emerged in a steep-sided bowl whose floor was an uneven graveled yard. Scores of other chariots were waiting there, some being tended by their owners' servants, others by green-clad Nastrarians employed by the Pantheon. The onagers' braying echoed back and forth, and the stupid brutes kept answering themselves. Worshipers bustled in and out through several entrances, but they must all ascend the rocky hillside by the same wooden staircase. Verk drove as close to the base as he could. There she must leave him, because weapons were not allowed and to take attendants when calling on gods was regarded as poor taste.

She handed the reins to Verk and prepared to climb down.

"The master sent for me," he said, not looking at her.

She paused. "But did not impale you."

"No, mistress. He was very concerned to know why you insisted on approaching the mob."

So was she. What had led her to be stupid? That was not like her. "I hope you explained that I was merely being nosy?"

"Not in those words, mistress." His tone was oddly flat.

She could have rescued that man !

Verk handed her down. Slinging her leather satchel on her shoulder, she braced herself for the climb. The headache pounded harder than ever, not helped by the wailing of beggars trying to extract alms from stolid citizens going by. The stolid citizens ignored them, as did the clergy in their many-colored Pantheon robes. When the cadgers noticed Frena's purse, they redoubled their howls, scrambling after her on their knees with hands outstretched, but she hurried past them and began the ascent, following a couple of priests. The stair zigzagged, changing slope and direction frequently. It was wide enough for two people going up to pass two coming down, but the treads were in alarmingly poor condition, the handrails splintered and not entirely secure. Renovations were clearly overdue.

"Fabia Celebre?"

Something touched her arm. She ignored it, plodding painfully upward.

"Frena Wigson, then."

Frena was startled to discover that she was being addressed by a seer—a woman, judging by her voice, tall, slender, and completely swathed in white cloth. Her lower body was covered in a white skirt or robe, a cape fell below her waist, hiding even her hands, and another cloth draped her head. She must be melting inside all that.

"I am Frena Wigson." She had never spoken with a Witness before.

The speaker moved alongside. "Keep climbing and do not act surprised. I have an important warning for you."

"How do I know you are what you pretend to be?" And why were they speaking Florengian?

"You have an unhealed cut on your right shoulder and your shift is embroidered with blue daisies." She sounded young. "Am I a seer?"

"Er, yes. What warning, Witness?"

"You do believe that I speak only truth?"

"You addressed me by another name."

"I wanted to see if you knew it. You were not always Frena Wigson."

"I wasn't?" Frena croaked. Her heart was pounding much harder than it should be. Her mouth was dry, her headache excruciating, and the two old priests ahead were climbing faster than she was. She did not need crazy seers babbling riddles at her.

"No. You have been lied to all your life, but only to keep you out of danger. Now your ignorance may put you in worse danger."

If anyone other than a seer mouthed such nonsense ...

"Then who am I?"

"Your real name is Fabia. You are the fourth child of Piero, doge of the Florengian city of Celebre, and his wife, the lady Oliva. You were taken hostage when Celebre fell to Bloodlord Stralg, fifteen years ago. Your heartbeat is alarmingly fast, my dear. Take a moment's rest."

Frena leaned against a mossy rock and the seer stood beside her, one step up. A family group climbed past.. A group of women descended. The headache was flashing streaks of green light brighter than sunshine.

"Fabia?"

"Fabia Celebre."

"What's a doge?"

"A sort of elected king."

"What is the danger?" Besides dying of headache.

"Premature death. Very briefly: You and your three brothers, all older than you, were brought to Vigaelia as hostages. For the last fifteen years, your father has ruled his city as the bloodlord's puppet, thereby keeping war and grief away from it. Our sight cannot extend to another Face and my most recent information is about a season old. He was said to be very ill then. Celebre is becoming strategically important again, as it has not been for many years. One of his children will be returned to Florengia to take over after his death. The others will not be left alive as potential challengers. Now do you appreciate your danger?"

"Brothers? Where? Who?"

"We have no time for irrelevant detail. The Queen of Shadows is Stralg's regent on this Face. She will decide which one of you will live. At the moment she leans toward marrying you off to a man she can trust and sending you back with him to legitimize his rule, but she may change her mind."