Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

" Weru ! Holy Weru ! Help me !" He backed right out onto the balcony, howling in terror. The crowd-beast recognized him and screamed its rage. Missiles pattered like hail. A bronze-tipped shaft sprouted from the Werist's chest. Then another. He twisted around, displaying the feathered ends, staggered a few steps, took two more hits, and toppled over the balustrade. The mob cheered him all the way down.

Paola turned back into the smoke and hurried the child away to safety.

♦

A clap of thunder like the end of the world jerked Frena upright and awake. She gasped for breath, hearing the drumming of terror in her heart. Sweat trickled down her face. No reek of smoke making her eyes burn, no raging mob outside, but the vision had been as clear as life itself. Where? When? Apicella escaped ... What was the name the seer had mentioned? Jat something. Satrap Karvak, another of Hrag's sons... died during the sack of Jat-Nogul ...

Another stunning thunderclap sent Frena dashing, naked, to the window. One should be careful what one prayed for, Horth always said. She had prayed to the Old One to save her from having to visit the Pantheon.

A bad enough storm could do that, but she did not want to see half of Skjar leveled in the process. Usually the canyon sheltered the city from the worst winds, but it could channel them, too, and waves could do even more damage. Rarely a storm surge lined up with the gorge and caused massive flooding and destruction. Again the heavens roared.

The rainy season was about to begin in earnest.

♦

All morning a curtain of black rose steadily up the sky. By noon the waters had turned from bright blue enamel to lead, and an ominous swell was fondling the quays as if testing their strength for the battle to come. Everything movable had been trussed or stowed or battened, and most ships had been towed around to the safety of Weather Haven. Thunder rumbled constantly.

"We'll all die!" Ni whimpered.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Frena snapped. "You've seen storms before. This house is built of stone! It's the safest place to be."

The fan Ni was wafting at her made no difference whatsoever. Everyone was staggering and gasping in the steamy air, hurrying to ready her ladyship for her departure—Inga making final adjustments to the mother-of-pearl combs holding up her hair, Plumna applying the final touches to the silvered fingernails, Lilin kneeling to adjust the flower petals on her slippers. The rest were trying to tidy up, and outside the sun had disappeared.

"If the gods are kind my lady will make it home again before the storm," Inga said soothingly. Efficient Inga had led the team dressing Frena for the great occasion—several pot-boilings of bathing, primping, curling, scenting, powdering, and painting.

Or the gods might rain on her procession as a penance for ever having flirted with the Old One. These visions she had been having—were they anything more than evil deception from the Mother of Lies? If the Old One wanted Frena to swear to Her, then why had She not shown her how it was done? She was so giddy from stress and lack of sleep that she hardly cared which god or gods she would accept today. Since before dawn she had danced a wild gavotte of overseeing cooking, baking, table preparation, the arrivals of fresh produce, wine decanting, stabling, checking and double-checking a myriad of other details. No one had ever organized so large a feast in so little time! Then had come the preparation of Frena herself, but even in her bath she had been kept abreast of the preparations by a constant stream of reports. The jugglers had arrived, the geese had been put in the ovens, some of the guest gifts were late, the wine jars were being cooled in wet rags...

A mere three days ago this miraculous white gown had not existed. White was the traditional color for dedications and all agreed that it set off her coloring to advantage. Overruling impertinent protests from Inga, Frena had chosen a daringly low-cut bodice. She had the figure to support it, so why not let the world admire? For three days and nights, legions of sleepless seamstresses had labored to pleat and hem and, above all, stitch on pearls. More than ten sixty pearls shone like summer dew, defining and stiffening the bodice. Another few sixty formed the choker she wore on her neck, about as many the two matching bangles, and there were even more in her tiara. She preferred not to think about recent mortality among oysters.

Inga held up the mirror so she could make a final inspection. No great beauty peered back at her. White face powder was the customary makeup for maidens going to make their vows; on her complexion it would look ridiculous, so she had spurned it. An adequate face, but no one would ever mistake her for holy Anziel come visiting mortals. A young Veslih, just maybe—motherly, competent, defender of the hearth. Not, she hoped, Mother of Lies, Womb of the World, or any of the Dark One's even less flattering titles. No one ever made images of the Old One.

"Thank you all," she said. "You have done marvelously. Let us go down so my father and everyone else may see the fruits of all your hard work."

"The master is waiting outside, mistress."

"Then bring him in at once!" Frena said crossly. When Horth appeared, she curtsied low.

He bowed. "Oh, my chick has grown up! Behold the swan."

Not a swan, a cuckoo. He had lied to her all her life, but she did not hold it against him. He had raised her, protected her, cherished her. The doge man in Florengia had given her away.

She was amused to see that Horth was not resigned to skulking in her shadow, even on this, her special day. His robes were more dazzling than hers, ablaze in embroidery and gems ... a jeweled cap to hide his baldness, dye to make his beard less hazy, shoes even higher than normal. She embraced him carefully, not wanting to knock him over.

"Exquisite, my dear! Turn around. Your mother would be proud. You are truly gorgeous, Frena! Oh, I shall have to summon half a dozen of my best tallymen to keep track of all the marriage offers I will hear tonight."

"It's quite easy, Father. You just keep saying no! Yes?"

He chuckled. "Yes, 'no' it will be. I keep my promises." But according to the Witness, he would shortly be offered a candidate who could not be refused.

As they set off along the corridor arm-in-arm, with her skirts whispering exciting secrets to the tiles, she sensed his limp and knew his back still troubled him. She slowed down, taking this last chance for a private word with him.

"Father, listen. I don't truly believe that the satrap's wife cares one raindrop about my reputation."

"Frena—"

"Let me finish, please. Gods know her own reputation stinks high enough, and if Skjar had to vote for the most likely Chosen in—"

"Frena! I asked you not to—"

"Listen to me! If it turns out that the Queen of Shadows has a match in mind for me, you will be in trouble if you do not cooperate. I hope I'm wrong, but please don't put yourself in danger by sticking to that promise you gave me."

She glanced at him to see his reaction, but he showed no signs of taking her words seriously. Indeed, he laughed as they turned the corner and started downstairs.

"Frena, Frena! Don't worry. I hope you won't rush into matrimony, my dear. I don't want to share you with anyone. But if any woman can afford to pick and choose, you can. I shall be very lonely when you fly off to a husband, and all my wealth cannot dispel loneliness." That was an unusual concession from him, but he was keeping something from her, some plot, perhaps.

Halfway down the stairs, she paused to enjoy the applause. Most of the household staff had gathered to watch her arrival, and all the shop employees were there as well. She was running late, for there must still be well-wishing and gift-giving from the employees, with exactly five of the most senior men being allowed to kiss the debutante—those selected having been advised beforehand. Master Pukar was not one of them. Then off to the Pantheon and...