Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

Horth stared back, for he trusted the instincts the god had given him and they said there was profit to be made from this woman.

"What can I do for you, mistress?"

"Much. And I can do much for you."

He waited. The dark eyes grew even fiercer.

"This child is a hostage from an important city in Florengia."

"If you expect me to help you extract ransom from the children of Hrag, then you are sadly deranged."

She shook her head contemptuously. "I was hired as wet nurse to bring her here." She had remarkably little accent if the story was true, for the war was only a year old, so she could not have arrived in Vigaelia more than a season or so ago. "Later they tried to take her away from me."

"It is customary," Horth said, "to guard hostages closely. Granted that one so young would not think of escape, her guardian might."

"Her guardian did." She smiled grimly.

"When and where? I have no wish to find a pack of Werists clawing their way in through my window." He was puzzled by his increasing certainty that she would bring him profit; it was a feeling he often experienced when looking at a cargo of copper ore or swan feathers, and it was never wrong. But he could not see the means yet.

"Jat-Nogul."

"Ah!" The fish began to bite. "Rebels? The palace was burned in the sack, I understand. Satrap Karvak died."

"Yes, he did." The woman's smile sent a tremor of dread prickling all the way up his backbone. Surely not!

That possibility changed matters considerably.

But why not? Two gods might be better than one.

He took a moment to think before saying, "I do not view the slaying of any child of Hrag to be a crime. If anything, the reverse. Public statues may be in order. Do you know any of the details?"

"Yes."

"Are you—"

"Do not ask."

They stared at each other in thoughtful silence. She was no longer smiling. He who fences with the Old One needs a long sword, as they said in the bazaar. On the other hand—and Horth could play more hands simultaneously than almost anyone—his god was still whispering "profit" in his ear. Two gods would be better than one.

"You want sanctuary here, or transportation home to Florengia?"

"Marry me. Adopt the child. You are rich and going to be richer. You can afford a wife. I make a good wife." She smiled mockingly. "Wet nurses are seldom virgins."

"I suppose not." Horth, to his astonishment, felt himself returning that smile. She had an undeniable attraction, in an earthy sort of way. He had been meaning to look around for a wife but had never found time. "And what else do I get out of this, apart from your very appealing company?"

"We look after our own."

"Wives are expected to. Be more specific."

"Prosperity to you and ruin to your enemies."

"I do not approve of murder, if that is what you mean." She had endangered herself by saying as much as she had, and he was now in peril, too. If he refused her and she were genuine, she might put the evil eye on him. And if he did not report her, he might find himself an accessory to charges of rebellion. Or worse. Since holy Mayn's Witnesses would not testify in chthonic trials, holy Demern's Speakers could not pass judgment, and justice belonged to the mob.

"I am not in the habit of killing people," she said huffily.

"Can you offer me any evidence that you are what you are hinting you are?" He could not bring himself to say the word.

"I found you, did I not? Your lackeys let me pass, didn't they?"

He nodded. Those were convincing arguments.

The child turned and held up her arms. The woman lifted her onto her lap. "I have made you a fair offer. Do you accept or not?"

He took one more moment to think. He considered throwing her out—assuming he was able—but the prospect felt very wrong. "Marry you?"

Cuddling the child, she said, "My baby here says we have been married at least two years. You can invent a story."

He said, "Yes. All right. We're married. What's your name?"

She laughed. He laughed.

Strangely, after all these years, he remembered that unexpected shared laughter as vividly as he remembered the shared bed that eventually followed, although the sheer intensity of the pleasure she revealed to him that night had been one of the greatest surprises of his life. He had been a reasonably competent husband thereafter, until failing health affected his virility.

She shrugged. "How does 'Paola' sound? Paola Apicella. Name your daughter, master."

"Frena," he said at once, his mother's name.

It had taken his agents almost a year to pry out the rest of the story and establish the child's identity. By then it had not mattered. He never learned the details of Paola's background, for she had been a person of no importance.

Had she truly been a Chosen? He had never again tried to ask her. She had been loving and well loved. She could not be compared with the Queen of Shadows, whose foes died with ghastly speed and regularity. He had wondered, sometimes, when a business rival had sickened or met with misfortune, whether Paola's curses had assisted Ucr's blessing, but there had never been any way to tell for certain. He did not even know if the odious Pukar was what he claimed to be, or just a very slick imposter fleecing him.

Yesterday's joys ... Three years ago he had lost the mother and now he was going to lose the daughter. There was no joy in that prospect, no joy today. Alas, he had long ago learned that nothing replaceable was worth a care. All the incomparable wealth he had gathered, and the thing he prized most—

The door of the cellar creaked open.

♦

There were several of them. They let him hear their footsteps moving around him, but took their time before speaking. Despite his confidence, he was strung tight in expectation of sudden bone-shattering agony. "Ready to talk?" growled a low voice. "Mmm?" Even without his familiar mooing mannerism, Eide Ernson always sounded like a hungry, rather sullen, bull. He thought like one, too.

"How may I serve my lord?" Horth was admitting nothing. Any man dangling in a dungeon would address his captor as "lord."

"I want your daughter as wife for... a certain young man." Eide, simple soul, had almost said more than he had been told to say.

"A match approved by my lord would be an enormous honor. But I fear our ancestry is not worthy."

"Yours, no. Do you know who she is, mmm?"

Who else was present? Saltaja included her bovine husband in important meetings only when she needed testimony from a Witness. If a seer were present, Horth must not lie.

"I know. She does not. Her foster mother did not tell me—I made it my business to find out." There were times in negotiation when knowledge must be concealed. There were other times when it could be volunteered to advantage. "I have made it my business to keep abreast of Celebrian affairs ever since. Frena's father the doge rallied somewhat in the spring, but his health still causes great concern. I understand that a successor must be found, but I naturally assumed that one of Frena's brothers would be selected."

Outflanked by unexpected information, the satrap grunted.

"Is he telling the truth?" inquired the throaty voice of Saltaja Hragsdor.

Silence.

"Is he telling the truth?" Eide echoed.

"He is speaking what he believes to be the truth, lord," a woman said in the singsong voice of a seer witnessing. "His information concerning Celebre must be hearsay, as is yours."

"Mmm? Hadn't heard about the doge man rallying before."

Eide and the seer were both in front of Horth, and Saltaja lurked somewhere behind, and very likely there would be Perag or another henchman to wield the club if the meeting turned sour.

"The prisoner's information may be more up-to-date than yours, lord. I can judge only what he believes."