Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

"Mercy? You don't know what that means!" Rapist !

Hate!

He took one more step back and began waving his arms wildly to regain his balance. She could have saved him, perhaps, but without an instant's hesitation she stepped forward and pushed hard with both hands. He vanished. She heard his scream stop as he hit, starting a rush of loose stones. He hit once or twice more. The clatter of falling pebbles died away into silence.

♦

He was certainly not conscious down there, wherever "down there" was. If he was alive there was nothing she could—or would dare—do for him.

Trembling, she went back to kneel at the altar. She did not know what to say ... but that was just because she had not decided what she was thinking. Was she sorry? No. It had been self-defense. He had been prepared to use force on her because he thought he was the stronger. If one-twelfth of the stories about Master Pukar were true, then he deserved what had happened.

Would she do the same again under the same circumstances?

Yes.

"Holy Xaran, I, Fabia Celebre , give thanks for this deliverance. I offer the blasphemer Pukar as sacrifice to You. Accept his blood and death as my offering, I pray You."

After a moment she added, "Amen."

twenty-one

FABIA CELEBRE

dressed again in the remains of her sodden gown. Shivering from cold and delayed shock, she found and appropriated Master Pukar's leather cloak, into whose capacious inner pocket she stowed her pearl bracelet and the few other trinkets that had survived. His wrap she tossed into the shaft after him as a shroud. She found no lamp, but the possible significance of that absence did not occur to her until she was almost back at the outer door, navigating the unlit passage with little trouble. Of course a Chosen would be able to see in the dark! That realization shook her more than anything that had happened yet, even Pukar's death. She was one of them now. Had Pukar been one or an imposter? The seer had warned her that there was never any way to tell.

Inconspicuous slits and knotholes in the ancient door provided a complete view of the alley outside, so that Mother Xaran's worshipers could depart unseen. The thunder had moved on but rain still roared and the alley was a stream. Fabia had very little idea of where she was or even where she should be trying to get to—home, palace, or Pantheon? The same monster wave that had smashed the Eelfisher bridge must have taken several others, so the way home would be a long detour around by Live Ringer and Handily. The palace was no closer and she could not go there looking like something spurned by seagulls. The Pantheon was nearest and would offer help.

A few people in cloaks and hoods splashed along, bent against the downpour. Fabia halted a woman at random and traded one of her precious mother-of-pearl combs for directions and a pair of reed sandals—chuckling at the thought of what Horth would say if he knew. After that she could manage a better pace, limping through the mud and rain while her business associate stared after her openmouthed.

The rocky bowl where the chariots waited for their owners to return from the Pantheon was a knee-deep lake packed with wailing multitudes and angrily braying onagers. Rain was hammering down unhindered, but as much of the stairway as she could see was dangerously crammed. There were also far too many onagers in the crowd, like snakes in a vegetable patch, and if she reached the steps without being kicked or bitten or both it would be—

"Mistress! Mistress Frena! Aee !"

—a miracle.

Black hair did have its uses. Verk was standing high, obviously in a chariot, waving both arms wildly. She acknowledged the wave and headed in his direction. The ribbons and flowers on the car were almost as bedraggled as she was.

When she arrived he looked her over and said " Aee !" several times. "I must take you to the sanctuary of holy Sinura at once, mistress."

Suddenly she felt incredibly weary, as the stressful days and sleepless nights caught up with her. "No. Just home. The Healers will be overloaded with far worse injuries than mine. I took a tumble, is all. Nothing serious." The cut on her hand would not be noticed among all the other scrapes.

Yelling and cracking his whip, Verk began the tricky process of guiding the onagers out of the crowd, but they were almost uncontrollable, driven out of their asinine minds by the rain and tumult.

"What are all these people doing?" she demanded.

"Giving thanks for not being drowned, mistress."

The disaster had allowed her to make her vows of the Old One as she had wanted, but she did not like to think that it might have been sent for that purpose. "What about those who did drown?"

His pale eyes twinkled. "They were impious people who deserved what happened."

They laughed together. Unkind, yes. Blasphemous, certainly. But they were alive when so many were not, and it was only human to rejoice. Between cursing at idiots of two and four legs both, Verk explained how he had seen the bridge go, but only after Fabia had already vanished into the rain. He had taken a roundabout way to the Pantheon and been waiting and watching for her ever since, overhearing news of terrible destruction on the seaward islands—Crab, Blueflower, Saltgrass, and Strand—and lesser damage as far upstream as Slanted. Naturally, he had no information on what had happened to Horth since the Werists had carried him off.

She gave him a vague account of her accident, reflecting that if she told him the whole story he would faint right out of the chariot. She had not yet grasped all the consequences of her actions. From now on her life would never be free of danger. And what had she gained, in return for a lifetime of jumping at shadows? A long lifetime, supposedly, if she could avoid being buried alive too early. She could see in the dark better than before, which might be useful, but what of the strange power that had destroyed Pukar and Satrap Karvak? A knack for making men walk backward was certainly not a skill to be displayed in public, and of limited usefulness, since she could not count on finding rebel archers or bottomless chasms in the background very often. It might be a form of the evil eye. The seer had hinted that Paola had brought down some of her Werist assailants in her death struggles, and polytheists could not do that. Fabia needed a teacher, but she just could not imagine herself hailing down Saltaja Hragsdor with a cheerful demand for lessons in cursing.

Fabia had killed a man. She tried not to think too hard about that...

"Verk?"

"Mistress?"

"Why did you come here and wait for me? You must have known I was heading for the palace?"

The chariot lurched down the muddy street. Verk stared straight ahead, rain dribbling from his helmet to his craggy, fresh-shaven face and on down his shiny mail.

"A lucky mistake, mistress."

"Yes, but now tell me the real reason."

He squirmed. "Last night, mistress ..."

"Well?"

"I had a dream. I was in that place and many, many people were wailing. And you were there, calling me ... mistress." He shot a nervous sideways glance at her, eyes all white.

Dreams came from the Mother of Lies, of course. And Fabia had tried to rescue the Chosen at Bitterfeld. That was why he looked so frightened.

"Then it was a miracle. But I will see that Father rewards you well."

She was very tempted to add, "And I give you my blessing." But Verk had been very loyal, and it would not be fair to terrify him even more.