Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

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The crisp smell of the sea bore sinister, sour overtones. Weed and debris on the streets were the first signs of flooding, but not the last, and soon the destruction was total—ships on top of houses and houses on what had once been ships. Skjar had not been smitten so badly in many lifetimes. Many bridges had gone, but Verk found a way back to Crab, where great stretches of island had been swept clean.

Horth's extravagant habit of building in stone had paid off, for the Wigson residence remained standing, solitary defiance in the midst of desolation, with lights showing in downstairs windows. There had been damage, of course—doors and shutters ripped away, the grounds devastated, the main floor gutted. Dazed servants were digging golden goblets out from heaps of sand, seaweed, and shattered furniture.

Fabia's appearance was greeted with cries of joy. Dozens crowded around her, gabbling out all the good news hidden behind the bad. The first warning surf had come surging over the docks just after she left, they said, while everyone had still been in the great hall, no doubt enjoying a juicy gossip about the master's abduction and his daughter's unorthodox departure. Master Trinvar had rushed everyone upstairs and there had been no casualties, as there surely would have been had the staff been scattered throughout the whole complex as usual.

So the goddess of death had spared this house? The Bright Ones expected praise and sacrifices when they behaved nicely, but even to suggest these for holy Xaran would be regarded as blasphemy.

Fabia had just established that there had been no news of the master himself when more cheering from the entrance announced his return, and Horth limped forward into the torchlight. His hat had gone, his jeweled robes were muddy and sodden, and the city's richest inhabitant resembled a bedraggled, shipwrecked bindlestiff, but he seemed to be unharmed, which was all that mattered. Fabia ran to him and they hugged, two battered waifs jabbering delight and relief, tears and laughter. She ex plained about her narrow escape on the bridge and the chariot upset.

He sighed. "So we will have to start over. You will have to organize a new celebration. We must ask the high priestess to set a new date for your vows."

Thereupon Fabia had what seemed like a brainwave. The idea of swearing false oaths was repugnant; Paola had passed on her dislike of hypocrisy. "Celebration, yes, but when I reached Temple and the bridge fell behind me, and the storm came, and ... well, I realized that there could be no banquet or anything today... but I found that little shrine on Steep Street and made my vows there. Very simple, just the bare ritual, no celebration. But that part's done!"

Horth's expression was oddly distrustful. "Congratulations!" He embraced her again.

Had her fast fable been plausible? She had made her vows, and Master Pukar had witnessed them, even if the ceremonial had been not quite what he had expected. Surely a single little lie today was better than forswearing herself to all the Twelve a few days from now?

"And Verk found me on Temple! I have never been more glad to see anyone in my life. You must give him a really big gift, Father!"

"I shall indeed!" Horth glanced around and then lowered his voice, excluding the servants. "Did Perag and his men pester you after I left?"

"They forced their filthy kisses on me. I do not like Huntleader Perag Whatever-his-name-is, Father."

"He fouls the world like dog dirt!"

Fabia was startled to see naked hatred flame up in his eyes. She had never known the gentle merchant speak so or look so.

"You know him of old?" she asked cautiously.

"He is suspected of ..." Horth's bland visor dropped back in place, as if he caught himself about to say too much. "... very serious crimes. But no one can prove such allegations."

The Witness had indicted Saltaja's involvement in Paola's death. But what had the satrap's wife to fear from the satrap's justice? With new understanding of Verk's cynicism about Skjaran courts, Fabia sought a safer topic.

"That brute is unimportant. Whatever can we do here? We are ruined! Your ships? The house! Oh, Father, you have lost everything."

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "I have not lost what matters most. I have greater resources than this. My ships are safe in Weather Haven, my competitors' are sunk. They will be ruined and I shall rise stronger than ever." He sighed and she guessed what was coming. "But I do have important news for you, my dear." He glanced around again and the few servants still clustered nearby hastily returned to work. Only old Master Trinvar was close, holding a torch, and he was hard of hearing. "This seems wrong, my dear—telling you in this midden. Let us go upstairs and send for some wine."

"No, spit it out here. The floors upstairs are clean. I was right? Silver trumpets and ribboned sweetmeats?"

He nodded ruefully. "I truly had no choice, my dear, as you foresaw. I keep thinking of you as a child, but you're truly a very resilient young woman now. Very few could shrug off such a day so easily. We must get you to a Sinurist before you leave, so you are in shape for—"

"Leave?"

"The lady Saltaja—" Horth fell silent, scowling angrily over her shoulder. Half a dozen Werists had entered the hall, with the distinctive figure of Satrap Eide himself rolling along behind. Hateful, sour-mouthed Perag was not among them, but behind the hostleader, with white robes glimmering in the gloom, came a seer, picking her way daintily through the nauseating debris and holding her skirts above her ankles.

Fabia sent a quick but silent prayer off to her goddess, the Mother of Lies. Nine Witnesses in Skjar, she had been told. This one was too short and too plump to be the one who had accosted her at the Pantheon, so whose side was she on?

Eide was peering around. "We seem to be too late, lads, hm? But it must have been quite a party!" He bellowed laughter while his men smilingly said that their lord was kind. The satrap enjoyed his own jokes, while rarely understanding others'.

"Such a party it would have been, too," Horth said sadly, to Fabia or just to himself. "I often think that the harder one pursues happiness, the faster she runs away."

"But if you would just sit down under a tree she would come and join you!" Fabia gave him a one-armed hug. "Come, let us offer our guests a friendly beaker of hemlock." She led the way forward to greet the satrap.

Eide Ernson had the largest head Fabia had ever seen on a human being, although thinking was not what he used it for, as evidenced by the horn stubs on his temples. His neck and shoulders were to scale, but from there he tapered down to quite spindly legs, and his arms were unexceptional—all his limbs being visible because he wore a Werist pall. Naturally top-heavy, he always swayed as he walked; now the weight of waterlogged cloth made him roll like a cockleshell in a high sea. She had never known him to be anything but cheerful and courteous, but she suspected his bovine stupidity was not entirely genuine—his habit of making mooing mmm ? noises while he talked was too good to be true—and he was undoubtedly ruthless, powerful, and dangerous.

"Fire and blood, girl!" he boomed as Fabia rose from her curtsy. "Your father is strict, mmm? Who won this battle? Did he finally beat a consent out of you?"

"She took a fall from a chariot, my lord," Horth explained. "I have not even had time to pass on the good news."

"News?" Fabia said brightly. "What news, Father?"

"You are betrothed," the satrap said, staring at her with huge, sad, bovine eyes. "My nephew—wife's nephew, rather. Son of her brother Horold, up in Kosord, mmm? Name of Cutrath."

"He is just two years older than you, dear," Horth added, eyes sending anxious warnings. "And newly initiated into the Heroes."