Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

Bliss! Teenage monster, what every girl dreamed of. Even forewarned by the seer, Fabia needed all her self-control to feign pleasure. "Oh, Daddy ! How wonderful! What is he like? Tall? Handsome? And our roots are so humble! What have I done to be so honored?"

Horth would be grateful for the support. Eide would not care whether she meant what she said or not, and his escort probably expected her to swoon with joy at such news. She hoped the dumpy seer in the background had a strong stomach for hypocrisy.

The satrap shrugged his mountainous shoulders. "It's a long story, mmm? Wife can explain on the way. Going to go with you for the wedding, mmm? In Kosord."

So Saltaja would be her jailer? The only ray of sunshine on this pestilent landscape was that Kosord was a long way off, so there would be plenty of time to consider a plan of escape. The deepest blight was the prospect of many sixdays in the company of Saltaja Hragsdor.

Endure!

"Oh, that will be nice! Gods!—the trousseau I will need! And of course I must help Daddy kins redecorate here." She sighed. "It will be just ages before I can meet my new lord. But, oh, I can't wait!"

She was overdoing it. The Werists exchanged smirks. Even Eide's big eyes narrowed a fraction.

"You won't have to, child. If my wife says you're leaving tomorrow, you leave tomorrow."

"And I am coming with you," Horth said.

She gaped at him, speechless. He, who rarely even left the house and never the city? Where would he find his barley cakes and ibex milk in a riverboat?

He gave her hand a warning squeeze. "We shall organize a great wedding in Kosord to make up for your spoiled dedication."

She faked a squeal of joy so she could hug him and whisper "Hostage?" in his ear.

He kissed her cheek with a soft uh-huh of agreement.

So any plan of escape would have to include both of them—the Florengian hostage and the hostage for the hostage. "That is so kind of you, Father! But what about your business? What about this house?" She gestured at the disaster all around them.

"I have good men to run my affairs until I return, dear." He turned. "Master Trinvar, there must be many, many homeless in Skjar now. Pray convert this house into a shelter for them until I return. The satrap and his lady have very generously offered Mistress Frena and me hospitality at the palace until we leave, for it escaped damage."

Of course a few sixty squatters in Horth's mansion might discourage the satrap himself from moving in during the owner's absence. Before Fabia could comment, a new voice spoke—a throaty, vibrant voice as musical as a silver flute.

"Your benevolence is commendable, trader," said the Queen of Shadows.

Saltaja Hragsdor was a tall woman who invariably wore the black robes of a widow, even to a black wimple and floppy black cuffs covering her hands. In the glimmer of Trinvar's torch she was only a disembodied face. It was a remarkable, not a beautiful face, very pale even for a Vi-gaelian, with bloodless lips and prominent nose and mouth; it was also unusually long and narrow, as if her head had been squeezed in a vise. She advanced through life with high disdain, seemingly expecting walls to open at her approach.

Fabia hastily curtsied as Horth bowed and spoke an apologetic welcome.

Behind Saltaja loomed a pair of very large young men. Where other highborn ladies went attended by maidservants, Saltaja preferred a bodyguard of Werists, usually just two, but always young and handsome. Bazaar gossip naturally insisted that they followed her into her bedchamber, but her husband must assign them to her service and did not seem to mind. Nothing could have interested Saltaja herself less than bazaar gossip.

The icy arrogance turned its attention to Fabia. "Your dedication, child? Did you make your vows today as planned?"

Fabia sent another fast prayer winging to the Mother of Lies.

"Yes, she did," Horth said.

"She has a tongue of her own."

"I made my vows, lady. Very hurriedly, I admit. I was just telling Father about—"

"Witness?" The satrap's wife never took her pale eyes off Fabia. "Is she telling the truth?"

For an instant that felt longer than a sleepless night, Fabia contemplated an open grave and the shortest-ever career as a Chosen. Even if the unknown Mist and her minions preferred her cause to Stralg's, they could not be expected to tell outright lies. No Witness ever did that.

The satrap picked up his cue. "Answer the question. Is she telling the truth?"

"Yes, she is," said the seer.

Fabia bowed her head lest her face betray relief and glee. The Queen of Shadows had not asked the right question.

Eide mooed ruminatively. "Then that's all right?"

"Apparently," his wife said.

"Mmm? Then welcome to the family, Fabia Wigson, or whatever your name is. That nephew of my wife's is no great thinker, but if he's anything like his uncles, you'll have no complaint in bed, mmm? Strong as a horse, mmm, lads? May holy Eriander bless your union."

Holy Eriander could go and do horrible things to herself, as far as Fabia was concerned. A Werist husband? Would nightmares make him change into a warbeast in his sleep? Would he have hunting dreams like a dog, wiggling his paws in bed?

Would he ripple his muscles for her to admire ...

... perhaps posing in front of an open window ...

... several stories up ...

?

twenty-two

ORLAD ORLADSON

felt his teeth rattle every time the great drums spoke, their sepulchral roll reverberating through the high-corbeled chapel. Man-sized flames danced in the fire pit, illuminating rough-cast walls of boulders and giant timbers, and also the figure of the god, huge and terrible in white mosaic—certainly made of bone chips, but whether or not they were truly human bone, as the probationers were taught, was known only to Satrap Therek. Brmmm ! Eleven runts knelt in a horseshoe before the great central blaze, sweating rivers in their palls. The Hero witnesses stood farther away, in comfort—tonight these were the warriors of gold pack, four dozen of them. But other initiates lurked in the shadows at the back of the chapel, and Orlad was sure those included Packleader Ruthur Landarson and probably Hostleader Heth, who kept a close watch on the cadets. Tonight was First Call, said, to be the most critical moment in the whole training program.

Brmmm ! The echoes faded. Everyone in Nardalborg knew that the Heroes were meeting in conclave tonight and no extrinsic who valued his life would approach the shrine.

Runt Vargin was being examined, kneeling on the far side of the pit, with firelight shining on his naked back. Packleader Frath Thranson was examiner, standing directly under the god. He was farther from the fire, but his pall probably made him even hotter than Vargin. He held a two-handed bronze sword before him, resting on its point.

"What is life?"

Brmmm ! roared the drums.

"My life is my corban!" Vargin shouted.

"Louder!"

" My life is my corban !" Vargin screamed.

He would not be warned again—he was lucky to have been warned once. There were twelve questions in the catechism. The first and last were fixed; the other ten could be asked more than once and in any order. Responses must be correct and instantaneous.

"What is victory?"

Brmmm ! No eavesdroppers would hear the sacred responses over that thunder.

" Victory is my duty !"

"What is pain?"