Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

Saltaja gave him a long, steady stare. "Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Personal reasons." If she snooped around the palace, she would hear about Cutrath, not the bedroom problem.

"I see. Come here."

A stab of inexplicable terror raised his all-over fur. "Why?" he demanded, rising. Why was he so frightened? She was only a bossy old woman; he could break her neck with one hand if he wanted. Why did she arouse such panic in him that his knees shook? Just vague memories of childhood? Or that day in Jat-Nogul? Was that all? Why was he obeying her, edging closer, dragging his feet, shivering like a terrified child? Why didn't he just tell her to go to the Dark One and stay there?

♦

Gods! Horold started upright on his chair. He must have dropped off. The sun had set already. Where had the day gone?

Saltaja was already at the door. "Do what you like with the artist then, but wait until the girl and I have left."

At last! Horold smiled contentedly, cherishing visions of Benard in a soundproof dungeon, just the two of them. "You sure you won't attend the feast?" he asked unhopefully.

His sister just shook her head. Her taste ran to intimate Skjaran dinner parties with endless, pointless, incomprehensible conversations, not jolly Kosordian-style feasts that faded off into orgies on the edges. As soon as she had gone, he bellowed for a jug of mead.

Having drained that, he felt even better. Get the feast out of the way and then dismember Benard Celebre! Something to look forward to very much. He donned a fresh, well-scented pall and strode off to see if the procession from the temple had arrived yet.

♦

The feast began in the lowermost courts, with more praise for holy Ucr and appeals to holy Cienu to bless the festivities. Street level was where most people remained, with standing room only and hasty grabbing at whatever went by. Citizens of substance, who had been sent festive wreaths, were allowed up to middle-rank halls featuring benches at long tables. There the food was still cold, but the beer was drinkable. The real elite, those given both wreaths and robes, could progress on up to royal levels, and there recline on couches, nibble delicacies, and quaff wine while dancers writhed and musicians twanged and chirped. Because the harvest feast of Ucr lasted four days, the upper halls also featured dimly lit side rooms where senior guests could seek holy Nula's gift of sleep to restore their strength. Holy Eriander was worshiped there also.

Horold began at the top, where he ran into the Celebre girl, a sight to warm the cockles of any man's loins. Lucky Cutrath! Surely even that sorry excuse for a warrior should manage to breed some bulls on this buxom heifer?

"You are enjoying yourself, daughter?"

"Indeed I am, my lord. This is not like feasts in Skjar."

"I hope not. Keep her in the well-lit rooms!" he told her escort. "Mustn't have any gossip."

Her escort was, of course, the cesspool artist, Benard. Horold gave him a big smile. "You see you enjoy yourself, too, boy." Then it will be my turn .

♦

Eventually his progress through the halls and courts brought him to the lowest levels, where he discovered his wife, wearing what he always thought of as her bonfire costume. She was surrounded by doting throngs, of course. As always. Kosord would have been a much harder place for him to rule without the support of its hereditary dynast, and twenty-five years ago it had looked close to impossible. Stralg had been planning a major massacre to bring it to heel—he had estimated a quarter of the population—but once Ingeld consented, the people had followed her lead. She had been a beauty then and was still lustable enough, although no one could know it when she was packaged in that absurd outfit. Horold wandered in her direction, and his presence swiftly thinned out the crowd of admirers.

"Come, wife. You have wasted enough time here. There are more important people to greet."

She agreed with little enthusiasm. "I must go, friends. I shall return later. Please do enjoy yourselves ... Lead on, my lord."

As they headed up the corridor together, she said, "You didn't used to be such a boor. The rich you can control easily enough, you know. If the poor ever rise, though, then you will fall."

"Over their dead bodies."

She looked up at him for a moment. Once her head had been level with his shoulder; now it was closer to his elbow. "It's hard to tell now, but... You drink a lot, don't you?"

"There's a lot of me to satisfy."

"Not tonight!" she said sharply. "We have guests, at least sixty-sixty guests."

He chuckled. "Every night I said, and every night I meant. I have last night to make up for, too."

"You spurned me for years. Why the sudden rush?"

"Because I have a lot of catching up to do." He had believed all the stories of battle-hardened Werists killing their women by fathering monsters on them, but there was nothing wrong with the slave girl's whelp. She'd carried it a few thirties too long, was all. That error could be avoided next time.

"I can't oblige you in this dress."

"You won't wear that until dawn. You never do."

She sighed, and her fingers moved on his arm. "Very well. When I go to my room to change, I'll send word."

Aha! This was starting to sound more like the old days. "Getting back in practice, mm?" He'd known she'd soon start enjoying it again.

thirty-one

BENARD CELEBRE

was not known for staying sober at feasts, but that night he was going to need a clear head. Besides, he had to be nice to his long-lost sister.

"This is called the Bull Concourse," he said, pausing at the mouth of the great passage. The inside was shadowed and apparently deserted. He had escorted plenty of other men's sisters in there in his time, usually persuading them to go all the way to the end. "There's a lot of old statuary stored in there, so it's a popular place for, um, private cuddling. Your reputation will be absolutely ruined if you're seen going anywhere near..." He laughed clumsily. "I'm behaving like a jealous husband, am I not?" He must have told her a dozen times to stay in well-lit places. He found himself glowering at every man who came close, especially Werists. "I have no experience at brothering."

Fabia chuckled. "I've had none at being brothered. It's very flattering."

He enjoyed her smile. It did not appear very often, but it was worth watching for. Flighty she was not. Fabia was an extremely down-to-earth young lady and knew her own mind. He'd loved the determined way she had told Ingeld she would never marry a Werist.

They continued their tour. Fabia was puzzled by Kosordian informality, especially when Benard introduced her simultaneously to honored guests and the flunkies waiting on them, all of them his friends, from High Priest Nrakfin to Nils the carpenter. "I'm an unusual case," he admitted. "Not many palace brats join artists' guilds."

"More than a guild, though? Only a cultist could create such wonders."

"I don't create them. Anziel does. I'm just Her Hand."

They had so much to discuss! He asked about her childhood, of course, but it was no longer relevant to either of them. She asked why he disliked Cutrath Horoldson so much.

He explained, "Briefly, Cutrath's only redeeming feature is that he is not hypocritical enough to have any redeeming features. He's a lying, thieving, sadistic, tale-telling, lecherous, blasphemous, bullying, foul-mouthed braggart. He also picks his nose."

Her eyes widened like forest pools brimming over. "No! Both nostrils? Isn't it your duty to defend me from this unsavory marriage?"