Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

Or was Mist a committee?

"I don't recall ever hearing any Witness's name ..."

Their voices died away up the ramp. Darkness returned to the shrine of Xaran, and the quiet drip continued to count off the ages.

Was Fabia supposed to do something with this illicit information? She could slip away from the palace and find Candlemakers' Steps easily enough, but her disappearance would betray the conspiracy to Saltaja. And what would happen to Horth? No, she must continue to bide her time. The lovers had not said whether Ucr Blessed would head upstream or downstream.

Fabia wished her brother good luck. She could not pray to Cienu to send it to him, but a word to Xaran would not be out of place—plus another for the mother Fabia had never known outside of dreams, but whose identity had just that day been confirmed for her by Benard's incredible art. Had the doge's wife ever been sent back to her childless home and husband, or had she met with a fatal accident, like her eldest son?

Fabia went in search of the altar that would be hidden somewhere in this holy place.

♦

The sky was blue by the time a sleepy and grumpy Fabia arrived at the riverbank in a palace chariot driven by a saturnine male Nastrarian who, typically, seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He could hardly plead the usual excuse of too much partying in the night, for a Nastrarian 's idea of fun was mucking out a stable. Her jailers, Cnurg and Ern, trotted behind.

Saltaja was waiting, talking with a wolfish Werist. "This is the girl, Huntleader."

"And twelve blessings on you, too, my lady!" Fabia said recklessly.

The Werist was big, surly, and had a badly scarred face. He nodded to her. "Darag Kwirarlson. At your service."

"Really at my service, or just-being-polite at my service?"

"Just-being-polite." He did not bother smiling.

Obviously this one was replacement for the late and un-lamented Perag Hrothgatson. The younger Werists scowling in the background included few familiar faces, and Fabia needed no divine revelation to guess that Saltaja had reshuffled her escort so that any mutinous conspiracy must sprout again from the roots. Down on the water, the riverfolk were making ready. Judging by the squealing and squabbling, many of them had been sampling the Kosordian feast.

"I am disappointed that our host and hostess are not here to see us off," Fabia remarked airily, wondering how far away Ingeld and Benard were already, and which way they had gone.

Saltaja regarded her with a stare that would have made a shark blink, but Fabia knew by now that this was merely low-level intimidation, not necessarily implying knowledge of guilt or even suspicion, except insofar as Saltaja was permanently suspicious of everyone. It could be ignored, that stare.

Then, in one of the great shocks of Fabia's life, Horth Wigson strolled in from the shadows—bowing, smiling, offering greetings. He bussed his foster daughter.

Even the Queen of Shadows was agape. "Where did you go?" she barked.

He peered at her wonderingly. "Nowhere, my lady. I mean, I was just wandering around here in Kosord. I admit that holy Ucr is my patron god, but feasting has little appeal for a man with my fastidious digestion. I met up with various old friends instead." He beamed like some inane middle-aged child.

As his gaze wafted past Fabia, he blinked, but his eyelids were oddly out of step, so that the blink could almost be classed as a pair of winks.

She hugged him. "Wonderful to see you, Father!" He must have returned to the captivity of the river voyage solely for her sake, whatever he was up to. "Oh, Father, I wish you had been there! I met my brother Benard! He is a wonderful sculptor, and such a warm, loving young man! I am surprised that he did not come here to see me off, but I suppose it is festival time... I do wish I could have spent more time with him and the wonderful lady Ingeld, getting to know them..."

She knew quite enough about Benard Celebre already. Even a Chosen could not look after her own when he was as featherbrained as that one. She had another brother waiting at Tryfors. Perhaps he would be better.

"Go and prod those riverfolk, Huntleader," Saltaja growled. "It's time for us to leave."

Part III

♦

Fall

♦

thirty-three

HUNTLEADER HETH

had ruled Nardalborg for many years and initiated more Heroes for his father than he could bear to think about. Wherever the sacred rituals allowed, he had devised his own ways of doing things.

Not everything in life must be solemn ritual and blood-sweating grind. For two whole days now the runts had been allowed to rest and eat as much as they wanted—in preparation for the Fortitude Test, they had been told. Every Werist in Nardalborg was in on the leg-pull, wincing whenever the mythical ordeal was mentioned; there was much ominous shaking of heads. Some carried the warnings to absurd extremes, but the kids never caught on. After what they had been through, nothing would seem impossible. Summoned by the beat of the drums, twelve apprehensive young warriors presented themselves at the chapel door that bitter night—and gaped at the slave who opened it to admit them.

"If my lords would be so kind..." Heth stepped aside and bowed low. "We most humbly beg your lordships' forgiveness, but we do not have enough couches in Nardalborg. Honored lords at a real banquet recline on couches, of course, but never before has Nardalborg had a full, twelve-man flank of cadets, and I cannot recall any class where every man qualified for initiation. If your lordships will forgive stools ..."

Flames danced in the fire pit below the terrible image of the god, but on the far side of the pit stood a table set for twelve, with silver dishes, roast meats, and fresh beer. The six flunkies waiting to serve them, clad in the sackcloth smocks and leggings worn by slaves here in the uplands, were the Nardalborg Hunt's five packleaders and the huntleader himself. As the striplings stared aghast at the sight, the packleaders erupted in guffaws; then Heth began to laugh, too, and the cadets followed one by one. Relief made them howl with mirth.

All except one. Runtleader Orlad did not laugh. The glitter in his dark eyes was anger. Just because he did not see jokes? Or had he somehow learned of the extreme peril that now hung over him?

Somewhere a loose shutter was banging, and Heth made a mental note to have it fixed, but the blizzard howling outside set a fitting mood for merriment safe indoors. Snow and thunder were a killer combination, a Nardalborg speciality, but he had only himself to blame. He had scheduled this ceremony and he had never known an initiation night not to be stormy. With all three mammoth trains out in a frantic dash to stockpile supplies for Caravan Six, he must just hope that the storm was only local. Half the men due to go on Six were in-house already and many more might be strung out between Tryfors and Nardalborg, camping on the moors. There was no time to lose.

Usually Heth loved inductions, because he steadfastly believed in the Heroes. He had a set speech for inductions. There would always be wars, he would explain, so there must always be warriors. The Werists were not perfect, certainly, but at their best they let extrinsics live in peace by keeping conflicts to themselves. He personally took pride in every boy he raised to manhood in the cult, and he was especially proud tonight, he would tell them, with Nardalborg gaining a full dozen warriors who would free up a dozen others to reinforce the Fist's horde on the Florengian Face. So he would say.